e been laying."

"You are the most practical of men, brother: but my offer of
breakfast has already been declined. Shall we hear what Dom Basilio
has to say?"

"I have nothing to say, Sir John," put in Brother Basilio, advancing,
"but to give you this letter and await your answer."

He drew a folded paper from his tunic and handed it to my father, who
rose to receive it, turned it over, and glanced at the
superscription. I saw a red flush creep slowly up to his temples and
fade, leaving his face extraordinarily pale. A moment later, in face
of his audience, he lifted the paper to his lips, kissed it
reverently, and broke the seal.

Again I saw the flush mount to his temples as he read the letter
through slowly and in silence. Then after a long pause he handed it
to me; and I took it wondering, for his eyes were dim and yet bright
with a noble joy.

The letter (turned into English) ran thus--

"_To Sir John Constantine, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the
Star, at his house of Constantine in Cornwall, England_.

"MY FRIEND,

"The bearer of this and his company have been driven by the
Genoese from their monastery of San Giorgio on my estate of
Casalabriva above the Taravo valley, the same where you will
remember our treading the vintage together to the freedom of
Corsica. But the Genoese have cut down my vines long since,
and now they have fired the roof over these my tenants and
driven them into the _macchia_, whence they send message to me
to deliver them. Indeed, friend, I have much ado to protect
myself in these days: but by good fortune I have heard of an
English vessel homeward bound which will serve them if they can
reach the coast, whence numbers of the faithful will send them
off with good provision. Afterwards, what will happen?
To England the ship is bound, and in England I know you only.
Remembering your great heart, I call on it for what help you
can render to these holy men. _Addio_, friend. You are
remembered in my constant prayers to Christ, the Virgin, and
all the Saints.

"EMILIA."

At a sign from my father--who had sunk back in his chair and sat
gripping its arms--I passed on this epistle to my uncle Gervase, who
read it and ran his hand through his hair.

"Dear me!" said he, running his eye over the attentive monks, "this
lady, whoever she may be--"

"Sh