face suddenly becomes rapt and solemn, and no lurking interest in
neighboring things interferes with its expression.

One of the monks, who spoke a little French, took us into his cell. He
was a tall, frail man of thirty-five, with a wasted face, and brown hair
flowing over his shoulders, like most of his brethren of the same age.
In those sharp, earnest features, one could see that the battle was not
yet over. The tendency to corpulence does not appear until after the
rebellious passions have been either subdued, or pacified by compromise.
The cell was small, but neat and cheerful, on the ground-floor, with a
window opening on the court, and a hard, narrow pallet against the wall.
There was also a little table, with books, sacred pictures, and a bunch
of lilacs in water. The walls were whitewashed, and the floor cleanly
swept. The chamber was austere, certainly, but in no wise repulsive.

It was now growing late, and only the faint edges of the twilight
glimmered overhead, through the fog. It was not night, but a sort of
eclipsed day, not much darker than our winter days under an overcast
sky. We returned to the tower, where an old monk took us in charge.
Beside the monastery is a special building for guests, a room in which
was offered to us. It was so clean and pleasant, and the three broad
sofa-couches with leather cushions looked so inviting, that we decided
to sleep there, in preference to the crowded cabin. Our supply of
shawls, moreover, enabled us to enjoy the luxury of undressing. Before
saying good-night, the old monk placed his hand upon R.'s head. "We have
matins at three o'clock," said he; "when you hear the bell, get up, and
come to the church: it will bring blessing to you." We were soon buried
in a slumber which lacked darkness to make it profound. At two o'clock,
the sky was so bright that I thought it six, and fell asleep again,
determined to make three hours before I stopped. But presently the big