lle.

"Oh! you heard of us from my sister?"

At Noemi's words Don Clemente could not refrain from exclaiming:

"Then you are not Signora Dessalle?"

Noemi saw that the man knew. Therefore he had surely taken precautions,
and an unexpected meeting was not possible. She breathed freely again,
and in her feminine heart curiosity took the place of the anxiety of
which she was now relieved.

Don Clemente spoke to her of the tower, of the ancient arcades, of the
frescoes near the door of the church, while she wondered how he could be
brought to speak of Maironi. When he was showing her the procession of
little stone monks, she interrupted him thoughtlessly, to ask if souls,
tired of the world, disappointed and desirous of giving themselves to
God, often came to the monastery.

"I am a Protestant," she said. "This interests me greatly."

In his heart Don Clemente thought that if this really interested her
greatly, it was not on account of her Protestantism, but on account of
her friendship for Signora Dessalle.

"Not often," he answered; "sometimes. Such souls usually prefer other
Orders. So you are a Protestant? But you will have no objection to
entering our church? I do not mean the Catholic Church," he added,
smiling and blushing, "I mean the church of our monastery."

And he told her about a Protestant Englishman, who was in love with
St. Benedict, and made long stays at Subiaco, frequently visiting Santa
Scolastica and the Sacro Speco.

"He has a most beautiful soul," he said.

But Noemi wished to return to the first subject; to know if--urged by
a spirit of penitence--any one ever came from the world to serve in
the cloister without wearing the habit. She received no answer, for
Don Clemente, seeing a colossal monk enter the cloister, begged to be
excused one minute, and went to speak to him, returning presently with
his majestic companion, whom he introduced as Don Leone, a guide
far superior to himself, both as to the amount and the depths of his
knowledge. Then, to her great chagrin, he himself withdrew.

When she was alone Jeanne had another attack of violent palpitation.
_Dio!_ how the past came back to her! How Praglia came back! And
to think that he came and went through that entrance, through those
cloisters, who knows how many times a day; that he must often think
of Praglia, of that hour fixed by fate, of that water spilled, of the
ecstasy, the tightly clasped hands, under cover of the fur cloak,