He saw little of Dino during his illness; but, as soon as he was able to go into the garden, Dino was permitted to accompany him. It was plain from his manner that no unwillingness on his own part kept him away. The English stranger had evidently a great attraction for him; he waited upon his movements and followed him, silently and affectionately, like a dog whose whole heart has been given to its master. Brian felt the charm of this devotion, but was too weak to speculate concerning its cause. He was conscious of the same kind of attraction towards Dino; he knew not why, but he found it pleasant to have Dino at his side, to lean on his arm as they went down the garden path together, to listen to the young Italian's musical accents as he read aloud at the evening hour. But what was the secret of that indefinable mutual attraction, that almost magnetic power, which one seemed to possess over the other, Brian Luttrell could not tell. Perhaps Dino knew.
This friendship did not pass unobserved. It was quietly, gently, fostered by the Prior, whose keen eyes were everywhere, and seemed to see everything at once. He it was who dispensed Dino from his usual duties that he might attend upon the English guest, who smiled benignly when he met them together in the cloister, who dropped a word or two expressive of his pleasure that Dino should have an opportunity of practising his knowledge of the English tongue. Dino could speak English with tolerable fluency, although with a strong foreign accent.
But the quiet state of affairs did not last very long. As Brian's strength returned he grew restless and uneasy; and at length one day he sent a formal request to the Prior that he might speak to him alone. Padre Cristoforo replied by coming at once to the guest-chamber, which Brian occupied in the daytime, and by asking in his usual mild and kindly way what he could do for him.
The guest-room was a bare enough place, but the window commanded a fine view of the wide plain on which the monastery looked down. The blinds were open, for the morning was deliciously cool, and the shadows of the leaves that clustered round the lattice played in the glow of sunshine on the floor. Brian was standing as the Prior entered the room; his wasted figure, worn face, and grey hairs made him a striking sight in that abode of peace and solitary quietness. It was as though some unquiet visitant from another world had strayed into an Italian Arcadia. But, as a matter of fact, Brian was probably less worldly in thought and aspiration at that moment than the serene-browed priest who stood before him and looked him in the face with such benignant friendly, interest.
"You wished to see me, my son?" he began, gently.
"I am ashamed to trouble you," said Brian. "But I felt that I ought to speak to you as soon as possible. I am growing strong enough to continue my journey—and I must not trespass on your hospitality any longer."
"Your strength is not very great as yet," said the Prior, courteously. "Pray take a seat, Mr. Stretton. We are only too pleased to keep you with us as long as you will do us the honour to remain, and I think it is decidedly against your own interests to travel at present."
Brian stammered out an acknowledgment of the Prior's kindness. He was evidently embarrassed, even painfully so; and Padre Cristoforo found himself watching the young man with some surprise and curiosity. What was it that troubled this young Englishman?
Brian at last uttered the words that he had wished to say.
"If I remained here," he said, colouring vividly with a sensitiveness springing from the reduced physical condition to which he had been brought by his long illness; "if I remained here I should ask you whether I could do any work for you—whether I could teach any of your pupils English or music. I am a poor man; I have no prospects. I would as soon live in Italy as in England—at any rate for a time."