There is so much joy--a joy the like of which she has never seen. The people love one another and are like brothers. And that not only because a socialist is coming home, but because they all believe that the earth will soon be happy. “If he were to come now, while all this joy is roaring about me,” she thinks. “Could I, could I--” She sees Bosco’s carriage trying to force a way through the crowd. It moves forward step by step. For long moments it stands quite still. It will take several hours to come up from the harbor. “If it were he, and I saw every one crowding round him, could I forbear from throwing myself into his arms? Could I?” * * * * * As soon as she can work her way out of the crowd she takes a carriage, drives out of Palermo, and passes through the plain of Conca d’Oro to the big Cathedral of the old Norman kings in Monreale. She goes in, and stands face to face with the most beautiful image of Christ that human art has created. High up in the choir sits the blessing-giving Christ in glowing mosaic. He is mighty and mysterious and majestic. Without number are they who make a pilgrimage to Monreale in order to feel the consolation of gazing upon his face. Without number are they who in far distant lands long for him. The ground rocks under any one who sees him for the first time. His eyes compel the knees of the foreigner to bend. Without being conscious of it the lips falter: “Thou, God, art God.” About the walls of the temple glow the great events of the world in wonderful mosaic pictures. They only lead to him. They are only there to say: “All the past is his; all the present belongs to him, and all the future.” The mysteries of life and death dwell within that head. There lives the spirit which directs the fate of the world. There glows the love which shall lead the world to salvation. And Donna Micaela calls to him: “Thou son of God, do not part me from thee! Let no man have power to part me from thee!” III THE HOME-COMING It is a strange thing to come home. While yet on the journey, you cannot at all realize how strange it will be. When you come down to Reggio on the Strait of Messina, and see Sicily emerge from the sea like a bank of fog, you are at first almost impatient. “Is it nothing else?” you say. “It is only a land like all others.” And when you disembark at Messina you are still impatient. Something ought to have happened while you have been away. It is dreadful to be met by the same poverty, the same rags, the same misery as when you went away. You see that the spring has come. The fig-trees are again in leaf; the grape-vines send out tendrils which grow yards long in a few hours, and a mass of peas and beans are spread out on the fruit-stands by the harbor.