‘Stop, Captain!’ The monk interrupted him sternly. ‘I will take no word from you to her. Whatever you choose to say, you say to me, and to me only.’
‘Yes—you are right. I repeat what I first said, then. The letters shall not be published while I am alive to hinder it. If there is any risk, it will not be in the way of a duel, so the one promise does not interfere with the other. When the matter is settled, shall I write to you or go and see you?’
‘In no case write,’ answered Padre Bonaventura. ‘My share in this matter ends here, and I need neither hear from you nor see you again. If you do not find a way to make the publication of those letters impossible,’ he concluded, speaking slowly as he rose to his feet, ‘you are not the man I take you for.’
Castiglione smiled at the wholesale directness of the final speech, but only nodded in reply, and accompanied his visitor to the outer door with evident respect. Hearing steps, the orderly dropped the boots and sprang out of his little den.
‘Good-bye, Father, and thank you,’ said Castiglione, shaking his hand warmly.
The trooper could not believe his eyes and ears, and stood open-mouthed, grinning with astonishment. As the door closed, his master saw his face and felt a strong desire to box his ears. But the Captain’s character had changed a good deal of late.
He laid a heavy hand on the young soldier’s shoulder.
‘When you meet him again, salute him,’ he said sternly. ‘That old monk was with Garibaldi, and lost his left arm at Aspromonte.’
‘Yes, sir!’
Thereupon the orderly went back to the boots with a very grave face.