I first informed the Count of the terrific melancholy I had endured when separated from him; and he declared he had been haunted with a similar temptation to suicide. “Let us take advantage,” he said, “of the little time that remains for us, by mutually consoling each other. We will speak of God; emulate each other in loving him, and inculcate upon each other that he only is Justice, Wisdom, Goodness, Beauty—is all which is most worthy to be reverenced and adored. I tell you, friend, of a truth, that death is not far from me. I shall be eternally grateful, Silvio, if you will help me, in these my last moments, to become as religious as I ought to have been during my whole life.”

We now, therefore, confined our conversation wholly to religious subjects, especially to drawing parallels between the Christian philosophy and that of mere worldly founders of the Epicurean schools. We were both delighted to discover so strict an union between Christianity and reason; and both, on a comparison of the different evangelical communions, fully agreed that the catholic was the only one which could successfully resist the test of criticism,—which consisted of the purest doctrines and the purest morality—not of those wretched extremes, the product of human ignorance.

“And if by any unexpected accident,” observed Oroboni, “we should be restored to society, should we be so mean-spirited as to shrink from confessing our faith in the Gospel? Should we stand firm if accused of having changed our sentiments in consequence of prison discipline?”

“Your question, my dear Oroboni,” I replied, “acquaints me with the nature of your reply; it is also mine. The vilest servility is that of being subjected to the opinions of others, when we feel a persuasion at the same time that they are false. I cannot believe that either you or I could be guilty of so much meanness.” During these confidential communications of our sentiments, I committed one fault. I had pledged my honour to Julian never to reveal, by mention of his real name, the correspondence which had passed between us. I informed poor Oroboni of it all, observing that “it never should escape my lips in any other place; but here we are immured as in a tomb; and even should you get free, I know I can confide in you as in myself.”

My excellent friend returned no answer. “Why are you silent?” I enquired. He then seriously upbraided me for having broken my word and betrayed my friend’s secret. His reproach was just; no friendship, however intimate, however fortified by virtue, can authorise such a violation of confidence, guaranteed, as it had been, by a sacred vow.

Since, however, it was done, Oroboni was desirous of turning my fault to a good account. He was acquainted with Julian, and related several traits of character, highly honourable to him. “Indeed,” he added, “he has so often acted like a true Christian, that he will never carry his enmity to such a religion to the grave with him. Let us hope so; let us not cease to hope. And you, Silvio, try to pardon his ill-humour from your heart; and pray for him!” His words were held sacred by me.