Brian spoke next.
"Tell me," he said, "tell me for the last time, father, what you believe to have been the truth of the story. Did Vincenza change the children, or did she not?"
"My son," said the old monk, "a few months—nay, a few weeks ago, I said to myself that I would never answer that question. But life is slipping away from me; and I cannot leave the world with even the shadow of a lie upon my lips. When I sent Dino to England, I believed that Vincenza had done this thing. When Dino returned to us, I still believed that he was Mrs. Luttrell's son. But since our Dino's death, I have had a message—a solemn message—from the persons who saw Vincenza die. She had charged them with her last breath to tell me that the story was false—that the children were never changed at all. It was Mrs. Luttrell's delusion that suggested the plan to her. She hoped that she might make money by declaring that you were her son, and Dino, Mrs. Luttrell's. She swore on her death-bed that Dino was her child, and that it was Lippo Vasari who was buried in the churchyard of San Stefano."
"Which story are we to believe?" said Brian, almost doubtingly.
"The evidence is pretty evenly balanced," replied the Prior. "Believe the one that suits you best."
Brian did not answer; he stood for a moment with his head bent and his eyes fixed on the ground. "To think," he said at last, "of the misery that we have suffered through—a lie!" Then he looked up, and met Elizabeth's eyes. "You are right," he said, as if answering some unspoken comment, "I have no reason to complain. I found Dino—and I found you; a friend and a wife—I thank God for them both."
He took her hand in his, and his face was lit up with the look of love that was henceforth, as hitherto, to make the happiness of his life and hers.
And when they went forth from the monastery doors it seemed to them a good omen that the last words echoing in their ears were those of the old monk's farewell salutation:—
"Go in peace!"