“I come by the bidding of the Father Abbot, to lead thee to the cell of the blessed St. Areline.”
“Ah! I remember me. As I dismounted at the gate of the Monastery, the reverend abbot told me that it had been a custom, from time past memory, for all strangers visiting the holy house of St. Benedict, to pass an hour in the cell of this saint—St. Areline, methinks she is styled. Further, he told me the saint has the power of revealing future events. Is’t so, holy father?”
“Even so, my Lord Duke. When besought, on bended knee, in the silence of midnight, the form of the blessed saint appears fired with supernatural life: her eyes flash and her lips move, and the doom of the suppliant—whether for good or for evil—is revealed.”
“At midnight, say’st thou? ’Tis a lone hour. By’r our Ladye, but the evil one may have something to do with the matter.”
“That may not be, my Lord Duke. The holy Areline died in the odor of sanctity. The scorner and the outcast of heaven alone doubt her holiness and power. For three centuries hath the fame of St. Areline been sounded abroad, and now it were sin unpardonable to say aught against her sacred name.”
“Lead on, holy father; in God’s name, lead on: I’ll follow thee. Hugo! I say, Hugo!”
The face of the ill-looking sentinel with the squinting eye, appeared among the folds of the sable curtain.
“Hugo, where is Balvardo, thy comrade—eh? Speak quickly—where is Balvardo?”
The sinister eye of the sentinel squinted yet more fearfully; he looked confusedly round, and stammered forth:
“My Lord Duke, he is—he is—”