Front matter (continued 4)

They were very simple words, but Don Agostino felt that they contained a truth which could not be displeasing to the God of Truth. Moreover, he honored the courage of the lad more than he did that of many who dared not confess inability to believe what reason refused to admit.

"Who knows?" he had said to himself, half-smiling, repeating the young fellow's answer. And then he had added aloud, "You will know very soon—better than any of us. Until then, only trust. God will teach you the rest."

Afterwards, answered by the look on the dying lad's face, he had given the sacrament.

And now Don Agostino was walking homeward in the peaceful summer dawn, and if there was pity in his heart for the strong young life suddenly taken away from the beautiful world around him, there was also some joy. Even now the veil was lifted, and the boy—knew. Perhaps the simple, human understanding, which could have no place in theology, had not led him so far astray, and had already found favor in the eyes of Him who gave it.

And Don Agostino looked at the landscape around him, waking up to a new day and laughing in the first rays of a risen sun. As he looked he crossed himself, and the lad who had been summoned from all this beauty was followed to his new home by a prayer.

Suddenly Don Agostino's meditations were interrupted by the report of a gun fired some yards in front of him, immediately succeeded by a pattering of spent shot among the leaves on the bank above him. He called out quickly, in order to warn the unseen cacciatore of his propinquity; for there was a sharp bend in the pathway immediately ahead of him, and he by no means wished to receive the contents of a second barrel as he turned it. A reassuring shout answered him, and he quickened his pace until, after turning the corner, a brown setter came up and sniffed at him amicably, while its owner appeared among the vines close by.

Don Agostino lifted his hat in response to the sportsman's salutation and regrets at having startled him.

"I was safe enough where I was, signore," he said, smiling; "but it was as well to warn you that there was somebody on the path. I did not wish to be taken for a crow," he added, with a downward glance at his soutane.

The cacciatore laughed. "Your reverence would have been even safer as a crow," he replied; "but indeed there was no danger. I was firing well above the path at a turtledove, which I missed badly. But it is better to miss than to wound."

Don Agostino looked at the speaker, and there was approval in his glance, either of the sentiment or of the appearance of the sportsman—perhaps of both.

"Sicuro," he replied, "it is better to miss than to wound. For my part, I should prefer always to miss; but then I am not a sportsman, as you see. All the same, I am glad you cacciatori do not always miss—from the point of view of the stomach, you know. The signore is from Rome, I conclude?"

The other hesitated for a moment.

"From Rome—yes," he replied,

Don Agostino glanced at him again, and thought how good-looking the young man was. A gentleman, evidently, by his manner and bearing—but a stranger, for he had certainly never seen him in Montefiano.

"I," he said, "am the parroco of Montefiano—Agostino Lelli, per servirla."

The young cacciatore started slightly, and then he hesitated again. Courtesy necessitated his giving his own name in return.

"And I, reverendo," he replied, after a slight pause, "am Silvio Rossano, of Rome."

Don Agostino looked surprised.

"Rossano?" he said. "A relative, perhaps, of the Senator Rossano?"

"My father," replied Silvio. "Your reverence knows him?"

"Altrocchè!" exclaimed Don Agostino, holding out his hand. "Your father is an old friend—one of my oldest friends in days gone by. But I have not seen anything of him for years. Che vuole! When one lives at Montefiano one does not see illustrious professors. One sees peasants—and pigs. Not but what there are things to be learned from both of them. And so you are the son of Professor Rossano? But you have not come to Montefiano for sport—no? There is not much game about here, as no doubt you have already discovered."

He glanced at Silvio's game-bag as he spoke. Three or four beccafichi and a turtle-dove seemed to be its entire contents.

Silvio looked embarrassed, though he had felt that the priest's question must come. His embarrassment did not escape Don Agostino, who jumped at the somewhat hasty conclusion that either this young man must be hiding from creditors, or else that he must be wandering in unfrequented places with a mistress. In this latter case, however, Don Agostino thought it improbable that he would be out so early in the morning. It was, no doubt, a question of creditors. Young men went away from Montefiano when they could scrape up enough money to emigrate, but he had never known one to come there.

Silvio's answer tended to confirm his suspicions concerning the creditors.

"I did not come to Montefiano for the sport, certainly," he said; "and, indeed, I am not living in Montefiano itself. I am staying at Civitacastellana for the moment."

"Civitacastellana!" exclaimed Don Agostino. "Pardon my curiosity, my dear Signor Rossano, but how in the world do you occupy yourself at Civitacastellana—unless, indeed, you are an artist? It is a beautiful spot, certainly, with its neighboring ravines and its woods, but—well, after Rome you must find it quiet, decidedly quiet. And the inn—I know that inn. One feels older when one has passed a night there."

"I cannot call myself an artist," said Silvio, laughing, "though I certainly draw a great deal. I am an engineer by profession, and Civitacastellana is—well, as you say, a very quiet place. Sometimes one likes a quiet place, after Rome."

"Ah, yes, that is true," returned Don Agostino, thoughtfully. "I, too, have come to a quiet place after Rome, but then I have been in it more than ten years. I think the change loses its effect when one tries it for so long a time."

Silvio glanced at him. He had at once realized that this was no ordinary village priest, scarcely, if at all removed from the peasant class. The quiet, educated voice, the polished Italian, the clear-cut, intellectual features, all told their own tale quickly enough. And this Don Lelli was an old friend of his father. Silvio was well aware that his father did not number very many priests among his friends, and that the few whom he did so number were distinguished for their wide learning and liberal views.

"You know Rome, reverendo?" he inquired, with some curiosity, though he knew well enough that he was talking to a Roman.

Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he replied, "I know Rome. That is to say," he added, "if anybody can assert that he knows Rome. It is a presumptuous assertion to make. Perhaps I should rather say that I know one or two features of Rome."

"You no doubt studied there?"

"Yes, I studied there. I was also born there—like yourself, no doubt. We are both Romani di Roma—one cannot mistake the accent."

"And it was then you knew my father, of course," said Silvio.

"When I was a seminarist? No, some years after that period of my life. I knew your father when—well, when I was something more than I am now," concluded Don Agostino, with a slight smile.

"When you were a parish priest in the city?" asked Silvio.

"When I was at the Vatican," replied Don Agostino, quietly.

"At the Vatican!" Silvio exclaimed.

Don Agostino laughed quietly. "Why not?" he returned. "You are thinking to yourself that members of the pontifical court are not usually sent to such places as Montefiano. Well, it is a long story, but your father will tell it you. He will not have forgotten it—I am quite sure of that."

They had walked on together while they were talking, and presently emerged on the steep road leading up the hill to Montefiano. From this point Silvio could see the little town clustering against the face of the rock some mile or so above them, and the great, square castle of the Acorari dominating it.

"You have been to Montefiano?" Don Agostino asked his companion.

"Yes," answered Silvio, "several times. But," he added, "the Montefianesi do not seem very communicative to strangers."

Don Agostino laughed. "They are unaccustomed to them," he said, dryly; "but they are good folk when once you know them. For the rest, there is not much for them to be communicative about."

"Has the castle no history?"

"It has much the same history as all our mediæval and renaissance strongholds—that is to say, a mixture of savagery, splendor, and crime. But the Montefianesi would not be able to tell you much about it. I doubt if nine out of every ten of them have ever been inside it."

"But it is inhabited now," said Silvio, quickly.

Don Agostino glanced at him, struck by a sudden change in the tone of his companion's voice.

"Yes," he replied, "for the first time for many years. The princess and her step-daughter, Donna Bianca Acorari, are there at present."

"You know them, of course, reverendo?"

"I have not that honor," replied Don Agostino. "My professional duties do not bring me into communication with them, except occasionally upon paper. But," he continued, "will you not come to my house? You can see it yonder—near the church, behind those chestnut-trees. It is getting late for your shooting, and I dare say you have walked enough. I have to say mass at six o'clock, but this morning I shall be late, for it is that now. Afterwards we will have some coffee and some eggs. We have both been occupied for the last few hours, though in different ways; and I, for one, need food."

Silvio accepted the invitation with alacrity, and they proceeded to mount the long hill together.

"I thought," he observed, presently, "that you would certainly be acquainted with Princess Montefiano."

"Are you acquainted with her?" asked Don Agostino, somewhat abruptly.

"No," replied Silvio, "except by sight. My father lives in Palazzo Acorari in Rome—we have the second floor."

Don Agostino said nothing, and they walked on for some minutes in silence. The heat of the sun was by this time becoming considerable, and both of them felt that they would not be sorry to arrive at their journey's end. Twenty minutes more brought them to the little piazza in front of the church, and here Don Agostino paused.

"I must say the mass at once," he said; "the people will have been waiting half an hour or more. There," he added, "is the house. You can go through the garden and wait for me if you do not care to assist at the mass."

Silvio, however, declared that he wished to be present, and Don Agostino led the way into the church. Half a dozen peasant women and one or two old men formed the congregation, and Silvio sat down on a bench near the altar, while Don Agostino disappeared into the sacristy to vest himself.

The mass did not take long, and at its conclusion Don Agostino beckoned to his guest to follow him into the sacristy, whence a passage communicated with the house. By this time Don Agostino was fairly exhausted. He had eaten nothing since the evening before, and his long walk and sad vigil through the night had left him weary both in body and mind. His mass over, however, he was at liberty to eat and drink; and the caffè e latte, fresh-laid eggs, and the rolls and butter his housekeeper had prepared were most acceptable. Even Silvio, who had already breakfasted on figs and bread, needed no pressing to breakfast a second time.

The food and rest quickly revived his host's strength, and very soon Silvio could hardly believe that he was sitting at the table of a parish priest in the Sabina. Don Agostino proved himself to be a courteous and agreeable host. He talked with the easy assurance of one who was not only a man of God, but also a man of the world. Silvio found himself rapidly falling under the spell of an individuality which was evidently strong and yet attractive. As he sat listening to his host's conversation, he wondered ever more and more why such a man should have been sent by the authorities of the Church to live, as he had himself expressed it, among peasants and pigs in a Sabine town. He was scarcely conscious that Don Agostino, while talking pleasantly on all sorts of topics, had succeeded in quietly eliciting from him a considerable amount of information concerning himself, his profession, and, indeed, his personality generally. And yet, so it was. Monsignor Lelli had not occupied an official position in the Vatican for some years without learning the art of being able to extract more information than he gave.

In this instance, however, Don Agostino's curiosity concerning his guest was largely due to the favorable impression Silvio's good looks and frank, straightforward manner had made upon him; as well as to the fact that he was the son of a man for whose learning he had a deep admiration, and with whom he had in former years been very intimate.

The more he talked to Silvio, the more he felt his first impressions had not been wrong. He would have liked very much to know, all the same, why this handsome lad was wandering about the neighborhood of Montefiano. He shrewdly suspected that a few birds and a possible hare were not the true inducement; and that, unless he were hiding himself, this young Rossano must have some other game in view.

The expression which had passed over Silvio's face on hearing that he was not acquainted with the owners of Montefiano had not escaped Don Agostino's notice. He had observed, moreover, that his young guest more than once brought the conversation round to Princess Montefiano, but that he never alluded to her step-daughter. Monsignor Lelli had been young himself—it seemed to him sometimes that this had happened not so very long ago—and he had not always been a priest. As he talked to Silvio Rossano, he thought of the days when he had been just such another young fellow—strong, enthusiastic, and certainly not ill-looking. Meeting the frank glance of Silvio's blue eyes, Don Agostino did not believe that their owner was hiding from anything or from anybody. He felt strangely drawn towards this chance acquaintance, the only educated human being, the only individual of his own class in life with whom he had interchanged a word for months—nay, for more, for it was now more than two years since some private business had taken him to Rome, where he had seen one or two of his old friends.

Their light breakfast over, Silvio Rossano presently rose, and thanking the priest for his hospitality, was about to depart. Don Agostino, however, pressed him to remain.

"I do not have so many visitors," he said, with a smile, "that I can afford to lose one so quickly. You will give me great pleasure by staying as long as you can. It is hot now for walking, and if you are returning to Civitacastellana, you can do that just as well in the evening. I have a suggestion to make to you," he added, "which is, that we should smoke a cigar now, and afterwards I will have a room prepared for you, and you can rest till mezzogiorno, when we will dine. When one has walked since dawn, a little rest is good; and as for me, I have been up all the night, so I have earned it."

Silvio hesitated. "But I cannot inflict my company upon you for so long," he said. "You have been already too hospitable to me, Don Agostino."

Don Agostino rose from the table, and, opening a drawer, produced some cigars. "I assure you," he replied, "that it is I who will be your debtor if you will remain. As I say, I seldom have a visitor, and it is a great pleasure to me to have made your acquaintance. I think, perhaps," he continued, looking at Silvio with a smile, "that it is an acquaintance which will become a friendship."

"I hope so, monsignore," replied Silvio, heartily, "and I accept your invitation with pleasure."

"That is well," returned Don Agostino; "but," he added, laughing, "at Montefiano there are no monsignori. There is only the parroco—Don Agostino."

XVIII

Don Agostino was quite right when he said that a little rest after walking since daybreak would be a good thing. Silvio, at any rate, found it so, for he very soon fell fast asleep in the room that had been prepared for him—so fast, indeed, that even the church-bells ringing mezzogiorno did not awaken him.

Don Agostino, fearing for the omelette his house-keeper had already placed on the table as the first dish of the mid-day meal, had gone up-stairs to rouse his guest, and, receiving no response to his knock, had quietly entered the bedroom.

Silvio was lying as he had flung himself on the bed, after having divested himself of most of his clothes. He lay on his back, with one arm under his head and the hand half-buried in the short, curly hair, in face and form resembling some Greek statue of a sleeping god, his well-made, graceful limbs relaxed, and his lips just parted in a slight smile.

Don Agostino stood and watched him for a moment or two. It seemed a pity to rouse him—almost sacrilege to wake the statue into life.

"It is the Hermes of the Vatican," he said to himself, smiling—"the Hermes reposing after taking a message from the gods. Well, well, one must be young to sleep like that! I would let him sleep on, but then Ernana will say that the dinner is spoiled," and he laid his hand gently on Silvio's arm.

Apparently the sleeper was more sensitive to touch than to sound, for he opened his eyes instantly, and then started up with a confused apology.

"It is I who should apologize for waking you," said Don Agostino; "but it is past twelve o'clock, and my housekeeper is a tyrant. She is afraid her dishes will be spoiled!"

Silvio sprang from the bed. "I will be ready in a few minutes," he said; and before Don Agostino could beg him not to hurry himself, he had filled a basin with cold water, into which he plunged his face as a preliminary to further ablutions.

In ten minutes he had rejoined Don Agostino in the little dining-room, and the two sat down to the dinner which Ernana had produced, not without some grumbling at the delay, which, she declared, had turned the omelette into a piece of donkey's hide.

Silvio did ample justice to her cookery, however, and indeed Don Agostino's house-keeper looked with scarcely concealed admiration and approval at him as she served the various dishes. She also wondered what this bel giovanotto was doing at Montefiano, and several times came very near to asking him the question, being only restrained therefrom by the thought that she would learn all she wanted to know from Don Agostino so soon as the visitor should have departed.

After dinner, Don Agostino produced a bottle of old wine—such wine as seldom comes to the market in Italy, and which, could it only travel, would put the best French vintages to shame. Ernana served the coffee and then departed to her kitchen, and Don Agostino proceeded to prepare cigars by duly roasting the ends in the flame of a candle before handing one of them to his guest to smoke.

"And so," he observed, presently, "you actually live in the Palazzo Acorari at Rome. Your father, no doubt, knows the princess and Donna Bianca?"

Silvio shook his head. "No," he replied. "You must remember—" he added, and then paused, abruptly.

Don Agostino blew a ring of smoke into the air.

"What must I remember?" he asked, smiling at Silvio's obvious embarrassment.

"You know my father's opinions," continued Silvio, "and perhaps you have read some of his works. He is not—I speak with all respect—of the Neri, and Princess Montefiano is, they say, a very good Catholic."

Don Agostino laughed. "Ah, I forgot," he said. "No, I never looked upon your father as a good Catholic. It really was never any business of mine whether he was so or not. But the princess—yes, I believe she is very strict in her opinions, and your father is, very naturally, not beloved by the Vatican party."

Silvio glanced at him. "You have read his books, Don Agostino?" he asked.

"Certainly I have read them—all of them."

"And yet you continue to regard him as a friend?"

Don Agostino smiled. "Why not?" he asked. "I do not always agree with his conclusions on certain subjects. If I did, I should not wear this dress; it would be to me as the shirt of Nessus. But is it necessary always to agree with one's friends? I think the best friends and the best lovers are those who know how to disagree. However, we were talking of Princess Montefiano. I can quite understand that she would not desire to be on friendly terms with Professor Rossano."

"Or with any of his family," added Silvio, bluntly.

Don Agostino gave him a scrutinizing glance.

"Ah," he said, "you mean that she visits the sins of the father upon the son."

Silvio hesitated. There was something very sympathetic about this priest—something that seemed to ask, almost to plead, for his trust and confidence. And yet could he, knowing so little of him, dare to confide to him why he was in the neighborhood of Montefiano? Certainly this Don Agostino was a friend of his father, and, as such, might be disposed to help him. Moreover, Silvio could not help seeing that his host was disposed to like him for his own sake, and that for some reason or other there was a current of sympathy between them, though as yet they were almost strangers to each other.

Perhaps Don Agostino observed his companion's hesitation, for he spoke again, and this time it was to ask a question which did not tend to diminish it.

"I suppose," he said, "that you have seen Donna Bianca Acorari? I do not ask you if you know her personally, after what you have just told me; but no doubt, as you live under the same roof, so to speak, you know her by sight?"

Silvio felt the color rising in his face, and felt, too, that Don Agostino's eyes were fixed upon him with a strange intensity. Could it be, he wondered, that the priest suspected the truth, or had, perhaps, been warned about him by the princess herself? The thought was a disagreeable one, for it made him mistrust his host's good faith, as Don Agostino had distinctly denied any acquaintance with Princess Montefiano. The expression of Don Agostino's face puzzled him. It spoke of pain, as well as of curiosity, and he seemed to be anxiously hanging upon the answer to his question. That the priest should be curious, Silvio could well understand, but there was no apparent reason why Bianca Acorari's name should call forth that look of pain on his countenance.

"Yes," Silvio replied, guardedly. "I know Donna Bianca Acorari by sight, extremely well."

Don Agostino leaned forward in his chair. "Ah," he exclaimed, eagerly, "you know her by sight! Tell me about her. I saw her once—once only—and then she was quite a little child. It was in Rome—years ago. She is, no doubt, grown into a beautiful girl by now."

Silvio looked at him with surprise. The eagerness in his voice was unmistakable, but there was the same strange expression of pain on his face.

"But surely," he replied, "your reverence must have seen her here at Montefiano, or, at least, others must have seen her who could tell you about her?"

Don Agostino shook his head. "Nobody has seen her since her arrival here," he said. "The castle is large, and the park behind it is very extensive. There is no reason why its inmates should ever come into the paese, and they never do come into it."

"But the servants—the household?"

"The servants were all brought from Rome. Most of the provisions also are sent from Rome. There is practically no communication with the town of Montefiano, and, except the fattore, I have heard of nobody who has been admitted inside the castle walls since the princess and Donna Bianca arrived."

"It is very strange," said Silvio.

"Yes," returned Don Agostino, "it is certainly strange. But," he added, "you do not tell me of Donna Bianca—what she is like; whether she is beautiful, as beautiful as—" he stopped abruptly and passed his hand almost impatiently across his eyes, as though to shut out some vision.

"Beautiful?" repeated Silvio, in a low voice. "I do not know—yes, I suppose that she is beautiful—and—and— But why do you ask me?" he suddenly burst out, impetuously, and the hot color again mounted to his cheeks and brow.

Don Agostino suddenly turned and looked at him keenly.

"Why should I not ask you?" he replied, quietly. "You have seen her," he added, "and I—I am interested in her. Oh, not because she is the Princess of Montefiano—that does not concern me at all—but—well, for other reasons."

Silvio was silent. Indeed, he did not know how to answer. What he had just heard confirmed his suspicions that Bianca was practically isolated from the world, as though she were within the walls of a convent. He had asked in Montefiano about the castle and its inmates, and had learned absolutely nothing, save what might be implied by the shrugging of shoulders.

Suddenly Don Agostino spoke again.

"And you?" he said, laying his hand for a moment on Silvio's—"forgive me if I am inquisitive—but you, also, are interested in Donna Bianca Acorari—is it not true?"

Silvio started. "I!" he exclaimed.

Don Agostino smiled. His agitation seemed to have passed, and he looked at the boy beside him searchingly, but very kindly.

"If I am mistaken," he repeated, "you must forgive me; but if I am not, I think that you will not regret telling me the truth."

Silvio looked at him steadily.

"It is true," he said, slowly, "that I am interested in Donna Bianca—very much interested. You have been very good to me, Don Agostino," he added, "and I will be quite open with you. I feel that you will not betray a confidence, even though it may not be told you in the confessional."

Don Agostino made a slight gesture, whether of impatience Silvio could not quite be sure.

"A confidence between gentlemen," he said, "and, I hope, between friends."

"Then," returned Silvio, quietly, "I will confide to you that it is my interest in Donna Bianca Acorari which brings me to Montefiano."

"And she?" asked Don Agostino, quickly. "Is she—interested—in you, Signor Rossano?"

Silvio blushed. "Please," he said, "do not address me so formally. Surely, as an old friend of my father, it is not necessary! Yes," he added, simply, "we are going to marry each other."

"Diamine!" ejaculated Don Agostino; and then he seemed to be studying Silvio's face attentively.

"But what made you suspect this?" asked Silvio, presently; "for it is evident that you have suspected it."

Don Agostino smiled. "I hardly know," he replied. "Your manner, perhaps, when I mentioned Donna Bianca's name, coupled with the fact that, though you asked me many questions about Montefiano and the princess, you studiously avoided any allusion to her step-daughter. But there was something besides this—some intuition that I cannot explain, though I know the reason of it well enough. I am glad you have told me, Silvio—I may call you Silvio, may I not? And now, as you have told me so much, you will tell me all your story; and afterwards, perhaps, I will explain to you why you will not regret having done so."

In a very few words Silvio related all there was to tell. Don Agostino listened attentively, and every now and then he sighed, and Silvio, glancing at him, saw the pained look occasionally flit across his countenance.

"Of course," he said, as Silvio finished his story, "they have brought the girl here to be out of your way, and they will keep her here. I suspected something of the kind when I first heard that the princess was coming to Montefiano. And when I saw you, an instinct seemed to tell me that in some way you were connected with Bianca Acorari being here. When you told me who you were, and that you lived in Palazzo Acorari, I was certain, or nearly certain of it. You wonder why I am interested in Donna Bianca, as I have only once seen her as a child, and why I should wish to know what she is like now, do you not? Well, you have given me your confidence, Silvio, and I will give you mine. Come with me into my study," and Don Agostino led the way into a little room beyond the dining-room, in which they were still sitting.

Silvio followed him in silence, greatly wondering what link there could be between Bianca and this newly found friend who had so unexpectedly risen up at Montefiano, where a friend was so badly needed.

Don Agostino went to the cabinet standing in the corner of his little study, and, unlocking a drawer, took out the miniature, which he had not again looked at since the day, now nearly two months ago, when he had heard that the Princess Montefiano and her step-daughter were coming to inhabit the castle.

"I asked you to tell me what Donna Bianca Acorari is like now," he said, quietly. "At least," he added, "you can tell me if there is a resemblance between her and this miniature." And, opening the case, he placed it in Silvio's hand.

Silvio uttered an exclamation of astonishment as he looked at the portrait.

"But it is Bianca—Bianca herself!" he said, looking from the miniature to Don Agostino in amazement. "The same hair, the same eyes and mouth, the same coloring. It is Bianca Acorari."

"No," interrupted Don Agostino, "she was Bianca Acorari afterwards. Then, when the miniature was painted, she was Bianca Negroni."

"I do not understand," muttered Silvio, in bewilderment.

Don Agostino took the case from him. "She was Bianca Negroni then," he repeated, in a low voice, as though speaking to himself. "She should have been Bianca Lelli—my wife. We were engaged. Afterwards she was called Bianca Acorari, Principessa di Montefiano."

Silvio looked at him in silence. He understood now.

"We were engaged," continued Don Agostino, "as you and her child are engaged, without the consent of her family. They forced her to marry Prince Montefiano. It was an unhappy marriage, as, perhaps, you have heard."

Then he turned away, and gently, reverently, as though replacing some holy relic in its shrine, put the miniature back into the drawer of the cabinet.

"You can understand now," he said, quietly, "why I wished to know what her child is like. As for you, Silvio—" he paused, and looked at Silvio Rossano earnestly. "Well," he continued, "I have had one intuition to-day which did not mislead me, and I think my second intuition will prove equally true. I believe that you would make any woman a good husband—that your character does not belie your face."

Silvio looked at him with a quick smile.

"I will make her a good husband," he said, simply. The words were few, but they appealed to Don Agostino more than any lover's protestations would have appealed to him.

"And she?" asked Don Agostino, suddenly. "You are sure that she would make you a good wife? If her nature is like her mother's she will be faithful to you in her heart. I am sure of that. But she is her father's daughter as well, and—well, he is dead, so I say no more. And no doubt the knowledge that he had married a woman whose love was given elsewhere accounted for much of his conduct after his marriage. We will not speak of him, Silvio. But you are sure that you have chosen wisely?"

"Oh, very sure!" exclaimed Silvio.

Don Agostino smiled—a somewhat pathetic smile. "I am very sure, also," he said. "It is strange," he added, thoughtfully, "that your story should be an exact repetition of my own. Almost one would think that she"—and he glanced towards the cabinet—"had sent me here to Montefiano to help her child; that everything during these years had been foreordained. I wondered, when they sent me to Montefiano, whether it were not for some purpose that would one day be made clear to me; for at Montefiano her child was born, and at Montefiano she died, neglected, and practically alone."

Don Agostino sat down at his writing-table. He covered his eyes with his hands for a moment or two, and above him the ivory Christ gleamed white in the sunlight which filtered through the closed Venetian blinds.

"It is strange—yes," said Silvio, in a low voice; "and I, too," he added—"I have felt some power urging me to tell you my story, and my true reason for being here. But," he continued, "our case—Bianca's and mine—is different from yours in one particular, Don Agostino."

Don Agostino looked up. "Yes," he replied; "Donna Bianca Acorari's mother, though she had money, was not the heiress to estates and titles."

"I did not mean that," returned Silvio. "I forgot it," he added. "I am always forgetting it. Perhaps you do not believe me, but when I do remember it I wish that Bianca Acorari were penniless and not noble. There would be nothing then to keep us apart. No; I mean that, in her case, there can be no forcing of another marriage upon her, because I am very sure that Bianca would never submit."

Don Agostino glanced at him. "Are you so sure?" he asked. "That is well. But, Silvio, we can hardly realize the pressure that may be placed upon a young girl by her family."

"She has no family," observed Silvio, tranquilly. "It is true," he continued, "that there is her step-mother, who is her guardian until she is of age. But Bianca is not a child, reverendo. She will not allow herself to be coerced."

Don Agostino looked at him for a moment and appeared to be considering something in his mind.

"How come you to know her character so well?" he asked, presently. "How can you know it? You guess at it, that is all."

Silvio shook his head. "Her character is written on her face," he said. "Besides, when one loves, one knows those things."

Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he observed, "or one thinks one knows them, which does quite as well, so long as one is never undeceived. So," he continued, "you think that the girl has sufficient strength of will to resist any pressure that might be brought to compel her to marry somebody else. That is well; for, unless I am mistaken, she has been brought to Montefiano for no other purpose than to be exposed to pressure of the kind."

Silvio started. "What do you mean?" he exclaimed. "I thought you said you knew nothing of the princess and Donna Bianca—that nobody went inside the castle. Do you mean to say that they are already trying to coerce her in some way? But not by forcing her into another marriage. Giacinta declares they do not want her to marry, and she knows."

"Giacinta?" said Don Agostino, inquiringly.

"My sister. Ah, I forgot; I have not spoken to you about her. She is sure that a priest whom the princess confides in does not wish Bianca to marry at all, for some reason—"

"Yes," interrupted Don Agostino; "the Abbé Roux—a Belgian."

"You know him?" asked Silvio, surprised.

"Oh yes, I know him," replied Don Agostino, dryly.

"Therefore," Silvio continued, "you see that I have not to fear anything of that kind, as—as you had."

Don Agostino was silent.

Silvio looked at him inquiringly. "You think that I have?" he asked, hastily.

"It is possible," returned Don Agostino. "I do not know for certain. I have no means of knowing for certain," he added, "but I hear rumors—suppositions. Perhaps they are purely imaginary suppositions. In a small place like Montefiano people like to gossip, especially about what they do not understand. Apparently the princess and her daughter are not alone in the castle. A brother of the princess, Baron d'Antin, is staying with them, and also the Abbé Roux, who says mass in the chapel every morning. So, you see, my services are not required."

"Her brother!" said Silvio. "I did not know the Princess Montefiano had a brother."

Don Agostino nodded. "Yes," he returned, "and—well, it is precisely about this brother that people talk."

Silvio looked at him with amazement.

"About him!" he exclaimed. "What could there be to say about him and Bianca? It is too ridiculous—"

Don Agostino interrupted him. "I should not call it ridiculous," he said, "if the suppositions I have heard are true. I should rather call it revolting."

"But it would be an unheard-of thing—an impossibility!" said Silvio, angrily, and his eyes flashed ominously.

"No," Don Agostino observed, quietly, "it would be neither the one nor the other, Silvio. Such alliances have been made before now—in Rome, too. There is no consanguinity, you must remember. No dispensation even would be required. But if it is true that such a crime is in contemplation, the child must be saved from it—ah, yes, she must be saved from it at all costs!"

Silvio suddenly grasped the priest's hand. "You will help me to save her, Don Agostino!" he exclaimed. "For her own sake and for her mother's sake—who, as you said a few minutes ago, perhaps sent you here to protect her—you will help me to save her!"

Don Agostino, still holding Silvio's hand in his own, looked into his eyes for a moment without speaking.

"I have seen you to-day," he said, at length, "for the first time, but I trust you for your father's sake and also for your own. Yes, I will help you, if I can help you, to save Bianca Acorari from being sacrificed, for the sake of her mother, anima benedetta. But we must act prudently, and, first of all, I have a condition to make."

"Make any condition you please," said Silvio, eagerly, "so long as you do what I ask of you."

"Is your father aware that you are here—I mean, that you are in the neighborhood of Montefiano?" asked Don Agostino.

Silvio shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot tell you," he replied. "My sister, Giacinta, knows it, and she may have told him. My father, Don Agostino, told me that he had done all he could in asking the consent of the princess to an engagement between his son and her step-daughter, and that, as this consent had been unconditionally refused, I must in future manage my own affairs in my own way. This is what I am doing to the best of my ability."

Don Agostino smiled slightly. "I understand," he said. "Well, Silvio, my condition is that I should see your father and discuss the matter with him before doing anything here. He will give you a good character, I have no doubt, and will assure me that you would make Bianca Acorari a good husband. I owe it to—well, you know now to whom, to make this condition."

Silvio smiled. "Is that all, reverendo?" he asked. "It is a condition very easily carried out," he added.

"We will go to Rome, you and I, to-morrow," said Don Agostino, "and for to-night you will stop with me here. In the evening, when it is cooler, we will go to Civitacastellana, and we will bring your things back with us. No; I am doing you no kindness—I am doing a kindness to myself. As I told you before, it is not often that I have a friend to talk to at Montefiano, and in this case, well—"

Don Agostino did not complete his sentence. His gaze fixed itself upon the cabinet before him, and Silvio understood all that he had left unsaid.

XIX

Although Rome is supposed to be abandoned during the months of August and September by all who can afford the time and the money to leave it, there is always a certain number of people who from choice remain within its walls throughout the summer, declaring, not without reason, that the heat is felt far less in the vast, thick-walled palaces than in country villas and jerry-built hotels.

Among this number was the Senator Rossano. He had fitted up for himself a library in Palazzo Acorari, a long, high room looking to the north, which, if difficult to keep heated in winter, was always deliciously cool even on the hottest of summer days. Here he did the greater part of his writing, and passed the weeks when Rome is deserted, both pleasantly and profitably. Usually he was quite alone during these weeks, for Giacinta as a rule went with friends to one or another of the summer resorts in the Apennines or the north of Italy, or perhaps southward to the fresh sea-breezes of Sorrento.

This year, however, she had delayed her villeggiatura later than usual, and was still in Rome. The professor was engaged upon a new scientific work, dealing with no less complicated a theme than the moral responsibility of criminals for the crimes they happened to have committed. Giacinta had been busily engaged in making a clear copy of her father's manuscript. The wealth of detail and example which the professor had brought to bear in order to support certain of his theories did not, it must be owned, always form suitable reading for even the comparatively young, and certainly not for an unmarried woman of Giacinta's age.

But Professor Rossano did not trouble himself about such a trifle as this. He regarded his illustrations as illustrations, mere accidents necessary to his arguments; and it would never have entered into his head that his daughter might not look at them from the same detached point of view. As a matter of fact, Giacinta did so look at them; consequently, no harm was done.

She was sitting with her father in his library, engaged in sorting some papers. It was nearly five o'clock and the great heat of the day was nearly over; in another hour or so she would insist on dragging the professor away from his work, and making him accompany her in a drive outside one of the gates of the city. She was contemplating some suggestion of the kind when her father suddenly looked up from his writing.

"I tell you what we will do this evening, Giacinta," he observed. "We will go and dine at the Castello di Costantino. I have not been there yet this summer. Perhaps we shall find some friends there. The Countess Vitali—she often dines there at this time of year, and nobody can be more amusing when she is in the vein. Her dry humor is most refreshing; it is like something that has been sealed up in an Etruscan tomb and suddenly brought to light with all the colors fresh upon it. Yes, we will go to the Castello di Costantino, and you can tell the servants we shall not eat here."

Giacinta was more than ready to fall in with the idea. She was about to ring the bell in order to tell the servants not to prepare dinner, when the door opened and Silvio walked into the room.

The professor gazed at him placidly.

"I thought that you were at Terni," he said.

"So I was," replied Silvio, smiling, "a fortnight ago. But I completed my business there, and placed the order for the steel girders. Since then I have been in the Sabina. I came from Montefiano this morning."

Giacinta started. "From Montefiano?" she exclaimed.

"From Montefiano—yes," repeated Silvio. "I have not been staying at the castle there," he added, dryly.

"You have been committing some folly, I suppose," remarked the professor, "and I do not wish to hear about it. You will have the goodness, Silvio, not to mention the subject."

"I have been staying with a friend of yours, Babbo," Silvio replied, laughing. "Don Agostino—"

"Don Agostino?" repeated his father. "The devil take your Don Agostino! I do not know whom you mean."

"Monsignor Lelli, then," returned Silvio. "He has come to Rome with me, and he is here—in the house. I left him in the drawing-room. I suppose you will go there to see him; or shall I tell him that you hope the devil may take him?"

The professor burst out laughing. "Lelli! Here?" he exclaimed. "Certainly I will go. I have not seen him for years. I remember now, of course—they sent him to Montefiano—those imbroglioni at the Vatican! And so you have been staying with Lelli? Well, at least you have been in good company. I hope he has succeeded in putting a little common-sense into your head."

He hurried out of the room to greet his old friend, leaving Silvio and Giacinta alone together.

"I suppose," said the latter, "that you have seen Donna Bianca again—otherwise I cannot imagine what you have found to do at Civitacastellana for nearly a fortnight? I am told there is nothing to see there."

"It is very picturesque," observed Silvio. "The river, and the situation—"

"No doubt; but I never supposed you went there to look at the river. When I heard it was only four or five miles from Montefiano, then I understood! But who is this Monsignor Lelli, Silvio? I think I have heard Babbo tell some story about him, but I have forgotten what it was."

"He is the parroco of Montefiano," replied Silvio, "and he used to be at the Vatican some years ago. I do not know the story—he would not tell it me; but Babbo knows it well, and we will ask him—the history of his earlier life—that he did tell me. Imagine, Giacinta, he was engaged to Bianca Acorari's mother. They forced her to marry the Principe di Montefiano, and then he became a priest. But he never ceased to love her, although he did become a priest; that I know."

Giacinta looked at him.

"And now?" she asked.

"Now he has come to ask Babbo for my character," answered Silvio, smiling. "If he gets a good one, he will help me to marry Bianca. Do you know, Giacinta, that they want to marry her to a brother of the princess—a Baron d'Antin? Did you ever hear of anything so outrageous? As Don Agostino—he will not be called monsignore—says, such a thing must be prevented, and, of course, I am the proper person to prevent it."

"Of course!"

"You must admit that it is strange, Giacinta, that Don Agostino should have been engaged to Bianca's mother—and her name was Bianca also—just as I am engaged to the daughter, and that he should be at Montefiano. It seems like a destiny. As for this Baron d'Antin—"

"I have seen him several times," observed Giacinta. "He always stares very hard. I asked the porter who he was. He is not so very old, Silvio; he looks younger than the princess."

"You had better marry him," returned Silvio; "then you will become my step-aunt by marriage as well as being my sister."

Giacinta laughed. "Don't talk nonsense," she said; "but tell me what you and Monsignor Lelli propose to do. I never expected that you would confide your love affairs to a priest. First of all a French governess, and now a monsignore. You are certainly an original person, Silvio."

"Ah, but Don Agostino is not like most priests—"

"Because he has been in love himself?" interrupted Giacinta, laughing.

"Oh, not at all! There would be nothing unusual in that," answered Silvio, dryly. "Priests are no different from other people, I suppose, although they may profess to be so. No; Don Agostino is not like the majority of his brethren, because he has the honesty to be a man first and a priest afterwards. He does not forget the priest, but one hears and feels the man all the time he is talking to one.

"As to what I am going to do, Giacinta," Silvio continued, tranquilly, "I am going to marry Bianca Acorari, as I have told you before—"

"Very often," added Giacinta.

"But how I am going to do it, is certainly not quite clear at present. I would have waited, and so would she; but how can we wait now that they are trying to force her to marry this old baron in order to prevent her from marrying me?"

"It is very strange," said Giacinta, thoughtfully. "I certainly believed they did not intend her to marry at all—at any rate, for some years."

"Ah, but that was before I appeared on the scene," observed Silvio. "Now they are afraid of her marrying me, and so would marry her to anybody who happened to be noble."

Giacinta shook her head. "There is some other reason than that," she replied. "The princess could find scores of husbands for the girl without being obliged to fall back on her own brother, who must be nearly thirty years older than Donna Bianca. A marriage between those two would be a marriage only in name."

Silvio stared at her. "What in the world do you mean, Giacinta?" he exclaimed.

"Oh," she returned, hurriedly, "I don't mean—well, what you think I mean! I meant to say that, supposing Bianca Acorari were married to this old baron, everything would go on as before in Casa Acorari. It would be, so to speak, merely a family arrangement, which would, perhaps, be very convenient."

"Perbacco!" exclaimed Silvio, "but you have your head upon your shoulders, Giacinta! I never thought of that. I thought it was simply a scheme to marry Bianca as soon as possible, in order to get her away from me. But very likely you are quite right. There is probably some intrigue behind it all. We will hear what Don Agostino thinks of your supposition—ah, here they come!" he broke off suddenly as his father and Don Agostino entered the library together.

Silvio made the priest acquainted with his sister, and then turned to the professor.

"I hope, Babbo," he said, "that you have given me a fairly good character."

"I have explained that you are as obstinate as a mule," replied his father.

Don Agostino laughed. "I have heard a few other things about you also," he said, laying his hand on Silvio's shoulder. "After all," he added, "they were only things I expected to hear, so I might quite as well have stopped at Montefiano instead of coming to Rome—except for the pleasure of seeing an old friend again."

"Don Agostino will spend the evening with us," said Silvio to his father, "and early to-morrow morning I am going back with him to Montefiano."

Giacinta looked somewhat perplexed. "Do you know," she said, "we had settled to dine at the Castello di Costantino this evening? You see, Silvio, I had no idea you were coming back, and still less that we should have a visitor—"

"But we will all go and dine at the Costantino," interposed the professor, jovially. "Why not? We shall be a party of four—and four is a very good number to sit at table, but not to drive in a botte—so we will have two botti, and then nobody need sit on the back seat. You will go with Silvio, Giacinta, and monsignore and I will go together."

Don Agostino hesitated for a moment. "It is a place where one may meet people," he said, "and nobody knows that I am in Rome—"

"No, no," returned the professor, hastily, "you are not likely to meet any one you know at the Costantino, unless it be Countess Locatelli—and you certainly would not mind meeting her?"

"On the contrary," said Don Agostino. "It is always a pleasure to meet her—and to talk to her. Doubly so," he added, "after so long an exile at Montefiano. I do not find the female society of Montefiano very—what shall I say? sharpening to the intellect. My house-keeper is occasionally amusing—but limited as to her subjects."

Silvio and his father both laughed. "At any rate, she gives you a better dinner than you will get to-night," said the former.

A quarter of an hour's drive brought them to the Aventine, the most unspoiled and picturesque of the seven hills of Rome, with its secluded convent-gardens and ancient churches, its wealth of tradition and legend. In no other quarter of Rome—not even in the Forum, nor among the imperial ruins of the Palatine—does the spirit of the past seem to accompany one's every step as on the almost deserted Aventine. Especially as evening draws on, and the shadows begin to creep over the vineyards and fruit-gardens beyond the city walls; as the scattered ruins that have glowed rose-red in the rays of the setting sun now stand out—purple masses against the green background of the campagna, and Tiber reflects the orange and saffron tints of the sky, the dead present seems to be enwrapped by the living past in these groves and gardens hidden away on the Aventine and far removed from the turmoil and vulgarity of modern Rome.

In those years the so-called Castello di Costantino was not the well-known resort that it has recently become. It was, indeed, little more than a somewhat superior trattoria, where one ate a bad Roman dinner and drank good Roman wine on a terrace commanding one of the most picturesque, as it is assuredly one of the most interesting, views in the world. In those days it was not the scene of pompous gatherings in honor of foreign or home celebrities, followed by wearisome speeches breathing mutual admiration in hackneyed phrases. A few artists, a few secretaries of embassies left to conduct international affairs while their chiefs were in cooler climates; a few ladies of the Roman world who happened to be still left in the city, these, and a family party or two of the Roman mezzo-ceto, were its occasional visitors in the hot summer evenings when it is pleasant to get away from the baked pavements and streets of the town, and to breathe the fresh, sweet air stealing in from the open country and the sea.

The terrace behind the restaurant was almost deserted, and Professor Rossano selected a table at one corner of it, whence an uninterrupted view could be obtained over a part of the city, and across the campagna to the Sabine mountains in the nearer background; while between these and the Alban Hills the higher summits of the Leonessa range glowed red against the far horizon as they caught the last rays of the setting sun.

Monsignor Lelli cast a rapid glance around him as he seated himself at the little table, while the professor discussed the ordering of the dinner with the waiter. There was nobody, however, who would be likely to know him by sight, and comment on his presence in Rome in quarters where he would prefer it to remain unknown. A few couples, already half-way through their meal, or smoking their cigars over a measure of white wine, were the only visitors to the Castello di Costantino that evening besides Professor Rossano and his party, and these were evidently students either of art or of love.

"And so," observed Professor Rossano to his guest, as the waiter retired with his order, "you have come to Rome to tell me that you mean to help my son to make an idiot of himself. I suppose you are a little short of something to occupy you at Montefiano?"

Don Agostino laughed. "There was certainly more to occupy me when I lived in Rome," he said, dryly. "As for helping Silvio to make an idiot of himself, I am inclined to think he would make a worse idiot of himself without my assistance."

"Grazie, Don Agostino!" murmured Silvio, placidly.

"I wonder when they will call you back?" the professor said; "not," he added, with a quick movement of the head towards the Vatican, "as long as—"

"Caro senatore!" interrupted Don Agostino, deprecatingly.

"Of course—of course!" returned Professor Rossano, hastily. "I forgot your soutane—I always did, in the old days, if you recollect. We will talk of something else. It is always like that—when a man insists upon his right to use his own reason and to think for himself—"

"I thought you proposed to talk of something else," suggested Giacinta, mildly, to her father.

Don Agostino looked at her and laughed.

"He is the same as he was twenty years ago—our dear professor," he said.

"You are quite right, Giacinta," returned Professor Rossano. "When I think of the intellects—God-given—that have been warped and crushed in the name of God, it makes me fly into a rage. Yes, it is certainly better to talk of something else. All the same, Monsignor Lelli understands what I mean. If he did not, he would still be at the Vatican, and not at Montefiano."

"I am particularly glad that Don Agostino understands," interposed Silvio.

"You!" exclaimed the professor, witheringly. "I have told you more than once that you are a pumpkin-head. A fine thing, truly, to make my old friend Monsignor Lelli a confidant of your love affairs! Not but what you appear to have confided them to him at a tolerably early stage. It is usually at a later stage that a priest hears of a love affair—is it not so, caro monsignore?" he added, with a twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes.

Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he replied, "at a much later stage;" and then he paused and glanced across the table at Giacinta.

The professor saw the look and misinterpreted it. "Oh," he observed, carelessly, "my daughter knows all about Silvio's folly. But I do not wish to hear anything more about that. You have asked me certain questions about Silvio, and I have answered them, and that is enough. If you choose to help the boy in making an idiot of himself, my dear friend, I suppose you must do so, but I do not wish to know anything of the matter. There will be disturbances, and I am too busy for disturbances. I am preparing my work on criminal responsibility. It will be followed by another volume on responsibility in mental diseases. By-the-way, if I had the time I would study Silvio's case. It might be useful to me for my second volume. No; Giacinta and I are decidedly too busy to be troubled with Silvio's love affairs. Giacinta, you must know, acts as my secretary and copies out my manuscripts."

Don Agostino raised his eyebrows slightly.

"All of them?" he asked.

"Certainly, all of them. Her handwriting is exceedingly clear, whereas mine is frequently almost illegible. If it were not for Giacinta, I should have to employ a typewriter."

Don Agostino said nothing, but he glanced again at the girl, and wondered how much she understood of the professor's physiological arguments, and of the examples upon which many of them were based. The few minutes' conversation he had had alone with Professor Rossano had speedily convinced him that the professor was both proud and fond of his son. He had given Silvio the character which Don Agostino, a practised reader of countenances and the natures those countenances reflected, had felt sure would be given. At the same time, the professor had expressed his opinion of his son's passion for Donna Bianca Acorari in very decided terms, and had upbraided his old friend for encouraging the boy in his folly. Don Agostino had not explained his motives for espousing Silvio's cause. He had learned all he wanted to know, and was satisfied that he had gauged Silvio's nature and character correctly. He felt, indeed, an unconquerable aversion from explaining the motives which prompted him to interest himself in a love affair between two headstrong young people. Everybody knew why he had left the Vatican; but very few people knew why, some four-and-twenty years ago, a good-looking young fellow, by name Agostino Lelli, became a priest. Most of us have an inner recess in our hearts—unless we are of that fortunate number who have no hearts—a recess which we shrink from unlocking as we would shrink from desecrating a tomb over which we are ever laying fresh flowers. Something which he could scarcely define had impelled Don Agostino to allow Silvio Rossano to glance into his jealously guarded shrine. He felt as though he had received some message from his beloved dead that the boy had a right to do so. He was convinced, moreover, in his own mind that the living spirit of the woman he had loved was urging him to save her child from the unhappiness that had fallen upon herself. Perhaps he had brooded too long and too deeply over the strange change of coincidences which had brought him and Silvio together—at the strange similarity between his own life's story and that of his old friend Professor Rossano's son, between the dead Bianca, Princess of Montefiano, and the child who bore her name and bodily likeness. In any case, it seemed to Don Agostino as though he were living over again those far-off years in Venice; as though he saw in Silvio Rossano his own youth, with all its hopes and all its joys, and yet with the same dark shadows—shadows that only youth itself had prevented him from realizing—threatening to overwhelm and destroy both.

"The boy is in earnest," he had said to Professor Rossano during their conversation together before setting out for the Castello di Costantino. "Cannot you see that he is in earnest?"

He spoke almost angrily, the more so, perhaps, on account of that strange feeling which never left him—the feeling that he was pleading his own cause and that of his dead.

"My dear friend," the professor had responded, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, "when one is young and in love, one is always in earnest—each time. Are you so old that you cannot remember? Ah, I forgot, you had no experience of such things—at least, no official experience."

Don Agostino smiled. "No," he repeated, "no official experience."

The professor glanced at him with a gleam of satirical amusement. He fancied he had detected a note of irony in the other's voice, but in his interpretation of it he was very wide of the mark.

And Don Agostino had found that the result of his conversation with Silvio's father was exactly what Silvio himself had foretold. The professor had dismissed the whole affair with airy good-humor as a pazzia, a folly in which he had so far participated as to have made formal overtures on his son's behalf for Donna Bianca Acorari's hand, and of which he did not wish to hear anything more. If Silvio thought the girl would make him a good wife, then by all means let him marry her, if he could. If he could not, there were plenty of other girls to choose from, and any one of them who married Silvio would be a great deal luckier than she most probably deserved to be.

Don Agostino had very soon come to the conclusion that the professor would place no serious obstacles in the way to hinder his son from marrying Donna Bianca Acorari, should Silvio find means to accomplish that object. During the remainder of their dinner at the Castello di Costantino he threw himself, as it were, into Professor Rossano's humor, and it soon became evident to Silvio and Giacinta that their father and his guest were mutually enjoying one another's conversation. Giacinta, indeed, was not a little astonished at hearing the professor discourse so readily with a priest. But then, as she noted the facility with which Monsignor Lelli met her father on his favorite ground, the knowledge which he displayed of the scientific and political problems of the day, the serene tolerance with which he would discuss questions which she knew to be anathema to the ecclesiastical temperament, it was at once revealed to her that this was no ordinary priest, whose mental vision was limited by the outlook of the sacristy. The professor, as the evening wore on, seemed to be in his element. From subject to subject he flew with a rapidity which would have been bewildering had it not been for the conciseness and pungency of the arguments he brought to bear upon each of them. But Monsignor Lelli met him at every turn, agreeing with him often, but often parrying his thrusts with rapier-like stabs of keenest satire. The summer twilight was already fading into dusk, and the moon was rising over the Aventine, casting long shadows from the cypress-trees over the gardens and vineyards stretching away beneath the terrace, and still the two continued their discussions.

People seated at little tables near them ceased from laughing and talking, and turned round to listen, for the waiters had whispered that the signore with the beard was the famous Senator Rossano, and that the priest was without doubt a cardinal who had dressed as an ordinary priest lest he should be compromised by being seen in public in such company.

Suddenly, in the midst of a more than usually brilliant sally, provoked by some observation from his host, Monsignor Lelli stopped abruptly and addressed an entirely irrelevant remark to Giacinta. Silvio, who happened to be looking at him, saw his face change slightly as he looked beyond the professor towards the door leading from the restaurant on to the terrace. A small group of new arrivals was issuing from this door, and its members began to make their way to a vacant table a short distance from that occupied by the professor and his party.

Giacinta also had caught sight of the new-comers. "Look, Silvio!" she exclaimed, in a low tone; "look, father, there is Princess Montefiano's brother, Monsieur d'Antin, with those people!"

"Very well, Giacinta," returned the professor, vexed at the interruption; "he can go to the devil! Go on with what you were saying," he added to Don Agostino. "It was well put—very well put, indeed—but I think that I have an argument—"

"Caro senatore," observed Don Agostino, tranquilly, "are you aware that it grows late? We can continue our discussion as we return to the city. Signorina," he continued, turning to Giacinta, "you are sitting with your back to the view. Is it not beautiful, with the moonlight falling on those ruins?"

He rose from his chair as he spoke, and motioned to Giacinta to accompany him to the parapet of the terrace.

"Bring your father away," he said to her, in a low voice, "and Silvio. It is as well for us not to be seen together."

"But Baron d'Antin does not know Silvio by sight," returned Giacinta, "and I doubt if he knows either my father or me by sight. Do you know him, monsignore?" she added.

"I have never seen him," said Don Agostino, "and it is not of him I am thinking—but of the other, the young man who is with him. No, do not look round, signorina! At present I think that we are unobserved. It will be more prudent for me to leave you without any further ceremony. We can meet again outside the restaurant."

"But who is he—that other one?" asked Giacinta, quickly.

"A person I would rather not meet," replied Don Agostino—"at least," he added, "I would rather not be seen by him under the present circumstances, signorina. I beg of you to explain to your father that he will find me waiting for him outside," and, turning from her, Don Agostino walked rapidly towards the door, having satisfied himself that the new-comers were occupied with the head-waiter in ordering their dinner, and that he could probably leave the terrace unobserved by them.

XX

On emerging from the restaurant, the Rossanos found Don Agostino awaiting them.

"Giacinta told me I must pay the bill and come away," the professor said to him. "For myself," he added, "I should have preferred to remain another half-hour. That white wine is certainly good. May one ask, monsignore, what made you leave us so suddenly? Did you discover a cardinal of the holy office in disguise?"

Don Agostino laughed. "Not quite a cardinal," he replied, "but somebody very near to a cardinal."

"Do you mean the man who was with Baron d'Antin—the young man?" asked Silvio.

"Precisely," returned Don Agostino. "He is not quite so young as he looks, however," he continued. "In fact, he must be certainly ten or twelve years older. Do you know him, Silvio?"

"By sight, yes. I do not know who he is, but one sees him in the world here in Rome—sometimes with English people—old ladies with odd things on their heads, and their daughters who walk like carabinieri pushing their way through a crowd. Diamine, but how they walk, the English girls! Everything moves at once—arms, shoulders, hips—everything! It is certainly not graceful."

"Never mind the English girls, Silvio, since you are not going to marry one," interrupted Giacinta. "Who is Baron d'Antin's friend, monsignore?" she added.

Don Agostino hesitated. "His name is Peretti," he replied, "the Commendatore Peretti. He is very intimate with the cardinal secretary of state. Some people say that he supplies his eminence with useful information which he acquires in the world outside the Vatican. He gives Italian lessons, I am told, to Silvio's English ladies; also to members of the embassies to the king."

"A spy, in fact," observed Silvio.

Don Agostino shrugged his shoulders. "Mah!" he ejaculated. "In any case," he continued, "I did not particularly wish to be seen by him, for it would at once be known at the Vatican that I had been in Rome in your and your father's company, and—well, the less quelli signori of the Vatican interest themselves in your affairs, Silvio, the better for you. For me it does not matter."

"It seems to me that it has mattered very much," growled the professor.

"And you think he did not see you?" said Silvio. "Ah, but you are mistaken, Don Agostino. He did see you, and he pointed you out to Baron d'Antin; and the baron saw me, too."

Don Agostino looked at him quickly.

"But you told me that Monsieur d'Antin did not know you by sight," he exclaimed.

"I thought he did not know me, because I did not know him by sight," returned Silvio; "but I was mistaken," he added. "It is true that I never saw Monsieur d'Antin before to-night, to my knowledge, but he has seen me. I saw that he knew me by the expression in his eyes when he looked at me, and I am quite sure that he whispered my name to his friend—Peretti, is it?"

"Ah!" said Don Agostino, "it is certainly unfortunate that they should have seen us together. One never knows—"

"They looked at me in such a way that for two soldi I would have gone up to them and asked what they wanted of me—and then there would have been a row. Yes, Giacinta, for two soldi I would have boxed both their ears—a soldo for each of them," and Silvio's eyes began to flash ominously.

"Less than a soldo," observed his father, quietly. "They have four ears, Silvio. That would be at the rate of two centesimi and a half for each ear. All the same, I am glad you did not do it."

"I thought he would have done it," said Giacinta, in an undertone to Don Agostino, "but I made him come away at once."

Don Agostino looked grave. "I do not understand," he said to Silvio. "How could Monsieur d'Antin know you if you had never seen him before?"

"Che ne so io?" answered Silvio, carelessly—"and what does it matter?" he added, with a laugh. "He probably knows now that I should like to break his head, just as I know that he would like to break mine."

"Not for anything that he would find inside it," interposed the professor, dryly. "Via, Silvio, what is there to wonder at if Baron d'Antin looks at you with some curiosity? He has probably heard his sister speak of you as a lunatic!"

Silvio and Don Agostino glanced at each other. The latter laid his hand on Professor Rossano's arm. "Caro senatore," he said, "we shall do well not to discuss these things here. Let us walk back to Palazzo Acorari; or, still better, let us prolong our walk a little and go to the Forum. I honestly admit that by daylight I detest the Forum—the archæologists have turned it into a hideous affair. But by moonlight it is another matter. I think Domeneddio must have made the moonlight in order to allow the Romans to forget for a few hours that archæologists exist."

Professor Rossano laughed. "Let us go to the Forum, by all means," he observed. "There will be no archæologists at this hour. They will all be calling one another idiots and impostors elsewhere—perhaps in the salon of the Countess Vitali."

It was not to be supposed that the professor and Giacinta would walk from the Castello di Costantino to the Foro Romano; although Don Agostino, accustomed to long expeditions on foot in the Sabines, and Silvio, who could walk the whole day provided that he were carrying a gun, would have thought nothing of doing so. Professor Rossano however, seldom used his legs if he could avail himself of any other means of locomotion, and on the first opportunity he stopped a passing botte and directed the driver to set them down at the Colosseum. Guttural shouts from a party of German tourists about to enter the building caused the professor to turn away from it with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. Much as he admired the scientific and philosophical attainments of the Germans, in common with most Italians he disliked them intensely as a nation. The offending Teutons disappeared into the Colosseum as Professor Rossano and his companions walked slowly towards the arch of Titus. The ruins in the Forum looked ghostly and unreal in the moonlight. In front, the great square mass of the Capitol loomed grimly, while from the dark, cypress-crowned Palatine on their left came the mournful cries of owls flitting to and fro in the roofless halls of the palace of the Cæsars.

"You are sure that Baron d'Antin recognized you?" Don Agostino asked of Silvio, who had stopped to light a cigar, while his sister and the professor walked on a little ahead of them.

"As sure as I am that you were recognized by your little spy, Peretti," Silvio replied. "What puzzles me," he added, "is how he could know me."

"It is not very strange, considering that you live in Palazzo Acorari."

"But I am sure that I have never seen him," insisted Silvio. "After all," he continued, "it does not matter very much; and I do not suppose it matters if Peretti recognized you."

"Except that the accident of his having seen me in your company might lead to my being moved from Montefiano to some other still more remote place," said Don Agostino, quietly.

Silvio looked blank. "Why should it do that?" he asked.

Don Agostino smiled. "One never knows," he said. "The Princess Montefiano has no doubt many friends at the Vatican. If it were suggested to her that I was on friendly terms with you and your family, she might very easily bring about my removal from Montefiano. I wish we had not gone to the Costantino, Silvio. I have a presentiment that our encounter with Monsieur d'Antin and that little busybody, Peretti, may add to our difficulties."

"At any rate," said Silvio, "we will return to Montefiano to-morrow, Don Agostino, and I must find some means of communicating with Bianca. We know now that Baron d'Antin is in Rome and not at Montefiano. Probably," he added, "he has understood by this time that Bianca would not be induced to listen to him."

"If he has," observed Don Agostino, "the fact is not likely to make him feel very friendly towards a more successful suitor. No, Silvio, be guided by me; and do not do anything in a hurry. Remember that if it were discovered that you are living with me at Montefiano, I should certainly be removed from my duties there, of that I am quite sure; and my removal would be a misfortune. Perhaps I can do more for you at Montefiano than you can do for yourself—yet."

"But if you never go to the castle," began Silvio.

"I have never been as yet," returned Don Agostino, "but that does not mean to say that I am never going there. Besides, sooner or later what happens in the castle will be talked about in the paese. It is a mere question of time. And what is talked about in the paese sooner or later is talked about to Ernana," he added, with a smile. "How, for instance, do you suppose I knew that Monsieur d'Antin proposed to marry Donna Bianca Acorari? I do not often listen to Ernana's gossip, for if she were encouraged she would doubtless tell a great deal, and some of it would probably be true—not much, but some of it."

Silvio gave an impatient exclamation.

"How can the princess tolerate the idea of such a marriage?" he burst out, angrily. "I can understand her objecting to me—but surely it is more natural that her step-daughter should marry a young man than that old—"

"Precisely!" interrupted Don Agostino. "You have exactly defined the situation. I, too, understand the objection to you—from a worldly point of view—as a husband for Donna Bianca Acorari. But you are not the only young man in the world, my dear Silvio. There are many others, possessing better social qualifications, from whom the princess could select a husband for her step-daughter. It was assuredly not necessary to fall back upon Baron d'Antin, even in order to get rid of you! No, there must be some other reason for sacrificing the girl—for indeed I call it a sacrifice. It seems to me, Silvio, that we should discover that reason before you attempt to communicate again with Donna Bianca. Until we know it, we are working in the dark. I have my suspicions what the reasons may be; but they are at the best but vague suspicions, which probably I have no right to entertain."

Silvio looked at him keenly.

"What are they?" he asked, briefly.

Don Agostino hesitated. "I said that I had probably no right to entertain them," he repeated. "I do not wish to wrong anybody, but it has sometimes struck me that possibly there may be money difficulties—that it would not be convenient to the administrators of the Montefiano estates were Donna Bianca to marry a stranger."

"Money difficulties!" repeated Silvio. "You mean that perhaps Bianca's property has been interfered with—that she would not be as rich as she was supposed to be when she comes of age? Is that what you mean, Don Agostino?"

"Partly—yes."

Silvio's eyes gleamed blue in the moonlight. "Magari!" he exclaimed, simply.

Don Agostino looked at him for a moment, and then he smiled.

"You would be glad?" he asked.

"Of course I should be glad—I should be delighted," returned Silvio. "If it were not for her money," he continued, "it would all have been so simple—do you not see what I mean? Of course there are the titles—but anybody can have titles. I know a cab-driver in Naples who is a marchese, an absolutely genuine marchese, of Bourbon creation. But the money makes it another affair altogether."

"The money makes it another affair altogether," repeated Don Agostino; "that is very true." He spoke more as though talking to himself than to Silvio.

"Perhaps," continued Silvio, "if the princess and her Belgian confessor could be made to understand that I do not want Bianca's money—that I have enough of my own both for her and for myself—they would not be so anxious to marry her to that old baron. So you see, Don Agostino, my reason for being glad if there has been some mismanagement of the Montefiano properties."

Don Agostino looked at him with a smile.

"Yes, Silvio," he said, "I see your reason—it is one that I should have expected from you. But it is not a good reason."

Silvio glanced at him with surprise.

"Not a good reason!" he repeated. "And why not? It seems to me to be a very natural reason. I want Bianca Acorari herself. I do not want her money, and I would not accept one of her titles."

"It is a very natural reason, yes—for a galantuomo," returned Don Agostino, "but it is not one that will appeal to those who are not galantuomini. You must remember that dishonest people do not easily credit others with honesty. In this case I cannot help suspecting—it is a suspicion only—that Monsieur d'Antin has some hold over his sister, and perhaps also over the Abbé Roux. Moreover, you must recollect that Donna Bianca has evidently aroused—well, a certain passion in him; and the passion of an elderly man for a young girl—"

Silvio Rossano muttered something under his breath. It was not complimentary to Baron d'Antin.

"It is no use to fly into a rage—none at all," proceeded Don Agostino, tranquilly. "We must look at things as they are, and human nature is a complicated affair. What we have to do is to find out, so to speak, all the cards that Monsieur d'Antin holds in his hand. I do not wish to be uncharitable, but it is scarcely credible that the princess would encourage, or even tolerate, her brother's aspirations, were he not able to bring some more convincing argument to bear upon her and the Abbé Roux than the mere fact that he had conceived a sudden passion for her step-daughter."

"Yes," said Silvio, thoughtfully; "I see what you mean. You are more clever at reasoning than I am," he added.

Don Agostino smiled. "I am considerably older than you are, ragazzo mio," he replied; "and," he continued, "I am not in love with Bianca Acorari, though her welfare is very dear to me, for—for her mother's sake." He paused, and Silvio saw him make the sign of the cross almost imperceptibly.

"I think," Don Agostino continued, "that you would do well not to return with me to Montefiano to-morrow. If Baron d'Antin knew that you were in the neighborhood, and especially if he knew that you were in my house—it would certainly not make things easier."

Silvio's face fell. "But what am I to do?" he exclaimed. "I had meant—"

"Yes," interrupted Don Agostino, "let us hear what you had meant to do at Montefiano—or rather, I will tell you. You had meant by some means to obtain another interview with Donna Bianca—to persuade her to escape with you, perhaps—and that I should marry you. In fact, you had a whole romance in your head. Is it not true?"

Silvio laughed. "Something of the sort, I admit," he answered.

"Well," continued Don Agostino, decidedly, "it will not do; it will not do at all. We are not characters in a novel, and we can afford to act like ordinary human beings who are face to face with a difficulty, but who are also not quite sure of their ground. In real life it is wonderful how things settle themselves if we will only be patient and allow them to do so. No; you are not the hero in a romance, and it is not necessary for you to bring about a situation lest the public should become tired of you. The situation will probably come of itself—per forza maggiore."

"And am I to sit down and do nothing, and leave the field clear for Baron d'Antin?" asked Silvio.

"For a short time—for a few days, perhaps—yes."

"But you forget," Silvio interrupted, quickly. "Bianca is expecting to hear from me in some way. I promised her I would communicate with her. That is now nearly a month ago, and as yet I have been unable to send her a single word, for a letter would certainly never reach her—that is to say, until I can find some trustworthy person who would give it to her."

"Write your letter, and I will undertake that it reaches her," said Don Agostino.

"You!" exclaimed Silvio.

"Yes; I will be your messenger. Yesterday I would not have undertaken to help you so far. You can probably guess why, Silvio."

"Because you were not sure of me—that I was worthy of your help?"

"Oh, as to that, I was always sure from the first," said Don Agostino, quietly. "I am very seldom mistaken in my first impressions of people whom I care to study, and I studied you. But I was determined not to act on my impressions until they should have been confirmed by your father. I always told you as much, if you remember."

"And now they are confirmed? I am glad," said Silvio, simply.

Don Agostino smiled. "Amply," he replied, laying his hand affectionately on Silvio's shoulder. "Be guided by me, figlio mio," he continued. "Remain quietly here in Rome until I tell you to come to Montefiano. In the mean time, I will do all I can for you. It may be very little, or it may be more than you think; I cannot tell as yet. Write your letter to-night, and I will take it with me to-morrow morning. You quite understand, however, that it may be some days before I have an opportunity of conveying it safely to its destination, so you must not be impatient."

"You will see that I shall be patient," said Silvio. "It was the apparent impossibility of being able to communicate with Bianca that has made me impatient. It was natural, for the weeks were passing, and after what you told me about Baron d'Antin, I dared not leave Bianca much longer without fulfilling my promise that she should hear from me. However, now that I know that our affairs are in your hands, I will be as patient as you please."

"That is well," replied Don Agostino, briefly. "And, above all, Silvio," he added, "do not confide in anybody. Do not move from Rome until you receive a letter from me bidding you come to Montefiano, or to some other place in its neighborhood that I will name in the letter. Dunque, siamo intesi? Then let us catch up with the others. It is growing late, and I must return to my hotel. You can bring me your letter to-morrow morning. I shall leave Rome by the eight-o'clock train, and it will be wiser for you to come only to the hotel, and not accompany me to the railway station. The less we are seen together now the better. It is a strange thing, but the accident of having met those two individuals to-night has made me feel uncomfortable."

"What harm can they do?" said Silvio, carelessly. "If Monsieur d'Antin had seen us together at Montefiano, then he might well have been suspicious; but here, in Rome, we are—"

"In Rome," interrupted Don Agostino, dryly; and he said no more than might be implied by a slight shrug of the shoulders and a quick gesture with the hands.

The professor and Giacinta had halted at this moment. By this time they had reached the upper end of the Forum, and a few paces more would bring them out into the Via S. Teodoro, close to the narrow flight of steps leading up to the piazza of the Capitol.

As soon as Don Agostino and Silvio joined them, Professor Rossano begged the former to return with them to Palazzo Acorari, but Don Agostino declined. It was time for him to go back to his hotel, he declared, and Silvio, rightly guessing that he did not wish to run any risks of again being seen with them, forebore from seconding his father's invitation. After bidding the professor and Giacinta a cordial farewell, Don Agostino stopped a passing cab, and directed the driver to the Albergo Santa Chiara, a modest little hotel near the Minerva, largely frequented by foreign priests and pilgrims.

"I will be with you at seven o'clock to-morrow morning," said Silvio to him as he got into the cab. Don Agostino nodded, and, raising his broad beaver hat, drove away.

"There," said the professor, jerking his head in the direction of the disappearing botte, "is another of them."

"Another of whom, Babbo?" asked Giacinta.

"Why, another honest man, with a head upon his shoulders, too, whom those priests across the Tiber have driven away!" replied Professor Rossano, angrily.

"Why did he leave the Vatican?" asked Silvio. "He would never tell me his story at Montefiano, but always said that you would remember it well enough."

"Remember it? Of course I remember it!" returned the professor. "At one time all Rome was talking of Monsignor Lelli. They declared at the Vatican that he had speculated and lent money on bad security from the funds intrusted to him; accused him, in short, of a carelessness almost equivalent to fraud. But everybody knew that he had been forced to use the money in the way it was used, and that he was afterwards disgraced when things went contrary to expectations. Che vuoi?"

Silvio said nothing. His thoughts were occupied with the letter he would write to Bianca Acorari that night, and he wondered how Don Agostino would find the means of giving it, or causing it to be safely delivered. It was a disappointment to him not to return to Montefiano on the morrow, but he could not but feel that Don Agostino was right in advising him to remain quietly in Rome. It would certainly not help matters were his only friend at Montefiano to be suddenly transferred to some other post; and Silvio knew enough of his world fully to realize how important a part intrigue and personal animosities played, not only at the Vatican, but also in every phase of Roman life.

The clocks were striking ten when they reached Palazzo Acorari, and though nobody thinks of going home at ten o'clock on a summer night in Rome, or anywhere else in Italy, Silvio Rossano accompanied his father and sister up the dimly lighted staircase to their apartment. The professor was anxious to continue the correction of his proofs, and Silvio was longing to begin his letter to Bianca Acorari.

Apparently, however, he had something else on his mind; for, after the professor had retired to his library, he followed Giacinta into her sitting-room, a little room opening off the drawing-room. Giacinta, who was tired after her walk, took off her hat and the light wrap she was wearing, and settled herself comfortably in an arm-chair; while Silvio, after lighting a cigarette, began to pace somewhat restlessly up and down the room. It was very evident that he had something to say, and Giacinta, who knew her brother's moods, sat waiting for it in silence.

"I am not going back to Montefiano with Don Agostino to-morrow," he began, presently.

"I did not know that you intended to do so," observed Giacinta.

"Of course I intended to do so!" Silvio returned. "However," he continued, "Don Agostino thinks it wiser that I should not return just yet, and I believe he is right. He is going to take a letter from me to Bianca."

Giacinta glanced at him with a smile. "No doubt you think he is right in that also," she observed.

Silvio laughed. "How like you are to Babbo, sometimes!" he exclaimed. "Yes, I think he is quite right. The only thing is, Giacinta—" and he paused, hesitatingly.

"That you would not know what to say in the letter?"

"Ah, no! Well, perhaps I do not know what to say. If it amuses you to think so, I am quite content. The question is, that I want to send something to Bianca—something that I value. You understand? I have given her nothing as yet—I have not even written to her. I want to send her something—with my letter—something that belonged to our mother. It is so easy to walk into a shop and buy a bit of jewelry, but it is not the same thing—"

"I understand," said Giacinta, quietly.

"And so," continued Silvio, a little hurriedly, "I thought that if I sent her one of our mother's rings—you have all her jewelry, Giacinta, have you not? You could spare me one of the rings, perhaps?"

"They are as much yours as mine," answered Giacinta. "Babbo gave the jewelry into my charge; you know there are pearls and other things. Wait, and I will bring you the case from my room, and then you can see for yourself."

She got up from her chair and went into the next room, returning presently with an old case covered with faded red velvet and fastened with heavy clasps of gilded metal.

"Ecco!" she said, holding out to Silvio an elaborately ornamented key, also heavily gilded. "You must turn it three times in the lock before it will open the box. In the upper tray there are the rings, and below are the pearls."

"The pearls can remain where they are," observed Silvio. "You will want them when you marry," he added, as he unlocked and opened the case. "I will take this ring," he continued, pointing to an old "marquise" ring, on which a sapphire was mounted in the centre of a cluster of white Brazilian diamonds. "The rest you will keep, but this one I will send to Bianca and tell her that it belonged to my mother. You do not mind, Giacinta?"

With a sudden movement Giacinta turned and kissed him. "Why should I mind?" she exclaimed; "only—"

"Only what?" asked Silvio, as she paused.

"Only I wish you had sought for a wife elsewhere," she continued, earnestly. "Those people—they will despise you, because they are noble and we are not. You will never be allowed to marry Donna Bianca Acorari, Silvio! Never, I tell you! That priest and Baron d'Antin, they will never permit it. The girl will not be allowed to marry anybody, unless it be Monsieur d'Antin. You will see."

"Sciocchezze!" exclaimed Silvio, contemptuously. "What have I often told you, Giacinta?" he continued. "Bianca and I can afford to wait until she is her own mistress. If they were to attempt to force her to marry Baron d'Antin or anybody else, then we would go away and get some priest to marry us. The civil marriage could wait. I have told you so a hundred times."