r questions. On Maundy
Thursday a Jesuit came to confess me, and on Holy Saturday a priest of
St. Mark's came to administer to me the Holy Communion. My confession
appearing rather too laconic to the sweet son of Ignatius he thought good
to remonstrate with me before giving me his absolution.

"Do you pray to God?" he said.

"From the morning unto the evening, and from the evening unto the
morning, for, placed as I am, all that I feel--my anxiety, my grief, all
the wanderings of my mind--can be but a prayer in the eyes of the Divine
Wisdom which alone sees my heart."

The Jesuit smiled slightly and replied by a discourse rather metaphysical
than moral, which did not at all tally with my views. I should have
confuted him on every point if he had not astonished me by a prophecy he
made. "Since it is from us," said he, "that you learnt what you know of
religion, practise it in our fashion, pray like us, and know that you
will only come out of this place on the day of the saint whose name you
bear." So saying he gave me absolution, and left me. This man left the
strongest possible impression on my mind. I did my best, but I could not
rid myself of it. I proceeded to pass in review all the saints in the
calendar.

The Jesuit was the director of M. Flaminio Corner, an old senator, and
then a State Inquisitor. This statesman was a famous man of letters, a
great politician, highly religious, and author of several pious and
ascetic works written in Latin. His reputation was spotless.

On being informed that I should be set free on the feast-day of my patron
saint, and thinking that my informant ought to know for certain what he
told me, I felt glad to have a patron-saint. "But which is it?" I asked
myself. "It cannot be St. James of Compostella, whose name I bear, for it
was on the feast-day of that saint that Messer-Grande burst open my
door." I took the almanac and looking for the saints' days nearest at
hand I found St. George--a saint of some note, but of whom I had never
thought. I then devoted myself to St. Mark, whose feast fell on the
twenty-fifth of the month, and whose protection as a Venetian I might
justly claim. To him, then, I addressed my vows, but all in vain, for his
feast came round and still I was in prison. Then I took myself to St.
James, the brother of Christ, who comes before St. Philip, but again in
the wrong. I tried St. Anthony, who, if the tale told at Padua be true,
worked thirteen miracles a day