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Unformatted text preview: a solemn and terrible moment. I had never wanted to leave Italy. And I thought again of the priest's words, spoken in Donnelaith: "You can choose." Could I not choose to stay here in the service of God and St. Francis? Could I not forget the past? As for the women, I would never touch them again, never. There would be no more such deaths. And as for St. Ashlar, who was this saint who had no feast in the church calendar? Yes, stay here! Stay in sunny Italy, stay in this place which has become your home. A man was following me. I'd seen him almost as soon as I left the town and now he came riding closer and closer, a man dressed all in black wool and on a black horse. "Can I offer you my horse. Father?" he asked. It was the accent of the Dutch merchants. I knew it. I had heard it often enough in Florence and in Rome, and everywhere that I had been. I looked up and I saw his reddish-golden hair and blue eyes. Germanic. Dutch. It was all the same to me. A man from a world where heretics thrived. "You know you cannot," I sai...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10