showing herself, and
Gambardella slipped in unchallenged and shut it after him.

He found himself in a high and vaulted vestibule which received light
from the cloistered garden round which the convent was built, and he was
at once confronted by the portress, who seemed much surprised when she
saw that she had admitted a fine gentleman.

Gambardella bowed respectfully before he spoke.

'Reverend sister,' said he, 'I have the honour to be a friend of your
Order, and if I am not mistaken I am known to your Mother Superior, of
whom I come to ask audience, if she will receive me.'

The lay sister hesitated. She was an elderly woman with flaccid yellow
cheeks, watery eyes, and a more than incipient grey beard.

'I think the Mother Superior is resting,' she said, after a moment.

'So late in the afternoon, sister? I trust that her Reverence is not
indisposed?'

'Besides,' continued the portress, without heeding him, 'you only said
that you thought you were known to her. Pray can you tell me her
Reverence's name?'

Gambardella smiled gently. Probably it was not the first time he had
been obliged to argue with a convent door-keeper, that is, with the most
incredulous and obstinate kind of human being in the world.

'Unless I am mistaken,' Gambardella answered, 'her Reverence's name, in
religion, is Mother Agatha, and she was formerly Sub-Prioress of your
house in Ravenna.'

'I see that you are well-informed,' the portress answered, somewhat
reluctantly. 'I will find out whether she is resting.'

She turned from him to go into her dark little lodge, through which she
had communication with the interior of the convent; but Gambardella
called her back.

'One moment, sister! You need make but one errand of it. Pray let her
Reverence know that a Venetian gentleman of the name of Lorenzo Marcello
sends her this token and begs the honour of a few words with her.'

Therewith Gambardella drew from his finger the brass ring he always wore
and placed it in the portress's hand. After repeating the name he had
given, she nodded and went within. While he waited, Gambardella looked
through the iron gate that separated the vestibule from the pleasant
cloistered garden, and his melancholy face was even more sad than usual,
and his singular eyes more shadowy.

'The Mother Superior will receive you in the parlour, sir,' said the
portress, coming back, and her tone showed that she now accorded the
visitor high consideration.

H