This discourse, which Odo admired for its adroitness, visibly excited the commiseration of the ladies; but at mention of the Bishop, Donna Livia exchanged a glance with her sister, who enquired, with a quaint air of astuteness, “But how comes it, abate, that with so powerful a protector you have been exposed to such incredible reverses?”

Cantapresto rolled a meaning eye.

“Alas, madam, it was through my protector that misfortune attacked me; for his lordship having appointed me secretary to his favourite nephew, Don Serafino, that imprudent nobleman required of me services so incompatible with my cloth that disobedience became a duty; whereupon, not satisfied with dismissing me in disgrace, he punished me by blackening my character to his uncle.  To defend myself was to traduce Don Serafino; and rather than reveal his courses to the Bishop I sank to the state in which you see me; a state,” he added with emotion, “that I have travelled this long way to commend to the adorable pity of Her whose Son had not where to lay His head.”

This stroke visibly touched the canonesses, still soft from the macerations of the morning; and Donna Livia compassionately asked how he had subsisted since his rupture with the Bishop.

“Madam, by the sale of my talents in any service not at odds with my calling:  as the compiling of pious almanacks, the inditing of rhymed litanies and canticles, and even the construction of theatrical pieces”—­the ladies lifted hands of reprobation—­“of theatrical pieces,” Cantapresto impressively repeated, “for the use of the Carmelite nuns of Pianura.  But,” said he with a deprecating smile, “the wages of virtue are less liberal than those of sin, and spite of a versatility I think I may honestly claim, I have often had to subsist on the gifts of the pious, and sometimes, madam, to starve on their compassion.”

This ready discourse, and the soprano’s evident distress, so worked on the canonesses that, having little money at their disposal, it was fixed, after some private consultation, that he should attend them to Donnaz, where Don Gervaso, in consideration of his edifying conduct in renouncing the stage, might be interested in helping him to a situation; and when the little party set forth from Oropa, the abate Cantapresto closed the procession on one of the baggage-mules, with Odo riding pillion at his back.  Good fortune loosened the poor soprano’s tongue, and as soon as the canonesses’ litter was a safe distance ahead he began to beguile the way with fragments of reminiscence and adventure.  Though few of his allusions were clear to Odo, the glimpse they gave of the motley theatrical life of the north Italian cities—­the quarrels between Goldoni and the supporters of the expiring commedia dell’ arte—­the rivalries of the prime donne and the arrogance of the popular comedians—­all these peeps into a tinsel world of mirth, cabal and folly, enlivened by the recurring names of the Four Masks, those lingering gods of the older dispensation, so lured the boy’s fancy and set free his vagrant wonder, that he was almost sorry to see the keep of Donnaz reddening in the second evening’s sunset.