“It is a brother who hath but entered their order yesterday,” Don Ambrogio answered, with some hesitation, “by name Pierino—­nay, Fra Paolo.  He is reputed learned; yet if the methods of the order be strange to him, one should grant indulgence.  For he is reputed learned——­”

He was conscious of repeating the words for his own encouragement, with a heart less brave than he could have wished.  But the information was pleasantly echoed about, as the ranks of the Servi parted and an old man, with a face full of benignity, came forward, holding the hand of a boy with blue eyes and light hair, who walked timidly with him to the pulpit on the left, where the older man encouraged the shrinking disputant to mount the stair.

There was a murmur of astonishment as the young face appeared in the tribunal of that grave assembly.

“Impossible!  It is only a child!”

It was, in truth, a strange picture; this child of thirteen, small and delicate for his years, yet with a face of singular freshness and gravity, his youthfulness heightened by cassock and cowl—­a unique, simple figure, against the bizarre magnificence of the background, the central point of interest for that learned and brilliant assembly, as he stood there above the beautiful kneeling angel who held the Book of the Law, just under the pulpit.

For a moment he seemed unable to face his audience, then, with an effort, he raised his hand, nervously pushing back the white folds of his unaccustomed cowl, and casting a look of perplexity over the sea of faces before him; but the expression of trouble slowly cleared away as his eyes met those of a friar, grave and bent, who had stepped out from the company of the Servi and fixed upon the boy a steadying gaze of assurance, triumph, and command.  It was Fra Gianmaria, who was known throughout Venice for his great learning.

“Pierino!” broke from the mother, in a tone of quick emotion, as she saw her boy for the first time in the dress of his order, which thrust, as it were, the claims of her motherhood quite away; it was so soon to surrender all the beautiful romance of mother and child, so soon to have done with the joy of watching the development which had long outstripped her leadership, so soon to consent to the absolute parting of the ways!

She had not willed it so, and she was weary from the struggle.

But the boy was satisfied; the presence of his stern and learned mentor sufficed to restore his composure; he did not even see his mother’s face so near him, piteous in its appeal for a single glance to confess his need of her.

“Nay, have no fear,” Don Ambrogio counseled, his face glowing with pride; “the boy is a wonder.”

The good Fra Giulio, turning back from the pulpit stairs, saw the faces of the two whose hearts were hanging on the words of the child; he went directly to them and sat down beside Donna Isabella, for he had a tender heart and he guessed her trouble.  “I also,” he said, leaning over her and speaking low, “I also love the boy, and while I live will I care for him.  He shall lack for nothing.”