Superior piqued himself as much as if it had ever been possible for him to acquire the smallest share of it. He descended with me to the passage,--the monks followed with eyes on fire. In the agitation of their rage, it was with difficulty they could discover the door after I had repeatedly pointed it out to them. The Superior, with his own hands, drove several nails, which the monks eagerly supplied, into the door, that effectually joined it to the staple, _never to be disjoined_; and every blow he gave, doubtless he felt as if it was a reminiscence to the accusing angel, to strike out a sin from the catalogue of his accusations. The work was soon done,--the work never to be undone. At the first sound of steps in the passage, and blows on the door, the victims uttered a shriek of terror. They imagined they were detected, and that an incensed party of monks were breaking open the door. These terrors were soon exchanged for others,--and worse,--as they heard the door nailed up, and listened to our departing steps. They uttered another shriek, but O how different was the accent of its despair!--they knew their doom. * * * * * It was my penance (no,--my delight) to watch at the door, under the pretence of precluding the possibility of their escape, (of which they knew there was no possibility); but, in reality, not only to inflict on me the indignity of being the convent gaoler, but of teaching me that callosity of heart, and induration of nerve, and stubbornness of eye, and apathy of ear, that were best suited to my office. But they might have saved themselves the trouble,--I had them all before ever I entered the convent. Had I been the Superior of the community, I should have undertaken the office of watching the door. You will call this cruelty, I call it curiosity,--that curiosity that brings thousands to witness a tragedy, and makes the most delicate female feast on groans and agonies. I had an advantage over them,--the groan, the agony I feasted on, were real. I took my station at _the door_--that door which, like that of Dante’s hell, might have borne the inscription, “Here is no hope,”--with a face of mock penitence, and genuine--cordial delectation. I could hear every word that transpired. For the first hours they tried to comfort each other,--they suggested to each other hopes of liberation,--and as my shadow, crossing the threshold, darkened or restored the light, they said, “That is he;”--then, when this occurred repeatedly, without any effect, they said, “No,--no, it is not he,” and swallowed down the sick sob of despair, to hide it from each other. Towards night a monk came to take my place, and to offer me food. I would not have quitted my place for worlds; but I talked to the monk in his own language, and told him I would make a merit with God of my sacrifices, and was resolved to remain there all night, with the permission of the Superior. The monk was glad of having a substitute on