"That's the name. Well, it's not at all improbable that this Serafino told Ignatius that, immediately after his retirement to the sacristy with the old man, certain strangers began to question Paolo, giving him money. Thereupon Ignatius sends for Paolo. 'Paolo,' he demands _ex cathedra_, 'what did these strangers say to you?' perhaps threatening to dismiss him from his post, or, still more, threatening the poor fellow with excommunication, if he should refuse to disclose his knowledge. Paolo blurts out the truth, and lets the padre know that we are deeply interested in learning what the old man's confession was about. Whereupon the reverend Father, not at all desirous of our becoming cognisant of statements given under the seal of the confessional, delivers judgment: 'Paolo you have done very wrong. Give up those silver coins to your holy mother the Church; and as a penance recite to me next holy-day the 119th Psalm, and remember to keep out of the way till these strangers have left Rivoli.' I may be wrong, but it's my opinion that something of this sort has taken place." We were soon within the streets of Rivoli. All the inhabitants seemed to have turned out of their homes, and by the merriment of their talk and the brightness of their gala dresses were contributing to the gaiety of the scene. The centre of attraction was the market-place, where picturesquely-clad hunters and shepherds were displaying their skill with the rifle to admiring and applauding crowds. These sons of William Tell did not receive from us the attention that their feats deserved, for our eyes were continually wandering from them to scan the faces of the spectators. Paolo, however, and the nameless old man from Dover were not to be seen. From the sweet singing-contests in the cathedral we wandered to the meadows outside the town, where youths and flower-crowned maidens danced, wreathing and twining in pretty figures on the greensward, and thence back again to the town, peeping in each tavern, resonant with jollity and song, and odorous with the fragrance of the fir-cones that strewed the floor. But we could not find Paolo or the mysterious old man. Tired at length of prosecuting a search that seemed to promise no success, we turned our attention to the innocent diversions, which were protracted till the moon, rising above the shining snows of the mountain-tops, projected the shadow of the cathedral belfry across the market-place. The white light silvered the quaint gables, was reflected from the diamond panes of many a casement, and, mingling with the glare of the torches carried by some of the crowd, produced a picturesque and romantic effect.