a prince think of such
an unruly subject?' was the sad question the simple-hearted friar ever
posed to himself. 'And if the rector only send a report of him, he'll
have no chance at all.' With this sorrowful thought he brought
his reflections to a close; and, taking out his beads, set himself
vigorously to implore the intercession of the saints in a cause
intrusted to hands so weak and unskilful as his own.

The grim old gate of the college, flanked with its two low towers,
looked gloomy enough as the evening closed in. The little aperture, too,
through which questions were asked or answered, was now shut up for the
night, and all intercourse with the world without suspended. The Fra had
yet a full hour to wait, and he was fain to walk briskly to and fro, to
warm his blood, chilled by the cold wind that came over the Campagna.
For a while the twinkling of a stray light, high up in the building,
set him a-thinking where the cell of the boy might be; gradually these
lights disappeared, and all was wrapped in gloom and darkness, when
suddenly the chapel became illuminated, and the rich, full swell of an
organ toned out its solemn sounds on the still night. The brief prelude
over, there followed one of those glorious old chants of the church
which combine a strain of intense devotion with a highly exalted poetic
feeling. In a perfect flood of harmony the sounds blended, until the
very air seemed to hold them suspended. They ceased; and then, like
the softest melody of a flute, a young voice arose alone, and, soaring
upward, uttered a passage of seraphic sweetness. It was as though the
song of some angelic spirit, telling of hope and peace; and, as a long,
thrilling shake concluded the strain, the loud thunder of the organ and
the full swell of the choir closed the service. The moment after, all
was silent and in darkness.

Bell after bell, from the great city beneath, tolled out seven o'clock;
and Fra Luke knocked modestly at the gate of the college. His visit
appeared to have been expected, for he was admitted at once and
conducted to the large hall, which formed the waiting-room of the
college. The friar had not long to wait; for scarcely had he taken his
seat when the door opened, and young Fitzgerald appeared. Advancing with
an easy air, and a degree of gracefulness that contrasted strangely with
his poverty-struck dress, the boy said, 'I am told you wish to speak to
me, father.'

'Are you Gerald Fitzgerald, my son?