This was my prayer, a general one for grace rather than a particular for some specific grace.  Now for what I consider to have been a direct answer to it.  On the steps of the church, on going out, I saw Belviso waiting for me.  I saw that he was alone—­and that at once brought before my mind the picture of Virginia, the brave and passionate dark-browed girl, my stormy lover and my wife; whom I, alas, was hired by gratitude and the sacrament to love, though love her as I ought I did not.  I stood speechless and thunderstruck.  Here now, sinner, is the answer to thy prayer!  Art not thou, poor Francis, one of Love’s hirelings?  Dost not thou need the Padrona degli Sventurati?  I asked myself these questions; Belviso would answer them for me.

He told me how he had sped.  He had been to Lucca and seen Teresa, Gioiachino’s wife.  Gioiachino, poor fellow, was in prison, but not for long, it was thought.  Virginia was gone, but Aquamorta remained in the city.  My poor girl had left a note for me with Teresa, which Teresa handed on to Belviso and he to me—­to this effect.  I read it with tears: 

“Master, lord, and excellent husband,” it began—­("Padrone, Signor, ed egregio marito mio")—­“Thy child is unhappy, but having learned from thee how necessary it is to regard her own honour, is resolved to fly danger rather than brave it.  I have gone to Arezzo with all thy money safe in my bosom, to put the breadth of Tuscany between me and my persecutor.  Make thy affairs as thou wilt, thou art free of Virginia, who will never blame thee.  If thou need her or what she hath of thine, thou wilt find her at Arezzo, an honest woman,

“Who kisses thy hands,

“Virginia.”

Without a word of explanation I returned to the church and held up my letter before the veiled image of the Madonna of Provenzano.  “Here, lady, is my duty,” I said, “here is my hire.  The lowliest of thy clients, I will never shirk the yoke put upon me.  Yet do Thou, Patroness, make it sweet!” I kissed the letter and put it in my bosom; then I went back to Belviso, embraced him, thanked him for his extraordinary pains on my behalf, and said that as soon as possible after the forthcoming performances of the company I should go to Arezzo.  He sighed and looked unhappy.  “I knew that you would leave us,” he said; “it was only to be expected.”

“Yes, yes, Belviso,” said I, “I must indeed rejoin Virginia.  I see very well that she is my only means of redemption.”

“And what is to become of me, Don Francis?” says he suddenly, catching hold of my hand and staying me in the street.  “What is to become of me without you, who are in turn my only means of redemption?”

I said, “My poor youth, you are putting upon me more than I can bear—­or rather you are putting a fresh weight upon Virginia.  If by her I can be redeemed, and by me only you can be redeemed, then that untried girl is charged with the redemption of both of us—­a singular tax for one whose redemption was originally my own care.”