arm more vehemently, "You speak my own sorrows; you utter my own curse;
I will see you again; you may do my last will better than yon monks.
Can I trust you? If you have in truth known misfortune, I will! I will!
yea, even to the outpouring--merciful, merciful God, what would I
say,--what would I reveal!"

Suddenly changing his voice, he released me, and said, touching his
forehead with a meaning gesture and a quiet smile, "You say you are my
rival in pain. Have you ever known the rage and despair of the heart
mount /here/? It is a wonderful thing to be calm as I am now, when that
rising makes itself felt in fire and torture!"

"If there be aught, Father, which a man who cares not what country he
visit, or what deed--so it be not of guilt or shame--he commit, can do
towards the quiet of your soul, say it, and I will attempt your will."

"You are kind, my Son," said the Hermit, resuming his first melancholy
and dignified composure of mien and bearing; "and there is something in
your voice which seems to me like a tone that I have heard in youth. Do
you live near at hand?"

"In the valley, about four miles hence; I am, like yourself, a fugitive
from the world."

"Come to me then to-morrow at eve; to-morrow! No, that is a holy eve,
and I must keep it with scourge and prayer. The next at sunset. I shall
be collected then, and I would fain know more of you than I do. Bless
you, my Son; adieu."

"Yet stay, Father, may I not conduct you home?"