The portal of the edifice slowly unfolded, disclosing the whole array of priests, who, clad in their floating vestments, advanced chaunting from the oratory, with tapers burning, censers smoking, and two emblazoned banners waving: one of white silk, bearing a large crimson cross, surmounted by the sacred charge of St. Peter—the keys of heaven; the other, the symbolical banner of St. Battaglia, surrounded by all the imaginary odour and glory of sanctity. The spectacle was very imposing: the tapers of scented wax, and the silver censers filled with lavender flowers, diffused through the air a fragrant perfume; while the pale curling smoke that encircled the gilded crosses and elevated images rendered— "——Indistinct the pageant proud, As fancy forms of midnight cloud, When flings the moon upon her shroud A wavering tinge of flame." The misty vapour, the flickering lights, and the flowing garments of the fathers; the dark walls of the old cloisters which rang to the solemn and sonorous chaunt of twenty male voices; the distant organ swelling aloud, and then dying away in the hollow recesses of the arched oratory, together produced a striking effect. The abbot, an aged priest of venerable aspect, with a beard white as the new fallen snow (then an unusual appendage to a canon’s chin), appeared at their head. They halted beneath the ivy-crowned archway; the chaunt ceased, the soldiers drew back, and all were silent: save the magnificent strains of the organ reverberating in the vaulted chapel and the rustle of the consecrated standards, all was still. The abbot, who no doubt expected that this religious display would impress us with a feeling of awe, then addressed me. "Your purpose, signor?" he asked, mildly, but firmly. "Reverend abate," I responded, lowering my sword respectfully, "I demand the person, of a vile assassin, whom I have learned, from unquestionable authority, you have concealed within these walls!" "He whom you seek is under the protection of God. Know, signor, that he who puts forth a hand in anger against one who seeketh and findeth sanctuary in the church, is guilty of the most atrocious sacrilege!" "On my own head be the guilt of the sacrilege, Padre Abate. Excuse us: the French are in your immediate vicinity, and we run the imminent risk of being all taken prisoners. One of our comrades, a young officer of distinction, is missing; and a frightful assassination has been committed at the villa Montecino: we have every reason to believe that your favoured fugitive is implicated in both these mysterious occurrences. I cannot parley with you, reverend signor: I demand an interview with the criminal; and if he is not instantly brought forth, I have to acquaint you that I will search the monastery by force; and, if need be, drag him from the very altar at the point of the bayonet!" Ere the indignant abbot could reply—