With her eyes resting upon the Babe in the arms of the Virgin Mother, she asked, gravely and low: 

“Is it the ceaseless longing to have had a little child of your own to hold in your arms, to gather to your breast, to put to sleep upon your knees, which keeps your heart turning restlessly back to the world?”

Sister Seraphine gazed at the Prioress, in utter amazement.

“Nay, then, indeed!” she replied, impatiently.  “Always have I hated children.  To escape from the vexations of motherhood were reason enough for leaving the world.”

Then the Prioress withdrew her protective arm, and looked sternly upon Sister Seraphine.

“You are playing false to your vows,” she said; “you are slighting your vocation; yet no worthy or noble feeling draws your heart back to the world.  You do but desire vain pomp and show; all those things which minister to the enthronement of self.  Return to your cell and spend three hours in prayer and penitence before the crucifix.”

The Prioress lifted her hand and pointed to the figure of the Christ, hanging upon the great rugged cross against the wall, facing the door.  The sublimity of a supreme adoration was in her voice, as she made her last appeal.

“Surely,” she said, “surely no love of self can live, in view of the death and sacrifice of our blessed Lord!  Kneel then before the crucifix and learn——­”

But the over-wrought mind of Sister Seraphine, suddenly convinced of the futility of its hopeless rebellion, passed, in that moment, altogether beyond control.

With a shout of wild laughter, she flung back her head, pointing with outstretched finger at the crucifix.

“Death!  Death!  Death!” she shrieked, “helpless, hopeless, terrible!  I ask for life, I want to live; I am young, I am gay, I am beautiful.  And they bid—­bid—­bid me kneel—­long hours—­watching death.”  Her voice rose to a piercing scream.  “Ah, ha!  That will I not!  A dead God cannot help me!  I want life, not death!”

Shrieking she leapt to her feet, flew across the room, beat upon the sacred Form with her fists; tore at It with her fingers.

One instant of petrifying horror.  Then the Prioress was upon her.

Seizing her by both wrists she flung her to the floor, then pulled a rope passing over a pulley in the wall, which started the great alarm-bell, in the passage, clanging wildly.

At once there came a rush of flying feet; calls for the Sub-Prioress; but she was already there.

When they flung wide the door, lo, the Prioress stood—­with white face and blazing eyes, her arms outstretched—­between them and the crucifix.

Upon the floor, a crumpled heap, lay Sister Mary Seraphine.

The nuns, in a frightened crowd, filled the doorway, none daring to speak, or to enter; till old Mary Antony, pushing past the Sub-Prioress, kneeled down beside the Reverend Mother, and, lifting the hem of her robe, kissed it and pressed it to her breast.