The look which he bestowed upon Tristan convinced the latter immediately of the doubt which the monk harbored regarding the quality of his belated caller, a doubt which he deemed well to disperse before venturing into the monk's retreat.
Therefore, without abandoning his position, he addressed the inmate of the chamber and, as he spoke, the tone of his voice seemed to carry conviction, that the speaker was sincere.
"Your pardon, father," Tristan stammered, "for one who is seeking you in an hour of grave doubt and misgiving."
The monk's ear had caught the accent of a foreign tongue. He beckoned to Tristan to enter, rising from the bench on which he had been seated.
"You come at a strange hour," he said, not without a note of suspicion, which did not escape Tristan. "Your business must be weighty indeed to embolden one, a stranger on Roman soil, to penetrate the desolate Aventine when the world sleeps and murder stalks abroad."
"I am here for a singular purpose, father,—having obeyed the impulse of the moment, after listening to your sermon at St. Peter's."
"But that was hours ago," interposed the monk, resting his hand on the stone table, as he faced his visitor.
"I lost my way—nor did I meet any one to point it," Tristan replied, as he advanced and kissed the monk's hand reverently.
"What is your business, my son?" asked the monk.
Tristan hesitated a moment. At last he spoke.