“Her misfortunes came back to her in a flash. She fell back chilled. The next moment, she felt the priest’s arms enclasp her. She would have screamed, but could not. “‘Away, monster, assassin, begone!’ gasped she, in a voice low and tremulous from rage and fear. “‘Mercy, mercy!’ muttered the priest, kissing her shoulders. “She caught his bald head, with both her hands entwined in the rest of his hair, and forced it away as if his kisses were bites.” His utmost efforts to win her regard and sympathy were ineffectual. He was baffled at every step in his desperate advances, and repelled with immeasurable scorn upon the repetition of his visits. He offered her the alternative of the gibbet or escape and life; he humbled himself before her to an incredible degree. In his passionate entreaties, he says: “‘Why, here am I who would kiss thy feet,—no, no, not thy feet, thou wouldst not permit that,—but the very ground under thy feet. I weep like a very child; I tear from my breast, not words, but my heart and my vitals, to tell thee that I love thee; all is in vain, all! And yet in thy spirit thou hast naught but tenderness and clemency, thou art radiant with gentleness; thou art good, kind, merciful as charming. Woe is me! thou hast not cruelty save for me. Oh, what fatality!’” At their last meeting he closes a strain of fervid supplication the rejection of which settles the girl’s fate: “‘I entreat thee by all that is holy, do not delay until I am of stone like this scaffold thou choosest in my stead. Think that I hold our two destinies in my palm, that I am mad, that I can make yawn betwixt us a bottomless pit, thou unfortunate! wherein my lost soul will pursue thine through all eternity! One word of kindness! say one word! nothing more than a word.’ “She parted her lips to answer him. He rushed and fell on his knees before her to receive with adoration the word—perhaps affectionate—which was about to leave her lips. “‘You are an assassin,’ was what she said. “The priest threw his arms furiously around her, and laughed a devil’s laugh. ‘Assassin—be it so!’ said he, ‘I will be thine. Thou wouldst not have me as a slave,—thou shalt have me as master. I have a place to which I’ll drag thee. Thou shalt go with me; I will make thee go. Thou art to die, fair one, or be mine! be the priest’s, the apostate’s, the assassin’s! To-night, dost hear? The grave or my bed!’ “The girl fought in his arms while he covered her with kisses. “‘Do not bite me, monster!’ she shrieked. ‘Oh, the hateful, infectious monk! leave me! I will tear out that vile gray hair of yours.’ “He reddened, turned white, then released her, and regarded her moodily. She thought herself victorious, and went on: ‘I tell you I am for Phœbus; that it is Phœbus I love, because he is handsome. You, priest, are old and ugly. Begone.”