not again, she grew more uneasy from day to day. She sat and read first
the Bible, then the hymn-book, _item_, the history of Dido in _Virgilius_,
or she climbed up the mountain to fetch flowers (likewise sought after the
vein of amber there, but found it not, which shows the cunning and malice
of Satan). I saw this for a while with many sighs, but spake not a word
(for, dear reader, what could I say?) until it grew worse and worse; and
as she now recited her _carmina_ more than ever both at home and abroad, I
feared lest the people should again repute her a witch, and one day I
followed her up the mountain. Well-a-day, she sat on the pile, which still
stood there, but with her face turned towards the sea, reciting the
_versus_ where Dido mounts the funeral pile in order to stab herself for
love of AEneas:--

At trepida et coeptis immanibus effera Dido
Sanguineam volvens aciem, maculisque trementes
Interfusa genas, et pallida morte futura
Interiora domus irrumpit limina et altos
Conscendit furibunda rogos....

When I saw this, and heard how things really stood with her, I was
affrighted beyond measure, and cried, "Mary, my child, what art thou
doing?" She started when she heard my voice, but sat still on the pile,
and answered, as she covered her face with her apron, "Father, I am
burning my heart." I drew near to her and pulled the apron from her face,
saying, "Wilt thou, then, again kill me with grief?" whereupon she covered
her face with her hands, and moaned, "Alas, father, wherefore was I not
burned here? My torment would then have endured but for a moment, but now
it will last as long as I live!" I still did as though I had seen nought,
and said, "Wherefore, dear child, dost thou suffer such torment?"
whereupon she answered, "I have long been ashamed to tell you; for the