cloisters, the cells, the great crosses near the monks' couches, the seraphic face of his sleeping master. He continued in this effort as long as possible, checking in anguish of soul frequent flashes of the drooping plumed hat and of the pale face, until these flashes grew fainter, and were finally lost in the unconscious depths of his soul. Then he rose wearily to his feet, and slowly, as though his movements were controlled by a consciousness of great majesty, he clasped his hands and rested his chin upon them. He concentrated his thoughts on the prayer from the Imitation: "Domine, dummodo voluntas mea recta et firma ad te permaneat, fac de me quid-quid tibi placuerit." He was no longer inwardly agitated; it seemed to him that the evil spirits had fled, but no angels had as yet entered into him. His weary mind rested upon external things: vague forms, the flakes of white among the shadows, the distant hoot of an owl among the hornbeams, the faint scent of the grass which still clung to his clasped hands upon the grass, before Jeanne's sad smile had appeared to him. Impetuously he unclasped his hands and turned his hungry eyes towards the monastery. No, no, God would not allow him to be conquered! God had chosen him to do His own work. Then from the depths of his soul, and independently of his will, arose images, which, in obedience to his master's counsels, he had not allowed himself to evoke since his arrival at Santa Scolastica; images of the
