It shall not be long before I
again call you to my tower.'
So, with a look of kindness which did not soften to a smile,
Benedict dismissed his penitent. When the door had closed, he sat
for a few minutes with head bent, then roused himself, glanced at
the clepsydra which stood in a corner of the room, and turned a page
or two of the volume lying before him. Presently his attention was
caught by the sound of fluttering wings; on the window sill had
again alighted the two doves, and again they seemed to regard him
curiously. The aged face brightened with tenderness.
'Welcome,' he murmured, 'ye whose love is innocent.'
From a little bag that lay on the table he drew grains, and
scattered them on the floor. The doves flew down and ate, and, as he
watched them, Benedict seemed to forget all the sorrows of the
world.
CHAPTER XXVI
VIVAS IN DEO
The telling of his story was to Basil like waking from a state of
imperfect consciousness in which dream and reality had
indistinguishably mingled. Since the fight with the brigands he had
never been himself; the fever in his blood made him incapable of
wonted thought or action; restored to health, he looked back upon
those days with such an alien sense that he could scarce believe he
had done the things he related.
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