"So young!" exclaimed Padre Luca; "and so calm on the brink of eternity! Ah, it is hard to die, when so much is left to enjoy; but it is worse to plunge from present suffering into everlasting despair." And he proceeded to give a most graphic picture of post-mortal torments, drawn from the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius, a work very familiar to his meditations. This dire imagery failed to convince the dying heretic. "My mind is made up. I cannot believe your doctrine, but I can feel your kindness. You have spoken the first friendly words that I have heard for months." "It is hard that you should die so unprepared, and so young. You have relatives? You have friends?" "More than friends! More than friends!" groaned Morton. And as a flood of recollection swept over him, his heart for a moment was sick with anguish. "Come with me," whispered Padre Luca. He led the way into the chapel of the castle, which adjoined his room. Here he bowed and crossed himself before an altar, over which was displayed a painting of the Virgin. "Our Blessed Mother is full of love, full of mercy. See,--hang this round your neck"--placing in his hand a small medal on which her image was stamped. "Go and kneel before that altar, and repeat these words," pointing to the Ave Maria in a little book of devotion. "Call on her with a true heart, and she will have pity. She cannot see you perish, body and soul. She will appear, and teach you the truth." There was so much of earnestness and sincerity in his words, that Morton felt nothing but gratitude as he answered,-- "It would be no better than a mockery, if I should do as you wish. I cannot----" Here a clear, deep voice from the adjacent room interrupted him. "Mother of heaven!" cried Padre Luca, greatly agitated. "I am ready," answered Morton, in a voice firm as that which summoned him. He returned to the priest's apartment, and in the doorway stood the athletic corporal, like the statue of a modern Mars. "_Mio figlio! Mio caro figlio!_" faltered Padre Luca, laying a tremulous hand on the young man's shoulder. The kindly accents of the melodious Italian fell on his ear like a strain of music. "You must not die now; you are not prepared. I will go to the commissioner. He will grant time." He was pushing past the corporal, when Morton gently checked him. "I thank you, father, a thousand times; but if I must die, there is no mercy in a half hour's delay. Let me go. This sentence may be, after all, a kindness."