He saw little of Dino during his illness; but, as soon as he was able to go into the garden, Dino was permitted to accompany him. It was plain from his manner that no unwillingness on his own part kept him away. The English stranger had evidently a great attraction for him; he waited upon his movements and followed him, silently and affectionately, like a dog whose whole heart has been given to its master. Brian felt the charm of this devotion, but was too weak to speculate concerning its cause. He was conscious of the same kind of attraction towards Dino; he knew not why, but he found it pleasant to have Dino at his side, to lean on his arm as they went down the garden path together, to listen to the young Italian's musical accents as he read aloud at the evening hour. But what was the secret of that indefinable mutual attraction, that almost magnetic power, which one seemed to possess over the other, Brian Luttrell could not tell. Perhaps Dino knew.

This friendship did not pass unobserved. It was quietly, gently, fostered by the Prior, whose keen eyes were everywhere, and seemed to see everything at once. He it was who dispensed Dino from his usual duties that he might attend upon the English guest, who smiled benignly when he met them together in the cloister, who dropped a word or two expressive of his pleasure that Dino should have an opportunity of practising his knowledge of the English tongue. Dino could speak English with tolerable fluency, although with a strong foreign accent.

But the quiet state of affairs did not last very long. As Brian's strength returned he grew restless and uneasy; and at length one day he sent a formal request to the Prior that he might speak to him alone.

Padre Cristoforo replied by coming at once to the guest-chamber, which Brian occupied in the daytime, and by asking in his usual mild and kindly way what he could do for him.

The guest-room was a bare enough place, but the window commanded a fine view of the wide plain on which the monastery looked down. The blinds were open, for the morning was deliciously cool, and the shadows of the leaves that clustered round the lattice played in the glow of sunshine on the floor. Brian was standing as the Prior entered the room; his wasted figure, worn face, and grey hairs made him a striking sight in that abode of peace and solitary quietness. It was as though some unquiet visitant from another world had strayed into an Italian Arcadia.

But, as a matter of fact, Brian was probably less worldly in thought and aspiration at that moment than the serene-browed priest who stood before him and looked him in the face with such benignant friendly, interest.

"You wished to see me, my son?" he began, gently.

"I am ashamed to trouble you," said Brian. "But I felt that I ought to speak to you as soon as possible. I am growing strong enough to continue my journey--and I must not trespass on your hospitality any longer."

"Your strength is not very great as yet," said the Prior, courteously.

"Pray take a seat, Mr. Stretton. We are only too pleased to keep you with us as long as you will do us the honour to remain, and I think it is decidedly against your own interests to travel at present."

Brian stammered out an acknowledgment of the Prior's kindness. He was evidently embarrassed, even painfully so; and Padre Cristoforo found himself watching the young man with some surprise and curiosity. What was it that troubled this young Englishman?

Brian at last uttered the words that he had wished to say.

"If I remained here," he said, colouring vividly with a sensitiveness springing from the reduced physical condition to which he had been brought by his long illness; "if I remained here I should ask you whether I could do any work for you--whether I could teach any of your pupils English or music. I am a poor man; I have no prospects. I would as soon live in Italy as in England--at any rate for a time."

The Prior looked at him steadily; his deeply-veined hand grasped the arm of his wooden chair, a slight flush rose to his forehead. It was in a perfectly calm and unconstrained voice, however, that he made answer.

"It is quite possible that we might find work of the kind you mention, signor--if you require it."

There was a subdued accent of inquiry in the last four words. Brian laughed a little, and put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew out four gold pieces and a few little Swiss and Italian coins.

"You see these, Father?" he said, holding them out in the palm of his hand. "They constitute my fortune, and they are due to the institution that has sheltered me so kindly and nursed me back to life and health. I have vowed these coins to your alms-box; when they are given, I shall make a fresh start in the world--as the architect of my own fortunes."

"You will then be penniless!" said the priest, in rather a curious tone.

"Entirely so."

There was a short silence. Brian's fingers played idly with the coins, but he was not thinking about them; his dreamy eyes revealed that his thoughts were very far away. Padre Cristoforo was biting his forefinger and knitting his brows--two signs of unusual perturbation of mind with him. Presently, however, his brow cleared; he smoothed his gown over his knees two or three times, coughed once or twice, and then addressed himself to Brian with all his accustomed urbanity.

"Our Order is a rich one," he said, with a smile, "and one that can well afford to entertain strangers. I will not tell you to make no gifts, for we know that it is very blessed to give--more blessed than to receive. I think it quite possible that we can give you such work as you desire.

But before I do so, I think I am justified in asking you with what object you take it?"

"With what object? A very simple one--to earn my daily bread."

"And why," said the priest leaning forward and speaking in a lower voice--"why should your father's son need to earn his daily bread in a little Italian village?"

Again Brian's face changed colour.

"My father's son?" he repeated, vaguely. The coins fell to the ground; he sat up and looked at the Prior suspiciously. "What do you know about my father?" he said. "What do you know about me?"

The Prior pushed back his chair. A little smile played upon his shrewd, yet kindly face. The Englishman was easier to manage than he had expected to find him, and Father Cristoforo was unquestionably relieved in his mind.

"I do not know much about you," he said, "but I have reason to believe that your name is not Stretton--that you were recently travelling under the name of Brian Luttrell, and that you have a special interest in the village of San Stefano. Is that not true, my friend?"

"Yes," said Brian slowly. "It is true."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE PRIOR'S OPINION.

The Prior's face wore an expression of mild triumph. He was evidently prepared to be questioned, and was somewhat surprised when Brian turned to him gravely and addressed him in cold and serious tones.

"Reverend Father," he said, "I am ignorant of the way in which you have possessed yourself of my secret, but, before a word more is spoken, let me tell you at once that it is a secret which must be kept strictly and sacredly between ourselves, unless great trouble is to ensue. It is absolutely necessary now that Brian Luttrell should be--dead."

"What has Brian Luttrell done," asked the Prior, "that he should be ashamed of his own name?"

"Ashamed!" said Brian, haughtily; "I never for one moment said that I was ashamed of it; but----"

He turned in his chair and looked out of the window. A new thought occurred to him. Probably Padre Cristoforo knew the history of every one who had lived in San Stefano during the last few years. Perhaps he might assist Brian in his search for the truth. At any rate, as Padre Cristoforo already knew his name, it would do nobody any harm if he confided in him a little further, and told him something of the story which Mrs. Luttrell had told to him.

Meanwhile, Padre Cristoforo watched him keenly as a cat watches a mouse, though without the malice of a cat. The Prior wished Brian no harm. But, for the good of his Order, he wished very much that he could lay hands, either through Brian or through Dino, upon that fine estate of which he had dreamt for the last thirteen years.

"Father Cristoforo," Brian's haggard, dark eyes looked anxiously into the priest's subtilely twinkling orbs, "will you tell me how you learnt my true name?"

He could not bear to cast a doubt upon Dino's good faith, and the Prior divined his reason for the question.

"Rest assured, my dear sir, that I learnt it accidentally," he said, with a soothing smile. "I happened to be entering the door when our young friend Dino recognised you. I heard you tell him to call you by the name of Stretton; I also heard you say that Brian Luttrell was dead."

"Ah!" sighed Brian, scarcely above his breath. "I thought that Dino could not have betrayed me."

He did not mean the Prior to hear his words; but they were heard and understood. "Signor," said the Padre, with an inflection of hurt feeling in his voice, "Mr. Stretton, or Mr. Luttrell, however you choose to term yourself, Dino is a man of honour, and will never betray a trust reposed in him. I could answer for Dino with my very life."

"I know--I was sure of it!" cried Brian.

"But, signor, do you think it is right or wise to imperil the future and the reputation of a young man like Dino--without friends, without home, without a name, entirely dependent upon us and our provision for him--by making him the depository of secrets which he keeps against his conscience and against the rule of the Order in which he lives? Brother Dino has told me nothing; he even evaded a question which he thought that you would not wish him to answer; but, he has acted wrongly, and will suffer if he is led into further concealment. Need I say more?"

"He shall not suffer through me," said Brian, impetuously. "I ought to have known better. But I was not myself; I don't remember what I said. I was surprised and relieved when I came to myself and found you all calling me Mr. Stretton. I never thought of laying any burden upon Dino."

"You will do well, then," said the Prior, approvingly, "if you do not speak of the matter to him at all. He is bound to mention it if questioned, and I presume you do not want to make it known."

"No, I do not. But I thought that he was bound only to mention matters that concerned himself; not those of other people," said Brian, with more hardihood than the priest had expected of him.

Padre Cristoforo smiled, and made a little motion with his hand, as much as to say that there were many things which an Englishman and a heretic could not be expected to know. "Dino is in a state of pupilage," he said, slightly, finding that Brian seemed to expect an answer; "the rules which bind him are very strict. But--if you will allow me to advert once more to your proposed change of name and residence--I suppose that it is not indiscreet to remark that your friends in England--or Scotland--will doubtless be anxious about your place of abode at present?"

"I do not think so," said Brian, in a low tone. "I believe that they think me dead."

"Why so?"