me why. Fray Epigmenio has just breathed his last. A lingering fever hung about him a long time; he died this morning, and the duty of watching the corpse of the reverend father has been assigned to me. Could any one have played me a more scurvy trick?"
"I don't understand you," I replied. "You surely don't mean poor Fray Epigmenio?"
"Who then, if it isn't he? Do you know what this duty makes me lose? A charming assignation, mon cher." And, as a commentary on these words, there darted from his eyes an expressive glance which, told more than he said. I had not the heart to reproach the monk for his heartless talk, uttered, too, in such a cavalier tone. At this moment the first strokes of the passing-bell interrupted our conversation. "Good-by!" said Fray Serapio; "the bell calls me to my post." I shook him by the hand, and, on retiring, could not help reflecting on the singular contrast which these two men presented, inhabitants of the same convent, both under the same rules, both regardless of the sanctity of their mission; the one uniting libertinism with credulity, the other pushing piety to fanaticism, till it degenerated into cruelty. This contrast, I said sadly to myself, is a faithful picture of Mexican life. Who can tell how many unhappy wretches there are, in the numerous convents in Mexico, who have commenced with the first and ended with the second?
Among the persons who have figured in this narrative, one only succeeded in securing a peaceful life after a youth of stirring adventure: this was the student Don Diego Mercado, who, belonging to a rich family in Mexico, had always looked to the future without uneasiness. As for Don Blas, he met his death in a pet-
