graceful foliage with myrtles rich in the contrast of their dark green leaves and countless multitude of showy flowers. Amidst them rose an ancient building, a church dedicated, as I afterwards learned, to our blessed Lady of Mercy. A fountain, bright as the "diamond of the desert" sprang up close at my feet, and like the guardian genius of its clear cold waters, an old grey cross had been raised beside them. It was very old, part of it had already crumbled into dust, and among these fallen stones a rose had grown, and was blooming brightly above its ruins. Fitting type, I thought, of the hope which Christians hold, and which blooms the brightest amid the ruins of the tomb.

The sun was bright in the heavens, the air was full of sweetness and of balm, not a leaflet stirred, not a blossom fell from the heavy boughs, the very voice of the fountain came in a lazy murmur to the ear, as if it also shared in the calm of that noontide hour. While I paused near the old cross, and loved the piety which had placed it among the beautiful works of the Almighty, I saw an old man approach it, whom I instantly recognised as my friend father Francis. He looked around, --there was no one in sight, for the dark boughs of an ilex hid me from view, and he knelt before the cross. At that moment, the bells of the neighbouring church tolled out the Angelus. Involuntarily I held my breath, for the sweet sounds lingered for a moment on the air, as if held there by some invisible sympathy, and gave the last link to the spell that bound me. By an unconscious movement of the soul, I turned to the old grey cross to pray; and there was the old man prostrate on his face, while in the stillness of that still hour his stifled sobs reached my ear as I stood, the unbidden witness of his secret sorrow. I know not how long I stood gazing on the form of that woe-worn man. It might have been a minute, it might have been an hour; I had no note of time; my thoughts were half in Heaven, where time is not, half with that poor wretch, whose woe was so deep it might have been deemed despair, save for the hopeful glance which he gave to Heaven, save for the blooming of that solitary rose, which shed its beauty and fragrance above his old grey hairs; suggesting sweet thoughts of that crown of immortal bliss which Angels love to weave for the brows of repenting sinners, and which might one day encircle that head, now humbled to the dust in sorrow and shame.

At last, he rose and heart-stricken as he seemed to be, there was yet a look of peace in his eyes of which the purest of earth's creatures might have envied him the possession. He sat down upon a stone and bent to the fragrance of the rose, and then I ventured from my con

cealment and advanced to greet him. He seemed surprised to see me there, and then he spoke of the beauties of that lovely spot, and I told him how sweet had been my feelings during the tolling of the Angelus. His answer suggested some of the reflections with which I began this tale.

"Yes," he said, "in this happy country, religion is everywhere. It is not a business set apart for any particular day,-it mingles in the toil of every hour,-it is, as it ought to be, a part of the daily occupations of life. The peasant sanctifies the day in church, before he applies to his daily task; the bells remind him to pause in his noontide labour for one short moment of fervent prayer; and when he goes to his humble home, and sits to partake of his evening meal, the Angelus is rung once more, and he thanks GOD for the favours of the day, and implores His protection during the hours of the night. How often throughout the day, do the convent bells remind him that others have devoted their lives to prayer, and incite him to lift up his heart in secret to GOD. Should he wake in the night, often the tinkle of the bell tells him that the blessed Sacrament is being brought to some departing brother, thus reminding him of his own mortality, and of the hopes that await him beyond the grave. Does he climb to the mountains? On some spot that almost seems inaccessible to the foot of man, he meets the holy symbol of his redemption, or the form of that sweet Virgin Mother, who is the successful advocate for all who implore her aid with her Son. Does he descend to the plain? In the fertile valley, where the flowers bloom wild, and the trees are borne down by their weight of fruit, he finds once more the Cross of his Saviour, the statue of the Mother who stood at its foot. In the one case, he is admonished to thank GOD for his mercies, in the other to implore His protection from danger."

"Yet how few people think upon these Crosses as other than a picturesque addition to the landscape; or upon the rude statues and pictures that we meet, as anything but a disgusting attempt to pourtray the human form and, alas! how many make them the subject of an accusation of idolatry against the Catholic Church."

"You are wrong," he answered quietly. "I owe my holy profession to a most rude representation of the crucifixion; and not a peasant but bares his head as he passes this Cross. And for your other apprehension, the day has gone by when such tales were believed; and no person thinking seriously on the subject, will ever confound the honour

that we pay to the Cross, to the images of the Madonna, or of the Saints, with the homage which we render alone to GOD."

Seeing that my curiosity was roused, the good father added:

"In a moment of despairing crime, I once found myself at the foot of a Cross, and was awed into almost instantaneous repentance. In your cold, Protestant England, I am told, I should have been more likely to have found myself at the foot of a finger-post to point out the road,—a very useful thing in its way, certainly," he added with a quiet smile which had something of satire in it, "but rather less calculated, I should imagine, to lead the soul from the contemplation of crime to resolutions of penance. Yet your people object to all representation of the GOD-man, while they erect in high places the statues of their kings and great men. Strange inconsistency of human nature! They honour the effigy of the monarch, and turn aside in disgust from the figure of the Saviour!"

"Cold, Protestant England" was not my country, but I only answered,

"If you would honour me by your confidence,”

"But if you

"I have but little to tell," he answered, with a smile. have any curiosity you shall hear my story. By a series of unforeseen events, my family was reduced to poverty, and a rich relation refusing to assist us, my sister and myself retired to a little cottage among the mountains, and there we lived for some time humbly, but contentedly. I was by nature passionate and proud; she was, in some things, of the same disposition, but all the young fervour of her feelings had been long engaged in the service of religion. Mine had been suffered to run riot among the hopes and wishes of this world. She had resolved to end her life in the cloister. I was engaged to marry one too good and pure for such a wretch as I was. The convent to which my sister retired was not far distant, and after she had been there some time, she became so delicate that she was obliged to return to her old home for change of air. She laid aside her convent dress, but still retained the Cross and veil. The people knew her by her charities, and she was revered as an Angel dedicated to the service of the Most High. Time passed away in a few days I was to be married, and then Bianca was to return to her convent, and her old place to be filled up by the presence of my bride. A few days,—but a few days more, and then how different had been our fate. Blessed be GOD for all his mercies, and chiefly for this one by which my crime was pardoned, and by which the gift of a religious life was conferred upon me, the most

unworthy that ever was called to its sacred duties! It was a festal day; my sister, as was usual with her, remained at home, but I went forth to meet my fair Benita.

"I will not trouble you with a history of my wretched deeds that day :-It is enough to say I grew jealous, quarrelled, red blood was on my hand,—I fled to the mountains, and three days afterwards stood before my innocent sister, one of a band of desperate men, outlawed from society for crimes like my own. We had not a thought concealed from each other; and in a few minutes I had told her all;-of my fatal jealousy, of my desperate deed, of my fearful companionship with men yet more wicked than myself. And in the midst of my wild confession, came words of madness wrung from the repentant agony of my soul, words which were full of sweetness to her, for they revealed the workings of a mind that yet shrunk from the contemplation of the gulf into which it had plunged headlong. I was a desperate man that night, else how could I have resisted the tears and solicitations of one whom I loved with a holier love than I bore my bride. In vain, Bianca wept and prayed, appealed by turns to my love for her, and my hopes of forgiveness through the mercies of my Saviour; I was obdurate, too weak to cast off my fetters, and too strong not to detest them. The sun went down over the hills, and still Bianca wept and prayed. The first star of the night appeared; it was the signal for my departure. I flung my arms round the weeping girl, pressed her once more madly to my heart, and rushed forth on my destiny.

"That night, my career of iniquity was to begin. The robbers had seen me desperate; they judged me hardened as themselves; and while they unfolded their schemes to me, they guessed not the remorse that was gnawing my heart. The wickedness shocked, the cruelty revolted me. This was no scheme of romantic enterprise, such as had often fired my young blood in the bare recital,-no attack on armed men, where the iniquity is lost sight of in the boldness of the deed. The victims of the night were an old man and his child, with a few attendants, unarmed and rich. My soul shuddered within me as I heard them thus remorselessly doom to murder the helplessness of one sex, the feeble years of another. My task was an easy one. I was to take post on a spot which commanded the path, and to give a preconcerted signal of the approach of the victims. They left me alone. It was a wild and solitary spot. Not a tree was to be seen for miles around; but low brushwood and jutting rocks gave ample shelter to the demons with whom I was leagued. I sat myself down; and covering my face

VOL. II.

8

with my hands (those guilty hands which were stained with the blood of a fellow-creature), I gave myself up to the torrent of thought that rushed through my brain. One hour passed away-I thought not that it had been so much. Darkness covered all things over; not a breath disturbed the stillness that reigned on the hills, and never did spot seem so deserted as that one. Yet I knew that not very far off were ambushed men about to imbrue their hands in the guilt of blood. The silence grew oppressive. I became fearfully excited, -I fancied demons were whispering in my ear, inciting me on to murder. My brain began to burn, the very air seemed full of flame,-I even thought I could distinctly hear the suppressed breathing of the distant gang, and their cautious tread among the rustling bushes. Do what I would, my thoughts would rush back to the home I had left, to the sister I had forsaken. I lived over and over again the agony of the last few days. What had I been ?-my soul seemed to ask in its agony; and what am I now? Then it was that a figure seemed to rise between me and the dark blue skies, and the faint moon fell upon his cold impassive face, and I knew the man I had murdered, and his look said plainly as words could say, 'THOU ART A MURDERER.' And they pierced through and through to my inmost soul, and I believe I cried out in my anguish, for I knew that his words were true, and that henceforth I must wander among my fellow-men with the mark of Cain stamped upon my brow. I flung myself on the ground; I rolled in an agony of despair in the dust; I tried to shut out the horrid vision with my hands, but there it was, still mocking my terror with its still cold look of woe, and' Murderer, MurderER,' seemed written in characters of fire on my brain. I would have left the fatal spot, but fear paralized my limbs ; I would have blasphemed in my agony, but an invisible power seemed to freeze the words on my lips; self-destruction seemed my only chance of escape from the horrors of remorse ;-I fumbled for a knife which I ever carried about me. Lady, at that very instant, when I stood upon the verge of eternal damnation, the sweet sounds of a bell stealing along the wasted hills fell on my ear, and, like oil upon the troubled waters, soothed my soul to a sudden calm. I began to breathe more freely, the form of my victim seemed to fade from before me, I ventured to look up, and what a sight did my eyes behold! A tall Cross, lifting its arms towards heaven, as if demanding mercy for the wretch who had unconsciously crouched at its feet. A Cross!—and upon it the form of the crucified GOD. In one moment I was clasping its foot. What was it to me that the Cross was rude, the figure barely recogni