Father Johannes stood under one of the arches that looked into the gloomy garden, and, with his hands crossed upon his breast, and his cold, glittering eye fixed stealthily now on one and now on another, listened with an ill-disguised sneer to these hasty evidences of fear and remorse in the monks, as they thronged the corridor on the way to their cells.  Suddenly turning to a young brother who had lately joined the convent, he said to him,—­

“And what of the pretty Clarice, my brother?”

The blood flushed deep into the pale cheek of the young monk, and his frame shook with some interior emotion, as he answered,—­

“She is recovering.”

“And she sent for thee to shrive her?”

“My God!” said the young man, with an imploring, wild expression in his dark eyes, “she did; but I would not go.”

“Then Nature is still strong,” said Father Johannes, pitilessly eying the young man.

“When will it ever die?” said the stripling, with a despairing gesture; “it heeds neither heaven nor hell.”

“Well, patience, boy! if you have lost an earthly bride, you have gained a heavenly one.  The Church is our espoused in white linen.  Bless the Lord, without ceasing, for the exchange.”

There was an inexpressible mocking irony in the tones in which this was said, that made itself felt to the finely vitalized spirit of the youth, though to all the rest it sounded like the accredited average pious talk which is more or less the current coin of religious organizations.

Now no one knows through what wanton deviltry Father Johannes broached this painful topic with the poor youth; but he had a peculiar faculty, with his smooth tones and his sanctimonious smiles, of thrusting red-hot needles into any wounds which he either knew or suspected under the coarse woollen robes of his brethren.  He appeared to do it in all coolness, in a way of psychological investigation.

He smiled, as the youth turned away, and a moment after started as if a thought had suddenly struck him.

“I have it!” he said to himself.  “There may be a woman at the bottom of this discomposure of our holy father; for he is wrought upon by something to the very bottom of his soul.  I have not studied human nature so many years for nothing.  Father Francesco hath been much in the guidance of women.  His preaching hath wrought upon them, and perchance among them.—­Aha!” he said to himself, as he paced up and down, “I have it!  I’ll try an experiment upon him!”

CHAPTER XV.

THE SERPENT’S EXPERIMENT.

Father Francesco sat leaning his head on his hand by the window of his cell, looking out upon the sea as it rose and fell, with the reflections of the fast coming stars glittering like so many jewels on its breast.  The glow of evening had almost faded, but there was a wan, tremulous light from the moon, and a clearness, produced by the reflection of such an expanse of water, which still rendered objects in his cell quite discernible.