And how many roses now lay on his bed, all through the kindness of a saintly person, how many beautiful, sweet-smelling roses! He was silent, gazing fixedly at Benedetto, his lips parted, his eyes shining with a painful question: "You know, you understand, what do you think of me?
Do you believe there is hope of pardon for me ?" Benedetto, bending over the sick man, began to talk to him and caress him.

The stream of gentle words flowed on and on in a varying tone, sometimes of joy, sometimes of pain.

Now the old man seemed comforted, now anxious questions broke from his lips; then, all of a sudden, the gentle stream of words restored the happy look to his face.

Meanwhile, the little crippled woman came and went between her own room and her neighbour's door, clasping her rosary, and divided between her anxiety at that decisive moment to get in as many _Ave Marias_ as possible, and the desire to hear if they were talking in there and what they were saying.
But down below, in the street, a crowd had begun to gather of people who, regardless of the bad weather, were anxious to see the Saint of Jenne.

A woman who kept a little shop had seen him enter with his roses, accompanied by the little hunchback.