“Our holy Superior is out a good while this morning,” he said, at length.

The observation was made in the smoothest and most silken tones, but they carried with them such a singular suggestion of doubt and inquiry that they seemed like an accusation.

“Ah?” replied the other, perceiving evidently some intended undertone of suspicion lurking in the words, but apparently resolved not to commit himself to his companion.

“Yes,” said the first; “the zeal of the house of the Lord consumes him, the blessed man!”

“Blessed man!” echoed the second, rolling up his eyes, and giving a deep sigh, which shook his portly proportions so that they quivered like jelly.

“If he goes on in this way much longer,” continued Father Johannes, “there will soon be very little mortal left of him; the saints will claim him.”

Father Anselmo gave something resembling a pious groan, but darted meanwhile a shrewd observant glance at the speaker.

“What would become of the convent, were he gone?” said Father Johannes.  “All these blessed reforms which he has brought about would fall back; for our nature is fearfully corrupt, and ever tends to wallow in the mire of sin and pollution.  What changes hath he wrought in us all!  To be sure, the means were sometimes severe.  I remember, brother, when he had you under ground for more than ten days.  My heart was pained for you; but I suppose you know that it was necessary, in order to bring you to that eminent state of sanctity where you now stand.”

The heavy, sensual features of Father Anselmo flushed up with some emotion, whether of anger or of fear it was hard to tell; but he gave one hasty glance at his companion, which, if a glance could kill, would have struck him dead, and then there fell over his countenance, like a veil, an expression of sanctimonious humility, as he replied,—­

“Thank you for your sympathy, dearest brother.  I remember, too, how I felt for you that week when you were fed only on bread and water, and had to take it on your knees off the floor, while the rest of us sat at table.  How blessed it must be to have one’s pride brought down in that way!  When our dear, blessed Superior first came, brother, you were as a bullock unaccustomed to the yoke, but now what a blessed change!  It must give you so much peace!  How you must love him!”

“I think we love him about equally,” said Father Johannes, his dark, thin features expressing the concentration of malignity.  “His labors have been blessed among us.  Not often does a faithful shepherd meet so loving a flock.  I have been told that the great Peter Abelard found far less gratitude.  They tried to poison him in the most holy wine.”

“How absurd!” interrupted Father Anselmo, hastily; “as if the blood of the Lord, as if our Lord himself, could be made poison!”

“Brother, it is a fact,” insisted the former, in tones silvery with humility and sweetness.