Leaving the church, Ambrosio bent his steps towards a grotto in the abbey garden, formed in imitation of a hermitage.  On reaching the grotto, he found it already occupied.  Extended upon one of the seats, lay a man in a melancholy posture, lost in meditation.  Ambrosio recognised him; it was Rosario, his favourite novice, a youth of whose origin none knew anything, save that his bearing, and such of his features as accident had discovered—­for he seemed fearful of being recognised, and was continually muffled up in his cowl—­proved him to be of noble birth.

“You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy, Rosario,” said Ambrosio tenderly.

The youth flung himself at Ambrosio’s feet.

“Oh, pity me!” he cried.  “How willingly would I unveil to you my heart! 
But I fear------”

“How shall I reassure you?  Reveal to me what afflicts you, and I swear that your secret shall be safe in my keeping.”

“Father,” said Rosario, in faltering accents, “I am a woman!”

The abbot stood still for a moment in astonishment, then turned hastily to go.  But the suppliant clasped his knees.

“Do not fly me!” she cried.  “You are my beloved; but far is it from Matilda’s wish to draw you from the paths of virtue.  All I ask is to see you, to converse with you, to adore you!”

Confusion and resentment mingled in Ambrosio’s mind with secret pleasure that a young and lovely woman had thus for his sake abandoned the world.  But he recognised the need for austerity.

“Matilda,” he said, “you must leave the abbey to-morrow.”

“Cruel, cruel!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony.  “Farewell, my friend!  And yet, methinks, I would fain bear with me some token of your regard.”

“What shall I give you?”

“Anything—­one of those flowers will be sufficient.”

Ambrosio approached a bush, and stooped to pick one of the flowers.  He uttered a piercing cry, and Matilda rushed towards him.

“A serpent,” he said in a faint voice, “concealed among the roses.”

With loud shrieks the distressed Matilda summoned assistance.  Ambrosio was carried to the abbey, his wound was examined, and the surgeon pronounced that there was no hope.  He had been stung by a centipedoro, and would not live three days.

Mournfully the monks left the bedside, and Ambrosio was entrusted to the care of the despairing Matilda.  Next morning the surgeon was astonished to find that the inflammation had subsided, and when he probed the wound no traces of the venom were perceptible.

“A miracle!  A miracle!” cried the monks.  Joyfully they proclaimed that St. Francis had saved the life of their sainted abbot.

But Ambrosio was still weak and languid, and again the monks left him in Matilda’s care.  As he listened to an old ballad sung by her sweet voice, he found renewed pleasure in her society, and was conscious of the influence upon him of her beauty.  For three days she nursed him, while he watched her with increasing fondness.  But on the next day she came not.  A lay-brother entered instead.