“Where did you come from, Manuel?” asked Bonpre suddenly.

“I cannot tell you,” the boy answered, straightly, yet simply.

The Cardinal paused a moment, his keen penetrating eyes dwelling kindly on the noble young face beside him.

“You do not wish to tell me,—­is that so?” he pursued.

“Yes,” said Manuel quietly—­“I do not wish to tell you.  And if, because of this, you regret your kindness to me, my lord Cardinal, I will go away at once and trouble you no more.”

But at these words the Cardinal felt such a sharp consciousness of pain and loss that his nerves ached with positive fear.

“Nay, nay, my child,” he said anxiously—­“I cannot let you go.  It shall be as you please,—­I will not think that you could do yourself or me a wrong by concealing what would be right for you to tell.  It is true that you are alone in the world?”

“Quite, quite alone!” answered Manuel, a faint shadow darkening the serenity of his eyes—­“No one was ever more alone than I!”

Madame Patoux drew nearer and listened.

“And there is no person living who has the right to claim you?”

“None!”

“And is it not strange, Monseigneur,” murmured Madame Patoux at this juncture—­“The little lad does not speak as if he were ignorant!  It is as though he had been well taught and carefully nurtured.”

Manuel’s deep eyes dwelt upon her with a meditative sweetness.

“I have taught myself;” he said simply—­“Not out of books, perhaps, but out of nature.  The trees and rivers, the flowers and birds have talked to me and explained many things;—­I have learned all I know from what God has told me.”

His voice was so gentle and tender that Madame Patoux was infinitely touched by its soft plaintiveness.

“Poor child!” she murmured,—­“He has no doubt been wandering through the country, without a soul to help him.  Alas, that troubles should begin for one so young!  Perhaps he does not even know a prayer!”

“Oh yes!” said Manuel quickly—­“Prayer is like thought,—­God is so good that it is only natural to thank and praise Him.  Is it not so?”

“It should be natural, my boy,” answered the Cardinal slowly and with a slight accent of melancholy,—­“But for many of us in these days I fear it is more natural still to forget than to remember.  Too often we take gifts and ignore the giver.  But come now and breakfast in my room;—­for the present you shall remain with me, and I will see what can best be done for your future welfare.”

And turning to Madame Patoux he added smilingly—­“You, my daughter, with children of your own to care for, will no longer blame me for my interest in this child, who is without protection in a somewhat rough world.  We of the Church dare not ’offend one of these little ones’.”

“Ah, Monseigneur!” murmured Madame,—­“If all in the Church were like you, some poor folks would believe in God more willingly.  But when people are starving and miserable, it is easy to understand that often they will curse the priests and even religion itself, for making such a mock of them as to keep on telling them about the joys of heaven, when they are tormented to the very day of their death on earth, and are left without hope or rescue of any kind—­”