“Yes—­yes,” answered the old man.  “I daresay you are right.  I suppose that is what I should do.”  There was a reluctance in his voice which surprised Taquisara.

“You do not seem convinced,” said the latter.

“I wish there were another priest here,” replied Don Teodoro, thoughtfully, and his clear eyes looked away, avoiding the other’s direct glance.

“Why?” inquired the Sicilian, with increasing astonishment.

“It is a painful office to perform for a friend.”  The curate looked down now, and fingered the corner of his old book, in evident hesitation.  “It is quite another thing to assist the poor.”

“I do not understand you,” said Taquisara.  “I suppose that priests have especial sensibilities of their own—­”

“Sometimes—­sometimes,” interrupted Don Teodoro, as though speaking to himself.  “Yes—­I have especial sensibilities.”

“It cannot be helped,” answered Taquisara, in a tone that had something of authority in it.  “Of course we laymen do not appreciate those nice questions.  A man is dying.  He wants a priest.  It is your place to go to him, whether he is your own father, or a swineherd.  You are alone here, and you have no choice.”

“Yes, I am alone.  I wish I were not.  I wish that the princess would get me an assistant.”

“It will be best if you come to the castle in about an hour,” said Taquisara, paying no attention to Don Teodoro’s last remark.  “By that time Gianluca will be in his sitting-room, and I shall be with him.  The Duca and Duchessa will be out for their walk, for the weather is cool and fine, and they do not know of his imminent danger.  Come in without warning, as though you had just come to pay him a visit of a quarter of an hour.  You have done the same thing before.  I will go away after five minutes and leave you together.  Donna Veronica will not interrupt you.”

“Very well,” replied the priest, in a tone that was still reluctant.  “If it must be, it must be.”

Taquisara looked at him curiously and went away to arrange matters as he proposed.  But Don Teodoro, though he wore his spectacles, with the help of which he really could see very well, did not notice the young man’s glance of curiosity, as he went with him to the door, and carefully fastened it after him, which was an unusual proceeding on his part; for though he lived quite alone, the poor people never found that door locked by day or night.  An old woman came every day to do the little household work that was necessary, and to cook something for him, when he ate at home.  But to-day, for once, he drew the rusty old bolt across, before he went back to his study.  He did nothing which could seem to have justified the precaution, after he had sat down again in his big wooden easy-chair; and if the door had been wide open, and if any one had come in without warning, the visitor would have found the priest before the table, slowly lifting one long, bent shank of his