Anthime, exasperated by this resistance, pushed the boy away. He would act alone. Setting his shoulder against the wall, he seized his crutch by the lower end and, swinging it backwards, hurled it with terrific violence into the air. The wooden missile rebounded from the inside wall of the niche and fell noisily to the ground, bringing with it some fragment or other of broken plaster. He picked up his crutch and stepped back to look at the niche.... Hell and fury! The two candles were still burning! But what was this? The statue’s right hand had disappeared and in its place there was nothing to be seen but a piece of black iron rod. For a moment he gazed with disillusioned eyes at the melancholy result of his handiwork. That it should end in such a ludicrous assault!... Fie! Oh, fie! He turned to look for Beppo; the boy had vanished. Darkness was closing in; Anthime was alone; but what was this he caught sight of, lying on the pavement?--The fragment which he had brought down with his crutch; he picked it up--it was a little plaster hand, which with a shrug of his shoulders he slipped into his waistcoat pocket. Shame on his brow and rage in his heart, the iconoclast went up again to his laboratory; he wanted to work but the abominable effort he had just made had shattered him. He had no heart for anything but sleep. He would certainly not say good night to anyone before he went to bed. And yet, just as he was entering his room, a sound of voices stopped him. The door of the next room was open and he stole into the darkness of the passage. Little Julie in her night-gown, like some tiny familiar angel, was kneeling on her bed; at the head of the bed, full in the light of the lamp, Veronica and Marguerite were both on their knees; a little further off, Julius, with one hand on his heart and the other covering his eyes, was standing in an attitude at once devout and manly; they were listening to the child’s prayers. The deep silence in which the scene was wrapped brought back to Anthime’s recollection a certain tranquil, golden evening on the banks of the Nile. Like the blue smoke that had risen that evening into the pureness of the sky, the little girl’s innocent prayer rose straight to Heaven. Her prayers were no doubt drawing to a close; the child had gone through all the usual formula, and was praying now in her own words, out of the fullness of her heart; she prayed for the little orphans, for the sick, for the poor, for sister Genevieve, for Aunt Veronica, for Papa, for dear Mamma’s eye to be well soon.... As he listened, Anthime’s heart grew sore within him; from the threshold of the door where he was standing, he called out in a voice that was meant to be ironical, and loud enough to be heard at the other end of the room: “And is God not to be asked anything for Uncle Anthime?” And then, to everyone’s astonishment, the child, in an extraordinarily steady voice, went on: “And please, dear God, forgive Uncle Anthime his sins.”