In vain.

It stood out more palpably than all the rest.

His rival was no longer in his path.

How he was removed the abbot did not dare to think.
But he was gone for ever, unless the tall monk were he! Unable to endure this terrible retrospect, Paslew strove to bend his thoughts on other things.

The choir was singing the "_Dies Irae_," and their voices thundered forth:-- Rex tremendae majestatis, Qui salvandos salvas gratis, Salva me, fons pietatis! Fain would the abbot have closed his ears, and, hoping to stifle the remorseful pangs that seized upon his very vitals with the sharpness of serpents' teeth, he strove to dwell upon the frequent and severe acts of penance he had performed.