e only one he makes a shrift to--ay, that does
he, ill as you think of him,' added he, as if answering the
half-contemptuous smile on Gerald's face. 'Let's see your letter.'

With an awkward reluctance Gerald drew forth the letter and showed it.

'Ah!' cried the Fra eagerly, 'he had been looking for that letter this
many a day back; but it comes too late now.'

As he said this he pressed eagerly forward and whispered to the nun who
was walking at the side of the mule. She looked back hurriedly for an
instant, and then as rapidly turned her head again. They continued now
to converse eagerly for some time, and seemed totally to have forgotten
Gerald, as he walked on after them; when the Fra turned suddenly round
and said--

'I 'll take charge of your letter, my son, while you guide our sister
down to Cheatstone, a little cluster of houses you 'll see at the foot
of the mountain; and if there be an answer I 'll fetch it to-morrow, ere
daybreak.'

'Nay, Fra, I promised that I would deliver this with my own hands, and
I mean to be no worse than my word.' 'You 'll have to be at least less
than your word,' said the friar, 'for the Pastore would not see you.
These are his days of penance and mortification, and I am the only one
who dares to approach him.'

'I am pledged to deliver this into his own hand,' said Gerald calmly.

'You may have said many a rash thing in your life, but never a rasher
than that,' said the Fra sternly. 'I tell you again, he 'll not see you.
At all events, you 'll have to find the road by your own good wits, and
it is a path that has puzzled shrewder heads.'

With this rude speech, uttered in the rudest way, the Fra moved hastily
on till he overtook his companion, leaving Gerald to follow how he
pleased.

For some time he continued on after the others, vainly straining his
eyes on every side for any signs of a. pathway upward. The way which he
had trod before, with hope to cheer him, became now wearisome and sad.
He was sick of his adventure, out of temper with his want of success,
and dissatisfied with himself. He at last resolved that he would go no
farther on his track than a certain little olive copse which nestled in
a cleft of the mountain, reaching which he would repose for a while, and
then retrace his steps.

The sun was strong and the heat oppressive, insomuch that when at length
he gained the copse, he was well pleased to throw himself down beneath
the shade and take his rest. He