had changed, only to confirm its power to endure. His stature seemed calculated to contend for ages against Heaven, and was a dominion in itself.

He prepared to address me, and I expected to be stunned by a sound loud as thunder; but his voice was sweet, and the expression of his face like that of nature at noonday, amid scenes of sublime desolation.

"Thou," said the malignant power, "art cited to answer for thy doings before this tribunal, which is appointed in these parts by the church below, to call the virtuous to account for their superabundant works of good. As inquisitors of that church, in which there is no dissent, its members working together unanimously for evil, we desire thee, as thou art a true sinner, to confess thy late heresy, and tell us of what thou art accused. Speak, and accuse thyself, or prepare for a fiery ordeal more terrible than thou hast yet had to undergo."

I knew to what heresy the arch-fiend referred-it was the absolution -and supposing myself at his mercy, at the same time feeling that my sins had brought me to this pass, I prepared to obey the infernal order, and, summoning presence of mind, I replied:

"Thou knowest all things; I confess and repent of all." I spoke, however, with mental reservation, at which the inquisitors laughed with such violence that their grisly scalps were displaced from their skulls.

"Dost thou not require plenary indulgence of us?" asked the president of the horrid council.

"I do," replied I, with a firm voice, still reserving the negative within my mind, in spite of what had just occurred.

As I spoke, the scene changed to a chapel, the president of the Inquisition was converted into a high pontiff, and his companions were transformed into priests. Mass was going on in solemn mockery of the Catholic Church, and a parody of the form of indulgence was repeated at the end of the service. I was somewhat awed, but ere long the blasphemy thus uttered by malignant powers against the Pope roused my senses from their sleep, and I dreamt of resistance. No sooner did the thought occur than it set my feelings in a blaze-a yet greater fire seemed to burn within me than had previously filled the apartment. It was the fire of hell, the weapon of the arch-fiend; I resolved to turn it against himself. I rose suddenly to my feet, and cried aloud, "O devil! whence this audacity, that thou shouldst venture to intermeddle in religious affairs? If thou wouldst establish a creed on earth, select thy own prophets, inspire them with thy will, through them make manifest to us thy power to dispose of where thou didst not establish, to destroy where thou didst not create, to render miserable where thou didst not make happy. In the name of my Master, I thus compel thee to evacuate this citadel of the faithful!" Trembling with terror I rushed at the fiend, but was arrested by an arm behind. The means, however, were sufficient to determine the event; for the council dissolved itself into air, and the fiend himself vanished as gradually as he had appeared, his fearful eyes being the last objects which receded from my vision.

The arm which had arrested me still held possession of my person, and the room was still lighted. I turned round and saw a man at my side bearing a lamp; he said that the inquisitors awaited me in the adjoining chamber. I regarded him with a wild stare, and his features brought to my remembrance that a moment before I had seen him enter. The light

which he bore, his death-like features, and his black habiliments, had hurried my mind off into the frightful vision which had agitated me, and which, at that time, I thought real.

I allowed myself to be led quietly to my trial, for no emotion of fear as to the result possessed me. I was supported by a firm hope, and a confidence which never long forsook me when in danger. I found my judges seated at a table, with solemn brows, one unbending purpose inscribed on their united aspect. There sat the aged priest who had that day granted me absolution, and three laymen were assembled with him. His face wore a kind expression, but this was the feature of age, and not of nature; the wreck of sternness surviving the extinction of human passion, though, on the olden site, religious thought had established the cold dominion of pity. It was a monument which commemorated the power of reason; which announced the final triumph of that severe faculty in its attempts to attain to the moral end of being. It was an expression which knew not sympathy with man's tears; it was unimpassioned, enduring, divine!

The next inquisitor appeared a man whose nature might confirm the philosopher in his belief that mind and matter are one. He was the hard-headed advocate who serves himself in others, obedient only to the force of circumstances and laws. He held within him no divine combinations; his conduct the effect of established facts, as much as the revolution of the earth on its axis. His instructions constituted his rule of life; had the day of judgment been at hand, and man been permitted to employ counsel in his defence against accusers, this man would with equal readiness have defended or opposed the prisoner.

The third was one of pallid feature and lofty brow, whose powers were of that order which ponders the universe in detail only, and never aims at those general truths which temporarily assuage man's thirst for knowledge. But their exercise had been diverted, ere fully developed, from their proper channel, to the investigation of heresy and schism. His conclusions were well poised and conscientious, for a function thus vile; and the tears which his scrutinies might cause to flow, and the agonies his sentences produced, were regularly inscribed on his memory as instances of how perverse is human nature!

The fourth belonged to the brutal sort, known to all save itself, which carries about the analysis of its character in the unaspiring forehead, the restless eye, and hardened lineaments. There wily hypocrisy lurked in the vain search after concealment ; uneasy selfishness indicated by the shrinking look, moroseness by the straightened lip. The sole triumph of his art was to win the confidence of the artful, and to circumyent the villain.

These men had nothing in common but their robes of office, a bond of union which served to multiply the terror of their power. The moment I was commanded to confess my offence, and become my own accuser, I fixed my eye on the priest, and began to repeat the history of my life; but, ere I had proceeded far, he looked up in recognition, and told me that I had said enough. After a short deliberation, probably on the subject of my indulgence, my pardon was confirmed, and I was dismissed as having been already exempted by the church from all ecclesiastical

censure.

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THE CONFEDERATES; OR, THE DAYS OF MARGARet of

PARMA.

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

CHAPTER XX.

FATHER EUSTACE had been withdrawn for many months from Antwerp on business connected with his calling; and his first cares on his return were devoted to his young pupil, for his mind had been oppressed, during an absence of such unusual length, with the fear lest the influence of her uncle should have been too powerfully exerted. He soon discovered, however, that his apprehensions were groundless,—that worldly matters had weighed too heavily on her spirits to leave any room for religious controversy. They were alone, not only in the room, but in the house; some accident having called forth the few that house now contained. From earliest childhood Margaret had been accustomed, both in the confessional and in the intimacy of friendship, to pour into his ear every thought, every feeling of her innocent heart. He had been at times a severe monitor; yet she instinctively felt that he loved her with a parent's tenderness, and that in him she might trust implicitly with the confidence of a child; and secure now of having a good chance of an uninterrupted conference, she disburdened her bosom with more frankness than she would have done to any other person. Fresh anxieties now began to oppress the Prémontre's bosom, and his countenance fell as he listened to her recital.

"But, my child," he exclaimed, in the midst of her allocution, "why not go to England as your uncle proposed? It seems to me that no safer -no better plan could have been suggested. It is good that a tree be transplanted when its native soil kills it."

"My parents feared to take me among heretics."

"They are men and Christians like ourselves," urged the monk. "Yes, but my mother dreaded the promise given to the Sturgeons years ago; in short, that I should marry a Protestant."

"And if you should? It were better to wed a good man, though of different creed, than a dishonourable one that loveth not God after one fashion or another. My child, the dreadful times in which we live make thought come home to us. I was tolerant before I left Antwerp, now I am just another step nearer the Divine beneficence, which alone can distinguish between right and wrong-alone can judge. It is an awful thing to see the innocent and the just man perish that the bad may triumph in his iniquity; and that in the name of the Giver of all mercy. It is horrible! Look at me, Margaret; when I left this place my hair was yet dark."

He removed the cowl which had until that moment shaded his brow, and exposed to view the small rim of hair which the tonsure had respected, and which a short time before, untouched by years, had yet exhibited the rich brown tints of its natural colour. It had become in this short space of time, not grey, but absolutely white; as silvery as if he had already attained the last limits of human life.

"Surely, some great suffering has wrought this," said Margaret, gazing at him in astonishment.

"It is not what I have suffered, but what I have seen," said the priest, in a low choked voice. "It has done more-my heart is broken."

The last word seemed to escape from the very depth of his bosom, and to relieve it.

"Good God!" exclaimed Margaret, "you have then been forced to become a member of one of those dreadful committees ?"

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"Hush, my child," said the monk, in a low tone; "speak not thus rashly, you know not what. Walls have ears in this unhappy land!" Nay," said the young girl, whose whole frame quivered with emotion, 66 we are safe; we are alone; there is no one in the house besides ourselves. But it is dreadful-too dreadful to think of such things."

"Calm yourself, my child," said the priest, soothingly. "I shall not again leave Antwerp. I have obtained thus much, and shall now be ever at hand to guide-to advise you."

"Alas! father, why were you not here sooner? My fate is now irretrievably fixed; I fear that of uncle Paul, too; he has left us, and now, free from the restraints which consideration for our safety imposed upon him, he has thrown off all prudence."

"I have long thought it must come to this," said the priest, mournfully; "the cup is not yet full. What more? speak, my child, I am prepared."

"I-my father-I"-blushes dyed the maiden's pale cheek —“ I am betrothed."

"To whom?" asked the priest, gravely. "If your choice be wise, this was advisedly done."

"My mother chose for me; she urged my father and myself,―for we were far from being inclined to decide so hastily. But she was so anxious, so unhappy about it."

"But his name, my child, his name?" demanded her interrogator, with more impatience of manner than was natural to him.

"Lo-pez Chi-e-vo-sa," she replied, dropping the syllables of that name one by one, as if the very uttering them were an effort, and that in so low a tone that the priest was obliged to bend forward to catch the sounds. As he listened his cheek grew even paler than before, until its hue became similar to that of his garment.

"My poor, poor child," he muttered, "is this definitely settled?" "You would have found me a wife had I not resisted all persuasions, and remained firm in my resolve to await your return. None but you, I said, should bless my bridals."

"Alas! my child, these bridals must never take place. Do you-can you love this man? Come, Margaret, try not to revolve the matter over

in your own mind-
-answer me spontaneously, and from your heart."

I really cannot tell, father," said the young girl, whose cheeks, crimsoned with blushes, contrasted strongly with the ashy hue of her companion. "Sometimes I think I do, sometimes I think I do not. Mamma says she is certain I do, and that all girls are thus uncertain and wavering in their affections before marriage."

"No, Margaret, all girls are not," replied her monitor; "it is not fair to practise thus upon your youth and innocence. Your age ought to, and in better times would, have been an objection to any such plans.

Seventeen is a very tender age to contract a permanent engagement; but the anxiety of parents cannot thus calmly reckon years."

"I pleaded this," murmured Margaret, "but they would not listen

to me.

"You would not have thus pleaded if-but proceed."

"Well, he makes very fine promises; he says he is more, and has more power than we are aware of."

"That is true," said the priest, in an impressive tone.

"He says that power shall be exerted to the uttermost to save me and mine from any peril that may ensue, should things turn out as badly as some people dread; that he will not even remove us from our home, but make it a place of safety to ourselves, of refuge to others; should it be needed-to uncle Paul. In short, he offers in exchange for the one poor boon which he so much desires, and has so long striven for, safety and peace to many."

"That is false!" exclaimed the priest, in the deep, loud tones of indignation. "That is false! he never will, nay, he never meant to do this."

"But you scarcely know him, father."

"Better, far better than you imagine, or than, perhaps, he thinks himself known by any one. There may be danger in breaking off from him, there may be sorrow-although I do not think so-but you must discard him, and for ever, not only from your heart, but from your house. This, my child, you must do at my bidding, and having the most perfect confidence in me, without requiring any explanation what

ever.

"But, father," timidly replied the maiden.

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Margaret, you must become a woman in firmness of will, in decision of action, and remain the child no longer but in purity of thought, and blind trust in Providence in all else be the woman. : Your situation re

quires the speedy ripening of all your best energies. Surely you cannot hesitate to sacrifice all puerile considerations, nay, even grave ones, to this one, gravest of all. I tell you this Spaniard is a bad manthat his fair outside conceals a black and a tainted heart. Even as the snake boasts gaudy colours wherewith to please the eye, yet beareth about him a deadly poison, so has this unhappy youth misused the rare gifts that were given him for nobler purposes, until they have become dangerous to those who come in contact with him. The graces of his person, the subtlety of his mind, his acquirements of various kinds— all, all have been devoted to the service of the Evil One! He has no faith, no country, no family, no virtue, no love. Oh, Margaret! that I should have been led into the sin of saying so much evil of any man, however deserving he be of censure! But be warned; do not suffer the gay colours of the snake to blind you; suffer not his honeyed words to mislead you. Require no explanations, Margaret. I have, perhaps, said too much already; but abide by my counsel. At all risks break off from him-say you are too young, or if you have already said that in vain, that you insist on knowing who he is-anything in short."

I might say, and with truth," replied Margaret, "that my uncle Paul opposes the match, and that I will not disoblige him." "No," said the priest, quickly, "that would be very imprudent, very wrong. No; you must recur to one of those thousand pretexts which