So waned the gloomy hours of the night away, till the morning broke in the east, turning all the blue wavering floor of the sea to crimson brightness, and bringing up, with the rising breeze, the barking of dogs, the lowing of kine, the songs of laborers and boatmen, all fresh and breezy from the repose of the past night.

Father Francesco heard the sound of approaching footsteps climbing the lava path, and started with a nervous trepidation.  Soon he recognized a poor peasant of the vicinity, whose child he had tended during a dangerous illness.  He bore with him a little basket of eggs, with a melon and a fresh green salad.

“Good morning, holy father,” he said, bowing humbly.  “I saw you coming this way last night, and I could hardly sleep for thinking of you; and my good woman, Teresina, would have it that I should come out to look after you.  I have taken the liberty to bring a little offering;—­it was the best we had.”

“Thank you, my son,” said the monk, looking wistfully at the fresh, honest face of the peasant.  “You have taken too much trouble for such a sinner.  I must not allow myself such indulgences.”

“But your Reverence must live.  Look you,” said the peasant, “at least your Reverence will take an egg.  See here, how handily I can cook one,” he added, striking his stick into a little cavity of a rock, from which, as from an escape-valve, hissed a jet of hot steam,—­“see here, I nestle the egg in this little cleft, and it will be done in a twinkling.  Our good God gives us our fire for nothing here.”

There was something wholesomely kindly and cheerful in the action and expression of the man, which broke upon the overstrained and disturbed musings of the monk like daylight on a ghastly dream.  The honest, loving heart sees love in everything; even the fire is its fatherly helper, and not its avenging enemy.

Father Francesco took the egg, when it was done, with a silent gesture of thanks.

“If I might make bold to say,” said the peasant, encouraged, “your Reverence should have some care for yourself.  If a man will not feed himself, the good God will not feed him; and we poor people have too few friends already to let such as you die.  Your hands are trembling, and you look worn out.  Surely you should take something more, for the very love of the poor.”

“My son, I am bound to do a heavy penance, and to work out a great conflict.  I thank you for your undeserved kindness.  Leave me now to myself, and come no more to disturb my prayers.  Go, and God bless you!”

“Well,” said the peasant, putting down the basket and melon, “I shall leave these things here, any way, and I beg your Reverence to have a care of yourself.  Teresina fretted all night for fear something might come to you.  The bambino that you cured is grown a stout little fellow, and eats enough for two,—­and it is all of you; so she cannot forget it.  She is a busy little woman, is Teresina; and when she gets a thought in her head, it buzzes, buzzes, like a fly in a bottle, and she will have it your Reverence is killing yourself by inches, and says she, ’What will all the poor do when he is gone?’ So your Reverence must pardon us.  We mean it all for the best.”