ora was putting out the light at her bedside, her eyes fell
upon the basin of holy water hanging above it. She wondered who had
dipped his fingers last in it, and if any one had ever before slept in
that bed without first kneeling before the ivory crucifix above the
praying-stool. And with these conjectures she fell asleep. It seemed to
her that she had been lying there only a short time when she heard a
distant door open and shut softly, then another and another, all the way
down the corridor, until the sound seemed very near; then a breath of
wind struck her cheek, which came through the outer door of her boudoir,
which she had forgotten to lock, and which some one had just opened. She
was on the point of springing out of bed to try to reach the door of the
bedroom before any one could enter, when a monk came through and stopped
at the foot of her bed. His cowl was drawn so far down over his eyes
that the point of it stood straight up above his head. His hands were
crossed over his breast, under his white robe; when, drawing his right
one out and pointing his bony finger, he said, "You heretic, what are
you doing here?" Without waiting for an answer, he passed on, and
another took his place, repeating the question. This was the beginning
of a procession of all the monks who had ever been in the monastery.
From time to time one particularly old and gaunt left the line and came
and sat down by the bedside, until there were eight, four on each side
of it. After a while Fra Lorenzo came walking with the others. He looked
at her with his melancholy eyes and made a motion to stop, but the friar
behind gave him a push and forced him forward. His low voice came to her
as he was passing through the door: "I would sprinkle you with the holy
water if I could, signora: but you see I must obey my superiors." Then
the procession ended, and she was left alone with the eight, one of whom
said to her, "Now you must go down to the crypt under the church, to be
judged for your presumption." And as they rose to seize her, she found
they were skeletons. In her effort to escape from them she awoke,
trembling in every fibre. Her waking sensations were scarcely less
terrible than her dream, for she shook so that she imagined some one was
pulling at the bedclothes. The strain could be borne no longer, and with
a spring she sat up, and her hand touched the silk coverlet. It was like
the hand of a friend. She thought of the padre, of his angelic g