Ferdinand was extremely mortified to find he had taken a wrong direction, from the convent as it appeared, by keeping to the left; yet he was so very languid and tired, that he found it hardly possible to measure his steps back without some rest or sustenance; for, however grief may fill up the mind, or weaken the appetite, nature will assert her rights, and remind the woe-begone traveller that something is necessary for her support. He waited some minutes, not with the patience of a Socrates, when at length the same face appeared through the hole: "I will let you in for a short time to the huntsman's room, but no farther." He proceeded to unbar the gate, which from its creaking noise, and the difficulty attending its opening, gave evident proofs that the practice of hospitality was not customary in that ruinous building.
When the gate was opened Ferdinand absolutely started at the figure of his conductor; he even hesitated whether he should follow him; haggard, emaciated and tottering,
