this question for me.” At these words, the monks were again about to interpose, when the Superior, silencing them by a signal, went on with his matter-of-fact questions, that paralyzed all the energy of passion. “You will not tell me what you have done with the paper committed to you?”--I was silent.--“I enjoin you, by your holy obedience, to disclose it this moment.”--His voice rose in passion as he spoke, and this operated as a signal on mine. I said, “You have no right, my father, to demand such a declaration.” “Right is not the question now. I command you to tell me. I require your oath on the altar of Jesus Christ, and by the image of his blessed Mother.” “You have no right to demand such an oath. I know the rules of the house--I am responsible to the confessor.” “Do you, then, make a question between right and power? You shall soon feel, within these walls, they are the same.” “I make no question--perhaps they are the same.” “And you will not tell what you have done with those papers, blotted, doubtless, with the most infernal calumnies?” “I will not.” “And you will take the consequences of your obstinacy on your own head?” “I will.” And the four monks chorussed again, all in the same unnatural tone, “The consequences be on his own head.” But while they spoke thus, two of them whispered in my ears, “Deliver up your papers, and all is well. The whole convent knows you have been writing.” I answered, “I have nothing to give up--nothing on the faith of a monk. I have not a single page in my possession, but what you have seized on.” The monks, who had whispered in a conciliatory tone to me before, quitted me. They conversed in whispers with the Superior, who, darting on me a terrible look, exclaimed, “And you will not give up your papers?” “I have nothing to give up: Search my person--search my cell--every thing is open to you.” “Every thing shall be soon,” said the Superior in fury. In a moment the examination commenced. There was not an article of furniture in my cell that was not the object of their investigation. My chair and table were overturned, shaken, and finally broken, in the attempt to discover whether any papers had been secreted in them. The prints were snatched from the walls,--held up between them and the light.--Then the very frames were broken, to try if any thing was concealed in them. Then they examined my bed;--they threw all the furniture about the floor, they unripped the mattress, and tore out the straw; one of them, during this operation, actually applied his teeth to facilitate it,--and this malice of activity formed a singular contrast to the motionless and rigid torpor with which they had clothed themselves but a few moments before. All this time, I stood in the centre of the floor, as I was ordered, without turning to right or left. Nothing was found to justify their suspicions. They then surrounded me; and the examination of my person was equally rapid, minute, and indecorous.