146 THE SICK BED. 



souls ; but, however this might have been with those about him, 

 it is certain that the Good Father never forgot that he had a^ 

 soul himself; and, what was more, he thought about the souls 

 of other people, especially about that of his patron. He had 

 long, indeed, entertained misgivings on account of that pre- 

 cious jewel, but great, nevertheless, was his horror on dis- 

 covering, one day, that the baron, though a Catholic in all 

 outward observances, was (in those days a thing wonderful as 

 horrible) an unbeliever. 



Piercing swords from the word, leaden bullets from the 

 Fathers, threatening thunderbolts from Rome, all were at 

 the holy man's disposal, and boldly and zealously did he ply 

 these sacred weapons for the ejection of his patron's spiritual 

 foes ; but they still keep fast possession of the baron's soul : 

 and the baron (as well he might) swore that he had not a soul 

 to keep. 



But Providence appoints its own means as well as its own 

 times and seasons. 



The baron fell sick : his breast heaved with the 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 beside 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. 



"Talk not to me, father! If there was 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 beard- 

 less chorister ! A heaven for a man ! By my spurs, it were a 

 fitter for yonder Butterfly." 



" Stay, my good lord," said the monk, eagerly catching his 



