He believed himself alone in the church, but had he bent his head back he might have seen something unusual.  Very slowly a human head showed itself in the pulpit by the light of the petroleum lamp and looked down upon the priest.  It had the diabolic eyes of the Moro set in a shaven ecclesiastical face.  The head rose up in the shadow, two long arms made in the air a violent gesture of impatience.  At the same time Don Rocco repeated to the woman who stood hesitating:  “Go back, go back, I am coming at once.”

She went out.

Then the priest got up from his bench and went up to the high altar.  The human figure in the pulpit came down again, and went rapidly into hiding.  Don Rocco turned around so as to stand in cornu epistolae, toward the empty benches, imagined them full of people, of his people of every Sunday, and a spirit of eloquence entered into him.

“I bless you all,” said he in a strong voice.  “I wish that you were all present, but that is not possible, because I must not let any one know.  I bless you all, and ask you to pardon me if I have been wanting.  Gloria Dei cum omnibus vobis.”

The temptation was too strong for a certain person to resist.  A cavernous voice resounded through the empty church: 

“Amen.”

Don Rocco remained breathless, with his hands in the air.

“Hurry up,” said the servant, returning.  “Do you not remember that you must leave out your cloak and your clothes?”

Poor Don Rocco was not well found in clothes, for he carried on his back omnia bona sua, and there was sewing to be done and spots to be taken out, according to Lucia, before the journey of the next morning.  Don Rocco descended from the altar without answering and went all through the church, lowering the lamp between all the benches and confessionals.

“What is it; what are you looking for?” asked the servant, anxiously coming along behind him.  For a while Don Rocco did not answer.

“I said a few words of prayer,” he said finally, “and I heard some one answer ‘Amen.’”

“You fancied so.” replied Lucia.  “It must have been a trick of the imagination.”

“No, no,” said Don Rocco.  “I really heard the ‘Amen.’  It seemed to be a voice from under the earth.  A great big voice.  It did not seem that of a man, but rather of a bull.”

“It may have been the bishop,” suggested the woman.  “Isn’t there a bishop buried here?  Such things have been heard of.”

Don Rocco kept silent.  In his simplicity, in his innate disposition to faith, he was inclined to willingly believe anything supernatural, especially if connected with religion.  The more astonishing it was, the more did he in sign of reverence knit his brows and drink it in devoutly.

“Now let us go,” said the woman.  “It is late, you know, and I have considerable work to do.”