his
girdle, and showed him that it was in Latin and Italian.

"See, my son," said he, "Heaven hath foreseen our several needs, and
given us the means to satisfy them: let us change books; and, my dear
son, I will give thee my poor prayers and welcome, not sell them thee. I
love not religious bargains."

The islander was delighted. "So shall I learn the Italian tongue without
risk to my eternal weal, Near is my purse, but nearer is my soul."

He forced money on Clement. In vain the friar told him it was contrary
to his vow to carry more of that than was barely necessary.

"Lay it out for the good of the Church and of my soul," said the
islander. "I ask you not to keep it, but take it you must and shall."
And he grasped Clement's hand warmly again; and Clement kissed him on
the brow, and blessed him, and they went each his way.

About a mile from where they parted, Clement found two tired wayfarers
lying in the deep shade of a great chestnut-tree, one of a thick
grove the road skirted. Near the men was a little cart, and in it
a printing-press, rude and clumsy as a vine-press, A jaded mule was
harnessed to the cart.

And so Clement stood face to face with his old enemy.

And as he eyed it, and the honest, blue-eyed faces of the wearied
craftsmen, he looked back as on a dream at the bitterness he had once
felt towards this machine. He looked kindly down on them, and said
softly--

"Sweynheim!"

The men started to their feet.

"Pannartz!"

They scuttled into the wood, and were seen no more.

Clement was amazed, and stood puzzling himself.

Presently a face peeped from behind a tree.

Clement addressed it, "What fear ye?"

A quavering voice replied--

"Say, rather, by what magic you, a stranger, can call us by our names! I
never clapt eyes on you till now."

"O, superstition! I know ye, as all good workmen are known--by your
works. Come hither and I will tell ye."

They advanced gingerly from different sides; each regulating his advance
by the other's.

"My children," said Clement, "I saw a Lactantius in Rome, printed by
Sweynheim and Pannartz, disciples of Fust."

"D'ye hear that, Pannartz? our work has gotten to Rome already."

"By your blue eyes and flaxen hair I wist ye were Germans; and the
printing-press spoke for itself. Who then should ye be but Fust's
disciples, Pannartz and Sweynheim?"

The honest Germans were now astonished that they had suspected magic in
so simple a matter.

"The