These words, rising up from a tremendous groundswell of repressed feeling, had a fearful, almost supernatural earnestness that made the body of the monks tremble.  Most of them were conscious of living but a shabby, shambling, dissembling life, evading in every possible way the efforts of their Superior to bring them up to the requirements of their profession; and therefore, when these words were bolted out among them with such a glowing intensity, every one of them began mentally feeling for the key of his own private and interior skeleton-closet, and wondering which of their ghastly occupants was coming to light now.

Father Johannes alone was unmoved, because he had long since ceased to have a conscience.  A throb of moral pulsation had for years been an impossibility to the dried and hardened fibre of his inner nature.  He was one of those real, genuine, thorough unbelievers in all religion and all faith and all spirituality, whose unbelief grows only more callous by the constant handling of sacred things.  Ambition was the ruling motive of his life, and every faculty was sharpened into such acuteness under its action that his penetration seemed at times almost preternatural.

While he stood with downcast eyes and hands crossed upon his breast, listening to the burning words which remorse and despair wrung from his Superior, he was calmly and warily studying to see what could be made of the evident interior conflict that convulsed him.  Was there some secret sin?  Had that sanctity at last found the temptation that was more than a match for it?  And what could it be?

To a nature with any strong combative force there is no tonic like the presence of a secret and powerful enemy, and the stealthy glances of Father Johannes’s serpent eye did more towards restoring Father Francesco to self-mastery than the most conscientious struggles could have done.  He grew calm, resolved, determined.  Self-respect was dear to him,—­and dear to him no less that reflection of self-respect which a man reads in other eyes.  He would not forfeit his conventual honor, or bring a stain on his order, or, least of all, expose himself to the scoffing eye of a triumphant enemy.  Such were the motives that now came to his aid, while as yet the whole of his inner nature rebelled at the thought that he must tear up by the roots and wholly extirpate this love that seemed to have sent its fine fibres through every nerve of his being.  “No!” he said to himself, with a fierce interior rebellion, “that I will not do!  Right or wrong, come heaven, come hell, I will love her; and if lost I must be, lost I will be!” And while this determination lasted, prayer seemed to him a mockery.  He dared not pray alone now, when most he needed prayer; but he moved forward with dignity towards the convent-chapel to lead the vesper devotions of his brethren.  Outwardly he was calm and rigid as a statue; but as he commenced the service, his utterance had a terrible