"We want to see Mr. Vasari, if he is at home," my uncle answered civilly. "We are friends of his. Perhaps you have heard him speak of Mr. Leslie. I am Mr. Leslie." "Angelo is not here. He has left for England." "What? Without saying good-bye to us?" "He left by the diligence two hours ago." "So soon? Do you know why?" "Why?" she flashed out. "Ask this boy here!" and she turned to me with a lowering brow. "But for you he would have won the love of the English lady. But for you he would have been saved from--from--" "From what?" I said eagerly, too eagerly I suppose, for she shook her head as if she took a pleasure in withholding the information she was about to give. "I will tell you nothing," she said. "He can live without your pity. Go! After all, she is a Protestant, and all Protestants go to hell. Father Ignatius says so." "That is our ultimate destination, I believe," said my uncle with a sigh, due rather to vexation at finding himself unable to get the information he wanted than to proper regret at his future doom. "We are a wicked lot." "Can you tell us why Father Ignatius refused Angelo the Mass?" I asked. "That looks as if the good Father were not any too confident about _him_." Her eyes blazed at the suggestion. "I will tell you nothing," she said again, and closed her lips tightly as if she feared that her thoughts might assume material shape and make their escape against her will, if her mouth were ever so little open. "We shall gain nothing by staying here," my uncle remarked. "Madame, I wish you a very good day," with which words he led the way down to the road again, and we resumed our journey to the town, wondering what it was from which the artist might have been saved, and how Daphne's love could have saved him from it. "We may see your aged friend from Dover to-day, if we keep our eyes open," my uncle said presently. "The sports are sure to draw all the people out of doors." "We may see Paolo too," I replied. "It is strange that he did not turn up last night as he promised, and strange that he wasn't at Mass this morning; at least if he was I did not see him." "Not at all strange, if Father Ignatius has ordered him to avoid us." "Why should he do that?" I asked in surprise. "You remember Paolo breaking off from us suddenly, because, as he said, some deacon was watching him?" "I do--Serafino he called him."