No human being who had, it might be supposed, would consent to live at St. Apollinare in Classe, with one lay brother for a companion, and discharge the duties assigned to the Padre Fabiano.  But the question why his superiors sent him there, was still one that might suggest itself, though it was little likely ever to be answered.  And the absence of all answer to such question was supplied by the gossips of Ravenna, by tales of some terrible crime against ecclesiastical discipline of which the Padre Fabiano had been guilty some sixty years or so ago.  Certain it was that be had occupied his dreary position for many years; and it was wonderful that fever and ague and the marsh pestilence had not long since dismissed him to the reward of his long penitence on earth.

He rose from his knees as Paolina approached him, and gravely bent his cowled head to her in salutation.

“You are early, Signora,” he said.  “I suppose you are the person for whom yonder scaffold has been prepared.”

“Yes, father, I am the artist for whom leave has been obtained to copy some of your mosaics.”

“You will find it cold work, daughter.  The church is damp somewhat.  You would do better, methinks, not to begin your day’s work till the sun has had time to warm the air a little.”

“I had no thought, father, of beginning to-day.  I have brought nothing with me.  I only thought that I would walk out and have a look at the job before me.  It is not so far from the city as I thought.”

“It is far enough to be as lonely and as deserted as if it were a thousand miles from a human habitation,” said the monk, looking into the girl’s face with a grave smile.

“Yet you live here, from year’s end to year’s end all alone, Padre mio,” said Paolina, timidly.

“Not quite so, daughter,” replied he.  “Brother Barnaba, a lay brother of our order, is my companion.  But he is ill with a touch of ague at present.”

“And how early would it be not inconvenient to you, Padre mio, to open the church for me?” asked Paolina.

“I spoke not of your being early on my account, daughter.  If you come here at sunrise, you will find the gate open, and me where you found me this morning; and if you come at midnight you will find the same.”

“At midnight, father!” said Paolina, with a glance of surprise and pity.

“Last October I was down with the fever,” returned the monk; “but since that time I have not failed one night to be on my knees where the blessed St. Romauld knelt at the stroke of midnight.  But I have not had his reward;—­doubtless because I am not worthy of it.”

“What was the reward of St. Romauld, father?” demanded Paolina.

“His midnight prayers were rewarded by the vision of St. Apollinare in glory, who spoke to him, and gave him the counsel he sought.  Night after night, and hour after hour, have I knelt and prayed.  And I have heard the moaning of the wind from the Adriatic among the pines of the forest yonder, and I have seen the great crucifix above the high altar sway and move in the moonlight when it comes streaming through the southern windows; and sometimes I have hoped—­ and prayed—­and hoped—­but no vision came!”