of Priapus, had spurned the marriage vow, had called one of the reigning house a tyrant, and was an apologist of the Paterini.  He concluded by saying that the Holy Office was deliberating upon my case, and that he could not invite the Jesuits to hope for my conversion, since I openly boasted of being a comedian, and of my preference for that deplorable way of life.  The Holy Office asked that I might be kept apart from any whom my conversation might contaminate, and that my punishment should be exemplary as well as remedial.  To all of which Father Carnesecchi replied, “Altto, altro, caro fratello,” and got rid of his monitor as soon as he could.  I was not conscious that he had given me a single glance of the eye, did not suppose that he knew or cared whether I stood ashamed, sullen, indifferent or indignant under my accuser’s blows.  Anger possessed me altogether, and if I thought of my new gaoler at all it was to suppose him seeing in me a subject, common in his experience, whose degrading punishment of stocks, whip or pillory was to be stuccoed over with a mockery of religion.  Judge, therefore, of my surprise when, having bowed the inquisitor out of the door, Father Carnesecchi returned to the room, and putting his hand upon my shoulder, said in excellent English, and the tone of a loving parent, “And now, my poor boy, let me have the truth.”  The unexpected kindness, the charity, the unexpected, beloved speech unnerved me.  I flushed, stammered some foolish protest, burst into tears.  The good Jesuit let my emotion have its fling.

Kneeling then at his knees, with my hands folded in his, I told him the whole of my story, hiding nothing at all, not even Virginia’s ruse for obtaining sight and speech with Aurelia, supposing her to be in the Sienese convent.  Having laid bare every recess of my recent life, and not spared myself either in the recital, I went on to say that whatever might come of it, I must never abandon my search for the lovely, hapless, innocent Aurelia; for, as I assured him in conclusion, and undoubtedly believed, unless I found Aurelia and received her pardon, I should die; and there was no justice under Heaven if a man, sincerely repentant, were suffered to expire unredeemed.

“My son,” said Father Carnesecchi, who had nodded his way through an harangue which I had (I can assure the reader) treated very summarily indeed, “it was in a good hour that you were led to me; for I am in a position to be of service to you.  I am no stranger to your country, nor indeed to your ancient house.  Many times have I said Mass in that of your mother’s family—­the noble house of Arundell.  I shall be able, therefore, to make a good case for you with your resident at this Court; I can recommend you to a banker, I can extenuate (so far as truth will allow) your follies to your parents, and I can give you absolution when you have done a proper penance.  All these things I will do, but on conditions.  My first is that you write respectfully and penitently to your father; my next that you do the same duty to the outraged Professor Lanfranchi, and my third that you leave your Donna Aurelia to me.  Am I clear?” “Father,” I said, “you are as clear as the light of Heaven.  I agree to all your conditions, but shall beg of you one thing—­and that is, that you do not prevent my seeing her once more.”