No professional mediciner could be found to attend him; but a good friar, better perhaps skilled in the healing art than many who claimed its monopoly, visited him daily.  And in the long and frequent absences to which his other and numerous duties compelled the monk, there was one ever at hand to smooth the pillow, to wipe the brow, to listen to the moan, to watch the sleep.  And even in that dismal office, when, in the frenzy of the sufferer, her name, coupled with terms of passionate endearment, broke from his lips, a thrill of strange pleasure crossed the heart of the betrothed, which she chid as if it were a crime.  But even the most unearthly love is selfish in the rapture of being loved!  Words cannot tell, heart cannot divine, the mingled emotions that broke over her when, in some of these incoherent ravings, she dimly understood that for her the city had been sought, the death dared, the danger incurred.  And as then bending passionately to kiss that burning brow, her tears fell fast over the idol of her youth, the fountains from which they gushed were those, fathomless and countless, which a life could not weep away.  Not an impulse of the human and the woman heart that was not stirred; the adoring gratitude, the meek wonder thus to be loved, while deeming it so simple a merit thus to love;—­as if all sacrifice in her were a thing of course,—­to her, a virtue nature could not paragon, worlds could not repay!  And there he lay, the victim to his own fearless faith, helpless—­dependent upon her—­a thing between life and death, to thank, to serve—­to be proud of, yet protect, to compassionate, yet revere—­the saver, to be saved!  Never seemed one object to demand at once from a single heart so many and so profound emotions; the romantic enthusiasm of the girl—­the fond idolatry of the bride—­the watchful providence of the mother over her child.

And strange to say, with all the excitement of that lonely watch, scarcely stirring from his side, taking food only that her strength might not fail her,—­unable to close her eyes,—­though, from the same cause, she would fain have taken rest, when slumber fell upon her charge—­with all such wear and tear of frame and heart, she seemed wonderfully supported.  And the holy man marvelled, in each visit, to see the cheek of the nurse still fresh, and her eye still bright.  In her own superstition she thought and felt that Heaven gifted her with a preternatural power to be true to so sacred a charge; and in this fancy she did not wholly err:—­for Heaven did gift her with that diviner power, when it planted in so soft a heart the enduring might and energy of Affection!  The friar had visited the sick man late on the third night, and administered to him a strong sedative.  “This night,” said he to Irene, “will be the crisis:  should he awaken, as I trust he may, with a returning consciousness, and a calm pulse, he will live; if not, young daughter, prepare for the worst.  But should you note any turn in the disease, that may excite alarm, or require my attendance, this scroll will inform you where I am, if God spare me still, at each hour of the night and morning.”