My uncle took Angelo's arm and led the way down the mountain path, leaving me to follow with Daphne. For some little time we walked in silence, and then she led me to the subject that was uppermost in my mind.  
"What is the matter, Frank? You have not been yourself this morning."
 
Her statement was correct; I had not been myself. Jealousy had wrought a change in my character, causing me to act and speak in a way that, upon consideration, I admit to have been the reverse of amiable.
 
"It seems to me," I replied in an aggrieved tone, as if I had some solid ground of complaint, "that since our departure from England we have been playing Hamlet with the part of Hamlet left out."
 
"Why, Frank, what do you mean?" she asked.
 
"O, nothing much. That slave of the palette seems to have taken out a patent for the monopoly of your conversation, that's all."
 
Daphne assumed an air of dignity, an air that I had never before seen her assume—with me, at least.
 
"If I have talked with Mr. Vasari more than with you this morning, I think I had good reason. I saw a sneer come over your face as soon as he appeared, and so I took his part at once. What has he done to offend you, and what fault have you to find with him?"
 
[Pg 76]
 
I suppose if I had been perfectly truthful I should have replied that he had painted a picture that had made him famous, whereas I had done nothing to make myself famous, that he was handsome and I was not, and that as he was altogether a more attractive rival than myself I wished him at the devil. Perfect truthfulness, however, is not always observed in ordinary conversation, so I paraphrased my real meaning.
 
"He is too much of a genius to please me. He is a man with only one idea in his head, and that is Art. On any topic outside that circle he is mute. You think he admires your beauty, whereas he is thinking only what a good model you would make. He stands enraptured at the sunshine, and you cry, 'What a lover of nature!' whereas he is only thinking of the effect it would make on a canvas. He would paint a rose and swear that the copy was more lovely than the original. In everything Art comes first with him. According to him Art was not made for the world, but the world for Art. The world is only a place to paint in, to obtain pictorial effects from. Ask him to choose between living forever in this lovely valley of Rivoli and living forever in his studio studying a picture of it, and he would choose the canvas daub in preference to the reality. He is a monomaniac. I do like a man to have a comprehensive breadth and depth of mind."
 
An excellent way this of detracting from a man's abilities! Mr. A. is a great poet: exactly, but he knows nothing of science. Mr. B. is a great scientist: exactly, but he knows nothing of literature. Estimate a man, not by what he knows, but by what he does not know, and you can draw up a formidable indictment against him: as though, forsooth, it were possible for one mind to master the whole of the cyclop?dia!
 
[Pg 77]
 
"In short," I concluded, "his conversation smells too much of the brush. He talks of nothing but 'shop.' I hate a fellow who is always talking 'shop.'"
 
Daphne evidently did not know how to reply to this tirade. She merely said: "You did not speak a single word to him at breakfast."
 
"Well, you see," I replied in an injured tone, "when a fellow has been a lady's companion for five months, he naturally feels that he has some claim upon her attention and he doesn't like being ignored."
 
"Did I ignore you?" she replied in a conciliatory tone; and then with a pensive, retrospective air she added. "Five months! And is it so long since we left England? It was too good of you to leave your university——"
 
"Where I was earning quite a reputation," I murmured. It would have puzzled me to say for what.
 
"—In order to escort me through Europe. I am sorry for my neglect of you this morning."
 
The look that came into Daphne's eyes was so pretty, wistful, pleading, that I, who had really no cause of complaint against her, began to feel what a hard-hearted tyrant Love sometimes makes of his votaries. I was just wondering whether she would object were I to seal our little concordat with a kiss, when my uncle and Angelo chanced to look back, so I could but give her arm a significant pressure in token of my magnanimous resolution to forgive her.
 
Near the foot of the mountain we came upon a beautiful pool, its waters being supplied by a slender streamlet that wound down the mountain-side almost in the line of our walk. Rude stonework bordered with moss ran all round the fountain, imparting to it a circular shape. On one side arose a steep rock containing a tall rectangular niche, which had been hewn[Pg 78] for the reception of an image, though at present it was apparently devoid of any such ornament.
 
"Please, Mr. Willard," said Daphne, dropping a mock courtesy, "have I your permission to ask Mr. Vasari what place this is?"
 
"Mr. Vasari," I called out, "Miss Leslie would like to know the name of this spring."
 
"This," replied the artist, coming to at once, "is the haunted well of Rivoli."
 
"Why do they call it haunted?" said Daphne.
 
"From certain mysterious things that have happened."
 
Daphne became interested at once, while my uncle, a disbeliever in the supernatural, shrugged his shoulders.
 
"What things?" said Daphne.
 
"Mr. Leslie will smile at what he deems a superstitious story," said Angelo, by way of prefatory apology, "but it is a story that no one in Rivoli doubts."
 
"I hope you do not class yourself among the believers in humbug," my uncle remarked.
 
"From time immemorial," said Angelo, ignoring the protest, "this place is said to have been haunted, though I never could discover by what. Was it a pagan god, demon, or fata—the spirit of a murdered man or of some wicked medi?val baron—that lurked within the shades of this fountain? No one could tell me. 'It was haunted,' was the only answer to my questionings. Such a belief might well have been dismissed as superstition, were it not for certain events that have taken place within my own knowledge. The bishop of the diocese, with a view of removing the ghostly fears of the people around here, resolved to exorcise the spirit. A procession of priests came to the well, the forms of exorcism were gone through, and a[Pg 79] crucifix—a life-size image of the Saviour—was consecrated by the bishop, and placed in that niche which you see before you. The place was thus to become holy ground. Next morning the crucifix was found hurled from its position. Who had done it? None of the peasants; they would not be guilty of such impiety. And besides, none of them would have had the courage to venture to the haunted well in the night-time. The crucifix was restored to its place. Next day it was again found hurled from the recess, and this time it was blackened as if by fire. I leave you to imagine the excitement in Rivoli at this. A bold priest—I knew him well—resolved to spend a night here, for the purpose of exorcising the dark power so antagonistic to the Church's sacred emblem. He came alone, equipped for the task in full canonicals, with bell, book, and candle to boot. Next morning, when we came to look for him—I say we, for I was one of the search-party—we found him, apparently exhausted, lying asleep by the fountain. We woke him, and—"
 
"And he gave an account, I suppose," said my uncle, "of an awful figure he had seen, adorned with horns, tail, and hoofs?"
 
"He related nothing of the sort," replied Angelo with quiet dignity, "for he had become——"
 
He paused, to give greater effect to his words.
 
"What?"
 
"Insane!"
 
"What had he seen to make him so?" said Daphne.
 
"No one will ever know, Miss Leslie. He died the same week."
 
"What a strange story!"
 
"And a true one," returned Angelo gravely. "No one in Rivoli dares come within a mile of this fountain[Pg 80] after dark; and no priest, or body of priests, has had the courage to try the powers of exorcism since that fatal day."
 
Daphne was silent and my uncle, taking Angelo's arm, resumed the journey, saying:
 
"Your story is a mysterious one, but it admits of an easy explanation on rationalistic and psychological principles. Now Professor Dulascanbee——"
 
And while I was enjoying sweet confidences with Daphne on the way to Rivoli, Angelo had to listen to a prosy lecture from my uncle, directed against belief in the supernatural.
 
"What do you say, Frank?" he called out to me. "Shall we imitate the bold cleric, and try to solve the mystery by passing a night at the fountain?"
 
"I'm perfectly agreeable," I responded. "I long to see a ghost."
 
It was a superb day. The mists had vanished before the glowing sun, and the sky was now one clear expanse of delicate blue. A soft breeze fanned our temples. Through the sunny air the mountains shimmered, faint violet airy masses topped with snow, their various peaks reflected in the surface of the lake, on whose margin stood the quaint old town of Rivoli.
 
The women of the place, having little else to do, assembled at their doors to see the rare spectacle of foreign visitors. All interest, however, was centred in Daphne: fingers were freely pointed at her, and she seemed to be an object of animated conversation after we had passed by.
 
Arrived at the cathedral, Angelo paused by the holy water at the porch, and, after making the sign of the cross, led the way into the building. To my surprise, Daphne allowed her High Church tendencies to carry her so far as to imitate the artist, dipping her pretty[Pg 81] finger in the lustral font, and tracing a wet cross on her forehead, while she whispered with a smile to me, "When one is at Rome, one must do as Rome does."
 
It was on the tip of my tongue to say that if the water had not been previously consecrated, it certainly was now after the touch of her hand; but this action of hers was a going over to the enemy, so I frowned under pretence of being a Protestant consumed with a zeal for orthodoxy.
 
"You will be taking the veil next, Miss Leslie," I remarked loftily.
 
"Miss Leslie? Just hear him, papa! Not Daphne," she whispered with a sweet smile, holding up her little gloved hand, with the second finger crossed over the first, to indicate that it symbolised my frame of mind at that particular moment, as there is no denying that it did.
 
We rejoined Angelo within the precincts of the cathedral. The interior was a marvel of art, and with its dim magnificence mysteriously coloured by the subdued light of the stained casements it seemed more like the splendid dream of some Gothic architect than an actual reality in marble and mosaic.
 
"There is my picture!" exclaimed the artist; and, hastening forward to a painting of the Madonna suspended from the cathedral wall and before which waxen tapers were burning, he assumed a kneeling attitude.
 
"From the days of Pygmalion downwards," I whispered to my uncle, "what artist has not fallen in love with his own work and—worshipped it?"
 
Daphne's thoughts were more charitable than my own:
 
"I always think Catholics are more devout than we are."
 
[Pg 82]
 
"Externally, perhaps, they may be," said my uncle; adding aside to me, "but, if I mistake not, neither art nor religion is claiming his thoughts at this moment. Do you not recognise the face of our Lady? No wonder the people in the streets stared so at Daphne."
 
Surprise for the moment kept me dumb.
 
Angelo had given to his Madonna the face of Daphne! Very sweet and saintly the portrait looked, too, I must confess, and yet, withal beautiful and womanly, totally different in character from the stiff unnatural productions of the medi?val school. The background was of bright gold, and a deep blue coif veiled the fair throat and hair. The drooping eyes seemed to be contemplating the kneeling devotee, and the fringe of long dark lashes lay, a vivid contrast to the purity of the snow-white cheek.
 
Angelo's gaze was fixed in rapt adoration on the lovely face above him. The expression of his eyes and the significance of his attitude were not to be mistaken.
 
Anger flamed in my breast. The artist's motive for wishing Daphne to visit the cathedral was now clear. It was to flatter her vanity by representing her as a sort of saint, to whom good Catholics paid their vows—another of his steps toward weaving the silken threads of love around her. Oblivious of the timid, retiring delicacy that characterises the spirit of true love, he thus by a bold profanation of religious art dared to flaunt his passion for Daphne in the face of others, so sure of victory did he feel.
 
"They call this the Iron Age," I whispered in my uncle's ear. "It should be the Brazen."
 
"Ah," he returned in a tone which did not indicate whether he was pleased or annoyed at the tableau before him, "a custom this of the old Italian artists—a[Pg 83] beautiful face, I suppose, materially aids one's devotions."
 
I turned to Daphne. The colour had mounted to her brow, but her face was no index of the thoughts passing within her mind. Did she divine the meaning of Angelo's kneeling attitude, or did she regard the portrait as a compliment only—an over-bold one, perhaps—to her beauty, and see in his pseudo-devotion nothing more than the spirit of a devout Catholic?
 
The artist, having gone through the beads of his rosary, rose to his feet and addressed Daphne.
 
"I trust, Miss Leslie," he said with a smile, "that you will forgive me for having canonised you without either papal sanction or your own."
 
Like a good Catholic, he put the papal sanction first and Daphne's next.
 
"Last autumn," continued Angelo, "I was requested by a priest of this cathedral, Father Ignatius by name, to paint a Madonna. Not thinking that you, Miss Leslie, would ever visit this place, I took your face as my model, for, pardon my boldness, I could not find a more beautiful one."
 
Daphne looked extremely grave.
 
"It is sacrilege," she said in a tone of awe. "What would your priest say if he knew of this?"
 
"He would pardon the sacrilege—if sacrilege it be—that gave him so fair a Madonna. If the divine Raphael introduced the heads of beggars in his delineations of patriarchs in the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel, may I not employ the living face in my picture?"
 
Daphne did not reply to this question, but, still very grave, continued:
 
"To be recognised by staring, gaping crowds in the streets of this town as the original of their cathedral[Pg 84] Madonna is a kind of fame I could very well dispense with."
 
"They will say that the saint has left the skies to shed the sunlight of her presence on earth," he answered.
 
He accompanied this extravaganza with a smile, but it was a melancholy one. Clearly Daphne was not pleased with the act that had elevated her into a saint. The artist was not slow to perceive the light of triumph in my eyes, and his face darkened.
 
"I have committed an error," he said with a deferential bow. "I must ask pardon. I could not know when I painted this Madonna that you would ever set foot within this edifice."
 
"But you could at least have told me before setting out what to expect."
 
The artist was the picture of despair.
 
"I have done wrong in your eyes—English Protestants perhaps regard it as a sin, but believe me, the practice is not unknown among us Italian artists. Let the example set by others exculpate me to some extent."
 
The melancholy of his face and the humility of his manner softened Daphne's displeasure, and, resuming her wonted air, she said quickly:
 
"Let us say no more. What is done cannot be undone. You have my forgiveness, and as a proof you shall show me round the cathedral, if you will."
 
A look of delight mantled the face of the artist, and he offered her his arm, which she readily took. My uncle, saying that he preferred to rest in some quiet spot, and that he would await their return, had already taken a secluded seat, and I moved off to join him.
 
"Are you not going to accompany us, Frank?" said Daphne in a tone of surprise.
 
[Pg 85]
 
"Thank you, no," I returned loftily. "Mr. Vasari will not mind if I remain here till your return."
 
She made no reply, and, escorted slowly by her cicerone along an aisle adorned with statuary and pictures, was soon deep in the mysteries of ecclesiological lore.
 
We have it on the authority of a gentleman who lived at Stratford-on-Avon that jealousy is green-eyed. If so, my eyes must have resembled emeralds as they followed the pair. Of the two candidates for her smiles, which was the favourite? During breakfast I fancied it might be Angelo; while escorting her to the cathedral I felt certain it was I; now once more my rival's star seemed in the ascendant.
 
"And probably," I thought, "she will smile sweetly on me at her return. Verily woman is an enigma!"
 
"What are you thinking of?" asked my uncle, as I took a seat beside him.
 
"Of inditing a sonnet on the mutability of women."
 
"Ah! take my advice, and never attempt to understand a woman or her motives. You will never succeed."
 
"Daphne's motives are pretty obvious," I replied, glancing darkly at the distant figure of the artist.
 
My uncle's only reply was a smile, that resembled his opinion of women, inasmuch as it was very oracular and quite impossible to understand, and he resumed his reading of Goethe's Faust—a work of which he was extremely fond, carrying it about with him wherever he went, and favouring us hourly with quotations appropriate to any state of circumstances we happened to be in.
 
Presently he looked up from his reading, and said: "Has it never occurred to you that Daphne may have a[Pg 86] motive in giving a little encouragement to Angelo—a motive, totally free from any love for him?"
 
"I am afraid I don't understand."
 
"Did you not—er—well, make love to her once?"
 
"Yes," I said gruffly. "I did. But it's more than three years ago."
 
"And you have not breathed a word of love to her since then."
 
"Certainly not," I said.
 
"Very well, then. Supposing she wants to find out whether you still retain your love for her, how is she to do it? Do you expect her to ask you outright? No? Well, one way of finding out is to seem to encourage a rival and note the effect on you. I don't say it's a noble way, but it's a woman's way. And if she sees that you are jealous she can draw her own conclusions."
 
"Do you honestly mean that that is her motive in encouraging that fool of an artist?" I cried eagerly.
 
My uncle put up his hand.
 
"How do I know? Woman is an enigma, to which I don't pretend to know the proper answer. I merely make a suggestion."
 
That I found the suggestion palatable requires no saying, but if I accepted it I was immediately confronted by the further question why Daphne should wish to know whether I still loved her, and therein I found matter for not a little meditation.
 
My uncle seemed disinclined to carry on the conversation, so I whiled away the time by taking a survey of the cathedral. It was a Saint's day on the morrow, and preparations for the festival occupied most of the attendants. There was much moving to and fro. Now and again peasants would enter with baskets of fruit and flowers for the adornment of the columns, shrines[Pg 87] and altars, until the place began to assume the aspect of a flower market. Tired of gazing at the decorations, I directed my attention to a confessional box not far off. Unlike most confessional boxes, the front of this one was quite open to view, and within there sat an aged priest, corded and sandalled, while outside, with his lips applied to an orifice on a level with the priest's ear, knelt a man whispering a confession. The penitent was aged too, with hair that gave him quite a venerable appearance.
 
I watched the "little sinner confessing to the big sinner," to use a favourite phrase of my uncle's, and noted the troubled expression on his face and the nervous humility with which he clasped one hand over the other. If looks were to be taken as evidence the father confessor was deeply interested in the recital of the other's frailties. Suddenly I saw his eyes turn to a far corner of the cathedral, and following his gaze I saw that the objects of his attention were Daphne and Angelo, who had just come into view from behind the pillars of a colonnade. She was laughing gaily, and the artist was bending over her in an attitude suggestive of tender affection. Long and earnest was the look that the priest fixed upon the pair—so long and earnest that my curiosity was aroused as to its cause. Was he envying Angelo his happiness? Was he thinking of the maidens who might have loved him in the early days before his vows of celibacy were taken?
 
A quick motion of the priest's cold grey eyes recalled me from this train of thought, and to my surprise I found him regarding me with a keen gaze that was in no way abated when he saw that I was conscious of it. Then he turned his gaze once more upon Daphne and her escort, who had again become visible between[Pg 88] the columns of the cloister. And so long as he sat there, coffined in the confessional box, he continued to manifest this singularity, that when he was not looking at Daphne and Angelo he was looking at me, and when he was not looking at me he was looking at Daphne and Angelo, so that I could tell simply from the motion of his eyes when the artist and my cousin were visible, and when the pillared walk concealed them from view. Although he appeared to be putting a number of questions to the aged penitent he nevertheless did not abate one jot of his steady gaze.
 
It occurred to me that he had recognised in Daphne the original of the Madonna, but that did not explain his scrutiny of me,—a scrutiny that sprang, I was sure, from something more than casual curiosity. Could the confession of the penitent have anything to do with it? Once more I surveyed the person of the old man, and it began to dawn upon me that I had seen him before, but when and where and in what circumstances I failed to recall. I closed my eyes in order to aid my powers of reflection, but still could not solve the problem of his identity. Just as I opened my eyes again to take another view of the confessional box I witnessed a remarkable tableau.
 
The penitent was still proceeding with his whispered story when the priest started to his feet with an impulse that apparently he could not control. Horror was painted in vivid characters on his face as he stood erect and stiff, with his eyes fixed on the distant cloister, while the other man, with his white head bent and his hands piteously clasped, sank low on his knees, a study of humiliation. What terrible secret had been imparted to the priest that he should betray such emotion? For a full minute he remained as rigid as a statue, and then hurriedly quitting the confessional box he [Pg 89]beckoned the penitent to follow him. They passed through a small archway leading to some sacristy, and the oaken door concealed them from my view.
 
Then it was that memory came to my aid, and I trembled all over at the revelation it imparted. I turned to my uncle who, absorbed in his book, had not observed the singular scene.
 
"Uncle," I said, and even in my own ears my voice sounded strange; "did you notice an old man kneeling at that confessional box over there?"
 
"I have been at Nuremberg all this time," replied my uncle in tones aggravatingly dry and measured, "and therefore could not see what was passing here. Why do you ask?"
 
"Who do you think he was?"
 
"Answer your own riddle and let me return to the wit of Mephistopheles."
 
"He was the tenant of the mysterious house at Dover."
 
My uncle found my words more interesting than those of Mephistopheles.
 
"You are dreaming, Frank."
 
"No. I am sure that it was he."
 
"So far from Dover? Is it likely he would turn up in this out-of-the-way place?"
 
"It isn't a question of what he is likely to do; it's a question of what he has done. He is here. That's a fact. For aught we know to the contrary he may be an Italian. Now I come to think of it his voice had a foreign accent."
 
"Where is he now?" asked my uncle, looking all around the cathedral.
 
"He went with the priest through that door-way," I answered, and I told him of what had taken place at the confessional box.
 
[Pg 90]
 
"What are we to do?" my uncle asked.
 
"We must not let him go without having a word from him," I answered. "Wait at the sacristy door and speak to him as he comes out, and learn—what you can. I will walk to the aisles yonder, for should he see me he will be suspicious of you. We won't say anything to Daphne about this yet."
 
As I was turning away I caught sight of Daphne, who, having gone the round of the cathedral, was sitting near the picture of the Madonna, with the artist by her side. They were chatting away as confidentially as if there were no one in the world but themselves. The sight of the Italian offering his homage to my beautiful cousin would have moved my jealousy at any other time, but at present my head was occupied with the tableau at the confessional.
 
"Your father will be with us in a few minutes, Daphne," I said, taking a seat beside her. "You have seen all that is to be seen?"
 
"Yes. I have to thank Mr. Vasari for a very interesting lecture. He is quite a learned antiquary, minus the pedantry."
 
"Ah! that last is a stroke at me, I suppose," I returned carelessly, without looking at her. My eyes were directed toward my uncle, whom I could see in the distance, keeping watch by the sacristy door.
 
"May I ask why papa is playing the part of a statue?"
 
Here was a question! But I was equal to the occasion.
 
"He fancies he saw an old friend of his enter that room, and he is waiting for him to come out."
 
"Why doesn't he go in after him?"
 
"Well, if you ask Mr. Vasari, he will perhaps tell you (for he knows better than I) that that is the[Pg 91] priest's private room, and naturally your parent is reluctant to intrude."
 
"True, Miss Leslie. It is the sacristy of Father Ignatius."
 
"Father Ignatius? Haven't you mentioned his name once before?"
 
"Yes, it was he who commissioned me to paint my unfortunate Madonna," replied the artist, glancing at the picture above his head.
 
"What sort of a person is this Father Ignatius?" I asked of Angelo, who seemed surprised at my addressing him, as well he might; it was so rarely I did so. "I saw a priest just now with a very remarkable type of head, quite like an antique Roman's—bald, aquiline nose, keen grey eyes, erect, proud——"
 
"Yes, that was Father Ignatius.
 
"A high dignitary of this cathedral, I suppose?" I remarked.
 
"The very highest, save the bishop, whom he quite eclipses by his vigorous personality—supersedes, in point of fact, for the bishop prefers to live at Campo, and leaves the entire control of Church affairs to Father Ignatius."
 
"I see. The bishop is le roi fainéant, and Father Ignatius mayor of the palace."
 
"Just so. Yet despite his love of power he is a good man, and every one in Rivoli loves him. He was a second father to me in my boyhood. It was he who first directed and encouraged me in the study of painting, but of late he has looked with disapproval on my art."
 
"What! After your brilliant success?" cried Daphne. "He ought to be proud of his protégé."
 
"He is vexed because I have turned from the medi?val school with its 'Madonnas,' 'Pietas,' and[Pg 92] 'Ecce Homos,' to seek inspiration from the pages of classic history. He thinks that whatever talent a man has should be consecrated to the service of the Church."
 
It was ever thus with Angelo. No matter what subject was being discussed he always contrived to drift down to art before long.
 
"What a pretty girl that is telling her beads before yonder crucifix!" said Daphne.
 
"Yes," replied the Italian, surveying the girl's figure with his artist's eye. "She would make a beautiful model for my 'Modesta the Martyr'—if I had not a fairer form in view," he murmured in a lower tone.
 
Impatiently I turned my eyes in the direction of that sentinel my uncle, and found him still on the watch at the sacristy-door. It swung open at last.
 
To my disappointment, however, neither priest nor penitent issued forth, but a man who had every appearance of being one of the attendants of the cathedral. He was walking over to us.
 
My heart beat fiercely. The mystery of last Christmas Eve was going to be cleared up!
 
The belief in my own mind that the attendant was going to invite me to the priest's room in order to interview the aged penitent was so great that I had actually risen to meet him—an unnecessary action on my part, for he passed by without regarding me, and, walking up to Angelo's picture of the Madonna, he removed it from the wall, and was preparing to depart with it, when he was stopped by the artist.
 
"What are you going to do with that picture, Paolo?" inquired Angelo, to whom the attendant was evidently well known.
 
"I am taking it to Father Ignatius' room," replied Paolo.
 
[Pg 93]
 
"What for?"
 
"Such are Father Ignatius' commands. He says it is to hang no more on these walls."
 
"No more! Why not? Did he give any reason?"
 
"None at all—to me. He seems extremely angry, and when he bade me do this his voice was sharper than I have ever heard it before. 'Take that man's handiwork down,' he cried, 'and burn it.'"
 
"Burn it! Did Father Ignatius say that?" said Angelo in a tone of concern.
 
"He did, Master Angelo," was the reply. "I told him that you were here in the cathedral sitting by the picture, and that you would be sure to ask why I was taking it down. 'Remove it at once, and burn it, I tell you,' was the only answer he would give me."
 
"You may tell Father Ignatius for me, Paolo, that I look upon this as an insult, and——"
 
"You must tell him that yourself, Master Angelo," replied Paolo, speaking with considerable freedom. "I have a sister in Purgatory whom he is going to set free next week by his prayers. He'd keep her in Purgatory forever if I gave him your message. You know the fiery stuff old Padre Ignatio is made of."
 
And with these words, so spoken that I could not tell whether he were in jest or earnest, the man marched off, carrying the picture with him.
 
The artist stared after him with so dark a look on his face that if Paolo had been in Purgatory in place of his sister, with Angelo for mass-priest, Paolo's detention would certainly have been a long one.
 
"What can this mean?" muttered the artist. "I shall see Father Ignatius to-night, and shall ask him the meaning of this affront."
 
"Perhaps," said Daphne, "the priest has seen me,[Pg 94] and is vexed to think that the Madonna he asked you to paint, instead of being, as he supposed, an ideal face, is simply the portrait of an Englishwoman—and of an Englishwoman who is a heretic in his eyes, you know."
 
The artist was silent, and, turning to Daphne, I said:
 
"I will just ask uncle how long he is going to remain standing over there."
 
Walking off quickly, I overtook the attendant before he reached the sacristy door.
 
"You really do not know, then," said I to him, "why Father Ignatius wishes the picture to be destroyed?"
 
"I know no more than I told Master Angelo just now, sir."
 
My uncle at this juncture approached us, wondering much to see Angelo's Madonna in the hands of the attendant. Addressing Paolo, he said, while pointing to the sacristy door:
 
"The old man who went in here with the priest—is he still within? I want to see him."
 
"He is gone. Left a few minutes since."
 
"Gone? Left? What! both of them?"
 
"Both of them."
 
"They did not pass through this door-way then?"
 
"No, sir. They left the sacristy by a side-door."
 
"Confound it! Baffled!" exclaimed my uncle with a gesture of impatience, and stamping his foot. "After all this waiting, too! What are we to do, Frank?"
 
"Do you want very much to see this old man?" said Paolo. "Perhaps," and he looked around, as if to see that no priest were by—"perhaps I may be able to help you."
 
"Help us?" said my uncle. "Good! You will be the very man for our purpose. Ah!" he continued, as[Pg 95] he saw the fellow's face gleam with the hope of a reward, "you worship the golden calf, I see. We understand each other. What is your name?"
 
"Paolo."
 
"Paolo, eh? None other? Perhaps you prefer a single name. The great men of Greece had but one. Well, Paolo, you must know every face in this little town. Tell us whether this old man is an inhabitant of Rivoli."
 
"He is a complete stranger to me," replied the attendant. "I have never seen his face till this morning."
 
"If, Paolo, you can find out for us what his name is, where he is staying, whence he came, and what business brings him here," my uncle continued, "I will give you more money than you can earn in a twelvemonth. There is an earnest of it," and he pressed some silver pieces into the fellow's palm. "But conduct your inquiries very secretly and cautiously. You understand? We do not wish him to suspect he is being watched. We are tourists staying at the Chalet Varina—you know it—a house perched on a crag on the mountain-side, two miles from here——"
 
"Chalet Varina! What, Andrea Valla's house—the great tenor's?"
 
"Ah! the great tenor's. He sings in the choir here, I believe. I see you know the house. Ask for Mr. Leslie. But stay," he ejaculated, as the thought passed through his mind that if the fellow called at the chalet the matter would have to be explained to Daphne—"stay. I will meet you this evening at eight. Be in the cathedral square at that hour. Can you contrive to be there?"
 
The man nodded assent and then pushing open the door of the sacristy to its full extent, showed us[Pg 96] that his words were true, and that both priest and penitent had quitted the chamber.
 
"Stay," I said, ere the door closed; "ask him, uncle, whether Father Ignatius and the old man talked before him, and if so, what they said."
 
My uncle put this question, and Paolo replied:
 
"As they pushed open the door, I heard Father Ignatius say, 'When do you say this happened?' and the old man answered, 'Last Christmas Eve:' and that's all I heard, for when they saw me they stopped talking at once, and Father Ignatius ordered me in a voice of thunder to go and take down Master Angelo's Madonna and burn it here in the sacristy, though for what reason I can't make out; and then, as I said just now, they went out by the side-door, and that's all I know of the matter, and— But there's Serafino, the deacon, looking at me; he's sure to ask why you gave me this money."
 
And in some trepidation Paolo closed the door and occupied himself with whatever work he had to do within.
 
My uncle had become the personification of gravity.
 
"'Last Christmas Eve,'" he muttered, speaking slowly. "Did you hear what he said, Frank?"
 
"I heard it, uncle."
 
"That old man's confession must have had some reference to George."
 
"That's what I've been fancying all along."
 
"You say the priest started up excitedly at the recital of the other?"
 
"Yes, with a look of unspeakable horror. I was watching him closely, and could not mistake the expression."
 
"What caused the priest's excitement? Some[Pg 97] terrible crime that the old man was relating. If so, whose? His own or another's?"
 
My uncle stared slowly round at the stained casements and sacred pictures, as if expecting an answer from them.
 
"Not his own. I will never believe that old man guilty of crime; his face is too noble."
 
"Face is no index to character," he returned; and then he added reflectively: "and no sooner does this priest quit the confessional than he orders Angelo's picture to be destroyed. Frank, what are we to make of this?" he added, a curious expression passing over his face as he glanced at the distant figure of the artist.
 
"Oh, that's easily explained," I rejoined. "The priest, as he sat in the confessional-box, saw Daphne and Angelo, and no doubt he considers that Madonna a sacrilegious piece of work."
 
"Ah! true, true," he replied, his brow clearing instantly; and after a pause he added: "Frank, say nothing to Daphne of our discovery. It will only excite her unnecessarily, and revive memories of George."
 
"You may depend on my silence. But if you wish her to suspect nothing, just try to infuse a little more gaiety into your countenance, for you are looking as grave as a judge."
 
"I look as I feel, then. I am afraid I should make a bad detective; my face always betrays my emotions. But what shall we say to Daphne, for she has been watching us? She is sure—women are so confoundedly curious—to ask the meaning of this long vigil of mine, and of the bribe to the attendant."
 
"I have told her," said I, as we moved off to join her and the artist, "that you fancied you saw an old friend of yours enter that sacristy. So keep up the farce."
 
[Pg 98]
 
"Now, papa," were Daphne's first words, "why have you been standing by that door so long?"
 
"Hem!" replied her parent, clearing his throat, and pausing to collect his inventive faculties. "I thought I saw a German friend of mine pass into that vestry—the great Professor Dulascanbee—gathering materials for his learned work, Ecclesiologia Helvetica, but I was mistaken. A silver fee to the attendant has elicited the fact that the man in the vestry doesn't resemble my learned friend at all; he always wears blue glasses. Well, my pseudo-Madonna," he continued, touching his pretty daughter under the chin, "what say you if we quit this 'dim religious light'?"
 
No one offering any opposition to this, we passed out through the porch. On the top of the cathedral steps Angelo paused.
 
"I shall not see you any more to-day, Miss Leslie. I have an appointment to keep, and must leave you at the foot of these stairs. It is a high festal day to-morrow in Rivoli. May I hope to see you present at early Mass in the morning? You love music, and I assure you, you will find the singing beautiful; Mozart's Twelfth Mass."
 
Daphne with a smile promised to be present if the weather were propitious; and thus ended our morning in the cathedral.