The monk of St. Bernard came next. Both the Augustine and his
dog were old acquaintances of the officer, who did not require any
evidence of his character or errand from the former.
"We are the protectors of life and not its foes," observed the monk, as,
leaving the more regular watchman of the place, he drew near to those,
whose claims to the office would have admitted of dispute: "we live among
the snows, that Christians may not die without the church's comfort."
"Honor, holy Augustine, to thee and thy office!" said the Neapolitan, who,
reckless and abandoned as he was, possessed that instinct of respect for
those who deny their natures for the good of others which is common to
all, however tainted by cupidity themselves. "Thou and thy dog, old
Uberto, can freely pass, with our best good wishes for both."
There no longer remained any to examine, and, after a short consultation
among the more superstitious of the travellers, they came to the very
natural opinion that, intimidated by their just remonstrances, the
offensive headsman had shrunk, unperceived, from the crowd, and that they
were at length happily relieved from his presence.
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