I saw the holy Coffin as it lay on the gentle slope of
a hill; a giant Pine stood at its head, and in its topmost branches
perched the Eagle, pierced to the heart and sleeping in its own blood.
Within the coffin lay the sacred Form, with the cross on her breast, the
veil on her face, the fetters on her hands, and the crown upon her
forehead. I saw six such hills rising one after the other, separated
from one another by the long grass, through which, in place of sunny
brooks, flowed crimson streams of human gore. Hilts and shivered
fragments of broken swords, overgrown with weeds and covered with rust,
were lying scattered in every direction through the rank grass. On each
of the six hills lay the same Coffin; the same Form. But always more and
more strongly surged the streams of human blood; heavier and heavier
grew the chains on the hands of the Dead; and paler and paler the dim
autumnal light. At the foot of the last hill it was dark, and bitter
cold; the currents of blood were frozen; the icicles hung from the
branches of the Pine; the Eagle lay in his congealed gore; and in place
of the veil, the face of the six times murdered Mother was closely
covered with a sheet of snow.

When the young man reached this spot of gloom, he fell with his face
upon the frozen earth, and cursed his life! In the distance sounded the
moans of the shadows left at the gate of the sepulchre; he bowed his
head and wept. He heard them ask: 'Is the six times Murdered really
dead? will she rise no more to deliver her faithful children from mortal
anguish?'

The Wanderer replied not, but looked with eyes of melancholy love upon
his friend who had thrown himself upon the frozen earth, and gently
raised him in his strong arms.

Then rose the wail of all the armies of the grave; they broke the
silence of death with loud and fearful cries: 'O Heavenly Father, Thou
hast betrayed us! Thou hast delivered us up to Hell, for our Saint is
really dead!'

The Wanderer answered the cry, and his voice pealed like distant
thunder. 'Blaspheme not! Our Saint yet breathes! I see her lying in her
last coffin on the hill of ice--there is no seventh beyond it--from it
comes the Resurrection!' The wails and sobs of the spirits suddenly
ceased, and a murmuring chant of the Mother's was entoned, low and sweet
as the first sigh of a germing hope.

The young man now perceived, for hitherto he had not seen it, the
illimitable space beyond the coffin. Afar over the