“I am afraid,” said L’Isle, “that our young gownsman will have to undergo a ruinous conflict in the struggle between his nature and his fate.  His is the worst possible condition for a man of vigorous character and inquiring mind.  He has not arrived at his convictions, but had prematurely thrust upon him the convictions he is professedly bound to hold.”

“And you have helped him into the conflict,” said Lady Mabel, “without staying to see him through it.”

“I trust not.  But, anyhow, it would have come.  Were he a monk even, seclusion and devotion might protect, study might withdraw him from many temptations.  Were he a secular priest, the active and definite duties of a parish, fulfilling and inculcating the obligations of Christian morals, which are the same in every church, might have tasked his energies.  But, to be all his life a wandering beggar, in the name of God and St. Francis!  If enthusiasts are to be pitied, how much more those who, without being, are compelled to lead the life of enthusiasts!  Is it wonderful that many of these men are apostles only of ignorance and profligacy?”

“But this young man has a mind too active and enquiring for contented ignorance,” said Lady Mabel.  “From his very nature he must go on adding fact to fact, and thought to thought.”

“Until he has built up a system of his own,” answered L’Isle.  “And, a hundred chances to one, that will not coincide with the teachings of St. Francis and of Rome.  What must he do, then?  He, a professed Franciscan, has lost his faith in St. Francis, in Rome, perhaps in Christ!—­known to him only through Rome.  Must he persevere? or shall he abjure?  Between hypocrisy and martyrdom, he now must choose.  Think not, because the fires of the auto da fe are extinct, a churchman here can safely abjure his profession and his faith.  A man may live a life of martyrdom, although he escape a martyr’s death.”

They had ridden on some miles, and new scenes had suggested other topics, when they heard a shout behind them, and, looking round, saw the old man of the Venda displaying unwonted energy.  He was vigorously pummeling with his heels the vicious burro on which he followed them, while he held up some article of clothing, and shouted after them at the top of his voice.

They stopped for him to come up, and he handed to Lady Mabel a rich shawl, which she had left behind in her bed-room, and a scrap of dingy white paper.  Refusing any reward for his trouble and honesty, he at once took leave and turned back, the ass showing a more willing spirit on his homeward path.

After trying in vain to decipher the scroll, Lady Mabel handed it to L’Isle. “Cito, tute, jucunde peregrineris.”  “Swift, safe and pleasant may your journey be,” said L’Isle, translating it.  “This is, doubtless, from the young friar.  He is anxious to show you at once his scholarship and his good-will.  We must not find fault with his Latin, which is capital—­for a friar!”