"No, father, not to-day," answered Ercole. "I come to pray you to say three masses for the soul of a person who died suddenly. I have also brought the money. Only tell me how much it will be, and I will pay."
"You shall give what you will, my son," the monk said, "and I will say the masses myself."
Ercole got out his sheepskin purse, untied the strings, and looked into it, weighing it in his hand. Then he seemed to hesitate. The monk looked on quietly.
"It is of your own free will," he said. "What you choose to give is for the community, and for this church, and for the chapel of Saint Helen. It is better that you know."
Ercole drew the mouth of the purse together again and returned it to the inside of his waistcoat, from which he produced a large old leathern pocket-book.
"I will give five francs," he said, "for I know that if you say the masses yourself, they will be all good ones."
A very faint and gentle smile flitted over the aged face. Ercole held out the small note, and the monk took it.
"Thank you," he said. "Shall I say the masses for a man or a woman?"
"As it pleases you, father," Ercole answered.
"Eh?" The old monk looked surprised.