Fixing his eyes on the Crucifix, which hung above a footstool at the side of the bed, he groaned, with an effort of his will: "How can I complain so bitterly of my crosses, Lord ?" In vain; his spirit had no living sense either of Christ or of the Cross.

He sat down in despair, not wishing to go to bed in this mood, waiting for a drop of sweetness, which did not come.

A gust of wind made him turn his head towards the window, which had burst open.

He saw a great planet tip there in the brilliant sky, above the black battlements of Porta San Paolo, and the black summit of the pyramid of Cestio, above the tops of the cypresses which surround the tomb of Shelley.

The wind howled around the little house.