High, oval-shaped apertures admitted light and air at once, and the dying embers of a charcoal fire revealed a chamber, singularly void of all the comforts of existence. Almost in the centre of this chamber, before a massive stone table, upon which was spread a huge tome, sat the Monk of Cluny, shading his eyes with his right hand and reading half aloud. For a few moments Tristan regarded the recluse breathlessly, as if he dreaded disturbing his meditations, when Odo suddenly raised his eyes and saw the dark form standing in the frame of the door. The look which he bestowed upon Tristan convinced the latter immediately of the doubt which the monk harbored regarding the quality of his belated caller, a doubt which he deemed well to disperse before venturing into the monk's retreat. Therefore, without abandoning his position, he addressed the inmate of the chamber and, as he spoke, the tone of his voice seemed to carry conviction, that the speaker was sincere. "Your pardon, father," Tristan stammered, "for one who is seeking you in an hour of grave doubt and misgiving." The monk's ear had caught the accent of a foreign tongue. He beckoned to Tristan to enter, rising from the bench on which he had been seated. "You come at a strange hour," he said, not without a note of suspicion, which did not escape Tristan. "Your business must be weighty indeed to embolden one, a stranger on Roman soil, to penetrate the desolate Aventine when the world sleeps and murder stalks abroad." "I am here for a singular purpose, father,--having obeyed the impulse of the moment, after listening to your sermon at St. Peter's." "But that was hours ago," interposed the monk, resting his hand on the stone table, as he faced his visitor. "I lost my way--nor did I meet any one to point it," Tristan replied, as he advanced and kissed the monk's hand reverently. "What is your business, my son?" asked the monk. Tristan hesitated a moment. At last he spoke. "I came to Rome not of my own desire,--but obeying the will of another that imposed the pilgrimage. I have sinned, father--and yet there are moments, when I would almost glory in that which I have done. It was my purpose, while at St. Peter's to confess to the Grand Penitentiary. But--I know not why--I chose you instead, knowing that you would give truth for truth." The monk regarded his visitor, wondering what one so young and possessed of so frank a countenance might have done amiss. "You are a pilgrim?" he queried at last. "For my sins--" "Of French descent, yet not a Frenchman--" Tristan started at the monk's penetration. "From Provence, father," he stammered, "the land of songs and flowers--" "And women--" the monk interposed gravely. "There are women everywhere, father." "There are women and women. Perchance I should say 'Woman.'" Tristan bowed his head in silence.