So, while the pious monks had been lifting to heaven their prayers and psalms, a death-struggle had been going on under the walls of their convent, perhaps within the very sound of their voices. But what motive had prompted the deed, and whose was the hand that had so swiftly hurled the aged man into the arms of death? The sight of the grey cloth button--suggestive of a military cloak--recalled to my memory the figure that Daphne had seen at the fountain; and instantly there darted into my mind a terrible suspicion. The same had occurred to my uncle. Bending his head over to me, and pointing to the corpse, he said in a whisper: "Is this George's work?" A warm breath on my cheek checked the reply I was about to make. I turned. Daphne was at my side, her hands raised, her eyes dilated with horror, and her figure swaying like a young sapling in the breeze. Unperceived by myself or her father, she had followed us to the road--had seen the dead man, the damnatory evidence, had caught her father's whispered words. A scream such as I shall never forget broke from her, and before I could catch her in my arms she had dropped at my feet, a white senseless heap. Her voice, like a death-cry, rang over the moonlit valley, awakening countless echoes from the sleeping rocks, and mingling with the mournful refrain of the monks: "REQUIEM ÆTERNAM ET LUCEM PERPETUAM DONA MORTUO, DOMINE!" CHAPTER XI MORE OF THE PICTURE We had not expected to see Sir Hugh Wyville until the following Christmas, which we were to spend as his guests in Cornwall. It chanced, however, that he too was taking a Continental tour, and joined our Rhine steamer at Cologne. He was delighted to see his old schoolfellow, my uncle, and arm in arm with him paced the deck in friendly converse, talking of the old days at Eton. Daphne's beauty made a great impression upon the Baronet, and he inquired the reason of the sad look on her face, a look that had become habitual since that terrible night at Rivoli. So my uncle related her story to him, finishing with an account of the mysterious circumstances that had attended our stay at Rivoli, to all of which the Baronet listened with deep interest. "And so," he remarked, when the tale was ended, "the enquiry held on the body of the old man led to no result?" "None, so far as the discovery of the assassin was concerned. All that we learned was that the old man's name was Matteo Carito; that he was a native of Rivoli, but had been absent from the town for twenty years or more, and that he had returned to it only three days before his death. It is strange that he should have been struck down so soon after reaching his home." "The assassin had perhaps followed him there. And so the button proved no clue?" "None at all." "A pity, that. And the priest you have spoken of?" "Father Ignatius?" "Yes. Was he questioned as to the nature of the confession made to him by the murdered man?"