THE PHYSICIAN OF SOULS. 39 



beardless chorister ! A heaven for a man I By my spurs, it 

 were a fitter for yonder Butterfly." 



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

 patron's hand in one of his own, while he pointed with the 

 other to the large White Butterfly, which had j ust entered the 

 window ; " you talk, my lord, of that Butterfly in scorn ; 

 but know that the Butterfly is heaven's own emblem of the 

 immortal soul !" 



If the baron had been standing he would have turned upon 

 his mailed heel with a pshaw ! As it was, he turned upon his 

 bed with a groan. He knew as much about emblems as he 

 knew about the philosopher's stone. The monk also turned 

 away despairingly ; for his alchemy seemed vain to .extract 

 one drop of penitence (life's true elixir) from his patron's 

 stony heart. So, at least, it then appeared ; but Father Am- 

 brose, however unsuitable his tools, or unskilled his mode of 

 handling them, had been working in the zeal of real piety, 

 and therefore had not worked alone. 



The baron awoke next morning with calmer pulse, and in 

 calmer mood than usual. The leech exulted in the success of 

 his remedies, and as he retired from his morning visit pressed 

 the rushes on the floor of the chamber with audible tread. 

 The Physician of souls also welcomed the ' patient's clearer 

 brow and softened tone ; but, more modest than his brother in 

 the art of healing, took no credit to himself for the smoothing 

 of the troubled waters; and fearing the calm would prove 



