tation. Ambrosio
recognised him; it was Rosario, his favourite novice, a youth of whose
origin none knew anything, save that his bearing, and such of his
features as accident had discovered--for he seemed fearful of being
recognised, and was continually muffled up in his cowl--proved him to be
of noble birth.

"You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy, Rosario," said
Ambrosio tenderly.

The youth flung himself at Ambrosio's feet.

"Oh, pity me!" he cried. "How willingly would I unveil to you my heart!
But I fear------"

"How shall I reassure you? Reveal to me what afflicts you, and I swear
that your secret shall be safe in my keeping."

"Father," said Rosario, in faltering accents, "I am a woman!"

The abbot stood still for a moment in astonishment, then turned hastily
to go. But the suppliant clasped his knees.

"Do not fly me!" she cried. "You are my beloved; but far is it from
Matilda's wish to draw you from the paths of virtue. All I ask is to see
you, to converse with you, to adore you!"

Confusion and resentment mingled in Ambrosio's mind with secret pleasure
that a young and lovely woman had thus for his sake abandoned the world.
But he recognised the need for austerity.

"Matilda," he said, "you must leave the abbey to-morrow."

"Cruel, cruel!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony. "Farewell,
my friend! And yet, methinks, I would fain bear with me some token of
your regard."

"What shall I give you?"

"Anything--one of those flowers will be sufficient."

Ambrosio approached a bush, and stooped to pick one of the flowers. He
uttered a piercing cry, and Matilda rushed towards him.

"A serpent," he said in a faint voice, "concealed among the roses."

With loud shrieks the distressed Matilda summoned assistance. Ambrosio
was carried to the abbey, his wound was examined, and the surgeon
pronounced that there was no hope. He had been stung by a centipedoro,
and would not live three days.

Mournfully the monks left the bedside, and Ambrosio was entrusted to the
care of the despairing Matilda. Next morning the surgeon was astonished
to find that the inflammation had subsided, and when he probed the wound
no traces of the venom were perceptible.

"A miracle! A miracle!" cried the monks. Joyfully they proclaimed that
St. Francis had saved the life of their sainted abbot.

But Ambrosio was still weak and languid, and again the monks left him in
Matilda's care. As he listened to an ol