I must not think of them! They are not sleeping, but thinking of me! I am not ungrateful, not ungrateful; but I must not think of them! I will think of thee, venerable Saint of the Vatican, who sleepest and knowest not! Ah! those narrow stairs which I shall never more ascend! That sweet face, full of the Holy Spirit, I shall never see again! Still--God be praised!--I did not behold it in vain! What am I doing here?
Why do I not go away?
But could I go away?
Oh! this fever! He rose, and tried to read the hour on the round face of a clock which showed white in the darkness.

It was five minutes to eleven.

Outside, the thunder-storm still raged.

The power of the maddened elements, the power of time which was pushing the tiny hands there on the face of the clock, seemed friendly to Benedetto, in their indifferent predominance over the human power, in whose stronghold he was, and which held him at its mercy.

But the fever, the ever-increasing fever! He was burning with thirst.