He did what I suppose he had not done for many years; he crossed himself over the face.  “Bless my soul!” he said.

“Sir, sir,” I admonished him, “you little know of what excellent substance that saint is compact.  Sir—­”

I might have continued I know not how long upon a theme so noble, but for his astonishment, which, though it kept him stupid, must have a vent.  “Who the devil—­” stammers he, “What the devil—­” It amazed me, and vexed me greatly, that I could not make him understand whom I praised.  I went close to him, I touched him on the shoulder.

“Hearken to me, doctor,” said I, “Donna Aurelia, your lady, is as it were an angel of Heaven—­and I”—­I said it with sorrowful grimness—­“and I have better reason to know it than you.”

He felt my touch, and recoiled from it:  he looked at me half askance, from under knitted brows and between blinking lids, as if he thought me a spirit.  “Paradise of God,” says he then, “who is this?” His glance lighted upon the cupboard doors set open; he frowned and said, with difference:  “And who are you that speak of angels?”

“Sir,” I replied, and my convictions were never more firmly in my words, “my name is Wretch, and I am unworthy to live.  I am that vile thing once called Francis Strelley, now brought to confusion and conscious of his horrible offence.  Sir!  Sir!” I said wildly, “Donna Aurelia is the handmaid of high Heaven.—­While I, while I—­O God!” emotion poured its hot flood over me.  I fell to my knees.

In the painful silence which ensued, and no doubt seemed longer than it actually was, I suppose that he collected some half of the truth, and in the manner of him who sees but half, distorted it to be greater than the whole.  His manner towards me altered very materially; he resumed his authority.

“Get up,” he said, croaking like a raven; and at first I thought that I dared not, and immediately after knew that I dared.  I sprang to my feet, and faced him, livid as he was.  “Doctor Lanfranchi,” said I, “I have overheard you-by accident—­as you praised her.  I have heard you call her good.  Ah, and in agreeing with you I can testify that you spoke more truth than you dreamed of.  No saint in Heaven is so good as she, but it has been required of me that I should grope in Hell before I could see Heaven in her soul.”

He held himself from me by doing violence to his own person—­caught at his cravat and gripped it with both hands.

“What are you saying?  Say that again.  Of what do you accuse yourself?”

“Of sin,” I said.  He looked at the cupboard, then with chilly rage at me.

“What were you doing in there?” he asked; and that was a terrible question, since there I never ought to have been.

I asked him would he hear me?  He nodded his head and sat grimly down by the table, at which of late he had so happily reclined.  He covered his mouth and nose with his hand, but kept his piercing eyes upon me.  Disconcerting! but even so, had he listened in silence I might have made him see the truth.