CHAPTER CLI.
[Chapter 159]
THE WATCH BY THE DEAD MAN'S SIDE. —THE DEAD ALIVE. —THE DEATH-STRUGGLE,
AND THE MURDER OF THE MONK.
The monk gazed after Jose for some moments, until he had vanished from
his sight; even then he continued gazing upon the vacant space that he lately
filled, as if meditating in his own mind, and quite unmindful of the present.
At length he turned and gazed upon the clay-cold corse before him.
There it lay in all its hideousness —all its horrible reality. The
slouched hat was knowcked off in the fall, and the face was exposed to view.
"Ave Maria!" muttered the monk, telling his beads. "I never before saw
so unfavourable a looking creature. I pray Heaven he may have been better
favoured in grace than in features—that he may make a better appearance
spiritually than bodily. I would I had had time to speak with him before his
spirit fled, for I misdoubt me much of his salvation—but I will not charge
him with unknown sin."
"That," he muttered, after a pause, "might, indeed, be quite unnecessary,
seeing his appearance and his deeds—at least the only one I know of is of a
like character; were it otherwise, I would be loth to doubt him; but two such
proofs are enough to damn the best spoken-of being in all Christendom."
He paused again; examined the features of the dead man, but could not
appear at all satisfied with the success of his ministry.
"I would sooner have had some poor, but honest corpse to watch by," he
said as he gazed upon the long white visage of the dead man, whose leaden eye
appeared fixed upon him; "I would," he continued, "much sooner have had some
early flower cut down before its prime—I could have wept and prayed for him,
then; but this, alas! was but full-grown iniquity, I strongly fear—it cannot
be otherwise."
The monk sank down upon a tree.
"Alas! what a sinner I am, for uttering such a thought—nay, I am worse
for conceiving such a thought, and expressing it must be heinous. To have
such a one would be to cut off the most worthy, instead of looking at the
destruction of the full grown sinner in all his pride and moral deformity, as
being the full extent of the length he was permitted to go by Devine wisdom
and intelligence. He has filled his measure of iniquity, and the Lord hath
cut him off in the midst of his sins."
The monk now devoutly crosed himself, and muttered several of his Ave
Marias and paternosters, and prayed in bad Latin for some time, nearly an
hour, when he appeared to think he might be indulged in a rest from his
theological labour, and that his mind might refresh itself.
The monk arose and paced about the body for some minutes in solemn and
deep wonder at the place chosen for such a deed.
A number of fresh thoughts now rushed through his mind, as he assigned
all possible motives for the deed that had been done, or attempted to be done;
and, also, for the choice of spot; but this speculation was more curious than
useful.
Time passed by, and the hours rolled on, and darkness came on apace. A
heavy atmosphere seemed to hang over him, and the light gradually faded away,
and the moon showed no light on that night.
"It is dark," muttered the monk, "but the Lord is my light, and darkness
has no fears for me. I am in the discharge of my ministry, and am safe. The
dead man lies quiet and still—no sound comes thence."
He listened, but no sound; not the rustle of a leaf could be heard; not a
breath of air stirred. All was silent and still; no one sound disturbed the
stillness of the night —all was quiet.
"It is a night of death," said the monk to himself —" a night such as
might be supposed to exist if the last man had ceased to live."
There was a weight in the air that appeared stronger, and had an effect
upon the monk, and made a gloomy feeling come over him.
"What ails me?" he said to himself. "I am not strong and confident as I
am wont to be—the reverse; I am doubting, and very sad. Yet why should I be
sad—I, a minister of religion? I, at all times, am prepared to die, or
ought to be.
"And yet there is the clinging after life, as in all; but I am mortal, as
other men are. I have not all the motives for life they have. I am alone in
the world. I am but a pilgrim, whose stay is short, and who leaves behind him
nothing to remember, and no one to remember me. It is better it is so than
otherwise."
The monk paused again, and approached the trunk of the tree, upon which
he sat in deep meditation for more than an hour, without altering his posture,
or uttering a single word. a whole hour passed thus.
"Now," muttered the monk, as if waking up from a profound meditation,
"man is here but in a state of probation. If he were not, what would be the
explanation of the chequered course he runs, what the use of all the various
stages he goes through during a long life, and then to drop into rottenness at
last?"
"Why are we educated and improved, if for any other purpose? Why should
we spend years in improving ourselves, only to be deprived of the jewel at
last, and to have it not only taken, but destroyed.
"No—no; it is for better use."
The monk's mind was evidently disturbed in regard to some speculation
which had been suggested by the solitary moments of his watch. At such times,
all the strange and inquiring thoughts that could be devised by man usually
arise and enter his mind, and strange doubts and fancies will supervene, when
all other thoughts have been banished, and they take their place.
Man's mind is always liable to these fanciful intrusions, and will remain
so, while there is a single important assertion or circumstances existing,
incapable of positive and mathematical demonstration.
When all shall be clear, and when there shall be no longer any play for
the mind —any room for imagination —any possibility of conception left,
then doubt may be cleared up, and an unanimity might be raised upon such a
structure that never would be raised under any other circumstances whatever.
But, as this is not likely to happen, human doubt will exist, more or
less, to all; we shall none of us be freed from that great cause of all the
calamities of races. But to proceed with our narrative.
The monk looked around him. He could, however, see nothing, save the few
trees near him, but beyond that he was unable to see. There was a strong mist
up —one that limited vision, and left no room for any other object to shine
through, and diversify the scene.
"I would," muttered the monk, "that the morning would come. There is no
light; the moon is hidden; no rays penetrate the dense air; and all the while
the air is close and muggy, Not a star out, or luminary visible."
He looked upwards, and found he could see the spot where the moon was
striving to force its rays through some thinner stratum of the clouds; but it
was doubtful, and the monk, of very weariness, began to count his beads and to
repent his paternosters, between whiles and alternately, untill he grew weary.
It wanted yet an hour of midnight, and the night would not be passed for
many hours, and the monk thought that the nights were long.
"It is cold," he muttered; "but yet 'tis not midnight. 'Tis the moisture
with which the air is loaded, and thus it is cool more rapidly than it could
have otherwise happened; but it matters not to me—if I were to lose my life,
I shall only be called home in my minstry; therefore it matters not. I am in
the discharge of my duty, and shall have the reward appropriate to the
service."
A slight breeze sprung up, and in a short time the mist was cleared off,
and not a cloud was to be seen on the horizon.
There might be seen the moon rising slowly and majestically, while a
gentle and diffused light shed its influence throughout the wood. Of course
its direct rays could not enter until it had risen to its full height.
"Ha!" said the monk, "now I shall be relieved of some of the terrors of
my watch; it will cease to be so tedious and so long; but, no matter, I am
content, quite content. Soon I shall be able to see the body, and then I will
close its eyes. I had forgotten to do so before; but it is time enough."
"Pater noster," again began the monk, until he came to the last word, by
which time the light was enough to enable him to discover the body plainly;
then he knelt down by its side to pray, and gazed on its features.
"I see its eyes are glaring wildly—aye, no wonder! no wonder! he met
with a sudden, painful, and violent death.
"Poor erring mortality! what an end to come to; but, alas! what can men
expect? He who lives by the sword will die by the sword."
The monk closed the eyes of the dead man, and pulled the cloak, which lay
open, over him, and then leaned back against a tree, and shut his eyes for a
moment; but they did not remain long shut, for some fancied noise drew him out
of a train of speculation he was indulging in.
"He moves not!" he muttered.
However, he knelt down by the side of the body, and began to repeat his
paternoster again, and for a few moments shut his eyes, as if he had no
service for them, and continued his prayers without intermission.
The moon's rays now came with their full effulgence, and the forest
appeared like some enormous piece of lattice work; for the moon's rays were
able to penetrate the leaves and branches of many of the trees.
The moonbeams at length fell upon the body of the dead man, and he got
slowly up until he rested on his elbow with his face towards the moon; and the
monk, who yet remained kneeling, was still praying with his eyes wholly shut.
"Ha!" groaned the stranger.
The monk stopped in his prayer, started, and opened his eyes, which were
fixed, in an extremity of terror and horror, upon the apparition before him —
he was entranced, and had no power to remove his eyes.
"Ha!" said the figure, slowly rising to a sitting posture, but, at the
same time, immediately facing the unfortunate and wretched monk, who was
prostrated by fear.
"Ha!" groaned the figure, by a strange effort.
"My God—my God!" exclaimed the monk, save me—save me!"
He endeavoured to rise, but shook so much he could not do it, for the
figure kept its horrible eye fixed upon him, and he shook violently; but after
a while he contrived to say, scarcely audible though,
"Avaunt, Satan, I command thee."
The figure heeded it not, but took some ominous proceedings, by laying
its hands upon the monk's shoulder; but this had the effect of releasing him
from his spell, and he sprang to his feet, exclaiming, —
"The Lord of Hosts aid me!"
The figure replied not, but rising without taking his hand off, a deadly
struggle ensued between the two, which lasted some minutes. The monk, being
driven desperate, resisted with great strength; but he had one to deal with,
whose strength was far beyond his, and he felt himself gradually sinking,
till, after another effort, which ended in a wild shriek, he was forced on his
knees.
In this posture the strange man seized him by the throat, which he
compressed, and thrust his knees into his chest, until the unfortunate and
wretched man was quite dead and senseless.
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