“Yea, truly, I was but in a stew, and all from the effects of the prayers of my blessed sister. But yesterday, he who watched me in purgatory told me, that yet another prayer from my sister, and my bonds should be unloosed, and I, who am now a devil, should have been a blessed angel.” “And the other ave?” said the daemon. “She died, sir—my sister died—death choked her in the middle of the prayer.” And hereat the wretched spirit began to weepe and whine piteously; his salt tears falling over his beard, and scalding the tail of Mercurius the devil. “It is, in truth, a hard case,” said the daemon; “but I know of no remedy save patience, and for that you will have an excellent opportunity in your lodgings below.” “But I have relations,” said the Earl; “my kinsman Randal, who has inherited my lands, will he not say a prayer for his uncle?” “Thou didst hate and oppress him when living.” “It is true; but an ave is not much; his sister, my niece, Matilda—” “You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover.” “Had I not reason? besides, has she not others?” “A dozen, without doubt.” “And my brother, the prior?” “A liege subject of my lord the Devil: he never opens his mouth, except to utter an oath, or to swallow a cup of wine.” “And yet, if but one of these would but say an ave for me, I should be saved.” “Aves with them are rarae aves,” replied Mercurius, wagging his tail right waggishly; “and, what is more, I will lay thee any wager that not one of these will say a prayer to save thee.” “I would wager willingly,” responded he of Chauchigny; “but what has a poor soul like me to stake?” “Every evening, after the day’s roasting, my lord Satan giveth a cup of cold water to his servants; I will bet thee thy water for a year, that none of the three will pray for thee.” “Done!” said Rollo. “Done!” said the daemon; “and here, if I mistake not, is thy castle of Chauchigny.” Indeed, it was true. The soul, on looking down, perceived the tall towers, the courts, the stables, and the fair gardens of the castle. Although it was past midnight, there was a blaze of light in the banqueting-hall, and a lamp burning in the open window of the Lady Matilda. “With whom shall we begin?” said the daemon: “with the baron or the lady?” “With the lady, if you will.” “Be it so; her window is open, let us enter.” So they descended, and entered silently into Matilda’s chamber. The young lady’s eyes were fixed so intently on a little clock, that it was no wonder that she did not perceive the entrance of her two visitors. Her fair cheek rested on her white arm, and her white arm on the cushion of a great chair in which she sat, pleasantly supported by sweet thoughts and swan’s down; a lute was at her side, and a book of prayers lay under the table (for piety is always modest). Like the amorous Alexander, she sighed and looked (at the clock)—and sighed for ten minutes or more, when she softly breathed the word “Edward!”