Varillo gave a nervous cry and covered his eyes.

“Do not be afraid!” said Ambrosio, drawing his robe together again, “It is only flesh—­not spirit—­that is wounded!  Flesh is our great snare,—­it persuades us to eat, to sleep, to laugh, to love—­the spirit commands none of these things.  The spirit is of God—­it wants neither food nor rest,—­it is pure and calm,—­it would escape to Heaven if the flesh did not cramp its wings!”

Varillo took his hand from his eyes and tossed himself back on his pillow with a petulant moan.

“Can they do nothing better for me than this?” he ejaculated.  “To place me here in this wretched cell alone with a madman!”

Ambrosio stood by the pallet bed looking down upon him with a sort of child-like curiosity.

“No better than this?” he echoed.  “Would you have anything better?  Safe—­safe from the world,—­no one can find you or follow you—­no one can discover your sin—­”

“Sin!  What sin!” demanded Varillo fiercely.  “You talk like a fool—­ as you own yourself to be!  I have committed no sin!”

“Good—­good!” said Ambrosio.  “Then you must be canonized with all the rest of the saints!  And St. Peter’s shall be illuminated, and the Pope shall be carried in to see you and to lay his hands upon you, and they shall shout to him, ‘Tu es Petrus!’ and no one will remember what kind of a bruised, bleeding, tortured, broken-down Head of the Church stood before the multitude when Pilate cried ‘Ecce homo!’”

Varillo stared at him in unwilling fascination.  He seemed carried beyond himself,—­it was as though some other force spoke through him, and though he scarcely raised his voice, its tone was so clear, musical, and penetrative that it seemed to give light and warmth to the cold dullness of the cell.

“You must not mind me!” he went on softly, “My thoughts have all gone wrong, they tell me,—­so have my words.  I was young once—­and in that time I used to study hard and try to understand what it was that God wished me to do with my life.  But there were so many things—­so much confusion—­so much difficulty—­and the end is—­ here!” He smiled.  “Well!  It is a quiet end,—­they say the devil knocks at the gate of the monastery often at midnight, but he never enters in,—­never—­unless perchance you are he!”

Varillo turned himself about pettishly.

“If I were he, I should not trouble you long,” he said.  “Even the devil might be glad to make exit from such a hole as this!  Who is your Superior?”

“We have only one Superior,—­God!” replied Ambrosio.  “He who never slumbers or sleeps—­He who troubles Himself to look into everything, from the cup of a flower to the heart of a man!  Who shall escape the lightning of His glance, or think to cover up a hidden vileness from the discovery of the Most High?”

“I did not ask you for pious jargon,” said Varillo, beginning to lose temper, yet too physically weak to contend with the wordy vagaries of this singular personage who had evidently been told off to attend upon him.  “I asked you who is the Head or Ruler of this community?  Who gives you the daily rule of conduct which you all obey?”