o has been so near to death in the body, is, indeed,
dead to the world already. Here you see but a poor hermit named
Sebastian, who is the guardian of this shrine."

Gervasio rose suddenly. "This shrine..." he began in a fierce voice,
his face inflamed as with sudden wrath. And there he stopped short. The
priest was staring at him, and through the open door came Leocadia with
a bowl of steaming broth. "We'll talk of this again," he said, and there
was a sort of thunder rumbling in the promise.

CHAPTER IX. THE ICONOCLAST

It was a week later before we returned to the subject.

Meanwhile, the good priest of Casi and Leocadia had departed, bearing
with them a princely reward from the silent, kindly eyed Galeotto.

To tend me there remained only the boy Beppo; and after my long six
months of lenten fare there followed now a period of feasting that began
to trouble me as my strength returned. When, finally, on the seventh
day, I was able to stand, and, by leaning on Gervasio's arm, to reach
the door of the hut and to look out upon the sweet spring landscape and
the green tents that Galeotto's followers had pitched for themselves in
the dell below my platform, I vowed that I would make an end of broths
and capons' breasts and trout and white bread and red wine and all such
succulences.

But when I spoke so to Gervasio, he grew very grave.

"There has been enough of this, Agostino," said he. "You have gone
near your death; and had you died, you had died a suicide and had been
damned--deserving it for your folly if for naught else."

I looked at him with surprise and reproach. "How, Fra Gervasio?" I said.

"How?" he answered. "Do you conceive that I am to be fooled by tales of
fights with Satan in the night and the marks of the fiend's claws
upon your body? Is this your sense of piety, to add to the other foul
impostures of this place by allowing such a story to run the breadth of
the country-side?"

"Foul impostures?" I echoed, aghast. "Fra Gervasio, your words are
sacrilege."

"Sacrilege?" he cried, and laughed bitterly. "Sacrilege? And what of
that?" And he flung out a stern, rigid, accusing arm at the image of St.
Sebastian in its niche.

"You think because it did not bleed..." I began.

"It did not bleed," he cut in, "because you are not a knave. That is the
only reason. This man who was here before you was an impious rogue.
He was no priest. He was a follower of Simon Mage, trafficking in holy
thi