ewildered by visions of chapels, of grottos, of crosses at the foot of
dark stairs; losing themselves in their flight down towards the lower
caverns, keeping on a level with their own pointed vaults; of marbles
the colour of blood, the colour of the night, the colour of snow; of
stiff, pious groups with Byzantine features, crowding the walls, the
drums of the arches; of little monks and little friars, standing in the
window niches, on the pinnacles of the vaults, along the line of the
entablatures, each with his venerable aureole. The visitors did not know
what path they were following, and Jeanne hardly felt the reality of it
all.

While descending the Scala Santa--the Holy Staircase--the monk leading
and Jeanne following closely, while Noemi came last, some five or six
steps behind, Jeanne, suddenly throwing out her hands, clutched
the guide's shoulder, and then, ashamed of her involuntary action,
immediately withdrew them, while the monk, who was greatly astonished,
stopped, and turned his head towards her.

"Pardon me!" she said. "Who is that father?"

Between two landings of the Scala, behind a projection of the left wall,
a figure, all black in the habit of the Benedictines, stood, erect and
still, in the dark corner, its forehead resting against the marble,
Jeanne had passed it by four or five steps without having perceived
it, then she had chanced to look round, and had seen it, while an
instinctive suspicion flashed through her trembling heart.

The monk answered:

"He is not a father, signora."

He bent down to unlock the low gate of a chapel.

"What is the matter?" Noemi inquired, drawing near. "He is not a
father?" Jeanne repeated.

Noemi trembled at the strange ring in her friend's voice. She herself
had not noticed the figure standing erect in the shadow of the wall.

"Who?" she asked.

The monk, who, in the meantime, had opened the gate, misunderstood her,
and thought she referred to something that had been said before.

"No," he answered. "The authentic portrait of St. Francis is not here.
Lower down there is a St. Francis painted by the Cavalier Manente. You
will see it presently. Please come in."

"What is it?" Noemi said softly to Jeanne. Her friend having answered
in a calmer voice, "Nothing," she passed her, entering the chapel, and
listened to the monk's explanations. Then the black figure moved away
from the wall. Jeanne saw it slowly mounting in the dim light, under the
pointed arc