During the reading of Gregorio Villani's letter a sudden change had come over the Prior's face. Francesco noted it not, engrossed as he was in scanning his surroundings, silently wondering if he would be able to strip off the gladness of earth, the joy of youth, the yearning of the flesh, to become the image of that spiritualized abnegation which the Prior represented; if his strength would support his resolve. Suddenly a scowl darkened Romuald's brow, and from the letter in his trembling hands his dimmed eyes flashed upon the youth. Francesco wondered. It was not long before he learned. Romuald, supporting his right arm on the table, turned to the youth. "You then are the son of Gregorio Villani! And you think to live here amongst us, to enjoy the peace and the solitude of these cloisters, whose life-long enemy your father has been!" At the Prior's words Francesco had started. "I know nothing of my father's quarrels, nothing of the quarrels of the monks," he said. The Prior nodded absently. "You were raised at the Court of Avellino?" "Such was my father's will!" Romuald looked up at him curiously. "And now, his will is to make of you a monk, to do penance for his own transgressions!" Francesco's head sank. "The burden is mine to bear!" A strange light shone in the Prior's eyes. "Then it is not your own desire?" Every vestige of color had left Francesco's face. "It is my wish!"-- There was a brief pause. "You are loyal to the memory of him who gave you life but to destroy it," nodded the Prior, as unconsciously he picked up the letter from the table. Signs of deeper inward emotion were revealed upon his face as, after regarding the youth with a gloomy interest, he said at last: "For one raised at court you will find the life of the cloister arduous enough." A flood of memories rushed with these words over Francesco. They left his countenance paler than before, "I shall learn to bear it." A sudden gleam of pity seemed to beam from Romuald's passionless eyes. "It is a brave beginning of the new life,--for I doubt not you must stay. The word of His Holiness is law. To-night, since collation is over in the refectory, you will sup with me. To-morrow you shall exchange this garb for the simpler one." Sick at heart, Francesco nodded silent acquiescence. At this moment a monk entered, carrying a platter which he placed upon a table and, after arranging it according to the Prior's direction, left the latter alone with his guest. The collation was by no means traditionally meagre. In truth, it seemed to Francesco far above what his fancy about monastic life had led him to expect. At last when everything upon the trenchers, together with the last flagon of wine, had been done ample justice to, Francesco, after due thanksgiving, arose. Romuald's gaze had never relinquished the youth during the repast.