The times. (Owosso, Mich.) 1882-1897, 1882-05-12

flight of stairs through long passage,
across roof, down under. an arch
way into great dark stone chamber,
and then he went off with the light
and left us in utter darkness and pro-
found meditation. We tried to joke
about it at first, and with some little
difficulty started laugh, but il was
weak, and when the walls gave it back
to us it fell so dismally dead that we
dared not try it again. And then
fancies born of that dungeon dark
ness and death stiffness came running
they put on wings and flew. |
was carried back to those happy days
of my childhood when l could stay
home from church on condition that
would look over the pictures in
Fox's Book of Martyrs. And they all
came back to me. John Rogers in
the blazing barrel with his wife and
ten children looking on. | counted
them over again in imagination as l
used 10 every Sunday, to see if they
were all there. Martyrs in every con
ceivable form to suit the most faSti-
dious, fried, roasted, boiled, stewed,
scalloped and fricassed, until appe
tite was blunted of its edge and taste
became dyspeptic, and unless | could
have my martyr served upon a grid
iron over a slow fire turned often and
properly sauced with red hot liquid
lead. | didn't care for him. But
now that it seemed to be getting a
personal matter and the prospect was
that might be the martyr l was not
so particular. | could have been sat
isfied with much less in the way Of
favoring. think we must have sat
there ten minutes, when presently we
heard the shuttle of approaching foot
steps and saw the glimmer Of candle,
the door opened, and there stood in
it what seemed to be the very Father
of all Inquisitors. He held up the
candle and glanced under it with
keen black eyes,-an old, withered,
white headed Monk, with the cruel
fix hanging at his waist. Then
another came in and young man
who was with me said-"gracious! l
believe these fellows are getting ready
to roast us" But the appearance of
the last Monk was more comforting
He was the picture of jollity and good
living, and as he came toward us
smiling and extending his hand and
jabbering away, first in Arabic, then
in Italian, and then in broken French
asked where we had come from and
said we were welcome, we began to
feel greatly relieved, we thought
we were all right now, until he
asked the question care you Catho-
lics?" / pretended that | couldn t
understand him for moment, and
then my Puritan blood got up and |
said, "No sir | ain't!" "Are you a
Protestant" eyes sir!" His coun
tenance fell He locke d troubled,
and thought now we are in for it.
He said presently, "Protestants are
YOU? Well l am sorry, but-never
mind, we won't talk about that, IN
glad to see you'll And he was.
There was no hypocricy about it..
He sat down beside us and told us of
his 20 or 80 years experience in the
convent, that he was a musician and
had made an organ himself, and if we
would stay over tomorrow we mi ght
hear him play it in the chapel. 1t
was Saint somebody's day, and they
were going to have grand ceebra
ton, and the old man was as pleased
over it as boy with his first willow
whistle. Then he invited us out TO
supper and sat down at the table wi III
us, talking all the time. Sometimes
we understood him and sometime, we
didn't, but it made no difference with
him. He was just as happy in either
case. When we managed to com
prehend his mixture of three parts,
Italian, to one Of French he laughed
over it, and when we were puzzled to
get his idea,h he laughed the harder
1t was rough board table without