Neither did he question whether hours or minutes had passed since his fall, so content was he in the blessed present.

The storm had rolled down towards Rome.

In the murmur of the rain falling softly, without wind; in the great voice of the Anio, in the restored majesty of the mountains, in the wild odour of the damp rocky slope, in his own heart, Benedetto felt something of the Divine mingling with the creature, a hidden essence of Paradise.

He felt that he was mingling with the souls of things, as a small voice mingles with an immense choir, felt that he was one with the sweet-smelling hill, one with the blessed air.

And thus submerged in a sea of heavenly sweetness, his hands resting in his lap, his eyes half closed, soothed by the soft, soft rain, he gave himself up to enjoyment, not however, without a vague wish that those who do not believe, those who do not love, might also know such sweetness.