“I am doomed eternally,” he cried, “doomed, doomed.”
The organ of the convent church burst on his ear in rich and solemn harmony.
Then rose the voices of the choir chanting a full service.
Among them was one that seemed to hover above the others, and tower towards heaven; a sweet boy's voice, full, pure, angelic.
He closed his eyes and listened. The days of his own boyhood flowed back upon him in those sweet, pious harmonies. No earthly dross there, no foul, fierce passions, rending and corrupting the soul.
Peace, peace; sweet, balmy peace.
“Ay,” he sighed, “the Church is peace of mind. Till I left her bosom I ne'er knew sorrow, nor sin.”
And the poor torn, worn creature wept.
And even as he wept, there beamed on him the sweet and reverend face of one he had never thought to see again. It was the face of Father Anselm.
The good father had only reached the convent the night before last. Gerard recognized him in a moment, and cried to him, “Oh, Father Anselm, you cured my wounded body in Juliers: now cure my hurt soul in Rome! Alas, you cannot.”