Paolina entered hesitatingly, and starting at the echoes of her footsteps on the flagstones, wet and green, and slimy from the water, which often in every year lies many inches deep on the floor of the church.  She advanced towards a small marble altar which stands quite isolated in the middle of the huge nave.  And as she neared it she perceived, with a violent start, that there was a living figure kneeling at it.  So still, so utterly motionless had this solitary worshipper been, so little visible in the dim light was the hue of the Franciscan’s frock that entirely covered him, that Paolina had not imagined that there had been any living creature in the church.  She saw, however, in the same instant that she became aware of his presence, that the figure was that of a Capucin friar, and doubted not that he must be the guardian of the church, whom she had been told she would find there.

The little low altar, of an antiquity coeval with that of the church, which stands in the centre of the nave, is the sole exception to the entire and utter emptiness of the place.  There are, indeed, ranged along the walls of the side aisles, several ancient marble coffins, curiously carved, and with semi-circular covers, which contain the bodies of the earliest Bishops of the See.  But the little altar is the sole object that breaks the continuity of the open floor.  The body of St. Apollinare was originally laid beneath it, but was in a subsequent age removed to a more specially honourable position under the high altar at the eastern end of the church.  There is still, however, the slab deeply carved with letters of ancient form, which tells how St. Romauld, the founder of the order of Camaldoli, praying by night at that altar, saw in a vision St. Apollinare, who bade him leave the world, and become the founder of an order of hermits.

It was on the same stones that the knees of St. Romauld had pressed, that the Capucin was kneeling, as Paolina walked up the nave of the church.  The peaked hood of his brown frock was drawn over his head, for the air of the church was deadly cold, and the fever and ague of many a successive autumn had done their work upon him.  He was called Padre Fabiano, and was said to be, and looked to be, upwards of eighty years old.  Probably, however, his age was much short of that.  For the nature of his dwelling-place was such as to stand in the place of time, in its power to do worse than time’s work on the human frame.

Of course, it can be no matter of question, why a monk is here or is there, does this or does that.  Obedience to the will of his superiors is the only reason for all that, in the case of other human beings, depends on their own volition.  The monk has no volition.