been spent in seclusion, study, and mortification of the flesh; his
knowledge was profound, his eloquence most persuasive; his only fault
was an excess of severity in judging the human feelings from which he
himself was exempted.

Among the crowd that pressed into the church were two women--one
elderly, the other young--who had seats offered them by two richly
habited cavaliers. The younger cavalier, Don Lorenzo, discovered such
exquisite beauty and sweetness in the maiden to whom he had given his
seat--her name was Antonia--that when she left the church he was
desperately in love with her.

He had promised to see his sister Agnes, a nun in the Convent of St.
Clare; so he remained in the church, whither the nuns were presently to
come to confess to the Abbot Ambrosio. As he waited he observed a man
wrapped up in a cloak hurriedly place a letter beneath a statue of St.
Francis, and then retire.

The nuns entered, and removed their veils out of respect to the saint to
whom the building was dedicated. One of the nuns dropped her rosary
beside the statue, and, as she stooped to pick it up, she dexterously
removed the letter and placed it in her bosom. As she did so, the light
flashed full in her face.

"Agnes, by Heaven!" cried Lorenzo.

He hastened after the cloaked stranger, and overtook him with drawn
sword. Suddenly the cloaked man turned and exclaimed, "Is it possible?
Lorenzo, have you forgotten Raymond de las Cisternas?"