Taquisara held his hand for a moment.

“We shall all bless you,” he answered, “if you can end this trouble.”

“I can,” said the priest.  “And your blessing is worth having.”

He went away quickly, as though not trusting himself to speak any more.  He had taken leave of Veronica and the rest as hastily as he could without giving offence to any one.  It was not until he looked back at the poor people who waved their hands at him as he went out of the village that the hot tears streamed down his cheeks.

He was twenty-four hours in reaching Naples, as usual, and his friend greeted him with open arms as he always did.  He thought that Don Teodoro looked ill and tired, and as it was a fine day they walked the short distance from Don Matteo’s house to the cafe where the priest had sat with Bosio, and they each drank a cup of chocolate.

Don Matteo observed that the tenth of December had been a fine day in the preceding year, too, and Don Teodoro tried to remember in what year it had last rained on that date.  They ate little puffed bits of pastry with their chocolate, and they sat a long time over it, while Don Matteo told Don Teodoro of an interesting document of the fourteenth century which he had discovered in a private library.  Don Teodoro spoke rarely, but not at random, for the thinking habit of the scholarly mind does not easily break down, even under a great strain.

Then they went back to Don Matteo’s house, and sat down together in the study.  Don Matteo wondered why his friend did not unpack and arrange his belongings, especially as he had brought more luggage than usual with him, but he saw that he was tired, and said nothing.  Don Teodoro took off his spectacles, and rubbed them bright with the corner of his mantle.  He looked at them and took a long time over polishing them, for he was thinking of all the things he had seen through the old silver-rimmed glasses, some of which he should never see again.

“My friend,” he said at last, “I wish to tell you a secret.”

Don Matteo turned slowly in his seat, uncrossed his knees, and looked at him.

“You may trust me,” he answered.

“I know that,” said Don Teodoro.  “But there are reasons, as you will see, why you cannot receive this as an ordinary secret.  I wish to tell it to you as a confession.  You will then have to consult the archbishop, before giving me absolution—­and advice.”

“Is it as serious as that?” asked Don Matteo, very much surprised, for only the very gravest matters, and generally the most terrible crimes, are referred to the bishop by a confessor.

“It is a grave matter,” answered Don Teodoro.  “Have the kindness to get your stole, and I will make my confession, here.  But we will lock the enter door of the outer room, if you please.”