"Saviour of the world! By the souls of the sacred dead whom Thou hast in Thy holy keeping, have pity upon me! Oh, my mother! if indeed thine earthly remains are near me--think of me, sweet angel in that heaven where thy spirit dwells at rest--plead for me and save me, or let me die now and be tortured no more!" I uttered these words aloud, and the sound of my wailing voice ringing through the somber arches of the vault was strange and full of fantastic terror to my own ears.

I knew that were my agony much further prolonged I should go mad.

And I dared not picture to myself the frightful things which a maniac might be capable of, shut up in such a place of death and darkness, with moldering corpses for companions! I remained on my knees, my face buried in my hands.

I forced myself into comparative calmness, and strove to preserve the equilibrium of my distracted mind.

Hush! What exquisite far-off floating voice of cheer was that?
I raised my head and listened, entranced! "Jug, jug, Jug! lodola, lodola! trill-lil-lil! sweet, sweet, sweet!" It was a nightingale.