That he was ill could hardly be doubted.  And it seemed to the lawyer and the Commissary as well as to the old lay-brother, natural enough to suppose that a man who fell ill at St. Apollinare was ill with fever and ague.  But whether that were really the nature of his malady, his visitors had not sufficient medical knowledge to judge; but it was probable enough that the aged monk had had quite sufficient experience of fever and ague, to know pretty well himself, whether he were suffering from that cause or not.

“We are sorry to find you ill, father,” said Fortini; “and though we have come from Ravenna on purpose to speak with you, we would not have disturbed you if our business had not been important.  Are you suffering much now?”

“Not much more than usual,” said the sick man, shutting his eyes, while his pallid lips continued to move, as he muttered to himself an “Ave Maria.”

“And can you give us your attention for a few minutes?” rejoined the lawyer.

“I will answer to your asking as far as I can; but my head is confused, and I don’t remember much clearly about anything.  It seems to me as if I had been lying on this bed for months and months,” replied the old friar.

“And yet, you know, you were up and well yesterday morning, when you were with the young girl who came to copy the mosaics, you know, on the scaffolding in the church?” said the lawyer.

“Yes; I was with the girl—­Paolina Foscarelli, a Venetian—­on the scaffolding.  Was it yesterday?”

“Yesterday it was that she was here.  Yesterday morning.  And it is hardly necessary to ask you if you know what happened here in the Pineta much about that time, or shortly afterwards.  You have heard of the murder, of course?”

So violent a trembling seized on the aged man as the lawyer spoke thus, that he was unable to answer a word.  His old hands shook so that he could hardly hold the beads in his fingers, while his chattering teeth and trembling lips tried to formulate the words of a prayer.

“Did you, or did you not hear that a dreadful murder was committed yesterday morning in the Pineta not far from this place?” said the Commissary, speaking for the first time, and in a less kindly manner than the old lawyer had used.

A redoubled access of teeth-chattering and shivering was for some time the only result elicited by this question.  The old friar shook in every limb; and the beads of the rosary rattled in his trembling fingers, as he attempted to pass them on their string in mechanically habitual accompaniment to the invocations his lips essayed to mutter.

“It is a terrible thing to speak of truly, father; and we are sorry to be obliged to distress you by forcing such a subject on your thoughts; but it is our duty to make these inquiries; and you can tell us the few facts—­they cannot be many or of much importance—­ which have come to your knowledge on the subject,” said the lawyer, speaking in more gentle accents.