The Piccinino was dressed with extreme care and scrupulous neatness. He wore the picturesque costume of the peasants of the mountain, but it was made of fine, light materials. His breeches, short and tight-fitting, were of a soft woollen fabric, with silk stripes, yellow and brown. His bare leg, white as alabaster, was visible above his scarlet _spadrilles_. His shirt was of embroidered linen, trimmed with lace, and afforded a glimpse of a heavy gold chain, intertwined with hair, upon his breast. His sash was of green silk stitched with silver. He was arrayed from head to foot in smuggled garments, or something worse; for if you had examined the marks on his linen, you might have convinced yourself that it came from the last valise he had robbed. While Michel was contemplating with admiration, mingled with some inward irony, the ease with which that well-favored youth rolled a cigarette of Algerian tobacco in his fingers, slender and tapering as a Bedouin's, Fra Angelo, who seemed neither surprised nor annoyed by his reception, made a circuit of the room, bolted the door, and, having inquired if they were quite alone in the house, to which query the Piccinino replied in the affirmative with a nod, he began thus: "I thank you, my son, for not compelling me to wait for this appointment. I have come to ask a favor at your hands: are you able and willing to devote a few days to it?" "A few days?" repeated the Piccinino, in such a soft voice that Michel was fain to glance anew at the muscles of steel in his legs in order to be sure that it was not a woman who spoke; but the tone of the voice signified too clearly to be misunderstood: "You are jesting!" "I said a few days," rejoined the monk, calmly. "You will have to go down the mountain, follow this young man, my nephew, to Catania, and stay by him until you have succeeded in relieving him from an enemy who is tormenting him." The Piccinino turned slowly toward Michel, and stared at him as if he had not previously seen him; then, taking from his belt a richly-mounted stiletto, he presented it to him with an almost imperceptible smile of irony and contempt, as if to say: "You are old enough and strong enough to defend yourself." Michel, annoyed at being placed in such a position, was about to make a sharp retort, when Fra Angelo cut him short, placing his iron hand on his shoulder. "Be quiet, my boy," he said; "you do not know what I am talking about, and there is no occasion for you to speak. My friend," he continued, addressing the bandit, "if my nephew were not a man and a Sicilian, I should not introduce him to you. I am going to tell you what we expect of you, unless you tell me beforehand that you cannot or will not help us."