of writing out your confession, to abuse them to a very different purpose?”—This was coming to the point. I felt it necessary to summon my resolution—and I said, with a venial equivocation, “That is a crime of which my conscience does not accuse me.” “My son, do not dissemble with your conscience, or with me. I should be even above it in your estimation; for if it errs and deceives you, it is to me you should apply to enlighten and direct it. But I see it is in vain to attempt to touch your heart. I make my last appeal to it in these plain words. A few moments only of indulgence await you—use them or abuse them, as you will. I have to ask you a few plain questions, which, if you refuse to answer, or do not answer truly, your blood be on your own head.” I trembled, but I said, “My father, have I then refused to answer your questions?” “Your answers are all either interrogations or evasions. They must be direct and simple to the questions I am about to propose in the presence of these brethren. More depends on your answer than you are aware of. The warning voice breaks forth in spite of me.”—Terrified at these words, and humbled to the wish to propitiate them, I rose from my chair—then gasping, I leant on it for support. I said, “My God! what is all this terrible preparation for? Of what am I guilty? Why am I summoned by this warning voice so often, whose warnings are only so many mysterious threatenings? Why am I not told of my offence?”

“The four monks, who had never spoken or lifted up their heads till that moment, now directed their livid eyes at me, and repeated, all together, in a voice that seemed to issue from the bottom of a sepulchre, “Your crime is—” The Superior gave them a signal to be silent, and this interruption increased my consternation. It is certain, that when we are conscious of guilt, we always suspect that a greater degree of it will be ascribed to us by others. Their consciences avenge the palliations of our own, by the most horrible exaggerations. I did not know of what crime they might be disposed to accuse me; and already I felt the accusation of my clandestine correspondence as dust in the balance of their resentment. I had heard the crimes of convents were sometimes unutterably atrocious; and I felt as anxious now for a distinct charge to be preferred against me, as I had a few moments before to evade it. These indefinite fears were soon exchanged for real ones, as the Superior proposed his questions. “You have procured a large quantity of paper—how did you employ it?” I recovered myself, and said, “As I ought to do.” “How, in unburdening your conscience?” “Yes, in unburdening my conscience.” “That is false; the greatest sinner on earth could not have blotted so many pages 

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