Such masses of keys as were everywhere in this room made it a perfect curiosity,—­keys for every one of the cells on this floor and above, for the refectories, church, offices, etc., below, for rooms enough to accommodate the emperor Charles V. and his suite of two thousand men for a night, festooned in bunches around the walls,—­so that in the dusk the room seemed lined with curious bas-reliefs in steel.  Piles of books were heaped on the table with surgical instruments, medicine-bottles, and bags of dried seeds.

After this inspection in the twilight, they went back to the padre vicar’s salon to rest, when their host took leave of them to give orders to Beppo about the rooms and to send a light.  Then they sank into what seats they could find, and tried to collect themselves.

Presently a low knock was heard, the door was pushed open, and a tall, dark youth in sandals and white apron came in, with “Buona sera, signore,” and left a lucerna—­the graceful brass Tuscan lamp, with three branches for oil and wick—­on the table.  A large room with two windows now became visible, with a sofa, chairs, a table, and white-tiled stove, and many engravings on the white walls.

At nine o’clock the prospect of supper was almost too faint to be entertained, and the signora was just opening her mouth to say, “Of course the padre has forgotten all about us,” when they heard in the distance a faint footstep approaching, and the padre appeared with a taper in one hand and a magnificent red silk coverlet in the other.  “For the signora’s bed,” he explained, and went to leave it in the bedroom.  Then he came and sat down, apologizing for having left them so long, and commenced what would have been for his listeners a most interesting conversation if it had been after supper.  He told how he had been there thirty years,—­first as student, then as frate, and finally as abbot.  Since 1866 he had been alone with two monks.  To-morrow he would show them the cell just above their heads, which he had occupied seventeen years in silence, except when he had permission to speak.  Suddenly, looking at his watch, he said, “It is half-past nine o’clock, and no doubt you are now hungry.”  And, no one gainsaying the supposition, he relighted his taper and led the way to the refectory.  The shadows all about were black and mysterious enough, but they were too tired to be troubled about them, and were already half-way down a staircase, when the signora looked back, and, if she had not seized the balustrade, would have fallen; for standing at the head of the staircase was a white figure, holding a taper above a cowled head, out of which a pair of dark eyes was looking at her steadfastly.  The padre’s voice, calling out, “Signora, you are left in the dark,” reassured her and gave her courage to turn and run down to join the others, who were disappearing through a low door.  This led into what seemed an immense hall, judging from the echoes.  They