"There are my alms," cries the brutal lord; and, making his horse rear, with his whip he strikes at the poor man's head. The beggar utters a cry, and wipes his bleeding face. Again the hunt plunges into the forest of Velours, in pursuit of the tireless wolf. The sun has set behind the great trees; the forest shadows are blotted out in the darkness of the night. 'Tis the hour of solemn thought. "Friend," says the white horseman, softly to Gaston, "this has been an ill day's work: you have mocked God, you have insulted his minister; you have trampled upon the shepherdess and her flock; you have ravaged the hermit's field, and you have struck the face of the poor. Turn, I entreat you, a suppliant eye to heaven, breathe a word of repentance towards God." "What is that to me?" replies the hunter with a sneer. "Time enough yet to think of my soul. When I can search the woods no more, then I will wear a hair shirt, throw largesse to monk and beggar, and mutter psalms and what-not in church; but, until then, the gay life for me!" "Gaston! the life of man is short and fragile; it is given him, not to waste in folly; but to purchase therewith the joys of heaven. I conjure you, for your soul's sake, implore the mercy of God." "He's dull company indeed! Off with you to your paradise!" cries the young lord, irritated by these entreaties, and by his day of ill-success. "Farewell, Gaston," murmurs the white rider. "Why would you not listen to one who would save you?" A tear falls from his eye, as spreading wide two white wings, he soars heavenward, leaving behind him a stream of light. Then the hunter realizes that his good angel has deserted him. Fearfully he looks towards the dark figure on his left; a shiver of mortal dread shakes every limb, and the sweat of death rises damp upon his face. The arms of the black one extend and seize him. He feels his flesh pierced and torn by talons more powerful than a lion's, sharper than those of a vulture. He roars with pain and terror; so bewildered is he, that no cry to God comes from him, nor, with the holy sign, does he invoke the name of Jesus. Still grasping his prey, the black horseman strikes the ground with his lance. The earth groans deeply, opens wide, and from the gaping cavity there rises a column of black smoke. From the abyss beneath, a sea of fire, upon whose heaving waves are rolled the legions of the damned, rise lamentations, cries, and blasphemies, heard above the roaring of the infernal waters. Like fiery serpents the flames writhe and coil round the body of the guilty hunter. "Gaston," hisses the black horseman, as steed and rider leap into the boiling cavity; "Gaston, you have lent ear to me during life; now you are mine for all eternity." "Woe betide me!" cries the reprobate. "I have disregarded the Lord's warning, and the counsels of my good angel!" The abyss closed up, leaving only a dark and fearsome cavity. That cavity is the Devil's Pit. * * * * *