“My good father,” said the young man, grasping his hand, and much affected, “I will come.  Your words have done me good; but I must think more of them.  I will come soon; but these things cannot be done without pondering; it will take some time to bring my heart into charity with all men.”

The monk rose up to depart, and began to gather up his drawings.

“For this matter, father,” said the cavalier, throwing several gold pieces upon the table, “take these, and as many more as you need ask for your good work.  I would willingly pay any sum,” he added, while a faint blush rose to his cheek, “if you would give me a copy of this.  Gold would be nothing in comparison with it.”

“My son,” said the monk, smiling, “would it be to thee an image of an earthly or a heavenly love?”

“Of both, father,” said the young man.  “For that dear face has been more to me than prayer or hymn; it has been even as a sacrament to me, and through it I know not what of holy and heavenly influences have come to me.”

“Said I not well,” said the monk, exulting, “that there were those on whom our Mother shed such grace that their very beauty led heavenward?  Such are they whom the artist looks for, when he would adorn a shrine where the faithful shall worship.  Well, my son, I must use my poor art for you; and as for gold, we of our convent take it not except for the adorning of holy things, such as this shrine.”

“How soon shall it be done?” said the young man, eagerly.

“Patience, patience, my Lord!  Rome was not built in a day, and our art must work by slow touches; but I will do my best.  But wherefore, my Lord, cherish this image?”

“Father, are you of near kin to this maid?”

“I am her mother’s only brother.”

“Then I say to you, as the nearest of her male kin, that I seek this maid in pure and honorable marriage; and she hath given me her promise, that, if ever she be wife of mortal man, she will be mine.”

“But she looks not to be wife of any man,” said the monk; “so, at least, I have heard her say; though her grandmother would fain marry her to a husband of her choosing.  ’Tis a wilful woman, is my sister Elsie, and a worldly,—­not easy to persuade, and impossible to drive.”

“And she hath chosen for this fair angel some base peasant churl who will have no sense of her exceeding loveliness?  By the saints, if it come to this, I will carry her away with the strong arm!”

“That is not to be apprehended just at present.  Sister Elsie is dotingly fond of the girl, which hath slept in her bosom since infancy.”

“And why should I not demand her in marriage of your sister?” said the young man.

“My Lord, you are an excommunicated man, and she would have horror of you.  It is impossible; it would not be to edification to make the common people judges in such matters.  It is safest to let their faith rest undisturbed, and that they be not taught to despise ecclesiastical censures.  This could not be explained to Elsie; she would drive you from her doors with her distaff, and you would scarce wish to put your sword against it.  Besides, my Lord, if you were not excommunicated, you are of noble blood, and this alone would be a fatal objection with my sister, who hath sworn on the holy cross that Agnes shall never love one of your race.”