"No, no," interrupted the agitated woman, "that cruel oath has sealed my lips for ever. God knows, and you, reverend father--you know, that I had accepted the bitterest trial woman can bear on earth, in expiation of my past sin. Long did I observe my vow of penitence without a murmur to heaven or to you. But I thought to die. A fever had seized me, and a burning thought came over me that I no longer could withstand. O God, forgive me--but my head was turned--I knew not what I did! I longed to see once more on earth that object that was my only earthly joy. That uncontrollable desire overcame the stubborn resolution of a vow, which long years of tears and mortification had striven to fortify in vain. I fled. I hoped once more to glad my eyes--but once----but once, my father, and then to lay me down and die, trusting in God's pardon and your reverence's." And Magdalena bowed her head to the ground, as a criminal awaiting her sentence. "Thou hast erred, woman--bitterly and grievously," replied the stranger harshly, adding, however, with a feeling of indulgence that his kindly nature evidently could ill suppress, "but the struggle of the spirit with the weakness of the body, in sickness and in fever, is heavy to bear. And yet," he continued, again assuming a severity of manner, "thou livest, and I still find thee here. Thou hast remained to feast thy eyes upon thy earthly treasure, in forgetfulness of thy vow of mortification for thy soul's weal." "Pardon!" cried Magdalena, raising her hands in supplication. "But thou must leave this place forthwith," continued the monk. "Return to the convent, and employ thyself in such acts of penitence as my orders shall prescribe." "Pardon!" again cried the unhappy woman, "for my vow is heavier than I can bear. It is a task beyond the force of human nature!" "Foolish woman!" exclaimed the stranger. "Wouldst thou compromise the happiness and peace of mind of the being thou lovest best, by the danger of a discovery to which thy presence here might lead? Thy expiation is severe. Such as we, alas!" and the monk heaved a sigh, "who cannot feel the vibration of some of the tenderest chords of humanity, know not how to sound in its profundity; but I can judge that it must be grievous to bear. Still it must be so. Go, then, in peace--but go. What I command no longer in the name of thy salvation, I ask of thy heart, for the repose of thy heart's treasure." "Father," said the penitent, sobbing at his feet--"I obey! But I have still a secret to impart to you, upon which depends, perhaps, the happiness of that beloved one. Oh! deign to hear me." "In three days hence, let me receive thy shrift at the convent of Saint Bridget," continued the ecclesiastic. "There also I will hear thy secret. But tell me," he added, looking round the room with some surprise--"how comest thou here in gentle master Gottlob's studio?"