"Never mind, never mind," the Moro hastened to say. "Give here." And sticking three fingers into the snuff-box he took up about a pound of snuff and breathed it in little by little, as he gazed at the fire. The dying flame illumined his black beard, his earthy complexion, and his brilliant, intelligent eyes.
"Now that you are warmed," Don Rocco made bold to say after a moment's silence, "you may go home."
"Hum!" said the man, shrugging his shoulders. "I have a little business to transact before I leave."
Don Rocco squirmed in his chair, winking hard, and frowning heavily.
"I suggested it because it is so late," he mumbled, half churlishly, half timidly. "I also have something to do."
"The sermon, eh?—the sermon, the sermon!" the Moro repeated mechanically, looking at the fire, and ruminating. "See here," he concluded, "suppose we do this. There are pens, paper, and inkstand in the sitting-room. Sit down there and write your stuff. Meanwhile, if you will allow me, I will take a mouthful, as it is sixteen hours since I have eaten. When we have finished we will talk."
At first Don Rocco was not disposed to agree, but he was as halting in his secular utterances as he was fiery in his sacred eloquence. He
