But when Fra Paolo was alone in his cell, which, in those days of greatness, he would not exchange for quarters at the Ducal Palace though the Senate pleaded, the memory of a confidential talk held since this quarrel with Rome began brought a hint of the reason for this sudden flight.

He was tender of conscience and strong of faith, this good Fra Francesco; always sad, but never stern toward Fra Paolo’s failure to hold a belief implicit as his own in some doctrines of his beloved Church which he held to be vital.  Yet his reverence for Fra Paolo’s great knowledge and holy life made him unwilling to criticize where he unconsciously questioned.  It was the severest test of friendship to keep his faith and affectionate devotion in one who was taking so prominent a part in a movement opposing papal authority; but sometimes, when Fra Paolo had uttered many things he would not have tolerated in any other priest, Fra Francesco said only to himself, in great sadness, “It is God who maketh men different; we do not know the why!”

The gentle friar sometimes wondered in himself that he could not openly say to Fra Paolo when they met, after matins, the many things which had lain hot in his heart through the night—­for how could it be right to oppose the supreme authority?  But when the placid face of his friend met his, bathed in the fresh benediction of his altar service—­new each morning and never omitted—­he forgot the horror with which he had been reasoning that Fra Paolo was hastening the curse upon Venice.

But if Fra Paolo derived no added finesse for his masterful thought from the confidences he so often unconsciously invited from this lifelong friend, his faith in the sincerity and spiritual depth of this brother friar who, out of love for him, listened to much that pained him, taught him to value at its highest this opportunity of the closest scrutiny of his own motives, as he noted the impression of their talk on a nature as sincere and spiritual as it was transparent.

But that night, when they had passed from the cloister into Fra Paolo’s study-cell, continuing as they walked the train of thought they had been discussing, his listener soon became so distrait that Fra Paolo, who was singularly conscious of unspoken moods, dropped the problem he was unfolding and laid his hand upon his shoulder with the rare tenderness expressed only where he hoped that he might serve.

“We were speaking of weighty matter and thy thoughts are not with me.  Tell me thy trouble.”

“It is a question of responsibility—­the burden of the confessional,” Fra Francesco answered simply.

Fra Paolo drew back his hand, and his tone was a shade less tender.

“Of all that hath been reposed in thee under that sacred seal thou must bear the burden alone.”

“My brother, dost thou think I can forget my vow?” Fra Francesco exclaimed, reproachfully.  “I spake not of that which hath been reposed in me, but of my duty growing out of that sacred office.  It was for this I wanted counsel, and I had sought thee before to pray thee to confess me; but I know thy views and I ask thee not.”