"Whilst the monks were attending to the needs of their chief, the fool examined intently the imposing figure of his guest, as though seeking to guess at his identity. "My son!" said he to the monk, "if those are your children, you must be their father?" "Certainly! friend Lanzo." "Then, may Heaven forgive me, for I have led a worthy abbot to the tent of a fool." "You see how deceitful appearances sometimes are," replied the abbot, with a smile. "Yes!--yes. Henceforth I'll go blindfold, and open my ears wider than ever, to see better what lies before me. But now, my lord Abbot, whenever it may please you, we can set out on our mission. As to you, my holy friends and worthy guests, during our absence comfort yourselves with what is before you; the ham comes from the Duke's own table, and the wine from his cellars." And Lanzo and the Abbot left the tent. _CHAPTER VII_. _FATHER AND DAUGHTER_. On a rough stone, in the deep and gloomy dungeon of the fortress of Cinola, sat Guido de Bonello, his body bent forward until his head almost rested upon his knees, his manacled hands hanging helpless under the weight of his fetters, and his tearful gaze fixed despondingly upon the ground. He was a brave man, and had often looked death boldly in the face; and if he was now so unmanned, it was from no thought of his own sad fate; his fears were for his daughter, so soon to be left without a protector. Suddenly the sound of steps met his ear, and he raised his head quickly, in the fond hope of distinguishing the light footfall of a woman. The key grated in the lock, the door swung back upon its hinges, and the chief turnkey, followed by Lanzo and the Abbot, entered the cell. "Here is the priest," said the jailer, sullenly; "get through your business as soon as possible, for you must be hung at once. If I am to have as much trouble with all my other prisoners, in future, I would rather resign my office now, and have done with it." "I am entirely at your service, my son," said the Abbot, kindly, as he approached the prisoner. "Thanks, holy father," replied Guido; "but you are mistaken if you expect to find a criminal here!" "Of course!" exclaimed the jester. "Nowadays they never hang any but honest men; the scoundrels go scot-free. Come, come, cousin, if for nothing else, you merit the gallows for being such a tender father, and touching a fool's heart. God knows it was nothing but pity which prompted me to get you a confessor." Without noticing the idle babble of the fool, the prisoner gazed earnestly upon the Abbot, who seemed deeply grieved at the sight of his sad condition.