that on both sides, beyond the evergreen oaks, the bare rocks looked much whiter than before; that many little streaks of light were glinting through the foliage above his head. Dawn? Was it dawn? Benedetto had thought it was little past midnight. The hour struck at Santa Scolastica—one, two, three, four. It was indeed morning, and it would be lighter still—for it no longer rained—were the sky not one heavy cloud from the hills of Subiaco to the hills of Jenne. A step in the distance; some one coming up towards the arch.
It was the herder of Santa Scolastica who, for special reasons, was carrying the milk to the Sacro Speco at that unusually early hour. Benedetto greeted him. The man started violently at the sound of his voice, and nearly let the jug of milk fall.
"Oh, Benedè!" he exclaimed, recognising Benedetto, "are you here?"
Benedetto begged for a drink of milk, for the love of God!
"You can explain to the monks," said he. "You can say I was exhausted, and asked for a little milk, for the love of God."
"Yes, yes! It is all right! Take it! Drink!" the man exclaimed, for he believed Benedetto to be a saint. "And have you passed the night out here? You were out in all that rain? Good Lord! how wet you are! You are soaked through like a sponge!"
