“You shall give what you will, my son,” the monk said, “and I will say the masses myself.”

Ercole got out his sheepskin purse, untied the strings, and looked into it, weighing it in his hand.  Then he seemed to hesitate.  The monk looked on quietly.

“It is of your own free will,” he said.  “What you choose to give is for the community, and for this church, and for the chapel of Saint Helen.  It is better that you know.”

Ercole drew the mouth of the purse together again and returned it to the inside of his waistcoat, from which he produced a large old leathern pocket-book.

“I will give five francs,” he said, “for I know that if you say the masses yourself, they will be all good ones.”

A very faint and gentle smile flitted over the aged face.  Ercole held out the small note, and the monk took it.

“Thank you,” he said.  “Shall I say the masses for a man or a woman?”

“As it pleases you, father,” Ercole answered.

“Eh?” The old monk looked surprised.

“It does not matter,” Ercole explained.  “Is not a mass for a man good for a woman also?”

“We say ‘his’ soul or ‘her’ soul, as the case may be, my son.”

“Is that written in the book of the mass?” inquired Ercole distrustfully.

“Yes.  Also, most people tell us the baptismal name of the dead person.”

“Must I do that too?” Ercole asked, by no means pleased.

“Not unless you like,” the monk answered, looking at him with some curiosity.

“But it is in the book of the mass that you must say ‘his’ or ‘her’ soul?”

“Yes.”

“Then the masses will not be good unless you say the right word.”  Ercole paused a moment in deep thought, and looked down at his hat.  “It will be better to say the masses for a female,” he said at length, without meeting the monk’s eyes.

“Very well,” the latter answered.  “I will say the first mass to-morrow.”

“Thank you,” said Ercole.  “My respects!”

He made a sort of bow and hurried away, followed by Nino.  The old monk watched him thoughtfully, and shook his head once or twice, for he guessed something of the truth, though by no means all.

CHAPTER XVI

“One might almost think that you wished to marry Aurora yourself,” said Corbario, with a sneer.

He was standing with his back to the fire in the great library of the villa, for it was late autumn again; it was raining hard and the air was raw and chilly.

“You may think what you please,” Marcello answered, leaning back in his deep leathern chair and taking up a book.  “I am not going to argue with you.”

“Insufferable puppy,” growled Folco, almost under his teeth; but Marcello heard.

He rose instantly and faced the elder man without the slightest fear or hesitation.

“If this were not my house, and you my guest, I would have you put out of doors by the servants,” he said, in a tone Corbario had never heard before.  “As it is, I only advise you to go before I lose my temper altogether.”