At length, grown weary and uncertain of my way, I sank down to rest and
think. And my thoughts were chiefly of that hermit somewhere above me in
these hills, and of the blessedness of such a life, remote from the world
that man had made so evil. And then, with thinking of the world, came
thoughts of Giuliana. Two nights ago I had held her in my arms. Two
nights ago! And already it seemed a century remote--as remote as all the
rest of that life of which it seemed a part. For there had been a break in
my existence with the murder of Fifanti, and in the past two days I had
done more living and I had aged more than in all the eighteen years before.
Thinking of Giuliana, I evoked her image, the glowing, ruddy copper of her
hair, the dark mystery of her eyes, so heavy-lidded and languorous in their
smile. My spirit conjured her to stand before me all white and seductive
as I had known her, and my longings were again upon me like a searing
torture.
I fought them hard. I sought to shut that image out. But it abode to mock
me. And then faintly from the valley, borne upon the breeze that came
sighing through the fir-trees, rose the tinkle of an Angelus bell.
I fell upon my knees and prayed to the Mother of Purity for strength, and
thus I came once more to peace.
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