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this our comfortable resting-place! Dost thou dread the lightning, holy father ?”

"I prithee peace, sirrah : trouble me not with thy malapert questions. Rathet sit thee down within there, and go to sleep," replied the monk, sternly. “ If it please

reverence, I have but aroused a little while from my nap-and even then an unmannerly peal o' thunder awoke me. But I can tell thee o' something that will comfort thy soul : ay, in sooth, it will comfort thy soul.”

“Out with it, then !” said the monk, looking negligently over his shoulder.

"Body and soul be sworn brothers--charissimi fratres, as saith one of the fathers, if it please thy rever, ence to recollect. Sith it so stand, it follows that they have all things in common. When one is griped, and pinched, why so is the other, as it were. Thy mind is now disquieted, after a certain sort; and by close examination thereof, according to the command of the holy church—but thou rememberêst what Father Ambrose saith

'Sint pura cordis intima
Absistat et vecordiâ'-

I found that it was not disquieted because of aught evil in itself, (blessed be the mother of God :) but purely because the body is wanting in due and fitting nourishment: the stomach-the stomach—hem, hem.”

“Out on thy drivelling! What wouldst thou say to

me ?"

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Marry, that I have an excellent mutton pasty within here, which a certain pious damsel gave me this morning for absolution from an unspeakable thing. Doubtless thout wilt fall to, and partake thereof."

“ 'Thou fat old dotard !” exclaimed the monk, turning his back on him angrily.

Nevertheless, I feel a certain craving after food, which must be satisfied. Doubtless when the savoury smell of my pasty ascendeth to thy nostrils, thou wilt

be of other mind than thou art now, for thou hast travelled far to-day,” replied the good friar; and drawing a small knife from his vest, which seemed always ready on such occasions, he cut out a large piece, which he immediately began to eat, with great zest, and in si. lence. For some moments the monk stood gazing on the storm, which yet raged with unabated violence ; but at last, it seemed that the prediction of his.companion was verified, for he turned slowly round and seated himself within the cavern.

“ An thou likest, thou mayst portion me out a morsel, for I wax something faint with travelling, and a long fast. I have that to do which doth not admit of weakness-else I had vowed not to eat till" He broke off suddenly, and a gloomy pause ensued.

Surely the damsel from whose fair hands did come this pasty, is blessed with excellent skill in the fashioning of pasties," said the friar, handing a slice to the monk, who ate a few mouthfuls in silence. At length he flung down the remainder, with violence.

“ Sancta Maria ! doth it not suit thy palate ? Is it seasoned too highly ?” inquired the astonished friar. “ Thou couldst not have done more, an it had been poisoned—which our blessed Lady forbid, for I have eaten a reasonable quantity !” he continued, passing his hands over his protuberant paunch, and looking rather alarmed. The monk, evidently striving to conceal from his companion his great perturbation, stammered confusedly, as a reason for his strange conduct,

" Carnis terat superbia
Potûs cibique parcitas.

“ Dost not thou know what that meaneth, thou that art gorging like a hog beneath an oak tree? I will taste no more o' thy vile dainties.”

He seemed fearfully agitated. He quivered from head to foot: and glared so wildly around him that the friar, terrified by his vehemence, and apprehending that a long fast had somewhat deranged him, pulled out

a small flask of wine, and offered it to him : he drained it off at a draught.

“Was that blood thou gavest me?" inquired the monk, in a hollow tone, fixing an appalling stare on the affrighted friar.

“Blood ?-blood ? Holy St. Becket! Why should I give thee blood? Thou ravest! Thou art certainly ill! Look at this holy wood, father, and be blessed!" and he held before him a small crucifix.

“ Ha!" exclaimed the monk, with a long shuddering gasp, gazing on the crucifix with a bursting eye. He suddenly snatched it from the trembling grasp of the friar, and dashed it into fragments upon the stone floor.

“ Sancta—sanctissima Maria! Henceforth a curse clingeth to thee for ever!” screamed the astonished friar, as the monk darted from the cavern, and staggered to the mound where he had previously stood. He shook himself violently, as though he had been flinging off the coils of a serpent, pressed his hands to his forehead, and gazed upward with an eye quivering with agony and despair. He turned round with sudden calmness. He seemed with a gigantic effort to have allayed his terrible excitement. He walked slowly to the cave, at the entrance of which stood the pale and agitated friar, rapidly counting his beads.

“ Go thou within, Father Gootle ; I have somewhat for thy ear.”

“ How shall I sit near one who hath broken and despised the blessed cross !" inquired the trembling friar. A look from the monk silenced his scruples, and he obeyed. The monk seated himself opposite to him.

"Dost thou remember," he resumed, solemnly, laying his cold hands on those of the friar; “ dost thou renember San Marco ?"

The shuddering friar made no reply.

“ I see thou dost,” continued the monk, gloomily; “ but why art thou so startled ? Dost thou remember in the inner court of the abbey, in the still of the eve

ning, what words they were which I spoke to thee? What I said about England-about Cheshire ?"

Holy father, I pray thee, take off from me thy burning eye! Thy fiendish stare hath maddened me. Help; I faint !"

Weak fool!” exclaimed the monk, as he supported him till he recovered.

• Father Gootle! I ask thee, dost thou remember the word which I whispered in thine ear, when the bell rung to vespers ?"

"I do! I do!” replied the friar, gasping with terror.

“ That word hath brought me from Italy to England, although thou thoughtst I was intrusted on an errand. of state to Cardinal Superbè. That word hath been my support amid troubles and sorrows unutterable. That word hath been to me for breath and for food. That word hath made me to laugh at the grave.”.

“And that word will be thy passport to hell!" replied the friar, vehemently.

Hell !ejaculated the monk, with a bitter smile. “Now, father, do thou mark me, and mind me. to do a deed, which neither thou nor any other man must see. Stay thou within this cavern until I return, or thy blood be on thine own head. An thou stirrest beyond these two trees till I return--by the cross which I brake, but this is thy grave !" said the monk, in a voice of thunder.

The friar fell on his knees, and clasped his hands in speechless agony.

66 What meanest thou? What wouldst thou ?" inquired the monk, sternly.

By thy hopes of heaven, do not this dark and bloody deed!"

“ Thou mayst cease thine entreaties, father. Can the stamp of a foot crumble yon mountains into dust? Then may thine entreaties melt the rock of my resolution. I tell thee I shall have my revenge, an there be truth in heaven or in hell. Once again I warn thee,

I go

66

if thou leavest till I return, I will slay thy body, and curse thy soul for ever, an it were in my power.'

With these words he left the cave, and Father Gootle more dead than alive. He strode rapidly to the mound he had previously occupied. The armies of the storm had furled their flags, and left the sky to the brief but serene dominion of the setting sun. Purple-tinged clouds floated around him in dim pomp and shadowy magnificence. The freshly laved trees glowed in his soft lustre ; and the winds swept through their foliage, as though they chanted the faint and mournful requiem of the departing day. The scene was delightfully tranquil; but not so he whose eye dilated upon it with sullen indifference.

The monk frequently cast his eye towards a grove of silvery sycamores, round which wound a circuitous pathway leading to Wrexham, as though anxiously waiting the approach of an expected passenger. He often muttered to himself, “ When will he come? What an, after all, I am misled? But, lo! there he cometh! ay, he cometh! Why doth my blood stand still, and why mine eyes grow dim? What meaneth this sickness? this deadly faintness at the heart? Hold! an it fail me now, so shall

my

life!" He drew his cowl over his face, and began to walk around, in a thoughtful mood, so that he might be speedily overtaken by the horseman who followed. It was an elderly man who rode on a large white horse. He was dressed in a long buff tunic, somewhat the worse for wear, with a broad leather band buckled round his waist, and had on a coarse thrum bonnet. Covetousness and rapacity seemed to twinkle in his keen, deep-set, gray eyes, and to be stamped upon every feature of his countenance ; and a dirty-grayish, straggling beard attached to his peaked chin, gave a perfect idea of a miser. He rode at a leisurely pace, and soon overtook the monk, who walked on with his chin inclined on his hand, in a posture of deep thoughtfulness.

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