38 THE SICK BED. 



pillar's own weaving, from which the struggles of the self- impri- 

 soned insect, and the assisting hand of the entomologist might 

 combine in vain to free it, till the arrival of an appointed hour, 

 and then a single drop of acid, the gift of nature, bestows 

 freedom on the imprisoned Moth. 



The baron fell sick : his mountain of flesh heaved with the 

 volcanic throes of his fiery and troubled spirit. Now, good 

 Father Ambrose, now is thy time now if ever to aid in the 

 rescue of thy patron from the power of the enemy. Well he 

 knows it, and there he stands besides the baron's bed, which 

 fever of body, fever of mind, and fever heat (for it was a sultry 

 August noon) had converted into a sea of molten lava. As the 

 monkish labourer gazed upon the huge dismasted vessel, which 

 lay tossing on its waves, hopeless almost of saving its perilled 

 cargo, his forehead streamed with perspiration, and drops hung 

 from the tlrin black fringe of his tonsure. After depicting the 

 terrors of judgment, he was now in milder mood, dilating on the 

 joys of heaven ; but what to the eyes of the blind are the 

 most glowing colours of the painter ? 



" Talk not to me, father ! If there were a heaven such as 

 your idle words describe it, St. Boniface defend me,' (the 

 baron, though he scoffed at God and the Devil, was always 

 calling on his patron saint) " St. Boniface defend me from 

 such a place ! No horse no hound no hawk no venison 

 pasty no garnished boar's head no Rhenish wine. Call 

 ye this heaven ? To sit upon a cloud, and sing Aves, like a 



