he had
been dreaming over what the cavalier said to her of living with him
alone, in some clear, high, purple solitude of those beautiful mountains
which she remembered as an enchanted dream of her childhood. Would he
really always love her, then, always go with her to prayers and mass and
sacrament, and be reconciled to the Church, and should she indeed have
the joy of feeling that this noble soul was led back to heavenly peace
through her? Was not this better than a barren life of hymns and prayers
in a cold convent? Then the very voice that said these words, that voice
of veiled strength and manly daring, that spoke with such a gentle
pleading, and yet such an undertone of authority, as if he had a right
to claim her for himself,--she seemed to feel the tones of that voice in
every nerve;--and then the strange thrilling pleasure of thinking
that he loved her so. Why should he, this strange, beautiful knight?
Doubtless he had seen splendid high-born ladies,--he had seen even
queens and princesses,--and what could he find to like in her, a poor
little peasant? Nobody ever thought so much of her before, and he was so
unhappy without her;--it was strange he should be; but he said so, and
it must be true. After all, Father Francesco might be mistaken about his
being wicked. On the whole, she felt sure he was mistaken, at least in
part. Uncle Antonio did not seem to be so much shocked at what she told
him; he knew the temptations of men better, perhaps, because he did not
stay shut up in one convent, but travelled all about, preaching and
teaching. If only he could see him, and talk with him, and make him a
good Christian,--why, then, there would be no further need of her;--and
Agnes was surprised to find what a dreadful, dreary blank appeared
before her when she thought of this. Why should she wish him to remember
her, since she never could be his?--and yet nothing seemed so dreadful
as that he should forget her. So the poor little innocent fly beat and
fluttered in the mazes of that enchanted web, where thousands of her
frail sex have beat and fluttered before her.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MONK AND THE CAVALIER.

Father Antonio had been down through the streets of the old town of
Sorrento, searching for the young stonecutter, and, finding him, had
spent some time in enlightening him as to the details of the work he
wished him to execute.

He found him not so easily kindled into devotional fervors as he had
fondly ima