He felt hot and cold, he tried to close his eyes as he thought of his little brother who that night had expected to sleep in his mother's lap and who now was probably trembling with terror and weeping in some dark corner of the convento.

His ears were again pierced with those cries he had heard in the church tower.

But wearied nature soon began to confuse his ideas and the veil of sleep descended upon his eyes.
He saw a bedroom where two dim tapers burned.

The curate, with a rattan whip in his hand, was listening gloomily to something that the senior sacristan was telling him in a strange tongue with horrible gestures.

Crispin quailed and turned his tearful eyes in every direction as if seeking some one or some hiding-place.