But the Churches of the Eagle stand high, with their heads to the skies,
as if they challenged the world below. They are the Churches of the
Spirit of David, and their bells ring passionately, imperiously, falling
on the subservient world below.
The Church of San Francesco was a Church of the Dove. I passed it
several times in the dark, silent little square, without knowing it was
a church. Its pink walls were blind, windowless, unnoticeable, it gave
no sign, unless one caught sight of the tan curtain hanging in the door,
and the slit of darkness beneath. Yet it was the chief church of
the village.
But the Church of San Tommaso perched over the village. Coming down the
cobbled, submerged street, many a time I looked up between the houses
and saw the thin old church standing above in the light, as if it
perched on the house-roofs. Its thin grey neck was held up stiffly,
beyond was a vision of dark foliage, and the high hillside.
I saw it often, and yet for a long time it never occurred to me that it
actually existed. It was like a vision, a thing one does not expect to
come close to.
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