"Would that I could die for thee, Lady Jane. I am but a poor old prebendary; the years of my life are many, though the days of my joy have been few--few indeed. I would leave no one to weep for, and have none that would weep for me. I have long been sick of the world; I have nothing in it now to regret, and, save thyself, know none that would regret old Father St. Bernard, unless I add a few aged alms-people, my poor penitents. My time in it cannot be long now, and willingly would I give my life for thine, if such a thing might be. Oh, my child, thou so nobly born, so carefully nurtured, so innocent and so gentle, the most guileless and most docile of my penitents! Oh, this vile man, this Redhall, is a fiend! a monster!" exclaimed the priest, suddenly giving way to unwonted passion; "may the heaviest curses of God fall upon him! May he inherit the leprosy of Gehazi, and the despair of Judas! May the earth swallow him up, like Dathan and Abiram! May he sorrow like Cain, and may the wrath of God ever be upon him for the misery his unbridled passions, his blind vengeance and savage hate, hath caused unto thee!" "Alas! good Father St. Bernard," said the gentle being, terrified by the old man's energy, "ought we not rather to pray for him?" "Thou art right, my daughter, and thy resignation shames me!" replied the priest, whose indignation had, for the moment, borne away his better feelings. "Right, right--we are commanded to pray for those who persecute and despitefully use us. Thou good soul!" he added, signing the cross upon her brow, "may the angel of all purity watch over thee, for thou, in thy goodness of heart, art more like unto the angels than mortals." "But, oh! that mode of death--by fire--by fire! It is so frightful!" "The good should fear nothing. The hand which tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, may temper the flames to thee." She covered her face in her hands, and began to weep. Her tears relieved her. "And I must really die--so young! Oh, Roland, Roland." "Child, thou thinkest more of him than of the will of Heaven. There is a sin in this." "Heaven's will be done, father. I am not a heroine.' "Its ways are inscrutable," replied the priest, looking upward. "Hast thou not even once seen Roland, father?" "Roland, again!" "Pardon me, but I cannot help it. I fear his name will be the last on my lips--his image the last in my heart. Oh, forgive me this; but I cannot help it." "They have accused him of treason." "But there is hope of mercy for him, surely?" "The proud are ever ungrateful; and say, who can count on the gratitude of kings? They may forget; but God never forgets." "Another day has come and gone--a bright one it has been to all the world but poor Roland and me; the air so soft, so bright, so balmy; the leaves so green, the water so blue, the flowers so fresh and smiling. Can all my griefs be possible? Another day, and another--and where shall I be then?"