city and the little Chapel. By this time we had wandered to the front of
the building, and Brother Andreas raising his arm pointed to the face of
the church over the door and repeated, "Refugium Peccatorum, Consolatrix
Afflictorum, Sancta Maria, Ora Pro Nobis."

I did not look up at first, my attention at the time being directed to a
company of peasants in the neighbouring vineyard, but at the words
"Sancta Maria," I raised my eyes to the face of the church, and, oh my
God, what did I see!

"Ora pro nobis," broke unintentionally from my lips, I clung
convulsively to the arm of the good, old priest, my eyes were riveted
upon the niche above the door, for there looking down on me, her eyes
strangely drooping, her hands folded across her breast, stood the woman
whom day before yesterday I met on the bridge; I say stood the woman,
but it was only a statue carved in gray stone, an image of the Virgin,
such as we see every day in the churches; this, however, was somewhat
different, as it held no infant Christ in its arms, and then the face,
that was not the face which should be given to Mary, the Mother of our
Saviour.

No, the more I see those eyes, which I at first so much admired, the
more I hate their look, but also strange to say, the more I am
fascinated.

In a few moments I had recovered my usual composure enough to assure
Brother Andreas that the cause of my strange behaviour was a sudden
illness to which I was often subject, when tired, but the good man shook
his head sadly and said, "No, my child, you have seen something
supernatural, which has disturbed you; it is well that I am here." With