University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
THE MONK.

The bells of a ruined monastery in the vale of
Chaudiere were chiming the hour of evening service
at the close of a cold windy day in the month
of November, seventeen hundred and seventy-five,
when a single traveller, in the garb of a Roman
Catholic priest, appeared on the skirts of a forest,
that, sacred from the invading ploughshare or the
axe of the woodman, stretched many leagues into
the province of Maine. His steps were slow and
heavy, as if he had travelled many a weary mile
of the vast wilderness behind him; and, when the
north wind howled at intervals through the wood,
he drew his garment still closer about his person,
and bore himself with a sturdier step; but, nevertheless,
his slight frame and vacillating limbs did
not promise to withstand for a much longer space
such rude assaults.

Although faint with fasting and toilworn with
long travel, yet the sound of the convent bell, as it
swept past him on the wind, infused additional
vigour into his limbs; and roused to renewed exertions,
with an exclamation of joy he hastened
forward to a slight eminence which rose in his
path. From its summit he beheld a prospect that
fully rewarded him for all the hardships he had endured
in his lonely pilgrimage through the wilderness.
Beneath him lay a secluded and pleasant
valley, about a league in breadth, guarded from the
wintry winds that swept the highlands, by a
chain of hills, wooded to their tops with forest trees,
the lingering foilage of which was dyed with every
hue of the rainbow. Through its bosom the
Chaudiere flowed, in a thousand romantic windings,
towards a scarcely visible opening in the range
of hills to the north, through which to pour its tributary
waters into the St. Lawrence.

Leaning on his staff, his eyes expressive of that
delight experienced by the true admirer of Nature
when contemplating her lovelier features, he lingered
a moment to trace the graceful meanderings
of the river, now wheeling peacefully around the
base of the hill on which he stood, its glassy breast
unruffled by the slightest zephyr; now gurgling
and rippling among protruding rocks, and now
rushing with velocity to the brink of a precipice,
then, with a roar that rose distinctly to his ears,
plunging into a foaming basin, from which ascended
a cloud of snowy vapour, catching from the
beams of the setting sun, as it sailed above the valley,
a thousand brilliant and varied hues. Again
his eye would follow it, gliding with the stillness
of a lake into the depths of a forest, in the recesses
of which it was lost to the sight until it reappeared
in a glen full half a league beyond, through

which it rushed in a hundred cascades brilliantly
white with foam and dancing spray; then, separating
in a broader part of the valley, it formed numerous
verdant islands, rich in summer with the
greenest verdure, and clothed with woods so ornamentally
disposed in clumps and groves by the
hand of Nature, that art would have diminished
rather than added to their picturesque beauty. On
one of these islands, either of which the father of
poetry might have chosen for the abode of Calypso,
the traveller discovered the convent, whose vesper-bell—the
harbinger of civilization to his ears—
had infused new vigour into his frame. Besides
this edifice, a few peasants' cottages sprinkled here
and there through the valley, and surrounded by
small enclosures of cultivated ground, the harvests
long since gathered, were the only indications to
him of the presence of fellow-beings.

After gazing, until twilight rendered distant objects
dim and uncertain, upon the scene so unexpectedly
presented to his eyes, long familiar only
with the gloomy grandeur of pathless forests, occasionally
relieved by the hut of their savage denizen,
the traveller gathered the folds of his robe
beneath his belt, and grasped his staff resolutely;
then for a moment fixing his eyes upon the towers
of the island convent as the last chime of the bells
ceased to echo among the hills, he said, as he prepared
to descend a rude path, if the scarcely visible
track left by the hunter or beasts of prey may
thus be denominated,

“There shall I find what I most need, a night's
repose; and, if all tales be true, good and substantial
cheer withal; for the reverend fathers, while
they have cure of the souls of their flocks, are not
wont to neglect their own bodily comforts.”

Thus speaking, he set forward with an active

step, and, following the precipitous path down the
face of the hill, after a perilous and rapid descent
gained the river at a point where it was confined
in a deep channel by rugged cliffs. Entering a
sheep-track on the verge of the tumultuous stream,
he walked vigorously on, at one time descending
precipices, at another crossing intervals strewn
with autumnal leaves, with the river, broken from
its confinement, gliding noiselessly by within reach
of his staff. At length he entered the wood in
which the stream had become lost to his eye from
the brow of the hill; and as the twilight was fast
thickening into night, he quickened his pace and
traversed its gloomy labyrinths at a rate his former
apparent fatigue did not by any means prom
ise. As he emerged into the open valley through
which the river flowed, studded with islands, the
tower of the convent was visible half a mile distant,
with a light faintly glimmering in one of its windows.
The path was now more trodden, and the
signs of careful husbandry were visible around him.
Passing through a narrow lane bounded by evergreen
hedges, a few minutes' walk conducted him
to a peasant's cot, situated on the banks of the
river, and nearly opposite the monastery. He
paused a moment in the shadow of a tree which
cast its branches over the roof, and surveyed the
humble dwelling.

It was one story high, constructed of wood,
neatly whitewashed, and, like most Canadian houses
of the class, with a single chimney rising in the
centre. A garden adjoined it, and, although not
arranged with horticultural precision, it appeared to
have abounded, during the proper season, with
every variety of fruit and culinary vegetable peculiar
to the climate; while here and there a small
cluster of flowers, and the further display of floral

taste in the ornamental appendages of one or two
vases placed on an humble portico before the door,
betrayed the presence of a passion usually found
alone in higher walks of life, but which is a natural
attribute of the lighthearted and romantic peasantry
of the Canadian valleys. A bright fire blazed in
the huge stone chimney, shedding its cheerful light
throughout the apartment, and flashing, at intervals,
through the window upon the person of the traveller.
A young and very handsome female was arranging
a small round table in the centre of the
room for the evening meal, while three or four ruddy-cheeked
boys, with one little girl, were watching
with very decided infantile epicureanism the tedious
process of the baking of half a score of brown
cakes on a griddle. The table, with its snowy
cloth, the shining dresser, the well-scoured white
floor, and a certain tidy air reigning over the whole
interior of the cottage, combined with the picturesque
mantelet and gay headdress, à la Fran
çaise, of the female, with the group of children,
decreasing, from the eldest progressively downward,
half a head in height, showed, altogether, the happy
mother, the conscious beauty, and the frugal
housewife.

The traveller sighed as he gazed on this humble
scene of domestic happiness. “Here, at least, is
the abode of peace and contentment, if such there
be on earth,” he said, half aloud; “the voice of
criminal ambition never reaches this happy threshold.
Alike ignorant of the vices and pleasures of
the world, the highest aim of its inmates is faithfully
to fulfil their duty to God and their neighbour.
Their errors are those of thought rather
than of action. Never tempted, they are guiltless.
With light hearts and clear consciences they enjoy
the present with thankfulness, and look to the

future without dread. Why is my destiny so opposite?
Why am I tortured with ambitious aspirations,
and mocked, sleeping and waking, with visions
of power and empire, which, when I would
grasp them, elude me? Delusive temptations,
pointing me to the temple's pinnacle that my fall
may be far and sure! But, stand or fall, I must
fulfil my destiny, and obey that restless spirit within
which bids me onward. But, alas! high as I
may climb, the time may come when, perchance,
I shall sigh to exchange lots with the veriest hind
that ever whistled behind a plough.”

His half-spoken thoughts were interrupted by a
footstep approaching from behind, and a manly
voice at the same time saluting him respectfully
in the Canadian patois.

“Good even, father! Thou art somewhat late
to cross the water to-night. St. Claude locks fast
at vespers, and no key but a golden one, which seldom
hangs at a priest's girdle, can turn back her
rusty bolt till the third cock-crowing.”

The monk started slightly at the unexpected
presence and address of the speaker, and then
courteously replied to his salutation, at the same
time fixing his eyes upon him with a keen and
searching glance, as if he would read the inner
man by his outward seeming.

This second individual, who was now visible by
the light which shone brightly through the cottage
window full upon his person, was tall and finely
moulded, and clothed in the ordinary dress of the
Canadian peasant. This consisted of a gray capote,
or loose surtout, reaching to the knee, confined at
the waist by a gay sash of mingled green and scarlet
colours, and closely buttoned to the throat, exposing
to advantage the breadth and massive proportions
of his chest. His head was surmounted

by the bonnet bleu, which he wore with a jaunting
air, and moccasins of undressed moose-hide covered
his feet. A short French fowlingpiece, that
he carried carelessly in one hand, a string of wild
game held in the other, and a large brown dog of
the Newfoundland breed, which followed at his
heels, completed the sum of his attendants, equipments,
and costume.

“The holy fathers are at their supper now,”
continued the peasant, “and old Homfroy careth
little to leave his snug chimney side to open gates
after the stars begin to twinkle. Jaquette, I see,
by the bright blaze on the hearth, has spread the
table. So enter, good father, and bless my roof
and grace my board, though it will ill compare
with that of thy refectory. Nevertheless, it shall
ne'er be said habitan François Benoît let vicaire
or novice pass his door or sail his ferry without
first blessing and breaking bread at his board.
Thou art weary, father; but a comfortable chair,
one of these ducks well broiled, and a cup of Jaquette's
wine, of her own vintage, to moisten it,
will cheer thee up, and make thee lean less heavily
on thy staff.”

“Thank you, thank you, friend; I would say, my
son,” replied the monk, who still retained his original
position beneath the tree; “but time presses,
and I must cross the water before I sleep. I will,
nevertheless, accept your pious offer and taste your
good cheer, for I have travelled far; and afterward,
with what speed you may, ferry me over to yonder
island, if, as I conjecture from its position, it is
where the learned Father Etienne exercises spiritual
control.”

“Then, father,” said the peasant, observing him
more closely, “thou art not of the brotherhood of
St. Claude o' the Island? And, now thou hast not

thy face so muffled in thy cowl, I see thou art a
stranger; for each one of the priests' faces, and
they are few and old, is as well known to me, saving
their reverences, as my own, seeing that I have
pulled an oar face to face with them all, since Jaquette
and I were married, which will be five
years come Michaelmas. But if thou visitest the
monastery and knowst Father Etienne, he will give
thee a good welcome either with Gascon wines or
clerkly Latin, venison steaks or homilies, as will
best chime with thy humour and his own.”

As he finished speaking he advanced to the door
of his dwelling, followed by the monk. They were
met on the threshold by the young wife, who, hearing
the voice of her husband outside, opened it for
the purpose of flying into his arms; for the attitude
in which she was arrested by the sight of the stranger
as she was crossing the threshold, and the conscious
blush which increased her beauty, sufficiently
betrayed this to have been the wifely mode in
which she intended to welcome him home after a
whole day's absence on the hills.

“Sacré Sainte Marie, Jaquette!” exclaimed the
husband, good-humouredly; “be thy wits fled because
a holy priest deigns to bless us with his presence?
Give me a kiss! No? Nay, then, if
thou'rt so coy, wife, before a holy monk, because,
forsooth, he carries youth in his eye, he shall give
thee the kiss of sisterhood which is his right to
bestow.”

“The father, but not thee, François, in such a
presence,” said the blushing dame; and, as she
spoke, she presented, with great simplicity and reverence,
her mantling cheek to the salutation of the
youthful priest, who, apparently surprised, but not
disconcerted, gracefully passed his arm half round
her waist, and, gently drawing her towards him,

pressed, instead, her lips with his own, and with
rather more warmth than beseemed his cloth and
the self-denying vows of his order, enjoining upon
its members to flee oscula mulierum.

“Beshrew me, father,” said the husband, “there
was much unction in that reverend salutation. I
would swear, saving your reverence's presence,
thou wert a Benedictine, and hadst a wife of thine
own to practise on; for, verily, thou bestowest the
kiss of sisterhood with such familiar grace as is
not learned in St. Claude's convent walls at least.”

The monk smiled, and accepted a chair which
his host, while speaking, had placed for him at the
table, already covered with the smoking viands
constituting the usual evening meal. François,
Jaquette, and the little epicures before mentioned,
having also taken their accustomed places, and the
dog seated himself on his haunches by the chair of
the youngest with a wistful look, one of the children,
impatient and hungry, thrust his little fist into
the plate of cakes, when his mother cried out, reprovingly,

“Fy, fy! Martin! Where are the child's manners
and religion! Dost know the holy father has
not yet said grace? Wouldst eat food unblessed
like a wild Indian, child?”

At this hint the child drew back abashed, casting
his eyes obliquely up into the face of the holy
man whose presence had placed such an ill-timed
injunction upon his appetite. The priest himself
appeared suddenly embarrassed; but, after a moment's
pause, and at the request of François that he
would say a grace over their food, he dropped his
face within his cowl and muttered something scarcely
audible; then, patting little Martin on his curly
head, he said, cheerfully,

“Now eat away, my little man; your food is as
holy as words of grace can make it.”

The head and face of the monk, as he sat at the
frugal board of the peasant, with his cowl thrown
back, was, for the first time, plainly visible. His
forehead was high, and cast in an intellectual mould;
the upper portion expressed dignity and firmness,
while the full arched brow indicated a man who
thought much and intensely. It was the forehead
of a scholar. His eyes were black and piercing;
when animated they were full of dark fire, but
when in repose they were softer than the soft eye
of woman. His nose would have been Grecian
but for a slight irregularity, perceptible only in
profile. The nostrils were firm, thin, and remarkable
for dilating with every emotion. His mouth,
when relieved by a smile, wore an expression of
great sweetness, but then a voluptuous repose
dwelt upon his under lip nearly approaching to
sensuality. From the flexibility of his lips, chiselled
with the accuracy of sculpture, and their habitual
contradictory expression—the upper being
short, thin, and curling with sarcasm or pressed
close to the other with determination, the under
round, full, beautifully formed, and glowing with
the passion of the voluptuary—his mouth possessed
the power of expressing, in the superlative degree,
every passion with which he was agitated. It was
beautiful or deformed, as love or hate, scorn or
pity, ruled there in their turns. It might have
been the fairest feature in the face of an angel or
the most fearful in that of a demon. His chin, so
far as it was visible, was full, square, and massive,
without being heavy, and the contour of his face was
slightly angular rather than oval, to which form it
inclined. His hair was dark and abundant; his
complexion a pale olive, but somewhat browned by

recent and unwonted exposure. His person, so
far as it could be seen by the habit he wore, was
slightly but elegantly formed, and rather below
than above the common height. Although redeemed
from effeminacy by the firm mouth and
chin, the manly and strongly intellectual forehead,
and the unsubdued fire of his flashing eyes, his
whole appearance was so youthful that he did not
seem to be more than eighteen years of age,
though closer observation would have made him,
perhaps, two or three years older. His address
was easy, his language pure and elegant, and his
bearing affable and courtly.

The honest peasant having terminated his observations
on the appearance and manners of his guest,
as from time to time he raised his eyes to survey
him during the meal, was so struck with his extreme
youth (which, united with the beauty of his features
and his fine eyes, also made an impression
upon the fair Jaquette deeper than she would have
been willing François should have known) that he
at length felt some curiosity to learn the nature of
the business that called so young a priest into
that remote valley, and especially to the quiet monastery
of St. Claude. But François was born a
degree north of New-England, and suppressed an
inquiry having no better object in view than simply
the gratification of his curiosity. Wishing to
hold, nevertheless, some conversation with his
guest, he laid his spoon beside his thrice-emptied
dish, and reverently, yet with the frank and ingenuous
air, as remote from servility as from forwardness,
characteristic of the Canadian peasant, said,

“Thou hast eaten full fairly, father. My homely
entertainment is but an ill match for an appetite
sharpened on the hills by a north wind, as I wot
thine has been.”

“How know you I am from the hills?” inquired
the monk, eying him fixedly.

“I saw thee coming down the southern ridge a
full half hour ere I met thee. I took thee for an
Indian hunter till thy long robe, blowing out, showed
thee to be a monk. But empty thy cup, father.
Jaquette, fill his reverence's cup. Nay, 'tis but a
mild wine, father, made from the pippin, which we
in the valley call the Chaudiere grape. Never better
was made in la belle France. I have drunk
Muscat, Burgundy, and Tent with old Homfroy, the
porter, a part of the perquisites, as he called it,
from his reverence's table on holydays, and I would
not give one round cup of Jaquette's pippin-wine
for a gross of such as the good fathers drink; Saint
Peter forgive me if I blaspheme in saying so!”

“The pretty Jaquette's wine is doubtless excellent,
worthy François; but wine suits neither my
constitution nor my habits, which are temperate.
Accept my thanks for your hospitality, and, if you
will, this piece of gold; and then take boat with
me, for it is already late, and I have far to travel
on the morrow.”

“Nay, father,” replied the peasant, putting aside
the hand of his guest, “François Benoît never took
money from priest for food or ferriage; freely thou
hast had meat and drink. Leave, then, thy blessing
on my roof, and I will place thee on the island in
the flap of a heron's wing.”

“If, then, worthy François, I may not requite
your hospitality,” said the monk, as the peasant
took his oars from the becket in which they were
used to hang along the ceiling, “my little friend
Martin, in consideration of a certain disappointment
caused by my presence at table, shall take
the coin in token of peace between us.”

As he spoke he placed the piece of gold in the

hands of Martin, bade Jaquette a smiling good-night
(without repeating the sisterly salutation with which
he had first met her), and followed François, who
with difficulty prevented his shaggy Newfoundland
companion from attending him, towards the
beach.

The night was clear and piercingly cold; the
stars sparkled like diamonds through the frosty atmosphere,
and the earth crackled beneath their
feet as they crossed the sward, on which the dew
became hoar as fast as it fell. The river glided
past with noiseless velocity, reflecting the stars in
its black, transparent bosom with wonderful precision.
The skiff, already afloat, was unmoored by
François, who sprung into it, followed by the monk,
and pushed it into the current, the movement producing
a slight decrepitating noise, as if the surface
of the river was already glazed with a thin
stratum of ice, yet so transparent as to be invisible.

“There will be a bridge of ice thrown across
the ferry to-night, father,” said François, bending,
as he spoke, to his slender oar. “If the edge of this
sharp frost don't get blunted before morning, a
pair of skates, with a proper groove and deep in the
iron, will be better for crossing from island to main
than the best wherry, or, for that matter, king's
war-ship, that ever sailed the salt sea. Hola! the
ice crackles under the bows as if we were cutting
through a pane of glass, and the air is as prickly
as if it hailed needles. Thou wilt find Father Etienne's
little closet, where he studies and prays,
with its two stoves, a blessed change from this
biting air. Methinks thou'rt clothed thinly. A good
bear's hide were worth twice thy robe of broadcloth.
Dost not feel the cold, father?” inquired the
talkative François of the silent monk, who sat in
the stern of the boat, wrapped to the eyes in his

cowl and gown, and apparently buried in profound
thought.

“No, my good friend; that is to say, my worthy
son,” he answered; “the night air is indeed piercing,
and my cloth garments but slight protection.
But I am accustomed to exposure, although I may
not boast your Herculean frame; neither have I
been nursed, like yourself, in the lap of a Canadian
winter. The cold increases indeed! A few more
strokes of the oar, François, and we shall reach
the island.”

They were now rapidly approaching a light in
one of the windows of the tower, and the walls of
the monastery, relieved against the sky, became
distinctly visible. Shooting into the dark shadow
of a huge tree overhanging the water, they had
nearly gained the beach, when a second light appeared
in a distant part of the convent, and, at the
same time, a single stroke of a bell rung with a
dull and startling sound from the tower.

“Do you see that light? What means it, Fran
çois?” asked the monk, quickly.

François, who looked one way while he pulled
another, rested on his sculls, and, turning his head,
looked steadily for an instant in the direction of the
convent, and then, resuming his oars, replied, “That
light is in Father Etienne's private chamber, and
the bell is a signal for the brotherhood to retire to
their cells. 'Twill be a hard matter to get admittance
to-night, father. After that light appears
in the window, not a cat moves about the convent
till morning. It burns there all night. His reverence
is a great student, and it hath been rumoured
his head will yet fill a cardinal's red cap. Well,
it's a great thing to be a clerkly scholar, to talk
Latin and Greek like one's mother tongue, and
more blessed to be a holy monk, and better still to

be a cardinal. But, then, my old mother—Heaven
and St. Peter send her sould safe out o' the pains o'
purgatory!—used to tell me that all these had their
troubles, and greater the man greater the sinner.
So I am content to remain simple François Benoît,
husband of Jaquette, and father of four rosy boys
and girls, and ferryman to St. Claude: the Virgin
be thanked for all blessings!”

François devoutly crossed himself as he concluded;
and the boat, at the same time, grating upon
the beach, he sprung out and secured it, saying,

“Here we are, father. I will see thee safe
under old Homfroy's charge, and then hasten back
to Jaquette and the little ones, for the ice will soon
get too stiff for my wherry to cut through.”

They had landed on a gentle slope, beneath a
large oak which far overhung the water, and, as
the monk discovered, directly in front of the principal
entrance to the convent. From the imperfect
survey of the edifice he was enabled to take as he
followed the rapid strides of the athletic waterman
to a wicket constructed in a large double door, or,
more properly, gate of the main building, he saw
that it was a long quadrangular structure of brick,
much dilapidated, with the ornamental superaddition
of an octagonal tower, surmounted by a cross,
rising from the roof at each extremity, both, however,
now falling into ruin. The pile was situated
in the midst of a lawn, surmounted by a natural
park of majestic forest trees, and on the broadest
part of the island, which was, nevertheless, at this
point so contracted that there remained only a narrow
esplanade between it and the river. It was
remarkably destitute of any, even the commonest
architectural ornaments with which the gentry
and better classes in the province were accustomed
at that period to decorate the exterior of

their dwellings. Altogether, it struck the monk
as gloomy and severe in its aspect, and not unsuited
to be the abode of men whose supposed austere
and ascetic habits were in keeping with an exterior
so forbidding.

His observations were at length interrupted by
the voice of François in altercation with the porter
of the convent for admission, while his knuckles,
which he made use of to enforce his appeal, rung
in the elastic atmosphere, as he struck against the
door, like oak ringing upon oak.

“Hoh, Homfroy! Wilt thou not answer? Open,
open! Wouldst thou have a holy father stand the
outer side o' thy gate in an air that would turn each
hair of thy gray beard into an icicle? Open, I say,
thou surly old dog, or, by the head of St. Peter, I
will break down thy wicket with my oars, and then
crack thy sulky pate! It's a priest, I say, a reverend
and holy monk, who craves admittance. If he
don't keep thee back in purgatory a twelvemonth
for every minute thou keepest him without, then
never trust me. Wilt not unbolt, old graybeard?
Open, I say!”

“Chut st, chut st! good François! Have I said
I will not open?” cried the old man at length, in a
cracked and deprecating, yet sufficiently ill-humoured
voice. “I did but stay to don my fur bonnet
and wrap my quilted gown about my old limbs.
The rheumatics are very bad on me o' nights now.
Misericorde! I can catch my death through a
keyhole, and it's a broad door thou wouldst have
me open! Thou art over hasty, lad, thou art over
hasty.”

While speaking he was slowly and reluctantly
undoing the fastenings on the inner side, and, as he
concluded, he turned the lock; then shielding his

shrinking but well-wrapped person behind the half-opened
door, he said hastily,

“Enter, father, enter speedily! Go thy ways,
François,” he added, attempting to close the gate
as the peasant was following the monk, “I will
not move bar nor bolt to let thee out. Then enter,
if thou wilt; but this night, at least, thou shalt not
sleep in thine own couch! Misericorde!” he
groaned, while he busied himself in securing the
door with its heavy chains and bolts, “this doing
and undoing of bolts and bars, these changes from
a warm snug room to the cold air of these wintry
nights, and this handling of cold iron, which sticks
to my fingers and takes the skin off with it! mon
Dieu! 'twill be the death of me. I'll to Father
Etienne this night—yet the passages are somewhat
chilly, and it waxes late—but of a surety will I tomorrow,
and resign the keys of mine office. If I
don't resign while I have the power, grim Death
will soon deprive me of it.”

Thus muttering and croaking, the old porter, himself
not less grim than the personage to whom he applied
this epithet, hobbled back into his domicilium.
This was a little room beside the door, where blazed
a cheerful fire, before which, on a few coals drawn to
the hearth, a posset-dish was set filled with a liquid
preparation, which, judging from the pleasant odour
diffused throughout the apartment, was duly seasoned
with spices. A comfortable, well-stuffed
armchair stood near it, as if the supervisor of the
tempting compound had just deserted it.

The monk and his attendant approached the fire,
the warmth of which both required. Their bodies
were chilled, and their limbs and features partially
benumbed by the intensity of the cold. The old
porter resumed his chair, and had become absorbed
in the posset-dish and its savoury contents, when

the former, having expelled the cold from his limbs,
requested him to inform the Father Etienne that a
stranger from a distant convent desired to see him
on private business of moment.

“François,” said old Homfroy, without looking
up, “that huge carcass of thine is now wellnigh
warmed through. Take, then, this lamp, and go
thou and deliver the father's message; and, peradventure,
thou mayst sleep beneath thine own roof
to-night.”

François took up the lamp with a laugh and left
the apartment. After the lapse of several minutes
he returned, saying that the Father Etienne desired
the stranger should be conducted to his closet.
The monk, who had been traversing the porter's
lodge with impatient strides during his absence,
now followed him with alacrity. He led
the way through a long passage paved with rough
stones, at the extremity of which they ascended a
narrow staircase to a gallery above, lined with
chambers or cells, many of them without doors, and
all apparently deserted. This gallery terminated
in a narrow door giving admission into the southern
tower of the monastery.

“There is the closet, father, where thou wilt
find him thou hast travelled so far to see,” said
François, in a suppressed voice; “knock, and thou
wilt find ready admittance. I will down and try
my wits against old Homfroy's sullenness for a
free passage forth. So I bid thee good-night, father,
and crave thy blessing.” As he spoke he removed
his bonnet and bent on one knee reverently
before the priest.

“Good-night, François, and take my blessing,
such as it is,” said the monk, laying his hand lightly
on the head of the suppliant. Then, abruptly

leaving him, he advanced to the extremity of the
gallery and knocked softly at the door.

“Enter, my son,” answered a deep voice
within.

The monk lifted the latch, and, entering, closed
the door.

François, after seeing the monk disappear within,
hastily descended the stairs and returned to the
porter, whom, after a little parleying, he prevailed
on to undo, for the second time that night, the bolts
and bars, whose every removal, he asseverated, was
an additional nail in his coffin.

“Have thee good-night, honest Homfroy; Jaquette
shall send thee apples for thy next posset,”
said the light-hearted peasant, as he issued from
the portal into the cutting night air.

Homfroy did not hear the latter part of Fran
çois's speech, having, in his terror of the rheumatics,
closed the door upon him before he had well
got over the threshold.

“Have thee good-night, is it?” he growled;
“may the night freeze thee (as it's like to me) if thou
bringest priest or layman more to disturb me after
vesper chime. If I get not the rheumatic twinge in
my left shoulder ere the sun rise, then I may shake
my keys at him with the scythe and hourglass.
This stranger, too,” he continued, placing the keys
in his girdle, “may take it into his head to choose
the frosty sky to ramble abroad in instead of a
warm Christian bed. The saints give him the
mind to stay within till morning. By St. Homfroy!
and that's my patron saint, I'll start bolt nor
bar more to-night if the holy pope himself and all
the cardinals were out crying to get in, or in crying
to get out!—the Virgin defend me that I should
say so!” he ejaculated, in an under tone, devoutly
making the sign of the cross with his keys upon

his breast, over which his long white beard flowed
in venerable profusion. Then re-entering his room,
he shut the door, and once more applied himself to
his posset, which was now poured out into a brown
mug, and standing on a little table drawn before
the fire, ready for that leisurely discussion that
such grateful potations at all times demand.