'Robbed?' the other echoed, then smiled a pitying concern. 'My surprise is less than yours, my son. Did I not say these woods are infested by thieves and robbers? Had you slept less soundly you might have been robbed of life as well. Render thanks to God, Whose grace is discernible even in misfortune. For no evil befalls us that will not serve to show how much greater that evil might have been. Take that for comfort ever in adversity, my child.' 'Aye, Aye!' Bellarion displayed ill-humour, whilst his eyes abated nothing of their suspicious glance. 'It is easy to make philosophy upon the woes of others.' 'Child, child! What is your woe? What is the full sum of it? What have you lost, when all is said?' 'Five ducats and a letter.' Bellarion flung the answer fiercely. 'Five ducats!' The friar spread his hands in pious remonstrance. 'And will you blaspheme God for five ducats?' 'Blaspheme?' 'Is not your furious frame of mind a blasphemy, your anger at your loss where there should be a devout thankfulness for all that you retain? And you should be thankful, too, for the Providence that guided my steps towards you in the hour of your need.' 'I should be thankful for that?' Bellarion stressed the question with mistrust. The friar's countenance changed. A gentle melancholy invested it. 'I read your thoughts, child, and they harbour suspicion of me. Of Me!' he smiled. 'Why, what a madness! Should I turn thief? Should I imperil my immortal soul for five paltry ducats? Do you not know that we little brothers of Saint Francis live as the birds of the air, without thought for material things, our trust entirely in God's providence? What should I do with five ducats, or five hundred? Without a single minted coin, with no more than my gown and my staff I might journey from here to Jerusalem, living upon the alms that never fail us. But assurances are not enough for minds poisoned by suspicion.' He flung wide his arms, and stood cruciform before the youth. 'Come, child, make search upon me for your ducats, and so assure yourself. Come!' Bellarion flushed, and lowered his head in shame. 'There ... there is not the need,' he answered lamely. 'The gown you wear is a full assurance. You could not be what you are and yet the thing that for a moment I ...' He broke off. 'I beg that you'll forgive my unworthiness, my brother.' Slowly the friar lowered his arms. His eyes were smiling again. 'I will be merciful by not insisting.' He laid a hand, lean and long in the fingers as an eagle's claw upon the young man's shoulder. 'Think no more of your loss. I am here to repair it. Together we will journey. The habit of Saint Francis is wide enough to cover both of us, and you shall not want for anything until you reach Pavia.' Bellarion looked at him in gratitude. 'It was Providence, indeed, that sent you.' 'Did I not say so? And now you see it for yourself. Benedicamus Domine.' To which Bellarion sincerely made the prescribed answer: 'Deo gratias!'