The surgeon of the convent was sent for, and, meanwhile, the sleeve of my habit ripped open; but the cloth had already grown into my flesh, and the whole arm was found withered, and eaten away to the very bone, by a deleterious caustic. "I was to have drunk wine," said I to the Prior, "but allowed the contents of the glass to run thus into my sleeve." I said no more, remembering the injunctions of Cyrillus to secrecy. On the arrival of the physician, he declared that the wine had been impregnated with the most destructive and corrosive of all poisons; but by the remedies which he applied, my torment was lessened, at least, though by no means assuaged. My recovery was slow and tedious; for it was considered doubtful whether the limb ought not to be amputated. I escaped that misfortune, however; but my arm remains to this hour withered and powerless. "I am now perfectly aware," said the Prior, one morning after I became convalescent, "of the peculiar circumstances by which you have lost the use of your arm. The pious Brother Cyrillus vanished in the most mysterious manner from our convent and from Rome; and you, dear Brother Medardus, will in the same manner be lost, if you do not immediately change your residence. During your illness, many suspicious inquiries were made after you, and had it not been for my watchfulness, and the faithful attachment of your brethren, probably you would not now have been in life. "To me you appeared from the first an extraordinary man, under the influence of a destiny, whose final decrees are yet inscrutable; but however this may be, you have certainly, since your arrival in Rome, attracted far too much attention, to escape the animosity and watchfulness of certain people, who, no doubt, wish you to be removed out of their way. My advice is, therefore, that you should return home to your own country, and to your own convent. May all happiness, and, above all, the grace of God, be with you!" Even without this admonition of the Prior, I should have clearly felt, that so long as I remained in Rome, my life must be in constant danger. To this painful thought, others were added. I was haunted still by the recollection of my numberless and enormous crimes; then, above all, there was the immediate torment of my festering and withered arm. I could not value a life which was so useless and miserable, but, on the contrary, reverted frequently to the thoughts of suicide, which only the terror of committing a new crime prevented me from carrying into execution. But even without this, I might soon fall in the way of obtaining for myself a timely and welcome martyrdom, and whether this should occur at Rome or elsewhere was to me indifferent.