ture were wonderfully evident, even to one who had studied every line and curve with passionate devotion.

Remorseful, loving, grieving, Horace lifted the girl from the ground, bathing her temples with water from the fountains, chafing her hands, showering kisses on her eyelids kisses mingled with bitter tears. In all this, how much of strange likeness to a forgotten deed in the past!

'Isola! dear, beloved Isola! speak to me one little word!-tell me that you still live, and forgive me for my sin! Isola! my life, my loved idol, open those glorious eyes on me again, and recal me from the death in which I stand! Dead! dead!-oh, it cannot be that she is dead!'

He bent his head beneath the tempest of love and sorrow that shook him to the heart, and buried his face in the silken mass of raven hair, stanching with kisses the broad deep wound in her forehead from which the blood was still pouring freely.

A small hand pressed his throat; a small lip touched his cheek; a soft voice murmured an incoherent sound; then, with a curse that froze the man's blood in his veins, the girl's tiny fingers seemed to stiffen into an iron grasp, the rose-like lip gnashed a hideous sound, and with a cry like a wounded tiger the teeth of that young Arab girl closed on his cheek.

'Bear my mark to the grave!' she cried to the grave, where I will hunt you! It is my curse, coward murderer, printed on you; and its poison, which will not heal, shall remind you for ever of Isola and your doom!'

She struck him as she passed; then bounded like a lightning-flash from the room. Her opal crescent lay shivered into a thousand atoms, and the band of carbuncles round her throat strewed the floor like scattered seeds.

Horace stood for a moment, paralyzed by the strangeness of what had happened. Then all the past flashed on him; and the hour when he had committed his first wanton murder from passion was linked with this which had witnessed the same spirit, though the result had been different.

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Suddenly the girl's voice sounded again. It seemed now to come from the garden outside the window, and to die away as if she were retreating as she spoke.

'Away, fool!-away! I am weary now, and care nothing for the chase! Away to the darkest nook of earth, where, when the appointed hour has come, I will seek and find you! Hide yourself in the thickest black that night and sin can weave for you, Isola's eyes will pierce through the darkness, and Isola's hand will strike through the defence! Away, for your brief respite! I will hunt my game at my own time!'

The monk looked up as a shadow passed between him and the sun, clouding the book he was reading with the outlines of a human figure

a sight rarely seen in those desolate wilds of Judæa, where the Carmelites had built their convent, and where they seemed to share with the eagles and the lizards only the footholds of their burning rock.

'Good day, father. Have you no welcome for the wanderer ?' said a

plaintive voice; and a young boy knelt, bareheaded, at his feet.

'God's blessing on thee, my son! What dost thou here, child, on the wild rocks of the Carmelite convent? And how hast thou found thy way, young and lonely as thou art ?'

'I came hither, father, drawn by a hidden spirit,' said the boy. I have been singled out for much sorrow, and I came here to expiate my sins and to forget my grief in holiness!'

The monk passed his hand over the boy's bright hair.

'Sins!' he said, mournfully, have these been committed already by thee, too? Ah! my son, kneel down and thank God that thy childish evil has not ripened into manly iniquity-that thou hast built no bridge of crime between thy past and the distant future! A few slight penances will soon remit thy transgressions-a life-long misery may not expiate thine elder's!'

The boy looked up, and a broad flash of impish mischief shone from his eyes as he watched the monk's downcast face. He nestled

U

nearer to him, and stole his hand caressingly within the consecrated palm, and leant against him as a son might rest on his father-saying, in a sweet, low, childish voice which had all the tenderness of a woman in its tones

'But thou art not one of those guilty ones, holy father? Thou hast such steadfast blue eyes, so frank and loving-they do not seem to know what sin or trouble mean!'

Something shook the monk, and brought a crimson flush into his cheek and a glance into his eye that had long been driven thence. His hand burnt beneath the child's touch; yet not all with pleasure; and his heart beat fast, and his temples throbbed, till he himself was startled at the long unused emotion wakened

up.

'My child, judge no man-least of all judge hastily,' he exclaimed. I am young yet in years, but, alas! alas! old in suffering and in guilt.'

And yet I cannot believe it, father,' returned the boy still more caressingly. And thou art young, too? Ah! let me look into thy face, then, if thou art still in the flower of thy days. In my boyish ignorance I fancied that every monk and priest must be venerable and old; it will give me fresh hope if I may look on a brother!'

He sprang up, and with a quick gesture flung back the monk's cowl. A bright red scar burnt on the man's cheek, and the boy's eyes scanned the seam curiously, though furtively. But had the monk seen that malignant glance it would have revealed a secret he little dreamt of now, and might, perhaps, have spared

some sorrow.

Ah! you are young enough to be my brother, then!' he cried, kissing his hand as if in ecstacy; and

I may love you, and hang on you, and trust you more than if you were a pale old man so long since dead to the world of humanity that he had no more sympathy with it! You will let me love you, will you not?' and his voice and accent melted into the most winning tenderness, as he crept closer into his

arms.

not himself explain. He gazed on that upturned face, and searched narrowly every feature; but the boy shook down a clustering mass of sunny hair, and sheltered himself in the shadow.

'You will accept me in the convent, father? You will put me to hard work-yoke my limbs to heavy burdens-lay on my head stern but you will penances; pray for me, father, and with me, too, and help me to win Heaven by my repentance? I will be obedient, loving, childlike-only let me be at peace, and under the holy roof that shelters you!'

‘Come with me, child, I will care for you,' said the monk, hurriedly. 'Come!-I wish to carry you to the superior.'

They went up the steep together -the boy toiling wearily behind. The monk turned round, and saw his faintness and his trouble.

are

Here, child, these arms stronger than those tiny feet. Come, I will be your bearer and your shepherd!'

He took the boy in his arms and bore him up the rock. A dark glance, a crimson glow, a smothered laugh of triumph; and then the childish hand wandered slowly round the monk's throat, seeming to caress it gently. But passing over the scar on the cheek, it lingered there; the taper fingers touching it daintily.

The man started. A sharp pain shot through his whole frame, and a sense of burning penetrated the scarred cheek. Something, too, came into his heart, that made him faint and stagger beneath his burden, slender as it was, and oppressed him with a strange sickness. But he carried the boy through the portal of the convent, and delivered him safely to the care of the superior.

The Carmelite monks, on these bare Judæan rocks, had hitherto been noted for the peace and serenity of their lives. Composed of men who had all proved the hollowness of earthly pleasures, and fled from the world as from a net of sin and wretchedness, there was nothing of that vague wonder and regret which sometimes sadden the convent cells of those who have taken the vows while

1853.1

But he who seemed to have brought most suffering, and to have gained most peace, was the Brother Martin ---Horace Sommerling. It had been only by hard spiritual labour though. Penance, fasting, unwearied prayer, daily exercise in all that the natural man most loathed, hourly subjugation of all the passions most dear to him-by such means as these had Horace Sommerling learned to control his violent temper. Gaining internal calm though coupled with external sadness-made a better but a melancholy man by the discipline of the holy Church.

But a different order of things reigned now in the Carmelite convent. Jealousies and bickerings took the place of the brotherly love which had formerly existed there; misunderstandings, tale-bearings, uncharity prevailed from the abbot's cell to the pallet of the meanest laybrother; and the home of every Christian virtue became the nest of

every heathenish passion. The only one who kept fair with all parties was the latest comer, young Luigi the Sicilian, the fair-haired boy whom Brother Martin had brought. Yet somehow he was mixed up with all that took place, though always appearing to advantage as would-be peace-maker and universal friend, for all that he was sometimes heard to laugh in his cell at night, after some terrible outburst among the holy brethren. But young Luigi, the fair, pale Sicilian boy, with his strange black eyes and caressing ways, might have broken every rule of that convent home without finding an accuser in the most rigid of the members. Every one loved him to idolatry, and they fought amongst themselves for his society with more bitterness than many men would fight for a beloved mistress. If he smiled more on Brother Joseph than on Father Francis, Father Francis was as one distraught; if Brother Ignatius could boast a childish caress, Brother Martin ate out his heart for jealousy. He, indeed, from the chastened and controlled holiness of his conventual life had lapsed back into all the furious passions and untamed nature of the torment of Gründorf. What fiend possessed him he could not divine; but that he was given over bodily to be the prey

and

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sport of devils he never doubted. The absence of young Luigi made him almost mad-his presence filled him with terror and agony together; the touch of his gentle hand burnt like fire into his veins-but to see that hand touch another but himself was worse than poison, more bitter than death. Brother Martin was miserable; his last hope of happiness, in the pious calm of the Carmelite convent, had gone; and he was once more the wrecked and wretched child of sin-the plaything of every violent passionwithout the power to recover his lost virtue. Was that wild boy the cause of this? Had those burning eyes anything to do with the fever in his blood-that mocking laugh any connexion with the sense of shame he was undergoing? those small caresses power to corrode the pure gold of Christian virtue, and was such might given to a mortal that he could turn away the holy spirit of Heaven? Brother Martin asked himself these questions one evening, as he sat on the rock, in the very spot where he was found by Luigi. The sun was sinking fast; and as the monk watched the lengthening shadows, he murmured audibly a prayer to be released from earth as soon as that great globe of life.

Had

Weary of existence, my brother?' said Luigi, stealing up to him. 'And why?'

Å smile crossed his features as he spoke, twining in his boyish way about his knees. The monk covered his face. Furious in Luigi's absence, he was miserable when in his company; for then he felt degraded, he knew not why, and lost from the high place he had once gained.

Yes, I am weary of existence, child, and long for death,' replied Horace, sadly.

But why, my brother?' persisted the boy.

From sin, Luigi-and from sorrow. There is no peace for me on earth. I have been too deeply guilty, and too hardly punished ever to know calm again. My passions have been my curse; and I am now fulfilling my destiny, and again delivered over to the fury of my nature. I have fought against it in vain― the spell is wrought, and the deep

well boils up at the word. I have lost Heaven as well as earth-I am shut out from God, as from life and love.'

A glance of triumph lighted up the boy's face.

Ah! is it then true that even with you, pious monk, passions are at work, and rage, revenge, and the desire for power are driving out the sacred angels of peace and humility?'

True! true!-too true!' groaned the man.

The boy started up; then suddenly checking himself, and smothering the short laugh, and glazing over the glaring flash of his dilated eyes, he re-seated himself caressingly by the monk's side-saying, while he placed his arms round his neck

'Tell me, dearest brother, what is your history. You have often made allusions to it, but never told it me straight out. Now, give me the last half hour of the sunlight, and when that is gone'-pointing to the sun- you may end your tale, too.'

When I was a boy, Luigi, of about your age, I committed my first real sin. A harmless beast had found its way into our hall, and resisting my attempts to dislodge it, roused up my passion and fiery temper. Urged by the demon who took possession of me at my birth, and who has never left me to this moment, I killed the poor brute; and it cursed me, Luigi, as it died. Do not think me mad, child-do not believe that I have weakened my brain by humbling my body; it was

So.

That dying reptile cursed me solemnly in its death; and that curse has taken root and borne a fruit of

eternal ruin for me. Well, years passed on, and I had forgotten all about the poor toad of Gründorf. I travelled, according to the custom of my country; and at Constantinople bought a slave girl, whose strange beauty first attracted and finally enamoured me. She betrayed me into the hands of robbers, and left me for dead on the sands. I was rescued however. and restored by the cares of an old Arab woman of Damascus; and then I returned to Europe. Isola sought me out, and sent for me. I went. She met me with jeers and sarcasms, and roused up the sleeping devil in me.

She brought back the old superstitious dread of my boyhood, while rousing all the passions of my manhood. Something seemed to connect her with my forgotten sin-a sin with which she taunted me while boasting her superior power. I was maddened by rage and dread together, and I struck her, as I had struck the toad years before, and with the same mingled feeling of hatred and of awe. Yet, from the moment that her blood bathed my foot, happiness forsook me. I have been twice a murderer-twice given over to the fiend of ungovernable rage-twice damned to the lowest pit of hell!'

That blow has to be avenged yet!' said the boy's low voice. An Arab never forgets an insult-least of all she whom you call Isola, but her tribe, the Avenger. Horace Sommerling, the time has comethe day and the hour. See-the sun is sinking now; with its last ray your life lies forfeit to the passion you could not check in boyhood nor overcome in manhood-to the pas sion which has wrecked yourself, and sold my blood to revenge my insult!'

She threw aside her disguise, and rapidly passed her hand over her face. The sunny hair was gone, and in its place thick raven tresses swept down below her waist; the false pallor was wiped away, and the dark face of an Eastern was turned upon him. Luigi the Sicilian had melted into thin air, and Isola the Arabian stood where he had faded. Horace covered his face in his robe, muttering-Sin! sin!'

She forced him to look up. She wove her spell around him, and bent his will beneath her own. He could not choose but look into her eyes. She demanded it, and he was fain to obey.

'Listen now,' she said, 'to my tale, Horace. When you took me from the slave market, I was bound by an oath to deliver up my purchaser into the hands of my tribe. That oath I kept. It was my religion to do so. But when you were left as one dead on the sand, I secretly procured you assistance, and had you conveyed to Damascus, where the old Arab tended you so well. That Arab was my nurse, sent