The Archbishop received us in his study, a big bare room filled with supplicants, all talking at once. In order that we might hear each other speak, he led the way to a smaller apartment next door. The Archbishop is a tall handsome man, with a direct, forcible manner. We heard from Sicilian friends that he had spent the whole of his large private fortune for the benefit of his people and his church. The Archbishop wasted no time; after thanking us for what had already been done, he spoke of what was nearest his heart. “Build us a church! That is our first need; then build us a barrack, large enough to house eighteen priests. Out of my one hundred and five, eighty were killed; but first of all the church, that is our greatest need!” “You shall have your church, be not afraid,” said Signor Donati. “Behold, the Signor _architetto_ has brought his plans to show you!” J. unrolled the plans with his neat drawings, and spread them out on the writing table, using the ancient sand boxes of the silver inkstand to hold down the corners: “Notice that the church is to be in the shape of the Red Cross.” “Admirable!” said the Archbishop. “Be seated.” With a gracious gesture of authority, he motioned J. to a chair, seated himself at the table, and bent over the plans. Point by point, they went over the ground-plan, elevation, and all the rest of it. The Archbishop was delighted; every ingenious detail pleased him. His earnest, worn face relaxed; he really smiled, waxed enthusiastic. Nothing, he declared, could have been better devised. This was the attitude of the churchmen throughout. Whatever was done for them was well done. The plans for the church were much more elaborate than I had supposed from J.’s letters. Instead of a mere roofed-in shed, it was to be a very solidly built wooden church on concrete foundations; it was even to have a belfry. “By grouping together the ordinary cottage windows, we have here a rose window!” “What a good idea!” “By a miracle, enough red glass has been found in Messina to make a red cross for the centre of the rose window--nothing is lacking, you see, not even a stained glass window.” “Capital!” “If we succeed in getting your church built for you, there are two requests we make in return.” “Requests? Let us hear them.” “First, that the church be called Santa Croce; this because, if built, it will be by a gift of the American Red Cross.” “A good name,” the Archbishop nodded; “it shall certainly be called Santa Croce. The second request?” “The Signor Comandante asks for the use of a bell one of our carpenters saw lying on the ground outside a ruined church.” “For what will the bell be used?” “To call the men to work.” “That is a good use. _Laborare est orare._ Send your men for the bell when you like.” The Archbishop rose as he said it, and the interview was over; a busy man, he had given us all the time he could spare. The Jesuit came with us to the door of the palace.