While the monk was speaking thus, Agnes fixed on him her eyes with an innocent mixture of surprise and perplexity,—­which gradually deepened into a strong gravity of gaze, as if she were looking through him, through all visible things into some far-off depth of mysterious knowledge.

“My Lord will keep me,” she said; “my soul is safe in His heart as a little bird in its nest; but while I love Him, I cannot help loving everybody whom He loves, even His enemies:  and, father, my heart prays within me for this poor sinner, whether I will or no; something within me continually intercedes for him.”

“Oh, Agnes!  Agnes! blessed child, pray for me also,” said the monk, with a sudden burst of emotion which perfectly confounded his disciple.  He hid his face with his hands.

“My blessed father!” said Agnes, “how could I deem that holiness like yours had any need of my prayers?”

“Child! child! you know nothing of me.  I am a miserable sinner, tempted of devils, in danger of damnation.”

Agnes stood appalled at this sudden burst, so different from the rigid and restrained severity of tone in which the greater part of the conversation had been conducted.  She stood silent and troubled; while he, whom she had always regarded with such awful veneration, seemed shaken by some internal whirlwind of emotion whose nature she could not comprehend.

At length Father Francesco raised his head, and recovered his wonted calm severity of expression.

“My daughter,” he said, “little do the innocent lambs of the flock know of the dangers and conflicts through which the shepherds must pass who keep the Lord’s fold.  We have the labors of angels laid upon us, and we are but men.  Often we stumble, often we faint, and Satan takes advantage of our weakness.  I cannot confer with you now as I would; but, my child, listen to my directions.  Shun this young man; let nothing ever lead you to listen to another word from him; you must not even look at him, should you meet, but turn away your head and repeat a prayer.  I do not forbid you to practise the holy work of intercession for his soul, but it must be on these conditions.

“My father,” said Agnes, “you may rely on my obedience”; and, kneeling, she kissed his hand.

He drew it suddenly away, with a gesture of pain and displeasure.

“Pardon a sinful child this liberty,” said Agnes.

“You know not what you do,” said the father, hastily.  “Go, my daughter,—­go, at once; I will confer with you some other time”; and hastily raising his hand in an attitude of benediction, he turned and went into the confessional.