“Are you going to Ascoli?” demanded the hog-boy, suddenly, as he fixed a pair of blazing eyes on the Franciscan’s face in a manner that made him start. “I will show you the way,” continued he, in a tone of as much decision as if he spoke of some mighty enterprise; and leaping to his feet like a boy made of India-rubber, he led through the scrubby wood of the common, kicking the hogs aside with a fierceness that drew a remonstrance from the good father. This seemed to have the desired effect. His manner softened instantaneously. He spoke in a mild, low voice; answered the questions that were addressed to him with modesty and good-sense; and astonished the Franciscan by a display of intelligence rare enough even where natural abilities are developed by education. It was in vain, however, that he reminded his young companion that it was time for him to turn; the hog-boy seemed fascinated by the father’s conversation, and always made some excuse for accompanying him a little further. “Come, my son,” said the Franciscan at length, “this must have an end, and here we part. There is a little trifle which I give you with my blessing, and so God speed you!” “I am going further,” replied the boy, quickly. “What! to Ascoli?” “Ay, to Ascoli—or to the end of the earth! Ah, father, if you would but get me something to do—for I am sure you can if you will; any drudgery, however humble—any thing in the world but tending hogs!” “You forget my profession, my son, and that I am powerless out of it. You would not become a monk yourself?” “A monk! Oh! wouldn’t I? Only try me!” “To be a monk is to toil, watch, and pray; to live meagrely, to submit to innumerable hardships—” “And to learn, father! to read—to think! O, what would I not submit to for the sake of knowing what there is in books!” The boy spoke with enthusiasm, and yet with nothing of the coarse impetuosity which had at first almost terrified his new acquaintance. The Franciscan thought he beheld in him the elements of a character well adapted for a religious order; and after some further conversation, he finally consented to take the stripling with him to Ascoli. They were now at the summit of an eminence whence they saw that town lying before them, and the village of Montalto hardly discernible in the distance behind. The father looked back for a moment at his companion, in some curiosity to see how he would take leave, probably forever, of the place of his birth. The hog-boy’s hands were clenched as if the nails were imbedded in his flesh; and one arm, trembling with agitation, was stretched forth in a fierce farewell. When he turned away, the blazing eyes again flashed upon the Franciscan’s face; but, in an instant, they softened, grew mild and tearful, and Felix—for that was the lad’s name—followed his patron meekly into the town.