“I do not remember when I wore any other dress.  I was not four years old when I was seized with a violent sickness, and soon at the point of death.  My mother vowed that if St. Francis would hear her prayer, and spare me, her only son, she would devote me to his service.  From that moment, as my mother has often told me, I began to mend.  As soon as a dress of the order could be made for me, I put it on.  From that day I grew and strengthened rapidly, and have not had a day’s sickness since.  When old enough I was sent to school, and then served my noviciate in the Franciscan convent in Villa Vicosa.  I am now on leave to visit my mother and sisters, who live near Ameixial.”

“If you had chosen for yourself,” L’Isle suggested, “perhaps you would not have been a friar.”

“Perhaps not,” said the young friar, hesitating.  “Indeed, I have been lately told, though I am loath to admit it, that, urgent as the necessity was that gave rise to our order, and great as its services have been, especially in former days, our holy mother, the Church, can be better served now, by servants who assume a more polished exterior, and obeying St. Paul’s injunction to be all things to all men, mingle on a footing of equality with men of this world, although they are not of it.”

“Who told you this?” asked L’Isle.

“A learned and traveled priest, whom I lately met with.  He delighted me with his knowledge, while he startled me by the boldness of some of his opinions.”

“But, perhaps,” L’Isle persisted, “if left to your own unbiassed choice, you would not have taken orders at all.”

The young man paused, evidently unable to shut out the thought, “Are there callings, which, without doing violence to my nature, are compatible with the service of God?” At length he answered, with a reserve not usual to him, “It is not every man whose way of life is, or can be, chosen by himself.”  Then, crossing himself earnestly, as if stifling the thought, and trampling down the tempting devil within him, he exclaimed, “I must believe that my instant recovery from deadly sickness as soon as I was devoted to St. Francis, proves that he has chosen me for his service and God’s.”

He said this eagerly and with an air of sincerity, and again made the sign of the cross.  Yet the doubting devil seemed to linger about him, and he sunk into silence, seeming little satisfied with himself.  Meanwhile, during his conference with L’Isle and Lady Mabel, old Moodie stood near, eyeing him with sinister looks, as if he had been the inventor, not the victim, of the popish system, and all its corruptions rested on his head.  The old man now urged them to take horse, and allowed them no respite from his bustling interference until the party was again on the road.

The friar watched their motions with interest; and when, after crossing the valley and ascending the hill before them, Lady Mabel turned to take a last look at the ruinous old venda, she saw him still standing like a statue in the archway, doubtless with eye and thought following their steps.