s, and that it was not safe to keep him in the
house, though he paid his bill so very regularly, every Saturday, and
never quarrelled about the price of his food and drink. On the whole,
however, Stefanone abstained from interfering, as he had at first been
inclined to do, and entering the laboratory, with the support of the
parish priest, a basin of holy water, and a loaded gun--all three of
which he considered necessary for an exorcism; and little by little, Sor
Tommaso, the doctor, persuaded him that Dalrymple was a worthy young
man, deeply engaged in profound studies, and should be respected rather
than exorcised.

"Of course," admitted the doctor, "he is a Protestant. But then he has a
passport. Let us therefore let him alone."

The existence of the passport--indispensable in those days--was a strong
argument in the eyes of the simple Stefanone. He could not conceive
that a magician whose soul was sold to the devil could possibly have a
passport and be under the protection of the law. So the matter was
settled.

CHAPTER II.

[Illustration: Maria Addolorata.--Vol. I., p. 25.]

SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA sat by the open door of her cell, looking across
the stone parapet of her little balcony, and watching the changing
richness of the western sky, as the sun went down far out of sight
behind the mountains. Though the month was October, the afternoon was
warm; it was very still, and the air had been close in the choir during
the Benediction service, which was just over. She leaned back in her
chair, and her lips parted as she breathed, with a perceptible desire
for refreshment in the breath. She held a piece of needlework in her
heavy white hands; the needle had been thrust through the linen, but the
stitch had remained unfinished, and one pointed finger pressed the
doubled edge against the other, lest the material should slip before she
made up her mind to draw the needle through. Deep in the garden under
the balcony the late flowers were taking strangely vivid colours out of
the bright sky above, and some bits of broken glass, stuck in the mortar
on the top of the opposite wall as a protection against thieving boys,
glowed like a line of rough rubies against the misty distance. Even the
white walls of the bare cell and the coarse grey blanket lying across
the foot of the small bed drank in a little of the colour, and looked
less grey and less grim.

From the eaves, high above the open door, the swallows s