Whatever you see, keep
Andrea in the dark. If you are discreet, all will be well, and I--I
shall be very grateful."

The driver mounted the box, the carriage rolled off down the hill,
Dieppe was left by the Cross, with the message in his hand. He did not
understand the situation.

CHAPTER X

THE JOURNEY TO ROME

It was about ten o'clock--or, it may be, nearer half-past ten--the same
night when two inhabitants of the village received very genuine, yet
far from unpleasant, shocks of surprise.

The first was the parish priest. He was returning from a visit to the
bedside of a sick peasant and making his way along the straggling
street towards his own modest dwelling, which stood near the inn, when
he met a tall stranger of most dilapidated appearance, whose clothes
were creased and dirty, and whose head was encircled by a stained and
grimy handkerchief. He wore no hat; his face was disfigured with
blotches of an ugly colour and, maybe, an uglier significance; his
trousers were most atrociously rent and tattered; he walked with a
limp, and shivered in the cold night air. This unpromising-looking
person approached the priest and addressed him with an elaborate
courtesy oddly out of keeping with his scarecrow-like appearance, but
with words appropriate enough to the figure that he cut.

"Reverend father," said he, "pardon the liberty I take, but may I beg
of your Reverence's great kindness--"

"It 's no use begging of me," interrupted the priest hurriedly, for he
was rather alarmed. "In the first place, I have nothing; in the
second, mendicancy is forbidden by the regulations of the commune."

The wayfarer stared at the priest, looked down at his own apparel, and
then burst into a laugh.

"Begging forbidden, eh?" he exclaimed. "Then the poor must need
voluntary aid!" He thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out two
French five-franc pieces. "For the poor, father," he said, pressing
them into the priest's hand. "For myself, I was merely about to ask
you the time of night." And before the astonished priest could make
any movement the stranger passed on his way, humming a soft, and
sentimental tune.

"He was certainly mad, but he undoubtedly gave me ten francs," said the
priest to his friend the innkeeper, the next day.

"I wish," growled the innkeeper, "that somebody would give me some
money to pay for what those two runaway rogues who lodged here had of
me, their baggage is worth no more