Father Francesco had just returned from the scene in the confessional we have already described.  That day had brought to him one of those pungent and vivid inward revelations which sometimes overset in a moment some delusion that has been the cherished growth of years.  Henceforth the reign of self-deception was past,—­there was no more self-concealment, no more evasion.  He loved Agnes,—­he knew it,—­he said it over and over again to himself with a stormy intensity of energy; and in this hour the whole of his nature seemed to rise in rebellion against the awful barriers which hemmed in and threatened this passion.  He now saw clearly that all that he had been calling fatherly tenderness, pastoral zeal, Christian unity, and a thousand other evangelical names, was nothing more nor less than a passion that had gone to the roots of existence and absorbed into itself all that there was of him.  Where was he to look for refuge?  What hymn, what prayer had he not blent with her image?  It was this that he had given to her as a holy lesson,—­it was that that she had spoken of to him as the best expression of her feelings.  This prayer he had explained to her,—­he remembered just the beautiful light in her eyes, which were fixed on his so trustingly.  How dear to him had been that unquestioning devotion, that tender, innocent humility!—­how dear, and how dangerous!

We have read of flowing rivulets wandering peacefully without ripple or commotion, so long as no barrier stayed their course, suddenly chafing in angry fury when an impassable dam was thrown across their waters.  So any affection, however genial and gentle in its own nature, may become an ungovernable, ferocious passion, by the intervention of fatal obstacles in its course.  In the case of Father Francesco, the sense of guilt and degradation fell like a blight over all the past that had been so ignorantly happy.  He thought he had been living on manna, but found it poison.  Satan had been fooling him, leading him on blindfold, and laughing at his simplicity, and now mocked at his captivity.  And how nearly had he been hurried by a sudden and overwhelming influence to the very brink of disgrace!  He felt himself shiver and grow cold to think of it.  A moment more and he had blasted that pure ear with forbidden words of passion; and even now he remembered, with horror, the look of grave and troubled surprise in those confiding eyes, that had always looked up to him trustingly, as to God.  A moment more and he had betrayed the faith he taught her, shattered her trust in the holy ministry, and perhaps imperilled her salvation.  He breathed a sigh of relief when he thought of it,—­he had not betrayed himself, he had not fallen in her esteem, he still stood on that sacred vantage-ground where his power over her was so great, and where at least he possessed her confidence and veneration.  There was still time for recollection, for self-control, for a vehement struggle which should set all right again:  but, alas! how shall a man struggle who finds his whole inner nature boiling in furious rebellion against the dictates of his conscience,—­self against self?