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NO PLACE FOR STORY-TELLING.
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thicker by the interlaced branches of the trees overhead, was so profound that our horses could literally advance only by the gleam of the vivid flashes of lightning. Soon the storm increased; the trunks of the pines cracked and swayed to and fro in the wind, and the hollows in the mountains resounded with the multiplied echoes of terrific thunder-claps. The flashes now became less and less frequent, and at last, the intermittent gleams, which had hitherto lightened our advance, failed us entirely. A deafening thunder-clap was followed by a torrent of rain. It had now become impossible for us either to advance or to regain the road. Forced to remain immovable like equestrian statues, we were obliged to shout to one another to find out our respective positions. I then discovered that I was very near Fray Serapio. The voices of our three companions reached us like a distant echo borne along amid the whistling of the squall. We at last found ourselves separated from one another, without any probable hope of joining each other during the whole night, each of us being forced to stay where the darkness had overtaken him, exposed to all the dangers of the forest.

"Since we are condemned to remain here, as motionless as the statue of Charles IV. in Mexico," said I to the Franciscan, "don't you think this is a very good opportunity for telling me the history of your friend, Fray Epigmenio?"

"Fray Epigmenio!" cried the monk. "This is not a story suited either to the time or place. When I hear the trees groaning like spirits in Purgatory, and the torrents raging like wild beasts, I have not the courage to go over a history that is frightful enough in itself."