“I said to him that we wander from town to town through all Etna, but the church of Lucia is our home, and mass is held here for us every morning. Why should he refuse us the comfort of God’s word?
“I told him that the Jesuits once changed their attitude towards us and wished to drive us away from their church, but they did not succeed. We received a letter from the Viceroy that we might hold our meetings in perpetuity in Santa Lucia in Gesù. And I showed him the letter.”
“Can none of the other gentlemen help you?”
“I have been to them, Donna Elisa. All the morning I have been sent from Herod to Pilatus.”
“Father Elia,” said Donna Elisa with lowered voice, “have you forgotten to call on the saints?”
“I have called on both the black Madonna and San Sebastiano and Santa Lucia. I have prayed to as many as I could name.”
“Do you think, Father Elia,” said Donna Elisa, and lowered her voice still more, “that Don Antonio Greco was helped, because he promised money to Donna Micaela’s railway?”
“I have no money to give,” said the old man, disconsolately.
“Still, you ought to think of it, Father Elia,” said Donna Elisa, “since you are in such straits. You ought to try if, by promising the Christ-image that you yourself and all who belong to your company will speak and sing of the railway, and persuade people to give contributions to it, you may keep your church. We do not know if it can help, but one ought to try every possible thing, Father Elia. It costs nothing to promise.”
“I will promise anything for your sake,” said the old man.
He laid his old blind head again against the black coffin, and Donna Elisa understood that he had given the promise in his desire to be left in peace with his sorrow.
“Shall I present your vow to the Christ-image?” she said.
“Do as you will, Donna Elisa,” said the old man.
That same day old Fra Felice had risen at five o’clock in the morning and begun to sweep out his church. He felt quite active and well; but while he was working it seemed as if San Pasquale, sitting with his bag of stones outside the church-door, had something to say to him. He went out, but there was nothing the matter with San Pasquale; quite the contrary. Just then the sun glided up from behind Etna, and down the dark mountain-sides the rays came hurrying, many-colored as harp-strings. When the rays reached Fra Felice’s old church they turned it rosy red; rosy red were also the old barbaric pillars that held up the canopy over the image, and San Pasquale with his bag of stones, and Fra Felice himself. “We look like young boys,” thought the old man; “we have still long years to live.”