"My God! my God!" he murmured, horrified at the he had been in, at the abyss he had crossed.

He clung with his eyes, with his soul, to the great, sacred, cube-shaped Santa Scolastica, down below with its squat, friendly tower, which he loved.

In spirit he passed through the shadows and the roofs; he had a vision of the church, of the lighted lamp, of the tabernacle, of the Sacrament, at which he gazed hungrily.

With an effort he pictured to himself the cloisters, the cells, the great crosses near the monks' couches, the seraphic face of his sleeping master.

He continued in this effort as long as possible, checking in anguish of soul frequent flashes of the drooping plumed hat and of the pale face, until these flashes grew fainter, and were finally lost in the unconscious depths of his soul.