THE DEVIL A MONK WOULD BE.—THE DEMAND FOR ADMISSION INTO THE CONVENT
OF ST. MARY MAGDALEN.—THE PORTRESS AND THE MONK.
It was some minutes before the stranger, who had so newly risen from
the dead, let go of the grasp he had of the monk’s throat. He held him
firmly by the throat by both hands; but as he stood grasping him, his
face was turned upwards towards the moon’s rays, which fell upon his
breast and features, insomuch that he appeared to gain strength at
every breath he drew.
But what a ghastly face he wore; what a death-like paleness spread over
his forehead; the horrible looking eyes appeared to throw back the
light of the moon, much the same as its rays are reflected by glass.
The unfortunate monk was partially kneeling, his back forced against
the trunk of the tree, upon which he had been sitting, his face turned
upwards, and his eyes almost bursting from their sockets, while his
hands convulsively grasped those of his enemy; but his strength
decreased as that of the other increased; his cowl fell off, and his
bare head was exposed to the moonlight.
There was a death-like pause, and the figure slowly released its hold
upon the throat of the monk and stepped back a pace or two to look
upon his work. The monk’s body retained the posture given to it by the
efforts to extinguish his life, and appeared as though his muscles had
rigidly set in death, but the trunk of the tree itself was a sufficient
support.
“Dead!” muttered the figure; “dead!”
Again he moved about, and went into an open space, where the moonlight
came uninterruptedly, without any barrier, and from this spot he
surveyed the hideous work of his hands.
“Dead—dead!” muttered the figure.
This was undoubtedly true; and yet there remained the body of the monk,
which, but for the turn of the head backwards, and its face upwards, it
might be easily supposed that he had died in the attitude of devotion
or supplication; but, as it was, it was evident by what means he had
come by his death.
“I must have a victim,” muttered the stranger; “am I always to meet
with the pangs of death but to renew such a life on such terms! Never
to obtain a renewal without the pangs of death; and why? because I have
not been able to obtain the voluntary consent of one that is young,
beautiful and a virgin; I might then for a season escape the dreaded
alternative.”
He walked round and round the body of the monk for some time, and
then he came and sat down by its side upon the trunk of the tree, and
appeared lost in contemplation; but at length he looked at the body,
saying,—
“Ay, ay—I have a plan. The church has furnished many a victim—let it
furnish me with one. The church will furnish the sacrifice, and will
give me the means of obtaining the offering. Well and good; it shall be
done.”
He arose, and walked about the body once more, and then approached it;
having apparently made up his mind, he came to it, saying,—
“I will become a monk, too, of the most holy order of St. Francis; yes,
that will serve me well enough. I will take his cassock, it will serve
my turn, and be a ready introduction to the religious world. I am the
good monk Francis myself. My learning and sanctity is great; it will
carry all before it, and I shall be in great request. It will indeed
be strange if there be no fruit upon such a tree. I am sure I shall
deserve it.”
He seized the body, and pulled off the monk’s clothing, and quickly
apparelled himself in it, leaving the body as if fell by the side of
the tree; and, having thrown his own clothes on one side, he drew the
cowl over his head, and, seizing the staff he brought with him, he was
about to leave the spot; but a sudden thought occurred to him, and he
turned back, and began to rummage among the pockets of the monk.
“These churchmen, I have heard, never travel without something of value
about them, and his gold, if he have any, may as well be mine as any
one else’s who may be passing this way.”
He found the two purses that had been given him by Fiametta and Jose,
and some that he had beside; moreover, there were some letters and
papers, which he put into his pocket, merely observing,—
“These will enable me to pass for the character I assume successfully.
I am and will be a monk. I will shrive and confess poor deluded souls,
and send them on their eternal journeys.”
A ghastly and hideous smile crossed his face; and having burthened
himself with what he thought necessary, or worth while, he quitted the
spot.
• • • • •
There were two convents, or nunneries, near the city of Naples, at some
short distance apart from each other.
One was the convent of St. Mary Magdalen, and the other was the convent
of St. Cecilia, about a mile and a half apart, or perhaps more—some
said a league; and so it was by the road, but not in a direct line.
It was late one evening, when the great bell of the convent of St. Mary
Magdalen gave warning from without that some one demanded admission.
The superior of the convent, a woman far advanced in age, and somewhat
proud of her character, and not a little disposed to personal comfort,
was much annoyed at the sound which gave some promise of trouble.
“Well,” muttered the portress, as she rose from before a fire, and
tottered towards the gate, looking through the iron grating for the
object that disturbed her in her meditations and her devotion to the
good things that Providence had furnished her with,—“well, what do you
want?”
“I am a poor travelling brother of the order of St. Francis; I am
benighted, and I wish for a lodging and food.”
“Friend, brother of St. Francis, this is at a later hour than that at
which we open our gates to strangers.”
“They little think at Rome,” said the monk, “that, to obtain a shelter,
we have to get to the gates of a holy house before a certain time; and
those who most need shelter, because it is less to be had, must wait
and perish in the cold.”
“The gates are shut.”
“I see it.”
“And the abbess has got the keys.”
“Will she not give me shelter and food?”
“I may not ask her.”
“I must, then, remain here outside the walls until the morning, and
then I will wend my way back to the holy city, where I will say their
messenger could not obtain rest and shelter at the convent here.”
“Do you come from Rome?”
“I do; and do you refuse to tell your abbess an unworthy brother of
holy St. Francis is here, and waiting for admission?”
The portress made no reply; she was by far to indignant to make any
answer, and yet too fearful to refuse to do his bidding; for he spoke
in a peremptory tone, that indicated an authority beyond what was usual
in his appearance.
She, therefore, found her way to the lady abbess, to whom she began
with every expression of submission and respect.
“My lady,” said the portress, “there is one without who wants to come
in.”
“Well,” said the abbess, “we can’t let him in.”
“I told him so,” replied the portress; “but you would hardly credit
it what he said about a holy pilgrim from Rome, stopping outside the
gate all night, and returning to the holy city and speaking of our
inhospitality.”
“Did he,” said the abbess, “say so much?”
“He did.”
“Then let him in,” said the abbess.
“Let him in!” said the portress, in an extasy of surprise, opening her
eyes very wide, and repeating the words “Let him in.”
“Yes; do as we bid you,” said the abbess.
“Yes,” replied the portress, “certainly; whatever our holy superior
orders, it is for me to obey. I do your bidding.”
Away went the holy portress to discharge her spleen in privacy; and, at
the same time, unable to account for the orders given her, she returned
to the portal, and having unbarred the gate, she drew the bolts and
turned the lock, and opening the door, stood for the monk to enter.
“Come in,” she said. “What do you mean?—do you not want to come in?”
“Am I free to enter?”
“Wherefore do I hold the gate open—for pleasure?”
“No, sister,” said the monk, “through anger, I believe; but if you can
find it in your conscience to be angry because I am at the door and
give you this trouble, what will be the feelings of St. Peter, who
keeps the gates of Heaven, when you present yourself thereat a hungry
being and erring sinner; but peace be upon this place.”
“Amen,” said the portress.
At that moment one of the nuns came from the superior of the convent,
saying,—“Holy father, when you have rested and refreshed yourself, our
worthy abbess will be glad to converse with you.”
“I am even now at her commands,” said the holy man.
“Will you not taste food, and rest yourself?”
“I never tire or need food, when I have aught to do that in any way
concerns our religion.”
“But, holy father, the body needs refreshment.”
“It can be supported upon spiritual food alone, if the Lord wills,”
said the monk, crossing himself most devoutly.
“You must have great gifts, holy father!”
“Not I, but he that sent me,” said the monk, solemnly.
“Will you follow me, holy man, and I will lead you to the abbess, who
will be right glad to speak with you? She wishes to speak to one lately
come from the holy city; you can tell her news of the holy father.”
“I can, my sister.”
“Then, come this way,” said the nun, who immediately led the way to the
abbess, and the monk followed her closely, till he was lost sight of by
those in the waiting-room.