"By falling from the cliff on which our monastery is built. The holy Virgin—gloria tibi, O sancta Maria—foreshadowed the event this morning by the fall of her image in the chapel."
"Ah, the days of Urim and Thummim are not past, then," remarked my uncle, with a tinge of irony in his tone unnoticed by him to whom he spoke. "Is the dead man a brother of your order?"
"An old inhabitant of Rivoli, but a neophyte of two days only. It was but yesterday that the good Father Ignatius brought him to us, bidding us receive him as a novice. This evening at vespers he quitted the convent unknown to us. He did not return. At nocturns Brother Francis startled us by rushing in and saying that he had heard groans coming from the foot of the cliff. We descended to the spot. This is what we found."
With these words the speaker drew back the covering from the bier. And there, calm and still in death, with glazed eyes staring up at the sky, as if in reproach of the cold, silent moon that had seen him die, was the face of the silver-haired old man, the penitent of Father Ignatius. My sudden exclamation of surprise drew all eyes upon me.
"Did you know him, young sir?"
"I have seen him once in England, and once here in the cathedral yesterday. I know nothing of him, not even his name. Where are you taking the body?" I added after a moment's interval.
"To the house of Father Ignatius," replied the leading monk, as he motioned the cortège to proceed.
"Stop!" cried my uncle, and at his imperative voice the monks paused.
For some moments he had been closely scrutinising the corpse, and now, pointing to it with a stern look, he said:
"There must be an inquiry on the body, for this man did not die by accident. He was pushed over the cliff. See! these marks on the throat were made by a strong hand. He has been murdered."