Don Agostino laughed quietly. "Why not?" he returned. "You are thinking to yourself that members of the pontifical court are not usually sent to such places as Montefiano. Well, it is a long story, but your father will tell it you. He will not have forgotten it—I am quite sure of that."
They had walked on together while they were talking, and presently emerged on the steep road leading up the hill to Montefiano. From this point Silvio could see the little town clustering against the face of the rock some mile or so above them, and the great, square castle of the Acorari dominating it.
"You have been to Montefiano?" Don Agostino asked his companion.
"Yes," answered Silvio, "several times. But," he added, "the Montefianesi do not seem very communicative to strangers."
Don Agostino laughed. "They are unaccustomed to them," he said, dryly; "but they are good folk when once you know them. For the rest, there is not much for them to be communicative about."
"Has the castle no history?"
"It has much the same history as all our mediæval and renaissance strongholds—that is to say, a mixture of savagery, splendor, and crime. But the Montefianesi would not be able to tell you much about it. I doubt if nine out of every ten of them have ever been inside it."
"But it is inhabited now," said Silvio, quickly.
Don Agostino glanced at him, struck by a sudden change in the tone of his companion's voice.
"Yes," he replied, "for the first time for many years. The princess and her step-daughter, Donna Bianca Acorari, are there at present."