“I must seek this youth,” said the monk, in a musing tone; “perhaps I may find out what inward temptation hath driven him away from the fold.”

“Oh, do, dear uncle! do!” said Agnes, earnestly.  “I am sure that he has been grievously tempted and misled, for he seems to have a noble and gentle nature; and he spoke so feelingly of his mother, who is a saint in heaven; and he seemed so earnestly to long to return to the bosom of the Church.”

“The Church is a tender mother to all her erring children,” said the monk.

“And don’t you think that our dear Holy Father the Pope will forgive him?” said Agnes.  “Surely, he will have all the meekness and gentleness of Christ, who would rejoice in one sheep found more than in all the ninety-and-nine who went not astray.”

The monk could scarcely repress a smile at imagining Alexander the Sixth in this character of a good shepherd, as Agnes’s enthusiastic imagination painted the head of the Church; and then he gave an inward sigh, and said, softly, “Lord, how long?”

“I think,” said Agnes, “that this young man is of noble birth, for his words and his bearing and his tones of voice are not those of common men; even though he speaks so humbly and gently, there is yet something princely that looks out of his eyes, as if he were born to command; and he wears strange jewels, the like of which I never saw, on his hands and at the hilt of his dagger,—­yet he seems to make nothing of them.  But yet, I know not why, he spoke of himself as one utterly desolate and forlorn.  Father Francesco told me that he was captain of a band of robbers who live in the mountains.  One cannot think it is so.”

“Little heart,” said the monk, tenderly, “you can scarcely know what things befall men in these distracted times, when faction wages war with faction, and men pillage and burn and imprison, first on this side, then on that.  Many a son of a noble house may find himself homeless and landless, and, chased by the enemy, may have no refuge but the fastnesses of the mountains.  Thank God, our lovely Italy hath a noble backbone of these same mountains, which afford shelter to her children in their straits.”

“Then you think it possible, dear uncle, that this may not be a bad man, after all?”

“Let us hope so, child.  I will myself seek him out; and if his mind have been chafed by violence or injustice, I will strive to bring him back into the good ways of the Lord.  Take heart, my little one,—­all will yet be well.  Come now, little darling, wipe your bright eyes, and look at these plans I have been making for the shrine we were talking of, in the gorge.  See here, I have drawn a goodly arch with a pinnacle.  Under the arch, you see, shall be the picture of our Lady with the blessed Babe.  The arch shall be cunningly sculptured with vines of ivy and passion-flower; and on one side of it shall stand Saint Agnes with her lamb,—­and on the other, Saint Cecilia, crowned with roses; and on this pinnacle, above all, Saint Michael, all in armor, shall stand leaning,—­one hand on his sword, and holding a shield with the cross upon it.”