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But none of these things had charms for Fra Paolo. Not even the beauty
of the cloisters, where the low, gray arches rested on slender shafts of
marble, wrought and twisted into as many devices, drew his thoughts from
the ceaseless contemplation of his problems; not even the petted
rose-tree, lovingly trained by the gentle Fra Francesco and lifting its
pink glory to the crest of the colonnade, won his eyes to wander from
the absorbing treasures of the great library where he passed his days.
Here many a brother had taught himself patience over the fine, endless
text of an ancient gospel, or wrought into the exquisite illumination of
some missal which stood to him in the place of his daily living those
yearning, torturing, hungering affections which had so enriched a gentle
home--as a brother, less disciplined, had carved his unruly tempers into
the grotesque figures of the reading desks. But for Fra Paolo the great
library of the convent held no unsatisfied yearnings--only an infinite
content and power to achieve.


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