Five days passed, slowly, monotonously, wearily.  Five nights of unwelcome dreams and sleep that brought no rest.  The close air and narrow bounds began to tell upon his appetite and strength.  He had soon gone over his poets.  Fortunately, they were well chosen and would bear repeating.  The fountain in his own mind, too, was still full, and he found great relief in declaiming extempore verses in a loud voice, and writing out those that pleased him best.  But could he hold out? for it was evidently intended to wear him down by anxiety and solitude, and when they had broken his spirits bring him to an examination.

At last a new face appeared:  not cold like that of the familiar, nor wreathed in smiles like that of a successful enemy, but wearing a decent expression of gravity tempered by compassion.  And “How do you do, Doctor?” asked the visitor in a soothing voice, trained like his face to tell lies at his bidding.

“Well, Father, perfectly well.”

“I am very glad to hear it.  I was afraid your appetite might have suffered from the sudden change in your mode of life.”

“Not in the least.  I have a sound stomach, and can digest anything you send me.”

“And how do you contrive to pass your time?  For so active a man, the change is very great.”

“Oh, that is easy enough.  I am very fond of poetry, and have such a good memory that I know volumes of it by heart.  There is nothing pleasanter than repeating verses that you like,—­except, perhaps, making verses yourself.”

“Do you ever compose?”

“I?  It has always been my favorite pastime.  Would you like to hear some of my verses?”

The sympathizing father was, of course, too happy; and M——­ recited, in his most effective manner, a sonnet, not very complimentary to eavesdroppers and spies.  A shadow passed over the monk’s face; but he was too well trained to let out his feelings prematurely; and resuming the conversation as if nothing had occurred to disturb his equanimity, he told M——­ in his softest tone that he hoped there had been nothing in his treatment to complain of.  M——­ sprang to his feet.

“Oh, this, by Heaven, is too much, even from you!  Nothing to complain of!  To tear the father of a family from the arms of his wife and children, a physician from patients who are looking to him for life and health,—­and nothing to complain of!”

It was just the question he wanted; and partly from design, and partly from irrepressible indignation, he poured out a torrent of invective and reproach which soon sent his visitor away, perfectly convinced that the spirit they had undertaken to break had not yet begun to bend.