I started with dismay—what did I behold? The white-haired veteran, Batello, bearing in his arms the dripping corpse of Rosario, while Paula clung to him overcome with sorrow and terror. Even the venerable goatherd, whose crook had fished up the dead child, was moved to tears; while I, the cause of the calamity, looked on with unmoved visage. Was it an index of my mind? O, no! a serpent was gnawing my heart: I could have screamed with agony; and my breath came close and thick. I trembled and panted while Batello spoke. "Fra Lancelloti," said he, "thou comest upon me in an hour of deep woe, when I have much need of godly consolation; but not from thy lips. A week ago we quarrelled: I know the weakness of the human heart, and from the bottom of my soul forgive thee; for in this terrible moment I cannot look on any man with anger. Pass on, in the name of God! for thy presence is—I know not why—peculiarly hateful to me at this moment. Many a dead face have I looked upon by breach and battlefield, but thou—my Rosario—thy mother—" and the old soldier kissed his dead child, and wept bitterly. The goatherd, who had been observing me narrowly, now whispered in Batello’s ear. His eyes glared, and relinquishing the body, with one hand he grasped his sword, with the other my throat. "Double-dyed villain!—hypocrite!—thou knowest of this, and canst say how Rosario died! Speak, or this sword, never yet stained with the blood of a coward, shall compel thee." "Sacrilege!" I gasped, while Paula swooned: "Sacrilege!—I am a priest—" "Rosario’s hand grasps part of a rosary—lo! thy chaplet is broken, and the beads are the same. Speak, ere I slay thee!" and he drew his sword.