“That must be the Padre Abbate,” one of them exclaimed.  “I hope he has received our padre’s letter telling of our coming, for it would be worse than an attack of the bandits of old, our falling upon him at this hour on a Saturday evening without any warning.”

They had alighted in front of the church when the padre arrived quite out of breath,—­a tall, stately old man, with white hair flowing over the turned-back cowl of his spotless white robe.  If they had known nothing of him before, his courtly manner and easy reception would have revealed his noble lineage.

“Be welcome, be welcome, my daughters, to the lonely Thebaid.  I have received the padre’s letter, and am happy to receive his friends as my honored guests for a month, if you can support the solitude so long,” he added, smiling.  “And, now, which is the signora, and which the Signorina Giulia and the Signorina Margherita?”

“I am the signora,” said one of the three, laughing, the last one would have suspected of being a matron.  She had lost her husband at twenty, and her four years of European travel had been a seeking after forgetfulness, until she had grown to be satisfied with the companionship of two gentle women artists, who, absorbed in their vocation, walked in God’s ways and were blessed with peace and happiness.

After each had found her place and name in the padre’s pure, soft Tuscan accent, he led the way to the convent door, apologizing for the meagre hospitality he could offer them.  “Would the signore like some bread and wine before supper?” What could they know of the hours in an abbey, where it was an almost unheard-of distinction to be received as personal guests, tourists in general having their own refectory set apart for them during their stay? and so they declined.  They had by this time reached a low, arched side-door, which grated on its hinges after the padre had turned the huge key in the rusty lock and opened it.  They entered a wide stone vestibule, and found themselves opposite another arched door set in arabesque stone carvings:  the flags echoed under their feet as they turned to the right and traversed a low, vaulted passage that ended in an open cloister.  An arched gallery ran round the four sides, held up by slender, dark stone pillars, above which was a row of small arched cell windows.  The court was paved with flags, and in the centre was a well, divested of pulley and rope.  An impression of melancholy began to weigh upon the guests, when a great shaggy dog came springing toward them, barking.  The padre quieted him with, “Down, Piro! down!” adding, “He is very good, though his manner is a little rough:  he is not used to ladies.  But he will not be so impolite again, I am sure.”

“Oh, I hope he will,” said Julia:  “it is delightful to see him bound about here, where it is so strange and quiet.”