Early next morning he awoke, and lay watching for the arrowy beam to shoot through his tiny window. How he had pined for sunshine during the winter months! and how he blessed this little ray, as it noiselessly entered, quite as willing to shine upon his rough stones as on the tapestried walls of the palace. And now, with returning light and warmth, came back, with renewed intensity, the longing to be at work. He would gladly have performed the meanest office, rather than continue this life of unbroken idleness.

One night, the prisoner became conscious of an unusual commotion in the city; faint sounds penetrated the thick walls; and a red glare for a few moments flashed across the ceiling of the dungeon. By this sign he knew that it must be the May Festival, and that the priests were even now going by with the supposed relic, which he had refused to worship. Looking back on the year that had passed since that event, lonely and interminable as it had seemed, Hans did not feel a single regret; and instead of sleeping that night, he spent its hours in earnest supplications for renewed strength; consecrating his life afresh to the Saviour, and with strong cries, interceding for his deluded countrymen and his persecutors.

The ceremony that year was concluded by the performance of mass, at midnight, in the principal church in Bruges, with unusual pomp and magnificence. The high altar and smaller shrines were illuminated by a thousand wax candles, and wreaths of spring flowers crowned the heads of saints and virgins. Ecclesiastical milliners had put forth all their ingenuity to render the draperies and vestments as gorgeous as possible; and the sacred chests had been emptied of their silver, gold, and jewelled treasures, to make the dazzling display complete. The spicy fumes of incense filled the air, gently stealing over the senses of the

worshippers, and producing a delicious, dreamy languor. The sweet voices of singing boys penetrated the misty atmosphere, now swelling in full chorus, now dying away in such soft lingering notes, that the hearer knew not when they melted into silence. Then the breathless stillness was startled by one solitary, flute-like voice, beginning the "Hymn to the Cross —a tender, melancholy strain; and as the roof reechoed with the singer's thrilling, plaintive tones, Cuthbert prostrated himself before the altar, overpowered with emotion. His senses were intoxicated by the impressive sight, by the perfumed clouds, floating incessantly upwards, and by the seraphic music. that produced an agony of delight; and in a passion and rapture of, what he believed, genuine devotion, the tears forced themselves from his eyes.

But, in reality, his worship rose no higher than the spicy vapours, or the chorister's sweet lament. How could his soul rise, while his senses were so absorbed? How could it wing its way upwards, so heavily laden? He had never learned that genuine devotion draws its inspiration straight from heaven, and not from the imperfect, deceptive, influences of earth. Why was Hans, in his cell, so strong after prayer? He had none of those "helps to devotion that have suddenly and professedly become indispensable to more than one class of worshippers, even in our own day. No sentimental emotions stirred the prisoner's even pulses; no gauze, jewels, changes of raiment, ornamented candles, or satin banners, assisted him in his confessions of sin, or in his aspirations after holiness. He knew what it was to worship "in spirit"-to shut out earth, and let in heaven. If he saw the glory of God, what were any other sights to him? If he listened to the music of angels, did he miss the voices of singing men and singing women, who so frequently seek

to exalt themselves rather than the subject of their song?

When Cuthbert had ended his postures, and genuflections, and theatrically-graceful performances, he felt thoroughly satisfied with himself, and with the exquisite sensations the service had produced. Such rhapsodies, such an elevation of soul, he thought, the saints themselves had never surpassed. In this frame of mind he entered the confessional. Indulgences were always freely granted on the night of the Festival; and very light penances or fines were imposed upon those who had deeply transgressed, or absented themselves from this sacrament, since the last exhibition of the relic.

Again and again Cuthbert pronounced the words, "absolvo te;" and with light hearts the penitents had risen from their knees-many of them to spend the remaining hours of darkness in committing fresh sins, of the burden of which, in due time, their consciences would be relieved by the dispensing words of the priest. The church was almost deserted: the candles on the altar were extinguished; and only the perpetual lamps burned before the shrines of favoured saintstheir small circles of light seeming to increase the darkness beyond. But as Cuthbert emerged from his retreat and looked around, to see if his duties were ended, the newly-risen moon poured in a flood of light through the painted windows, staining the marble floor with soft, rainbow hues, across which lay the long shadows of the pillars, whose capitals were lost in the gloom above. The priest paused, to drink in the solemn beauty of the scene, thinking himself alone--when a female figure emerged from the shadows, timidly crossed the moon-lit pavement, and knelt before him.

"Do you wish to confess?" said Cuthbert, looking curiously down at the penitent, whose head and face were covered by a thick veil.

"Yes; if not too late," replied a trembling voice.

The priest gave a slight start: he recognized the voice, and, with a triumphant smile, bent down and said softly, "Auka Gerhardt, have the saints at last heard my prayers for thee?" She made no answer, and suffered herself to be led towards a small altar, where a lamp swung before a charming picture of the Virgin.

Seating himself, Cuthbert made her kneel, and uncover her face. Auka hesitated a moment; then flung back her veil, and looked pitifully at him, saying

Nothing, but my misery and your kindness, could have given me courage to come."

"The Church gives you a thousand welcomes," replied Cuthbert, in his tenderest tone of encouragement, looking at his young convert with pardonable pride and satisfaction.

She had been born of German Pro testant parents; and though left an orphan at eight years of age, Auka had still remained true to the faith, professed boldly by both father and mother. Her life had been a changeful one, since the death of her parents. Left unprovided for, she had been cast upon the kindness of Protestant friends; but misfortunes had overtaken some, and persecutions driven others into exile; so that at seventeen years of age, Auka again found herself without a home. It was then that Jan Van Hoven, a distant kinsman, and wealthy citizen of Bruges, offered her a shelter in his mansion; but very different did Auka find the charity of the rich Flemish family, to the cheerful hospitality of her humble German friends.

The female members of Van Hoven's household directly conceived a dislike to the stranger, on account of her great personal attractions, and her persistence in continuing a Protestant-that folly they, of course, had expected she never would

have dreamt of maintaining against their will. Cuthbert, their favourite priest, was speedily informed of this; but after an interview with the stranger, he advised them to keep Auka's heresy a secret, if possible. He had no doubt, he said, about her conversion to Romanism, but it might be the work of months; and they must have patience. If the Church gained this soul, special indulgences would be granted to the family who had rescued her from perdition. The ladies were flattered-and obeyed; but they were not so strict as they might have been, in their confession of the countless ways in which they managed to make their relative's life wretched. She was watched with sleepless jealousy, and permitted no society but their own; Cuthbert's were the only kind words she ever heard, and his smile the only one that greeted

her.

Gradually his fascinating manners and real sympathy won her entire confidence; indeed the priest himself was the greatest recommendation to his Church; and the kindness shown to Auka, where she most expected harshness and contempt, threw her off her guard. He never seemed eager for her conversion; but he constantly alluded to his own faith, deplored the mistaken zeal of some of its professors, and the inconsistency of others; drawing at the same time, so attractive a picture of the Church as he saw it, and declared it really was, that Auka's prejudices gave way. Cuthbert's sophistries blinded her; and, not possessing a copy of the Scriptures, she had to draw upon her memory alone to refute anything he might advance; and as he carefully avoided openly attacking her belief, there was no direct necessity to arm herself for its defence. The priest knew better than to give her this advantage; he saw what a weapon the Bible was with heretics; he saw how even quoting the sacred words put unnatural strength into them. Auka to

be conquered, must be kept from controversy.

She

After eight months of the incessant petty persecutions of the Van Hovens, and the artful persuasions of their priest, the unhappy girl was overcome. She attended mass for the first time that night; and who shall describe her feelings, as she rose from her knees, after making her obeisance to the altar! The deed was done; there was no going back now; she had dipped her finger in the holy water, and it seemed as if an ocean rolled between herself and her childhood's faith. dared not think of the past-she must never think of it again: she would only remember what Cuthbert had told her, and perhaps sometime she would feel at peace with herself. In fact it was the priest she believed in, and not his religion. But having taken the decisive step, Auka was not the one to compromise: she would do everything the Church required; she would stay and confess that night. Others looked happy after that sacrament-perhaps it would relieve her heart of its oppression and sadness; at least, she should please the indulgent priest.

Auka had not told anyone of the step she intended to take, and Cuthbert counted upon a much longer siege; for when he alluded to the peculiar attractions of the Festival Mass, she had been silent. She had kept aloof from the procession, but waited for the midnight service-shame even then delaying her from the confessional until it was nearly too late.

your

"I am very ignorant about what I hope Church requires, Father; you will still condescend to be my teacher," said Auka, after the priest had given her a silver cross to kiss, in token of her sincerity.

"Surely," said he, "it is our most delightful and honourable mission to instruct the lambs of the flock. My heart has been heavy to-day, remembering that one whom I love as a bro

ther is still in the bonds of Satanled astray by error. Our hands are weakened when the enemy prevails; but I did not know what consolation the blessed Virgin had in reserve for me to-night, that I should have the joy of welcoming another believer into our holy communion. And you must not call it my Church now," continued he, "it is yours, or, rather, ours; we are one in faith henceforth;" and he took her cold, trembling hand in his. As your spiritual guide, I have a right to comfort you in trouble, to advise you in every step you take, and also to know your most secret thoughts and desires. Are you willing to accept all my offices, Auka ?"

Yes indeed, Father; you are the only friend I have; the only one who cares to know anything that concerns me," replied she, wearily.

"The Holy Mother cares for you, my child. My poor persuasions would all have been in vain, if she had not inclined your heart, and drawn you, by her irresistible love, to the true and only rest."

Cuthbert proceeded to confess her; cautiously directing his questions, so that nothing, as yet, might startle or offend; and certainly, if Auka did not feel the rest of which he had spoken, she was quieted and soothed as he laid his hands on her head, absolving her from all sin.

The torches of the revellers lighted the maiden home. The Van Hovens had just returned, and were enquiring what had become of the "German heretic," as they called her, when she entered; and in answer to their questions, Auka calmly stated what she had done. It was evidently an unexpected avowal; and after a moment's pause, Jan remarked

"It is well that you have taken this step, for I had determined to-day that my house should no longer harbour you, in spite of good Father Cuthbert's opposition. You must have shared the

fate of Hans, the sculptor, who last year was committed to prison for refusing to kneel before the holy relic. Now they will hand him over to the Inquisition, as he well deserves. Thank the Virgin, Auka Gerhardt, that you have escaped a similar fate!"

The words pierced Auka to the soul, "thank the Virgin!" She bitterly reproached herself, as she lay awake that night in her little chamber; and would have given worlds to recall the last few hours to change places with faithful Hans. Cuthbert might call her what he would-she was an apostate; and in her heart she said there was no help for her now, and what she had done could never be undone.

Let us look into the prison cell again, on the fourth of May. The sweet chimes were filling the air outside, and faintly through the loop-hole came the oft-repeated refrain; but Hans did not hear them that day, nor the belfry clock slowly strike twelve; nor did he hear the door of his cell slowly unclose, and a footfall cross his floor. A week ago he would have hailed anything in human form that came to break the dull sameness of his existence, though it had been a messenger to fetch him to trial; for not even a jailer's visits had been permitted-his allowance of food, &c., being introduced into the cell by a mechanical contrivance, that could be moved by invisible hands.

The strip of sunlight lay upon the wall, and before it stood the sculptor, as eager and absorbed as if he stood in his own studio once more. As Cuthbert entered-for he was the intruder regular gentle sound reminded him of bygone days, and coming close behind the prisoner, he saw that which made him smile, and yet sigh.

a

With a long rusty nail as a chisel, and a piece of broken stone as a mallet, Hans, with indomitable perseverance, had already produced on the wall a rough outline of a crucifix. A month

ago he had found the nail, and rejoiced over it as if it had been a key to open his dungeon. No thought of escape, however, entered his mind. With great difficulty he had detached a small piece of stone from his doorway, and with these rude implements had commenced his last, but greatest work.

It was only when the golden bar shone upon that one little spot in his wall, that he could continue his loved pursuit; and the heavy chains on his wrist made every stroke in the hard stone painful and doubly laborious. But what will not love accomplish! His whole life was sweetened; he had something to live for; he saw his work slowly developing, in spite of his hindrances; and never had his polished tools or fair blocks of marble given him such real pleasure as this rusty nail, that shapeless stone, and those coarse outlines on that dungeon wall. Cuthbert watched him unobserved; watched the thin hands and fettered wrists; watched the workings of his eager face; and marked his unshorn hair and beard, his attenuated, but still active frame.

A cloud suddenly obscured the sunbeam, and Hans, with an impatient exclamation, turned round and faced the priest. For a moment Hans looked bewildered; and dropping his rude mallet, wiped the great drops from his brow, and pushed back his tangled hair. But when Cuthbert spoke, and held out his hand, the prisoner seemed to realise that this was no dream, but really his old friend.

gave me the strength and courage I then felt, and do still feel. Nature bade me despair, and pine away in fruitless longings; she told me to hate my persecutors. When I listened to her, I was weak-weaker than even you first imagined me to be. "Tis my blessed faith that makes me strong; that has made this dungeon at times a very Paradise; that made me hopeful and patient all last winter, when scarce a gleam of light struggled through yonder little opening. The faith that

you scorn and trample on, has taught me to forgive and pray for those who have made me a captive for life, with broken health, and every promise of youth unfulfilled."

66

Yet you spoke of hope just now," said Cuthbert, looking half-admiringly at Hans, as he stood there in his chains, erect and undaunted, his bright eyes as full of fire as ever.

Yes; I have a good hope-not for this world, but of life everlasting; that no one can steal from me. Are you the bringer of any tidings?"

"No, Hans, your fate is still in the hands of our Sovereign; and his coming is delayed through state affairs in Spain. I came with the faint hope that time and solitude would have shown you the folly of persisting in this heresy. Your hopes of everlasting life are utterly vain, while you refuse to acknowledge the supremacy of the true Church. Your faith is mere fanaticism; it will fail you in the hour of torture and death." In his heart Cuthbert knew it was very seldom that their Protestant victims were intimidated by any amount of pain.

"He that has kept and sustained me hitherto, will keep me to the end," said Hans, with a quiet confidence. I don't put my trust in dead saints, but in a living God, whose word cannot fail."

"But the Church is the only true interpreter of that word. Not to every one is given the gift of understanding