I advanced and examined it closely.

It was a frail shell enough--unlined, unornamented--a wretched sample of the undertaker's art, though God knows _I_ had no fault to find with its workmanship, nor with the haste of him who fashioned it.

Something shone at the bottom of it--it was a crucifix of ebony and silver.

That good monk again! His conscience had not allowed him to see me buried without this sacred symbol; he had perhaps laid it on my breast as the last service he could render me; it had fallen from thence, no doubt, when I had wrenched my way through the boards that inclosed me.

I took it and kissed it reverently--I resolved that if ever I met the holy father again, I would tell him my story, and, as a proof of its truth, restore to him this cross, which he would be sure to recognize.