In common with many other professing Christians, Elsie felt that going to Paradise was the very dismallest of alternatives,—­a thing to be staved off as long as possible.

After many days of journeying, the travellers, somewhat weary and foot-sore, found themselves in a sombre and lonely dell of the mountains, about an hour before the going down of the sun.  The slanting yellow beams turned to silvery brightness the ashy foliage of the gnarled old olives, which gaunt and weird clung with their great, knotty, straggling roots to the rocky mountain-sides.  Before them, the path, stony, steep, and winding, was rising upward and still upward, and no shelter for the night appeared, except in a distant mountaintown, which, perched airily as an eagle’s nest on its hazy height, reflected from the dome of its church and its half-ruined old feudal tower, the golden light of sunset.  A drowsy-toned bell was ringing out the Ave Maria over the wide purple solitude of mountains, whose varying outlines were rising around.

“You are tired, my little heart,” said old Elsie to Agnes, who had drooped during a longer walk than usual.

“No, grandmamma,” said Agnes, sinking on her knees to repeat her evening prayer, which she did, covering her face with her hands.

Old Elsie kneeled too; but, as she was praying,—­being a thrifty old body in the use of her time,—­she cast an eye up the steep mountain-path and calculated the distance of the little airy village.  Just at that moment she saw two or three horsemen, who appeared to be stealthily observing them from behind the shadow of some large rocks.

When their devotions were finished, she hurried on her grandchild, saying,—­

“Come, dearie! it must be we shall find a shelter soon.”

The horsemen now rode up behind them.

“Good evening, mother!” said one of them, speaking from under the shadow of a deeply slouched hat.

Elsie made no reply, but hurried forward.

“Good evening, pretty maid!” he said again, riding still nearer.

“Go your ways in the name of God,” said Elsie.  “We are pilgrims, going for our souls to Rome; and whoever hinders us will have the saints to deal with.”

“Who talks of hindering you, mother?” responded the other.  “On the contrary, we come for the express purpose of helping you along.”

“We want none of your help,” said Elsie, gruffly.

“See, now, how foolish you are!” said the horseman.  “Don’t you see that that town is a good seven miles off, and not a bit of bed or supper to be had till you get there, and the sun will be down soon?  So mount up behind me, and here is a horse for the little one.”

In fact, the horsemen at this moment opening disclosed to view a palfrey with a lady’s saddle, richly caparisoned, as if for a person of condition.  With a sudden movement, two of the men dismounted, confronted the travellers, and the one who had acted as spokesman, approaching Agnes, said, in a tone somewhat imperative,—­