I led her to the sacristy and seating her upon the settle I produced that wine-skin once again.
At first she babbled like a child of not being thirsty; but I was insistent.
"It is no matter of quenching thirst, Madonna," I told her.

"The wine will warm and revive you.

Come Madonna mia, drink." She obeyed me now, and having got the first gulp down her throat she drank a lusty draught that was not long in bringing a healthier colour to replace the ashen pallor of her cheeks.
"I am so cold, Lazzaro," she complained.
I turned to the drawer in which I had espied the rough monks' habits, and pulling one out I held it for her to don.

She sat there now, in that garment of coarse black cloth, the cowl flung back upon her shoulder, the fairest postulate that ever entered upon a novitiate.
"You are good to me, Lazzaro," she murmured plaintively, "and I have used you very ill." She paused a second, passing her hand across her brow.

Then--"What is the hour ?" she asked.
It was a question that I left unheeded.