“‘Good evening, signor,’ he said. ‘You see me in my church; for I find in it the same relief that my brethren in the cities find within the walls of a cathedral. To me it would seem a poor exchange—for what cathedral built by man could match this view?’ As he spoke he pointed through the ruined arches to where Etna towered in the distance. Surely the noblest drop-scene ever fashioned by the hand of nature, and not unworthily framed by the artist who had designed the theatre. Between the ruined columns on the left a steamer, environed by a little group of feluccas, made a series of dissolving views as it overtook and passed them on the sea below. But I saw he had some trouble on his mind over and above his care for his patients. “‘Take courage, padre mio. The worst is over. That shroud of steel-blue mist is lifting day by day. I should like to know what causes it. I believe if we had had the power of gauging it, its changes would have made no bad register of the death-rate in the town.’ “‘You are right, my son; the worst _is_ past; and, thanks mainly to you, I have been enabled to do my duty while it lasted. Without you I could have done little. Take an old man’s thanks, signor, on behalf of those who are left and those who are gone. Neither the one nor the other will ever forget you, here or in the world that holds them now. Yet I could almost wish that you had never come.’ “‘Why so?’ I asked. “‘I wish, at any rate’ (speaking with more vehemence than his wont), ‘that you had not brought with you that false-hearted friend of yours.’ “‘You mean Richards. Yes, he is a coward to run away like that.’ “‘Worse, far worse. You know little Ninetta well, who lives at your lodgings up the hill—the prettiest girl in Taormina they call her, and I fancy they are right. She is down with the cholera—didn’t you know it? Taken this morning, and, unless I am wrong in my judgment, it is one of the worst cases we have had—hopeless, I should say, from the very first.’ “‘Poor little Ninetta! It does seem hard; taken, too, just when the disease was dying out. But what has Richards to do with it?’ “‘The confessional is sacred, my friend. But it may be that, in this one case, the cholera has struck in kindliness. Though I am sorry he should be away when he might have made her end more peaceful. Even when I left her to come and find you, she was perpetually calling for him. Put her off with excuses; it won’t be for long. Don’t let her think him a coward as well as a villain. If you weren’t a heretic, I would absolve you beforehand for any necessary evasion.’ “‘You may be sure I’ll do my best. The evasions won’t lie heavy upon my conscience. Goodnight.’