[83]
to me, quoth the abbess of Andouillets—They cannot, my dear mother, said the novice, be pronounced at all; they will make all the blood in one's body fly up into one's face———But you may whisper them in my ear, quoth the abbess.
Heaven! hadst thou no guardian angel to delegate to the inn at the bottom of the hill? was there no generous and friendly spirit unemploy'd———no agent in nature, by some monitory shivering, creeping along the artery which led to his heart, to rouze the muleteer from his banquet?—no sweet minstrelsy to bring back the fair idea of the abbess and Margarita, with their black rosaries!
Rouse! rouse!—but 'tis too late—the horrid words are pronounced this moment———
———and
