“My Lord,” said the monk, in those gentle, conciliating tones which were natural to him, “I would ask a little help of you in regard of a Christian undertaking which I have here in hand.  The dear Lord hath put it into the heart of a pious young maid of this vicinity to erect a shrine to the honor of our Lady and her dear Son in this gorge of Sorrento, hard by.  It is a gloomy place in the night, and hath been said to be haunted by evil spirits; and my fair niece, who is full of all holy thoughts, desired me to draw the plan for this shrine, and, so far as my poor skill may go, I have done so.  See here, my Lord, are the drawings.”

The monk laid them down on the table, his pale cheek flushing with a faint glow of artistic enthusiasm and pride, as he explained to the young man the plan and drawings.

The cavalier listened courteously, but without much apparent interest, till the monk drew from his portfolio a paper and said,—­

“This, my Lord, is my poor and feeble conception of the most sacred form of our Lady, which I am to paint for the centre of the shrine.”

He laid down the paper, and the cavalier, with a sudden exclamation, snatched it up, looking at it eagerly.

“It is she!” he said; “it is her very self!—­the divine Agnes,—­the lily flower,—­the sweet star,—­the only one among women!”

“I see you have recognized the likeness,” said the monk, blushing.  “I know it hath been thought a practice of doubtful edification to represent holy things under the image of aught earthly; but when any mortal seems especially gifted with a heavenly spirit outshining in the face, it may be that our Lady chooses that person to reveal herself in.”

The cavalier was gazing so intently on the picture that he scarcely heard the apology of the monk; he held it up, and seemed to study it with a long admiring gaze.

“You have great skill with your pencil, my father,” he said; “one would not look for such things from under a monk’s hood.”

“I belong to the San Marco in Florence, of which you may have heard,” said Father Antonio, “and am an unworthy disciple of the traditions of the blessed Angelico, whose visions of heavenly things are ever before us; and no less am I a disciple of the renowned Savonarola, of whose fame all Italy hath heard before now.”

“Savonarola?” said the other, with eagerness,—­“he that makes these vile miscreants that call themselves Pope and Cardinals tremble?  All Italy, all Christendom, is groaning and stretching out the hand to him to free them from these abominations.  My father, tell me of Savonarola:  how goes he, and what success hath he?”

“My son, it is now many months since I left Florence; since which time I have been sojourning in by-places, repairing shrines and teaching the poor of the Lord’s flock, who are scattered and neglected by the idle shepherds, who think only to eat the flesh and warm themselves with the fleece of the sheep for whom the Good Shepherd gave his life.  My duties have been humble and quiet; for it is not given to me to wield the sword of rebuke and controversy, like my great master.”