“What is the cause of this hatred?”

“Some foul wrong which a noble did her mother,” said the monk; “for Agnes is of gentle blood on her father’s side.”

“I might have known it,” said the cavalier to himself; “her words and ways are unlike anything in her class.—­Father,” he added, touching his sword, “we soldiers are fond of cutting all Gordian knots, whether of love or religion, with this.  The sword, father, is the best theologian, the best casuist.  The sword rights wrongs and punishes evil-doers, and some day the sword may cut the way out of this embarrass also.”

“Gently, my son! gently!” said the monk; “nothing is lost by patience.  See how long it takes the good Lord to make a fair flower out of a little seed; and He does all quietly, without bluster.  Wait on Him a little in peacefulness and prayer, and see what He will do for thee.”

“Perhaps you are right, my father,” said the cavalier, cordially.  “Your counsels have done me good, and I shall seek them further.  But do not let them terrify my poor Agnes with dreadful stories of the excommunication that hath befallen me.  The dear saint is breaking her good little heart for my sins, and her confessor evidently hath forbidden her to speak to me or look at me.  If her heart were left to itself, it would fly to me like a little tame bird, and I would cherish it forever; but now she sees sin in every innocent, womanly thought,—­poor little dear child-angel that she is!”

“Her confessor is a Franciscan,” said the monk, who, good as he was, could not escape entirely from the ruling prejudice of his order,—­“and, from what I know of him, I should think might be unskilful in what pertaineth to the nursing of so delicate a lamb.  It is not every one to whom is given the gift of rightly directing souls.”

“I’d like to carry her off from him!” said the cavalier, between his teeth.  “I will, too, if he is not careful!” Then he added aloud, “Father, Agnes is mine,—­mine by the right of the truest worship and devotion that man could ever pay to woman,—­mine because she loves me.  For I know she loves me; I know it far better than she knows it herself, the dear innocent child! and I will not have her torn from me to waste her life in a lonely, barren convent, or to be the wife of a stolid peasant.  I am a man of my word, and I will vindicate my right to her in the face of God and man.”

“Well, well, my son, as I said before, patience,—­one thing at a time.  Let us say our prayers and sleep to-night, to begin with, and to-morrow will bring us fresh counsel.”

“Well, my father, you will be for me in this matter?” said the young man.

“My son, I wish you all happiness; and if this be for your best good and that of my dear niece, I wish it.  But, as I said, there must be time and patience.  The way must be made clear.  I will see how the case stands; and you may be sure, when I can in good conscience, I will befriend you.”