kindness; "can I do anything to assist or relieve you?"

"I _was_ ill, my son," he replied; "but it is over now--passed away like
a troubled phantasy, which visits the weary and restless slumberer, and
flies at the approach of returning reason."

"Your language is figurative," returned De Valette, "and implies the
sufferance of mental, rather than bodily pain. If such is your unhappy
state, I know full well that human skill is unavailing."

"What know _you_ of pain?" asked the priest, with startling energy;
"_you_, who bask in the sunshine of fortune's smile,--whose days are one
ceaseless round of careless gaiety,--whose repose is yet unbroken by the
gnawing worm of never-dying repentance! Such, too, I was, in the
spring-time of my life; I drained the cup of pleasure,--but misery and
disappointment were in its dregs; I yielded to the follies and passions
of my youthful heart,--and the sting of remorse and ceaseless regret
have entered my inmost soul!"

"Pardon me, father," said De Valette, "if I have unconsciously awakened
thoughts which time, perchance, had well nigh soothed into
forgetfulness!"

"Awakened thoughts!" the priest repeated, in a melancholy voice; "they
can never, never sleep! repentance cannot obliterate them,--years of
penance--fastings, and vigils, and wanderings, cannot wear them from my
remembrance! Look at me, my son, and may this decaying frame, which
time might yet have spared, teach thee the vanity of human hopes, and
lead thee to resist the impulses of passion, and to mistrust and
regulate, even the virtuous inclinations of thy heart!"