“Shall I ring?” inquired Sir Frederick as the last note died away on the air.
They all silently acquiesced,—and by means of a coarse rope hanging down among the flowers the bell was gently set in motion. Its soft clang was almost immediately answered by a venerable monk in white garments, with a long rosary twisted into his girdle and a Cross and Star blazoned in gold upon his breast.
“Benedicite!” said this personage mildly, making the sign of the cross before otherwise addressing the visitors,—then, as they instinctively bent their heads to the pious greeting, he opened the door a little wider and asked them in French what they sought.
For answer Madame Vassilius stepped forward and gave him an open letter, one which she knew would serve as a pass to obtain ready admission to the monastery, and as the monk glanced it over his pale features brightened visibly.
“Ah! Friends of our youngest brother Sebastian”—he said in fluent English—“Enter! You are most heartily welcome.”
He stood aside, and they all passed under the low porch into a square hall, painted from ceiling to floor in delicate fresco. The designs were so beautiful and so admirably executed, that Strathlea could not resist stopping to look at one or two of them.
“These are very fine”—he said, addressing the gray-haired recluse who escorted them—“Are they the work of some ancient or modern artist?”
The old man smiled and gave a deprecating, almost apologetic gesture.
“They are the result of a few years’ pleasant labour”—he replied—“I was very happy while employed thus.”
“You did them!” exclaimed Lady Vaughan, turning her eyes upon him in frank wonder and admiration—“Why then you are a genius!”