rosary, his eyes were fixed upon the walls where was depicted the
Dance of Death. In terrible repetition, the artist had aimed at
depicting every rank or class in life as alike the prey of the
grisly phantom. Triple-crowned pope, scarlet-hatted cardinal,
mitred prelate, priests, monks, and friars of every degree;
emperors, kings, princes, nobles, knights, squires, yeomen, every
sort of trade, soldiers of all kinds, beggars, even thieves and
murderers, and, in like manner, ladies of every degree, from the
queen and the abbess, down to the starving beggar, were each
represented as grappled with, and carried off by the crowned
skeleton. There was no truckling to greatness. The bishop and
abbot writhed and struggled in the grasp of Death, while the miser
clutched at his gold, and if there were some nuns, and some poor
ploughmen who willingly clasped his bony fingers and obeyed his
summons joyfully, there were countesses and prioresses who tried to
beat him off, or implored him to wait. The infant smiled in his
arms, but the middle-aged fought against his scythe.

The contemplation had a most depressing effect on the boy, whose
heart was still sore for his father. After the sudden shock of such
a loss, the monotonous repetition of the snatching away of all
alike, in the midst of their characteristic worldly employments, and
the anguish and hopeless resistance of most of them, struck him to
the heart. He moved between each bead to a fresh group; staring at
it with fixed gaze, while his lips moved in the unconscious hope of
something consoling; till at last, hearing some uncontrollable sobs,
Tibble Steelman rose and found him crouching rather than kneeling
before the figure of an emaciated hermit, who was greeting the
summons of the King of Terrors, with crucifix pressed to his breast,
rapt countenance and outstretched arms, seeing only the Angel who