Astonished by the Superior’s silence, I raised my eyes to him. I said, in a tone of moderation that seemed unnatural to my own ears, “Well, let me hear my sentence.” He was silent still. He had _watched the crisis_, and now skilfully seized the turn of the mental disease, to exhibit his applications. He was standing before me meek and motionless, his arms crossed, his eyes depressed, not the slightest indication of resentment to be traced in his whole figure. The folds of his habit, refusing to announce his internal agitation, seemed as they were cut out of stone. His silence imperceptibly softened me,--I blamed myself for my violence. Thus men of the world command us by their passions, and men of the other world by the apparent suppression of them. At last he said, “My son, you have revolted from God, resisted his Holy Spirit, profaned his sanctuary, and insulted his minister,--in his name and my own I forgive you all. Judge of the various characters of our systems, by their different results on us two. You revile, defame, and accuse,--I bless and forgive; which of us is then under the influence of the gospel of Christ, and within the pale of the church’s benediction? But leaving this question, which you are not at present in a frame to decide, I shall urge but one topic more; if that fails, I shall no longer oppose your wishes, or urge you to prostitute a sacrifice which man would despise, and God must disdain. I add, I will even do my utmost to facilitate your wishes, which are now in fact my own.” At these words, so full of truth and benignity, I was rushing to prostrate myself at his feet, but fear and experience checked me, and I only bowed. “Promise me merely that you will wait with patience till this last topic is urged; whether it succeeds or not I have now little interest, and less care.” I promised,--he went out. A few moments after he returned. His air was a little more disturbed, but still struggling for a calmness of expression. There was agitation about him, but I knew not whether it was felt on his own account or mine. He held the door half open, and his first sentence astonished me.--“My son, you are well acquainted with the classical histories.” “But what is that to the purpose, my father?” “You remember a remarkable story of the Roman general, who spurned from the steps of his tribune, people, senators, and _priests_,--trampled on all law,--outraged all religion,--but was at last moved by nature, for, when his mother prostrated herself before him, and exclaimed, ‘My son, before you tread the streets of Rome, you must first tread on the body of her who bore you!’ he relented.” “I remember all, but to what does this tend?” “_To this_,” and he threw open the door; “now, prove yourself, if you can, more obdurate than a heathen.” As the door opened, across the threshold lay my mother, prostrate on her face. She said in a stifled voice, “Advance,--break your vows,--but you must rush to perjury over