The Prior looked at him steadily; his deeply-veined hand grasped the arm of his wooden chair, a slight flush rose to his forehead. It was in a perfectly calm and unconstrained voice, however, that he made answer.
"It is quite possible that we might find work of the kind you mention, signor—if you require it."
There was a subdued accent of inquiry in the last four words. Brian laughed a little, and put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew out four gold pieces and a few little Swiss and Italian coins.
"You see these, Father?" he said, holding them out in the palm of his hand. "They constitute my fortune, and they are due to the institution that has sheltered me so kindly and nursed me back to life and health. I have vowed these coins to your alms-box; when they are given, I shall make a fresh start in the world—as the architect of my own fortunes."
"You will then be penniless!" said the priest, in rather a curious tone.
"Entirely so."
There was a short silence. Brian's fingers played idly with the coins, but he was not thinking about them; his dreamy eyes revealed that his thoughts were very far away. Padre Cristoforo was biting his forefinger and knitting his brows—two signs of unusual perturbation of mind with him. Presently, however, his brow cleared; he smoothed his gown over his knees two or three times, coughed once or twice, and then addressed himself to Brian with all his accustomed urbanity.
"Our Order is a rich one," he said, with a smile, "and one that can well afford to entertain strangers. I will not tell you to make no gifts, for we know that it is very blessed to give—more blessed than to receive. I think it quite possible that we can give you such work as you desire. But before I do so, I think I am justified in asking you with what object you take it?"
"With what object? A very simple one—to earn my daily bread."
"And why," said the priest leaning forward and speaking in a lower voice—"why should your father's son need to earn his daily bread in a little Italian village?"