Body, ungracious to the taste, but salutary in its effect."... Father Betsolin extended the ring he had received from the imagined penitent.. The abbot took it, gazed at it, and instantly his agitation returned: again his cheek mocked the marble's whiteness, and again his lip quivered with labouring emotion. He sank on his knees before the little crucifix which hung at his bed's foot, and unmindful of the presenceof the monk, for many moments continued wrapt in silent communion. Rising with restored composure, he examined the little bauble, and recognised the first pledge of early love, which, in a moment of confiding tenderness, he had placed on the finger of Ermissende: thousand doubts assailed him; and quick investing himself in the serge cloak of 1.5 A his + the Divine Will; but surely," and his clasped hands were raised in pious ap-peal, "those keen, those poignant sensations, which the Creating Hand engendered, are not as symbols of weakness and warring irresolution! Where is the stranger?” again addressing the monk. "In the chapel," replied father Betsolin; I left him at the foot of the confessional, anxiously awaiting your appearance." "Said he no more than Ermissende ?" again demanded the abbot. The monk hesitated Fear not," pursued St. Theodore," fortitude and resolution have conquered. I am prepared to bow to Heaven's decrees-fear not," and he forced a sickly smile V reason admits misfortune a who nped the die i to the clois and in one ocedure was rted retreat the cavern, intment, and d with hope, now picturing is arms-now garb of reli er youth conwoe-her sighs, uctance, subdued wer. Shuddering hes of imagination, t St. Theodore as the emoval, he determined to d accuse him of the ould he penetrate the most his order, he snatched the taper from the hand of father Betsolin, and hastened to the chapel. CHAP. IX. Oh, it is monstrous! monstrous! Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it; ...... I do not shame SHAKESPEARE. To tell what I was, since conversion my So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. SHAKESPEARE. Nor in ceaseless unavailing plaints did Montauban lavish the passing moments -not in the loud burst of unmeaning imprecation, or the deep malignity of revenge: revenge: no, suspicion stamped the die of action-suspicion pointed to the cloistered abbot of Valombre, and in one short hour the plan of procedure was arranged. Flying the deserted retreat of Ermissende, he returned to the cavern, his heart racked with disappointment, and his mind alternately agitated with hope, or depressed with despair; now picturing Ermissende restored to his arms-now decking her in the chilling garb of reli gion, her beauty and her youth condemned to solitude and woe-her sighs, her shrieks, and her reluctance, subdued by the coercion of power. Shuddering at the fearful sketches of imagination, picturing the abbot St. Theodore as the author of her removal, he determined to visit Valombre, and accuse him of the theft. With ease could he penetrate the |