Castle. (In former days those masters were the Sforzas. So, from this
tribune, the members of that race of iron and blood, of fierceness and
of guile, have assisted at the mystical sacrifice of the Lamb of God!)
Heretofore, during John's residence at the presbytery, the tribune had
stood vacant. To-day it was occupied by Maria Dolores and Frau Brandt.
Maria Dolores, instead of wearing a hat, had adopted the ancient and
beautiful use of draping a long veil of black lace over her dark hair.

John knelt in the middle of the church, in the thick of the ragged,
dirty, unsavoury villagers. When Mass was over, he returned to the
cloisters, and there, face to face, he met the lady of his dreams.

She graciously inclined her head.

"Good morning," she said, smiling, in a voice that seemed to him full of
morning freshness.

"Good morning," he responded, wondering whether she could hear the
tremor of his heart. "Though, in honest truth, it's rather a bad
morning, isn't it?" he submitted, posing his head at an angle, dubious
and reflective, that seemed to raise the question to a level of
philosophic import.

"Oh, with these cloisters, one shouldn't complain," said she, glancing
indicatively round. "One can still be out of doors, and yet not get the
wetting one deserves. And the view is so fine, and these faded old
frescoes are so droll."

"Yes," said he, his wits, for the instant, in a state of suspended
animation. "The view is fine, the frescoes are droll."