Father Pablos probed the wound. As He drew out his Lancet, its
point was tinged with a greenish hue. He shook his head
mournfully, and quitted the bedside.

' 'Tis as I feared!' said He; 'There is no hope.'

'No hope?' exclaimed the Monks with one voice; 'Say you, no
hope?'

'From the sudden effects, I suspected that the Abbot was stung by
a Cientipedoro: The venom which you see upon my Lancet
confirms my idea: He cannot live three days.'

'And can no possible remedy be found?' enquired Rosario.

'Without extracting the poison, He cannot recover; and how to
extract it is to me still a secret. All that I can do is to
apply such herbs to the wound as will relieve the anguish: The
Patient will be restored to his senses; But the venom will
corrupt the whole mass of his blood, and in three days He will
exist no longer.'

Excessive was the universal grief at hearing this decision.
Pablos, as He had promised, dressed the wound, and then retired,
followed by his Companions: Rosario alone remained in the Cell,
the Abbot at his urgent entreaty having been committed to his
care. Ambrosio's strength worn out by the violence of his
exertions, He had by this time fallen into a profound sleep. So
totally was He overcome by weariness, that He scarcely gave any
signs of life; He was still in this situation, when the Monks