women were aiding these efficient coadjutors, in rendering their supplies available to the poor bereft babies. Whilst observing this wretched scene, an old capuchin entered with two infants, just taken from their lifeless mother, to seek among the flock for one to supply her place. Quitting this spot, and looking about on every side, a sudden apparition struck his sight, and set his thoughts in commotion. He saw at some distance, among the tents, a capuchin, whom he instantly recognised to be Father Christopher!
The history of the good friar, from the moment in which we lost sight of him until this meeting, may be related in few words. He had not stirred from Rimini, and he would not now have thought of doing so if the plague breaking out at Milan had not afforded him the opportunity, so long desired, of sacrificing his life for the benefit of others. He demanded, as a favour, permission to go and assist those who were infected with the disease. The count, he of the secret council, was dead; and moreover, at this time, there was a greater want of guardians to the sick, than of politicians: his request was readily granted. He had now been in the lazaretto nearly three months.
But the joy of Renzo at seeing the good father was not unalloyed. It was he indeed; but, alas! how changed! how wan! Exhausted nature appeared to be sustained for a while by the mind, that had acquired new vigour from the perpetual demand on its sympathies and activity.
"Oh, Father Christopher!" said Renzo, when he was near enough to speak to him.
"You here!" said the friar, rising.
"How are you, my father, how are you?"
"Better than these unfortunate beings that you see," replied the friar. His voice was feeble—hollow and changed as his person. His eye alone "had not lost its original brightness"—benevolence and charity appeared to have imparted to it a lustre superior to that which bodily weakness was gradually extinguishing.
"But you," pursued he, "why are you here? Why do you thus come to brave the pestilence?"
