“I have examined more carefully than most men the records of the civil wars in Italy; and I know that the ancestors of Fabio d’Ascoli wrung from the Church, in her hour of weakness, property which they dared to claim as their right.  I know of titles to lands signed away, in those stormy times, under the influence of fear, or through false representations of which the law takes no account.  I call the money thus obtained spoil, and I say that it ought to be restored, and shall be restored, to the Church from which it was taken.”

“And what does Fabio answer to that, brother?”

“I have not spoken to him on the subject.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have, as yet, no influence over him.  When he is married, his wife will have influence over him, and she shall speak.”

“Maddalena, I suppose?  How do you know that she will speak?”

“Have I not educated her?  Does she not understand what her duties are toward the Church, in whose bosom she has been reared?”

Luca hesitated uneasily, and walked away a step or two before he spoke again.

“Does this spoil, as you call it, amount to a large sum of money?” he asked, in an anxious whisper.

“I may answer that question, Luca, at some future time,” said the priest.  “For the present, let it be enough that you are acquainted with all I undertook to inform you of when we began our conversation.  You now know that if I am anxious for this marriage to take place, it is from motives entirely unconnected with self-interest.  If all the property which Fabio’s ancestors wrongfully obtained from the Church were restored to the Church to-morrow, not one paulo of it would go into my pocket.  I am a poor priest now, and to the end of my days shall remain so.  You soldiers of the world, brother, fight for your pay; I am a soldier of the Church, and I fight for my cause.”

Saying these words, he returned abruptly to the statuette; and refused to speak, or leave his employment again, until he had taken the mold off, and had carefully put away the various fragments of which it consisted.  This done, he drew a writing-desk from the drawer of his working-table, and taking out a slip of paper wrote these lines: 

“Come down to the studio to-morrow.  Fabio will be with us, but Nanina will return no more.”

Without signing what he had written, he sealed it up, and directed it to “Donna Maddalena”; then took his hat, and handed the note to his brother.

“Oblige me by giving that to my niece,” he said.

“Tell me, Rocco,” said Luca, turning the note round and round perplexedly between his finger and thumb; “do you think Maddalena will be lucky enough to get married to Fabio?”

“Still coarse in your expressions, brother!”

“Never mind my expressions.  Is it likely?”

“Yes, Luca, I think it is likely.”

With those words he waved his hand pleasantly to his brother, and went out.