Spite of himself, Fra Pacifico had become interested in the narrative.  The cunning lawyer intended that Fra Pacifico should become so interested.  What was the strong-fisted, simple-hearted priest beside such a sophist as Maestro Guglielmi!

“The royal personage in question,” continued Guglielmi, who read in Fra Pacifico’s frank countenance that he had conquered his repugnance, “has done me the high honor of communicating to me his august sentiments.  I have pledged myself to do all I can to prevent the catastrophe of law.  My official capacity, however, ends with Count Nobili’s presence here at the appointed hour.”

At the word “hour” Guglielmi hastily pulled out his watch.

“Only a few minutes more,” he muttered.  “But this is not all.  Listen, my father.”

He gave a hasty glance round, then put his lips close to the priest’s ear.

“If I succeed—­may I say we?” he added, insinuatingly—­“if we succeed, a canonry will be offered to you, Fra Pacifico; and I” (Guglielmi’s speaking eyes became brilliantly emphatic now)—­“I shall be appointed judge of the tribunal at Lucca.”

“Pshaw!” cried Fra Pacifico, retreating from him with an expression of blank disappointment.  “I a canon at Lucca!  If that is to be the consequence of success, you must depend on yourself, Signore Guglielmi.  I decline to help you.  I would not be a canon at Lucca if the King of Italy asked me in person.”

Guglielmi, whose tactics were, if he failed, never to show it, smiled his falsest smile.

“Noble disinterestedness!” he exclaimed, drawing his delicate hand across his brow.  “Nothing could have raised your reverence higher in my esteem than this refusal!”

To conceal his real annoyance, Maestro Guglielmi turned away and coughed.  It was a diplomatic cough, ready on all emergencies.  Again he consulted his watch.

“Five minutes more, then we must assemble at the altar.  A fine will be levied upon Count Nobili, if he is not punctual.”

“If it is so near the time, I must beg you to excuse me,” said Fra Pacifico, glad to escape.

Fra Pacifico, walked rapidly toward the door opening into the corridor leading to the chapel.  His retreating figure was followed by a succession of fireworks from Guglielmi’s eyes, indicative of indignation and contempt.

“He who sleeps catches no fish,” the lawyer muttered to himself, biting his lips.  “But the priest will help me—­spite of himself, he will help me.  A health to Holy Mother Church!  She would not do much if all her ministers were like this country clod.  He is without ambition.  He has quite fatigued me.”

Saying this, Maestro Guglielmi poured out another glass of wine.  He critically examined the wine in the light before putting it to his lips; then he swallowed it with an expression of approbation.

CHAPTER VII.