But Heaven is merciful yet, Her blasting may turn to a blessing: Thine errors she longs to forget, Thy bloodshed her spirit distressing! Repent of each murderous deed, My tongue is still filled with glad tidings! Return to your desolate creed, And weep o'er your fatal backslidings. Then your flocks and your barns shall increase, Your name shall be famous in story, The terrors of war sink to peace, Your sons change from glory to glory! And Heaven's glad song thou shalt learn In mansions more splendid and spacious. Return, oh! my brother, return! Heaven is waiting--still waits--to be gracious! The sound ceased, and again the voice of the storm rose high; clouds shrouded the lady of the night, and darkness sank in treble deepness. Still something undefined, but dimly bright, shone near the renegade's bedside, and made him aware that the Abbess awaited his reply: but, like another renegade, a modern poet has so finely drawn,-- "His heart was swollen, and turned aside By deep, interminable pride. * * * he be dismayed By wild words of a timid maid?" "No. Be thou living form, or fleshless spirit," he answered, "I have but one reply: I will not return like the sow to her wallowing in the mire. Having once shaken off the trammels of Rome, I will not lightly bear again her yoke, which is neither easy nor light; nay, fair cousin, methinks I have been but too merciful: to-morrow, God help me, will I raze the altar of Baal with the ground, unless this storm saves me the labour." He looked to see the effect of his reply--the dim light was gone; he only heard the wild wind.