"These monks must surely deem me a very great fool indeed!" he thought, as he stood and gazed out upon the building opposite, longing to give the persons who had been singing an intimation of his consciousness of their arts, and of the contempt in which he held them. But, while considering whether it would not be more dignified to let the matter pass over in silence, a new trick was played off. A sudden light burst through the apertures of the stone-work, and was poured, as it were, in a full stream upon the window at which he stood, but not on the part contained in his own chamber, being directed entirely upon that portion of the casement which was beyond the partition, and which gave light to the chamber assigned to the young monk who had been given him as an attendant. The first ray of light that St. Real perceived was of the ordinary hue, though of a dazzling brightness; but the next moment it assumed a bright rose-colour, and proceeded to pour on, changing to a thousand varied and beautiful tints, which the young noble thought certainly very admirable, but not at all supernatural. The next moment, however, he heard through the partition the murmuring of voices in the neighbouring chamber; and, thinking that the jugglery had been carried quite far enough, he determined, if possible, to put an end to it. Throwing his cloak round him, therefore, he approached the door, intending to enter the chamber of the young Dominican, and tell him in plain language, that he was not to be deceived; but, when he attempted to draw the lock, he found that the key had been turned upon him from without; and, with a curling lip, he cast himself again upon his bed, and soon forgot, in tranquil slumber, events which had excited in his mind no other feeling than contempt. CHAPTER XII. It was late in the morning when St. Real awoke; and so profound had been his slumbers during the latter hours of their course, that the door of his chamber had been opened without his knowing it; and, on looking round, he found the young Dominican sitting at the farther end of the room, employed, as usual, in turning over busily the leaves of his breviary. In his eye there was more wild and gloomy fire than St. Real had remarked on the preceding evening; and the young noble, who could not help connecting the monk with the trick that had been played off upon him during the night, resolved to speak upon the subject at once, in the hope of discovering what was the real object of the friars. "Good morrow, father!" he said, as their eyes first met; "I trust you have slept more soundly than I have." "Why should _you_ sleep unsoundly?" demanded the Dominican in return. "You have no mighty thoughts! you have no heavenly calling! you have no glorious revelations to keep you waking! Why should you sleep unsoundly?" "Simply, because foolish people took the trouble to disturb me," replied St. Real. "Heard you not the singing, and saw you not the light?"