“Five thousand would make no change.”
“Tremble, then, lest you should not have life spared to see the fulfilment of your impious purposes.”
As he uttered these words he rushed from my cell. The moments I passed during his absence were, I think, the most horrible of my life. Their terror was aggravated by darkness, for it was now night, and he had carried away the light along with him. My agitation did not at first permit me to observe this. I felt I was in the dark, but knew not how or why. A thousand images of indescribable horror rushed in a host on me. I had heard much of the terrors of convents—of their punishments, often carried to the infliction of death, or of reducing their victim to a state in which death would have been a blessing. Dungeons, chains, and scourges, swam before my eyes in a fiery mist. The threatening words of the Superior appeared emblazoned on the darkened walls of my cell in characters of flame. I shuddered—I cried aloud, though conscious that my voice would be echoed by no friendly answering tones in a community of sixty persons—such is the sterility of humanity in a convent. At last my very fears recovered me by their excess. I said to myself, “They dare not murder me—they dare not incarcerate me;—they are answerable to the court to which I have appealed for my forthcoming—they dare not be guilty of any violence.” Just as I had come to this comfortable conclusion, which indeed was the triumph of the sophistry of hope, the door of my cell was thrown open, and the Superior, attended by his four satellites, re-entered. My eyes were dim from the darkness in which I had been left, but I could distinguish that they carried with them a rope and a piece of sackcloth. I drew the most frightful presages from this apparatus. I altered my reasoning in a moment, and instead of saying they dare not do so-and-so, I instantly argued, “What dare they not do? I am in their power—they know it. I have provoked them to the utmost—what is it monks will not do in the impotence of their malignity?—what is to become of me?” They advanced, and I imagined the rope was to strangle me, and the sackcloth to enclose my murdered body. A thousand images of blood swam before me—a gush of fire choked up my respiration. The groans of a thousand victims seemed to rise from the vaults of the convent, to which they had been hurried by a fate like mine. I know not what is death, but I am convinced I suffered the agonies of many deaths in that moment. My first impulse was to throw myself on my knees. I said, “I am in your power—I am guilty in your eyes—accomplish your purpose, but do not keep me long in pain.”
The Superior, without heeding, or perhaps hearing me, said, “Now you are in the posture that becomes you.”
At hearing these words, which sounded less dreadful than I had feared, I prostrated myself to the ground. A few moments before I would have thought this a degradation, but fear is very debasing. I had a dread of violent means—I was very young, and life was not the less attractive from its being arrayed only in the brilliant drapery of imagination. The monks observed my posture—they feared its effect on the Superior. They said, in that choral monotony—that discordant unison that had frozen my blood when I knelt in the same posture but a few nights before, “Reverend father, do not suffer yourself to be imposed on by this prostituted humiliation—the time for mercy is past. You gave him his moments of deliberation—he refused to avail himself of them. You come now not to listen to pleadings, but to inflict justice.”
At these words, that announced everything horrible, I went on my knees from one to the other, as they all stood in a grim and executioner-like row. I said to each with tears, “Brother Clement—Brother Justin—why do you try to irritate the Superior against me? Why do you precipitate a sentence which, whether just or not, must be severe, since you are to be the executioners? What have I done to offend you? I interceded for you when you were guilty of any slight deviation—Is this my return?”
“This is wasting time,” said the monks.
“Hold,” said the Superior; “give him leave to speak. Will you avail yourself of the last moment of indulgence I can ever afford you, to renounce your horrible resolution of recalling your vows?”
Those words renewed all my energies. I stood upright before them all. I said, in a loud distinct voice, “Never—I stand at the bar of God.”
“Wretch! you have renounced God.”
“Well, then, my father, I have only to hope that God will not renounce me. I have appealed to a bar also, over which you have no power.”
“But we have power here, and that you shall feel.” He made a signal, and the four monks approached.
I uttered one short cry of fear, but submitted the next moment. I felt convinced it was to be my last. I was astonished, when, instead of fastening the cords round my neck, they bound my arms with them. They then took off my habit, and covered me with the sackcloth. I made no resistance; but shall I confess to you, sir, I felt some disappointment. I was prepared for death, but something worse than death appeared threatened in these preparations. When we are driven to the precipice of mortality, we spring forward with resolution, and often defeat the triumph of our murderers, by merging it in our own. But when we are led to it step by step, held often over it, and then withdrawn, we lose our resolution along with our patience; and feel, that the last
