m of earthly
music. I sat up, my breath almost arrested, and listened more intently.
I could still hear it, but very faint and distant. It was as a sound of
silver bells, and yet it was not quite that. I remembered the stories I
had heard that day in the tavern at Pojetta, and the talk of the mystic
melodies by which travellers had been drawn to the anchorite's abode. I
noted the direction of the sound, and I determined to be guided by it,
and to cast myself at the feet of that holy man, to implore of him who
could heal bodies the miracle of my soul's healing and my mind's purging
from its torment.

I pushed on, then, through the luminous night, keeping as much as
possible to the open, for under trees lesser obstacles were not to be
discerned. The melody grew louder as I advanced, ever following the
Bagnanza towards its source; and the stream, too, being much less
turbulent now, did not overbear that other sound.

It was a melody on long humming notes, chiefly, it seemed to me, upon
two notes with the occasional interjection of a third and fourth, and,
at long and rare intervals, of a fifth. It was harmonious beyond all
description, just as it was weird and unearthly; but now that I heard
it more distinctly it had much more the sound of bells--very sweet and
silvery.

And then, quite suddenly, I was startled by a human cry--a piteous,
wailing cry that told of helplessness and pain. I went forward more
quickly in the direction whence it came, rounded a stout hazel coppice,
and stood suddenly before a rude hut of pine logs built against the
side of the rock. Through a small unglazed window came a feeble shaft of
light.

I halted there, breathless and a little afraid. This must be the
dwelling of the anchorite. I stood upon holy ground.

And then the cry was repeated. It proceeded from the hut. I advanced to
the window, took courage and peered in. By the light of a little brass
oil lamp with a single wick I could faintly make out the interior.

The rock itself formed the far wall of it, and in this a niche was
carved--a deep, capacious niche in the shadows of which I could faintly
discern a figure some two feet in height, which I doubted not would
be the miraculous image of St. Sebastian. In front of this was a rude
wooden pulpit set very low, and upon it a great book with iron clasps
and a yellow, grinning skull.

All this I beheld at a single glance. There was no other furniture in
that little place, neither cha