Father Francis walked by me, bowing slightly, and shook hands with my old neighbor.  They stood talking in an undertone.

A last struggling ray of light from the dying sun came in over the chancel and flooded the great room for an instant.  It allowed me to get a good look at the face of the priest.  As I stood there staring at him I heard him say to the old man as he bade him good-by, “Yes, tell her I’ll be there in the morning.”

Then he turned to me, and I was still staring.  And as I stared I was repeating to myself the words the people said when Dante used to pass, “There is the man who has been to Hell!”

“You are an Englishman?” said Father Francis to me pleasantly as he held out his hand.  “Yes,” I said; “I am an Englishman—­that is, no—­an American!”

I was wondering if he had really heard me make that Dante remark; and anyway, I had been rudely staring at him and listening with both ears to his conversation with the old man.  I tried to roll my hat, and had I a cudgel I would surely have dropped it; and with it all I wondered if the dog of Flanders waiting outside was not getting impatient for me!

“Oh, an American!  I’m glad—­I have very dear friends in America!”

Then I saw that Father Francis did not look so much like the exiled Florentine as I had thought, for his smile was winning as that of a woman, the corners of his mouth did not turn down, and the nose had not the Roman curve.  Dante was an exile:  this man was at home—­and would have been, anywhere.

He was tall, slender and straight; he must have been sixty years old, but the face in spite of its furrows was singularly handsome.  Grave, yet not depressed, it showed such feminine delicacy of feeling, such grace, such high intellect, that I stood and gazed as I might at a statue in bronze.  But plain to see, he was a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief.  The face spake of one to whom might have come a great tribulation, and who by accepting it had purchased redemption for all time from all the petty troubles of earth.

“You must stay here as long as you wish, and you will come to our old church again, I hope!” said the Father.  He smiled, nodded his head and started to leave me alone.

“Yes, yes, I’ll come again—­I’ll come in the morning, for I want to talk with you about Madame Guyon—­she was married in this church they told me—­is that true?” I clutched a little.  Here was a man I could not afford to lose—­one of the elect!

“Oh, yes; that was a long time ago, though.  Are you interested in Madame Guyon?  I am glad—­not to know Fenelon seems a misfortune.  He used to preach from that very pulpit, and Madame was baptized at that font and confirmed here.  I have pictures of them both; and I have their books—­one of the books is a first edition.  Do you care for such things?”

When I was broke in London, in the Fall of Eighty-nine!  Do I care for such things?  I can not recall what I said, but I remembered that this brown-skinned priest with his liquid, black eyes, and the look of sorrow on his handsome face, stood out before me like the picture of a saint.