“Your soul is not dead,” said the hermit solemnly.
“My soul? O no,—its wheels are good! I perceive it beating regularly—”
“Your soul is immaterial,—your soul is immortal!” replied the hermit sternly.
“Yes—like my glory! But it is shut up in the château of Andernatt, and I wish to see it again!”
The hermit crossed himself; Scholastique became almost inanimate. Aubert held Gerande in his arms.
“The château of Andernatt is inhabited by one who is lost,” said the hermit, “one who does not salute the cross of my hermitage.”
“My father, go not thither!”
“I want my soul! My soul is mine—”
“Hold him! Hold my father!” cried Gerande.
But the old man had leaped across the threshold, and plunged into the night, crying, “Mine, mine, my soul!”