The mother, who, while Benedetto had been speaking, had flung herself on her knees in front of the wall of rock, and kept her lips pressed to the cross expecting a miracle, started up at the strange ring in that voice, sprang to the bedside and--understanding--gave a cry of despair, flinging her hands towards heaven, while Benedetto, terrified, exclaimed: "No, _caro_, not to me, not to me!" But the sick man did not hear; he put his arm round Benedetto's neck, drawing him to him, and continued his sorrowful confession, Benedetto repeating over and over again "My God, my God!" and making a mighty effort not to hear, but lacking the courage to tear himself away from the dying man's embrace.

And, in fact, he did not hear, nor would it have been easy to do so, for the words came so slowly, so brokenly, so confusedly.

Still the parish priest did not appear, and Don Clemente did not return.
Subdued voices and steps could be heard outside, and, sometimes a curious face peered in at the door, but no one entered.

The dying man's words lost themselves in a confusion of weak sounds, and at last he was silent.
"Is there any one outside ?" Benedetto inquired.

"Let some one go to the parish priest, and bid him hasten." Giovanni and Maria were attending to the mother, who, quite beside herself, was tossed between grief and anger.