n the tint of an oleander blossom, as transient as
a gleam of April sunshine, or the changing light upon a summer sea. Then
a dead whiteness succeeded; the day was gone, and, quick as lightning,
the stars began to quiver in the blueness of the sky.

The lights in the cottage windows gleamed not inhospitably, but the
traveller passed them by. His errand was to the monastery of San
Stefano, for there he fancied that he should find a friend. He had no
reason to feel sure about it, but he was in a mental region where reason
had little sway. He was governed by vague impulses and instincts which
he did not care to controvert. He was faint, footsore, and weary, but he
would not pause until he had reached the monastery gates.

He rang the bell with a trembling hand. Its clangour startled him, and
nearly made him fly from the place. If he had been less weak at that
moment he would have turned away; as it was, he leaned against the high,
white wall with an intolerable sense of discomfort and fatigue. When the
porter came and looked out, it took him several minutes to discern,
through the gathering darkness, the worn figure in waiting beside the
gate.

"I have come a long distance," stammered the traveller, in answer to the
porter's exclamation. "I want rest and food. I was told by one of
you--one who was called Brother Dino, I believe--that you gave
hospitality to travellers----"

"Come in, amico," said the porter, genially. "No explanations are needed
when one comes to San Stefano. So you know our Brother Dino, do you? He
is here again now, after two or three years in Paris. A fine scholar,
they say, and a credit to the monastery. Come to the guest-room and I
will tell him that you are here."

To this monologue the stranger answered not a word. The porter had
meanwhile allowed him to enter, and fastened the gate once more. He then
led the way up a garden path to a second door, swinging his lantern and
jingling his keys as he went. The traveller followed slowly; his
battered felt hat was drawn low over his forehead, his garments, torn
and travel-stained, gave the porter an impression that his pockets were
not too well filled, and that he might even be glad of a little
employment on the farm which the Brothers of San Stefano were so
successful in cultivating. His tone was nonetheless cheery and polite as
he ushered the stranger into a long panelled room, where a single
oil-lamp threw a vague, uncertain light upon the tessella