The monks were in their cells, none dared to stir,--they shuddered, and turned on their straw pallets. It was the vigil of Saint John the Lesser, and I had been commanded what is called in convents an hour of recollection, which was to be passed in the church. I had obeyed the order, and remained with my face and body prostrate on the marble steps of the altar, till I was almost unconscious, when I heard the clock strike twelve. I reflected the hour had elapsed without a single recollection on my part. “And thus it is to be always,” I exclaimed, rising from my knees; “they deprive of the power of thinking, and then they bid me recollect.” As I returned through the corridor, I heard frightful cries--I shuddered. Suddenly a phantom approached me--I dropt on my knees--I cried, “Satana vade retro--apage Satana.” A naked human being, covered with blood, and uttering screams of rage and torture, flashed by me; four monks pursued him--they had lights. I had shut the door at the end of the gallery--I felt they must return and pass me--I was still on my knees, and trembling from head to foot. The victim reached the door, found it shut, and rallied. I turned, and saw a groupe worthy of Murillo. A more perfect human form never existed than that of this unfortunate youth. He stood in an attitude of despair--he was streaming with blood. The monks, with their lights, their scourges, and their dark habits, seemed like a groupe of demons who had made prey of a wandering angel,--the groupe resembled the infernal furies pursuing a mad Orestes. And, indeed, no ancient sculptor ever designed a figure more exquisite and perfect than that they had so barbarously mangled. Debilitated as my mind was by the long slumber of all its powers, this spectacle of horror and cruelty woke them in a moment. I rushed forward in his defence--I struggled with the monks--I uttered some expressions which, though I hardly was conscious of, they remembered and exaggerated with all the accuracy of malice.