After supper they went to see a marvel of concealed treasure stored away in one of the upper cells,—­priestly robes and altar-cloths shimmering in gold and silver:  some of these robes were more beautiful than any they had seen in the treasuries of Rome.  Pure gold they were, wrought in emblems of divinity.  “These are presents to the monastery from our family,” said Fra Lorenzo.  “These simpler ones, embroidered with the silk flowers, are Fra Giorgio’s work.  He is now away from the convent, and I am sorry he cannot hear you admire his robes.”  It was midnight before the glittering heap was folded away, and the night which followed was one of sound repose.

Next morning the signora was leaning over the brink of the ivy-crowned well, trying to reach a spray twined thick with moss that grew in a crevice of the stones just beyond her reach.  “Signora,” a low voice said, “you ought not to lean so far:  you might fall in, and the water is very deep.  What is it you want?  Let me get it for you.”  And Fra Lorenzo, following her direction, drew up the spray sparkling with moisture.

“It is beautiful enough for a crown for a god,” said she, twining it together at the ends.  “Will you let me turn you into Apollo for a moment?” And, without thinking, she let it fall lightly on his head.  “No Apollo was ever so beautiful,” she involuntarily exclaimed.  “If only you had a lyre!”

The action, not the admiration, was reprehensible.  She was a woman of the world, and should have thought; and this she realized as her eyes fell upon his face, where a revelation was unfolding itself.  There was something in this life which he had never thought about, never dreamed of; and the light which shone out of his dark eyes was deeper than that of wonder.  She would have given the world to take back her thoughtlessness, for she felt she had given an angel to eat of the forbidden fruit.

The signora was a good woman, with all her worldly knowledge, but a subtile charm of expression and manner made her a very beautiful woman at times, and this moment, unfortunately for two good persons, was one of these.  She was just reaching for the crown, when the padre came into the cloister and stopped with amazement as his eye fell on the group.  “Fra Lorenzo,” said he, after a moment, “you are sent for to go to Casale Montalcino:  Giuseppe is dying; and you will stay there until the last offices are finished.”

The young monk seemed under a spell which he shook off with difficulty.  “I go, padre,” he said, and started.

As he passed before the padre, the latter reached for the crown and threw it into the well, saying, “This beseemeth little a tonsured head.”  Then he turned to the signora and asked her if she had examined the fresco just behind them.  “It is worth much study,” he went on, “for many reasons.  The subject enabled Sodoma to throw more expression into it than usual.  You see, St. Benedict is resisting the temptation his enemies