hands and sharp knives in the country to place the wealthy and the
unguarded in some peril. Whoever he may be--for he has not confided his
secret to me--I do not doubt but that he is doing penance for some great
crime; and, whatever be the crime, I suspect that its earthly punishment
is nearly over. The Hermit is naturally of a delicate and weak frame,
and year after year I have marked him sensibly wearing away; so that
when I last saw him, three days since, I was shocked at the visible
ravages which disease or penance had engraven upon him. If ever Death
wrote legibly, its characters are in that brow and cheek."

"Poor man! Know you not even whom to apprise of his decease when he is
no more?"

"I do not yet; but the last time I saw him he told me that he found
himself drawing near his end, and that he should not quit life without
troubling me with one request."

After this the Abbot spoke of other matters, and my visit expired.

Interested in the recluse more deeply than I acknowledged to myself, I
found my steps insensibly leading me homeward by the more circuitous
road which wound first by the holy well. I did not resist the impulse,
but walked musingly onward by the waning twilight, for the day was now
over, until I came to the well. As I emerged from the wood, I started
involuntarily and drew back. A figure, robed from head to foot in a
long sable robe, sat upon the rude seat beside the well; sat so still,
so motionless, that coming upon it abruptly in that strange place, the
heart beat irregularly at an apparition so dark in hue and so death-like
in its repose. The hat, large, broad, and overhanging, which suited the
costume, was lying on the ground; and the face, which inclined upward,