The melody grew louder as I advanced, ever following the Bagnanza towards
its source; and the stream, too, being much less turbulent now, did not
overbear that other sound.
It was a melody on long humming notes, chiefly, it seemed to me, upon two
notes with the occasional interjection of a third and fourth, and, at long
and rare intervals, of a fifth. It was harmonious beyond all description,
just as it was weird and unearthly; but now that I heard it more distinctly
it had much more the sound of bells--very sweet and silvery.
And then, quite suddenly, I was startled by a human cry--a piteous, wailing
cry that told of helplessness and pain. I went forward more quickly in the
direction whence it came, rounded a stout hazel coppice, and stood suddenly
before a rude hut of pine logs built against the side of the rock. Through
a small unglazed window came a feeble shaft of light.
I halted there, breathless and a little afraid. This must be the dwelling
of the anchorite. I stood upon holy ground.
And then the cry was repeated. It proceeded from the hut. I advanced to
the window, took courage and peered in. By the light of a little brass oil
lamp with a single wick I could faintly make out the interior.
The rock itself formed the far wall of it, and in this a niche was
carved--a deep, capacious niche in the shadows of which I could faintly
discern a figure some two feet in height, which I doubted not would be the
miraculous image of St.
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