"Well," said another, "I confess I did hide a cold wing of fowl in the sleeve of my gown last fast-day. My old aunt gave it to me, and I was forced to take it for relation's sake; but I'll do so no more, as I'm a living sinner. I'll do a penance this very night."
Father Johannes stood under one of the arches that looked into the gloomy garden, and, with his hands crossed upon his breast, and his cold, glittering eye fixed stealthily now on one and now on another, listened with an ill-disguised sneer to these hasty evidences of fear and remorse in the monks, as they thronged the corridor on the way to their cells. Suddenly turning to a young brother who had lately joined the convent, he said to him,—
"And what of the pretty Clarice, my brother?"
The blood flushed deep into the pale cheek of the young monk, and his frame shook with some interior emotion, as he answered,—
"She is recovering."
"And she sent for thee to shrive her?"
"My God!" said the young man, with an imploring, wild expression in his dark eyes, "she did; but I would not go."
"Then Nature is still strong," said Father Johannes, pitilessly eying the young man.
"When will it ever die?" said the stripling, with a despairing gesture; "it heeds neither heaven nor hell."
"Well, patience, boy! if you have lost an earthly bride, you have gained a heavenly one. The Church is our espoused in white linen. Bless the Lord, without ceasing, for the exchange."