clock a small door, from within which the sounds that alarmed me
proceeded. I had no scruple in opening it, and found myself in the
Hermit's sleeping chamber,--a small dark room, where, upon a straw
pallet, lay the wretched occupant in a state of frantic delirium. I
stood mute and horror-struck, while his exclamations of frenzy burst
upon my ear.

"There--there!" he cried, "I have struck thee to the heart, and now
I will kneel, and kiss those white lips, and bathe my hands in that
blood! Ha!--do I hate thee?--hate--ay--hate,--abhor, detest! Have
you the beads there?--let me tell them. Yes, I will go to the
confessional--confess?--No, no--all the priests in the world could
not lift up a soul so heavy with guilt. Help--help--help! I am
falling--falling--there is the pit, and the fire, and the devils!
Do you hear them laugh?--I can laugh too!--ha! ha! ha! Hush, I have
written it all out, in a fair hand; he shall read it; and then, O God!
what curses he will heap upon my head! Blessed Saint Francis, hear me!
Lazarus, Lazarus, speak for me!"

Thus did the Hermit rave, while my flesh crept to hear him. I stood by
his bedside, and called on him, but he neither heard nor saw me. Upon
the ground, by the bed's head, as if it had dropped from under the
pillow, was a packet seated and directed to myself. I knew the
handwriting at a glance, even though the letters were blotted and
irregular, and possibly traced in the first moment that his present
curse fell upon the writer. I placed the packet in my bosom; the Hermit
saw not the motion; he lay back on the bed, seemingly in utter
exhaustion. I turned away, and hastened to the monastery for
assistance. As I hurried through the passage, the Hermit's shrieks
again broke upon me, with a fiercer vehemence than before. I flew from