"You are young, and I am old, my son—old in years, and older still in sin: yet say; think you there is any hope for me? In another hour I shall have passed from this transient life to that which is eternal. What will become of my soul? Will He consume me in his wrath? O Spirito Santo, thou alone can answer! I behold that flaming abyss of everlasting misery and woe, where there is weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Is that my doom? _O miserere mei, Domine_! Mercy! pity me! speak!" While raving thus, he clasped my feet with the energy of despair; his whole frame shook with excess of spiritual terror, and his eyes seemed bursting from their sockets. Deeply moved, I heard him in silence, not knowing what to reply. A long pause ensued. "Holy father!" said I, when the paroxysm had passed away, "there is hope in the mercy of Heaven even for the vilest, how much more for one who has passed so holy a life as you!" "Alas! alas!" he exclaimed, beating his breast, "thou knowest me not, my son! And the simple peasantry who regard me as a saint—even like the holy Gennaro—know me not!" "Whatever may be those crimes the recollection of which so haunts you, let us hope that remorse and sincere repentance——" "Blessed words! You say truly, my son! Remorse and repentance will do much: but a load of guilt weighs heavy upon my soul. I would fain unburthen my conscience to thee, my son: though the recital of my iniquities might freeze the marrow in your bones. Receive my last confession, I beseech thee; for I would not go down to the grave with the reputation of a saint: which, though given me by many, I merit so little!" Again he drank thirstily; and raising himself into a half-recumbent posture, prepared to make that revelation for which my excited curiosity longed so impatiently. He was rallying rapidly; his voice became fuller, and his enunciation more distinct and connected. He clutched my arm with an iron grasp, and his bleared and hollow eyes glittering with excitement, glared into mine with a searching and intense expression, which made me feel very far from comfortable. "You would preach to me words of peace and consolation—peace to a tempest-tost heart—consolation to a soul torn with anguish and remorse! You bid me hope! Listen, then, to what mortal ears have never heard—the long concealed secret of my life—the crimes of my heedless youth, and the sorrows of Diomida: who perhaps, from the side of Madonna in heaven, beholds this scene to-night." Gathering all his energies, the aged recluse commenced the following narration, in the solemn subdued tone of a contrite sinner recounting his misdeeds; recalling with a vividness that seemed preternatural in one so near his end, the history of his youth. His narrative was often interrupted by pauses, bursts of sorrow, and groans of remorse, exclamations of pity and horror, pious ejaculations, and prayers for mercy.