"Perhaps you are right, my father," said the cavalier, cordially. "Your counsels have done me good, and I shall seek them further. But do not let them terrify my poor Agnes with dreadful stories of the excommunication that hath befallen me. The dear saint is breaking her good little heart for my sins, and her confessor evidently hath forbidden her to speak to me or look at me. If her heart were left to itself, it would fly to me like a little tame bird, and I would cherish it forever; but now she sees sin in every innocent, womanly thought,--poor little dear child-angel that she is!" "Her confessor is a Franciscan," said the monk, who, good as he was, could not escape entirely from the ruling prejudice of his order,--"and, from what I know of him, I should think might be unskilful in what pertaineth to the nursing of so delicate a lamb. It is not every one to whom is given the gift of rightly directing souls." "I'd like to carry her off from him!" said the cavalier, between his teeth. "I will, too, if he is not careful!" Then he added aloud, "Father, Agnes is mine,--mine by the right of the truest worship and devotion that man could ever pay to woman,--mine because she loves me. For I know she loves me; I know it far better than she knows it herself, the dear innocent child! and I will not have her torn from me to waste her life in a lonely, barren convent, or to be the wife of a stolid peasant. I am a man of my word, and I will vindicate my right to her in the face of God and man." "Well, well, my son, as I said before, patience,--one thing at a time. Let us say our prayers and sleep to-night, to begin with, and to-morrow will bring us fresh counsel." "Well, my father, you will be for me in this matter?" said the young man. "My son, I wish you all happiness; and if this be for your best good and that of my dear niece, I wish it. But, as I said, there must be time and patience. The way must be made clear. I will see how the case stands; and you may be sure, when I can in good conscience, I will befriend you." "Thank you, my father, thank you!" said the young man, bending his knee to receive the monk's parting benediction. "It seems to me not best," said the monk, turning once more, as he was leaving the threshold, "that you should come to me at present where I am,--it would only raise a storm that I could not allay; and so great would be the power of the forces they might bring to bear on the child, that her little heart might break and the saints claim her too soon." "Well, then, father, come hither to me to-morrow at this same hour, if I be not too unworthy of your pastoral care." "I shall be too happy, my son," said the monk. "So be it." And he turned from the door just as the bell of the cathedral struck the Ave Maria, and all in the street bowed in the evening act of worship. * * * * * A NIGHT IN A WHERRY.