“He lives in one wing of it, and has turned the rest into a hospital. Well, you all wait there for him to come out and give his benediction, and Domenichino will come up with his basket and say: 'Are you one of the pilgrims, father?' and you answer: 'I am a miserable sinner.' Then he puts down his basket and wipes his face with his sleeve, and you offer him six soldi for a rosary.” “Then, of course, he arranges where we can talk?” “Yes; he will have plenty of time to give you the address of the meeting-place while the people are gaping at Montanelli. That was our plan; but if you don't like it, we can let Domenichino know and arrange something else.” “No; it will do; only see that the beard and wig look natural.” ***** “Are you one of the pilgrims, father?” The Gadfly, sitting on the steps of the episcopal palace, looked up from under his ragged white locks, and gave the password in a husky, trembling voice, with a strong foreign accent. Domenichino slipped the leather strap from his shoulder, and set down his basket of pious gewgaws on the step. The crowd of peasants and pilgrims sitting on the steps and lounging about the market-place was taking no notice of them, but for precaution's sake they kept up a desultory conversation, Domenichino speaking in the local dialect and the Gadfly in broken Italian, intermixed with Spanish words. “His Eminence! His Eminence is coming out!” shouted the people by the door. “Stand aside! His Eminence is coming!” They both stood up. “Here, father,” said Domenichino, putting into the Gadfly's hand a little image wrapped in paper; “take this, too, and pray for me when you get to Rome.” The Gadfly thrust it into his breast, and turned to look at the figure in the violet Lenten robe and scarlet cap that was standing on the upper step and blessing the people with outstretched arms. Montanelli came slowly down the steps, the people crowding about him to kiss his hands. Many knelt down and put the hem of his cassock to their lips as he passed. “Peace be with you, my children!” At the sound of the clear, silvery voice, the Gadfly bent his head, so that the white hair fell across his face; and Domenichino, seeing the quivering of the pilgrim's staff in his hand, said to himself with admiration: “What an actor!” A woman standing near to them stooped down and lifted her child from the step. “Come, Cecco,” she said. “His Eminence will bless you as the dear Lord blessed the children.” The Gadfly moved a step forward and stopped. Oh, it was hard! All these outsiders--these pilgrims and mountaineers--could go up and speak to him, and he would lay his hand on their children's hair. Perhaps he would say “Carino” to that peasant boy, as he used to say----