If only he could see him, and talk with him, and make him a good Christian,—­why, then, there would be no further need of her;—­and Agnes was surprised to find what a dreadful, dreary blank appeared before her when she thought of this.  Why should she wish him to remember her, since she never could be his?—­and yet nothing seemed so dreadful as that he should forget her.  So the poor little innocent fly beat and fluttered in the mazes of that enchanted web, where thousands of her frail sex have beat and fluttered before her.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MONK AND THE CAVALIER.

Father Antonio had been down through the streets of the old town of Sorrento, searching for the young stonecutter, and, finding him, had spent some time in enlightening him as to the details of the work he wished him to execute.

He found him not so easily kindled into devotional fervors as he had fondly imagined, nor could all his most devout exhortations produce one-quarter of the effect upon him that resulted from the discovery that it was the fair Agnes who originated the design and was interested in its execution.  Then did the large black eyes of the youth kindle into something of sympathetic fervor, and he willingly promised to do his very best at the carving.

“I used to know the fair Agnes well, years ago,” he said, “but of late she will not even look at me; yet I worship her none the less.  Who can help it that sees her?  I don’t think she is so hard-hearted as she seems; but her grandmother and the priests won’t so much as allow her to lift up her eyes when one of us young fellows goes by.  Twice these five years past have I seen her eyes, and then it was when I contrived to get near the holy water when there was a press round it of a saint’s day, and I reached some to her on my finger, and then she smiled upon me and thanked me.  Those two smiles are all I have had to live on for all this time.  Perhaps, if I work very well, she will give me another, and perhaps she will say, ‘Thank you, my good Pietro!’ as she used to, when I brought her birds’ eggs or helped her across the ravine, years ago.”

“Well, my brave boy, do your best,” said the monk, “and let the shrine be of the fairest white marble.  I will be answerable for the expense; I will beg it of those who have substance.”

“So please you, holy father,” said Pietro, “I know of a spot, a little below here on the coast, where was a heathen temple in the old days; and one can dig therefrom long pieces of fair white marble, all covered with heathen images.  I know not whether your Reverence would think them fit for Christian purposes.”

“So much the better, boy! so much the better!” said the monk, heartily.  “Only let the marble be fine and white, and it is as good as converting a heathen any time to baptize it to Christian uses.  A few strokes of the chisel will soon demolish their naked nymphs and other such rubbish, and we can carve holy virgins, robed from head to foot in all modesty, as becometh saints.”