On a bed of leaves and straw, stretched on the paved floor, and clad in the coarse canvass garb of the poorest order of priesthood, lay the venerable hermit. The hand of death pressed heavily on him. His cassock, rent and torn in twenty places, scarcely covered his almost fleshless form; which age, fasting, and maceration had attenuated to a frightful degree. A rusty chain, evidence of some self-imposed penance, encircled his waist; and he convulsively clasped in his bony and shrunken hands a rosary. Close by lay an old drinking horn and a human skull: the latter well polished by long use; and near them lay a handful of chestnuts, the remains of his last repast. "O thou most adorable Virgin!" he exclaimed, in a feeble but piercing voice, "in this terrible hour intercede for me with Him whom I dare not address: for horribly the awful memory of the past arises at this moment before me! Gesù Cristo, hear me! and thou blessed Madonna!" His voice died away, and I approached gently, removing my hat on drawing near. "A foot!" he exclaimed. "Oh, stranger! for the love of mercy give me a draught of water! Thirst makes me suffer in anticipation those pains which are in store for sinners such as I am!" His drinking cup was empty, so I hastened to the brook and filled it with water: the storm was roaring terrifically through the valley at that moment. Hurrying back, I fastened the door, and pouring a few drops of brandy from my travelling flask into the water, held the cup to the sufferer’s lips; who, after drinking greedily, sank again on his couch. A faint flush spread over his death-pale face; he revived rapidly, and endeavoured to raise himself up into a sitting posture; but in vain: nature was exhausted. After trimming the lamp, by its smoky light I took a closer survey of the tomb and its scarcely living tenant. The dismal aspect of the place—its dark walls and darker urn-niches—the feeble light and heavy sombre shadows, together with its wretched inmate, filled me with wonder, disgust, and pity. The face and figure of the hermit were such as I never saw before, and have never looked on since. He was a very old man—old beyond any one I had ever known; and he seemed to have hovered so long on the brink of the grave—lingering between time and eternity—that he looked (if one may be allowed the expression) a living corpse, almost as much a part of the next world as of this. The crown of his head was bald, but tangled locks of white hair straggled from his temples, and mingling with his beard, formed one matted mass, white as snow, growing together, and almost concealing his visage, and reaching below his rusty girdle. It gave a patriarchal dignity to his appearance. His keen and sunken eyes gleamed beneath his white and bushy eyebrows, with a most unpleasant expression; like the horrid glare of death, mingling with the restless and rolling glances of insanity.