Some late arrivals came forward, an old man and three women from Vallepietra.

The three women immediately mistook Don Clemente for Benedetto, and burst out sobbing and exclaiming: "How beautiful he is, how beautiful!" In the meantime Benedetto, standing under the little white cloud of the flowering apple tree, had succeeded, with words of sorrow, of supplication, of reproach, in repulsing the assault of the adoring throng, and in bringing the people to their feet.

A cry went up from the group of students: "Speak!" Just at that moment the bells of Jenne, far up above them, solemnly announced the hour of noon to the village, to the solitudes, to Monte Leo, to Monte Sant' Antonio, to Monte Altuino, and to the clouds, sailing westwards.

Benedetto laid his finger on his lips, the bells alone spoke.

He glanced at Don Clemente, and his look seemed to convey a tacit invitation.