We had then an opportunity of seeing into what the smoothness of these Italian manners can change when ruffled.
The whole brotherhood burst into a storm of indignation. Their dark eyes flashed, their white teeth gleamed with scornful and angry laughter, and their voices rose in a tempest of vehement words, many of which were unintelligible to us.
"Intruders," "barbarians," "coarse and ignorant Germans," and other biting epithets, however, we could too well understand.
Brother Martin stood like a rock amidst the torrent, and threatened to make their luxury and disorder known at Rome.
When the assembly broke up, we noticed the brethren gather apart in small groups, and cast scowling glances at us when we chanced to pass near.
That evening the porter of the monastery came to us privately, and warned us that this convent was no longer a safe resting-place for us.
Whether this was a friendly warning, or merely a device of the brethren to get rid of troublesome guests, I know not; but we had no wish to linger, and before the next day dawned we crept in the darkness out of a side gate into a boat, which we found on the river which flows beneath the walls, and escaped.
It was delightful to-day winding along the side of a hill, near Bologna, for miles, under the flickering shade of trellises covered with vines. But Brother Martin, I thought, looked ill and weary.
Bologna.
Thank God, Brother Martin is reviving again. He has been on the very borders of the grave.