The answer came in a woman's voice, saying, "Open, open, in the name of
high God." It brought every head into the air again, but hushed every
breath.
The shepherd broke the silence with a groan. He brought his hand
splashing on to his wet head, then fell to his knees and began to
confess his sins.
"My fault, my fault, my exceeding great fault! O Mary! O Jesus! _O nobis
peccatoribus!_"
Thus the shepherd, voicing the suspicions of the rest. So he became
their prophet as well as their priest. He towered in the room.
"I tell you, comrades, that the hour of our visitation is come. Not Can
Grande and his hounds are hunting us this night; not the tumbril, the
branding-irons, nor the cart's tail, are for us; but the pains of death,
the fire eternal, the untirable worm, the trumpet of the Last Things!
Who comes knocking in high God's name? Who saith 'Open'?--I will tell
you: it is She who last night lit upon my village and my own sister's
son. Eh! bodies of all dogs, what will become of us sinners?" Here the
shepherd beat the drum of his breast as a signal before he fell flat on
the floor.
From behind his wailful voice the gentle knocking was heard running on.
It had never ceased; it was insistent! Crossing himself desperately,
Stefano slid back the bolts, then paused, then turned the key, then
paused again to breathe hard, his hand upon the latch. He threw his head
forward with a gesture of abandonment to what must be, flung wide the
door, and dropped upon his two knees.
Against a mild radiance, softer than any lamp could shed, was a tall
shrouded woman's figure. They saw the round of her cloaked head, they
saw the white stream of her under-robe run from a peak at her bosom in a
broadening path to her feet. They saw the pure grey moon of her face,
guessed by the dark rings where her eyes should be, watched with quicker
awe the slow movement of her arms, lifted their own to what she held up,
and to the running under-current of the two sobbing drabs muttered in
one voice their remembered adoration.
The tall shepherd rose up by the help of the table, swayed and spoke. No
one knew his voice again, hollow as it was like the sea-grumble.
"O Holiest, O Rose, O Stem of Sharon, O Tree of Carmel!" said he. "What
wouldest thou with us sinners?"
And the woman at the door said, "My friends, I have no roof to my head;
will you take me in? I am hungry; have you no meat for my child and me?"
The host in Stefano jogged the sinner to speak. "Surely, surely, sweet
Lady! Surely, surely. I entreat your Graciousness to enter, to step in,
to accommodate, to sit down, to be pleased to be easy, to--to--to--"
inspiration failed him--"to sit down, in short," was his lame
conclusion. His sweat (as he said next day) would have blinded any other
man.
Through the backing ranks of the scared company--Robaccia leaning face
to the wall, sobbing her heart out; Picagente, the hairy brigand,
breathing short and hard; the shepherd, glorified, exalted, bursting
with prophecy; two thieves at their prayers and a wanton taking the
words from them--through such an assembly the Lady of the Peach-Tree
(who else, pray?) walked to the table. A soft grey light from without
filled the room; there was no need of a lamp, nor did any eye then on
watch fail to see all that followed. Bread and wine were served by
Stefano on bent knee; bread and wine (but sparingly) did the Lady eat
from cup and platter. That cup, that platter, encased in gold leaves and
crusted with turquoise, are to this day in the Treasury. Crutches have
been cast before them, hearts innumerable burn about them. When she had
finished she sat a little while with her white cheek against her hand,
whispering words in an unknown tongue (they said, who knew no baby
language) to the child on her lap. He lifted up a little hand, and, "Eh,
my son, my son," she said, "wilt thou take of me?" Then she gave him
the breast, while not a soul said anything but prayers for half an hour.
When the child slept the Lady folded up her dress, covered him with her
cloak, and rose up in their midst.
"Only the poor love the poor," said she, in those low tones which all
Verona came to know by heart, "and only they who have little to eat give
to them that have less. My little son will bless you for your charity;
and I, good friends, will pray my Master to reward you when He comes.
_Addio, addio_, be with God."
Then she would have gone and left them crying had not Robaccia, the
blowsy wench and good-for-naught, wailed aloud and caught her by the
knees.
"Mother, mother, mother!" whimpered this hardy rascal, "bless me a
little more than the others, a very little more! I am bad--eh, God, I am
vile, enough!--but I will never let thee go save thou kiss me."
You could have heard the roomful of them catch breath together.
Crucciacorda, the other woman, laughed horribly; the shepherd made a
step forward to drag the slut away. But no! The light seemed to swell
and grow towards that point where it threatens to be music, so charged
with messages it is--it came undoubtedly from the heart of the Lady
through her smile. For smile she did, as sweetly, as tenderly, as a
breaking cloud. The sun of her smile was like a clean breath in the
stivy den; and, behold, she took Robaccia by the hand and lifted her up,
she encircled her with a mothering arm, and drew her close to her own
breast. Her lips touched the bad girl's cheek, lingered for a moment
there, wistfully withdrew; and Madonna of the Peach-Tree, none staying
her now, went out into the dead street, and was seen no more of that
company.
The sun at noon looked down upon Verona at peace, upon her citizens at
their prayers. Never was such a scene in the stormy little city before.
All the bells of all the churches pealed all day--with no lack of arms
to pull them. Men and women ran to and fro kissing whom they met, with a
"Save you, brother!" "Save you, sister! well met, well met!" The Grey
Brethren, the Black Brethren, the White Brethren of Carmel, held hands,
and confessed to each other as many sins as they had time to remember.
Can Grande went unarmed about his own city, Bevilacqua unbarred his
door, Giusti married his mistress, the bishop said his prayers. The
cripples at the church doors had no need to whine. As for the tavern of
the Golden Fish, it smelt of lavender and musk and bergamot the day
through. At one time there were eight litters with their bearers, eleven
stallions, trapped and emblazoned, held by eleven grooms in livery,
outside its door. The ladies of the litters were in the room upon their
knees; the knights of the horses, their great helmets on their backs,
knelt in the kennel praying devoutly. The wail of "Dies Iræ" went down
the Corso and up again, "Salve Regina" wavered over the sunny spaces of
the Brà. In the amphitheatre, after an open-air mass, the
Cardinal-Legate solemnly exposed the relics of last night's miracle,
and a bodyguard of twenty noble youths, six chaplains, and a Benedictine
abbot went to the suburb to escort into the city the curate with the
Peach-stone. It was a glorious day, never to be forgotten in the annals
of Verona. Charity and the open heart went side by side with compunction
and the searching of the heart. Tears were shed and kissed away; kisses
induced the fall of gentler tears. It might be stoutly questioned
whether Verona held one unshriven soul, one sin unspoken, or one solace
unawarded.
It might be reasonably questioned, yet it must be denied. Within the
walls of the friars of Mount Carmel were two uneasy spirits. Fra
Sulpicio, the fat prior, was extended face downwards before the high
altar; Fra Battista, the eloquent preacher, chewed his thumb in his
cell. The pittanciar, on the other hand, was of the common mind. He was
ambling down the Via Leoni with Brother Patricio of the Capuchins on one
arm and Brother Martino of the Dominicans on the other, singing "In
Exitu Israel" like a choir-boy. But the prior, who had half believed
before, was sobbing his contrition into the pavement, and Fra Battista
was losing faith in himself, the only faith he had.