that second life; and hence, too, a worship founded on the love of God, and of his neighbour, and an unceasing impulse to dignify his nature by generous sacrifices.  I had already made myself familiar with this doctrine, and I now repeated, “And what else is Christianity but this constant ambition to elevate and dignify our nature?” and I was astonished, when I reflected how pure, how philosophical, and how invulnerable the essence of Christianity manifested itself, that there could come an epoch when philosophy dared to assert, “From this time forth I will stand instead of a religion like this.”  And in what manner—by inculcating vice?  Certainly not.  By teaching virtue?  Why that will be to teach us to love God and our neighbour; and that is precisely what Christianity has already done, on far higher and purer motives.  Yet, notwithstanding such had, for years, been my opinion, I had failed to draw the conclusion, Then be a Christian!  No longer let corruption and abuses, the work of man, deter you; no longer make stumbling-blocks of little points of doctrine, since the principal point, made thus irresistibly clear, is to love God and your neighbour.

In prison I finally determined to admit this conclusion, and I admitted it.  The fear, indeed, of appearing to others more religious than I had before been, and to yield more to misfortune than to conviction, made me sometimes hesitate; but feeling that I had done no wrong, I felt no debasement, and cared nothing to encounter the possible reproaches I had not deserved, resolving henceforward to declare myself openly a Christian.

CHAPTER IV.

I adhered firmly to this resolution as time advanced; but the consideration of it was begun the first night of my captivity.  Towards morning the excess of my grief had grown calmer, and I was even astonished at the change.  On recalling the idea of my parents and others whom I loved, I ceased to despair of their strength of mind, and the recollection of those virtues which I knew they had long possessed gave me real consolation.  Why had I before felt such great dismay on thinking of them, and now so much confidence in their strength of mind?  Was this happy change miraculous, or the natural effect of my renewed belief in God?  What avails the distinction, while the genuine sublime benefits of religion remain the same.

At midnight two secondini (the under jailers are so termed) had paid me a visit, and found me in a very ill mood; in the morning they returned, and were surprised to see me so calm, and even cheerful.

“Last night, sir, you had the face of a basilisk,” said Tirola; “now you are quite another thing; I rejoice at it, if, indeed, it be a sign, forgive me the expression, that you are not a scoundrel.  Your scoundrels (for I am an old hand at the trade, and my observations are worth something) are always more enraged the second day after their arrest than the first.  Do you want some snuff?”

“I do not take it, but will not refuse your offer.  If I have not a gorgon-face this morning, it must surely be a proof of my utter insensibility, or easy belief of soon regaining my freedom.”

“I should doubt that, even though you were not in durance for state matters.  At this time of day they are not so easily got over as you might think; you are not so raw as to imagine such a thing.  Pardon me, but you will know more by and by.”

“Tell me, how come you to have so pleasant a look, living only, as you do, among the unfortunate?”

“Why, sir, you will attribute it to indifference to others’ sufferings; of a truth, I know not how it is; yet, I assure you, it often gives me pain to see the prisoners weep.  Truly, I sometimes pretend to be merry to bring a smile upon their faces.”

“A thought has just struck me, my friend, which I never had before; it is, that a jailer may be made of very congenial clay.”

“Well, the trade has nothing to do with that, sir.  Beyond that huge vault you see there, without the court-yard, is another court, and other prisons, all prepared for women.  They are, sir, women of a certain class; yet are there some angels among them, as to a good heart.  And if you were in my place, sir—”

“I?” and I laughed out heartily.

Tirola was quite disconcerted, and said no more.  Perhaps he meant to imply that had I been a secondino, it would have been difficult not to become attached to some one or other of these unfortunates.

He now inquired what I wished to take for breakfast, left me, and soon returned with my coffee.  I looked hard at him, with a sort of malicious smile, as much as to say, “Would you carry me a bit of a note to an unhappy friend—to my friend Piero?” [1]  He understood it, and answered with another: “No sir; and if you do not take heed how you ask any of my comrades, they will betray you.”

Whether or not we understood each other, it is certain I was ten times upon the point of asking him for a sheet of paper, &c.; but there was a something in his eye which seemed to warn me not to confide in any one about me, and still less to others than himself.

CHAPTER V.

Had Tirola, with his expression of good-nature, possessed a less roguish look, had there been something a little more dignified in his aspect, I should have tried to make him my ambassador; for perhaps a brief communication, if in time, might prevent my friend committing some fatal error, perhaps save him, poor fellow; besides several others, including myself: and too much was already known.  Patience! it was fated to be thus.

I was here recalled to be examined anew.  The process continued through the day, and was again and again repeated, allowing me only a brief interval during dinner.  While this lasted, the time seemed to pass rapidly; the excitement of mind produced by the endless series of questions put to me, and by going over them at dinner and at night, digesting all that had been asked and replied to, reflecting on what was likely to come, kept me in a state of incessant activity.  At the end of the first week I had to endure a most vexatious affair.  My poor friend Piero, eager as myself to have some communication, sent me a note, not by one of the jailers, but by an unfortunate prisoner who assisted them.  He was an old man from sixty to seventy, and condemned to I know not how long a period of captivity.  With a pin I had by me I pricked my finger, and scrawled with my blood a few lines in reply, which I committed to the same messenger.  He was unluckily suspected, caught with the note upon him, and from the horrible cries that were soon heard, I conjectured that he was severely bastinadoed.  At all events I never saw him more.

On my next examination I was greatly irritated to see my note presented to me (luckily containing nothing but a simple salutation), traced in my blood.  I was asked how I had contrived to draw the blood; was next deprived of my pin, and a great laugh was raised at the idea and detection of the attempt.  Ah, I did not laugh, for the image of the poor old messenger rose before my eyes.  I would gladly have undergone any punishment to spare the old man.  I could not repress my tears when those piercing cries fell upon my ear.  Vainly did I inquire of the jailers respecting his fate.  They shook their heads, observing, “He has paid dearly for it, he will never do such like things again; he has a little more rest now.”  Nor would they speak more fully.  Most probably they spoke thus on account of his having died under, or in consequence of, the punishment he had suffered; yet one day I thought I caught a glimpse of him at the further end of the court-yard, carrying a bundle of wood on his shoulders.  I felt a beating of