Scornfully she looked down upon the approaching monk, and said, “Where are you going?” “To see you, my dove!” he replied. “Have you never heard of the amorous monk Vitalis?” But she answered brusquely, barricading the staircase, “Have you any money, monk?” Taken aback, he replied, “Monks do not carry money!” “Then begone,” she cried, “or I will have you flogged out of the house with firebrands!” Vitalis scratched his head at this new dilemma; the creatures he had converted hitherto had of course not thought of demanding the wages of sin, and the unconverted were content to punish him for wasted time with venomous words. But here he was excluded from the field on which to begin his pious deed; and still there was a fascination in taming this reddish-golden daughter of Satan, because large and beautiful specimens of humanity again and again betray the senses into imputing a higher human value to them than they possess. Feeling about his habit, he came across the little silver case, which was decorated with an amethyst of some value. “I have nothing but this,” he said. She took the case, examined it closely, and then allowed him to enter. True to his custom, he went into a corner of her room and prayed in a loud voice. The woman, thinking he was about to begin his worldly enterprise with a Christian introduction of prayer, burst into uproarious laughter, and sat down to look at him, being vastly amused by his gesticulations. Soon, however, she tired of the sport, and walking up to him she put her strong white arms about him, and pressed his tonsured head so vigorously against her bosom, that he was in danger of choking, and began to blow and sputter as if he were in purgatory. He beat about him like a young horse at the blacksmith’s until he had freed himself from the hellish embrace. He then took the long rope that was tied about his body, and seized the woman to tie her hands upon her back. It was a hard struggle before he bound her and threw her down with a heavy thud, returning thereupon to his corner and continuing his prayers as if nothing had happened. The fettered lioness threw herself about angrily and uttered a hundred curses; then she grew more quiet, while the monk did not cease praying, preaching, and exhorting, and toward morning sighs became audible, followed by a sound of bitter sobbing. In short, when the sun rose she lay as a penitent Magdalene at his feet, and bathed the hem of his garment with tears. With serene benignity Vitalis laid his hand upon her head, and promised to return the following night to tell her in which monastery her contrite soul might find refuge. What was his horror, coming back at the appointed hour, to find the door fast locked, and the woman looking out of the window in gay and stately attire.