He considered this possibility for a moment, then smiled.

“But she never will!  She is one of those strange women who endure without complaint,—­she is too lofty and pure for the ways of the world, and the world naturally takes vengeance upon her.  There is not a man born that does not hate too pure a woman; it is his joy to degrade her if he can!  This is the way of Nature; what is a woman made for except to subject herself to her master!  And when she rises superior to him—­superior in soul, intellect, heart and mind, he sees in her nothing but an abnormal prodigy, to be stared at, laughed at, despised—­but never loved!  The present position of affairs is Angela’s fault, not mine.  She should not have concealed the work she was doing from her lover, who had the right to know all her secrets!”

He laughed,—­a low malicious laugh, and then lay tranquilly on his pillows gazing at the gradually diminishing light.  Day was departing—­night was coming on,—­and as the shadows lengthened, the solemn sound of the organ began to vibrate through the walls of the monastery like far-off thunder growing musical.  With a certain sensuous delight in the beautiful, Varillo listened to it with pleasure; he had no mind to probe the true meaning of music, but the mere sound was soothing and sublime, and seemed in its gravity, to match the “tone” of the light that was gradually waning.  So satisfied was he with that distant pulse of harmony that he began weaving some verses in his head to “His Absent Lady,”—­and succeeded in devising quite a charming lyric to her whose honour and renown he was ready to kill.  So complex, so curious, so callous, yet sensuous, and utterly egotistical was his nature, that had Angela truly died under his murderous blow, he would have been ready now to write such exquisite verses in the way of a lament for her loss, as should have made a world of sentimental women weep, not knowing the nature of the man.

The last glimpse of day vanished, and the cell was only illuminated by a flickering gleam which crept through the narrow crevice of the door from the oil lamp outside in the corridor.  The organ music ceased—­to be followed by the monotonous chanting of the monks at their evening orisons,—­and in turn, these too came to an end, and all was silent.  Easily and restfully Florian Varillo, calling himself in his own mind poet, artist, and lover of all women rather than one, turned on his pillow and slept peacefully,—­a calm deep sleep such as is only supposed to visit the innocent and pure of conscience, but which in truth just as often refreshes the senses of the depraved and dissolute, provided they are satisfied with evil as their good.  How many hours he slept he did not know, but he was wakened at last by a terrible sense of suffocation, and he sat up gasping for breath, to find the cell full of thick smoke and burning stench.  The flickering reflection of the lamp was gone, and as he instinctively leaped from his bed and grasped his clothes, he heard the monastery bell above him swinging to and fro, with a jarring heavy clang.  Weak from the effects of his illness, and scarcely able to stand, he dragged on some of his garments, and rushing to the door threw it open, to be met with dense darkness and thick clouds of smoke wreathing towards him in all directions.  He uttered a loud shriek.