"And he gave an account, I suppose," said my uncle, "of an awful figure he had seen, adorned with horns, tail, and hoofs?" "He related nothing of the sort," replied Angelo with quiet dignity, "for he had become----" He paused, to give greater effect to his words. "What?" "Insane!" "What had he seen to make him so?" said Daphne. "No one will ever know, Miss Leslie. He died the same week." "What a strange story!" "And a true one," returned Angelo gravely. "No one in Rivoli dares come within a mile of this fountain after dark; and no priest, or body of priests, has had the courage to try the powers of exorcism since that fatal day." Daphne was silent and my uncle, taking Angelo's arm, resumed the journey, saying: "Your story is a mysterious one, but it admits of an easy explanation on rationalistic and psychological principles. Now Professor Dulascanbee----" And while I was enjoying sweet confidences with Daphne on the way to Rivoli, Angelo had to listen to a prosy lecture from my uncle, directed against belief in the supernatural. "What do you say, Frank?" he called out to me. "Shall we imitate the bold cleric, and try to solve the mystery by passing a night at the fountain?" "I'm perfectly agreeable," I responded. "I long to see a ghost." It was a superb day. The mists had vanished before the glowing sun, and the sky was now one clear expanse of delicate blue. A soft breeze fanned our temples. Through the sunny air the mountains shimmered, faint violet airy masses topped with snow, their various peaks reflected in the surface of the lake, on whose margin stood the quaint old town of Rivoli. The women of the place, having little else to do, assembled at their doors to see the rare spectacle of foreign visitors. All interest, however, was centred in Daphne: fingers were freely pointed at her, and she seemed to be an object of animated conversation after we had passed by. Arrived at the cathedral, Angelo paused by the holy water at the porch, and, after making the sign of the cross, led the way into the building. To my surprise, Daphne allowed her High Church tendencies to carry her so far as to imitate the artist, dipping her pretty finger in the lustral font, and tracing a wet cross on her forehead, while she whispered with a smile to me, "When one is at Rome, one must do as Rome does." It was on the tip of my tongue to say that if the water had not been previously consecrated, it certainly was now after the touch of _her_ hand; but this action of hers was a going over to the enemy, so I frowned under pretence of being a Protestant consumed with a zeal for orthodoxy. "You will be taking the veil next, Miss Leslie," I remarked loftily. "Miss Leslie? Just hear him, papa! Not Daphne," she whispered with a sweet smile, holding up her little gloved hand, with the second finger crossed over the first, to indicate that it symbolised my frame of mind at that particular moment, as there is no denying that it did.