'Who? Do you not really know me? I am glad you do not. I am glad you do not. If you did, you would set these shavings on fire, and burn me to death; but I should not be dead. No, I should not be dead; but burn, burn, burn, for ever!' 'Poor man, he is mad.' 'No, mother, I am not mad--I wish I was mad! I wish I could be mad! I wish that my madness could quench my grief, mother. If I were mad, I should not have come here. No, I am not mad!' 'Who art thou, my son? And what is the matter with thee?' 'Hush! mother. I will tell thee who I am, but do not whisper it in the village. Let me die first. Oh! when shall I die? when? when? when?' 'But who are you? Shall I send for our priest to shrive you?' 'Mother, I have been shriven many times. I have been absolved over and over--over and over--for my sins. I have had hours of penance, fasting, and prayer, from morning to night. I have been shut up in the shrine of St. Peter for a month. Priests have prayed with me, talked to me, even extolled me, mother, and told me all my sins were pardoned but if they were, they would not surely burn me as they now do. Oh! how they scorch--how they glare upon me now, more fiercely than ever! Oh! mother, give me a little water. Throw some on my face, my hands, my feet.' 'There, there, my poor soul! do not despair! do not despair! Come, come, be pacified. But who art thou?' The poor man looked wildly round, and, just at that; moment, Latimer and Ellen, who had heard something of the event, came to see if they could not, like ministering angels, give comfort to the sick. The instant the beggar saw them, he rose half up from his bed of shavings, lifted up his hands, and gave such a wild, piercing, agonising shriek, as made every heart quail before him. After the shriek succeeded a long stare--a wild, yet fixed eye was rivetted upon the face of Ellen, and then, as they all stood motionless with astonishment, then succeeded that which never, till that very moment, gave the wretched soul of the man relief. It was a tear. It was soon followed by another, another, and another; a stream succeeded, and, as it flowed on, the head fell back, and the dying man was exhausted. The scene did not destroy the courage or disturb the spirit of Latimer. He knelt down; he beckoned them all to do the same. His Ellen knelt with him, and his quiet prayer was uttered with such truly humble, placid, and composed voice, that the pacified spirit of the dying man seemed lightened up with comfort. He turned his eyes up toward them, and, with an imploring look, such as showed the depth of the earnestness of his repentance, he said-- 'Forgive poor Abdil Foley!'