do,
and yet his mind could not be arrested by the study of all the wonders
around him; his heart was sad; for years he had had a sorrow which
weighed heavily upon him, and he was wretched. Before he had embraced
the solitude of a monastic life, he had with him a younger brother, of
whom he was very fond. The young man was a student in medicine, with
fair capacity and an energy which promised to advance him in his
profession. When Marini entered the convent, his brother went to Turkey,
where men of his profession were always certain of a good reception,
and for a long time was never heard of. At last, when the missionary was
ready to start for a distant mission, he learned that which proved so
destructive to his peace of mind. From Constantinople, his brother had
gone to Persia, where he was residing in easy circumstances; but,
ambitious of advancement, he had abjured the faith of his fathers and
become a follower of Mahommed.

It was a melancholy intelligence, and many were the tears of the good
monk. The first year of his arrival at Hurdwar, he met with a Jewish
merchant who had accompanied a Persian caravan. That man knew his
brother, the renegade, and informed the Padre that his brother had
fallen into disgrace, and as a punishment of his apostacy, was now
leading a life of privation and misery.

Deep and fervent were now the monk's prayers to heaven; he implored
forgiveness for his brother, and offered penance for him. Poor man! he
thought if he could but see him and talk to him, he would redeem him
from his apostacy; but, alas! his duty was in Hurdwar, he was bound
there and could not move. One day (it was during the fair) he had
wandered at a distance from the river, that he might not witness the
delusions of paganism, and his mind was intensely absorbed in prayer.
Anon, unusual sounds broke on his ears; sounds well known, sounds
reminding him of his country, of his beautiful Italy. They came from a
little bower ten steps before him; and as past scenes rushed to his
memory, his heart beat tremulously in his bosom; the monk recognized a
barcarole which he had often sung in his younger days: but although the
air was lively, the voice which sung it was mournful and sad. Stepping
noiselessly, he stood at the entrance of the bower. The stranger started
and arose! Their separation had been a long one, but neither the
furrowed cheeks and sallow complexion of the one, nor the turbaned head
of the other, could deceive t