Chapter THE SEVENTH: The Student and the Fair Stranger.3

The bell of the convent of St. Benedict struck the hour of noon, when a young man, attired after the manner of a student, or Neophyte of the monastic order, was slowly wending his way along the path that led to the cottage on the hill, while on his arm, there hung a youth of a slender yet graceful figure and with calm, mild features, shaded by locks of golden hair.

Tall, sinewy, and well-proportioned in form, the face of the Student was marked by features bold and decisive in their expression; his blue eye was full of thought, and his forehead, high and massive, shaded by the cap of velvet, gave the idea of a mind powerful, energetic, and formed to rule.

His hair fell in clustering locks of gold over his neck and shoulders; his plain tunic of dark velvet descended to his knees, revealing a doublet of like material and color, worn underneath, fitting closely to his manly form; while his throat was enveloped by a simple collar of snow-white lace.

His companion wore a neat doublet of light blue, fitting close around the neck, scarce allowing the pretty ruffle that circled the fair throat to be seen, and reaching half way down the leg, it was gathered around the slender waist by a girdle of plain doe skin. His light hair was covered by a hat, with the rim drawn up to the crown on one side, and slouching upon the other, while it was topped by delicate white plumes, fastened by a diamond broach.

Winding amid the fragrant shrubbery that enclosed the path, the student and his companion attained the top of the hill, and passing through the small garden, they presently stood before the neat cottage, which, shadowed by a spreading beech on one side, meeting the foliage of a leafy chesnut on the other, was overrun in front by a fragrant vine, that clomb over the timbers of the doorway, and twined round the solitary casement; the broad green leaves quivering in the beams of the sun, and the trumpet-shaped flowers swinging to and fro in the wooing air.

The student tapped at the door. It was opened by a woman somewhat advanced in life, attired in the dress of a peasant, yet with a cross of ebony strung from her neck. Her look was somewhat severe and stern, her demeanor was commanding, and her figure still retained some remains of youthful beauty.

She started as she opened the door, and an unfinished word burst from her lips.

“Ah! Adr--tush! Leone, I mean--thou art early home to-day, my son.”

“Mother,” said the student, “this is my fellow scholar Florian, son to the Baron Diarmo of Florence. In yonder convent we pursue our studies in one apartment side by side. An hour since, as we strolled through the gardens adjoining the convent, my friend missed his footing, and severely bruised his ancle. Our home being nearer than the convent, I thought I could not do better then bring him hither. I need not commend him to thy care.”

“Thou art welcome fair sir,” the dame replied, with a kindly smile. “Enter our abode; ’tis humble, yet ’tis sacred, for the bounty of the convent bestows it upon my son and me, while he is preparing for the priesthood. Come in, gentle Florian.”

They entered the cottage, and the door was closed.

No sooner had they disappeared than something rustled in the bushes and the bow-legged vagabond, Francisco, emerged into the light.

“Oh--ho!” he cried, “here’s a mystery. The convent allow old Mistress Vinegar-face to reside on their land, in their cottage, while her son is preparing for the priesthood! A likely story, by’r lady! I see it all--’tis as I suppose--these two striplings, are those, for whom such an immense reward has been offered in the neighboring towns and villages. Will not gold line my pouch as well as any other wight’s--eh? Via! Francisco! Vagabond no longer, but henceforth Signor Francisco! Via!”

Thus saying, he walked away with folded arms and a gigantic stride; and as he stalked away, the tall Dollabella, the red-haired Theresa, and black-eyed Loretta appeared from the bushes on the other side of the cot, and, bursting into a loud laugh, they tripped after the swelling “vagabond.”

Meanwhile, within the cot, resting on a cushioned seat, the gentle Florian submitted his foot to the hands of the dame, who drew off the shoe and stocking, and applied ointment to the bruise; remarking, at the same time, that the foot was one of the smallest, and the ancle one of the prettiest in the wide world.

The student glanced at Florian, and smiled.

“Mother,” said he, “I must away to the convent. Methinks it were better for gentle Florian to rest him here awhile. I will return anon, and accompany my fellow scholar along the shores of the lake to the monastery.”

He kissed the cheek of the fair boy, and departed. Looking up into the rosy face, and catching the glance of the bright blue eye of the modest youth, the dame exclaimed, as she finished the dressing of the wound:

“Fair sir, if it please thee to grace our humble tenement with thy presence for the night, thou canst share the bed of my son. Methinks it were best for thee not to stir hence until the morrow.”

“I thank thee, kind lady,” the youth began, in a voice as sweet as infancy.

“_Lady_, say’st thou? I am but a peasant woman.”

Florian blushed.

“Nay, pardon me--I meant no offence. Indeed, it seemed--”

The youth paused, while the blush deepened on his cheek.

“Never heed it, fair sir. This way is Leone’s room. Mayhap thou wouldst like to repose thee awhile.”

Florian followed her into a small apartment, with a window toward the east, a neat bed in one corner, a crucifix upon the wall, and a table, on which lay a missal of devotion.

The dame retired.

Florian stole noiselessly to the door, and drew the bolt. Then seating himself upon the bed, he covered his face with his hands, and the tears stole between the fair fingers, fast and bright, like drops of sunlit rain.