Not, like Feltre, an oily convert, but under the hood, yes, and extracting a chartreuse from his ramble through woods richer far than the philosopher's milk of Mother Nature's bosom.

There flamed the burning signal of release from his torments; there his absolving refuge, instead of his writing fruitless, intricate, impossible stuff to a woman.

The letter was renounced and shredded: the dedicated ascetic contemplated a hooded shape, washed of every earthly fleck.

It proved how men may by power of grip squeeze raptures out of pain..