ght, since he died."

Griggs bent his head, and she came down from the step. He walked beside
her, down the silent nave into the darkness. Before the Chapel of the
Sacrament they both paused and bent the knee. Then she hesitated.

"I should like to go to the Pieta," she said timidly. "It seems so far.
Do you mind?"

He held out his arm silently. She felt it and laid her hand upon it, and
they went on. It was very dark. They knew that they were passing the
pillars when they could not see the little lights from the chapels in
the distance on their left. Then by the echo of their own footsteps they
knew that they were near the great door, and at last they saw the single
tiny flame in the silver lamp hanging above the altar they sought.

Guided by it, they went forward, and the solitary ray showed them the
marble rail. They knelt down side by side.

"Let us pray for them all," said Francesca, very softly.

She looked up to the marble face of Christ's mother, the Addolorata, the
mother of sorrows, and she thought of that sinning nun, dead long ago,
who had been called Addolorata.

"Let us pray for them all," she repeated. "For Maria Braccio, for
Gloria--for Angelo Reanda."

She lowered her head upon her hands. Then, presently, she looked up
again, and Griggs heard her sweet voice in the darkness repeating the
ancient Commemoration for the Dead, from the Canon of the Mass.

"Remember also, O Lord, thy servants who are gone before us with the
sign of faith, and sleep the sleep of peace. Give them, O Lord, and to
all who rest in Christ, a place of refreshment, light, and peace, for
that Christ's sake, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of
the Holy Spirit. Amen."

Once more she bent her head and was silent for a time. Then as she
knelt, her hands moved silently along the marble and pressed the two
folded hands of the man beside her, and she looked at him.

"Let us be friends," she said simply.

"Such as I am, I am yours."

Then their hands clasped. They both started and looked down, for the
fingers were cold and wet and dark.

It was the blood of Angus Dalrymple that had sealed their friendship.

The swift sure blade had struck him as he stood there, repeating the
name of his dead wife. There had been no one near the door and none to
see the quick, black deed. Strong hands had thrown his falling body
within the marble balustrade, that was still wet with his heart's blood.

There Paul Griggs found h