Thus did a year roll on. Traces of his sufferings were visible in his failing strength. He could scarcely crawl; but he meekly declined assistance. He appeared not, as had been his wont, at the midnight mass; the door of his cell was thrown open at that hour; the light streamed down like a glory upon his reverend head; he heard the distant reverberations of the deep Miserere; and breathed odours, as if wafted from Paradise. One morn it chanced that they who sought his cell found him with his head upon his bosom, kneeling before the image of the virgin patroness of his shrine. Fearing to disturb his devotions, they stood reverently looking on; and thus silently did they tarry for an hour; but, as in that space he had shown no signs of motion, fearing the worst, they ventured to approach him. He was cold as the marble before which he knelt. In the act of humblest intercession—it may be, in the hope of grace-had Cyprian's spirit fled. "Blessed are they who die in the Lord," exclaimed his brethren, regarding his remains with deepest awe. On being touched, the body fell to the ground. It was little more than a skeleton. Under the cloisters of the holy pile were his bones interred, with a degree of pomp and ostentation that little accorded with the lowliness and self-abasement of this man of many sorrows. This chapel, at the time of which we treat, was pretty much in the same condition as it existed in the days of its holy inmate. Hewn out of the entrails of the rock, the roof, the vaults, the floor, were of solid granite. Three huge cylindrical pillars, carved out of the native rock, rough as the stems of gnarled oak-trees, lent support to the ceiling. Support, however, was unneeded; an earthquake would scarce have shaken down those solid rafters. Only in one corner, where the water welled through a crevice of the rock, in drops that fell like tears, was decay manifest. Here the stone, worn by the constant dripping, had, in some places, given way. In shape, the vault was circular. The interval between each massive pillar formed a pointed arch. Again, from each pillar sprang other arches, which, crossed by diagonal, ogive branches, weaving one into the other, and radiating from the centre, formed those beautifully intricate of the architectural enthusiast combinations upon which the eye loves to linger. Within the ring formed by these triple columns, in which again the pillars had their own web of arches, was placed an altar of stone, and beside it a crucifix of the same rude material. Here also stood the sainted image of her, who had filled the prior with holy aspirations; now, a shapeless stone. The dim lamp, that, like a star struggling with the thick gloom of the wintry cell, had shed its slender radiance over the brow of the Virgin Thecla, was gone. But around the key-stone of the central arches, whence a chain had once depended, might be traced in ancient characters, half effaced by time, the inscription: STA. THECLA DRA PRD NDEJS. One outlet only was there from the chapel; that which led by winding steps to the monastery one only recess the prior's cell. The former faced the altar: the latter yawned like the mouth of a tomb at its back. Altogether it was a dreary place. Dumb were its walls as when they refused to return the murmured orisons of the anchorite. One uniform sad colouring prevailed throughout. The grey granite was grown hoar with age, and had a ghostly look; the columns were ponderous, and projected heavy shadows. Sorrow and superstition had their tale, and a moral gloom deepened the darkness of the spot. Despair, which had inspired its construction, seemed to brood therein. Hope shunned its inexorable recesses. Alone, within this dismal sanctuary, with hands outstretched towards the desecrated image of its tutelar saint, knelt Sybil. All was darkness. Neither the heavy vapours that surrounded her, nor the shrine before which she bent, were visible; but, familiar with the dreary spot, she knew that she had placed herself aright. Her touch had satisfied her that she bowed before the altar of stone; that her benighted vision was turned towards the broken image of the saint, though now involved in gloom the most profound; and with clasped hands, and streaming eyes, in low and mournful tones, she addressed herself in the following hymn to the tutelar saint of the spot: HYMN TO SAINT THECLA.* I. In my trouble, in my anguish, Wandering weak in doubt and error, * Sinful thoughts, sweet saint, oppress me, Thoughts that will not be dismissed; Temptations dark possess me, Which my strength may not resist. I am full of pain, and weary Of my life, I fain would die; Unto me the world is dreary; To the grave for rest I fly. For rest!-oh! could I borrow Thy bright wings, celestial Dove! They should waft me from my sorrow, Where peace dwells in bowers above. Upon one with woes o'erladen, Sainted virgin! martyr'd maiden! Let thy countenance incline! Requiem æternam dona! The The sweet, sad voice of the singer died faintly away. sharpness of her sorrow was assuaged. Seldom, indeed, is it that fervent supplication fails to call down solace to the afflicted. Sybil became more composed. She still, however, trembled at the thoughts of what remained to be done. 66 They will be here ere my prayer is finished," murmured she; 66 ere the end is accomplished for which I came hither alone. Let me, oh let me make my peace with my Creator, ere I surrender my being to his hands, and then let them deal with me as they will." And she bowed her head in lowly prayer. Again raising her hands, and casting her eyes towards the black ceiling, she implored, in song, the intercession of the saintly man, who had bequeathed his name to the cell. HYMN TO SAINT CYPRIAN. I. Hear! oh! hear me, sufferer holy, Didst deliver thee. Oh! hear me! II. May, through thee, my prayers prevailing O'er the hosts of hel, assailing My soul, in this dark hour be driven; So my spirit, when exhaling, May of sinfulness be shriven; And his gift unto the giver, May be rendered pure as ever! By thy own dark, dread possession, Scarcely had she concluded this hymn, when the torch of the knight of Malta in part dissipated the gloom, that hung around the chapel. CHAPTER XXX. THE BRIDAL Cari. I will not die, I must not. I am contracted Executioner. Here's your wedding ring. Duchess of Malfy. SLOWLY did the train descend; solemnly and in silence, as if the rites, at which they were about to assist, had been those of funereal, and not of nuptial, solemnisation. Indeed, to look upon those wild and fierce faces, by the ruddily-flashing torchlight, which lent to each a stern and savage expression; to see those scowling visages, surrounding a bride, from whose pallid cheeks every vestige of colour, and almost of animation, had fled; and a bridegroom, with a countenance yet more haggard, and demeanour yet more distracted, the beholder must have imagined that the spectacle was some horrible ceremonial, practised by demons rather than human beings. The arched vault, the pillars, the torchlight, the deep shadows, and the wild figures, formed a picture worthy of Rembrandt, or Salvator. "Is Sybil within the chapel?" asked Barbara. "I am here," returned a voice from the altar. "Why do we tarry?" said the gipsy queen assembled. To the altar." 66 66 we are all "To the altar?" shrieked Eleanor. "Oh! no-no· "Remember my threat, and obey," muttered Barbara; you are in my power now.” A convulsive sob was all the answer Eleanor could make. "Our number is not complete," said the priest, who had looked in vain for the sexton : "Peter Bradley is not with us? "Ha!" exclaimed Barbara. "Let him be sought for instantly." "Their search need not extend beyond this spot," said Peter, stepping forward. The knight of Malta advanced towards the altar. The torchlight reddened upon the huge stone pillars. It fell upon the shrine, and upon the ghastly countenance of Sybil, who |