He was a tall, gaunt man with a sweet, kindly face, reflecting his sweet, kindly nature; he had deep-set, dark eyes, very gentle in their gaze, a tender mouth that was a little drawn by lines of suffering and an upright wrinkle, deep as a gash, between his brows at the root of his long, slender nose. He it was that night who broke the silence that endured even after the others had departed. He spoke at first as if communing with himself, like a man who thinks aloud; and between his thumb and his long forefinger, I remember that he kneaded a crumb of bread upon which his eyes were intent. “Gino Falcone is an old man, and he was my lord's best-loved servant. He would have died for my lord, and joyfully; and now he is turned adrift, to die to no purpose. Ah, well.” He heaved a deep sigh and fell silent, whilst I--the pent-up anguish in me suddenly released to hear my thoughts thus expressed--fell soundlessly to weeping. “Do you reprove me, Fra Gervasio?” quoth my mother, quite emotionless. The monk pushed back his stool and rose ere he replied. “I must,” he said, “or I am unworthy of the scapulary I wear. I must reprove this unchristian act, or else am I no true servant of my Master.” She crossed herself with her thumb-nail upon the brow and upon the lips, to repress all evil thoughts and evil words--an unfailing sign that she was stirred to anger and sought to combat the sin of it. Then she spoke, meekly enough, in the same cold, level voice. “I think it is you who are at fault,” she told him, “when you call unchristian an act which was necessary to secure this child to Christ.” He smiled a sad little smile. “Yet even so, it were well you should proceed with caution and with authority; and in this you have none.” It was her turn to smile, the palest, ghostliest of smiles, and even for so much she must have been oddly moved. “I think I have,” said she, and quoted, “'If thy right hand offend thee, hack it off.'” I saw a hot flush mount to the friar's prominent cheek-bones. Indeed, he was a very human man under his conventual robe, with swift stirrings of passion which the long habit of repression had not yet succeeded in extinguishing. He cast his eyes to the ceiling in such a glance of despair as left me thoughtful. It was as an invocation to Heaven to look down upon the obstinate, ignorant folly of this woman who accounted herself wise and who so garbled the Divine teaching as to blaspheme with complacency. I know that now; at the time I was not quite so clear-sighted as to read the full message of that glance.