A man was sitting under the chimney-cap with his hands stretched out over the coals.  He turned toward the priest and said, most unconcernedly: 

“Don Rocco, your humble servant.”

By the light of the smoky petroleum lamp which stood on the table, Don Rocco recognized the Moro.  He was conscious of a feeling of weakness in his heart and in his legs.  He did not move nor answer.

“Make yourself at home, Don Rocco,” continued the Moro imperturbably, as if he were doing the honors of his own house.  “You had better take a seat here also, for it is cold to-night and damp.”

“Yes, it is cold,” answered Don Rocco, infusing a forced benevolence into his tones; “it is damp.”

And he put his lantern down on the table.

“Come here,” said his companion.  “Wait till I make you comfortable.”  He got a chair and placed it on the hearthstone near his own.

“There now,” said he.

Meanwhile Don Rocco was getting his breath again, and carrying on, with a terrible knitting of his brows, most weighty reflections.

“Thanks,” he answered, “I will go to put away my cloak and come back at once.”

“Lay your cloak down here,” replied the Moro, not without some haste and a new tone of imperiousness not at all pleasing to Don Rocco.

He silently placed his cloak and hat on the table and sat down under the chimney-cap beside his host.

“You will excuse me if I have made a little fire,” he continued.  “I have been here at least a half-hour.  I thought you were at home studying.  Isn’t to-day Saturday?  And are you not obliged to say to-morrow morning the few customary absurdities to the peasants?”

“You mean the exposition of the Gospel,” answered Don Rocco with warmth, for on that ground he knew no fear.

“A hint is all you need!” said the Moro.  “Excuse me, I am a peasant myself, and talk crudely, maybe, but respectfully.  Will you give me a pinch of snuff?”

Don Rocco held out the snuff-box to him.

“Is this da trozi?” said he with a wink.  This word, as well as the expression “by-paths tobacco,” was used in speaking of the tobacco which was smuggled into the State.

“No,” answered Don Rocco, rising.  “Perhaps I have a little of that upstairs.”

“Never mind, never mind,” the Moro hastened to say.  “Give here.”  And sticking three fingers into the snuff-box he took up about a pound of snuff and breathed it in little by little, as he gazed at the fire.  The dying flame illumined his black beard, his earthy complexion, and his brilliant, intelligent eyes.

“Now that you are warmed,” Don Rocco made bold to say after a moment’s silence, “you may go home.”

“Hum!” said the man, shrugging his shoulders.  “I have a little business to transact before I leave.”

Don Rocco squirmed in his chair, winking hard, and frowning heavily.

“I suggested it because it is so late,” he mumbled, half churlishly, half timidly.  “I also have something to do.”