The conflict of his soul communicated a severity of earnestness to his voice and manner which made Agnes tremble, as he put one probing question after another, designed to awaken some consciousness of sin in her soul.  Still, though troubled and distressed by his apparent disapprobation, her answers came always clear, honest, unfaltering, like those of one who could not form an idea of evil.

When the confession was over, he came out of his recess to speak with Agnes a few words face to face.  His eyes had a wild and haggard earnestness, and a vivid hectic flush on either cheek told how extreme was his emotion.  Agnes lifted her eyes to his with an innocent wondering trouble and an appealing confidence that for a moment wholly unnerved him.  He felt a wild impulse to clasp her in his arms; and for a moment it seemed to him he would sacrifice heaven and brave hell, if he could for one moment hold her to his heart, and say that he loved her,—­her, the purest, fairest, sweetest revelation of God’s love that had ever shone on his soul,—­her, the only star, the only flower, the only dew-drop of a burning, barren, weary life.  It seemed to him that it was not the longing, gross passion, but the outcry of his whole nature for something noble, sweet, and divine.

But he turned suddenly away with a sort of groan, and, folding his robe over his face, seemed engaged in earnest prayer.  Agnes looked at him awe-struck and breathless.

“Oh, my father!” she faltered, “what have I done?”

“Nothing, my poor child,” said the father, suddenly turning toward her with recovered calmness and dignity; “but I behold in thee a fair lamb whom the roaring lion is seeking to devour.  Know, my daughter, that I have made inquiries concerning this man of whom you speak, and find that he is an outlaw and a robber and a heretic,—­a vile wretch stained by crimes that have justly drawn down upon him the sentence of excommunication from our Holy Father the Pope.”

Agnes grew deadly pale at this announcement.

“Can it be possible?” she gasped.  “Alas! what dreadful temptations have driven him to such sins?”

“Daughter, beware how you think too lightly of them, or suffer his good looks and flattering words to blind you to their horror.  You must from your heart detest him as a vile enemy.”

“Must I, my father?”

“Indeed you must.”

“But if the dear Lord loved us and died for us when we were his enemies, may we not pity and pray for unbelievers?  Oh, say, my dear father, is it not allowed to us to pray for all sinners, even the vilest?”

“I do not say that you may not, my daughter,” said the monk, too conscientious to resist the force of this direct appeal; “but, daughter,” he added, with an energy that alarmed Agnes, “you must watch your heart; you must not suffer your interest to become a worldly love:  remember that you are chosen to be the espoused of Christ alone.”