"Then thou hast no right to scowl upon me so! But art thou real, or a vision ?" She bent down over the dead monk, till one of her rich curls brushed against his forehead.

She touched one of his folded hands with her finger.
"It is he," said Miriam.

"There is the scar, that I know so well, on his brow.

And it is no vision; he is palpable to my touch! I will question the fact no longer, but deal with it as I best can." It was wonderful to see how the crisis developed in Miriam its own proper strength, and the faculty of sustaining the demands which it made upon her fortitude.

She ceased to tremble; the beautiful woman gazed sternly at her dead enemy, endeavoring to meet and quell the look of accusation that he threw from between his half-closed eyelids.
"No; thou shalt not scowl me down!" said she.