“The girl came here. All night she knelt on the rough stone floor, praying and—weeping; for she loved him. And the Virgin above the four candles looked down with the great, wistful eyes you see—and bound the girl’s soul faster and faster to her own.

“And when morning came she entered the white walls across the lake without seeing her lover again.

“Giovanni went mad, I think, when they told him. He screamed out his hate for the world and his God, and rushed up the little white path to where we are sitting now, Signor.

“Once here, he drew the dagger you see beneath the Virgin and stabbed with an oath on his lips. That is why I did not let you touch it.”

Blagden nodded, and the old monk was silent for a moment before he went on.

“Giovanni disappeared for two days. When he came back his face was that of a madman still. He was met by a white funeral winding up the little path. You understand, Signor—a virgin’s funeral. Giovanni was hurrying blindly past when they stopped him.

“There was no reproach spoken for what he had done, no bitterness; only a kind of awe—and pity.

“Rosa had died on her knees in the nunnery at the exact time he stabbed yonder picture. And they told him months afterward that her face was strangely like that of the Virgin when they found her—beautiful and pleading and sad. There was no given cause for her death—there are things we cannot understand. She was praying for strength, the sisters said.”

The monk ceased speaking, and for a long moment they sat silent, Blagden and the withered, white- haired man, staring mutely up at the beautiful face above them. It was Blagden who broke the silence.

“What do you think happened?” he asked slowly.

“I do not know,” said the monk.

There was another pause, then Blagden spoke again.

“Anyway,” he said, brushing his hand across his eyes, “she paid in part the debt Giovanni owed his God.”

“Yes?” said the monk softly. “I wonder, Signor! For I am Giovanni.”