Scarcely had our devout pilgrims set foot on one of the two entrances that lead to the valley, which is formed and enclosed by the lofty mountains of Guadaloupe, than at each fresh step they found new subjects of admiration; but their admiration reached the highest possible point when they saw the noble and sumptuous monastery, the walls of which contain the blessed image of the Queen of Heaven; that blessed image, which gives freedom to the captive, cleanses his sins, and relieves his distress; that blessed image, which gives health to the sick, comfort to the afflicted, which is a mother to the orphan, and a defence from all misfortune. They entered the church, and where they expected to find walls adorned with the Tyrian purple, the damask of Syria, the brocades of Milan, in their place they saw, crutches left by the cripple, wax eyes that had belonged to the blind, arms hung there by the maimed, shrouds cast aside by the dead, all, who after having been cast down by misery, now living, healthy, free and happy, loudly return thanks to the Mother of mercies, who in this small space, makes intercession with her blessed Son for his infinite mercy. So strong an impression was made upon the hearts of the devout pilgrims by all these miracles, that they gazed around them, fancying that they saw in the air the captive in his chains, coming to hang them up on the holy walls. The lame and infirm trailing their crutches along with them, the dead corpse its winding-sheet, seeking where to place them, and not finding space left, so great was the number those walls already held. This sight, which had never been seen before by Periander, Auristella, Ricla, Constance, or the young Antonio, filled them with awe and wonder; and they were never tired of gazing, nor of admiring; so with devout and humble minds they knelt down to adore the Saviour, and implore the intercession of his holy Mother. But what most deserved notice was, that Feliciana, on bended knees, and with clasped hands, pressed to her breast, whilst tears of tender sorrow bathed her cheeks, almost without appearing to move her lips, or make any sign of being a living creature, raised her voice, and sang some verses which she knew by heart, and which afterwards she gave them in writing. Her sweet and most melodious singing enchanted the senses of all her hearers, and well proved that she had not praised her own voice too highly, fully satisfying the strong wish of all the pilgrims to hear her.