The first stroke of the Angelus rang from the little tower.
The first stroke of that bell before whose magic exorcism all human passions fled, the peaceful bell that had for fifty years lulled the little fold of San Carmel to prayer and rest, came to his throbbing ear.

His trembling hands groped for the crucifix, carried it to his left breast; his lips moved in prayer.

His eyes were turned to the cold, passionless sky, where a few faint, far-spaced stars had silently stolen to their places.

The Angelus still rang, his trembling ceased, he remained motionless and rigid.
The American, who had uncovered in deference to the worshiper rather than the rite, waited patiently.

The eyes of Father Pedro returned to the earth, moist as if with dew caught from above.