fess, my son, whatever thou hast upon thy conscience, that I may give thee consolation.”
“Father,” replied Benedict, “my conscience troubles me not, but the thought of your fiery purgatory puts me into horrible fear and agony.”
Rubezahl, who, as may be supposed, had a very slight acquaintance with the subject which oppressed the poor prisoner’s imagination, returned gruffly: “What art talking about? I ask thee, wilt thou confess?”
“Oh, father,” sobbed the penitent, “but can’t you save me from burning. ’Tis horrible, even for a hundred years, to say nothing of a thousand!”
“Burning! hundred years! thousand years!” impatiently repeated the Gnome; “who wants thee to burn. If thou dost not like fire, keep out of it.”
Benedict looked so utterly amazed at this piece of advice that the extempore monk could not help thinking he must have committed some capital blunder, so he changed the conversation.
“Dost thou still think of Clara?” said he; “dost thou still love her as thy betrothed?”
Benedict was still more astonished than before, to hear this name so abruptly introduced by the very man, as he supposed, who had so recently, so earnestly, so solemnly, interdicted all mention of it, on pain of his high displeasure, and peril of the penitent’s soul;
