Their ways are the ways of blood; paths to eternal misery among howling fiends.  Why have they not chosen the sweet ways of peace, which are strewn with flowers, which flow with milk?”—­The priest spread his hand open for Vittoria’s, which she gave to his keeping, and he enclosed it softly, smoothing it with his palms, and retaining it as a worldly oyster between spiritual shells.  “Why, my daughter, why, but because we do not bow to that Image daily, nightly, hourly, momently!  We do not worship it that its seed may be sown in us.  We do not cling to it, that in return it may cling to us.”

He spoke with that sensuous resource of rich feeling which the contemplation of the Image does inspire.  And Vittoria was not led reluctantly into the oratory of the castle to pray with him; but she refused to confess.  Thereupon followed a soft discussion that was as near being acerb as nails are near velvet paws.

Vittoria perceived his drift, and also the dear good heart of the old man, who meant no harm to her, and believed that he was making use of his professional weapons for her ultimate good.  The inquisitions and the kindness went musically together; she responded to the kindness, but rebutted the inquisitions; at which he permitted a shade of discontent to traverse his features, and asked her with immense tenderness whether she had not much on her mind; she expressing melodious gratitude for his endeavours to give her comfort.  He could not forbear directing an admonishment to her stubborn spirit, and was obliged, for the sake of impressiveness, to speak it harshly; until he saw, that without sweetness of manner and unction of speech, he left her untouched; so he was driven back to the form of address better suited to his nature and habits; the end of which was that both were cooing.

Vittoria was ashamed to tell herself how much she liked him and his ghostly brethren, whose preaching was always of peace, while the world was full of lurid hatred, strife, and division.  She begged the baffled old man to keep her hand in his.  He talked in Latinized Italian, and only appeared to miss the exact meaning of her replies when his examination of the state of her soul was resumed.  They sat in the soft colour of the consecrated place like two who were shut away from earth.  Often he thought that her tears were about to start and bring her low; for she sighed heavily; at the mere indication of the displacement of her hand, she looked at him eagerly, as if entreating him not to let it drop.

“You are a German, father?” she said.

“I am of German birth, my daughter.”

“That makes it better.  Remain beside me.  The silence is sweet music.”

The silence was broken at intervals by his murmur of a call for patience! patience!