THE CONCLAVE OF CORPSES.

Some three hundred years since, when the convent of Kreutzberg was in
its glory, one of the monks who dwelt therein, wishing to ascertain
something of the hereafter of those whose bodies lay all undecayed in
the cemetery, visited it alone in the dead of night for the purpose of
prosecuting his inquiries on that fearful subject. As he opened the
trap-door of the vault a light burst from below; but deeming it to be
only the lamp of the sacristan, the monk drew back and awaited his
departure concealed behind the high altar. The sacristan emerged not,
however, from the opening; and the monk, tired of waiting, approached,
and finally descended the rugged steps which led into the dreary
depths. No sooner had he set foot on the lowermost stair, than the
well-known scene underwent a complete transformation in his eyes. He
had long been accustomed to visit the vault, and whenever the
sacristan went thither, he was almost sure to be with him. He
therefore knew every part of it as well as he did the interior of his
own narrow cell, and the arrangement of its contents was perfectly
familiar to his eyes. What, then, was his horror to perceive that this
arrangement, which even but that morning had come under his
observation as usual, was altogether altered, and a new and wonderful
one substituted in its stead.

A dim lurid light pervaded the desolate abode of darkness, and it just
sufficed to give to his view a sight of the most singular description.

On each side of him the dead but imperishable bodies of the
long-buried brothers of the convent sat erect in their lidless
coffins, their cold, starry eyes glaring at him with lifeless
rigidity, their withered fingers locked together on their breasts,
their stiffened limbs motionless and still. It was a sight to petrify
the stoutest heart; and the monk's quailed before it, though he was a
philosopher, and a sceptic to boot. At the upper end of the vault, at
a rude table formed of a decayed coffin, or something which once
served the same purpose, sat three monks. They were the oldest corses
in the charnel-house, for the inquisitive brother knew their faces
well; and the cadaverous hue of their cheeks seemed still more
cadaverous in the dim light shed upon them, while their hollow eyes
gave forth what looked to him like flashes of flame. A large book lay
open before one of them, and the others bent over the rotten table as
if in intense pain, or in dee