‘Is there any one in the world of whom you are really fond?’ said the Dominican.

For the fraction of a second I hesitated.

‘Forgive the question! It is of no importance. There is one way by which you can be brought to believe, but it may cost you your life. Are you willing to risk it?’

‘I am bound to preserve my life until to-morrow morning.’

‘So far I can guarantee it, if you are careful to obey. For the rest, you are indifferent? Well and good! Understand that I, on my part, am running a great risk for your sake. If what I am about to do were to become known, I should incur excommunication. My fellow-churchmen would say that I was endangering a soul within the fold to save one that is without. So be it! You are my friend. You are, I know, an actor of some experience. Do you think that you could personate me?’

‘With your instructions, I have no doubt that I could.’

He rose, and took from his cupboard a priest’s robe and a little cap.

‘You have just recovered from an illness; you must wear a beretta. You are close shaven; that is well. Under the beretta your hair is not too long. Be sure to recollect that you are still subject to cold—that you must on no account take it off. Before we go any further, oblige me by taking an oath—a solemn oath. First, that, whatever may happen, you will attempt no resistance; secondly, that you will never reveal the names of those amongst whom I am going to send you, nor any of the circumstances which you may be called upon to witness. Before you swear, reflect! The possession of a secret of this kind implies considerable danger. Is it worth the risk?’

‘A strange question for one of your calling to ask!’ I retorted; ‘I am no priest, but I think it is.’

‘Is there anything in the world that you hold sacred?’ said the Dominican.

I drew the bit of swansdown from its resting-place, profaning the one true sentiment that was in me with a laugh. As for my friend, he never even smiled.

‘That will do!’ he said. ‘Swear upon that!’ I did so.

‘You are now a penitent before me. I have heard your confession. I am about to absolve you. Take accurate note of everything that I say, and reproduce my words, as nearly as you can, when you are called in to the death-bed.’

‘You spoke to me as if I were a woman,’ I observed, when he had finished.

‘You are quite right,’ said the monk. ‘Now let us reverse the parts. Do you absolve me, as if I were a woman!’

I repeated the form of words which he had just gone through.

‘Evviva!’ he said, when I had done. ‘You might have been born in a cassock.’

At the same moment I heard the hooting of an owl in the garden below. He started, and looked at the clock.

‘Late!’ he said. ‘That is the carriage. We have not a moment to lose. Let me recommend you to keep silence from the time you leave these doors to the time when you are set down again. If you say a word more than is necessary, I will not answer for the consequences. I shall await you here on your return.