the eager youth, swallowing,
however, in haste a few mouthfuls of the broth, to satisfy the old
woman's look of supplication.

"And when you mount or descend the mountain-path that leads to the
castle on its brow," said the old woman, during Gottlob's hasty meal,
"if you can still have a thought for poor old Magdalena, she begs you
enter the chapel on the mountain-side, which is esteemed so holy that it
is permitted to be a sanctuary of refuge to the criminal, and say a
short prayer for her soul's weal."

"Can those so good and kind as thou, Magdalena, need the prayers of such
as I?" said the young man.

"The fervent supplications of the young and pure at heart are always
acceptable," replied Magdalena evasively, but in a sad and earnest tone.

"So be it--and fare-thee-well," said Gottlob, finishing his last
mouthful, and hurrying to depart.

"And heed you, gentle youth," again cried Magdalena, "as you cross the
bridge to leave the town. The river is much swollen with the late rains,
so much as to threaten destruction to the tottering fabric."

"I fear no such danger," was the young man's reply; "and besides, have I
not thy charm?" he continued, laughing, holding up a black ring
inscribed with strange characters, that hung about his neck.

"Oh, say not so!" said the old woman earnestly, as a recollection of the
Witchfinder's dreadful threats the night before came across her mind.
"Call it not a charm! The holy church permits not of such dealings. It
was but a remembrance that I gave you, to think sometimes on the poor
wretch whose life you had preserved. It was of little value; but I had
nought else to give. I prayed only that it might bring happiness to you,
boy, for it had brought nothing but misery and wretchedness to me."

Long before old Magdalena could complete her sentence, the eager youth
had left the room. The old woman looked after him for a time with a look
of gratitude, and then, hurrying to the artist's table, threw herself
down upon her knees beside the open missal, and gazed with intense
eagerness upon the picture of the fair saint upon which he had been
painting. She approached her lips as if to kiss it; then again drew
back, as if she feared to mar the colouring by her caress: then gazed
again, until her eyes filled with tears: and at last, with the cry,
"Yes! it is she--her very self!" burst into a fit of convulsive sobbing,
and buried her face between her hands.

As she still lay crouched u