“He does not want money, Excellency,” he said.  “He says he is the Reverend Teodoro Maresca, curate of your Excellency’s church in Muro, and begs you earnestly to receive him.”

Veronica rose again.  She knew Don Teodoro by name, for Bosio had often spoken of him to her, as his former tutor and his friend.  It was for Bosio’s sake that he had come—­that was clear.  Veronica asked where her aunt was, and on hearing that Matilde had retired to her own room, she told the servant to bring Don Teodoro to the yellow drawing-room.

A moment later she followed.  The tall priest was standing with bent head before the fireplace, on the very spot where so much had happened during the last two days.  He held his three-cornered hat in one hand, and was stretching out the other to warm it at the low flame.  Veronica was a little startled by his face and extraordinary features, but he looked at her clearly and steadily through his big silver spectacles, and he had a venerable air which she liked.  She noticed that when she advanced towards him, he bowed like a man of the world, and not at all like a country priest.

“I thank you for receiving me, princess,” he said, gravely.  “I have heard the sad news.  I was Bosio’s friend for many years.  I spent an hour with him only the day before yesterday, during which he told me much about himself and about you.  If, before he died, he told you nothing of what he told me, as I think probable, it is necessary for you to know it all from me as soon as possible.  Forgive me for speaking hurriedly and abruptly.  The case is urgent, and dangerous for you.  Shall we be interrupted here?”

“I think not,” said Veronica, considerably surprised by his manner.  “But of course—­” she paused doubtingly.

“Have you a room of your own, where you could receive me?” asked the old man, without hesitation.

“Yes—­that is—­I should not like to—­”

“I am an old priest, princess, and this is a time of confusion in the house.  You can risk something.  It is important.  Besides, I am in your own service,” he added, with a quiet smile.  “I am the chaplain of your castle at Muro.”

“Yes—­that is true.”  Veronica looked at him with a little curiosity, for she had never been to Muro, and it was interesting to see one of her dependents of whom she had often heard.  “Come,” she said suddenly.  “We shall meet no one, except my maid, perhaps—­Elettra.  Do you know her?  Her husband was under-steward, and was killed.”

“I know of her—­I buried him,” answered the priest.

She led the way to her own part of the house, to the large room which served her as dressing-room and boudoir.  After all, as he had said, he was a priest and an old man.  She made him sit down beside her fire, in her own low easy-chair, for he looked thin and cold, she thought, and she felt charitably disposed towards him, not dreaming what he was going to say, and supposing that he had exaggerated the importance of his errand.