Pippo dropped on one knee before the hanging pyx, followed Peregrine into the dark oak pew. He saw the candles gleaming on the altar, their light commingling with the waning evening light. And over all was the quiet awe, the brooding stillness of the Hidden Presence. A moment or so later a long line of monks entered the church, passed leisurely into the stalls. “_Jube, domne, benedicere_,” began the reader. “_Noctem quietam, et finem perfectum concedat nobis Dominus omnipotens_,” came the blessing. Pippo glanced momentarily sideways at Peregrine’s profile, saw his face peaceful, grave. A wave of sudden warmth struck on the boy’s heart, a new admiration for the man beside him. He saw in him a fighting saint, a very St. George, protector of the weak and defenceless. Such another would he be himself in manhood, loving Christ and His Mother, champion of all wrong. The warmth at his heart brought a glow to his cheeks. The thought of his friendship raised him in his own estimation, which for that matter was at all times none so low. Anon he caught the sung words. “_Irascimini, et nolite peccare...._” To the context he paid little heed. Here again he saw Peregrine, saw him angered yet without sin, thrashing a very burly fellow soundly. Pippo, I fear me, paid but scant attention to the service; Peregrine absorbed his mind. Later a movement brought him back to his surroundings. The monks were crossing to the statue of the Madonna, there to end the week with an antiphon in her honour. Somewhat tardily Pippo recognized his wandering thoughts. “_Salve Regina, Mater misericordiæ_,” he sang, his clear treble joining with the deeper voices, seeking to do atonement by the lustiness of his present singing. He gave full ear to the prayer that followed; crossed himself devoutly at the words, _Divinum auxilium maneat semper nobiscum_. Nevertheless his conscience pricked him somewhat. The monks passed back into the sacristy. The candles on the altar were extinguished; the church was now in twilight, through which shone the soft red glow of the pyx-light. Peregrine moved; and Pippo rose from his knees. Half way down the aisle he paused, slipped behind Peregrine, went back to the statue of Our Lady. At her feet he deposited his burden of cherry blossom, glanced up a moment half shyly at the tender face above him. Then turning swiftly he joined Peregrine without. Peregrine, full of thought, had not noticed his absence. It was not till they were at the castle gates that he spoke. “What hast thou done with the cherry blossom?” he demanded. Pippo nodded his head backwards. “Oh, I left it down there,” he replied airily enough. But he did not say that the snowy flowers lay before the Madonna as a small token of penitence for his wandering thoughts. Instead he spoke on a sudden in very different fashion. “Feel my muscle,” he said gravely, doubling back his arm. ------------------------------------------------------------------------