"Go tell them, Beppo! Haste!"
"Tell them?" I cried. "The pilgrims? Ah, no, no--not unless the miracle
has come to pass!"
"There are no pilgrims here, my son," said the priest.
"Not?" I cried, and cold horror descended upon me. "But they should have
come. This is Holy Friday, father."
"Nay, my son, Holy Friday was a fortnight ago."
I stared askance at him, in utter silence. Then I smiled half tolerantly.
"But father, yesterday they were all here. Yesterday was..."
"Your yesterday, my son, is sped these fifteen days," he answered. "All
that long while, since the night you wrestled with the Devil, you have lain
exhausted by that awful combat, lying there betwixt life and death. All
that time we have watched by you, Leocadia here and I and the lad Beppo."
Now here was news that left me speechless for some little while. My
amazement and slow understanding were spurred on by a sight of my hands
lying on the rude coverlet which had been flung over me. Emaciated they
had been for some months now. But at present they were as white as snow
and almost as translucent in their extraordinary frailty. I became
increasingly conscious, too, of the great weakness of my body and the great
lassitude that filled me.
"Have I had the fever?" I asked him presently.
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