And at this recollection his brain whirled.
Even were it permitted him ever to behold her again, how could he stand before her?
Must she not abhor him, as one whose baseness surpassed all she had thought possible in the vilest slave?
Jealousy was pardonable; in its rage, a man might slay and be forgiven.

But for the reproach with which he had smitten her--her, pure and innocent--there could be no forgiveness.

It was an act of infamy, branding him for ever.
Thoughts such as these intermingled with his reading of the Psalms of penitence.

Ever and again grief overwhelmed him, and he wept bitterly.
At the hour of the evening meal, he would willingly have remained in his cell, to fast and mourn alone; but this, he felt, would have been to shirk part of his penance; for, though the brothers knew not of his sin, he could not meet their eyes for shame, and such humiliation must needs be salutary.

This evening other guests sat at the abbot's table, and he shrank from their notice, for though they were but men of humble estate, pilgrims from Lucania, he felt debased before them.