I succeeded in saving, and I
claim this waif as my own."

"Be it so," said he, sneeringly; "I always knew you to be an idiot. A
profitable adventure, truly, this is likely to prove to you."

"I am satisfied with it, at all events," I replied, and he strode away.
I then turned to the young girl, and said in as soft a tone as I
command,

"Fear nothing, beautiful being. I am rough in appearance, but my heart
is in the right place. I will protect you. I will be to you a friend."

"Am I then alone?" she asked, in an accent of indescribable anguish.
"Oh, why did you not suffer me to perish with the rest? Wretched,
wretched Alice! to survive all that loved her!"

"Not all, lady, for _I_ am here," I said, naively.

"You! I know you not; all--all have perished. Forgive me," she
continued, seeing the blank expression of my countenance; "I know not
what I say. The wretched are excusable."

"Ah!" I replied with fervor, "I am too happy in being made the
instrument of serving such a being as you are to take any offense at
words wrung from the over-burdened heart. Come with me, fair Alice, and
I will place you in safety." I conducted her to the cottage of an old
woman, who had been my nurse. Though rough and frightful, she was kindly
in her nature, and I knew would do any thing to oblige me.

The narrator paused, arose, and rapidly paced the floor, his hands
nervously working, and the cold drops streaming from his corrugated
brow. He again threw himself upon his seat, and remained so long silent
that the priest ventured to speak to him:

"My friend, time passes. The sun is going to his rest, and beyond that
hour I can not remain."

"Pardon me," said the prisoner, in a subdued tone; "but the
recollections that crowd on my mind madden me. Think what it is to me,
the condemned, the outcast, to speak of past happiness. It is like
rending apart soul and body, to dwell on bright scenes amid the profound
yet palpable darkness of guilt and woe that is ever present with me.
'The heart knoweth its own bitterness,' was once quoted to me by her
lips. Ah! how overwhelmingly significant is that phrase to the
guilt-stricken! My God, my God! pardon and forgive; for thou knowest the
provocation."

The priest breathed a few words of consolation and hope, and again the
bitter waves of anguish rolled back from his soul, and left him calm. He
sat a few moments silent, as if recalling the scenes he was about to
depict; his brow cleared, his