He could
hear only the soft music of the aged voice, which lulled him into a
calm full of faith and trust.
'Is not this better,' asked Benedict gently, whilst his eyes
searched the young man's countenance, 'than to live for the service
of kings, and to utter worldly counsel?'
'Better far, I cannot doubt,' Basil replied with humility.
'Utter the rest of your thought,' said the abbot, smiling. 'You
cannot doubt--and yet? Utter your mind to me, dear son.'
'My father, I obey you, desiring indeed with all my soul to seek
your guidance. My heart has been too much in this world, and for one
thought given to things eternal, I have bestowed a hundred upon my
own sorrows, and on those of Italy.'
His voice faltered, his head drooped.
'I say not,' murmured the listener, 'that you do wrong to love your
country.'
'Holy father, I were a hypocrite if I spoke of my country first of
all. For all but a year gone by, another love has possessed me.
Forgive me that I dare to speak such a word before you.'
The abbot turned his eyes to the window. Upon the sill had settled
two doves, which seemed to regard him curiously.
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