† GOTHIC LIBRARY †

Est. July, 7 1998

THE MONK

A ROMANCE

BY

Matthew Gregory Lewis

VOLUME III

CHAPTER I

The crickets sing, and Man's o'er-laboured sense
Repairs itself by rest: Our Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes, ere He wakened
The chastity He wounded—Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! Fresh Lily!
And whiter than the sheets! Cymbeline.

All the researches of the Marquis de las Cisternas proved vain:
Agnes was lost to him for ever. Despair produced so violent an
effect upon his constitution, that the consequence was a long and
severe illness. This prevented him from visiting Elvira as He
had intended; and She being ignorant of the cause of his neglect,
it gave her no trifling uneasiness. His Sister's death had
prevented Lorenzo from communicating to his Uncle his designs
respecting Antonia: The injunctions of her Mother forbad his
presenting himself to her without the Duke's consent; and as She
heard no more of him or his proposals, Elvira conjectured that He
had either met with a better match, or had been commanded to give
up all thoughts of her Daughter. Every day made her more uneasy
respecting Antonia's fate: While She retained the Abbot's
protection, She bore with fortitude the disappointment of her
hopes with regard to Lorenzo and the Marquis. That resource now
failed her. She was convinced that Ambrosio had meditated her
Daughter's ruin: And when She reflected that her death would
leave Antonia friendless and unprotected in a world so base, so
perfidious and depraved, her heart swelled with the bitterness of
apprehension. At such times She would sit for hours gazing upon
the lovely Girl; and seeming to listen to her innocent prattle,
while in reality her thoughts dwelt upon the sorrows into which
a moment would suffice to plunge her. Then She would clasp her
in her arms suddenly, lean her head upon her Daughter's bosom,
and bedew it with her tears.

An event was in preparation which, had She known it, would have
relieved her from her inquietude. Lorenzo now waited only for a
favourable opportunity to inform the Duke of his intended
marriage: However, a circumstance which occurred at this period,
obliged him to delay his explanation for a few days longer.

Don Raymond's malady seemed to gain ground. Lorenzo was
constantly at his bedside, and treated him with a tenderness
truly fraternal. Both the cause and effects of the disorder were
highly afflicting to the Brother of Agnes: yet Theodore's grief
was scarcely less sincere. That amiable Boy quitted not his
Master for a moment, and put every means in practice to console
and alleviate his sufferings. The Marquis had conceived so
rooted an affection for his deceased Mistress, that it was
evident to all that He never could survive her loss: Nothing
could have prevented him from sinking under his grief but the
persuasion of her being still alive, and in need of his
assistance. Though convinced of its falsehood, his Attendants
encouraged him in a belief which formed his only comfort. He
was assured daily that fresh perquisitions were making
respecting the fate of Agnes: Stories were invented recounting
the various attempts made to get admittance into the Convent; and
circumstances were related which, though they did not promise her
absolute recovery, at least were sufficient to keep his hopes
alive. The Marquis constantly fell into the most terrible excess
of passion when informed of the failure of these supposed
attempts. Still He would not credit that the succeeding ones
would have the same fate, but flattered himself that the next
would prove more fortunate.

Theodore was the only one who exerted himself to realize his
Master's Chimoeras. He was eternally busied in planning schemes
for entering the Convent, or at least of obtaining from the Nuns
some intelligence of Agnes. To execute these schemes was the
only inducement which could prevail on him to quit Don Raymond.
He became a very Proteus, changing his shape every day; but all
his metamorphoses were to very little purpose: He regularly
returned to the Palace de las Cisternas without any intelligence
to confirm his Master's hopes. One day He took it into his head
to disguise himself as a Beggar. He put a patch over his left
eye, took his Guitar in hand, and posted himself at the Gate of
the Convent.

'If Agnes is really confined in the Convent,' thought He, 'and
hears my voice, She will recollect it, and possibly may find
means to let me know that She is here.'

With this idea He mingled with a crowd of Beggars who assembled
daily at the Gate of St. Clare to receive Soup, which the Nuns
were accustomed to distribute at twelve o'clock. All were
provided with jugs or bowls to carry it away; But as Theodore had
no utensil of this kind, He begged leave to eat his portion at
the Convent door. This was granted without difficulty: His
sweet voice, and in spite of his patched eye, his engaging
countenance, won the heart of the good old Porteress, who, aided
by a Lay-Sister, was busied in serving to each his Mess.
Theodore was bad to stay till the Others should depart, and
promised that his request should then be granted. The Youth
desired no better, since it was not to eat Soup that He presented
himself at the Convent. He thanked the Porteress for her
permission, retired from the Door, and seating himself upon a
large stone, amused himself in tuning his Guitar while the
Beggars were served.

As soon as the Crowd was gone, Theodore was beckoned to the Gate,
and desired to come in. He obeyed with infinite readiness, but
affected great respect at passing the hallowed Threshold, and to
be much daunted by the presence of the Reverend Ladies. His
feigned timidity flattered the vanity of the Nuns, who
endeavoured to reassure him. The Porteress took him into her
awn little Parlour: In the meanwhile, the Lay-Sister went to
the Kitchen, and soon returned with a double portion of Soup, of
better quality than what was given to the Beggars. His Hostess
added some fruits and confections from her own private store, and
Both encouraged the Youth to dine heartily. To all these
attentions He replied with much seeming gratitude, and abundance
of blessings upon his benefactresses. While He ate, the Nuns
admired the delicacy of his features, the beauty of his hair, and
the sweetness and grace which accompanied all his actions. They
lamented to each other in whispers, that so charming a Youth
should be exposed to the seductions of the World, and agreed,
that He would be a worthy Pillar of the Catholic Church. They
concluded their conference by resolving that Heaven would be
rendered a real service if they entreated the Prioress to
intercede with Ambrosio for the Beggar's admission into the order
of Capuchins.

This being determined, the Porteress, who was a person of great
influence in the Convent, posted away in all haste to the
Domina's Cell. Here She made so flaming a narrative of
Theodore's merits that the old Lady grew curious to see him.
Accordingly, the Porteress was commissioned to convey him to the
Parlour grate. In the interim, the supposed Beggar was sifting
the Lay-Sister with respect to the fate of Agnes: Her evidence
only corroborated the Domina's assertions. She said that Agnes
had been taken ill on returning from confession, had never
quitted her bed from that moment, and that She had herself been
present at the Funeral. She even attested having seen her dead
body, and assisted with her own hands in adjusting it upon the
Bier. This account discouraged Theodore: Yet as He had pushed
the adventure so far, He resolved to witness its conclusion.

The Porteress now returned, and ordered him to follow her. He
obeyed, and was conducted into the Parlour, where the Lady
Prioress was already posted at the Grate. The Nuns surrounded
her, who all flocked with eagerness to a scene which promised
some diversion. Theodore saluted them with profound respect, and
his presence had the power to smooth for a moment even the stern
brow of the Superior. She asked several questions respecting his
Parents, his religion, and what had reduced him to a state of
Beggary. To these demands his answers were perfectly
satisfactory and perfectly false. He was then asked his opinion
of a monastic life: He replied in terms of high estimation and
respect for it. Upon this, the Prioress told him that his
obtaining an entrance into a religious order was not impossible;
that her recommendation would not permit his poverty to be an
obstacle, and that if She found him deserving it, He might depend
in future upon her protection. Theodore assured her that to
merit her favour would be his highest ambition; and having
ordered him to return next day, when She would talk with him
further, the Domina quitted the Parlour.

The Nuns, whom respect for the Superior had till then kept
silent, now crowded all together to the Grate, and assailed the
Youth with a multitude of questions. He had already examined
each with attention: Alas! Agnes was not amongst them. The Nuns
heaped question upon question so thickly that it was scarcely
possible for him to reply. One asked where He was born, since
his accent declared him to be a Foreigner: Another wanted to
know, why He wore a patch upon his left eye: Sister Helena
enquired whether He had not a Sister like him, because She should
like such a Companion; and Sister Rachael was fully persuaded
that the Brother would be the pleasanter Companion of the Two.
Theodore amused himself with retailing to the credulous Nuns for
truths all the strange stories which his imagination could
invent. He related to them his supposed adventures, and
penetrated every Auditor with astonishment, while He talked of
Giants, Savages, Ship-wrecks, and Islands inhabited

'By Anthropophagi, and Men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders,'

With many other circumstances to the full as remarkable. He said,
that He was born in Terra Incognita, was educated at an Hottentot
University, and had past two years among the Americans of
Silesia.

'For what regards the loss of my eye' said He, 'it was a just
punishment upon me for disrespect to the Virgin, when I made my
second pilgrimage to Loretto. I stood near the Altar in the
miraculous Chapel: The Monks were proceeding to array the Statue
in her best apparel. The Pilgrims were ordered to close their
eyes during this ceremony: But though by nature extremely
religious, curiosity was too powerful. At the moment . . . . . I
shall penetrate you with horror, reverend Ladies, when I reveal
my crime! . . . . At the moment that the Monks were changing her
shift, I ventured to open my left eye, and gave a little peep
towards the Statue. That look was my last! The Glory which
surrounded the Virgin was too great to be supported. I hastily
shut my sacrilegious eye, and never have been able to unclose it
since!'

At the relation of this miracle the Nuns all crossed themselves,
and promised to intercede with the blessed Virgin for the
recovery of his sight. They expressed their wonder at the extent
of his travels, and at the strange adventures which He had met
with at so early an age. They now remarked his Guitar, and
enquired whether he was an adept in Music. He replied with
modesty that it was not for him to decide upon his talents, but
requested permission to appeal to them as Judges. This was
granted without difficulty.

'But at least,' said the old Porteress, 'take care not to sing
any thing profane.'

'You may depend upon my discretion,' replied Theodore: 'You shall
hear how dangerous it is for young Women to abandon themselves
to their passions, illustrated by the adventure of a Damsel who
fell suddenly in love with an unknown Knight.'

'But is the adventure true?' enquired the Porteress.

'Every word of it. It happened in Denmark, and the Heroine was
thought so beautiful that She was known by no other name but
that of ''the lovely Maid''.'

'In Denmark, say you?' mumbled an old Nun; 'Are not the People
all Blacks in Denmark?'

'By no means, reverend Lady; They are of a delicate pea-green
with flame-coloured hair and whiskers.'

'Mother of God! Pea-green?' exclaimed Sister Helena; 'Oh! 'tis
impossible!'

'Impossible?' said the Porteress with a look of contempt and
exultation: 'Not at all: When I was a young Woman, I remember
seeing several of them myself.'

Theodore now put his instrument in proper order. He had read the
story of a King of England whose prison was discovered by a
Minstrel; and He hoped that the same scheme would enable him to
discover Agnes, should She be in the Convent. He chose a Ballad
which She had taught him herself in the Castle of Lindenberg: She
might possibly catch the sound, and He hoped to hear her replying
to some of the Stanzas. His Guitar was now in tune, and He
prepared to strike it.

'But before I begin,' said He 'it is necessary to inform you,
Ladies, that this same Denmark is terribly infested by Sorcerers,
Witches, and Evil Spirits. Every element possesses its
appropriate Daemons. The Woods are haunted by a malignant power,
called ''the Erl- or Oak-King:'' He it is who blights the Trees,
spoils the Harvest, and commands the Imps and Goblins: He
appears in the form of an old Man of majestic figure, with a
golden Crown and long white beard: His principal amusement is to
entice young Children from their Parents, and as soon as He gets
them into his Cave, He tears them into a thousand pieces—The
Rivers are governed by another Fiend, called ''the Water-King:''
His province is to agitate the deep, occasion ship-wrecks, and
drag the drowning Sailors beneath the waves: He wears the
appearance of a Warrior, and employs himself in luring young
Virgins into his snare: What He does with them, when He catches
them in the water, Reverend Ladies, I leave for you to
imagine—''The Fire-King'' seems to be a Man all formed of
flames: He raises the Meteors and wandering lights which
beguile Travellers into ponds and marshes, and He directs the
lightning where it may do most mischief—The last of these
elementary Daemons is called ''the Cloud-King;'' His figure is
that of a beautiful Youth, and He is distinguished by two large
sable Wings: Though his outside is so enchanting, He is not a
bit better disposed than the Others: He is continually employed
in raising Storms, tearing up Forests by the roots, and blowing
Castles and Convents about the ears of their Inhabitants. The
First has a Daughter, who is Queen of the Elves and Fairies; The
Second has a Mother, who is a powerful Enchantress: Neither of
these Ladies are worth more than the Gentlemen: I do not
remember to have heard any family assigned to the two other
Daemons, but at present I have no business with any of them
except the Fiend of the Waters. He is the Hero of my Ballad; but
I thought it necessary before I began, to give you some account
of his proceedings—'

Theodore then played a short symphony; After which, stretching
his voice to its utmost extent to facilitate its reaching the ear
of Agnes, He sang the following Stanzas.

THE WATER-KING

A DANISH BALLAD

With gentle murmur flowed the Tide,
While by the fragrant flowery side
The lovely Maid with carols gay
To Mary's Church pursued her way.

The Water-Fiend's malignant eye
Along the Banks beheld her hie;
Straight to his Mother-witch He sped,
And thus in suppliant accents said:

'Oh! Mother! Mother! now advise,
How I may yonder Maid surprize:
Oh! Mother! Mother! Now explain,
How I may yonder Maid obtain.'

The Witch She gave him armour white;
She formed him like a gallant Knight;
Of water clear next made her hand
A Steed, whose housings were of sand.

The Water-King then swift He went;
To Mary's Church his steps He bent:
He bound his Courser to the Door,
And paced the Church-yard three times four.

His Courser to the door bound He,
And paced the Church-yard four time three:
Then hastened up the Aisle, where all
The People flocked, both great and small.

The Priest said, as the Knight drew near,
'And wherefore comes the white Chief here?'
The lovely Maid She smiled aside;
'Oh! would I were the white Chief's Bride!'

He stept o'er Benches one and two;
'Oh! lovely Maid, I die for You!'
He stept o'er Benches two and three;
'Oh! lovely Maiden, go with me!'

Then sweet She smiled, the lovely Maid,
And while She gave her hand, She said,
'Betide me joy, betide me woe,
O'er Hill, o'er dale, with thee I go.'

The Priest their hands together joins:
They dance, while clear the moon-beam shines;
And little thinks the Maiden bright,
Her Partner is the Water-spright.

Oh! had some spirit deigned to sing,
'Your Partner is the Water-King!'
The Maid had fear and hate confest,
And cursed the hand which then She prest.

But nothing giving cause to think,
How near She strayed to danger's brink,
Still on She went, and hand in hand
The Lovers reached the yellow sand.

'Ascend this Steed with me, my Dear;
We needs must cross the streamlet here;
Ride boldly in; It is not deep;
The winds are hushed, the billows sleep.'

Thus spoke the Water-King. The Maid
Her Traitor-Bride-groom's wish obeyed:
And soon She saw the Courser lave
Delighted in his parent wave.

'Stop! Stop! my Love! The waters blue
E'en now my shrinking foot bedew!'
'Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet Heart!
We now have reached the deepest part.'

'Stop! Stop! my Love! For now I see
The waters rise above my knee.'
'Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet Heart!
We now have reached the deepest part.'

'Stop! Stop! for God's sake, stop! For Oh!
The waters o'er my bosom flow!'—
Scarce was the word pronounced, when Knight
And Courser vanished from her sight.

She shrieks, but shrieks in vain; for high
The wild winds rising dull the cry;
The Fiend exults; The Billows dash,
And o'er their hapless Victim wash.

Three times while struggling with the stream,
The lovely Maid was heard to scream;
But when the Tempest's rage was o'er,
The lovely Maid was seen no more.

Warned by this Tale, ye Damsels fair,
To whom you give your love beware!
Believe not every handsome Knight,
And dance not with the Water-Spright!

The Youth ceased to sing. The Nuns were delighted with the
sweetness of his voice and masterly manner of touching the
Instrument: But however acceptable this applause would have been
at any other time, at present it was insipid to Theodore. His
artifice had not succeeded. He paused in vain between the
Stanzas: No voice replied to his, and He abandoned the hope of
equalling Blondel.

The Convent Bell now warned the Nuns that it was time to
assemble in the Refectory. They were obliged to quit the Grate;
They thanked the Youth for the entertainment which his Music had
afforded them, and charged him to return the next day. This He
promised: The Nuns, to give him the greater inclination to keep
his word, told him that He might always depend upon the Convent
for his meals, and each of them made him some little present.
One gave him a box of sweetmeats; Another, an Agnus Dei; Some
brought reliques of Saints, waxen Images, and consecrated
Crosses; and Others presented him with pieces of those works in
which the Religious excel, such as embroidery, artificial
flowers, lace, and needlework. All these He was advised to
sell, in order to put himself into better case; and He was
assured that it would be easy to dispose of them, since the
Spaniards hold the performances of the Nuns in high estimation.
Having received these gifts with seeming respect and gratitude,
He remarked that, having no Basket, He knew not how to convey
them away. Several of the Nuns were hastening in search of one,
when they were stopped by the return of an elderly Woman, whom
Theodore had not till then observed: Her mild countenance, and
respectable air prejudiced him immediately in her favour.

'Hah!' said the Porteress; 'Here comes the Mother St. Ursula with
a Basket.'

The Nun approached the Grate, and presented the Basket to
Theodore: It was of willow, lined with blue satin, and upon the
four sides were painted scenes from the legend of St. Genevieve.

'Here is my gift,' said She, as She gave it into his hand; 'Good
Youth, despise it not; Though its value seems insignificant, it
has many hidden virtues.'

She accompanied these words with an expressive look. It was not
lost upon Theodore; In receiving the present, He drew as near the
Grate as possible.

'Agnes!' She whispered in a voice scarcely intelligible.
Theodore, however, caught the sound: He concluded that some
mystery was concealed in the Basket, and his heart beat with
impatience and joy. At this moment the Domina returned. Her air
was gloomy and frowning, and She looked if possible more stern
than ever.

'Mother St. Ursula, I would speak with you in private.'

The Nun changed colour, and was evidently disconcerted.

'With me?' She replied in a faltering voice.

The Domina motioned that She must follow her, and retired. The
Mother St. Ursula obeyed her; Soon after, the Refectory Bell
ringing a second time, the Nuns quitted the Grate, and Theodore
was left at liberty to carry off his prize. Delighted that at
length He had obtained some intelligence for the Marquis, He flew
rather than ran, till He reached the Hotel de las Cisternas. In
a few minutes He stood by his Master's Bed with the Basket in his
hand. Lorenzo was in the chamber, endeavouring to reconcile his
Friend to a misfortune which He felt himself but too severely.
Theodore related his adventure, and the hopes which had been
created by the Mother St. Ursula's gift. The Marquis started
from
his pillow: That fire which since the death of Agnes had been
extinguished, now revived in his bosom, and his eyes sparkled
with the eagerness of expectation. The emotions which Lorenzo's
countenance betrayed, were scarcely weaker, and He waited with
inexpressible impatience for the solution of this mystery.
Raymond caught the basket from the hands of his Page: He emptied
the contents upon the bed, and examined them with minute
attention. He hoped that a letter would be found at the bottom;
Nothing of the kind appeared. The search was resumed, and still
with no better success. At length Don Raymond observed that one
corner of the blue satin lining was unripped; He tore it open
hastily, and drew forth a small scrap of paper neither folded or
sealed. It was addressed to the Marquis de las Cisternas, and
the contents were as follows.

Having recognised your Page, I venture to send these few lines.
Procure an order from the Cardinal-Duke for seizing my Person,
and that of the Domina; But let it not be executed till Friday at
midnight. It is the Festival of St. Clare: There will be a
procession of Nuns by torch-light, and I shall be among them.
Beware not to let your intention be known: Should a syllable be
dropt to excite the Domina's suspicions, you will never hear of
me more. Be cautious, if you prize the memory of Agnes, and wish
to punish her Assassins. I have that to tell, will freeze your
blood with horror. St. Ursula.

No sooner had the Marquis read the note than He fell back upon
his pillow deprived of sense or motion. The hope failed him
which till now had supported his existence; and these lines
convinced him but too positively that Agnes was indeed no more.
Lorenzo felt this circumstance less forcibly, since it had always
been his idea that his Sister had perished by unfair means. When
He found by the Mother St. Ursula's letter how true were his
suspicions, the confirmation excited no other sentiment in his
bosom than a wish to punish the Murderers as they deserved. It
was no easy task to recall the Marquis to himself. As soon as He
recovered his speech, He broke out into execrations against the
Assassins of his Beloved, and vowed to take upon them a signal
vengeance. He continued to rave and torment himself with
impotent passion till his constitution, enfeebled by grief and
illness, could support itself no longer, and He relapsed into
insensibility. His melancholy situation sincerely affected
Lorenzo, who would willingly have remained in the apartment of
his Friend; But other cares now demanded his presence. It was
necessary to procure the order for seizing the Prioress of St.
Clare. For this purpose, having committed Raymond to the care of
the best Physicians in Madrid, He quitted the Hotel de las
Cisternas, and bent his course towards the Palace of the
Cardinal-Duke.

His disappointment was excessive, when He found that affairs of
State had obliged the Cardinal to set out for a distant Province.

It wanted but five to Friday: Yet by travelling day and night,
He hoped to return in time for the Pilgrimage of St. Clare. In
this He succeeded. He found the Cardinal-Duke; and represented
to him the supposed culpability of the Prioress, as also the
violent effects which it had produced upon Don Raymond. He could
have used no argument so forcible as this last. Of all his
Nephews, the Marquis was the only one to whom the Cardinal-Duke
was sincerely attached: He perfectly doated upon him, and the
Prioress could have committed no greater crime in his eyes than
to have endangered the life of the Marquis. Consequently, He
granted the order of arrest without difficulty: He also gave
Lorenzo a letter to a principal Officer of the Inquisition,
desiring him to see his mandate executed. Furnished with these
papers, Medina hastened back to Madrid, which He reached on the
Friday a few hours before dark. He found the Marquis somewhat
easier, but so weak and exhausted that without great exertion He
could neither speak or more. Having past an hour by his Bedside,
Lorenzo left him to communicate his design to his Uncle, as also
to give Don Ramirez de Mello the Cardinal's letter. The First
was petrified with horror when He learnt the fate of his unhappy
Niece: He encouraged Lorenzo to punish her Assassins, and
engaged to accompany him at night to St. Clare's Convent. Don
Ramirez promised his firmest support, and selected a band of
trusty Archers to prevent opposition on the part of the Populace.

But while Lorenzo was anxious to unmask one religious Hypocrite,
He was unconscious of the sorrows prepared for him by Another.
Aided by Matilda's infernal Agents, Ambrosio had resolved upon
the innocent Antonia's ruin. The moment destined to be so fatal
to her arrived. She had taken leave of her Mother for the night.

As She kissed her, She felt an unusual despondency infuse itself
into her bosom. She left her, and returned to her instantly,
threw herself into her maternal arms, and bathed her cheek with
tears: She felt uneasy at quitting her, and a secret
presentiment assured her that never must they meet again. Elvira
observed, and tried to laugh her out of this childish prejudice:
She chid her mildly for encouraging such ungrounded sadness, and
warned her how dangerous it was to encourage such ideas.

To all her remonstrances She received no other answer than,

'Mother! Dear Mother! Oh! would to God, it were Morning!'

Elvira, whose inquietude respecting her Daughter was a great
obstacle to her perfect reestablishment, was still labouring
under the effects of her late severe illness. She was this
Evening more than usually indisposed, and retired to bed before
her accustomed hour. Antonia withdrew from her Mother's chamber
with regret, and till the Door closed, kept her eyes fixed upon
her with melancholy expression. She retired to her own
apartment; Her heart was filled with bitterness: It seemed to
her that all her prospects were blasted, and the world contained
nothing for which it was worth existing. She sank into a Chair,
reclined her head upon her arm, and gazed upon the floor with a
vacant stare, while the most gloomy images floated before her
fancy. She was still in this state of insensibility when She
was disturbed by hearing a strain of soft Music breathed beneath
her window. She rose, drew near the Casement, and opened it to
hear it more distinctly. Having thrown her veil over her face,
She ventured to look out. By the light of the Moon She perceived
several Men below with Guitars and Lutes in their hands; and at a
little distance from them stood Another wrapped in his cloak,
whose stature and appearance bore a strong resemblance to
Lorenzo's. She was not deceived in this conjecture. It was
indeed Lorenzo himself, who bound by his word not to present
himself to Antonia without his Uncle's consent, endeavoured by
occasional Serenades, to convince his Mistress that his
attachment still existed. His stratagem had not the desired
effect. Antonia was far from supposing that this nightly music
was intended as a compliment to her: She was too modest to think
herself worthy such attentions; and concluding them to be
addressed to some neighbouring Lady, She grieved to find that
they were offered by Lorenzo.

The air which was played, was plaintive and melodious. It
accorded with the state of Antonia's mind, and She listened with
pleasure. After a symphony of some length, it was succeeded by
the sound of voices, and Antonia distinguished the following
words.

SERENADE

Chorus

Oh! Breathe in gentle strain, my Lyre!
'Tis here that Beauty loves to rest:
Describe the pangs of fond desire,
Which rend a faithful Lover's breast.

Song

In every heart to find a Slave,
In every Soul to fix his reign,
In bonds to lead the wise and brave,
And make the Captives kiss his chain,
Such is the power of Love, and Oh!
I grieve so well Love's power to know.

In sighs to pass the live-long day,
To taste a short and broken sleep,
For one dear Object far away,
All others scorned, to watch and weep,
Such are the pains of Love, and Oh!
I grieve so well Love's pains to know!

To read consent in virgin eyes,
To press the lip ne'er prest till then
To hear the sigh of transport rise,
And kiss, and kiss, and kiss again,
Such are thy pleasures, Love, But Oh!
When shall my heart thy pleasures know?

Chorus

Now hush, my Lyre! My voice be still!
Sleep, gentle Maid! May fond desire
With amorous thoughts thy visions fill,
Though still my voice, and hushed my Lyre.

The Music ceased: The Performers dispersed, and silence
prevailed through the Street. Antonia quitted the window with
regret: She as usual recommended herself to the protection of
St. Rosolia, said her accustomed prayers, and retired to bed.
Sleep was not long absent, and his presence relieved her from her
terrors and inquietude

It was almost two o'clock before the lustful Monk ventured to
bend his steps towards Antonia's dwelling. It has been already
mentioned that the Abbey was at no great distance from the
Strada di San Iago. He reached the House unobserved. Here He
stopped, and hesitated for a moment. He reflected on the
enormity of the crime, the consequences of a discovery, and the
probability, after what had passed, of Elvira's suspecting him to
be her Daughter's Ravisher: On the other hand it was suggested
that She could do no more than suspect; that no proofs of his
guilt could be produced; that it would seem impossible for the
rape to have been committed without Antonia's knowing when,
where, or by whom; and finally, He believed that his fame was too
firmly established to be shaken by the unsupported accusations of
two unknown Women. This latter argument was perfectly false: He
knew not how uncertain is the air of popular applause, and that a
moment suffices to make him today the detestation of the world,
who yesterday was its Idol. The result of the Monk's
deliberations was that He should proceed in his enterprize. He
ascended the steps leading to the House. No sooner did He touch
the door with the silver Myrtle, than it flew open, and presented
him with a free passage. He entered, and the door closed after
him of its own accord.

Guided by the moonbeams, He proceeded up the Staircase with
slow and cautious steps. He looked round him every moment with
apprehension and anxiety. He saw a Spy in every shadow, and
heard a voice in every murmur of the night breeze. Consciousness
of the guilty business on which He was employed appalled his
heart, and rendered it more timid than a Woman's. Yet still He
proceeded. He reached the door of Antonia's chamber. He stopped,
and listened. All was hushed within. The total silence
persuaded him that his intended Victim was retired to rest, and
He ventured to lift up the Latch. The door was fastened, and
resisted his efforts: But no sooner was it touched by the
Talisman, than the Bolt flew back. The Ravisher stept on, and
found himself in the chamber, where slept the innocent Girl,
unconscious how dangerous a Visitor was drawing near her Couch.
The door closed after him, and the Bolt shot again into its
fastening.

Ambrosio advanced with precaution. He took care that not a board
should creak under his foot, and held in his breath as He
approached the Bed. His first attention was to perform the magic
ceremony, as Matilda had charged him: He breathed thrice upon
the silver Myrtle, pronounced over it Antonia's name, and laid it
upon her pillow. The effects which it had already produced
permitted not his doubting its success in prolonging the slumbers
of his devoted Mistress. No sooner was the enchantment
performed than He considered her to be absolutely in his power,
and his eyes flamed with lust and impatience. He now ventured to
cast a glance upon the sleeping Beauty. A single Lamp, burning
before the Statue of St. Rosolia, shed a faint light through the
room, and permitted him to examine all the charms of the lovely
Object before him. The heat of the weather had obliged her to
throw off part of the Bed-cloathes: Those which still covered
her, Ambrosio's insolent hand hastened to remove. She lay with
her cheek reclining upon one ivory arm; The Other rested on the
side of the Bed with graceful indolence. A few tresses of her
hair had escaped from beneath the Muslin which confined the rest,
and fell carelessly over her bosom, as it heaved with slow and
regular suspiration. The warm air had spread her cheek with
higher colour than usual. A smile inexpressibly sweet played
round her ripe and coral lips, from which every now and then
escaped a gentle sigh or an half-pronounced sentence. An air of
enchanting innocence and candour pervaded her whole form; and
there was a sort of modesty in her very nakedness which added
fresh stings to the desires of the lustful Monk.

He remained for some moments devouring those charms with his
eyes which soon were to be subjected to his ill-regulated
passions. Her mouth half-opened seemed to solicit a kiss: He
bent over her; he joined his lips to hers, and drew in the
fragrance of her breath with rapture. This momentary pleasure
increased his longing for still greater. His desires were raised
to that frantic height by which Brutes are agitated. He
resolved not to delay for one instant longer the accomplishment
of his wishes, and hastily proceeded to tear off those garments
which impeded the gratification of his lust.

'Gracious God!' exclaimed a voice behind him; 'Am I not deceived?

Is not this an illusion?'

Terror, confusion, and disappointment accompanied these words, as
they struck Ambrosio's hearing. He started, and turned towards
it. Elvira stood at the door of the chamber, and regarded the
Monk with looks of surprize and detestation.

A frightful dream had represented to her Antonia on the verge of
a precipice. She saw her trembling on the brink: Every moment
seemed to threaten her fall, and She heard her exclaim with
shrieks, 'Save me, Mother! Save me!—Yet a moment, and it will be
too late!' Elvira woke in terror. The vision had made too
strong an impression upon her mind, to permit her resting till
assured of her Daughter's safety. She hastily started from her
Bed, threw on a loose night-gown, and passing through the Closet
in which slept the Waiting-woman, She reached Antonia's chamber
just in time to rescue her from the grasp of the Ravisher.

His shame and her amazement seemed to have petrified into Statues
both Elvira and the Monk: They remained gazing upon each other
in silence. The Lady was the first to recover herself.

'It is no dream!' She cried; 'It is really Ambrosio, who stands
before me! It is the Man whom Madrid esteems a Saint, that I
find at this late hour near the Couch of my unhappy Child!
Monster of Hypocrisy! I already suspected your designs, but
forbore your accusation in pity to human frailty. Silence would
now be criminal: The whole City shall be informed of your
incontinence. I will unmask you, Villain, and convince the
Church what a Viper She cherishes in her bosom.'

Pale and confused the baffled Culprit stood trembling before her.

He would fain have extenuated his offence, but could find no
apology for his conduct: He could produce nothing but broken
sentences, and excuses which contradicted each other. Elvira was
too justly incensed to grant the pardon which He requested. She
protested that She would raise the neighbourhood, and make him an
example to all future Hypocrites. Then hastening to the Bed, She
called to Antonia to wake; and finding that her voice had no
effect, She took her arm, and raised her forcibly from the
pillow. The charm operated too powerfully. Antonia remained
insensible, and on being released by her Mother, sank back upon
the pillow.

'This slumber cannot be natural!' cried the amazed Elvira, whose
indignation increased with every moment. 'Some mystery is
concealed in it; But tremble, Hypocrite; all your villainy shall
soon be unravelled! Help! Help!' She exclaimed aloud; 'Within
there! Flora! Flora!'

'Hear me for one moment, Lady!' cried the Monk, restored to
himself by the urgency of the danger; 'By all that is sacred and
holy, I swear that your Daughter's honour is still unviolated.
Forgive my transgression! Spare me the shame of a discovery, and
permit me to regain the Abbey undisturbed. Grant me this request
in mercy! I promise not only that Antonia shall be secure from
me in future, but that the rest of my life shall prove . . . . .'

Elvira interrupted him abruptly.

'Antonia secure from you? _I_ will secure her! You shall betray
no longer the confidence of Parents! Your iniquity shall be
unveiled to the public eye: All Madrid shall shudder at your
perfidy, your hypocrisy and incontinence. What Ho! there! Flora!
Flora, I say!'

While She spoke thus, the remembrance of Agnes struck upon his
mind. Thus had She sued to him for mercy, and thus had He
refused her prayer! It was now his turn to suffer, and He could
not but acknowledge that his punishment was just. In the
meanwhile Elvira continued to call Flora to her assistance; but
her voice was so choaked with passion that the Servant, who was
buried in profound slumber, was insensible to all her cries:
Elvira dared not go towards the Closet in which Flora slept, lest
the Monk should take that opportunity to escape. Such indeed was
his intention: He trusted that could He reach the Abbey
unobserved by any other than Elvira, her single testimony would
not suffice to ruin a reputation so well established as his was
in Madrid. With this idea He gathered up such garments as He had
already thrown off, and hastened towards the Door. Elvira was
aware of his design; She followed him, and ere He could draw back
the bolt, seized him by the arm, and detained him.

'Attempt not to fly!' said She; 'You quit not this room without
Witnesses of your guilt.'

Ambrosio struggled in vain to disengage himself. Elvira quitted
not her hold, but redoubled her cries for succour. The Friar's
danger grew more urgent. He expected every moment to hear people
assembling at her voice; And worked up to madness by the approach
of ruin, He adopted a resolution equally desperate and savage.
Turning round suddenly, with one hand He grasped Elvira's throat
so as to prevent her continuing her clamour, and with the other,
dashing her violently upon the ground, He dragged her towards the
Bed. Confused by this unexpected attack, She scarcely had power
to strive at forcing herself from his grasp: While the Monk,
snatching the pillow from beneath her Daughter's head, covering
with it Elvira's face, and pressing his knee upon her stomach
with all his strength, endeavoured to put an end to her
existence. He succeeded but too well. Her natural strength
increased by the excess of anguish, long did the Sufferer
struggle to disengage herself, but in vain. The Monk continued
to kneel upon her breast, witnessed without mercy the convulsive
trembling of her limbs beneath him, and sustained with inhuman
firmness the spectacle of her agonies, when soul and body were on
the point of separating. Those agonies at length were over. She
ceased to struggle for life. The Monk took off the pillow, and
gazed upon her. Her face was covered with a frightful blackness:

Her limbs moved no more; The blood was chilled in her veins; Her
heart had forgotten to beat, and her hands were stiff and frozen.

Ambrosio beheld before him that once noble and majestic form, now
become a Corse, cold, senseless and disgusting.

This horrible act was no sooner perpetrated, than the Friar
beheld the enormity of his crime. A cold dew flowed over his
limbs; his eyes closed; He staggered to a chair, and sank into it
almost as lifeless as the Unfortunate who lay extended at his
feet. From this state He was rouzed by the necessity of flight,
and the danger of being found in Antonia's apartment. He had no
desire to profit by the execution of his crime. Antonia now
appeared to him an object of disgust. A deadly cold had usurped
the place of that warmth which glowed in his bosom: No ideas
offered themselves to his mind but those of death and guilt, of
present shame and future punishment. Agitated by remorse and
fear He prepared for flight: Yet his terrors did not so
compleatly master his recollection, as to prevent his taking the
precautions necessary for his safety. He replaced the pillow
upon the bed, gathered up his garments, and with the fatal
Talisman in his hand, bent his unsteady steps towards the door.
Bewildered by fear, He fancied that his flight was opposed by
Legions of Phantoms; Whereever He turned, the disfigured Corse
seemed to lie in his passage, and it was long before He succeeded
in reaching the door. The enchanted Myrtle produced its former
effect. The door opened, and He hastened down the staircase.
He entered the Abbey unobserved, and having shut himself into his
Cell, He abandoned his soul to the tortures of unavailing
remorse, and terrors of impending detection.

CHAPTER II

Tell us, ye Dead, will none of you in pity
To those you left behind disclose the secret?
O! That some courteous Ghost would blab it out,
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be.
I've heard that Souls departed have sometimes
Fore-warned Men of their deaths:
'Twas kindly done
To knock, and give the alarum.

Blair.

Ambrosio shuddered at himself, when He reflected on his rapid
advances in iniquity. The enormous crime which He had just
committed filled him with real horror. The murdered Elvira was
continually before his eyes, and his guilt was already punished
by the agonies of his conscience. Time, however, considerably
weakened these impressions: One day passed away, another
followed it, and still not the least suspicion was thrown upon
him. Impunity reconciled him to his guilt: He began to resume
his spirits; and as his fears of detection died away, He paid
less attention to the reproaches of remorse. Matilda exerted
herself to quiet his alarms. At the first intelligence of
Elvira's death, She seemed greatly affected, and joined the Monk
in deploring the unhappy catastrophe of his adventure: But when
She found his agitation to be somewhat calmed, and himself better
disposed to listen to her arguments, She proceeded to mention his
offence in milder terms, and convince him that He was not so
highly culpable as He appeared to consider himself. She
represented that He had only availed himself of the rights which
Nature allows to every one, those of self-preservation: That
either Elvira or himself must have perished, and that her
inflexibility and resolution to ruin him had deservedly marked
her out for the Victim. She next stated, that as He had before
rendered himself suspected to Elvira, it was a fortunate event
for him that her lips were closed by death; since without this
last adventure, her suspicions if made public might have produced
very disagreeable consequences. He had therefore freed himself
from an Enemy, to whom the errors of his conduct were
sufficiently known to make her dangerous, and who was the
greatest obstacle to his designs upon Antonia. Those designs She
encouraged him not to abandon. She assured him that, no longer
protected by her Mother's watchful eye, the Daughter would fall
an easy conquest; and by praising and enumerating Antonia's
charms, She strove to rekindle the desires of the Monk. In this
endeavour She succeeded but too well.

As if the crimes into which his passion had seduced him had only
increased its violence, He longed more eagerly than ever to enjoy
Antonia. The same success in concealing his present guilt, He
trusted would attend his future. He was deaf to the murmurs of
conscience, and resolved to satisfy his desires at any price. He
waited only for an opportunity of repeating his former
enterprize; But to procure that opportunity by the same means was
now impracticable. In the first transports of despair He had
dashed the enchanted Myrtle into a thousand pieces: Matilda told
him plainly that He must expect no further assistance from the
infernal Powers unless He was willing to subscribe to their
established conditions. This Ambrosio was determined not to do:
He persuaded himself that however great might be his iniquity,
so long as he preserved his claim to salvation, He need not
despair of pardon. He therefore resolutely refused to enter into
any bond or compact with the Fiends; and Matilda finding him
obstinate upon this point, forbore to press him further. She
exerted her invention to discover some means of putting Antonia
into the Abbot's power: Nor was it long before that means
presented itself.

While her ruin was thus meditating, the unhappy Girl herself
suffered severely from the loss of her Mother. Every morning on
waking, it was her first care to hasten to Elvira's chamber. On
that which followed Ambrosio's fatal visit, She woke later than
was her usual custom: Of this She was convinced by the
Abbey Chimes. She started from her bed, threw on a few loose
garments hastily, and was speeding to enquire how her Mother had
passed the night, when her foot struck against something which
lay in her passage. She looked down. What was her horror at
recognizing Elvira's livid Corse! She uttered a loud shriek, and
threw herself upon the floor. She clasped the inanimate form to
her bosom, felt that it was dead-cold, and with a movement of
disgust, of which She was not the Mistress, let it fall again
from her arms. The cry had alarmed Flora, who hastened to her
assistance. The sight which She beheld penetrated her with
horror; but her alarm was more audible than Antonia's. She made
the House ring with her lamentations, while her Mistress, almost
suffocated with grief, could only mark her distress by sobs and
groans. Flora's shrieks soon reached the ears of the Hostess,
whose terror and surprize were excessive on learning the cause of
this disturbance. A Physician was immediately sent for: But on
the first moment of beholding the Corse, He declared that
Elvira's recovery was beyond the power of art. He proceeded
therefore to give his assistance to Antonia, who by this time was
truly in need of it. She was conveyed to bed, while the Landlady
busied herself in giving orders for Elvira's Burial. Dame
Jacintha was a plain good kind of Woman, charitable, generous,
and devout: But her intellects were weak, and She was a
Miserable Slave to fear and superstition. She shuddered at the
idea of passing the night in the same House with a dead Body:
She was persuaded that Elvira's Ghost would appear to her, and no
less certain that such a visit would kill her with fright. From
this persuasion, She resolved to pass the night at a Neighbour's,
and insisted that the Funeral should take place the next day.
St. Clare's Cemetery being the nearest, it was determined that
Elvira should be buried there. Dame Jacintha engaged to defray
every expence attending the burial. She knew not in what
circumstances Antonia was left, but from the sparing manner in
which the Family had lived, She concluded them to be indifferent.

Consequently, She entertained very little hope of ever being
recompensed; But this consideration prevented her not from taking
care that the Interment was performed with decency, and from
showing the unfortunate Antonia all possible respect.

Nobody dies of mere grief; Of this Antonia was an instance.
Aided by her youth and healthy constitution, She shook off the
malady which her Mother's death had occasioned; But it was not
so easy to remove the disease of her mind. Her eyes were
constantly filled with tears: Every trifle affected her, and She
evidently nourished in her bosom a profound and rooted
melancholy. The slightest mention of Elvira, the most trivial
circumstance recalling that beloved Parent to her memory, was
sufficient to throw her into serious agitation. How much would
her grief have been increased, had She known the agonies which
terminated her Mother's existence! But of this no one
entertained the least suspicion. Elvira was subject to strong
convulsions: It was supposed that, aware of their approach, She
had dragged herself to her Daughter's chamber in hopes of
assistance; that a sudden access of her fits had seized her, too
violent to be resisted by her already enfeebled state of health;
and that She had expired ere She had time to reach the medicine
which generally relieved her, and which stood upon a shelf in
Antonia's room. This idea was firmly credited by the few people,
who interested themselves about Elvira: Her Death was esteemed a
natural event, and soon forgotten by all save by her, who had but
too much reason to deplore her loss.

In truth Antonia's situation was sufficiently embarrassing and
unpleasant. She was alone in the midst of a dissipated and
expensive City; She was ill provided with money, and worse with
Friends. Her aunt Leonella was still at Cordova, and She knew
not her direction. Of the Marquis de las Cisternas She heard no
news: As to Lorenzo, She had long given up the idea of
possessing any interest in his bosom. She knew not to whom She
could address herself in her present dilemma. She wished to
consult Ambrosio; But She remembered her Mother's injunctions to
shun him as much as possible, and the last conversation which
Elvira had held with her upon the subject had given her
sufficient lights respecting his designs to put her upon her
guard against him in future. Still all her Mother's warnings
could not make her change her good opinion of the Friar. She
continued to feel that his friendship and society were requisite
to her happiness: She looked upon his failings with a partial
eye, and could not persuade herself that He really had intended
her ruin. However, Elvira had positively commanded her to drop
his acquaintance, and She had too much respect for her orders to
disobey them.

At length She resolved to address herself for advice and
protection to the Marquis de las Cisternas, as being her nearest
Relation. She wrote to him, briefly stating her desolate
situation; She besought him to compassionate his Brother's Child,
to continue to her Elvira's pension, and to authorise her
retiring to his old Castle in Murcia, which till now had been her
retreat. Having sealed her letter, She gave it to the trusty
Flora, who immediately set out to execute her commission. But
Antonia was born under an unlucky Star. Had She made her
application to the Marquis but one day sooner, received as his
Niece and placed at the head of his Family, She would have
escaped all the misfortunes with which She was now threatened.
Raymond had always intended to execute this plan: But first, his
hopes of making the proposal to Elvira through the lips of Agnes,
and afterwards, his disappointment at losing his intended Bride,
as well as the severe illness which for some time had confined
him to his Bed, made him defer from day to day the giving an
Asylum in his House to his Brother's Widow. He had commissioned
Lorenzo to supply her liberally with money: But Elvira,
unwilling to receive obligations from that Nobleman, had assured
him that She needed no immediate pecuniary assistance.
Consequently, the Marquis did not imagine that a trifling delay
on his part could create any embarrassment; and the distress and
agitation of his mind might well excuse his negligence.

Had He been informed that Elvira's death had left her Daughter
Friendless and unprotected, He would doubtless have taken such
measures, as would have ensured her from every danger: But
Antonia was not destined to be so fortunate. The day on which
She sent her letter to the Palace de las Cisternas was that
following Lorenzo's departure from Madrid. The Marquis was in
the first paroxysms of despair at the conviction that Agnes was
indeed no more: He was delirious, and his life being in danger,
no one was suffered to approach him. Flora was informed that He
was incapable of attending to Letters, and that probably a few
hours would decide his fate. With this unsatisfactory answer She
was obliged to return to her Mistress, who now found herself
plunged into greater difficulties than ever.

Flora and Dame Jacintha exerted themselves to console her. The
Latter begged her to make herself easy, for that as long as She
chose to stay with her, She would treat her like her own Child.
Antonia, finding that the good Woman had taken a real affection
for her, was somewhat comforted by thinking that She had at
least one Friend in the World. A Letter was now brought to her,
directed to Elvira. She recognized Leonella's writing, and
opening it with joy, found a detailed account of her Aunt's
adventures at Cordova. She informed her Sister that She had
recovered her Legacy, had lost her heart, and had received in
exchange that of the most amiable of Apothecaries, past, present,
and to come. She added that She should be at Madrid on the
Tuesday night, and meant to have the pleasure of presenting her
Caro Sposo in form. Though her nuptials were far from pleasing
Antonia, Leonella's speedy return gave her Niece much delight.
She rejoiced in thinking that She should once more be under a
Relation's care. She could not but judge it to be highly
improper, for a young Woman to be living among absolute
Strangers, with no one to regulate her conduct, or protect her
from the insults to which, in her defenceless situation, She was
exposed. She therefore looked forward with impatience to the
Tuesday night.

It arrived. Antonia listened anxiously to the Carriages, as they
rolled along the Street. None of them stopped, and it grew late
without Leonella's appearing. Still, Antonia resolved to sit up
till her Aunt's arrival, and in spite of all her remonstrances,
Dame Jacintha and Flora insisted upon doing the same. The hours
passed on slow and tediously. Lorenzo's departure from Madrid
had put a stop to the nightly Serenades: She hoped in vain to
hear the usual sound of Guitars beneath her window. She took up
her own, and struck a few chords: But Music that evening had lost
its charms for her, and She soon replaced the Instrument in its
case. She seated herself at her embroidery frame, but nothing
went right: The silks were missing, the thread snapped every
moment, and the needles were so expert at falling that they
seemed to be animated. At length a flake of wax fell from the
Taper which stood near her upon a favourite wreath of Violets:
This compleatly discomposed her; She threw down her needle, and
quitted the frame. It was decreed that for that night nothing
should have the power of amusing her. She was the prey of Ennui,
and employed herself in making fruitless wishes for the arrival
of her Aunt.

As She walked with a listless air up and down the chamber, the
Door caught her eye conducting to that which had been her
Mother's. She remembered that Elvira's little Library was
arranged there, and thought that She might possibly find in it
some Book to amuse her till Leonella should arrive. Accordingly
She took her Taper from the table, passed through the little
Closet, and entered the adjoining apartment. As She looked
around her, the sight of this room brought to her recollection a
thousand painful ideas. It was the first time of her entering it
since her Mother's death. The total silence prevailing through
the chamber, the Bed despoiled of its furniture, the cheerless
hearth where stood an extinguished Lamp, and a few dying Plants
in the window which, since Elvira's loss, had been neglected,
inspired Antonia with a melancholy awe. The gloom of night gave
strength to this sensation. She placed her light upon the Table,
and sank into a large chair, in which She had seen her Mother
seated a thousand and a thousand times. She was never to see her
seated there again! Tears unbidden streamed down her cheek, and
She abandoned herself to the sadness which grew deeper with
every moment.

Ashamed of her weakness, She at length rose from her seat: She
proceeded to seek for what had brought her to this melancholy
scene. The small collection of Books was arranged upon several
shelves in order. Antonia examined them without finding any
thing likely to interest her, till She put her hand upon a volume
of old Spanish Ballads. She read a few Stanzas of one of them:
They excited her curiosity. She took down the Book, and seated
herself to peruse it with more ease. She trimmed the Taper,
which now drew towards its end, and then read the following
Ballad.

ALONZO THE BRAVE, AND FAIR IMOGINE

A Warrior so bold, and a Virgin so bright
Conversed, as They sat on the green:
They gazed on each other with tender delight;
Alonzo the Brave was the name of the Knight,
The Maid's was the Fair Imogine.

'And Oh!' said the Youth, 'since to-morrow I go
To fight in a far distant land,
Your tears for my absence soon leaving to flow,
Some Other will court you, and you will bestow
On a wealthier Suitor your hand.'

'Oh! hush these suspicions,' Fair Imogine said,
'Offensive to Love and to me!
For if ye be living, or if ye be dead,
I swear by the Virgin, that none in your stead
Shall Husband of Imogine be.

'If e'er I by lust or by wealth led aside
Forget my Alonzo the Brave,
God grant, that to punish my falsehood and pride
Your Ghost at the Marriage may sit by my side,
May tax me with perjury, claim me as Bride,
And bear me away to the Grave!'

To Palestine hastened the Hero so bold;
His Love, She lamented him sore:
But scarce had a twelve-month elapsed, when behold,
A Baron all covered with jewels and gold
Arrived at Fair Imogine's door.

His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain
Soon made her untrue to her vows:
He dazzled her eyes; He bewildered her brain;
He caught her affections so light and so vain,
And carried her home as his Spouse.

And now had the Marriage been blest by the Priest;
The revelry now was begun:
The Tables, they groaned with the weightof the Feast;
Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased,
When the Bell of the Castle told,—'One!'

Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found
That a Stranger was placed by her side: His air was terrific;
He uttered no sound; He spoke not, He moved not,
He looked not around,
But earnestly gazed on the Bride.

His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height;
His armour was sable to view:
All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight;
The Dogs as They eyed him drew back in affright,
The Lights in the chamber burned blue!

His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay;
The Guests sat in silence and fear.
At length spoke the Bride, while She trembled;
'I pray, Sir Knight, that your Helmet aside you would lay,
And deign to partake of our chear.'

The Lady is silent: The Stranger complies.
His vizor lie slowly unclosed:
Oh! God! what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes!
What words can express her dismay and surprize,
When a Skeleton's head was exposed.

All present then uttered a terrified shout;
All turned with disgust from the scene.
The worms, They crept in, and the worms, They crept out,
And sported his eyes and his temples about,
While the Spectre addressed Imogine.

'Behold me, Thou false one! Behold me!' He cried;
'Remember Alonzo the Brave!
God grants, that to punish thy falsehood and pride
My Ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side,
Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as Bride
And bear thee away to the Grave!'

Thus saying, his arms round the Lady He wound,
While loudly She shrieked in dismay;
Then sank with his prey through the wide-yawning ground:
Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found,
Or the Spectre who bore her away.

Not long lived the Baron; and none since that time
To inhabit the Castle presume:
For Chronicles tell, that by order sublime
There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime,
And mourns her deplorable doom.

At midnight four times in each year does her Spright
When Mortals in slumber are bound,
Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white,
Appear in the Hall with the Skeleton-Knight,
And shriek, as He whirls her around.

While They drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave,
Dancing round them the Spectres are seen:
Their liquor is blood, and this horrible Stave
They howl.—'To the health of Alonzo the Brave,
And his Consort, the False Imogine!'

The perusal of this story was ill-calculated to dispel Antonia's
melancholy. She had naturally a strong inclination to the
marvellous; and her Nurse, who believed firmly in Apparitions,
had related to her when an Infant so many horrible adventures of
this kind, that all Elvira's attempts had failed to eradicate
their impressions from her Daughter's mind. Antonia still
nourished a superstitious prejudice in her bosom: She was often
susceptible of terrors which, when She discovered their natural
and insignificant cause, made her blush at her own weakness.
With such a turn of mind, the adventure which She had just been
reading sufficed to give her apprehensions the alarm. The hour
and the scene combined to authorize them. It was the dead of
night: She was alone, and in the chamber once occupied by her
deceased Mother. The weather was comfortless and stormy: The
wind howled around the House, the doors rattled in their frames,
and the heavy rain pattered against the windows. No other sound
was heard. The Taper, now burnt down to the socket, sometimes
flaring upwards shot a gleam of light through the room, then
sinking again seemed upon the point of expiring. Antonia's heart
throbbed with agitation: Her eyes wandered fearfully over the
objects around her, as the trembling flame illuminated them at
intervals. She attempted to rise from her seat; But her limbs
trembled so violently that She was unable to proceed. She then
called Flora, who was in a room at no great distance: But
agitation choaked her voice, and her cries died away in hollow
murmurs.

She passed some minutes in this situation, after which her
terrors began to diminish. She strove to recover herself, and
acquire strength enough to quit the room: Suddenly She fancied,
that She heard a low sigh drawn near her. This idea brought back
her former weakness. She had already raised herself from her
seat, and was on the point of taking the Lamp from the Table.
The imaginary noise stopped her: She drew back her hand, and
supported herself upon the back of a Chair. She listened
anxiously, but nothing more was heard.

'Gracious God!' She said to herself; 'What could be that sound?
Was I deceived, or did I really hear it?'

Her reflections were interrupted by a noise at the door scarcely
audible: It seemed as if somebody was whispering. Antonia's
alarm increased: Yet the Bolt She knew to be fastened, and this
idea in some degree reassured her. Presently the Latch was
lifted up softly, and the Door moved with caution backwards and
forwards. Excess of terror now supplied Antonia with that
strength, of which She had till then been deprived. She started
from her place and made towards the Closet door, whence She
might soon have reached the chamber where She expected to find
Flora and Dame Jacintha. Scarcely had She reached the middle of
the room when the Latch was lifted up a second time. An
involuntary movement obliged her to turn her head. Slowly and
gradually the Door turned upon its hinges, and standing upon the
Threshold She beheld a tall thin Figure, wrapped in a white
shroud which covered it from head to foot.

This vision arrested her feet: She remained as if petrified in
the middle of the apartment. The Stranger with measured and
solemn steps drew near the Table. The dying Taper darted a blue
and melancholy flame as the Figure advanced towards it. Over the
Table was fixed a small Clock; The hand of it was upon the stroke
of three. The Figure stopped opposite to the Clock: It raised
its right arm, and pointed to the hour, at the same time looking
earnestly upon Antonia, who waited for the conclusion of this
scene, motionless and silent.

The figure remained in this posture for some moments. The clock
struck. When the sound had ceased, the Stranger advanced yet a
few steps nearer Antonia.

'Yet three days,' said a voice faint, hollow, and sepulchral;
'Yet three days, and we meet again!'

Antonia shuddered at the words.

'We meet again?' She pronounced at length with difficulty:
'Where shall we meet? Whom shall I meet?'

The figure pointed to the ground with one hand, and with the
other raised the Linen which covered its face.

'Almighty God! My Mother!'

Antonia shrieked, and fell lifeless upon the floor.

Dame Jacintha who was at work in a neighbouring chamber, was
alarmed by the cry: Flora was just gone down stairs to fetch
fresh oil for the Lamp, by which they had been sitting. Jacintha
therefore hastened alone to Antonia's assistance, and great was
her amazement to find her extended upon the floor. She raised
her in her arms, conveyed her to her apartment, and placed her
upon the Bed still senseless. She then proceeded to bathe her
temples, chafe her hands, and use all possible means of bringing
her to herself. With some difficulty She succeeded. Antonia
opened her eyes, and looked round her wildly.

'Where is She?' She cried in a trembling voice; 'Is She gone? Am
I safe? Speak to me! Comfort me! Oh! speak to me for God's
sake!'

'Safe from whom, my Child?' replied the astonished Jacintha;
'What alarms you? Of whom are you afraid?'

'In three days! She told me that we should meet in three days! I
heard her say it! I saw her, Jacintha, I saw her but this
moment!'

She threw herself upon Jacintha's bosom.

'You saw her? Saw whom?'

'My Mother's Ghost!'

'Christ Jesus!' cried Jacintha, and starting from the Bed, let
fall Antonia upon the pillow, and fled in consternation out of
the room.

As She hastened down stairs, She met Flora ascending them.

'Go to your Mistress, Flora,' said She; 'Here are rare doings!
Oh! I am the most unfortunate Woman alive! My House is filled
with Ghosts and dead Bodies, and the Lord knows what besides; Yet
I am sure, nobody likes such company less than I do. But go
your way to Donna Antonia, Flora, and let me go mine.'

Thus saying, She continued her course to the Street door, which
She opened, and without allowing herself time to throw on her
veil, She made the best of her way to the Capuchin Abbey. In the
meanwhile, Flora hastened to her Lady's chamber, equally
surprized and alarmed at Jacintha's consternation. She found
Antonia lying upon the bed insensible. She used the same means
for her recovery that Jacintha had already employed; But finding
that her Mistress only recovered from one fit to fall into
another, She sent in all haste for a Physician. While expecting
his arrival, She undrest Antonia, and conveyed her to Bed.

Heedless of the storm, terrified almost out of her senses,
Jacintha ran through the Streets, and stopped not till She
reached the Gate of the Abbey. She rang loudly at the bell, and
as soon as the Porter appeared, She desired permission to speak
to the Superior. Ambrosio was then conferring with Matilda upon
the means of procuring access to Antonia. The cause of Elvira's
death remaining unknown, He was convinced that crimes were not so
swiftly followed by punishment, as his Instructors the Monks had
taught him, and as till then He had himself believed. This
persuasion made him resolve upon Antonia's ruin, for the
enjoyment of whose person dangers and difficulties only seemed to
have increased his passion. The Monk had already made one
attempt to gain admission to her presence; But Flora had refused
him in such a manner as to convince him that all future
endeavours must be vain. Elvira had confided her suspicions to
that trusty Servant: She had desired her never to leave Ambrosio
alone with her Daughter, and if possible to prevent their meeting
altogether. Flora promised to obey her, and had executed her
orders to the very letter. Ambrosio's visit had been rejected
that morning, though Antonia was ignorant of it. He saw that to
obtain a sight of his Mistress by open means was out of the
question; and both Himself and Matilda had consumed the night, in
endeavouring to invent some plan, whose event might be more
successful. Such was their employment, when a Lay-Brother
entered the Abbot's Cell, and informed him that a Woman calling
herself Jacintha Zuniga requested audience for a few minutes.

Ambrosio was by no means disposed to grant the petition of his
Visitor. He refused it positively, and bad the Lay-Brother tell
the Stranger to return the next day. Matilda interrupted him.

'See this Woman,' said She in a low voice; 'I have my reasons.'

The Abbot obeyed her, and signified that He would go to the
Parlour immediately. With this answer the Lay-Brother
withdrew. As soon as they were alone Ambrosio enquired why
Matilda wished him to see this Jacintha.

'She is Antonia's Hostess,' replied Matilda; 'She may possibly be
of use to you: but let us examine her, and learn what brings her
hither.'

They proceeded together to the Parlour, where Jacintha was
already waiting for the Abbot. She had conceived a great opinion
of his piety and virtue; and supposing him to have much influence
over the Devil, thought that it must be an easy matter for him to
lay Elvira's Ghost in the Red Sea. Filled with this persuasion
She had hastened to the Abbey. As soon as She saw the Monk enter
the Parlour, She dropped upon her knees, and began her story as
follows.

'Oh! Reverend Father! Such an accident! Such an adventure! I
know not what course to take, and unless you can help me, I shall
certainly go distracted. Well, to be sure, never was Woman so
unfortunate, as myself! All in my power to keep clear of such
abomination have I done, and yet that all is too little. What
signifies my telling my beads four times a day, and observing
every fast prescribed by the Calendar? What signifies my having
made three Pilgrimages to St. James of Compostella, and purchased
as many pardons from the Pope as would buy off Cain's
punishment? Nothing prospers with me! All goes wrong, and God
only knows, whether any thing will ever go right again! Why now,
be your Holiness the Judge. My Lodger dies in convulsions; Out
of pure kindness I bury her at my own expence; (Not that She is
any Relation of mine, or that I shall be benefited a single
pistole by her death: I got nothing by it, and therefore you
know, reverend Father, that her living or dying was just the same
to me. But that is nothing to the purpose; To return to what I
was saying,) I took care of her funeral, had every thing
performed decently and properly, and put myself to expence
enough, God knows! And how do you think the Lady repays me for
my kindness? Why truly by refusing to sleep quietly in her
comfortable deal Coffin, as a peaceable well-disposed Spirit
ought to do, and coming to plague me, who never wish to set eyes
on her again. Forsooth, it well becomes her to go racketing
about my House at midnight, popping into her Daughter's room
through the Keyhole, and frightening the poor Child out of her
wits! Though She be a Ghost, She might be more civil than to
bolt into a Person's House, who likes her company so little. But
as for me, reverend Father, the plain state of the case is this:
If She walks into my House, I must walk out of it, for I cannot
abide such Visitors, not I! Thus you see, your Sanctity, that
without your assistance I am ruined and undone for ever. I shall
be obliged to quit my House; Nobody will take it, when 'tis known
that She haunts it, and then I shall find myself in a fine
situation! Miserable Woman that I am! What shall I do! What
will become of me!'

Here She wept bitterly, wrung her hands, and begged to know the
Abbot's opinion of her case.

'In truth, good Woman,' replied He, 'It will be difficult for me
to relieve you without knowing what is the matter with you. You
have forgotten to tell me what has happened, and what it is you
want.'

'Let me die' cried Jacintha, 'but your Sanctity is in the right!
This then is the fact stated briefly. A lodger of mine is lately
dead, a very good sort of Woman that I must needs say for her as
far as my knowledge of her went, though that was not a great way:

She kept me too much at a distance; for indeed She was given to
be upon the high ropes, and whenever I ventured to speak to her,
She had a look with her which always made me feel a little
queerish, God forgive me for saying so. However, though She was
more stately than needful, and affected to look down upon me
(Though if I am well informed, I come of as good Parents as She
could do for her ears, for her Father was a Shoe-maker at
Cordova, and Mine was an Hatter at Madrid, aye, and a very
creditable Hatter too, let me tell you,) Yet for all her pride,
She was a quiet well-behaved Body, and I never wish to have a
better Lodger. This makes me wonder the more at her not sleeping
quietly in her Grave: But there is no trusting to people in this
world! For my part, I never saw her do amiss, except on the
Friday before her death. To be sure, I was then much scandalized
by seeing her eat the wing of a Chicken! ''How, Madona Flora!''
quoth I; (Flora, may it please your Reverence, is the name of the
waiting Maid)—''How, Madona Flora!'' quoth I; ''Does your
Mistress eat flesh upon Fridays? Well! Well! See the event,
and then remember that Dame Jacintha warned you of it!'' These
were my very words, but Alas! I might as well have held my
tongue! Nobody minded me; and Flora, who is somewhat pert and
snappish, (More is the pity, say I) told me that there was no
more harm in eating a Chicken than the egg from which it came.
Nay, She even declared that if her Lady added a slice of bacon,
She would not be an inch nearer Damnation, God protect us! A
poor ignorant sinful soul! I protest to your Holiness, I
trembled to hear her utter such blasphemies, and expected every
moment to see the ground open and swallow her up, Chicken and
all! For you must know, worshipful Father, that while She talked
thus, She held the plate in her hand, on which lay the identical
roast Fowl. And a fine Bird it was, that I must say for it! Done
to a turn, for I superintended the cooking of it myself: It was
a little Gallician of my own raising, may it please your
Holiness, and the flesh was as white as an egg-shell, as indeed
Donna Elvira told me herself. ''Dame Jacintha,'' said She, very
good-humouredly, though to say the truth, She was always very
polite to me . . . . .'

Here Ambrosio's patience failed him. Eager to know Jacintha's
business in which Antonia seemed to be concerned, He was almost
distracted while listening to the rambling of this prosing old
Woman. He interrupted her, and protested that if She did not
immediately tell her story and have done with it, He should quit
the Parlour, and leave her to get out of her difficulties by
herself. This threat had the desired effect. Jacintha related
her business in as few words as She could manage; But her account
was still so prolix that Ambrosio had need of his patience to
bear him to the conclusion.

'And so, your Reverence,' said She, after relating Elvira's death
and burial, with all their circumstances; 'And so, your
Reverence, upon hearing the shriek, I put away my work, and away
posted I to Donna Antonia's chamber. Finding nobody there, I
past on to the next; But I must own, I was a little timorous at
going in, for this was the very room where Donna Elvira used to
sleep. However, in I went, and sure enough, there lay the young
Lady at full length upon the floor, as cold as a stone, and as
white as a sheet. I was surprized at this, as your Holiness may
well suppose; But Oh me! how I shook when I saw a great tall
figure at my elbow whose head touched the ceiling! The face was
Donna Elvira's, I must confess; But out of its mouth came clouds
of fire, its arms were loaded with heavy chains which it rattled
piteously, and every hair on its head was a Serpent as big as my
arm! At this I was frightened enough, and began to say my
Ave-Maria: But the Ghost interrupting me uttered three loud
groans, and roared out in a terrible voice, ''Oh! That Chicken's
wing! My poor soul suffers for it!'' As soon as She had said
this, the Ground opened, the Spectre sank down, I heard a clap of
thunder, and the room was filled with a smell of brimstone. When
I recovered from my fright, and had brought Donna Antonia to
herself, who told me that She had cried out upon seeing her
Mother's Ghost, (And well might She cry, poor Soul! Had I been
in her place, I should have cried ten times louder) it directly
came into my head, that if any one had power to quiet this
Spectre, it must be your Reverence. So hither I came in all
diligence, to beg that you will sprinkle my House with holy
water, and lay the Apparition in the Red Sea.'

Ambrosio stared at this strange story, which He could not credit.

'Did Donna Antonia also see the Ghost?' said He.

'As plain as I see you, Reverend Father!'

Ambrosio paused for a moment. Here was an opportunity offered
him of gaining access to Antonia, but He hesitated to employ it.
The reputation which He enjoyed in Madrid was still dear to him;
and since He had lost the reality of virtue, it appeared as if
its semblance was become more valuable. He was conscious that
publicly to break through the rule never to quit the
Abbey precincts, would derogate much from his supposed austerity.
In visiting Elvira, He had always taken care to keep his features
concealed from the Domestics. Except by the Lady, her Daughter,
and the faithful Flora, He was known in the Family by no other
name than that of Father Jerome. Should He comply with
Jacintha's request, and accompany her to her House, He knew that
the violation of his rule could not be kept a secret. However,
his eagerness to see Antonia obtained the victory: He even hoped,
that the singularity of this adventure would justify him in the
eyes of Madrid: But whatever might be the consequences, He
resolved to profit by the opportunity which chance had presented
to him. An expressive look from Matilda confirmed him in this
resolution.

'Good Woman,' said He to Jacintha, 'what you tell me is so
extraordinary that I can scarcely credit your assertions.
However, I will comply with your request. Tomorrow after Matins
you may expect me at your House: I will then examine into what I
can do for you, and if it is in my power, will free you from this
unwelcome Visitor. Now then go home, and peace be with you!'

'Home?' exclaimed Jacintha; 'I go home? Not I by my troth!
except under your protection, I set no foot of mine within the
threshold. God help me, the Ghost may meet me upon the Stairs,
and whisk me away with her to the devil! Oh! That I had
accepted young Melchior Basco's offer! Then I should have had
somebody to protect me; But now I am a lone Woman, and meet with
nothing but crosses and misfortunes! Thank Heaven, it is not yet
too late to repent! There is Simon Gonzalez will have me any day
of the week, and if I live till daybreak, I will marry him out
of hand: An Husband I will have, that is determined, for now
this Ghost is once in my House, I shall be frightened out of my
wits to sleep alone. But for God's sake, reverend Father, come
with me now. I shall have no rest till the House is purified, or
the poor young Lady either. The dear Girl! She is in a piteous
taking: I left her in strong convulsions, and I doubt, She will
not easily recover her fright.'

The Friar started, and interrupted her hastily.

'In convulsions, say you? Antonia in convulsions? Lead on, good
Woman! I follow you this moment!'

Jacintha insisted upon his stopping to furnish himself with the
vessel of holy water: With this request He complied. Thinking
herself safe under his protection should a Legion of Ghosts
attack her, the old Woman returned the Monk a profusion of
thanks, and they departed together for the Strada di San Iago.

So strong an impression had the Spectre made upon Antonia, that
for the first two or three hours the Physician declared her life
to be in danger. The fits at length becoming less frequent
induced him to alter his opinion. He said that to keep her quiet
was all that was necessary; and He ordered a medicine to be
prepared which would tranquillize her nerves, and procure her
that repose which at present She much wanted. The sight of
Ambrosio, who now appeared with Jacintha at her Bedside,
contributed essentially to compose her ruffled spirits. Elvira
had not sufficiently explained herself upon the nature of his
designs, to make a Girl so ignorant of the world as her Daughter
aware how dangerous was his acquaintance. At this moment, when
penetrated with horror at the scene which had just past, and
dreading to contemplate the Ghost's prediction, her mind had need
of all the succours of friendship and religion, Antonia regarded
the Abbot with an eye doubly partial. That strong prepossession
in his favour still existed which She had felt for him at first
sight: She fancied, yet knew not wherefore, that his presence
was a safeguard to her from every danger, insult, or misfortune.

She thanked him gratefully for his visit, and related to him the
adventure, which had alarmed her so seriously.

The Abbot strove to reassure her, and convince her that the
whole had been a deception of her overheated fancy. The
solitude in which She had passed the Evening, the gloom of night,
the Book which She had been reading, and the Room in which She
sat, were all calculated to place before her such a vision. He
treated the idea of Ghosts with ridicule, and produced strong
arguments to prove the fallacy of such a system. His
conversation tranquillized and comforted her, but did not
convince her. She could not believe that the Spectre had been a
mere creature of her imagination; Every circumstance was
impressed upon her mind too forcibly, to permit her flattering
herself with such an idea. She persisted in asserting that She
had really seen her Mother's Ghost, had heard the period of her
dissolution announced and declared that She never should quit
her bed alive. Ambrosio advised her against encouraging these
sentiments, and then quitted her chamber, having promised to
repeat his visit on the morrow. Antonia received this assurance
with every mark of joy: But the Monk easily perceived that He
was not equally acceptable to her Attendant. Flora obeyed
Elvira's injunctions with the most scrupulous observance. She
examined every circumstance with an anxious eye likely in the
least to prejudice her young Mistress, to whom She had been
attached for many years. She was a Native of Cuba, had followed
Elvira to Spain, and loved the young Antonia with a Mother's
affection. Flora quitted not the room for a moment while the
Abbot remained there: She watched his every word, his every
look, his every action. He saw that her suspicious eye was
always fixed upon him, and conscious that his designs would not
bear inspection so minute, He felt frequently confused and
disconcerted. He was aware that She doubted the purity of his
intentions; that She would never leave him alone with Antonia,
and his Mistress defended by the presence of this vigilant
Observer, He despaired of finding the means to gratify his
passion.

As He quitted the House, Jacintha met him, and begged that some
Masses might be sung for the repose of Elvira's soul, which She
doubted not was suffering in Purgatory. He promised not to
forget her request; But He perfectly gained the old Woman's
heart by engaging to watch during the whole of the approaching
night in the haunted chamber. Jacintha could find no terms
sufficiently strong to express her gratitude, and the Monk
departed loaded with her benedictions.

It was broad day when He returned to the Abbey. His first care
was to communicate what had past to his Confident. He felt too
sincere a passion for Antonia to have heard unmoved the
prediction of her speedy death, and He shuddered at the idea of
losing an object so dear to him. Upon this head Matilda
reassured him. She confirmed the arguments which Himself had
already used: She declared Antonia to have been deceived by the
wandering of her brain, by the Spleen which opprest her at the
moment, and by the natural turn of her mind to superstition, and
the marvellous. As to Jacintha's account, the absurdity refuted
itself; The Abbot hesitated not to believe that She had
fabricated the whole story, either confused by terror, or hoping
to make him comply more readily with her request. Having
overruled the Monk's apprehensions, Matilda continued thus.

'The prediction and the Ghost are equally false; But it must be
your care, Ambrosio, to verify the first. Antonia within three
days must indeed be dead to the world; But She must live for you.

Her present illness, and this fancy which She has taken into her
head, will colour a plan which I have long meditated, but which
was impracticable without your procuring access to Antonia. She
shall be yours, not for a single night, but for ever. All the
vigilance of her Duenna shall not avail her: You shall riot
unrestrained in the charms of your Mistress. This very day must
the scheme be put in execution, for you have no time to lose.
The Nephew of the Duke of Medina Celi prepares to demand Antonia
for his Bride: In a few days She will be removed to the Palace
of her Relation, the Marquis de las Cisternas, and there She will
be secure from your attempts. Thus during your absence have I
been informed by my Spies, who are ever employed in bringing me
intelligence for your service. Now then listen to me. There is
a juice extracted from certain herbs, known but to few, which
brings on the Person who drinks it the exact image of Death. Let
this be administered to Antonia: You may easily find means to
pour a few drops into her medicine. The effect will be throwing
her into strong convulsions for an hour: After which her blood
will gradually cease to flow, and heart to beat; A mortal
paleness will spread itself over her features, and She will
appear a Corse to every eye. She has no Friends about her: You
may charge yourself unsuspected with the superintendence of her
funeral, and cause her to be buried in the Vaults of St. Clare.
Their solitude and easy access render these Caverns favourable to
your designs. Give Antonia the soporific draught this Evening:
Eight and forty hours after She has drank it, Life will revive to
her bosom. She will then be absolutely in your power: She will
find all resistance unavailing, and necessity will compel her to
receive you in her arms.'

'Antonia will be in my power!' exclaimed the Monk; 'Matilda, you
transport me! At length then, happiness will be mine, and that
happiness will be Matilda's gift, will be the gift of friendship!

I shall clasp Antonia in my arms, far from every prying eye, from
every tormenting Intruder! I shall sigh out my soul upon her
bosom; Shall teach her young heart the first rudiments of
pleasure, and revel uncontrouled in the endless variety of her
charms! And shall this delight indeed by mine? Shall I give the
reins to my desires, and gratify every wild tumultuous wish? Oh!
Matilda, how can I express to you my gratitude?'

'By profiting by my counsels. Ambrosio, I live but to serve you:

Your interest and happiness are equally mine. Be your person
Antonia's, but to your friendship and your heart I still assert
my claim. Contributing to yours forms now my only pleasure.
Should my exertions procure the gratification of your wishes, I
shall consider my trouble to be amply repaid. But let us lose no
time. The liquor of which I spoke is only to be found in St.
Clare's Laboratory. Hasten then to the Prioress; Request of her
admission to the Laboratory, and it will not be denied. There is
a Closet at the lower end of the great Room, filled with liquids
of different colours and qualities. The Bottle in question
stands by itself upon the third shelf on the left. It contains a
greenish liquor: Fill a small phial with it when you are
unobserved, and Antonia is your own.'

The Monk hesitated not to adopt this infamous plan. His desires,
but too violent before, had acquired fresh vigour from the sight
of Antonia. As He sat by her bedside, accident had discovered to
him some of those charms which till then had been concealed from
him: He found them even more perfect, than his ardent imagination
had pictured them. Sometimes her white and polished arm was
displayed in arranging the pillow: Sometimes a sudden movement
discovered part of her swelling bosom: But whereever the
new-found charm presented itself, there rested the Friar's
gloting eyes. Scarcely could He master himself sufficiently to
conceal his desires from Antonia and her vigilant Duenna.
Inflamed by the remembrance of these beauties, He entered into
Matilda's scheme without hesitation.

No sooner were Matins over than He bent his course towards the
Convent of St. Clare: His arrival threw the whole Sisterhood
into the utmost amazement. The Prioress was sensible of the
honour done her Convent by his paying it his first visit, and
strove to express her gratitude by every possible attention. He
was paraded through the Garden, shown all the reliques of Saints
and Martyrs, and treated with as much respect and distinction as
had He been the Pope himself. On his part, Ambrosio received the
Domina's civilities very graciously, and strove to remove her
surprize at his having broken through his resolution. He stated,
that among his penitents, illness prevented many from quitting
their Houses. These were exactly the People who most needed his
advice and the comforts of Religion: Many representations had
been made to him upon this account, and though highly repugnant
to his own wishes, He had found it absolutely necessary for the
service of heaven to change his determination, and quit his
beloved retirement. The Prioress applauded his zeal in his
profession and his charity towards Mankind: She declared that
Madrid was happy in possessing a Man so perfect and
irreproachable. In such discourse, the Friar at length reached
the Laboratory. He found the Closet: The Bottle stood in the
place which Matilda had described, and the Monk seized an
opportunity to fill his phial unobserved with the soporific
liquor. Then having partaken of a Collation in the Refectory, He
retired from the Convent pleased with the success of his visit,
and leaving the Nuns delighted by the honour conferred upon them.

He waited till Evening before He took the road to Antonia's
dwelling. Jacintha welcomed him with transport, and besought him
not to forget his promise to pass the night in the haunted
Chamber: That promise He now repeated. He found Antonia
tolerably well, but still harping upon the Ghost's prediction.
Flora moved not from her Lady's Bed, and by symptoms yet stronger
than on the former night testified her dislike to the Abbot's
presence. Still Ambrosio affected not to observe them. The
Physician arrived, while He was conversing with Antonia. It was
dark already; Lights were called for, and Flora was compelled to
descend for them herself. However, as She left a third Person in
the room, and expected to be absent but a few minutes, She
believed that She risqued nothing in quitting her post. No
sooner had She left the room, than Ambrosio moved towards the
Table, on which stood Antonia's medicine: It was placed in a
recess of the window. The Physician seated in an armed-chair,
and employed in questioning his Patient, paid no attention to the
proceedings of the Monk. Ambrosio seized the opportunity: He
drew out the fatal Phial, and let a few drops fall into the
medicine. He then hastily left the Table, and returned to the
seat which He had quitted. When Flora made her appearance with
lights, every thing seemed to be exactly as She had left it.

The Physician declared that Antonia might quit her chamber the
next day with perfect safety. He recommended her following the
same prescription which, on the night before, had procured her a
refreshing sleep: Flora replied that the draught stood ready
upon the Table: He advised the Patient to take it without delay,
and then retired. Flora poured the medicine into a Cup and
presented it to her Mistress. At that moment Ambrosio's courage
failed him. Might not Matilda have deceived him? Might not
Jealousy have persuaded her to destroy her Rival, and substitute
poison in the room of an opiate? This idea appeared so
reasonable that He was on the point of preventing her from
swallowing the medicine. His resolution was adopted too late:
The Cup was already emptied, and Antonia restored it into Flora's
hands. No remedy was now to be found: Ambrosio could only
expect the moment impatiently, destined to decide upon Antonia's
life or death, upon his own happiness or despair.

Dreading to create suspicion by his stay, or betray himself by
his mind's agitation, He took leave of his Victim, and withdrew
from the room. Antonia parted from him with less cordiality than
on the former night. Flora had represented to her Mistress that
to admit his visits was to disobey her Mother's orders: She
described to her his emotion on entering the room, and the fire
which sparkled in his eyes while He gazed upon her. This had
escaped Antonia's observation, but not her Attendant's; Who
explaining the Monk's designs and their probable consequences in
terms much clearer than Elvira's, though not quite so delicate,
had succeeded in alarming her young Lady, and persuading her to
treat him more distantly than She had done hitherto. The idea of
obeying her Mother's will at once determined Antonia. Though She
grieved at losing his society, She conquered herself sufficiently
to receive the Monk with some degree of reserve and coldness.
She thanked him with respect and gratitude for his former visits,
but did not invite his repeating them in future. It now was not
the Friar's interest to solicit admission to her presence, and He
took leave of her as if not designing to return. Fully
persuaded that the acquaintance which She dreaded was now at an
end, Flora was so much worked upon by his easy compliance that
She began to doubt the justice of her suspicions. As She lighted
him down Stairs, She thanked him for having endeavoured to root
out from Antonia's mind her superstitious terrors of the
Spectre's prediction: She added, that as He seemed interested in
Donna Antonia's welfare, should any change take place in her
situation, She would be careful to let him know it. The Monk in
replying took pains to raise his voice, hoping that Jacintha
would hear it. In this He succeeded; As He reached the foot of
the Stairs with his Conductress, the Landlady failed not to make
her appearance.

'Why surely you are not going away, reverend Father?' cried She;
'Did you not promise to pass the night in the haunted Chamber?
Christ Jesus! I shall be left alone with the Ghost, and a fine
pickle I shall be in by morning! Do all I could, say all I
could, that obstinate old Brute, Simon Gonzalez, refused to marry
me today; And before tomorrow comes, I suppose, I shall be torn
to pieces, by the Ghosts, and Goblins, and Devils, and what not!
For God's sake, your Holiness, do not leave me in such a woeful
condition! On my bended knees I beseech you to keep your
promise: Watch this night in the haunted chamber; Lay the
Apparition in the Red Sea, and Jacintha remembers you in her
prayers to the last day of her existence!'

This request Ambrosio expected and desired; Yet He affected to
raise objections, and to seem unwilling to keep his word. He
told Jacintha that the Ghost existed nowhere but in her own
brain, and that her insisting upon his staying all night in the
House was ridiculous and useless. Jacintha was obstinate: She
was not to be convinced, and pressed him so urgently not to leave
her a prey to the Devil, that at length He granted her request.
All this show of resistance imposed not upon Flora, who was
naturally of a suspicious temper. She suspected the Monk to be
acting a part very contrary to his own inclinations, and that He
wished for no better than to remain where He was. She even went
so far as to believe that Jacintha was in his interest; and the
poor old Woman was immediately set down, as no better than a
Procuress. While She applauded herself for having penetrated
into this plot against her Lady's honour, She resolved in secret
to render it fruitless.

'So then,' said She to the Abbot with a look half-satirical and
half indignant; 'So then you mean to stay here tonight? Do so,
in God's name! Nobody will prevent you. Sit up to watch for the
Ghost's arrival: I shall sit up too, and the Lord grant that I
may see nothing worse than a Ghost! I quit not Donna Antonia's
Bedside during this blessed night: Let me see any one dare to
enter the room, and be He mortal or immortal, be He Ghost, Devil,
or Man, I warrant his repenting that ever He crossed the
threshold!'

This hint was sufficiently strong, and Ambrosio understood its
meaning. But instead of showing that He perceived her
suspicions; He replied mildly that He approved the Duenna's
precautions, and advised her to persevere in her intention.
This, She assured him faithfully that He might depend upon her
doing. Jacintha then conducted him into the chamber where the
Ghost had appeared, and Flora returned to her Lady's.

Jacintha opened the door of the haunted room with a trembling
hand: She ventured to peep in; But the wealth of India would not
have tempted her to cross the threshold. She gave the Taper to
the Monk, wished him well through the adventure, and hastened to
be gone. Ambrosio entered. He bolted the door, placed the light
upon the Table, and seated himself in the Chair which on the
former night had sustained Antonia. In spite of Matilda's
assurances that the Spectre was a mere creation of fancy, his
mind was impressed with a certain mysterious horror. He in vain
endeavoured to shake it off. The silence of the night, the story
of the Apparition, the chamber wainscotted with dark oak
pannells, the recollection which it brought with it of the
murdered Elvira, and his incertitude respecting the nature of the
drops given by him to Antonia, made him feel uneasy at his
present situation. But He thought much less of the Spectre, than
of the poison. Should He have destroyed the only object which
rendered life dear to him; Should the Ghost's prediction prove
true; Should Antonia in three days be no more, and He the
wretched cause of her death . . . . . . The supposition was too
horrible to dwell upon. He drove away these dreadful images, and
as often they presented themselves again before him. Matilda had
assured him that the effects of the Opiate would be speedy. He
listened with fear, yet with eagerness, expecting to hear some
disturbance in the adjoining chamber. All was still silent. He
concluded that the drops had not begun to operate. Great was
the stake, for which He now played: A moment would suffice to
decide upon his misery or happiness. Matilda had taught him the
means of ascertaining that life was not extinct for ever: Upon
this assay depended all his hopes. With every instant his
impatience redoubled; His terrors grew more lively, his anxiety
more awake. Unable to bear this state of incertitude, He
endeavoured to divert it by substituting the thoughts of Others
to his own. The Books, as was before mentioned, were ranged upon
shelves near the Table: This stood exactly opposite to the Bed,
which was placed in an Alcove near the Closet door. Ambrosio
took down a Volume, and seated himself by the Table: But his
attention wandered from the Pages before him. Antonia's image
and that of the murdered Elvira persisted to force themselves
before his imagination. Still He continued to read, though his
eyes ran over the characters without his mind being conscious of
their import. Such was his occupation, when He fancied that He
heard a footstep. He turned his head, but nobody was to be seen.

He resumed his Book; But in a few minutes after the same sound
was repeated, and followed by a rustling noise close behind him.
He now started from his seat, and looking round him, perceived
the Closet door standing half-unclosed. On his first entering
the room He had tried to open it, but found it bolted on the
inside.

'How is this?' said He to himself; 'How comes this door
unfastened?'

He advanced towards it: He pushed it open, and looked into the
closet: No one was there. While He stood irresolute, He
thought that He distinguished a groaning in the adjacent
chamber: It was Antonia's, and He supposed that the drops began
to take effect: But upon listening more attentively, He found
the noise to be caused by Jacintha, who had fallen asleep by the
Lady's Bedside, and was snoring most lustily. Ambrosio drew
back, and returned to the other room, musing upon the sudden
opening of the Closet door, for which He strove in vain to
account.

He paced the chamber up and down in silence. At length He
stopped, and the Bed attracted his attention. The curtain of the
Recess was but half-drawn. He sighed involuntarily.

'That Bed,' said He in a low voice, 'That Bed was Elvira's!
There has She past many a quiet night, for She was good and
innocent. How sound must have been her sleep! And yet now She
sleeps sounder! Does She indeed sleep? Oh! God grant that She
may! What if She rose from her Grave at this sad and silent
hour? What if She broke the bonds of the Tomb, and glided
angrily before my blasted eyes? Oh! I never could support the
sight! Again to see her form distorted by dying agonies, her
blood-swollen veins, her livid countenance, her eyes bursting
from their sockets with pain! To hear her speak of future
punishment, menace me with Heaven's vengeance, tax me with the
crimes I have committed, with those I am going to commit . . . .
. Great God! What is that?'

As He uttered these words, his eyes which were fixed upon the
Bed, saw the curtain shaken gently backwards and forwards. The
Apparition was recalled to his mind, and He almost fancied that
He beheld Elvira's visionary form reclining upon the Bed. A few
moments consideration sufficed to reassure him.

'It was only the wind,' said He, recovering himself.

Again He paced the chamber; But an involuntary movement of awe
and inquietude constantly led his eye towards the Alcove. He
drew near it with irresolution. He paused before He ascended the
few steps which led to it. He put out his hand thrice to remove
the curtain, and as often drew it back.

'Absurd terrors!' He cried at length, ashamed of his own
weakness——

Hastily he mounted the steps; When a Figure drest in white
started from the Alcove, and gliding by him, made with
precipitation towards the Closet. Madness and despair now
supplied the Monk with that courage, of which He had till then
been destitute. He flew down the steps, pursued the Apparition,
and attempted to grasp it.

'Ghost, or Devil, I hold you!' He exclaimed, and seized the
Spectre by the arm.

'Oh! Christ Jesus!' cried a shrill voice; 'Holy Father, how you
gripe me! I protest that I meant no harm!'

This address, as well as the arm which He held, convinced the
Abbot that the supposed Ghost was substantial flesh and blood.
He drew the Intruder towards the Table, and holding up the light,
discovered the features of . . . . . . Madona Flora!

Incensed at having been betrayed by this trifling cause into
fears so ridiculous, He asked her sternly, what business had
brought her to that chamber. Flora, ashamed at being found out,
and terrified at the severity of Ambrosio's looks, fell upon her
knees, and promised to make a full confession.

'I protest, reverend Father,' said She, 'that I am quite grieved
at having disturbed you: Nothing was further from my intention.
I meant to get out of the room as quietly as I got in; and had
you been ignorant that I watched you, you know, it would have
been the same thing as if I had not watched you at all. To be
sure, I did very wrong in being a Spy upon you, that I cannot
deny; But Lord! your Reverence, how can a poor weak Woman resist
curiosity? Mine was so strong to know what you were doing, that
I could not but try to get a little peep, without any body
knowing any thing about it. So with that I left old Dame
Jacintha sitting by my Lady's Bed, and I ventured to steal into
the Closet. Being unwilling to interrupt you, I contented myself
at first with putting my eye to the Keyhole; But as I could see
nothing by this means, I undrew the bolt, and while your back was
turned to the Alcove, I whipt me in softly and silently. Here I
lay snug behind the curtain, till your Reverence found me out,
and seized me ere I had time to regain the Closet door. This is
the whole truth, I assure you, Holy Father, and I beg your pardon
a thousand times for my impertinence.'

During this speech the Abbot had time to recollect himself: He
was satisfied with reading the penitent Spy a lecture upon the
dangers of curiosity, and the meanness of the action in which She
had been just discovered. Flora declared herself fully
persuaded that She had done wrong; She promised never to be
guilty of the same fault again, and was retiring very humble and
contrite to Antonia's chamber, when the Closet door was suddenly
thrown open, and in rushed Jacintha pale and out of breath.

'Oh! Father! Father!' She cried in a voice almost choaked with
terror; 'What shall I do! What shall I do! Here is a fine piece
of work! Nothing but misfortunes! Nothing but dead people, and
dying people! Oh! I shall go distracted! I shall go
distracted!'

'Speak! Speak!' cried Flora and the Monk at the same time; 'What
has happened? What is the matter?'

'Oh! I shall have another Corse in my House! Some Witch has
certainly cast a spell upon it, upon me, and upon all about me!
Poor Donna Antonia! There She lies in just such convulsions, as
killed her Mother! The Ghost told her true! I am sure, the Ghost
has told her true!'

Flora ran, or rather flew to her Lady's chamber: Ambrosio
followed her, his bosom trembling with hope and apprehension.
They found Antonia as Jacintha had described, torn by racking
convulsions from which they in vain endeavoured to relieve her.
The Monk dispatched Jacintha to the Abbey in all haste, and
commissioned her to bring Father Pablos back with her, without
losing a moment.

'I will go for him,' replied Jacintha, 'and tell him to come
hither; But as to bringing him myself, I shall do no such thing.
I am sure that the House is bewitched, and burn me if ever I set
foot in it again.'

With this resolution She set out for the Monastery, and delivered
to Father Pablos the Abbot's orders. She then betook herself to
the House of old Simon Gonzalez, whom She resolved never to quit,
till She had made him her Husband, and his dwelling her own.

Father Pablos had no sooner beheld Antonia, than He pronounced
her incurable. The convulsions continued for an hour: During
that time her agonies were much milder than those which her
groans created in the Abbot's heart. Her every pang seemed a
dagger in his bosom, and He cursed himself a thousand times for
having adopted so barbarous a project. The hour being expired,
by degrees the Fits became less frequent, and Antonia less
agitated. She felt that her dissolution was approaching, and
that nothing could save her.

'Worthy Ambrosio,' She said in a feeble voice, while She pressed
his hand to her lips; 'I am now at liberty to express, how
grateful is my heart for your attention and kindness. I am upon
the bed of death; Yet an hour, and I shall be no more. I may
therefore acknowledge without restraint, that to relinquish your
society was very painful to me: But such was the will of a
Parent, and I dared not disobey. I die without repugnance:
There are few, who will lament my leaving them; There are few,
whom I lament to leave. Among those few, I lament for none more
than for yourself; But we shall meet again, Ambrosio! We shall
one day meet in heaven: There shall our friendship be renewed,
and my Mother shall view it with pleasure!'

She paused. The Abbot shuddered when She mentioned Elvira:
Antonia imputed his emotion to pity and concern for her.

'You are grieved for me, Father,' She continued; 'Ah! sigh not
for my loss. I have no crimes to repent, at least none of which
I am conscious, and I restore my soul without fear to him from
whom I received it. I have but few requests to make: Yet let me
hope that what few I have shall be granted. Let a solemn Mass be
said for my soul's repose, and another for that of my beloved
Mother. Not that I doubt her resting in her Grave: I am now
convinced that my reason wandered, and the falsehood of the
Ghost's prediction is sufficient to prove my error. But every
one has some failing: My Mother may have had hers, though I knew
them not: I therefore wish a Mass to be celebrated for her
repose, and the expence may be defrayed by the little wealth of
which I am possessed. Whatever may then remain, I bequeath to my
Aunt Leonella. When I am dead, let the Marquis de las Cisternas
know that his Brother's unhappy family can no longer importune
him. But disappointment makes me unjust: They tell me that He
is ill, and perhaps had it been in his power, He wished to have
protected me. Tell him then, Father, only that I am dead, and
that if He had any faults to me, I forgave him from my heart.
This done, I have nothing more to ask for, than your prayers:
Promise to remember my requests, and I shall resign my life
without a pang or sorrow.'

Ambrosio engaged to comply with her desires, and proceeded to
give her absolution. Every moment announced the approach of
Antonia's fate: Her sight failed; Her heart beat sluggishly; Her
fingers stiffened, and grew cold, and at two in the morning She
expired without a groan. As soon as the breath had forsaken her
body, Father Pablos retired, sincerely affected at the melancholy
scene. On her part, Flora gave way to the most unbridled sorrow.

Far different concerns employed Ambrosio: He sought for the
pulse whose throbbing, so Matilda had assured him, would prove
Antonia's death but temporal. He found it; He pressed it; It
palpitated beneath his hand, and his heart was filled with
ecstacy. However, He carefully concealed his satisfaction at the
success of his plan. He assumed a melancholy air, and addressing
himself to Flora, warned her against abandoning herself to
fruitless sorrow. Her tears were too sincere to permit her
listening to his counsels, and She continued to weep unceasingly.

The Friar withdrew, first promising to give orders himself about
the Funeral, which, out of consideration for Jacintha as He
pretended, should take place with all expedition. Plunged in
grief for the loss of her beloved Mistress, Flora scarcely
attended to what He said. Ambrosio hastened to command the
Burial. He obtained permission from the Prioress, that the Corse
should be deposited in St. Clare's Sepulchre: and on the Friday
Morning, every proper and needful ceremony being performed,
Antonia's body was committed to the Tomb.

On the same day Leonella arrived at Madrid, intending to present
her young Husband to Elvira. Various circumstances had obliged
her to defer her journey from Tuesday to Friday, and She had no
opportunity of making this alteration in her plans known to her
Sister. As her heart was truly affectionate, and as She had ever
entertained a sincere regard for Elvira and her Daughter, her
surprize at hearing of their sudden and melancholy fate was fully
equalled by her sorrow and disappointment. Ambrosio sent to
inform her of Antonia's bequest: At her solication, He promised,
as soon as Elvira's trifling debts were discharged, to transmit
to her the remainder. This being settled, no other business
detained Leonella in Madrid, and She returned to Cordova with all
diligence.

CHAPTER III

Oh! could I worship aught beneath the skies
That earth hath seen or fancy could devise,
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand,
Built by no mercenary vulgar hand,
With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair,
As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air.
Cowper.

His whole attention bent upon bringing to justice the Assassins
of his Sister, Lorenzo little thought how severely his interest
was suffering in another quarter. As was before mentioned, He
returned not to Madrid till the evening of that day on which
Antonia was buried. Signifying to the Grand Inquisitor the order
of the Cardinal-Duke (a ceremony not to be neglected, when a
Member of the Church was to be arrested publicly) communicating
his design to his Uncle and Don Ramirez, and assembling a troop
of Attendants sufficiently to prevent opposition, furnished him
with full occupation during the few hours preceding midnight.
Consequently, He had no opportunity to enquire about his
Mistress, and was perfectly ignorant both of her death and her
Mother's.

The Marquis was by no means out of danger: His delirium was
gone, but had left him so much exhausted that the Physicians
declined pronouncing upon the consequences likely to ensue. As
for Raymond himself, He wished for nothing more earnestly than to
join Agnes in the grave. Existence was hateful to him: He saw
nothing in the world deserving his attention; and He hoped to
hear that Agnes was revenged, and himself given over in the same
moment.

Followed by Raymond's ardent prayers for success, Lorenzo was at
the Gates of St. Clare a full hour before the time appointed by
the Mother St. Ursula. He was accompanied by his Uncle, by Don
Ramirez de Mello, and a party of chosen Archers. Though in
considerable numbers their appearance created no surprize: A
great Crowd was already assembled before the Convent doors, in
order to witness the Procession. It was naturally supposed that
Lorenzo and his Attendants were conducted thither by the same
design. The Duke of Medina being recognised, the People drew
back, and made way for his party to advance. Lorenzo placed
himself opposite to the great Gate, through which the Pilgrims
were to pass. Convinced that the Prioress could not escape him,
He waited patiently for her appearance, which She was expected to
make exactly at Midnight.

The Nuns were employed in religious duties established in honour
of St. Clare, and to which no Prophane was ever admitted. The
Chapel windows were illuminated. As they stood on the outside,
the Auditors heard the full swell of the organ, accompanied by a
chorus of female voices, rise upon the stillness of the night.
This died away, and was succeeded by a single strain of harmony:
It was the voice of her who was destined to sustain in the
procession the character of St. Clare. For this office the most
beautiful Virgin of Madrid was always selected, and She upon whom
the choice fell esteemed it as the highest of honours. While
listening to the Music, whose melody distance only seemed to
render sweeter, the Audience was wrapped up in profound
attention. Universal silence prevailed through the Crowd, and
every heart was filled with reverence for religion. Every heart
but Lorenzo's. Conscious that among those who chaunted the
praises of their God so sweetly, there were some who cloaked with
devotion the foulest sins, their hymns inspired him with
detestation at their Hypocrisy. He had long observed with
disapprobation and contempt the superstition which governed
Madrid's Inhabitants. His good sense had pointed out to him the
artifices of the Monks, and the gross absurdity of their
miracles, wonders, and supposititious reliques. He blushed to
see his Countrymen the Dupes of deceptions so ridiculous, and
only wished for an opportunity to free them from their monkish
fetters. That opportunity, so long desired in vain, was at
length presented to him. He resolved not to let it slip, but to
set before the People in glaring colours how enormous were the
abuses but too frequently practised in Monasteries, and how
unjustly public esteem was bestowed indiscriminately upon all who
wore a religious habit. He longed for the moment destined to
unmask the Hypocrites, and convince his Countrymen that a
sanctified exterior does not always hide a virtuous heart.

The service lasted, till Midnight was announced by the
Convent Bell. That sound being heard, the Music ceased: The
voices died away softly, and soon after the lights disappeared
from the Chapel windows. Lorenzo's heart beat high, when He
found the execution of his plan to be at hand. From the natural
superstition of the People He had prepared himself for some
resistance. But He trusted that the Mother St. Ursula would
bring good reasons to justify his proceeding. He had force with
him to repel the first impulse of the Populace, till his
arguments should be heard: His only fear was lest the Domina,
suspecting his design, should have spirited away the Nun on
whose deposition every thing depended. Unless the Mother St.
Ursula should be present, He could only accuse the Prioress upon
suspicion; and this reflection gave him some little apprehension
for the success of his enterprize. The tranquillity which seemed
to reign through the Convent in some degree re-assured him:
Still He expected the moment eagerly, when the presence of his
Ally should deprive him of the power of doubting.

The Abbey of Capuchins was only separated from the Convent by the
Garden and Cemetery. The Monks had been invited to assist at the
Pilgrimage. They now arrived, marching two by two with lighted
Torches in their hands, and chaunting Hymns in honour of St.
Clare. Father Pablos was at their head, the Abbot having excused
himself from attending. The people made way for the holy Train,
and the Friars placed themselves in ranks on either side of the
great Gates. A few minutes sufficed to arrange the order of the
Procession. This being settled, the Convent doors were thrown
open, and again the female Chorus sounded in full melody. First
appeared a Band of Choristers: As soon as they had passed, the
Monks fell in two by two, and followed with steps slow and
measured. Next came the Novices; They bore no Tapers, as did the
Professed, but moved on with eyes bent downwards, and seemed to
be occupied by telling their Beads. To them succeeded a young
and lovely Girl, who represented St. Lucia: She held a golden
bason in which were two eyes: Her own were covered by a velvet
bandage, and She was conducted by another Nun habited as an
Angel. She was followed by St. Catherine, a palm-branch in one
hand, a flaming Sword in the other: She was robed in white, and
her brow was ornamented with a sparkling Diadem. After her
appeared St. Genevieve, surrounded by a number of Imps, who
putting themselves into grotesque attitudes, drawing her by the
robe, and sporting round her with antic gestures, endeavoured to
distract her attention from the Book, on which her eyes were
constantly fixed. These merry Devils greatly entertained the
Spectators, who testified their pleasure by repeated bursts of
Laughter. The Prioress had been careful to select a Nun whose
disposition was naturally solemn and saturnine. She had every
reason to be satisfied with her choice: The drolleries of the
Imps were entirely thrown away, and St. Genevieve moved on
without discomposing a muscle.

Each of these Saints was separated from the Other by a band of
Choristers, exalting her praise in their Hymns, but declaring her
to be very much inferior to St. Clare, the Convent's avowed
Patroness. These having passed, a long train of Nuns appeared,
bearing like the Choristers each a burning Taper. Next came the
reliques of St. Clare, inclosed in vases equally precious for
their materials and workmanship: But they attracted not
Lorenzo's attention. The Nun who bore the heart occupied him
entirely. According to Theodore's description, He doubted not
her being the Mother St. Ursula. She seemed to look round with
anxiety. As He stood foremost in the rank by which the
procession past, her eye caught Lorenzo's. A flush of joy
overspread her till then pallid cheek. She turned to her
Companion eagerly.

'We are safe!' He heard her whisper; ' 'tis her Brother!'

His heart being now at ease, Lorenzo gazed with tranquillity upon
the remainder of the show. Now appeared its most brilliant
ornament. It was a Machine fashioned like a throne, rich with
jewels and dazzling with light. It rolled onwards upon
concealed wheels, and was guided by several lovely Children,
dressed as Seraphs. The summit was covered with silver clouds,
upon which reclined the most beautiful form that eyes ever
witnessed. It was a Damsel representing St. Clare: Her dress was
of inestimable price, and round her head a wreath of Diamonds
formed an artificial glory: But all these ornaments yielded to
the lustre of her charms. As She advanced, a murmur of delight
ran through the Crowd. Even Lorenzo confessed secretly, that He
never beheld more perfect beauty, and had not his heart been
Antonia's, it must have fallen a sacrifice to this enchanting
Girl. As it was, He considered her only as a fine Statue: She
obtained from him no tribute save cold admiration, and when She
had passed him, He thought of her no more.

'Who is She?' asked a By-stander in Lorenzo's hearing.

'One whose beauty you must often have heard celebrated. Her name
is Virginia de Villa-Franca: She is a Pensioner of St. Clare's
Convent, a Relation of the Prioress, and has been selected with
justice as the ornament of the Procession.'

The Throne moved onwards. It was followed by the Prioress
herself: She marched at the head of the remaining Nuns with a
devout and sanctified air, and closed the procession. She moved
on slowly: Her eyes were raised to heaven: Her countenance calm
and tranquil seemed abstracted from all sublunary things, and no
feature betrayed her secret pride at displaying the pomp and
opulence of her Convent. She passed along, accompanied by the
prayers and benedictions of the Populace: But how great was the
general confusion and surprize, when Don Ramirez starting
forward, challenged her as his Prisoner.

For a moment amazement held the Domina silent and immoveable:
But no sooner did She recover herself, than She exclaimed against
sacrilege and impiety, and called the People to rescue a Daughter
of the Church. They were eagerly preparing to obey her; when Don
Ramirez, protected by the Archers from their rage, commanded them
to forbear, and threatened them with the severest vengeance of
the Inquisition. At that dreaded word every arm fell, every
sword shrunk back into its scabbard. The Prioress herself turned
pale, and trembled. The general silence convinced her that She
had nothing to hope but from innocence, and She besought Don
Ramirez in a faultering voice, to inform her of what crime She
was accused.

'That you shall know in time,' replied He; 'But first I must
secure the Mother St. Ursula.'

'The Mother St. Ursula?' repeated the Domina faintly.

At this moment casting her eyes round, She saw near her Lorenzo
and the Duke, who had followed Don Ramirez.

'Ah! great God!' She cried, clasping her hands together with a
frantic air; 'I am betrayed!'

'Betrayed?' replied St. Ursula, who now arrived conducted by some
of the Archers, and followed by the Nun her Companion in the
procession: 'Not betrayed, but discovered. In me recognise your
Accuser: You know not how well I am instructed in your
guilt!—Segnor!' She continued, turning to Don Ramirez; 'I commit
myself to your custody. I charge the Prioress of St. Clare with
murder, and stake my life for the justice of my accusation.'

A general cry of surprize was uttered by the whole Audience, and
an explanation was demanded loudly.n The trembling Nuns,
terrifiedat the noise and universal confusion, had dispersed, and
fleddifferent ways. Some regained the Convent; Others sought
refugein the dwellings of their Relations; and Many, only
sensible oftheir present danger, and anxious to escape from the
tumult, ran through the Streets, and wandered, they knew not
whither. The lovely Virginia was one of the first to fly: And
in order that She might be better seen and heard, the People
desired that St. Ursula should harangue them from the vacant
Throne. The Nun complied; She ascended the glittering Machine,
and then addressed the surrounding multitude as follows.

'However strange and unseemly may appear my conduct, when
considered to be adopted by a Female and a Nun, necessity will
justify it most fully. A secret, an horrible secret weighs heavy
upon my soul: No rest can be mine till I have revealed it to the
world, and satisfied that innocent blood which calls from the
Grave for vengeance. Much have I dared to gain this opportunity
of lightening my conscience. Had I failed in my attempt to
reveal the crime, had the Domina but suspected that the mystery
was none to me, my ruin was inevitable. Angels who watch
unceasingly over those who deserve their favour, have enabled me
to escape detection: I am now at liberty to relate a Tale, whose
circumstances will freeze every honest soul with horror. Mine is
the task to rend the veil from Hypocrisy, and show misguided
Parents to what dangers the Woman is exposed, who falls under the
sway of a monastic Tyrant.

'Among the Votaries of St. Clare, none was more lovely, none more
gentle, than Agnes de Medina. I knew her well; She entrusted to
me every secret of her heart; I was her Friend and Confident, and
I loved her with sincere affection. Nor was I singular in my
attachment. Her piety unfeigned, her willingness to oblige, and
her angelic disposition, rendered her the Darling of all that was
estimable in the Convent. The Prioress herself, proud,
scrupulous and forbidding, could not refuse Agnes that tribute of
approbation which She bestowed upon no one else. Every one has
some fault: Alas! Agnes had her weakness! She violated the laws
of our order, and incurred the inveterate hate of the unforgiving
Domina. St. Clare's rules are severe: But grown antiquated and
neglected, many of late years have either been forgotten, or
changed by universal consent into milder punishments. The
penance, adjudged to the crime of Agnes, was most cruel, most
inhuman! The law had been long exploded: Alas! It still
existed, and the revengeful Prioress now determined to revive it.

This law decreed that the Offender should be plunged into a
private dungeon, expressly constituted to hide from the world for
ever the Victim of Cruelty and tyrannic superstition. In this
dreadful abode She was to lead a perpetual solitude, deprived of
all society, and believed to be dead by those whom affection
might have prompted to attempt her rescue. Thus was She to
languish out the remainder of her days, with no other food than
bread and water, and no other comfort than the free indulgence of
her tears.'

The indignation created by this account was so violent, as for
some moments to interrupt St. Ursula's narrative. When the
disturbance ceased, and silence again prevailed through the
Assembly, She continued her discourse, while at every word the
Domina's countenance betrayed her increasing terrors.

'A Council of the twelve elder Nuns was called: I was of the
number. The Prioress in exaggerated colours described the
offence of Agnes, and scrupled not to propose the revival of this
almost forgotten law. To the shame of our sex be it spoken, that
either so absolute was the Domina's will in the Convent, or so
much had disappointment, solitude, and self-denial hardened their
hearts and sowered their tempers that this barbarous proposal
was assented to by nine voices out of the twelve. I was not one
of the nine. Frequent opportunities had convinced me of the
virtues of Agnes, and I loved and pitied her most sincerely. The
Mothers Bertha and Cornelia joined my party: We made the
strongest opposition possible, and the Superior found herself
compelled to change her intention. In spite of the majority in
her favour, She feared to break with us openly. She knew that
supported by the Medina family, our forces would be too strong
for her to cope with: And She also knew that after being once
imprisoned and supposed dead, should Agnes be discovered, her
ruin would be inevitable. She therefore gave up her design,
though which much reluctance. She demanded some days to reflect
upon a mode of punishment which might be agreeable to the whole
Community; and She promised, that as soon as her resolution was
fixed, the same Council should be again summoned. Two days
passed away: On the Evening of the Third it was announced that
on the next day Agnes should be examined; and that according to
her behaviour on that occasion, her punishment should be either
strengthened or mitigated.

'On the night preceding this examination, I stole to the Cell of
Agnes at an hour when I supposed the other Nuns to be buried in
sleep. I comforted her to the best of my power: I bad her take
courage, told her to rely upon the support of her friends, and
taught her certain signs, by which I might instruct her to answer
the Domina's questions by an assent or negative. Conscious that
her Enemy would strive to confuse, embarrass, and daunt her, I
feared her being ensnared into some confession prejudicial to her
interests. Being anxious to keep my visit secret, I stayed with
Agnes but a short time. I bad her not let her spirits be cast
down; I mingled my tears with those which streamed down her
cheek, embraced her fondly, and was on the point of retiring,
when I heard the sound of steps approaching the Cell. I started
back. A Curtain which veiled a large Crucifix offered me a
retreat, and I hastened to place myself behind it. The door
opened. The Prioress entered, followed by four other Nuns. They
advanced towards the bed of Agnes. The Superior reproached her
with her errors in the bitterest terms: She told her that She
was a disgrace to the Convent, that She was resolved to deliver
the world and herself from such a Monster, and commanded her to
drink the contents of a Goblet now presented to her by one of the
Nuns. Aware of the fatal properties of the liquor, and trembling
to find herself upon the brink of Eternity, the unhappy Girl
strove to excite the Domina's pity by the most affecting prayers.

She sued for life in terms which might have melted the heart of a
Fiend: She promised to submit patiently to any punishment, to
shame, imprisonment, and torture, might She but be permitted to
live! Oh! might She but live another month, or week, or day!
Her merciless Enemy listened to her complaints unmoved: She told
her that at first She meant to have spared her life, and that if
She had altered her intention, She had to thank the opposition of
her Friends. She continued to insist upon her swallowing the
poison: She bad her recommend herself to the Almighty's mercy,
not to hers, and assured her that in an hour She would be
numbered with the Dead. Perceiving that it was vain to implore
this unfeeling Woman, She attempted to spring from her bed, and
call for assistance: She hoped, if She could not escape the fate
announced to her, at least to have witnesses of the violence
committed. The Prioress guessed her design. She seized her
forcibly by the arm, and pushed her back upon her pillow. At the
same time drawing a dagger, and placing it at the breast of the
unfortunate Agnes, She protested that if She uttered a single
cry, or hesitated a single moment to drink the poison, She would
pierce her heart that instant. Already half-dead with fear, She
could make no further resistance. The Nun approached with the
fatal Goblet. The Domina obliged her to take it, and swallow the
contents. She drank, and the horrid deed was accomplished. The
Nuns then seated themselves round the Bed. They answered her
groans with reproaches; They interrupted with sarcasms the
prayers in which She recommended her parting soul to mercy: They
threatened her with heaven's vengeance and eternal perdition:
They bad her despair of pardon, and strowed with yet sharper
thorns Death's painful pillow. Such were the sufferings of this
young Unfortunate, till released by fate from the malice of her
Tormentors. She expired in horror of the past, in fears for the
future; and her agonies were such as must have amply gratified
the hate and vengeance of her Enemies. As soon as her Victim
ceased to breathe, the Domina retired, and was followed by her
Accomplices.

'It was now that I ventured from my concealment. I dared not to
assist my unhappy Friend, aware that without preserving her, I
should only have brought on myself the same destruction. Shocked
and terrified beyond expression at this horrid scene, scarcely
had I sufficient strength to regain my Cell. As I reached the
door of that of Agnes, I ventured to look towards the bed, on
which lay her lifeless body, once so lovely and so sweet! I
breathed a prayer for her departed Spirit, and vowed to revenge
her death by the shame and punishment of her Assassins. With
danger and difficulty have I kept my oath. I unwarily dropped
some words at the funeral of Agnes, while thrown off my guard by
excessive grief, which alarmed the guilty conscience of the
Prioress. My every action was observed; My every step was
traced. I was constantly surrounded by the Superior's spies. It
was long before I could find the means of conveying to the
unhappy Girl's Relations an intimation of my secret. It was
given out that Agnes had expired suddenly: This account was
credited not only by her Friends in Madrid, but even by those
within the Convent. The poison had left no marks upon her body:
No one suspected the true cause of her death, and it remained
unknown to all, save the Assassins and Myself.

'I have no more to say: For what I have already said, I will
answer with my life. I repeat that the Prioress is a Murderess;
That She has driven from the world, perhaps from heaven, an
Unfortunate whose offence was light and venial; that She has
abused the power intrusted to her hands, and has been a Tyrant, a
Barbarian, and an Hypocrite. I also accuse the four Nuns,
Violante, Camilla, Alix, and Mariana, as being her Accomplices,
and equally criminal.'

Here St. Ursula ended her narrative. It created horror and
surprize throughout: But when She related the inhuman murder of
Agnes, the indignation of the Mob was so audibly testified, that
it was scarcely possible to hear the conclusion. This confusion
increased with every moment: At length a multitude of voices
exclaimed that the Prioress should be given up to their fury.
To this Don Ramirez refused to consent positively. Even Lorenzo
bad the People remember that She had undergone no trial, and
advised them to leave her punishment to the Inquisition. All
representations were fruitless: The disturbance grew still more
violent, and the Populace more exasperated. In vain did Ramirez
attempt to convey his Prisoner out of the Throng. Wherever He
turned, a band of Rioters barred his passage, and demanded her
being delivered over to them more loudly than before. Ramirez
ordered his Attendants to cut their way through the multitude:
Oppressed by numbers, it was impossible for them to draw their
swords. He threatened the Mob with the vengeance of the
Inquisition: But in this moment of popular phrenzy even this
dreadful name had lost its effect. Though regret for his Sister
made him look upon the Prioress with abhorrence, Lorenzo could
not help pitying a Woman in a situation so terrible: But in
spite of all his exertions, and those of the Duke, of Don
Ramirez, and the Archers, the People continued to press onwards.
They forced a passage through the Guards who protected their
destined Victim, dragged her from her shelter, and proceeded to
take upon her a most summary and cruel vengeance. Wild with
terror, and scarcely knowing what She said, the wretched Woman
shrieked for a moment's mercy: She protested that She was
innocent of the death of Agnes, and could clear herself from the
suspicion beyond the power of doubt. The Rioters heeded nothing
but the gratification of their barbarous vengeance. They refused
to listen to her: They showed her every sort of insult, loaded
her with mud and filth, and called her by the most opprobrious
appellations. They tore her one from another, and each new
Tormentor was more savage than the former. They stifled with
howls and execrations her shrill cries for mercy; and dragged her
through the Streets, spurning her, trampling her, and treating
her with every species of cruelty which hate or vindictive fury
could invent. At length a Flint, aimed by some well-directing
hand, struck her full upon the temple. She sank upon the ground
bathed in blood, and in a few minutes terminated her miserable
existence. Yet though She no longer felt their insults, the
Rioters still exercised their impotent rage upon her lifeless
body. They beat it, trod upon it, and ill-used it, till it
became no more than a mass of flesh, unsightly, shapeless, and
disgusting.

Unable to prevent this shocking event, Lorenzo and his Friends
had beheld it with the utmost horror: But they were rouzed from
their compelled inactivity, on hearing that the Mob was attacking
the Convent of St. Clare. The incensed Populace, confounding the
innocent with the guilty, had resolved to sacrifice all the Nuns
of that order to their rage, and not to leave one stone of the
building upon another. Alarmed at this intelligence, they
hastened to the Convent, resolved to defend it if possible, or at
least to rescue the Inhabitants from the fury of the Rioters.
Most of the Nuns had fled, but a few still remained in their
habitation. Their situation was truly dangerous. However, as
they had taken the precaution of fastening the inner Gates, with
this assistance Lorenzo hoped to repel the Mob, till Don Ramirez
should return to him with a more sufficient force.

Having been conducted by the former disturbance to the distance
of some Streets from the Convent, He did not immediately reach
it: When He arrived, the throng surrounding it was so excessive
as to prevent his approaching the Gates. In the interim, the
Populace besieged the Building with persevering rage: They
battered the walls, threw lighted torches in at the windows, and
swore that by break of day not a Nun of St. Clare's order should
be left alive. Lorenzo had just succeeded in piercing his way
through the Crowd, when one of the Gates was forced open. The
Rioters poured into the interior part of the Building, where they
exercised their vengeance upon every thing which found itself in
their passage. They broke the furniture into pieces, tore down
the pictures, destroyed the reliques, and in their hatred of her
Servant forgot all respect to the Saint. Some employed
themselves in searching out the Nuns, Others in pulling down
parts of the Convent, and Others again in setting fire to the
pictures and valuable furniture which it contained. These
Latter produced the most decisive desolation: Indeed the
consequences of their action were more sudden than themselves
had expected or wished. The Flames rising from the burning piles
caught part of the Building, which being old and dry, the
conflagration spread with rapidity from room to room. The Walls
were soon shaken by the devouring element: The Columns gave way:
The Roofs came tumbling down upon the Rioters, and crushed many
of them beneath their weight. Nothing was to be heard but
shrieks and groans; The Convent was wrapped in flames, and the
whole presented a scene of devastation and horror.

Lorenzo was shocked at having been the cause, however innocent,
of this frightful disturbance: He endeavoured to repair his
fault by protecting the helpless Inhabitants of the Convent. He
entered it with the Mob, and exerted himself to repress the
prevailing Fury, till the sudden and alarming progress of the
flames compelled him to provide for his own safety. The People
now hurried out, as eagerly as they had before thronged in; But
their numbers clogging up the doorway, and the fire gaining upon
them rapidly, many of them perished ere they had time to effect
their escape. Lorenzo's good fortune directed him to a small
door in a farther Aisle of the Chapel. The bolt was already
undrawn: He opened the door, and found himself at the foot of
St. Clare's Sepulchre.

Here He stopped to breathe. The Duke and some of his Attendants
had followed him, and thus were in security for the present.
They now consulted, what steps they should take to escape from
this scene of disturbance: But their deliberations were
considerably interrupted by the sight of volumes of fire rising
from amidst the Convent's massy walls, by the noise of some heavy
Arch tumbling down in ruins, or by the mingled shrieks of the
Nuns and Rioters, either suffocating in the press, perishing in
the flames, or crushed beneath the weight of the falling Mansion.

Lorenzo enquired, whither the Wicket led? He was answered, to
the Garden of the Capuchins, and it was resolved to explore an
outlet upon that side. Accordingly the Duke raised the Latch,
and passed into the adjoining Cemetery. The Attendants followed
without ceremony. Lorenzo, being the last, was also on the point
of quitting the Colonnade, when He saw the door of the Sepulchre
opened softly. Someone looked out, but on perceiving Strangers
uttered a loud shriek, started back again, and flew down the
marble Stairs.

'What can this mean?' cried Lorenzo; 'Here is some mystery
concealed. Follow me without delay!'

Thus saying, He hastened into the Sepulchre, and pursued the
person who continued to fly before him. The Duke knew not the
cause of his exclamation, but supposing that He had good reasons
for it, he followed him without hesitation. The Others did the
same, and the whole Party soon arrived at the foot of the Stairs.

The upper door having been left open, the neighbouring flames
darted from above a sufficient light to enable Lorenzo's catching
a glance of the Fugitive running through the long passages and
distant Vaults: But when a sudden turn deprived him of this
assistance, total darkness succeeded, and He could only trace the
object of his enquiry by the faint echo of retiring feet. The
Pursuers were now compelled to proceed with caution: As well as
they could judge, the Fugitive also seemed to slacken pace, for
they heard the steps follow each other at longer intervals. They
at length were bewildered by the Labyrinth of passages, and
dispersed in various directions. Carried away by his eagerness
to clear up this mystery, and to penetrate into which He was
impelled by a movement secret and unaccountable, Lorenzo heeded
not this circumstance till He found himself in total solitude.
The noise of footsteps had ceased. All was silent around, and
no clue offered itself to guide him to the flying Person. He
stopped to reflect on the means most likely to aid his pursuit.
He was persuaded that no common cause would have induced the
Fugitive to seek that dreary place at an hour so unusual: The
cry which He had heard, seemed uttered in a voice of terror, and
He was convinced that some mystery was attached to this event.
After some minutes past in hesitation He continued to proceed,
feeling his way along the walls of the passage. He had already
past some time in this slow progress, when He descried a spark of
light glimmering at a distance. Guided by this observation, and
having drawn his sword, He bent his steps towards the place,
whence the beam seemed to be emitted.

It proceeded from the Lamp which flamed before St. Clare's
Statue. Before it stood several Females, their white Garments
streaming in the blast, as it howled along the vaulted dungeons.
Curious to know what had brought them together in this melancholy
spot, Lorenzo drew near with precaution. The Strangers seemed
earnestly engaged in conversation. They heard not Lorenzo's
steps, and He approached unobserved, till He could hear their
voices distinctly.

'I protest,' continued She who was speaking when He arrived, and
to whom the rest were listening with great attention; 'I protest,
that I saw them with my own eyes. I flew down the steps; They
pursued me, and I escaped falling into their hands with
difficulty. Had it not been for the Lamp, I should never have
found you.'

'And what could bring them hither?' said another in a trembling
voice; 'Do you think that they were looking for us?'

'God grant that my fears may be false,' rejoined the First; 'But
I doubt they are Murderers! If they discover us, we are lost!
As for me, my fate is certain: My affinity to the Prioress will
be a sufficient crime to condemn me; and though till now these
Vaults have afforded me a retreat. . . . . . .'

Here looking up, her eye fell upon Lorenzo, who had continued to
approach softly.

'The Murderers!' She cried—

She started away from the Statue's Pedestal on which She had been
seated, and attempted to escape by flight. Her Companions at the
same moment uttered a terrified scream, while Lorenzo arrested
the Fugitive by the arm. Frightened and desperate She sank upon
her knees before him.

'Spare me!' She exclaimed; 'For Christ's sake, spare me! I am
innocent, indeed, I am!'

While She spoke, her voice was almost choaked with fear. The
beams of the Lamp darting full upon her face which was unveiled,
Lorenzo recognized the beautiful Virginia de Villa-Franca. He
hastened to raise her from the ground, and besought her to take
courage. He promised to protect her from the Rioters, assured
her that her retreat was still a secret, and that She might
depend upon his readiness to defend her to the last drop of his
blood. During this conversation, the Nuns had thrown themselves
into various attitudes: One knelt, and addressed herself to
heaven; Another hid her face in the lap of her Neighbour; Some
listened motionless with fear to the discourse of the supposed
Assassin; while Others embraced the Statue of St. Clare, and
implored her protection with frantic cries. On perceiving their
mistake, they crowded round Lorenzo and heaped benedictions on
him by dozens. He found that, on hearing the threats of the Mob,
and terrified by the cruelties which from the Convent Towers
they had seen inflicted on the Superior, many of the Pensioners
and Nuns had taken refuge in the Sepulchre. Among the former was
to be reckoned the lovely Virginia. Nearly related to the
Prioress, She had more reason than the rest to dread the Rioters,
and now besought Lorenzo earnestly not to abandon her to their
rage. Her Companions, most of whom were Women of noble family,
made the same request, which He readily granted. He promised not
to quit them, till He had seen each of them safe in the arms of
her Relations: But He advised their deferring to quit the
Sepulchre for some time longer, when the popular fury should be
somewhat calmed, and the arrival of military force have dispersed
the multitude.

'Would to God!' cried Virginia, 'That I were already safe in my
Mother's embraces! How say you, Segnor; Will it be long, ere we
may leave this place? Every moment that I pass here, I pass in
torture!'

'I hope, not long,' said He; 'But till you can proceed with
security, this Sepulchre will prove an impenetrable asylum. Here
you run no risque of a discovery, and I would advise your
remaining quiet for the next two or three hours.'

'Two or three hours?' exclaimed Sister Helena; 'If I stay another
hour in these vaults, I shall expire with fear! Not the wealth
of worlds should bribe me to undergo again what I have suffered
since my coming hither. Blessed Virgin! To be in this melancholy
place in the middle of night, surrounded by the mouldering bodies
of my deceased Companions, and expecting every moment to be torn
in pieces by their Ghosts who wander about me, and complain, and
groan, and wail in accents that make my blood run cold, . . . . .
. Christ Jesus! It is enough to drive me to madness!'

'Excuse me,' replied Lorenzo, 'if I am surprized that while
menaced by real woes you are capable of yielding to imaginary
dangers. These terrors are puerile and groundless: Combat them,
holy Sister; I have promised to guard you from the Rioters, but
against the attacks of superstition you must depend for
protection upon yourself. The idea of Ghosts is ridiculous in the
extreme; And if you continue to be swayed by ideal terrors . . .
. . .'

'Ideal?' exclaimed the Nuns with one voice; 'Why we heard it
ourselves, Segnor! Every one of us heard it! It was frequently
repeated, and it sounded every time more melancholy and deep.
You will never persuade me that we could all have been deceived.
Not we, indeed; No, no; Had the noise been merely created by
fancy . . . .'

'Hark! Hark!' interrupted Virginia in a voice of terror; 'God
preserve us! There it is again!'

The Nuns clasped their hands together, and sank upon their knees.

Lorenzo looked round him eagerly, and was on the point of
yielding to the fears which already had possessed the Women.
Universal silence prevailed. He examined the Vault, but nothing
was to be seen. He now prepared to address the Nuns, and
ridicule their childish apprehensions, when his attention was
arrested by a deep and long-drawn groan.

'What was that?' He cried, and started.

'There, Segnor!' said Helena; 'Now you must be convinced! You
have heard the noise yourself! Now judge, whether our terrors
are imaginary. Since we have been here, that groaning has been
repeated almost every five minutes. Doubtless, it proceeds from
some Soul in pain, who wishes to be prayed out of purgatory: But
none of us here dares ask it the question. As for me, were I to
see an Apparition, the fright, I am very certain, would kill me
out of hand.'

As She said this, a second groan was heard yet more distinctly.
The Nuns crossed themselves, and hastened to repeat their prayers
against evil Spirits. Lorenzo listened attentively. He even
thought that He could distinguish sounds, as of one speaking in
complaint; But distance rendered them inarticulate. The noise
seemed to come from the midst of the small Vault in which He and
the Nuns then were, and which a multitude of passages branching
out in various directions, formed into a sort of Star. Lorenzo's
curiosity which was ever awake, made him anxious to solve this
mystery. He desired that silence might be kept. The Nuns obeyed
him. All was hushed, till the general stillness was again
disturbed by the groaning, which was repeated several times
successively. He perceived it to be most audible, when upon
following the sound He was conducted close to the shrine of St.
Clare;

'The noise comes from hence,' said He; 'Whose is this Statue?'

Helena, to whom He addressed the question, paused for a moment.
Suddenly She clapped her hands together.

'Aye!' cried She, 'it must be so. I have discovered the meaning
of these groans.'

The Nuns crowded round her, and besought her eagerly to explain
herself. She gravely replied that for time immemorial the
Statue had been famous for performing miracles: From this She
inferred that the Saint was concerned at the conflagration of a
Convent which She protected, and expressed her grief by audible
lamentations. Not having equal faith in the miraculous Saint,
Lorenzo did not think this solution of the mystery quite so
satisfactory, as the Nuns, who subscribed to it without
hesitation. In one point, 'tis true, that He agreed with Helena.

He suspected that the groans proceeded from the Statue: The more
He listened, the more was He confirmed in this idea. He drew
nearer to the Image, designing to inspect it more closely: But
perceiving his intention, the Nuns besought him for God's sake to
desist, since if He touched the Statue, his death was inevitable.

'And in what consists the danger?' said He.

'Mother of God! In what?' replied Helena, ever eager to relate a
miraculous adventure; 'If you had only heard the hundredth part
of those marvellous Stories about this Statue which the Domina
used to recount! She assured us often and often, that if we only
dared to lay a finger upon it, we might expect the most fatal
consequences. Among other things She told us that a Robber
having entered these Vaults by night, He observed yonder Ruby,
whose value is inestimable. Do you see it, Segnor? It sparkles
upon the third finger of the hand, in which She holds a crown of
Thorns. This Jewel naturally excited the Villain's cupidity. He
resolved to make himself Master of it. For this purpose He
ascended the Pedestal: He supported himself by grasping the
Saint's right arm, and extended his own towards the Ring. What
was his surprize, when He saw the Statue's hand raised in a
posture of menace, and heard her lips pronounce his eternal
perdition! Penetrated with awe and consternation, He desisted
from his attempt, and prepared to quit the Sepulchre. In this He
also failed. Flight was denied him. He found it impossible to
disengage the hand, which rested upon the right arm of the
Statue. In vain did He struggle: He remained fixed to the
Image, till the insupportable and fiery anguish which darted
itself through his veins, compelled his shrieking for assistance.

The Sepulchre was now filled with Spectators. The Villain
confessed his sacrilege, and was only released by the separation
of his hand from his body. It has remained ever since fastened
to the Image. The Robber turned Hermit, and led ever after an
exemplary life: But yet the Saint's decree was performed, and
Tradition says that He continues to haunt this Sepulchre, and
implore St. Clare's pardon with groans and lamentations. Now I
think of it, those which we have just heard, may very possibly
have been uttered by the Ghost of this Sinner: But of this I will
not be positive. All that I can say is, that since that time no
one has ever dared to touch the Statue: Then do not be
foolhardy, good Segnor! For the love of heaven, give up your
design, nor expose yourself unnecessarily to certain
destruction.'

Not being convinced that his destruction would be so certain as
Helena seemed to think it, Lorenzo persisted in his resolution.
The Nuns besought him to desist in piteous terms, and even
pointed out the Robber's hand, which in effect was still visible
upon the arm of the Statue. This proof, as they imagined, must
convince him. It was very far from doing so; and they were
greatly scandalized when he declared his suspicion that the
dried and shrivelled fingers had been placed there by order of
the Prioress. In spite of their prayers and threats He
approached the Statue. He sprang over the iron Rails which
defended it, and the Saint underwent a thorough examination.
The Image at first appeared to be of Stone, but proved on further
inspection to be formed of no more solid materials than coloured
Wood. He shook it, and attempted to move it; But it appeared to
be of a piece with the Base which it stood upon. He examined it
over and over: Still no clue guided him to the solution of this
mystery, for which the Nuns were become equally solicitous, when
they saw that He touched the Statue with impunity. He paused,
and listened: The groans were repeated at intervals, and He was
convinced of being in the spot nearest to them. He mused upon
this singular event, and ran over the Statue with enquiring eyes.
Suddenly they rested upon the shrivelled hand. It struck him,
that so particular an injunction was not given without cause, not
to touch the arm of the Image. He again ascended the Pedestal;
He examined the object of his attention, and discovered a small
knob of iron concealed between the Saint's shoulder and what was
supposed to have been the hand of the Robber. This observation
delighted him. He applied his fingers to the knob, and pressed
it down forcibly. Immediately a rumbling noise was heard within
the Statue, as if a chain tightly stretched was flying back.
Startled at the sound the timid Nuns started away, prepared to
hasten from the Vault at the first appearance of danger. All
remaining quiet and still, they again gathered round Lorenzo, and
beheld his proceedings with anxious curiosity.

Finding that nothing followed this discovery, He descended. As
He took his hand from the Saint, She trembled beneath his touch.
This created new terrors in the Spectators, who believed the
Statue to be animated. Lorenzo's ideas upon the subject were
widely different. He easily comprehended that the noise which He
had heard, was occasioned by his having loosened a chain which
attached the Image to its Pedestal. He once more attempted to
move it, and succeeded without much exertion. He placed it upon
the ground, and then perceived the Pedestal to be hollow, and
covered at the opening with an heavy iron grate.

This excited such general curiosity that the Sisters forgot both
their real and imaginary dangers. Lorenzo proceeded to raise the
Grate, in which the Nuns assisted him to the utmost of their
strength. The attempt was accomplished with little difficulty.
A deep abyss now presented itself before them, whose thick
obscurity the eye strove in vain to pierce. The rays of the Lamp
were too feeble to be of much assistance. Nothing was
discernible, save a flight of rough unshapen steps which sank
into the yawning Gulph and were soon lost in darkness. The
groans were heard no more; But All believed them to have ascended
from this Cavern. As He bent over it, Lorenzo fancied that He
distinguished something bright twinkling through the gloom. He
gazed attentively upon the spot where it showed itself, and was
convinced that He saw a small spark of light, now visible, now
disappearing. He communicated this circumstance to the Nuns:
They also perceived the spark; But when He declared his intention
to descend into the Cave, they united to oppose his resolution.
All their remonstrances could not prevail on him to alter it.
None of them had courage enough to accompany him; neither could
He think of depriving them of the Lamp. Alone therefore, and in
darkness, He prepared to pursue his design, while the Nuns were
contented to offer up prayers for his success and safety.

The steps were so narrow and uneven, that to descend them was
like walking down the side of a precipice. The obscurity by
which He was surrounded rendered his footing insecure. He was
obliged to proceed with great caution, lest He should miss the
steps and fall into the Gulph below him. This He was several
times on the point of doing. However, He arrived sooner upon
solid ground than He had expected: He now found that the thick
darkness and impenetrable mists which reigned through the Cavern
had deceived him into the belief of its being much more profound
than it proved upon inspection. He reached the foot of the
Stairs unhurt: He now stopped, and looked round for the spark
which had before caught his attention. He sought it in vain: All
was dark and gloomy. He listened for the groans; But his ear
caught no sound, except the distant murmur of the Nuns above, as
in low voices they repeated their Ave-Marias. He stood
irresolute to which side He should address his steps. At all
events He determined to proceed: He did so, but slowly, fearing
lest instead of approaching, He should be retiring from the
object of his search. The groans seemed to announce one in pain,
or at least in sorrow, and He hoped to have the power of
relieving the Mourner's calamities. A plaintive tone, sounding
at no great distance, at length reached his hearing; He bent his
course joyfully towards it. It became more audible as He
advanced; and He soon beheld again the spark of light, which a
low projecting Wall had hitherto concealed from him.

It proceeded from a small Lamp which was placed upon an heap of
stones, and whose faint and melancholy rays served rather to
point out, than dispell the horrors of a narrow gloomy dungeon
formed in one side of the Cavern; It also showed several other
recesses of similar construction, but whose depth was buried in
obscurity. Coldly played the light upon the damp walls, whose
dew-stained surface gave back a feeble reflection. A thick and
pestilential fog clouded the height of the vaulted dungeon. As
Lorenzo advanced, He felt a piercing chillness spread itself
through his veins. The frequent groans still engaged him to move
forwards. He turned towards them, and by the Lamp's glimmering
beams beheld in a corner of this loathsome abode, a Creature
stretched upon a bed of straw, so wretched, so emaciated, so
pale, that He doubted to think her Woman. She was half-naked:
Her long dishevelled hair fell in disorder over her face, and
almost entirely concealed it. One wasted Arm hung listlessly
upon a tattered rug which covered her convulsed and shivering
limbs: The Other was wrapped round a small bundle, and held it
closely to her bosom. A large Rosary lay near her: Opposite to
her was a Crucifix, on which She bent her sunk eyes fixedly, and
by her side stood a Basket and a small Earthen Pitcher.

Lorenzo stopped: He was petrified with horror. He gazed upon
the miserable Object with disgust and pity. He trembled at the
spectacle; He grew sick at heart: His strength failed him, and
his limbs were unable to support his weight. He was obliged to
lean against the low Wall which was near him, unable to go
forward, or to address the Sufferer. She cast her eyes towards
the Staircase: The Wall concealed Lorenzo, and She observed him
not.

'No one comes!' She at length murmured.

As She spoke, her voice was hollow, and rattled in her throat:
She sighed bitterly.

'No one comes!' She repeated; 'No! They have forgotten me! They
will come no more!'

She paused for a moment: Then continued mournfully.

'Two days! Two long, long days, and yet no food! And yet no
hope, no comfort! Foolish Woman! How can I wish to lengthen a
life so wretched! Yet such a death! O! God! To perish by such
a death! To linger out such ages in torture! Till now, I knew
not what it was to hunger! Hark! No. No one comes! They will
come no more!'

She was silent. She shivered, and drew the rug over her naked
shoulders.

'I am very cold! I am still unused to the damps of this dungeon!

'Tis strange: But no matter. Colder shall I soon be, and yet
not feel it—I shall be cold, cold as Thou art!'

She looked at the bundle which lay upon her breast. She bent
over it, and kissed it: Then drew back hastily, and shuddered
with disgust.

'It was once so sweet! It would have been so lovely, so like
him! I have lost it for ever! How a few days have changed it!
I should not know it again myself! Yet it is dear to me! God!
how dear! I will forget what it is: I will only remember what it
was, and love it as well, as when it was so sweet! so lovely! so
like him! I thought that I had wept away all my tears, but here
is one still lingering.'

She wiped her eyes with a tress of her hair. She put out her
hand for the Pitcher, and reached it with difficulty. She cast
into it a look of hopeless enquiry. She sighed, and replaced it
upon the ground.

'Quite a void! Not a drop! Not one drop left to cool my
scorched-up burning palate! Now would I give treasures for a
draught of water! And they are God's Servants, who make me
suffer thus! They think themselves holy, while they torture me
like Fiends! They are cruel and unfeeling; And 'tis they who bid
me repent; And 'tis they, who threaten me with eternal perdition!
Saviour, Saviour! You think not so!'

She again fixed her eyes upon the Crucifix, took her Rosary, and
while She told her beads, the quick motion of her lips declared
her to be praying with fervency.

While He listened to her melancholy accents, Lorenzo's
sensibility became yet more violently affected. The first sight
of such misery had given a sensible shock to his feelings: But
that being past, He now advanced towards the Captive. She heard
his steps, and uttering a cry of joy, dropped the Rosary.

'Hark! Hark! Hark!' She cried: 'Some one comes!'

She strove to raise herself, but her strength was unequal to the
attempt: She fell back, and as She sank again upon the bed of
straw, Lorenzo heard the rattling of heavy chains. He still
approached, while the Prisoner thus continued.

'Is it you, Camilla? You are come then at last? Oh! it was
time! I thought that you had forsaken me; that I was doomed to
perish of hunger. Give me to drink, Camilla, for pity's sake! I
am faint with long fasting, and grown so weak that I cannot raise
myself from the ground. Good Camilla, give me to drink, lest I
expire before you!'

Fearing that surprize in her enfeebled state might be fatal,
Lorenzo was at a loss how to address her.

'It is not Camilla,' said He at length, speaking in a slow and
gentle voice.

'Who is it then?' replied the Sufferer: 'Alix, perhaps, or
Violante. My eyes are grown so dim and feeble that I cannot
distinguish your features. But whichever it is, if your breast
is sensible of the least compassion, if you are not more cruel
than Wolves and Tigers, take pity on my sufferings. You know
that I am dying for want of sustenance. This is the third day,
since these lips have received nourishment. Do you bring me
food? Or come you only to announce my death, and learn how long
I have yet to exist in agony?'

'You mistake my business,' replied Lorenzo; 'I am no Emissary of
the cruel Prioress. I pity your sorrows, and come hither to
relieve them.'

'To relieve them?' repeated the Captive; 'Said you, to relieve
them?'

At the same time starting from the ground, and supporting herself
upon her hands, She gazed upon the Stranger earnestly.

'Great God! It is no illusion! A Man! Speak! Who are you?
What brings you hither? Come you to save me, to restore me to
liberty, to life and light? Oh! speak, speak quickly, lest I
encourage an hope whose disappointment will destroy me.'

'Be calm!' replied Lorenzo in a voice soothing and compassionate;
'The Domina of whose cruelty you complain, has already paid the
forfeit of her offences: You have nothing more to fear from her.

A few minutes will restore you to liberty, and the embraces of
your Friends from whom you have been secluded. You may rely upon
my protection. Give me your hand, and be not fearful. Let me
conduct you where you may receive those attentions which your
feeble state requires.'

'Oh! Yes! Yes! Yes!' cried the Prisoner with an exulting
shriek; 'There is a God then, and a just one! Joy! Joy! I shall
once more breath the fresh air, and view the light of the
glorious sunbeams! I will go with you! Stranger, I will go with
you! Oh! Heaven will bless you for pitying an Unfortunate! But
this too must go with me,' She added pointing to the small
bundle which She still clasped to her bosom; 'I cannot part with
this. I will bear it away: It shall convince the world how
dreadful are the abodes so falsely termed religious. Good
Stranger, lend me your hand to rise: I am faint with want, and
sorrow, and sickness, and my forces have quite forsaken me! So,
that is well!'

As Lorenzo stooped to raise her, the beams of the Lamp struck
full upon his face.

'Almighty God!' She exclaimed; 'Is it possible! That look!
Those features! Oh! Yes, it is, it is . . . . .'

She extended her arms to throw them round him; But her enfeebled
frame was unable to sustain the emotions which agitated her
bosom. She fainted, and again sank upon the bed of straw.

Lorenzo was surprized at her last exclamation. He thought that
He had before heard such accents as her hollow voice had just
formed, but where He could not remember. He saw that in her
dangerous situation immediate physical aid was absolutely
necessary, and He hastened to convey her from the dungeon. He
was at first prevented from doing so by a strong chain fastened
round the prisoner's body, and fixing her to the neighbouring
Wall. However, his natural strength being aided by anxiety to
relieve the Unfortunate, He soon forced out the Staple to which
one end of the Chain was attached. Then taking the Captive in his
arms, He bent his course towards the Staircase. The rays of the
Lamp above, as well as the murmur of female voices, guided his
steps. He gained the Stairs, and in a few minutes after arrived
at the iron-grate.

The Nuns during his absence had been terribly tormented by
curiosity and apprehension: They were equally surprized and
delighted on seeing him suddenly emerge from the Cave. Every
heart was filled with compassion for the miserable Creature whom
He bore in his arms. While the Nuns, and Virginia in particular,
employed themselves in striving to recall her to her senses,
Lorenzo related in few words the manner of his finding her. He
then observed to them that by this time the tumult must have been
quelled, and that He could now conduct them to their Friends
without danger. All were eager to quit the Sepulchre: Still to
prevent all possibility of ill-usage, they besought Lorenzo to
venture out first alone, and examine whether the Coast was
clear. With this request He complied. Helena offered to conduct
him to the Staircase, and they were on the point of departing,
when a strong light flashed from several passages upon the
adjacent walls. At the same time Steps were heard of people
approaching hastily, and whose number seemed to be considerable.
The Nuns were greatly alarmed at this circumstance: They
supposed their retreat to be discovered, and the Rioters to be
advancing in pursuit of them. Hastily quitting the Prisoner who
remained insensible, they crowded round Lorenzo, and claimed his
promise to protect them. Virginia alone forgot her own danger by
striving to relieve the sorrows of Another. She supported the
Sufferer's head upon her knees, bathing her temples with
rose-water, chafing her cold hands, and sprinkling her face with
tears which were drawn from her by compassion. The Strangers
approaching nearer, Lorenzo was enabled to dispel the fears of
the Suppliants. His name, pronounced by a number of voices among
which He distinguished the Duke's, pealed along the Vaults, and
convinced him that He was the object of their search. He
communicated this intelligence to the Nuns, who received it with
rapture. A few moments after confirmed his idea. Don Ramirez,
as well as the Duke, appeared, followed by Attendants with
Torches. They had been seeking him through the Vaults, in order
to let him know that the Mob was dispersed, and the riot entirely
over. Lorenzo recounted briefly his adventure in the Cavern, and
explained how much the Unknown was in want of medical
assistance. He besought the Duke to take charge of her, as well
as of the Nuns and Pensioners.

'As for me,' said He, 'Other cares demand my attention. While
you with one half of the Archers convey these Ladies to their
respective homes, I wish the other half to be left with me. I
will examine the Cavern below, and pervade the most secret
recesses of the Sepulchre. I cannot rest till convinced that
yonder wretched Victim was the only one confined by Superstition
in these vaults.'

The Duke applauded his intention. Don Ramirez offered to assist
him in his enquiry, and his proposal was accepted with gratitude.

The Nuns having made their acknowledgments to Lorenzo, committed
themselves to the care of his Uncle, and were conducted from the
Sepulchre. Virginia requested that the Unknown might be given to
her in charge, and promised to let Lorenzo know whenever She was
sufficiently recovered to accept his visits. In truth, She made
this promise more from consideration for herself than for either
Lorenzo or the Captive. She had witnessed his politeness,
gentleness, and intrepidity with sensible emotion. She wished
earnestly to preserve his acquaintance; and in addition to the
sentiments of pity which the Prisoner excited, She hoped that her
attention to this Unfortunate would raise her a degree in the
esteem of Lorenzo. She had no occasion to trouble herself upon
this head. The kindness already displayed by her and the tender
concern which She had shown for the Sufferer had gained her an
exalted place in his good graces. While occupied in alleviating
the Captive's sorrows, the nature of her employment adorned her
with new charms, and rendered her beauty a thousand times more
interesting. Lorenzo viewed her with admiration and delight: He
considered her as a ministering Angel descended to the aid of
afflicted innocence; nor could his heart have resisted her
attractions, had it not been steeled by the remembrance of
Antonia.

The Duke now conveyed the Nuns in safety to the Dwellings of
their respective Friends. The rescued Prisoner was still
insensible and gave no signs of life, except by occasional
groans. She was borne upon a sort of litter; Virginia, who was
constantly by the side of it, was apprehensive that exhausted by
long abstinence, and shaken by the sudden change from bonds and
darkness to liberty and light, her frame would never get the
better of the shock. Lorenzo and Don Ramirez still remained in
the Sepulchre. After deliberating upon their proceedings, it was
resolved that to prevent losing time, the Archers should be
divided into two Bodies: That with one Don Ramirez should
examine the cavern, while Lorenzo with the other might penetrate
into the further Vaults. This being arranged, and his Followers
being provided with Torches, Don Ramirez advanced to the Cavern.
He had already descended some steps when He heard People
approaching hastily from the interior part of the Sepulchre.
This surprized him, and He quitted the Cave precipitately.

'Do you hear footsteps?' said Lorenzo; 'Let us bend our course
towards them. 'Tis from this side that they seem to proceed.'

At that moment a loud and piercing shriek induced him to quicken
his steps.

'Help! Help, for God's sake! cried a voice, whose melodious
tone penetrated Lorenzo's heart with terror.

He flew towards the cry with the rapidity of lightning, and was
followed by Don Ramirez with equal swiftness.

CHAPTER IV

Great Heaven! How frail thy creature Man is made!
How by himself insensibly betrayed!
In our own strength unhappily secure,
Too little cautious of the adverse power,
On pleasure's flowery brink we idly stray,
Masters as yet of our returning way:
Till the strong gusts of raging passion rise,
Till the dire Tempest mingles earth and skies,
And swift into the boundless Ocean borne,
Our foolish confidence too late we mourn:
Round our devoted heads the billows beat,
And from our troubled view the lessening lands retreat.

Prior.

All this while, Ambrosio was unconscious of the dreadful scenes
which were passing so near. The execution of his designs upon
Antonia employed his every thought. Hitherto, He was satisfied
with the success of his plans. Antonia had drank the opiate, was
buried in the vaults of St. Clare, and absolutely in his
disposal. Matilda, who was well acquainted with the nature and
effects of the soporific medicine, had computed that it would not
cease to operate till one in the Morning. For that hour He
waited with impatience. The Festival of St. Clare presented him
with a favourable opportunity of consummating his crime. He was
certain that the Friars and Nuns would be engaged in the
Procession, and that He had no cause to dread an interruption:
From appearing himself at the head of his Monks, He had desired
to be excused. He doubted not, that being beyond the reach of
help, cut off from all the world, and totally in his power,
Antonia would comply with his desires. The affection which She
had ever exprest for him, warranted this persuasion: But He
resolved that should She prove obstinate, no consideration
whatever should prevent him from enjoying her. Secure from a
discovery, He shuddered not at the idea of employing force: If
He felt any repugnance, it arose not from a principle of shame
or compassion, but from his feeling for Antonia the most sincere
and ardent affection, and wishing to owe her favours to no one
but herself.

The Monks quitted the Abbey at midnight. Matilda was among the
Choristers, and led the chaunt. Ambrosio was left by himself,
and at liberty to pursue his own inclinations. Convinced that no
one remained behind to watch his motions, or disturb his
pleasures, He now hastened to the Western Aisles. His heart
beating with hope not unmingled with anxiety, He crossed the
Garden, unlocked the door which admitted him into the Cemetery,
and in a few minutes He stood before the Vaults. Here He paused.

He looked round him with suspicion, conscious that his business
was unfit for any other eye. As He stood in hesitation, He heard
the melancholy shriek of the screech-Owl: The wind rattled
loudly against the windows of the adjacent Convent, and as the
current swept by him, bore with it the faint notes of the chaunt
of Choristers. He opened the door cautiously, as if fearing to
be overheard: He entered; and closed it again after him.
Guided by his Lamp, He threaded the long passages, in whose
windings Matilda had instructed him, and reached the private
Vault which contained his sleeping Mistress.

Its entrance was by no means easy to discover: But this was no
obstacle to Ambrosio, who at the time of Antonia's Funeral had
observed it too carefully to be deceived. He found the door,
which was unfastened, pushed it open, and descended into the
dungeon. He approached the humble Tomb in which Antonia
reposed. He had provided himself with an iron crow and a
pick-axe; But this precaution was unnecessary. The Grate was
slightly fastened on the outside: He raised it, and placing the
Lamp upon its ridge, bent silently over the Tomb. By the side of
three putrid half-corrupted Bodies lay the sleeping Beauty. A
lively red, the forerunner of returning animation, had already
spread itself over her cheek; and as wrapped in her shroud She
reclined upon her funeral Bier, She seemed to smile at the Images
of Death around her. While He gazed upon their rotting bones and
disgusting figures, who perhaps were once as sweet and lovely,
Ambrosio thought upon Elvira, by him reduced to the same state.
As the memory of that horrid act glanced upon his mind, it was
clouded with a gloomy horror. Yet it served but to strengthen
his resolution to destroy Antonia's honour.

'For your sake, Fatal Beauty!' murmured the Monk, while gazing on
his devoted prey; 'For your sake, have I committed this murder,
and sold myself to eternal tortures. Now you are in my power:
The produce of my guilt will at least be mine. Hope not that
your prayers breathed in tones of unequalled melody, your bright
eyes filled with tears, and your hands lifted in supplication, as
when seeking in penitence the Virgin's pardon; Hope not that
your moving innocence, your beauteous grief, or all your
suppliant arts shall ransom you from my embraces. Before the
break of day, mine you must, and mine you shall be!'

He lifted her still motionless from the Tomb: He seated himself
upon a bank of Stone, and supporting her in his arms, watched
impatiently for the symptoms of returning animation. Scarcely
could He command his passions sufficiently, to restrain himself
from enjoying her while yet insensible. His natural lust was
increased in ardour by the difficulties which had opposed his
satisfying it: As also by his long abstinence from Woman, since
from the moment of resigning her claim to his love, Matilda had
exiled him from her arms for ever.

'I am no Prostitute, Ambrosio;' Had She told him, when in the
fullness of his lust He demanded her favours with more than usual
earnestness; 'I am now no more than your Friend, and will not be
your Mistress. Cease then to solicit my complying with desires,
which insult me. While your heart was mine, I gloried in your
embraces: Those happy times are past: My person is become
indifferent to you, and 'tis necessity, not love, which makes you
seek my enjoyment. I cannot yield to a request so humiliating
to my pride.'

Suddenly deprived of pleasures, the use of which had made them an
absolute want, the Monk felt this restraint severely. Naturally
addicted to the gratification of the senses, in the full vigour
of manhood, and heat of blood, He had suffered his temperament to
acquire such ascendency that his lust was become madness. Of
his fondness for Antonia, none but the grosser particles
remained: He longed for the possession of her person; and even
the gloom of the vault, the surrounding silence, and the
resistance which He expected from her, seemed to give a fresh
edge to his fierce and unbridled desires.

Gradually He felt the bosom which rested against his, glow with
returning warmth. Her heart throbbed again; Her blood flowed
swifter, and her lips moved. At length She opened her eyes, but
still opprest and bewildered by the effects of the strong opiate,
She closed them again immediately. Ambrosio watched her
narrowly, nor permitted a movement to escape him. Perceiving
that She was fully restored to existence, He caught her in
rapture to his bosom, and closely pressed his lips to hers. The
suddenness of his action sufficed to dissipate the fumes which
obscured Antonia's reason. She hastily raised herself, and cast
a wild look round her. The strange Images which presented
themselves on every side contributed to confuse her. She put her
hand to her head, as if to settle her disordered imagination. At
length She took it away, and threw her eyes through the dungeon a
second time. They fixed upon the Abbot's face.

'Where am I?' She said abruptly. 'How came I here? Where is my
Mother? Methought, I saw her! Oh! a dream, a dreadful dreadful
dream told me . . . . . . But where am I? Let me go! I cannot
stay here!'

She attempted to rise, but the Monk prevented her.

'Be calm, lovely Antonia!' He replied; 'No danger is near you:
Confide in my protection. Why do you gaze on me so earnestly?
Do you not know me? Not know your Friend? Ambrosio?'

'Ambrosio? My Friend? Oh! yes, yes; I remember . . . . . .
But why am I here? Who has brought me? Why are you with me?
Oh! Flora bad me beware . . . . .! Here are nothing but Graves,
and Tombs, and Skeletons! This place frightens me! Good Ambrosio
take me away from it, for it recalls my fearful dream! Methought
I was dead, and laid in my grave! Good Ambrosio, take me from
hence. Will you not? Oh! will you not? Do not look on me thus!

Your flaming eyes terrify me! Spare me, Father! Oh! spare me for
God's sake!'

'Why these terrors, Antonia?' rejoined the Abbot, folding her in
his arms, and covering her bosom with kisses which She in vain
struggled to avoid: 'What fear you from me, from one who adores
you? What matters it where you are? This Sepulchre seems to me
Love's bower; This gloom is the friendly night of mystery which
He spreads over our delights! Such do I think it, and such must
my Antonia. Yes, my sweet Girl! Yes! Your veins shall glow with
fire which circles in mine, and my transports shall be doubled
by your sharing them!'

While He spoke thus, He repeated his embraces, and permitted
himself the most indecent liberties. Even Antonia's ignorance
was not proof against the freedom of his behaviour. She was
sensible of her danger, forced herself from his arms, and her
shroud being her only garment, She wrapped it closely round her.

'Unhand me, Father!' She cried, her honest indignation tempered
by alarm at her unprotected position; 'Why have you brought me to
this place? Its appearance freezes me with horror! Convey me
from hence, if you have the least sense of pity and humanity!
Let me return to the House which I have quitted I know not how;
But stay here one moment longer, I neither will, or ought.'

Though the Monk was somewhat startled by the resolute tone in
which this speech was delivered, it produced upon him no other
effect than surprize. He caught her hand, forced her upon his
knee, and gazing upon her with gloting eyes, He thus replied to
her.

'Compose yourself, Antonia. Resistance is unavailing, and I need
disavow my passion for you no longer. You are imagined dead:
Society is for ever lost to you. I possess you here alone; You
are absolutely in my power, and I burn with desires which I must
either gratify or die: But I would owe my happiness to
yourself. My lovely Girl! My adorable Antonia! Let me instruct
you in joys to which you are still a Stranger, and teach you to
feel those pleasures in my arms which I must soon enjoy in
yours. Nay, this struggling is childish,' He continued, seeing
her repell his caresses, and endeavour to escape from his grasp;
'No aid is near: Neither heaven or earth shall save you from my
embraces. Yet why reject pleasures so sweet, so rapturous? No
one observes us: Our loves will be a secret to all the world:
Love and opportunity invite your giving loose to your passions.
Yield to them, my Antonia! Yield to them, my lovely Girl! Throw
your arms thus fondly round me; Join your lips thus closely to
mine! Amidst all her gifts, has Nature denied her most precious,
the sensibility of Pleasure? Oh! impossible! Every feature,
look, and motion declares you formed to bless, and to be blessed
yourself! Turn not on me those supplicating eyes: Consult your
own charms; They will tell you that I am proof against entreaty.
Can I relinquish these limbs so white, so soft, so delicate;
These swelling breasts, round, full, and elastic! These lips
fraught with such inexhaustible sweetness? Can I relinquish
these treasures, and leave them to another's enjoyment? No,
Antonia; never, never! I swear it by this kiss, and this! and
this!'

With every moment the Friar's passion became more ardent, and
Antonia's terror more intense. She struggled to disengage
herself from his arms: Her exertions were unsuccessful; and
finding that Ambrosio's conduct became still freer, She shrieked
for assistance with all her strength. The aspect of the Vault,
the pale glimmering of the Lamp, the surrounding obscurity, the
sight of the Tomb, and the objects of mortality which met her
eyes on either side, were ill-calculated to inspire her with
those emotions by which the Friar was agitated. Even his
caresses terrified her from their fury, and created no other
sentiment than fear. On the contrary, her alarm, her evident
disgust, and incessant opposition, seemed only to inflame the
Monk's desires, and supply his brutality with additional
strength. Antonia's shrieks were unheard: Yet She continued
them, nor abandoned her endeavours to escape, till exhausted and
out of breath She sank from his arms upon her knees, and once
more had recourse to prayers and supplications. This attempt had
no better success than the former. On the contrary, taking
advantage of her situation, the Ravisher threw himself by her
side: He clasped her to his bosom almost lifeless with terror,
and faint with struggling. He stifled her cries with kisses,
treated her with the rudeness of an unprincipled Barbarian,
proceeded from freedom to freedom, and in the violence of his
lustful delirium, wounded and bruised her tender limbs. Heedless
of her tears, cries and entreaties, He gradually made himself
Master of her person, and desisted not from his prey, till He had
accomplished his crime and the dishonour of Antonia.

Scarcely had He succeeded in his design than He shuddered at
himself and the means by which it was effected. The very excess
of his former eagerness to possess Antonia now contributed to
inspire him with disgust; and a secret impulse made him feel how
base and unmanly was the crime which He had just committed. He
started hastily from her arms. She, who so lately had been the
object of his adoration, now raised no other sentiment in his
heart than aversion and rage. He turned away from her; or if his
eyes rested upon her figure involuntarily, it was only to dart
upon her looks of hate. The Unfortunate had fainted ere the
completion of her disgrace: She only recovered life to be
sensible of her misfortune. She remained stretched upon the earth
in silent despair: The tears chased each other slowly down her
cheeks, and her bosom heaved with frequent sobs. Oppressed with
grief, She continued for some time in this state of torpidity.
At length She rose with difficulty, and dragging her feeble steps
towards the door, prepared to quit the dungeon.

The sound of her footsteps rouzed the Monk from his sullen
apathy. Starting from the Tomb against which He reclined, while
his eyes wandered over the images of corruption contained in it,
He pursued the Victim of his brutality, and soon overtook her.
He seized her by the arm, and violently forced her back into the
dungeon.

'Whither go you?' He cried in a stern voice; 'Return this
instant!'

Antonia trembled at the fury of his countenance.

'What, would you more?' She said with timidity: 'Is not my ruin
compleated? Am I not undone, undone for ever? Is not your
cruelty contented, or have I yet more to suffer? Let me depart.
Let me return to my home, and weep unrestrained my shame and my
affliction!'

'Return to your home?' repeated the Monk, with bitter and
contemptuous mockery; Then suddenly his eyes flaming with
passion, 'What? That you may denounce me to the world? That
you may proclaim me an Hypocrite, a Ravisher, a Betrayer, a
Monster of cruelty, lust, and ingratitude? No, no, no! I know
well the whole weight of my offences; Well that your complaints
would be too just, and my crimes too notorious! You shall not
from hence to tell Madrid that I am a Villain; that my conscience
is loaded with sins which make me despair of Heaven's pardon.
Wretched Girl, you must stay here with me! Here amidst these
lonely Tombs, these images of Death, these rotting loathsome
corrupted bodies! Here shall you stay, and witness my
sufferings; witness what it is to die in the horrors of
despondency, and breathe the last groan in blasphemy and curses!
And who am I to thank for this? What seduced me into crimes,
whose bare remembrance makes me shudder? Fatal Witch! was it not
thy beauty? Have you not plunged my soul into infamy? Have you
not made me a perjured Hypocrite, a Ravisher, an Assassin! Nay,
at this moment, does not that angel look bid me despair of God's
forgiveness? Oh! when I stand before his judgment-throne, that
look will suffice to damn me! You will tell my Judge that you
were happy, till I saw you; that you were innocent, till I
polluted you! You will come with those tearful eyes, those
cheeks pale and ghastly, those hands lifted in supplication, as
when you sought from me that mercy which I gave not! Then will
my perdition be certain! Then will come your Mother's Ghost, and
hurl me down into the dwellings of Fiends, and flames, and
Furies, and everlasting torments! And 'tis you, who will accuse
me! 'Tis you, who will cause my eternal anguish! You, wretched
Girl! You! You!'

As He thundered out these words, He violently grasped Antonia's
arm, and spurned the earth with delirious fury.

Supposing his brain to be turned, Antonia sank in terror upon her
knees: She lifted up her hands, and her voice almost died away,
ere She could give it utterance.

'Spare me! Spare me!' She murmured with difficulty.

'Silence!' cried the Friar madly, and dashed her upon the
ground——

He quitted her, and paced the dungeon with a wild and disordered
air. His eyes rolled fearfully: Antonia trembled whenever She
met their gaze. He seemed to meditate on something horrible, and
She gave up all hopes of escaping from the Sepulchre with life.
Yet in harbouring this idea, She did him injustice. Amidst the
horror and disgust to which his soul was a prey, pity for his
Victim still held a place in it. The storm of passion once over,
He would have given worlds had He possest them, to have restored
to her that innocence of which his unbridled lust had deprived
her. Of the desires which had urged him to the crime, no trace
was left in his bosom: The wealth of India would not have
tempted him to a second enjoyment of her person. His nature
seemed to revolt at the very idea, and fain would He have wiped
from his memory the scene which had just past. As his gloomy
rage abated, in proportion did his compassion augment for
Antonia. He stopped, and would have spoken to her words of
comfort; But He knew not from whence to draw them, and remained
gazing upon her with mournful wildness. Her situation seemed so
hopeless, so woebegone, as to baffle mortal power to relieve
her. What could He do for her? Her peace of mind was lost, her
honour irreparably ruined. She was cut off for ever from
society, nor dared He give her back to it. He was conscious
that were She to appear in the world again, his guilt would be
revealed, and his punishment inevitable. To one so laden with
crimes, Death came armed with double terrors. Yet should He
restore Antonia to light, and stand the chance of her betraying
him, how miserable a prospect would present itself before her.
She could never hope to be creditably established; She would be
marked with infamy, and condemned to sorrow and solitude for the
remainder of her existence. What was the alternative? A
resolution far more terrible for Antonia, but which at least
would insure the Abbot's safety. He determined to leave the
world persuaded of her death, and to retain her a captive in this
gloomy prison: There He proposed to visit her every night, to
bring her food, to profess his penitence, and mingle his tears
with hers. The Monk felt that this resolution was unjust and
cruel; but it was his only means to prevent Antonia from
publishing his guilt and her own infamy. Should He release her,
He could not depend upon her silence: His offence was too
flagrant to permit his hoping for her forgiveness. Besides, her
reappearing would excite universal curiosity, and the violence
of her affliction would prevent her from concealing its cause.
He determined therefore, that Antonia should remain a Prisoner in
the dungeon.

He approached her with confusion painted on his countenance. He
raised her from the ground. Her hand trembled, as He took it,
and He dropped it again as if He had touched a Serpent. Nature
seemed to recoil at the touch. He felt himself at once repulsed
from and attracted towards her, yet could account for neither
sentiment. There was something in her look which penetrated him
with horror; and though his understanding was still ignorant of
it, Conscience pointed out to him the whole extent of his crime.
In hurried accents yet the gentlest He could find, while his eye
was averted, and his voice scarcely audible, He strove to console
her under a misfortune which now could not be avoided. He
declared himself sincerely penitent, and that He would gladly
shed a drop of his blood, for every tear which his barbarity had
forced from her. Wretched and hopeless, Antonia listened to him
in silent grief: But when He announced her confinement in the
Sepulchre, that dreadful doom to which even death seemed
preferable roused her from her insensibility at once. To linger
out a life of misery in a narrow loathsome Cell, known to exist
by no human Being save her Ravisher, surrounded by mouldering
Corses, breathing the pestilential air of corruption, never more
to behold the light, or drink the pure gale of heaven, the idea
was more terrible than She could support. It conquered even her
abhorrence of the Friar. Again She sank upon her knees: She
besought his compassion in terms the most pathetic and urgent.
She promised, would He but restore her to liberty, to conceal her
injuries from the world; to assign any reason for her
reappearance which He might judge proper; and in order to
prevent the least suspicion from falling upon him, She offered to
quit Madrid immediately. Her entreaties were so urgent as to
make a considerable impression upon the Monk. He reflected that
as her person no longer excited his desires, He had no interest
in keeping her concealed as He had at first intended; that He was
adding a fresh injury to those which She had already suffered;
and that if She adhered to her promises, whether She was confined
or at liberty, his life and reputation were equally secure. On
the other hand, He trembled lest in her affliction Antonia should
unintentionally break her engagement; or that her excessive
simplicity and ignorance of deceit should permit some one more
artful to surprize her secret. However well-founded were these
apprehensions, compassion, and a sincere wish to repair his fault
as much as possible solicited his complying with the prayers of
his Suppliant. The difficulty of colouring Antonia's unexpected
return to life, after her supposed death and public interment,
was the only point which kept him irresolute. He was still
pondering on the means of removing this obstacle, when He heard
the sound of feet approaching with precipitation. The door of
the Vault was thrown open, and Matilda rushed in, evidently much
confused and terrified.

On seeing a Stranger enter, Antonia uttered a cry of joy: But
her hopes of receiving succour from him were soon dissipated.
The supposed Novice, without expressing the least surprize at
finding a Woman alone with the Monk, in so strange a place, and
at so late an hour, addressed him thus without losing a moment.

'What is to be done, Ambrosio? We are lost, unless some speedy
means is found of dispelling the Rioters. Ambrosio, the Convent
of St. Clare is on fire; The Prioress has fallen a victim to the
fury of the Mob. Already is the Abbey menaced with a similar
fate. Alarmed at the threats of the People, the Monks seek for
you everywhere. They imagine that your authority alone will
suffice to calm this disturbance. No one knows what is become
of you, and your absence creates universal astonishment and
despair. I profited by the confusion, and fled hither to warn
you of the danger.'

'This will soon be remedied,' answered the Abbot; 'I will hasten
back to my Cell: a trivial reason will account for my having
been missed.'

'Impossible!' rejoined Matilda: 'The Sepulchre is filled with
Archers. Lorenzo de Medina, with several Officers of the
Inquisition, searches through the Vaults, and pervades every
passage. You will be intercepted in your flight; Your reasons
for being at this late hour in the Sepulchre will be examined;
Antonia will be found, and then you are undone for ever!'

'Lorenzo de Medina? Officers of the Inquisition? What brings
them here? Seek they for me? Am I then suspected? Oh! speak,
Matilda! Answer me, in pity!'

'As yet they do not think of you, but I fear that they will ere
long. Your only chance of escaping their notice rests upon the
difficulty of exploring this Vault. The door is artfully hidden:

Haply it may not be observed, and we may remain concealed till
the search is over.'

'But Antonia . . . . . Should the Inquisitors draw near, and her
cries be heard . . . .'

'Thus I remove that danger!' interrupted Matilda.

At the same time drawing a poignard, She rushed upon her devoted
prey.

'Hold! Hold!' cried Ambrosio, seizing her hand, and wresting from
it the already lifted weapon. 'What would you do, cruel Woman?
The Unfortunate has already suffered but too much, thanks to your
pernicious consels! Would to God that I had never followed them!

Would to God that I had never seen your face!'

Matilda darted upon him a look of scorn.

'Absurd!' She exclaimed with an air of passion and majesty which
impressed the Monk with awe. 'After robbing her of all that made
it dear, can you fear to deprive her of a life so miserable? But
'tis well! Let her live to convince you of your folly. I
abandon you to your evil destiny! I disclaim your alliance! Who
trembles to commit so insignificant a crime, deserves not my
protection. Hark! Hark! Ambrosio; Hear you not the Archers?
They come, and your destruction is inevitable!'

At this moment the Abbot heard the sound of distant voices. He
flew to close the door on whose concealment his safety depended,
and which Matilda had neglected to fasten. Ere He could reach
it, He saw Antonia glide suddenly by him, rush through the door,
and fly towards the noise with the swiftness of an arrow. She
had listened attentively to Matilda: She heard Lorenzo's name
mentioned, and resolved to risque every thing to throw herself
under his protection. The door was open. The sounds convinced
her that the Archers could be at no great distance. She
mustered up her little remaining strength, rushed by the Monk ere
He perceived her design, and bent her course rapidly towards the
voices. As soon as He recovered from his first surprize, the
Abbot failed not to pursue her. In vain did Antonia redouble her
speed, and stretch every nerve to the utmost. Her Enemy gained
upon her every moment: She heard his steps close after her, and
felt the heat of his breath glow upon her neck. He overtook
her; He twisted his hand in the ringlets of her streaming hair,
and attempted to drag her back with him to the dungeon. Antonia
resisted with all her strength: She folded her arms round a
Pillar which supported the roof, and shrieked loudly for
assistance. In vain did the Monk strive to threaten her to
silence.

'Help!' She continued to exclaim; 'Help! Help! for God's sake!'

Quickened by her cries, the sound of footsteps was heard
approaching. The Abbot expected every moment to see the
Inquisitors arrive. Antonia still resisted, and He now enforced
her silence by means the most horrible and inhuman. He still
grasped Matilda's dagger: Without allowing himself a moment's
reflection, He raised it, and plunged it twice in the bosom of
Antonia! She shrieked, and sank upon the ground. The Monk
endeavoured to bear her away with him, but She still embraced the
Pillar firmly. At that instant the light of approaching Torches
flashed upon the Walls. Dreading a discovery, Ambrosio was
compelled to abandon his Victim, and hastily fled back to the
Vault, where He had left Matilda.

He fled not unobserved. Don Ramirez happening to arrive the
first, perceived a Female bleeding upon the ground, and a Man
flying from the spot, whose confusion betrayed him for the
Murderer. He instantly pursued the Fugitive with some part of
the Archers, while the Others remained with Lorenzo to protect
the wounded Stranger. They raised her, and supported her in their
arms. She had fainted from excess of pain, but soon gave signs
of returning life. She opened her eyes, and on lifting up her
head, the quantity of fair hair fell back which till then had
obscured her features.

'God Almighty! It is Antonia!'

Such was Lorenzo's exclamation, while He snatched her from the
Attendant's arms, and clasped her in his own.

Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poignard had answered but
too well the purpose of its Employer. The wounds were mortal, and
Antonia was conscious that She never could recover. Yet the few
moments which remained for her were moments of happiness. The
concern exprest upon Lorenzo's countenance, the frantic fondness
of his complaints, and his earnest enquiries respecting her
wounds, convinced her beyond a doubt that his affections were her
own. She would not be removed from the Vaults, fearing lest
motion should only hasten her death; and She was unwilling to
lose those moments which She past in receiving proofs of
Lorenzo's love, and assuring him of her own. She told him that
had She still been undefiled She might have lamented the loss of
life; But that deprived of honour and branded with shame, Death
was to her a blessing: She could not have been his Wife, and
that hope being denied her, She resigned herself to the Grave
without one sigh of regret. She bad him take courage, conjured
him not to abandon himself to fruitless sorrow, and declared that
She mourned to leave nothing in the whole world but him. While
every sweet accent increased rather than lightened Lorenzo's
grief, She continued to converse with him till the moment of
dissolution. Her voice grew faint and scarcely audible; A thick
cloud spread itself over her eyes; Her heart beat slow and
irregular, and every instant seemed to announce that her fate was
near at hand.

She lay, her head reclining upon Lorenzo's bosom, and her lips
still murmuring to him words of comfort. She was interrupted by
the Convent Bell, as tolling at a distance, it struck the hour.
Suddenly Antonia's eyes sparkled with celestial brightness: Her
frame seemed to have received new strength and animation. She
started from her Lover's arms.

'Three o'clock!' She cried; 'Mother, I come!'

She clasped her hands, and sank lifeless upon the ground.
Lorenzo in agony threw himself beside her: He tore his hair,
beat his breast, and refused to be separated from the Corse. At
length his force being exhausted, He suffered himself to be led
from the Vault, and was conveyed to the Palace de Medina scarcely
more alive than the unfortunate Antonia.

In the meanwhile, though closely pursued, Ambrosio succeeded in
regaining the Vault. The Door was already fastened when Don
Ramirez arrived, and much time elapsed, ere the Fugitive's
retreat was discovered. But nothing can resist perseverance.
Though so artfully concealed, the Door could not escape the
vigilance of the Archers. They forced it open, and entered the
Vault to the infinite dismay of Ambrosio and his Companion. The
Monk's confusion, his attempt to hide himself, his rapid flight,
and the blood sprinkled upon his cloaths, left no room to doubt
his being Antonia's Murderer. But when He was recognized for the
immaculate Ambrosio, 'The Man of Holiness,' the Idol of Madrid,
the faculties of the Spectators were chained up in surprize, and
scarcely could they persuade themselves that what they saw was no
vision. The Abbot strove not to vindicate himself, but preserved
a sullen silence. He was secured and bound. The same precaution
was taken with Matilda: Her Cowl being removed, the delicacy of
her features and profusion of her golden hair betrayed her sex,
and this incident created fresh amazement. The dagger was also
found in the Tomb, where the Monk had thrown it; and the dungeon
having undergone a thorough search, the two Culprits were
conveyed to the prisons of the Inquisition.

Don Ramirez took care that the populace should remain ignorant
both of the crimes and profession of the Captives. He feared a
repetition of the riots which had followed the apprehending the
Prioress of St. Clare. He contented himself with stating to the
Capuchins the guilt of their Superior. To avoid the shame of a
public accusation, and dreading the popular fury from which they
had already saved their Abbey with much difficulty, the Monks
readily permitted the Inquisitors to search their Mansion without
noise. No fresh discoveries were made. The effects found in the
Abbot's and Matilda's Cells were seized, and carried to the
Inquisition to be produced in evidence. Every thing else
remained in its former position, and order and tranquillity once
more prevailed through Madrid.

St. Clare's Convent was completely ruined by the united ravages
of the Mob and conflagration. Nothing remained of it but the
principal Walls, whose thickness and solidity had preserved them
from the flames. The Nuns who had belonged to it were obliged
in consequence to disperse themselves into other Societies: But
the prejudice against them ran high, and the Superiors were very
unwilling to admit them. However, most of them being related to
Families the most distinguished for their riches birth and power,
the several Convents were compelled to receive them, though they
did it with a very ill grace. This prejudice was extremely false
and unjustifiable: After a close investigation, it was proved
that All in the Convent were persuaded of the death of Agnes,
except the four Nuns whom St. Ursula had pointed out. These had
fallen Victims to the popular fury; as had also several who were
perfectly innocent and unconscious of the whole affair. Blinded
by resentment, the Mob had sacrificed every Nun who fell into
their hands: They who escaped were entirely indebted to the Duke
de Medina's prudence and moderation. Of this they were
conscious, and felt for that Nobleman a proper sense of
gratitude.

Virginia was not the most sparing of her thanks: She wished
equally to make a proper return for his attentions, and to obtain
the good graces of Lorenzo's Uncle. In this She easily succeeded.

The Duke beheld her beauty with wonder and admiration; and while
his eyes were enchanted with her Form, the sweetness of her
manners and her tender concern for the suffering Nun prepossessed
his heart in her favour. This Virginia had discernment enough to
perceive, and She redoubled her attention to the Invalid. When
He parted from her at the door of her Father's Palace, the Duke
entreated permission to enquire occasionally after her health.
His request was readily granted: Virginia assured him that the
Marquis de Villa-Franca would be proud of an opportunity to thank
him in person for the protection afforded to her. They now
separated, He enchanted with her beauty and gentleness, and She
much pleased with him and more with his Nephew.

On entering the Palace, Virginia's first care was to summon the
family Physician, and take care of her unknown charge. Her
Mother hastened to share with her the charitable office. Alarmed
by the riots, and trembling for his Daughter's safety, who was
his only child, the Marquis had flown to St. Clare's Convent, and
was still employed in seeking her. Messengers were now
dispatched on all sides to inform him that He would find her
safe at his Hotel, and desire him to hasten thither immediately.
His absence gave Virginia liberty to bestow her whole attention
upon her Patient; and though much disordered herself by the
adventures of the night, no persuasion could induce her to quit
the bedside of the Sufferer. Her constitution being much
enfeebled by want and sorrow, it was some time before the
Stranger was restored to her senses. She found great difficulty
in swallowing the medicines prescribed to her: But this obstacle
being removed, She easily conquered her disease which proceeded
from nothing but weakness. The attention which was paid her, the
wholesome food to which She had been long a Stranger, and her joy
at being restored to liberty, to society, and, as She dared to
hope, to Love, all this combined to her speedy re-establishment.

From the first moment of knowing her, her melancholy situation,
her sufferings almost unparalleled had engaged the affections of
her amiable Hostess: Virginia felt for her the most lively
interest; But how was She delighted, when her Guest being
sufficiently recovered to relate her History, She recognized in
the captive Nun the Sister of Lorenzo!

This victim of monastic cruelty was indeed no other than the
unfortunate Agnes. During her abode in the Convent, She had been
well known to Virginia: But her emaciated form, her features
altered by affliction, her death universally credited, and her
overgrown and matted hair which hung over her face and bosom in
disorder at first had prevented her being recollected. The
Prioress had put every artifice in practice to induce Virginia to
take the veil; for the Heiress of Villa-Franca would have been no
despicable acquisition. Her seeming kindness and unremitted
attention so far succeeded that her young Relation began to
think seriously upon compliance. Better instructed in the
disgust and ennui of a monastic life, Agnes had penetrated the
designs of the Domina: She trembled for the innocent Girl, and
endeavoured to make her sensible of her error. She painted in
their true colours the numerous inconveniencies attached to a
Convent, the continued restraint, the low jealousies, the petty
intrigues, the servile court and gross flattery expected by the
Superior. She then bad Virginia reflect on the brilliant
prospect which presented itself before her: The Idol of her
Parents, the admiration of Madrid, endowed by nature and
education with every perfection of person and mind, She might
look forward to an establishment the most fortunate. Her riches
furnished her with the means of exercising in their fullest
extent, charity and benevolence, those virtues so dear to her;
and her stay in the world would enable her discovering Objects
worthy her protection, which could not be done in the seclusion
of a Convent.

Her persuasions induced Virginia to lay aside all thoughts of the
Veil: But another argument, not used by Agnes, had more weight
with her than all the others put together. She had seen Lorenzo,
when He visited his Sister at the Grate. His Person pleased her,
and her conversations with Agnes generally used to terminate in
some question about her Brother. She, who doted upon Lorenzo,
wished for no better than an opportunity to trumpet out his
praise. She spoke of him in terms of rapture; and to convince
her Auditor how just were his sentiments, how cultivated his
mind, and elegant his expressions, She showed her at different
times the letters which She received from him. She soon
perceived that from these communications the heart of her young
Friend had imbibed impressions, which She was far from intending
to give, but was truly happy to discover. She could not have
wished her Brother a more desirable union: Heiress of
Villa-Franca, virtuous, affectionate, beautiful, and
accomplished, Virginia seemed calculated to make him happy. She
sounded her Brother upon the subject, though without mentioning
names or circumstances. He assured her in his answers that his
heart and hand were totally disengaged, and She thought that
upon these grounds She might proceed without danger. She in
consequence endeavoured to strengthen the dawning passion of her
Friend. Lorenzo was made the constant topic of her discourse;
and the avidity with which her Auditor listened, the sighs which
frequently escaped from her bosom, and the eagerness with which
upon any digression She brought back the conversation to the
subject whence it had wandered, sufficed to convince Agnes that
her Brother's addresses would be far from disagreeable. She at
length ventured to mention her wishes to the Duke: Though a
Stranger to the Lady herself, He knew enough of her situation to
think her worthy his Nephew's hand. It was agreed between him
and his Niece, that She should insinuate the idea to Lorenzo, and
She only waited his return to Madrid to propose her Friend to him
as his Bride. The unfortunate events which took place in the
interim, prevented her from executing her design. Virginia wept
her loss sincerely, both as a Companion, and as the only Person
to whom She could speak of Lorenzo. Her passion continued to
prey upon her heart in secret, and She had almost determined to
confess her sentiments to her Mother, when accident once more
threw their object in her way. The sight of him so near her, his
politeness, his compassion, his intrepidity, had combined to give
new ardour to her affection. When She now found her Friend and
Advocate restored to her, She looked upon her as a Gift from
Heaven; She ventured to cherish the hope of being united to
Lorenzo, and resolved to use with him his Sister's influence.

Supposing that before her death Agnes might possibly have made
the proposal, the Duke had placed all his Nephew's hints of
marriage to Virginia's account: Consequently, He gave them the
most favourable reception. On returning to his Hotel, the
relation given him of Antonia's death, and Lorenzo's behaviour on
the occasion, made evident his mistake. He lamented the
circumstances; But the unhappy Girl being effectually out of the
way, He trusted that his designs would yet be executed. 'Tis
true that Lorenzo's situation just then ill-suited him for
a Bridegroom. His hopes disappointed at the moment when He
expected to realize them, and the dreadful and sudden death of
his Mistress had affected him very severely. The Duke found him
upon the Bed of sickness. His Attendants expressed serious
apprehensions for his life; But the Uncle entertained not the
same fears. He was of opinion, and not unwisely, that 'Men have
died, and worms have eat them; but not for Love!' He therefore
flattered himself that however deep might be the impression made
upon his Nephew's heart, Time and Virginia would be able to
efface it. He now hastened to the afflicted Youth, and
endeavoured to console him: He sympathised in his distress, but
encouraged him to resist the encroachments of despair. He
allowed that He could not but feel shocked at an event so
terrible, nor could He blame his sensibility; But He besought him
not to torment himself with vain regrets, and rather to struggle
with affliction, and preserve his life, if not for his own sake,
at least for the sake of those who were fondly attached to him.
While He laboured thus to make Lorenzo forget Antonia's loss, the
Duke paid his court assiduously to Virginia, and seized every
opportunity to advance his Nephew's interest in her heart.

It may easily be expected that Agnes was not long without
enquiring after Don Raymond. She was shocked to hear the
wretched situation to which grief had reduced him; Yet She could
not help exulting secretly, when She reflected, that his illness
proved the sincerity of his love. The Duke undertook the office
himself, of announcing to the Invalid the happiness which awaited
him. Though He omitted no precaution to prepare him for such an
event, at this sudden change from despair to happiness Raymond's
transports were so violent, as nearly to have proved fatal to
him. These once passed, the tranquillity of his mind, the
assurance of felicity, and above all the presence of Agnes, (Who
was no sooner reestablished by the care of Virginia and the
Marchioness, than She hastened to attend her Lover) soon enabled
him to overcome the effects of his late dreadful malady. The
calm of his soul communicated itself to his body, and He
recovered with such rapidity as to create universal surprize.

No so Lorenzo. Antonia's death accompanied with such terrible
circumstances weighed upon his mind heavily. He was worn down to
a shadow. Nothing could give him pleasure. He was persuaded
with difficulty to swallow nourishment sufficient for the support
of life, and a consumption was apprehended. The society of Agnes
formed his only comfort. Though accident had never permitted
their being much together, He entertained for her a sincere
friendship and attachment. Perceiving how necessary She was to
him, She seldom quitted his chamber. She listened to his
complaints with unwearied attention, and soothed him by the
gentleness of her manners, and by sympathising with his distress.
She still inhabited the Palace de Villa-Franca, the Possessors of
which treated her with marked affection. The Duke had intimated
to the Marquis his wishes respecting Virginia. The match was
unexceptionable: Lorenzo was Heir to his Uncle's immense
property, and was distinguished in Madrid for his agreeable
person, extensive knowledge, and propriety of conduct: Add to
this, that the Marchioness had discovered how strong was her
Daughter's prepossession in his favour.

In consequence the Duke's proposal was accepted without
hesitation: Every precaution was taken to induce Lorenzo's
seeing the Lady with those sentiments which She so well merited
to excite. In her visits to her Brother Agnes was frequently
accompanied by the Marchioness; and as soon as He was able to
move into his Antichamber, Virginia under her mother's
protection was sometimes permitted to express her wishes for his
recovery. This She did with such delicacy, the manner in which
She mentioned Antonia was so tender and soothing, and when She
lamented her Rival's melancholy fate, her bright eyes shone so
beautiful through her tears, that Lorenzo could not behold, or
listen to her without emotion. His Relations, as well as the
Lady, perceived that with every day her society seemed to give
him fresh pleasure, and that He spoke of her in terms of stronger
admiration. However, they prudently kept their observations to
themselves. No word was dropped which might lead him to suspect
their designs. They continued their former conduct and
attention, and left Time to ripen into a warmer sentiment the
friendship which He already felt for Virginia.

In the mean while, her visits became more frequent; and latterly
there was scarce a day, of which She did not pass some part by
the side of Lorenzo's Couch. He gradually regained his strength,
but the progress of his recovery was slow and doubtful. One
evening He seemed to be in better spirits than usual: Agnes and
her Lover, the Duke, Virginia, and her Parents were sitting round
him. He now for the first time entreated his Sister to inform
him how She had escaped the effects of the poison which St.
Ursula had seen her swallow. Fearful of recalling those scenes
to his mind in which Antonia had perished, She had hitherto
concealed from him the history of her sufferings. As He now
started the subject himself, and thinking that perhaps the
narrative of her sorrows might draw him from the contemplation of
those on which He dwelt too constantly, She immediately complied
with his request. The rest of the company had already heard her
story; But the interest which all present felt for its Heroine
made them anxious to hear it repeated. The whole society
seconding Lorenzo's entreaties, Agnes obeyed. She first
recounted the discovery which had taken place in the
Abbey Chapel, the Domina's resentment, and the midnight scene of
which St. Ursula had been a concealed witness. Though the Nun
had already described this latter event, Agnes now related it
more circumstantially and at large: After which She proceeded in
her narrative as follows.

Conclusion of the History of Agnes de Medina

My supposed death was attended with the greatest agonies. Those
moments which I believed my last, were embittered by the Domina's
assurances that I could not escape perdition; and as my eyes
closed, I heard her rage exhale itself in curses on my offence.
The horror of this situation, of a death-bed from which hope was
banished, of a sleep from which I was only to wake to find myself
the prey of flames and Furies, was more dreadful than I can
describe. When animation revived in me, my soul was still
impressed with these terrible ideas: I looked round with fear,
expecting to behold the Ministers of divine vengeance. For the
first hour, my senses were so bewildered, and my brain so dizzy,
that I strove in vain to arrange the strange images which floated
in wild confusion before me. If I endeavoured to raise myself
from the ground, the wandering of my head deceived me. Every
thing around me seemed to rock, and I sank once more upon the
earth. My weak and dazzled eyes were unable to bear a nearer
approach to a gleam of light which I saw trembling above me. I
was compelled to close them again, and remain motionless in the
same posture.

A full hour elapsed, before I was sufficiently myself to examine
the surrounding Objects. When I did examine them, what terror
filled my bosom I found myself extended upon a sort of wicker
Couch: It had six handles to it, which doubtless had served the
Nuns to convey me to my grave. I was covered with a linen cloth:

Several faded flowers were strown over me: On one side lay a
small wooden Crucifix; On the other, a Rosary of large Beads.
Four low narrow walls confined me. The top was also covered, and
in it was practised a small grated Door: Through this was
admitted the little air which circulated in this miserable
place. A faint glimmering of light which streamed through the
Bars, permitted me to distinguish the surrounding horrors. I was
opprest by a noisome suffocating smell; and perceiving that the
grated door was unfastened, I thought that I might possibly
effect my escape. As I raised myself with this design, my hand
rested upon something soft: I grasped it, and advanced it
towards the light. Almighty God! What was my disgust, my
consternation! In spite of its putridity, and the worms which
preyed upon it, I perceived a corrupted human head, and
recognised the features of a Nun who had died some months before!

I threw it from me, and sank almost lifeless upon my Bier.

When my strength returned, this circumstance, and the
consciousness of being surrounded by the loathsome and mouldering
Bodies of my Companions, increased my desire to escape from my
fearful prison. I again moved towards the light. The grated
door was within my reach: I lifted it without difficulty;
Probably it had been left unclosed to facilitate my quitting the
dungeon. Aiding myself by the irregularity of the Walls some of
whose stones projected beyond the rest, I contrived to ascend
them, and drag myself out of my prison. I now found Myself in a
Vault tolerably spacious. Several Tombs, similar in appearance
to that whence I had just escaped, were ranged along the sides in
order, and seemed to be considerably sunk within the earth. A
sepulchral Lamp was suspended from the roof by an iron chain, and
shed a gloomy light through the dungeon. Emblems of Death were
seen on every side: Skulls, shoulder-blades, thigh-bones, and
other leavings of Mortality were scattered upon the dewy ground.
Each Tomb was ornamented with a large Crucifix, and in one corner
stood a wooden Statue of St. Clare. To these objects I at first
paid no attention: A Door, the only outlet from the Vault, had
attracted my eyes. I hastened towards it, having wrapped my
winding-sheet closely round me. I pushed against the door, and
to my inexpressible terror found that it was fastened on the
outside.

I guessed immediately that the Prioress, mistaking the nature of
the liquor which She had compelled me to drink, instead of poison
had administered a strong Opiate. From this I concluded that
being to all appearance dead I had received the rites of burial;
and that deprived of the power of making my existence known, it
would be my fate to expire of hunger. This idea penetrated me
with horror, not merely for my own sake, but that of the innocent
Creature, who still lived within my bosom. I again endeavoured
to open the door, but it resisted all my efforts. I stretched my
voice to the extent of its compass, and shrieked for aid: I was
remote from the hearing of every one: No friendly voice replied
to mine. A profound and melancholy silence prevailed through the
Vault, and I despaired of liberty. My long abstinence from food
now began to torment me. The tortures which hunger inflicted on
me, were the most painful and insupportable: Yet they seemed to
increase with every hour which past over my head. Sometimes I
threw myself upon the ground, and rolled upon it wild and
desperate: Sometimes starting up, I returned to the door, again
strove to force it open, and repeated my fruitless cries for
succour. Often was I on the point of striking my temple against
the sharp corner of some Monument, dashing out my brains, and
thus terminating my woes at once; But still the remembrance of my
Baby vanquished my resolution: I trembled at a deed which
equally endangered my Child's existence and my own. Then would I
vent my anguish in loud exclamations and passionate complaints;
and then again my strength failing me, silent and hopeless I
would sit me down upon the base of St. Clare's Statue, fold my
arms, and abandon myself to sullen despair. Thus passed several
wretched hours. Death advanced towards me with rapid strides,
and I expected that every succeeding moment would be that of my
dissolution. Suddenly a neighbouring Tomb caught my eye: A
Basket stood upon it, which till then I had not observed. I
started from my seat: I made towards it as swiftly as my
exhausted frame would permit. How eagerly did I seize the
Basket, on finding it to contain a loaf of coarse bread and a
small bottle of water.

I threw myself with avidity upon these humble aliments. They had
to all appearance been placed in the Vault for several days; The
bread was hard, and the water tainted; Yet never did I taste food
to me so delicious. When the cravings of appetite were
satisfied, I busied myself with conjectures upon this new
circumstance: I debated whether the Basket had been placed there
with a view to my necessity. Hope answered my doubts in the
affirmative. Yet who could guess me to be in need of such
assistance? If my existence was known, why was I detained in
this gloomy Vault? If I was kept a Prisoner, what meant the
ceremony of committing me to the Tomb? Or if I was doomed to
perish with hunger, to whose pity was I indebted for provisions
placed within my reach? A Friend would not have kept my dreadful
punishment a secret; Neither did it seem probable that an Enemy
would have taken pains to supply me with the means of existence.
Upon the whole I was inclined to think that the Domina's designs
upon my life had been discovered by some one of my Partizans in
the Convent, who had found means to substitute an opiate for
poison: That She had furnished me with food to support me, till
She could effect my delivery: And that She was then employed in
giving intelligence to my Relations of my danger, and pointing
out a way to release me from captivity. Yet why then was the
quality of my provisions so coarse? How could my Friend have
entered the Vault without the Domina's knowledge? And if She had
entered, why was the Door fastened so carefully? These
reflections staggered me: Yet still this idea was the most
favourable to my hopes, and I dwelt upon it in preference.

My meditations were interrupted by the sound of distant
footsteps. They approached, but slowly. Rays of light now
darted through the crevices of the Door. Uncertain whether the
Persons who advanced came to relieve me, or were conducted by
some other motive to the Vault, I failed not to attract their
notice by loud cries for help. Still the sounds drew near: The
light grew stronger: At length with inexpressible pleasure I
heard the Key turning in the Lock. Persuaded that my deliverance
was at hand, I flew towards the Door with a shriek of joy. It
opened: But all my hopes of escape died away, when the Prioress
appeared followed by the same four Nuns, who had been witnesses
of my supposed death. They bore torches in their hands, and
gazed upon me in fearful silence.

I started back in terror. The Domina descended into the Vault,
as did also her Companions. She bent upon me a stern resentful
eye, but expressed no surprize at finding me still living. She
took the seat which I had just quitted: The door was again
closed, and the Nuns ranged themselves behind their Superior,
while the glare of their torches, dimmed by the vapours and
dampness of the Vault, gilded with cold beams the surrounding
Monuments. For some moments all preserved a dead and solemn
silence. I stood at some distance from the Prioress. At length
She beckoned me to advance. Trembling at the severity of her
aspect my strength scarce sufficed me to obey her. I drew near,
but my limbs were unable to support their burthen. I sank upon
my knees; I clasped my hands, and lifted them up to her for
mercy, but had no power to articulate a syllable.

She gazed upon me with angry eyes.

'Do I see a Penitent, or a Criminal?' She said at length; 'Are
those hands raised in contrition for your crimes, or in fear of
meeting their punishment? Do those tears acknowledge the justice
of your doom, or only solicit mitigation of your sufferings? I
fear me, 'tis the latter!'

She paused, but kept her eye still fixt upon mine.

'Take courage;' She continued: 'I wish not for your death, but
your repentance. The draught which I administered, was no
poison, but an opiate. My intention in deceiving you was to
make you feel the agonies of a guilty conscience, had Death
overtaken you suddenly while your crimes were still unrepented.
You have suffered those agonies: I have brought you to be
familiar with the sharpness of death, and I trust that your
momentary anguish will prove to you an eternal benefit. It is
not my design to destroy your immortal soul; or bid you seek the
grave, burthened with the weight of sins unexpiated. No,
Daughter, far from it: I will purify you with wholesome
chastisement, and furnish you with full leisure for contrition
and remorse. Hear then my sentence; The ill-judged zeal of your
Friends delayed its execution, but cannot now prevent it. All
Madrid believes you to be no more; Your Relations are thoroughly
persuaded of your death, and the Nuns your Partizans have
assisted at your funeral. Your existence can never be suspected;
I have taken such precautions, as must render it an impenetrable
mystery. Then abandon all thoughts of a World from which you are
eternally separated, and employ the few hours which are allowed
you, in preparing for the next.'

This exordium led me to expect something terrible. I trembled,
and would have spoken to deprecate her wrath: but a motion of the
Domina commanded me to be silent. She proceeded.

'Though of late years unjustly neglected, and now opposed by many
of our misguided Sisters, (whom Heaven convert!) it is my
intention to revive the laws of our order in their full force.
That against incontinence is severe, but no more than so
monstrous an offence demands: Submit to it, Daughter, without
resistance; You will find the benefit of patience and resignation
in a better life than this. Listen then to the sentence of St.
Clare. Beneath these Vaults there exist Prisons, intended to
receive such criminals as yourself: Artfully is their entrance
concealed, and She who enters them, must resign all hopes of
liberty. Thither must you now be conveyed. Food shall be
supplied you, but not sufficient for the indulgence of appetite:
You shall have just enough to keep together body and soul, and
its quality shall be the simplest and coarsest. Weep, Daughter,
weep, and moisten your bread with your tears: God knows that
you have ample cause for sorrow! Chained down in one of these
secret dungeons, shut out from the world and light for ever, with
no comfort but religion, no society but repentance, thus must you
groan away the remainder of your days. Such are St. Clare's
orders; Submit to them without repining. Follow me!'

Thunderstruck at this barbarous decree, my little remaining
strength abandoned me. I answered only by falling at her feet,
and bathing them with tears. The Domina, unmoved by my
affliction, rose from her seat with a stately air. She repeated
her commands in an absolute tone: But my excessive faintness
made me unable to obey her. Mariana and Alix raised me from the
ground, and carried me forwards in their arms. The Prioress
moved on, leaning upon Violante, and Camilla preceded her with a
Torch. Thus passed our sad procession along the passages, in
silence only broken by my sighs and groans. We stopped before
the principal shrine of St. Clare. The Statue was removed from
its Pedestal, though how I knew not. The Nuns afterwards raised
an iron grate till then concealed by the Image, and let it fall
on the other side with a loud crash. The awful sound, repeated
by the vaults above, and Caverns below me, rouzed me from the
despondent apathy in which I had been plunged. I looked before
me: An abyss presented itself to my affrighted eyes, and a steep
and narrow Staircase, whither my Conductors were leading me. I
shrieked, and started back. I implored compassion, rent the air
with my cries, and summoned both heaven and earth to my
assistance. In vain! I was hurried down the Staircase, and
forced into one of the Cells which lined the Cavern's sides.

My blood ran cold, as I gazed upon this melancholy abode. The
cold vapours hovering in the air, the walls green with damp, the
bed of Straw so forlorn and comfortless, the Chain destined to
bind me for ever to my prison, and the Reptiles of every
description which as the torches advanced towards them, I
descried hurrying to their retreats, struck my heart with terrors
almost too exquisite for nature to bear. Driven by despair to
madness, I burst suddenly from the Nuns who held me: I threw
myself upon my knees before the Prioress, and besought her mercy
in the most passionate and frantic terms.

'If not on me,' said I, 'look at least with pity on that innocent
Being, whose life is attached to mine! Great is my crime, but
let not my Child suffer for it! My Baby has committed no fault:
Oh! spare me for the sake of my unborn Offspring, whom ere it
tastes life your severity dooms to destruction!'

The Prioress drew back haughtily: She forced her habit from my
grasp, as if my touch had been contagious.

'What?' She exclaimed with an exasperated air; 'What? Dare you
plead for the produce of your shame? Shall a Creature be
permitted to live, conceived in guilt so monstrous? Abandoned
Woman, speak for him no more! Better that the Wretch should
perish than live: Begotten in perjury, incontinence, and
pollution, It cannot fail to prove a Prodigy of vice. Hear me,
thou Guilty! Expect no mercy from me either for yourself, or
Brat. Rather pray that Death may seize you before you produce
it; Or if it must see the light, that its eyes may immediately be
closed again for ever! No aid shall be given you in your labour;
Bring your Offspring into the world yourself, Feed it yourself,
Nurse it yourself, Bury it yourself: God grant that the latter
may happen soon, lest you receive comfort from the fruit of your
iniquity!'

This inhuman speech, the threats which it contained, the dreadful
sufferings foretold to me by the Domina, and her prayers for my
Infant's death, on whom though unborn I already doated, were more
than my exhausted frame could support. Uttering a deep groan, I
fell senseless at the feet of my unrelenting Enemy. I know not
how long I remained in this situation; But I imagine that some
time must have elapsed before my recovery, since it sufficed the
Prioress and her Nuns to quit the Cavern. When my senses
returned, I found myself in silence and solitude. I heard not
even the retiring footsteps of my Persecutors. All was hushed,
and all was dreadful! I had been thrown upon the bed of Straw:
The heavy Chain which I had already eyed with terror, was wound
around my waist, and fastened me to the Wall. A Lamp glimmering
with dull, melancholy rays through my dungeon, permitted my
distinguishing all its horrors: It was separated from the Cavern
by a low and irregular Wall of Stone: A large Chasm was left open
in it which formed the entrance, for door there was none. A
leaden Crucifix was in front of my straw Couch. A tattered rug
lay near me, as did also a Chaplet of Beads; and not far from me
stood a pitcher of water, and a wicker Basket containing a small
loaf, and a bottle of oil to supply my Lamp.

With a despondent eye did I examine this scene of suffering:
When I reflected that I was doomed to pass in it the remainder
of my days, my heart was rent with bitter anguish. I had once
been taught to look forward to a lot so different! At one time
my prospects had appeared so bright, so flattering! Now all was
lost to me. Friends, comfort, society, happiness, in one moment
I was deprived of all! Dead to the world, Dead to pleasure, I
lived to nothing but the sense of misery. How fair did that
world seem to me, from which I was for ever excluded! How many
loved objects did it contain, whom I never should behold again!
As I threw a look of terror round my prison, as I shrunk from the
cutting wind which howled through my subterraneous dwelling, the
change seemed so striking, so abrupt, that I doubted its reality.

That the Duke de Medina's Niece, that the destined Bride of the
Marquis de las Cisternas, One bred up in affluence, related to
the noblest families in Spain, and rich in a multitude of
affectionate Friends, that She should in one moment become a
Captive, separated from the world for ever, weighed down with
chains, and reduced to support life with the coarsest aliments,
appeared a change so sudden and incredible, that I believed
myself the sport of some frightful vision. Its continuance
convinced me of my mistake with but too much certainty. Every
morning my hopes were disappointed. At length I abandoned all
idea of escaping: I resigned myself to my fate, and only
expected Liberty when She came the Companion of Death.

My mental anguish, and the dreadful scenes in which I had been an
Actress, advanced the period of my labour. In solitude and
misery, abandoned by all, unassisted by Art, uncomforted by
Friendship, with pangs which if witnessed would have touched the
hardest heart, was I delivered of my wretched burthen. It came
alive into the world; But I knew not how to treat it, or by what
means to preserve its existence. I could only bathe it with
tears, warm it in my bosom, and offer up prayers for its safety.
I was soon deprived of this mournful employment: The want of
proper attendance, my ignorance how to nurse it, the bitter cold
of the dungeon, and the unwholesome air which inflated its lungs,
terminated my sweet Babe's short and painful existence. It
expired in a few hours after its birth, and I witnessed its death
with agonies which beggar all description.

But my grief was unavailing. My Infant was no more; nor could
all my sighs impart to its little tender frame the breath of a
moment. I rent my winding-sheet, and wrapped in it my lovely
Child. I placed it on my bosom, its soft arm folded round my
neck, and its pale cold cheek resting upon mine. Thus did its
lifeless limbs repose, while I covered it with kisses, talked to
it, wept, and moaned over it without remission, day or night.
Camilla entered my prison regularly once every twenty-four hours,
to bring me food. In spite of her flinty nature, She could not
behold this spectacle unmoved. She feared that grief so
excessive would at length turn my brain, and in truth I was not
always in my proper senses. From a principle of compassion She
urged me to permit the Corse to be buried: But to this I never
would consent. I vowed not to part with it while I had life:
Its presence was my only comfort, and no persuasion could induce
me to give it up. It soon became a mass of putridity, and to
every eye was a loathsome and disgusting Object; To every eye
but a Mother's. In vain did human feelings bid me recoil from
this emblem of mortality with repugnance: I withstood, and
vanquished that repugnance. I persisted in holding my Infant to
my bosom, in lamenting it, loving it, adoring it! Hour after
hour have I passed upon my sorry Couch, contemplating what had
once been my Child: I endeavoured to retrace its features
through the livid corruption, with which they were overspread:
During my confinement this sad occupation was my only delight;
and at that time Worlds should not have bribed me to give it up.
Even when released from my prison, I brought away my Child in my
arms. The representations of my two kind Friends,''—(Here She
took the hands of the Marchioness and Virginia, and pressed them
alternately to her lips)—''at length persuaded me to resign my
unhappy Infant to the Grave. Yet I parted from it with
reluctance: However, reason at length prevailed; I suffered it
to be taken from me, and it now reposes in consecrated ground.

I before mentioned that regularly once a day Camilla brought me
food. She sought not to embitter my sorrows with reproach: She
bad me, 'tis true, resign all hopes of liberty and worldly
happiness; But She encouraged me to bear with patience my
temporary distress, and advised me to draw comfort from religion.

My situation evidently affected her more than She ventured to
express: But She believed that to extenuate my fault would make
me less anxious to repent it. Often while her lips painted the
enormity of my guilt in glaring colours, her eyes betrayed, how
sensible She was to my sufferings. In fact I am certain that
none of my Tormentors, (for the three other Nuns entered my
prison occasionally) were so much actuated by the spirit of
oppressive cruelty as by the idea that to afflict my body was
the only way to preserve my soul. Nay, even this persuasion
might not have had such weight with them, and they might have
thought my punishment too severe, had not their good dispositions
been represt by blind obedience to their Superior. Her
resentment existed in full force. My project of elopement having
been discovered by the Abbot of the Capuchins, She supposed
herself lowered in his opinion by my disgrace, and in consequence
her hate was inveterate. She told the Nuns to whose custody I
was committed that my fault was of the most heinous nature, that
no sufferings could equal the offence, and that nothing could
save me from eternal perdition but punishing my guilt with the
utmost severity. The Superior's word is an oracle to but too
many of a Convent's Inhabitants. The Nuns believed whatever the
Prioress chose to assert: Though contradicted by reason and
charity, they hesitated not to admit the truth of her arguments.
They followed her injunctions to the very letter, and were fully
persuaded that to treat me with lenity, or to show the least
pity for my woes, would be a direct means to destroy my chance
for salvation.

Camilla, being most employed about me, was particularly charged
by the Prioress to treat me with harshness. In compliance with
these orders, She frequently strove to convince me, how just was
my punishment, and how enormous was my crime: She bad me think
myself too happy in saving my soul by mortifying my body, and
even threatened me sometimes with eternal perdition. Yet as I
before observed, She always concluded by words of encouragement
and comfort; and though uttered by Camilla's lips, I easily
recognised the Domina's expressions. Once, and once only, the
Prioress visited me in my dungeon. She then treated me with the
most unrelenting cruelty: She loaded me with reproaches, taunted
me with my frailty, and when I implored her mercy, told me to ask
it of heaven, since I deserved none on earth. She even gazed
upon my lifeless Infant without emotion; and when She left me, I
heard her charge Camilla to increase the hardships of my
Captivity. Unfeeling Woman! But let me check my resentment:
She has expiated her errors by her sad and unexpected death.
Peace be with her; and may her crimes be forgiven in heaven, as I
forgive her my sufferings on earth!

Thus did I drag on a miserable existence. Far from growing
familiar with my prison, I beheld it every moment with new
horror. The cold seemed more piercing and bitter, the air more
thick and pestilential. My frame became weak, feverish, and
emaciated. I was unable to rise from the bed of Straw, and
exercise my limbs in the narrow limits, to which the length of my
chain permitted me to move. Though exhausted, faint, and weary,
I trembled to profit by the approach of Sleep: My slumbers were
constantly interrupted by some obnoxious Insect crawling over me.

Sometimes I felt the bloated Toad, hideous and pampered with the
poisonous vapours of the dungeon, dragging his loathsome length
along my bosom: Sometimes the quick cold Lizard rouzed me
leaving his slimy track upon my face, and entangling itself in
the tresses of my wild and matted hair: Often have I at waking
found my fingers ringed with the long worms which bred in the
corrupted flesh of my Infant. At such times I shrieked with
terror and disgust, and while I shook off the reptile, trembled
with all a Woman's weakness.

Such was my situation, when Camilla was suddenly taken ill. A
dangerous fever, supposed to be infectious, confined her to her
bed. Every one except the Lay-Sister appointed to nurse her,
avoided her with caution, and feared to catch the disease. She
was perfectly delirious, and by no means capable of attending to
me. The Domina and the Nuns admitted to the mystery, had
latterly given me over entirely to Camilla's care: In
consequence, they busied themselves no more about me; and
occupied by preparing for the approaching Festival, it is more
than probable that I never once entered into their thoughts. Of
the reason of Camilla's negligence, I have been informed since my
release by the Mother St. Ursula; At that time I was very far
from suspecting its cause. On the contrary, I waited for my
Gaoler's appearance at first with impatience, and afterwards with
despair. One day passed away; Another followed it; The Third
arrived. Still no Camilla! Still no food! I knew the lapse of
time by the wasting of my Lamp, to supply which fortunately a
week's supply of Oil had been left me. I supposed, either that
the Nuns had forgotten me, or that the Domina had ordered them to
let me perish. The latter idea seemed the most probable; Yet so
natural is the love of life, that I trembled to find it true.
Though embittered by every species of misery, my existence was
still dear to me, and I dreaded to lose it. Every succeeding
minute proved to me that I must abandon all hopes of relief. I
was become an absolute skeleton: My eyes already failed me, and
my limbs were beginning to stiffen. I could only express my
anguish, and the pangs of that hunger which gnawed my
heart-strings, by frequent groans, whose melancholy sound the
vaulted roof of the dungeon re-echoed. I resigned myself to my
fate: I already expected the moment of dissolution, when my
Guardian Angel, when my beloved Brother arrived in time to save
me. My sight grown dim and feeble at first refused to recognize
him; and when I did distinguish his features, the sudden burst of
rapture was too much for me to bear. I was overpowered by the
swell of joy at once more beholding a Friend, and that a Friend
so dear to me. Nature could not support my emotions, and took
her refuge in insensibility.

You already know, what are my obligations to the Family of
Villa-Franca: But what you cannot know is the extent of my
gratitude, boundless as the excellence of my Benefactors.
Lorenzo! Raymond! Names so dear to me! Teach me to bear with
fortitude this sudden transition from misery to bliss. So lately
a Captive, opprest with chains, perishing with hunger, suffering
every in convenience of cold and want, hidden from the light,
excluded from society, hopeless, neglected, and as I feared,
forgotten; Now restored to life and liberty, enjoying all the
comforts of affluence and ease, surrounded by those who are most
loved by me, and on the point of becoming his Bride who has long
been wedded to my heart, my happiness is so exquisite, so
perfect, that scarcely can my brain sustain the weight. One only
wish remains ungratified: It is to see my Brother in his former
health, and to know that Antonia's memory is buried in her grave.

Granted this prayer, I have nothing more to desire. I trust,
that my past sufferings have purchased from heaven the pardon of
my momentary weakness. That I have offended, offended greatly and
grievously, I am fully conscious; But let not my Husband, because
He once conquered my virtue, doubt the propriety of my future
conduct. I have been frail and full of error: But I yielded not
to the warmth of constitution; Raymond, affection for you
betrayed me. I was too confident of my strength; But I depended
no less on your honour than my own. I had vowed never to see you
more: Had it not been for the consequences of that unguarded
moment, my resolution had been kept. Fate willed it otherwise,
and I cannot but rejoice at its decree. Still my conduct has
been highly blameable, and while I attempt to justify myself, I
blush at recollecting my imprudence. Let me then dismiss the
ungrateful subject; First assuring you, Raymond, that you shall
have no cause to repent our union, and that the more culpable
have been the errors of your Mistress, the more exemplary shall
be the conduct of your Wife.

Here Agnes ceased, and the Marquis replied to her address in
terms equally sincere and affectionate. Lorenzo expressed his
satisfaction at the prospect of being so closely connected with a
Man for whom He had ever entertained the highest esteem. The
Pope's Bull had fully and effectually released Agnes from her
religious engagements: The marriage was therefore celebrated as
soon as the needful preparations had been made, for the Marquis
wished to have the ceremony performed with all possible splendour
and publicity. This being over, and the Bride having received
the compliments of Madrid, She departed with Don Raymond for his
Castle in Andalusia: Lorenzo accompanied them, as did also the
Marchioness de Villa-Franca and her lovely Daughter. It is
needless to say that Theodore was of the party, and would be
impossible to describe his joy at his Master's marriage.
Previous to his departure, the Marquis, to atone in some measure
for his past neglect, made some enquiries relative to Elvira.
Finding that She as well as her Daughter had received many
services from Leonella and Jacintha, He showed his respect to the
memory of his Sister-in-law by making the two Women handsome
presents. Lorenzo followed his example—Leonella was highly
flattered by the attentions of Noblemen so distinguished, and
Jacintha blessed the hour on which her House was bewitched.

On her side, Agnes failed not to reward her Convent Friends.
The worthy Mother St. Ursula, to whom She owed her liberty, was
named at her request Superintendent of 'The Ladies of Charity:'
This was one of the best and most opulent Societies throughout
Spain. Bertha and Cornelia not choosing to quit their Friend,
were appointed to principal charges in the same establishment.
As to the Nuns who had aided the Domina in persecuting Agnes,
Camilla being confined by illness to her bed, had perished in the
flames which consumed St. Clare's Convent. Mariana, Alix, and
Violante, as well as two more, had fallen victims to the popular
rage. The three Others who in Council had supported the Domina's
sentence, were severely reprimanded, and banished to religious
Houses in obscure and distant Provinces: Here they languished
away a few years, ashamed of their former weakness, and shunned
by their Companions with aversion and contempt.

Nor was the fidelity of Flora permitted to go unrewarded. Her
wishes being consulted, She declared herself impatient to revisit
her native land. In consequence, a passage was procured for her
to Cuba, where She arrived in safety, loaded with the presents of
Raymond and Lorenzo.

The debts of gratitude discharged, Agnes was at liberty to pursue
her favourite plan. Lodged in the same House, Lorenzo and
Virginia were eternally together. The more He saw of her, the
more was He convinced of her merit. On her part, She laid
herself out to please, and not to succeed was for her impossible.

Lorenzo witnessed with admiration her beautiful person, elegant
manners, innumerable talents, and sweet disposition: He was also
much flattered by her prejudice in his favour, which She had not
sufficient art to conceal. However, his sentiments partook not
of that ardent character which had marked his affection for
Antonia. The image of that lovely and unfortunate Girl still
lived in his heart, and baffled all Virginia's efforts to
displace it. Still when the Duke proposed to him the match,
which He wished to earnestly to take place, his Nephew did not
reject the offer. The urgent supplications of his Friends, and
the Lady's merit conquered his repugnance to entering into new
engagements. He proposed himself to the Marquis de Villa- Franca,
and was accepted with joy and gratitude. Virginia became his
Wife, nor did She ever give him cause to repent his choice. His
esteem increased for her daily. Her unremitted endeavours to
please him could not but succeed. His affection assumed stronger
and warmer colours. Antonia's image was gradually effaced from
his bosom; and Virginia became sole Mistress of that heart, which
She well deserved to possess without a Partner.

The remaining years of Raymond and Agnes, of Lorenzo and
Virginia, were happy as can be those allotted to Mortals, born to
be the prey of grief, and sport of disappointment. The exquisite
sorrows with which they had been afflicted, made them think
lightly of every succeeding woe. They had felt the sharpest
darts in misfortune's quiver; Those which remained appeared blunt
in comparison. Having weathered Fate's heaviest Storms, they
looked calmly upon its terrors: or if ever they felt Affliction's
casual gales, they seemed to them gentle as Zephyrs which
breathe over summer-seas.

CHAPTER V

——He was a fell despightful Fiend:
Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below:
By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancor keened;
Of Man alike, if good or bad the Foe.
Thomson.

On the day following Antonia's death, all Madrid was a scene of
consternation and amazement. An Archer who had witnessed the
adventure in the Sepulchre had indiscreetly related the
circumstances of the murder: He had also named the Perpetrator.
The confusion was without example which this intelligence raised
among the Devotees. Most of them disbelieved it, and went
themselves to the Abbey to ascertain the fact. Anxious to avoid
the shame to which their Superior's ill-conduct exposed the whole
Brotherhood, the Monks assured the Visitors that Ambrosio was
prevented from receiving them as usual by nothing but illness.
This attempt was unsuccessful: The same excuse being repeated
day after day, the Archer's story gradually obtained confidence.
His Partizans abandoned him: No one entertained a doubt of his
guilt; and they who before had been the warmest in his praise
were now the most vociferous in his condemnation.

While his innocence or guilt was debated in Madrid with the
utmost acrimony, Ambrosio was a prey to the pangs of conscious
villainy, and the terrors of punishment impending over him. When
He looked back to the eminence on which He had lately stood,
universally honoured and respected, at peace with the world and
with himself, scarcely could He believe that He was indeed the
culprit whose crimes and whose fate He trembled to envisage.
But a few weeks had elapsed, since He was pure and virtuous,
courted by the wisest and noblest in Madrid, and regarded by the
People with a reverence that approached idolatry: He now saw
himself stained with the most loathed and monstrous sins, the
object of universal execration, a Prisoner of the Holy Office,
and probably doomed to perish in tortures the most severe. He
could not hope to deceive his Judges: The proofs of his guilt
were too strong. His being in the Sepulchre at so late an hour,
his confusion at the discovery, the dagger which in his first
alarm He owned had been concealed by him, and the blood which had
spirted upon his habit from Antonia's wound, sufficiently marked
him out for the Assassin. He waited with agony for the day of
examination: He had no resource to comfort him in his distress.
Religion could not inspire him with fortitude: If He read the
Books of morality which were put into his hands, He saw in them
nothing but the enormity of his offences; If he attempted to
pray, He recollected that He deserved not heaven's protection,
and believed his crimes so monstrous as to baffle even God's
infinite goodness. For every other Sinner He thought there
might be hope, but for him there could be none. Shuddering at
the past, anguished by the present, and dreading the future, thus
passed He the few days preceding that which was marked for his
Trial.

That day arrived. At nine in the morning his prison door was
unlocked, and his Gaoler entering, commanded him to follow him.
He obeyed with trembling. He was conducted into a spacious Hall,
hung with black cloth. At the Table sat three grave,
stern-looking Men, also habited in black: One was the Grand
Inquisitor, whom the importance of this cause had induced to
examine into it himself. At a smaller table at a little distance
sat the Secretary, provided with all necessary implements for
writing. Ambrosio was beckoned to advance, and take his station
at the lower end of the Table. As his eye glanced downwards, He
perceived various iron instruments lying scattered upon the
floor. Their forms were unknown to him, but apprehension
immediately guessed them to be engines of torture. He turned
pale, and with difficulty prevented himself from sinking upon the
ground.

Profound silence prevailed, except when the Inquisitors whispered
a few words among themselves mysteriously. Near an hour past
away, and with every second of it Ambrosio's fears grew more
poignant. At length a small Door, opposite to that by which He
had entered the Hall, grated heavily upon its hinges. An Officer
appeared, and was immediately followed by the beautiful Matilda.
Her hair hung about her face wildly; Her cheeks were pale, and
her eyes sunk and hollow. She threw a melancholy look upon
Ambrosio: He replied by one of aversion and reproach. She was
placed opposite to him. A Bell then sounded thrice. It was the
signal for opening the Court, and the Inquisitors entered upon
their office.

In these trials neither the accusation is mentioned, or the name
of the Accuser. The Prisoners are only asked, whether they will
confess: If they reply that having no crime they can make no
confession, they are put to the torture without delay. This is
repeated at intervals, either till the suspected avow themselves
culpable, or the perseverance of the examinants is worn out and
exhausted: But without a direct acknowledgment of their guilt,
the Inquisition never pronounces the final doom of its Prisoners.

In general much time is suffered to elapse without their being
questioned: But Ambrosio's trial had been hastened, on account
of a solemn Auto da Fe which would take place in a few days, and
in which the Inquisitors meant this distinguished Culprit to
perform a part, and give a striking testimony of their vigilance.

The Abbot was not merely accused of rape and murder: The crime
of Sorcery was laid to his charge, as well as to Matilda's. She
had been seized as an Accomplice in Antonia's assassination. On
searching her Cell, various suspicious books and instruments were
found which justified the accusation brought against her. To
criminate the Monk, the constellated Mirror was produced, which
Matilda had accidentally left in his chamber. The strange figures
engraved upon it caught the attention of Don Ramirez, while
searching the Abbot's Cell: In consequence, He carried it away
with him. It was shown to the Grand Inquisitor, who having
considered it for some time, took off a small golden Cross which
hung at his girdle, and laid it upon the Mirror. Instantly a loud
noise was heard, resembling a clap of thunder, and the steel
shivered into a thousand pieces. This circumstance confirmed the
suspicion of the Monk's having dealt in Magic: It was even
supposed that his former influence over the minds of the People
was entirely to be ascribed to witchcraft.

Determined to make him confess not only the crimes which He had
committed, but those also of which He was innocent, the
Inquisitors began their examination. Though dreading the
tortures, as He dreaded death still more which would consign him
to eternal torments, the Abbot asserted his purity in a voice
bold and resolute. Matilda followed his example, but spoke with
fear and trembling. Having in vain exhorted him to confess, the
Inquisitors ordered the Monk to be put to the question. The
Decree was immediately executed. Ambrosio suffered the most
excruciating pangs that ever were invented by human cruelty:
Yet so dreadful is Death when guilt accompanies it, that He had
sufficient fortitude to persist in his disavowal. His agonies
were redoubled in consequence: Nor was He released till fainting
from excess of pain, insensibility rescued him from the hands of
his Tormentors.

Matilda was next ordered to the torture: But terrified by the
sight of the Friar's sufferings, her courage totally deserted
her. She sank upon her knees, acknowledged her corresponding
with infernal Spirits, and that She had witnessed the Monk's
assassination of Antonia: But as to the crime of Sorcery, She
declared herself the sole criminal, and Ambrosio perfectly
innocent. The latter assertion met with no credit. The Abbot
had recovered his senses in time to hear the confession of his
Accomplice: But He was too much enfeebled by what He had already
undergone to be capable at that time of sustaining new torments.

He was commanded back to his Cell, but first informed that as
soon as He had gained strength sufficient, He must prepare
himself for a second examination. The Inquisitors hoped that He
would then be less hardened and obstinate. To Matilda it was
announced that She must expiate her crime in fire on the
approaching Auto da Fe. All her tears and entreaties could
procure no mitigation of her doom, and She was dragged by force
from the Hall of Trial.

Returned to his dungeon, the sufferings of Ambrosio's body were
far more supportable than those of his mind. His dislocated
limbs, the nails torn from his hands and feet, and his fingers
mashed and broken by the pressure of screws, were far surpassed
in anguish by the agitation of his soul and vehemence of his
terrors. He saw that, guilty or innocent, his Judges were bent
upon condemning him: The remembrance of what his denial had
already cost him terrified him at the idea of being again
applied to the question, and almost engaged him to confess his
crimes. Then again the consequences of his confession flashed
before him, and rendered him once more irresolute. His death
would be inevitable, and that a death the most dreadful: He had
listened to Matilda's doom, and doubted not that a similar was
reserved for him. He shuddered at the approaching Auto da Fe, at
the idea of perishing in flames, and only escaping from indurable
torments to pass into others more subtile and ever-lasting! With
affright did He bend his mind's eye on the space beyond the
grave; nor could hide from himself how justly he ought to dread
Heaven's vengeance. In this Labyrinth of terrors, fain would He
have taken his refuge in the gloom of Atheism: Fain would He
have denied the soul's immortality; have persuaded himself that
when his eyes once closed, they would never more open, and that
the same moment would annihilate his soul and body. Even this
resource was refused to him. To permit his being blind to the
fallacy of this belief, his knowledge was too extensive, his
understanding too solid and just. He could not help feeling the
existence of a God. Those truths, once his comfort, now
presented themselves before him in the clearest light; But they
only served to drive him to distraction. They destroyed his
ill-grounded hopes of escaping punishment; and dispelled by the
irresistible brightness of Truth and convinction, Philosophy's
deceitful vapours faded away like a dream.

In anguish almost too great for mortal frame to bear, He expected
the time when He was again to be examined. He busied himself in
planning ineffectual schemes for escaping both present and future
punishment. Of the first there was no possibility; Of the second
Despair made him neglect the only means. While Reason forced him
to acknowledge a God's existence, Conscience made him doubt the
infinity of his goodness. He disbelieved that a Sinner like him
could find mercy. He had not been deceived into error:
Ignorance could furnish him with no excuse. He had seen vice in
her true colours; Before He committed his crimes, He had computed
every scruple of their weight; and yet he had committed them.

'Pardon?' He would cry in an access of phrenzy 'Oh! there can be
none for me!'

Persuaded of this, instead of humbling himself in penitence, of
deploring his guilt, and employing his few remaining hours in
deprecating Heaven's wrath, He abandoned himself to the
transports of desperate rage; He sorrowed for the punishment of
his crimes, not their commission; and exhaled his bosom's anguish
in idle sighs, in vain lamentations, in blasphemy and despair.
As the few beams of day which pierced through the bars of his
prison window gradually disappeared, and their place was
supplied by the pale and glimmering Lamp, He felt his terrors
redouble, and his ideas become more gloomy, more solemn, more
despondent. He dreaded the approach of sleep: No sooner did his
eyes close, wearied with tears and watching, than the dreadful
visions seemed to be realised on which his mind had dwelt during
the day. He found himself in sulphurous realms and burning
Caverns, surrounded by Fiends appointed his Tormentors, and who
drove him through a variety of tortures, each of which was more
dreadful than the former. Amidst these dismal scenes wandered
the Ghosts of Elvira and her Daughter. They reproached him with
their deaths, recounted his crimes to the Daemons, and urged them
to inflict torments of cruelty yet more refined. Such were the
pictures which floated before his eyes in sleep: They vanished
not till his repose was disturbed by excess of agony. Then would
He start from the ground on which He had stretched himself, his
brows running down with cold sweat, his eyes wild and phrenzied;
and He only exchanged the terrible certainty for surmizes
scarcely more supportable. He paced his dungeon with disordered
steps; He gazed with terror upon the surrounding darkness, and
often did He cry,

'Oh! fearful is night to the Guilty!'

The day of his second examination was at hand. He had been
compelled to swallow cordials, whose virtues were calculated to
restore his bodily strength, and enable him to support the
question longer. On the night preceding this dreaded day, his
fears for the morrow permitted him not to sleep. His terrors
were so violent, as nearly to annihilate his mental powers. He
sat like one stupefied near the Table on which his Lamp was
burning dimly. Despair chained up his faculties in Idiotism, and
He remained for some hours, unable to speak or move, or indeed to
think.

'Look up, Ambrosio!' said a Voice in accents well-known to him—

The Monk started, and raised his melancholy eyes. Matilda stood
before him. She had quitted her religious habit. She now wore a
female dress, at once elegant and splendid: A profusion of
diamonds blazed upon her robes, and her hair was confined by a
coronet of Roses. In her right hand She held a small Book: A
lively expression of pleasure beamed upon her countenance; But
still it was mingled with a wild imperious majesty which
inspired the Monk with awe, and represt in some measure his
transports at seeing her.

'You here, Matilda?' He at length exclaimed; 'How have you gained
entrance? Where are your Chains? What means this magnificence,
and the joy which sparkles in your eyes? Have our Judges
relented? Is there a chance of my escaping? Answer me for pity,
and tell me, what I have to hope, or fear.'

'Ambrosio!' She replied with an air of commanding dignity; 'I
have baffled the Inquisition's fury. I am free: A few moments
will place kingdoms between these dungeons and me. Yet I
purchase my liberty at a dear, at a dreadful price! Dare you pay
the same, Ambrosio? Dare you spring without fear over the
bounds which separate Men from Angels?—You are silent.—You
look upon me with eyes of suspicion and alarm—I read your
thoughts and confess their justice. Yes, Ambrosio ; I have
sacrificed all for life and liberty. I am no longer a candidate
for heaven! I have renounced God's service, and am enlisted
beneath the banners of his Foes. The deed is past recall: Yet
were it in my power to go back, I would not. Oh! my Friend, to
expire in such torments! To die amidst curses and execrations!
To bear the insults of an exasperated Mob! To be exposed to all
the mortifications of shame and infamy! Who can reflect without
horror on such a doom? Let me then exult in my exchange. I have
sold distant and uncertain happiness for present and secure: I
have preserved a life which otherwise I had lost in torture; and
I have obtained the power of procuring every bliss which can
make that life delicious! The Infernal Spirits obey me as their
Sovereign: By their aid shall my days be past in every
refinement of luxury and voluptuousness. I will enjoy
unrestrained the gratification of my senses: Every passion shall
be indulged, even to satiety; Then will I bid my Servants invent
new pleasures, to revive and stimulate my glutted appetites! I
go impatient to exercise my newly-gained dominion. I pant to be
at liberty. Nothing should hold me one moment longer in this
abhorred abode, but the hope of persuading you to follow my
example. Ambrosio, I still love you: Our mutual guilt and
danger have rendered you dearer to me than ever, and I would fain
save you from impending destruction. Summon then your resolution
to your aid; and renounce for immediate and certain benefits the
hopes of a salvation, difficult to obtain, and perhaps altogether
erroneous. Shake off the prejudice of vulgar souls; Abandon a
God who has abandoned you, and raise yourself to the level of
superior Beings!'

She paused for the Monk's reply: He shuddered, while He gave it.

'Matilda!' He said after a long silence in a low and unsteady
voice; 'What price gave you for liberty?'

She answered him firm and dauntless.

'Ambrosio, it was my Soul!'

'Wretched Woman, what have you done? Pass but a few years, and
how dreadful will be your sufferings!'

'Weak Man, pass but this night, and how dreadful will be your
own! Do you remember what you have already endured? Tomorrow
you must bear torments doubly exquisite. Do you remember the
horrors of a fiery punishment? In two days you must be led a
Victim to the Stake! What then will become of you? Still dare
you hope for pardon? Still are you beguiled with visions of
salvation? Think upon your crimes! Think upon your lust, your
perjury, inhumanity, and hypocrisy! Think upon the innocent
blood which cries to the Throne of God for vengeance, and then
hope for mercy! Then dream of heaven, and sigh for worlds of
light, and realms of peace and pleasure! Absurd! Open your
eyes, Ambrosio, and be prudent. Hell is your lot; You are doomed
to eternal perdition; Nought lies beyond your grave but a gulph
of devouring flames. And will you then speed towards that Hell?
Will you clasp that perdition in your arms, ere 'tis needful?
Will you plunge into those flames while you still have the power
to shun them? 'Tis a Madman's action. No, no, Ambrosio: Let us
for awhile fly from divine vengeance. Be advised by me; Purchase
by one moment's courage the bliss of years; Enjoy the present,
and forget that a future lags behind.'

'Matilda, your counsels are dangerous: I dare not, I will not
follow them. I must not give up my claim to salvation.
Monstrous are my crimes; But God is merciful, and I will not
despair of pardon.'

'Is such your resolution? I have no more to say. I speed to joy
and liberty, and abandon you to death and eternal torments.'

'Yet stay one moment, Matilda! You command the infernal Daemons:

You can force open these prison doors; You can release me from
these chains which weigh me down. Save me, I conjure you, and
bear me from these fearful abodes!'

'You ask the only boon beyond my power to bestow. I am forbidden
to assist a Churchman and a Partizan of God: Renounce those
titles, and command me.'

'I will not sell my soul to perdition.'

'Persist in your obstinacy, till you find yourself at the Stake:
Then will you repent your error, and sigh for escape when the
moment is gone by. I quit you. Yet ere the hour of death
arrives should wisdom enlighten you, listen to the means of
repairing your present fault. I leave with you this Book. Read
the four first lines of the seventh page backwards: The Spirit
whom you have already once beheld will immediately appear to
you. If you are wise, we shall meet again: If not, farewell for
ever!'

She let the Book fall upon the ground. A cloud of blue fire
wrapped itself round her: She waved her hand to Ambrosio, and
disappeared. The momentary glare which the flames poured through
the dungeon, on dissipating suddenly, seemed to have increased
its natural gloom. The solitary Lamp scarcely gave light
sufficient to guide the Monk to a Chair. He threw himself into
his seat, folded his arms, and leaning his head upon the table,
sank into reflections perplexing and unconnected.

He was still in this attitude when the opening of the prison door
rouzed him from his stupor. He was summoned to appear before the
Grand Inquisitor. He rose, and followed his Gaoler with painful
steps. He was led into the same Hall, placed before the same
Examiners, and was again interrogated whether Hewould confess.
He replied as before, that having no crimes, He could acknowledge
none: But when the Executioners prepared to put him to the
question, when He saw the engines of torture, and remembered the
pangs which they had already inflicted, his resolution failed him
entirely. Forgetting the consequences, and only anxious to
escape the terrors of the present moment, He made an ample
confession. He disclosed every circumstance of his guilt, and
owned not merely the crimes with which He was charged, but those
of which He had never been suspected. Being interrogated as to
Matilda's flight which had created much confusion, He confessed
that She had sold herself to Satan, and that She was indebted to
Sorcery for her escape. He still assured his Judges that for
his own part He had never entered into any compact with the
infernal Spirits; But the threat of being tortured made him
declare himself to be a Sorcerer, and Heretic, and whatever other
title the Inquisitors chose to fix upon him. In consequence of
this avowal, his sentence was immediately pronounced. He was
ordered to prepare himself to perish in the Auto da Fe, which was
to be solemnized at twelve o'clock that night. This hour was
chosen from the idea that the horror of the flames being
heightened by the gloom of midnight, the execution would have a
greater effect upon the mind of the People.

Ambrosio rather dead than alive was left alone in his dungeon.
The moment in which this terrible decree was pronounced had
nearly proved that of his dissolution. He looked forward to the
morrow with despair, and his terrors increased with the approach
of midnight. Sometimes He was buried in gloomy silence: At
others He raved with delirious passion, wrung his hands, and
cursed the hour when He first beheld the light. In one of these
moments his eye rested upon Matilda's mysterious gift. His
transports of rage were instantly suspended. He looked earnestly
at the Book; He took it up, but immediately threw it from him
with horror. He walked rapidly up and down his dungeon: Then
stopped, and again fixed his eyes on the spot where the Book had
fallen. He reflected that here at least was a resource from the
fate which He dreaded. He stooped, and took it up a second time.

He remained for some time trembling and irresolute: He longed to
try the charm, yet feared its consequences. The recollection of
his sentence at length fixed his indecision. He opened the
Volume; but his agitation was so great that He at first sought
in vain for the page mentioned by Matilda. Ashamed of himself,
He called all his courage to his aid. He turned to the seventh
leaf. He began to read it aloud; But his eyes frequently
wandered from the Book, while He anxiously cast them round in
search of the Spirit, whom He wished, yet dreaded to behold.
Still He persisted in his design; and with a voice unassured and
frequent interruptions, He contrived to finish the four first
lines of the page.

They were in a language, whose import was totally unknown to him.

Scarce had He pronounced the last word when the effects of the
charm were evident. A loud burst of Thunder was heard; The
prison shook to its very foundations; A blaze of lightning
flashed through the Cell; and in the next moment, borne upon
sulphurous whirl-winds, Lucifer stood before him a second time.
But He came not as when at Matilda's summons He borrowed the
Seraph's form to deceive Ambrosio. He appeared in all that
ugliness which since his fall from heaven had been his portion:
His blasted limbs still bore marks of the Almighty's thunder: A
swarthy darkness spread itself over his gigantic form: His hands
and feet were armed with long Talons: Fury glared in his eyes,
which might have struck the bravest heart with terror: Over his
huge shoulders waved two enormous sable wings; and his hair was
supplied by living snakes, which twined themselves round his
brows with frightful hissings. In one hand He held a roll of
parchment, and in the other an iron pen. Still the lightning
flashed around him, and the Thunder with repeated bursts, seemed
to announce the dissolution of Nature.

Terrified at an Apparition so different from what He had
expected, Ambrosio remained gazing upon the Fiend, deprived of
the power of utterance. The Thunder had ceased to roll:
Universal silence reigned through the dungeon.

'For what am I summoned hither?' said the Daemon, in a voice
which sulphurous fogs had damped to hoarseness—

At the sound Nature seemed to tremble: A violent earthquake
rocked the ground, accompanied by a fresh burst of Thunder,
louder and more appalling than the first.

Ambrosio was long unable to answer the Daemon's demand.

'I am condemned to die;' He said with a faint voice, his blood
running cold, while He gazed upon his dreadful Visitor. 'Save
me! Bear me from hence!'

'Shall the reward of my services be paid me? Dare you embrace my
cause? Will you be mine, body and soul? Are you prepared to
renounce him who made you, and him who died for you? Answer but
''Yes'' and Lucifer is your Slave.'

'Will no less price content you? Can nothing satisfy you but my
eternal ruin? Spirit, you ask too much. Yet convey me from this
dungeon: Be my Servant for one hour, and I will be yours for a
thousand years. Will not this offer suffice?'

'It will not. I must have your soul; must have it mine, and mine
for ever.'

'Insatiate Daemon, I will not doom myself to endless torments. I
will not give up my hopes of being one day pardoned.'

'You will not? On what Chimaera rest then your hopes?
Short-sighted Mortal! Miserable Wretch! Are you not guilty?
Are you not infamous in the eyes of Men and Angels. Can such
enormous sins be forgiven? Hope you to escape my power? Your
fate is already pronounced. The Eternal has abandoned you; Mine
you are marked in the book of destiny, and mine you must and
shall be!'

'Fiend, 'tis false! Infinite is the Almighty's mercy, and the
Penitent shall meet his forgiveness. My crimes are monstrous,
but I will not despair of pardon: Haply, when they have received
due chastisement . . . .'

'Chastisement? Was Purgatory meant for guilt like yours? Hope
you that your offences shall be bought off by prayers of
superstitious dotards and droning Monks? Ambrosio, be wise!
Mine
you must be: You are doomed to flames, but may shun them for the
present. Sign this parchment: I will bear you from hence, and
you may pass your remaining years in bliss and liberty. Enjoy
your existence: Indulge in every pleasure to which appetite may
lead you: But from the moment that it quits your body, remember
that your soul belongs to me, and that I will not be defrauded of
my right.'

The Monk was silent; But his looks declared that the Tempter's
words were not thrown away. He reflected on the conditions
proposed with horror: On the other hand, He believed himself
doomed to perdition and that, by refusing the Daemon's succour,
He only hastened tortures which He never could escape. The Fiend
saw that his resolution was shaken: He renewed his instances,
and endeavoured to fix the Abbot's indecision. He described the
agonies of death in the most terrific colours; and He worked so
powerfully upon Ambrosio's despair and fears that He prevailed
upon him to receive the Parchment. He then struck the iron Pen
which He held into a vein of the Monk's left hand. It pierced
deep, and was instantly filled with blood; Yet Ambrosio felt no
pain from the wound. The Pen was put into his hand: It
trembled. The Wretch placed the Parchment on the Table before
him, and prepared to sign it. Suddenly He held his hand: He
started away hastily, and threw the Pen upon the table.

'What am I doing?' He cried—Then turning to the Fiend with a
desperate air, 'Leave me! Begone! I will not sign the
Parchment.'

'Fool!' exclaimed the disappointed Daemon, darting looks so
furious as penetrated the Friar's soul with horror; 'Thus am I
trifled with? Go then! Rave in agony, expire in tortures, and
then learn the extent of the Eternal's mercy! But beware how you
make me again your mock! Call me no more till resolved to accept
my offers! Summon me a second time to dismiss me thus idly, and
these Talons shall rend you into a thousand pieces! Speak yet
again; Will you sign the Parchment?'

'I will not! Leave me! Away!'

Instantly the Thunder was heard to roll horribly: Once more the
earth trembled with violence: The Dungeon resounded with loud
shrieks, and the Daemon fled with blasphemy and curses.

At first, the Monk rejoiced at having resisted the Seducer's
arts, and obtained a triumph over Mankind's Enemy: But as the
hour of punishment drew near, his former terrors revived in his
heart. Their momentary repose seemed to have given them fresh
vigour. The nearer that the time approached, the more did He
dread appearing before the Throne of God. He shuddered to think
how soon He must be plunged into eternity; How soon meet the eyes
of his Creator, whom He had so grievously offended. The Bell
announced midnight: It was the signal for being led to the
Stake! As He listened to the first stroke, the blood ceased to
circulate in the Abbot's veins: He heard death and torture
murmured in each succeeding sound. He expected to see the
Archers entering his prison; and as the Bell forbore to toll, he
seized the magic volume in a fit of despair. He opened it,
turned hastily to the seventh page, and as if fearing to allow
himself a moment's thought ran over the fatal lines with
rapidity. Accompanied by his former terrors, Lucifer again stood
before the Trembler.

'You have summoned me,' said the Fiend; 'Are you determined to be
wise? Will you accept my conditions? You know them already.
Renounce your claim to salvation, make over to me your soul, and
I bear you from this dungeon instantly. Yet is it time.
Resolve, or it will be too late. Will you sign the Parchment?'

'I must!—Fate urges me! I accept your conditions.'

'Sign the Parchment!' replied the Daemon in an exulting tone.

The Contract and the bloody Pen still lay upon the Table.
Ambrosio drew near it. He prepared to sign his name. A moment's
reflection made him hesitate.

'Hark!' cried the Tempter; 'They come! Be quick! Sign the
Parchment, and I bear you from hence this moment.'

In effect, the Archers were heard approaching, appointed to lead
Ambrosio to the Stake. The sound encouraged the Monk in his
resolution.

'What is the import of this writing?' said He.

'It makes your soul over to me for ever, and without reserve.'

'What am I to receive in exchange?'

'My protection, and release from this dungeon. Sign it, and this
instant I bear you away.'

Ambrosio took up the Pen; He set it to the Parchment. Again his
courage failed him: He felt a pang of terror at his heart, and
once more threw the Pen upon the Table.

'Weak and Puerile!' cried the exasperated Fiend: 'Away with this
folly! Sign the writing this instant, or I sacrifice you to my
rage!'

At this moment the bolt of the outward Door was drawn back. The
Prisoner heard the rattling of Chains; The heavy Bar fell; The
Archers were on the point of entering. Worked up to phrenzy by
the urgent danger, shrinking from the approach of death,
terrified by the Daemon's threats, and seeing no other means to
escape destruction, the wretched Monk complied. He signed the
fatal contract, and gave it hastily into the evil Spirit's hands,
whose eyes, as He received the gift, glared with malicious
rapture.

'Take it!' said the God-abandoned; 'Now then save me! Snatch me
from hence!'

'Hold! Do you freely and absolutely renounce your Creator and
his Son?'

'I do! I do!'

'Do you make over your soul to me for ever?'

'For ever!'

'Without reserve or subterfuge? Without future appeal to the
divine mercy?'

The last Chain fell from the door of the prison: The key was
heard turning in the Lock: Already the iron door grated heavily
upon its rusty hinges.

'I am yours for ever and irrevocably!' cried the Monk wild with
terror: 'I abandon all claim to salvation! I own no power but
yours! Hark! Hark! They come! Oh! save me! Bear me away!'

'I have triumphed! You are mine past reprieve, and I fulfil my
promise.'

While He spoke, the Door unclosed. Instantly the Daemon grasped
one of Ambrosio's arms, spread his broad pinions, and sprang with
him into the air. The roof opened as they soared upwards, and
closed again when they had quitted the Dungeon.

In the meanwhile, the Gaoler was thrown into the utmost surprize
by the disappearance of his Prisoner. Though neither He nor the
Archers were in time to witness the Monk's escape, a sulphurous
smell prevailing through the prison sufficiently informed them by
whose aid He had been liberated. They hastened to make their
report to the Grand Inquisitor. The story, how a Sorcerer had
been carried away by the Devil, was soon noised about Madrid; and
for some days the whole City was employed in discussing the
subject. Gradually it ceased to be the topic of conversation:
Other adventures arose whose novelty engaged universal attention;
and Ambrosio was soon forgotten as totally, as if He never had
existed. While this was passing, the Monk supported by his
infernal guide, traversed the air with the rapidity of an arrow,
and a few moments placed him upon a Precipice's brink, the
steepest in Sierra Morena.

Though rescued from the Inquisition, Ambrosio as yet was
insensible of the blessings of liberty. The damning contract
weighed heavy upon his mind; and the scenes in which He had been
a principal actor had left behind them such impressions as
rendered his heart the seat of anarchy and confusion. The
Objects now before his eyes, and which the full Moon sailing
through clouds permitted him to examine, were ill-calculated to
inspire that calm, of which He stood so much in need. The
disorder of his imagination was increased by the wildness of the
surrounding scenery; By the gloomy Caverns and steep rocks,
rising above each other, and dividing the passing clouds;
solitary clusters of Trees scattered here and there, among whose
thick-twined branches the wind of night sighed hoarsely and
mournfully; the shrill cry of mountain Eagles, who had built
their nests among these lonely Desarts; the stunning roar of
torrents, as swelled by late rains they rushed violently down
tremendous precipices; and the dark waters of a silent sluggish
stream which faintly reflected the moonbeams, and bathed the
Rock's base on which Ambrosio stood. The Abbot cast round him a
look of terror. His infernal Conductor was still by his side,
and eyed him with a look of mingled malice, exultation, and
contempt.

'Whither have you brought me?' said the Monk at length in an
hollow trembling voice: 'Why am I placed in this melancholy
scene? Bear me from it quickly! Carry me to Matilda!'

The Fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in silence.

Ambrosio could not sustain his glance; He turned away his eyes,
while thus spoke the Daemon:

'I have him then in my power! This model of piety! This being
without reproach! This Mortal who placed his puny virtues on a
level with those of Angels. He is mine! Irrevocably, eternally
mine! Companions of my sufferings! Denizens of hell! How
grateful will be my present!'

He paused; then addressed himself to the Monk——

'Carry you to Matilda?' He continued, repeating Ambrosio's words:

'Wretch! you shall soon be with her! You well deserve a place
near her, for hell boasts no miscreant more guilty than yourself.

Hark, Ambrosio, while I unveil your crimes! You have shed the
blood of two innocents; Antonia and Elvira perished by your hand.
That Antonia whom you violated, was your Sister! That Elvira whom
you murdered, gave you birth! Tremble, abandoned Hypocrite!
Inhuman Parricide! Incestuous Ravisher! Tremble at the extent of
your offences! And you it was who thought yourself proof against
temptation, absolved from human frailties, and free from error
and vice! Is pride then a virtue? Is inhumanity no fault?
Know, vain Man! That I long have marked you for my prey: I
watched the movements of your heart; I saw that you were virtuous
from vanity, not principle, and I seized the fit moment of
seduction. I observed your blind idolatry of the Madona's
picture. I bad a subordinate but crafty spirit assume a similar
form, and you eagerly yielded to the blandishments of Matilda.
Your pride was gratified by her flattery; Your lust only needed
an opportunity to break forth; You ran into the snare blindly,
and scrupled not to commit a crime which you blamed in another
with unfeeling severity. It was I who threw Matilda in your way;
It was I who gave you entrance to Antonia's chamber; It was I who
caused the dagger to be given you which pierced your Sister's
bosom; and it was I who warned Elvira in dreams of your designs
upon her Daughter, and thus, by preventing your profiting by her
sleep, compelled you to add rape as well as incest to the
catalogue of your crimes. Hear, hear, Ambrosio! Had you
resisted me one minute longer, you had saved your body and soul.
The guards whom you heard at your prison door came to signify
your pardon. But I had already triumphed: My plots had already
succeeded. Scarcely could I propose crimes so quick as you
performed them. You are mine, and Heaven itself cannot rescue
you from my power. Hope not that your penitence will make void
our contract. Here is your bond signed with your blood; You have
given up your claim to mercy, and nothing can restore to you the
rights which you have foolishly resigned. Believe you that your
secret thoughts escaped me? No, no, I read them all! You
trusted that you should still have time for repentance. I saw
your artifice, knew its falsity, and rejoiced in deceiving the
deceiver! You are mine beyond reprieve: I burn to possess my
right, and alive you quit not these mountains.'

During the Daemon's speech, Ambrosio had been stupefied by terror
and surprize. This last declaration rouzed him.

'Not quit these mountains alive?' He exclaimed: 'Perfidious, what
mean you? Have you forgotten our contract?'

The Fiend answered by a malicious laugh:

'Our contract? Have I not performed my part? What more did I
promise than to save you from your prison? Have I not done so?
Are you not safe from the Inquisition—safe from all but from
me? Fool that you were to confide yourself to a Devil! Why did
you not stipulate for life, and power, and pleasure? Then all
would have been granted: Now, your reflections come too late.
Miscreant, prepare for death; You have not many hours to live!'

On hearing this sentence, dreadful were the feelings of the
devoted Wretch! He sank upon his knees, and raised his hands
towards heaven. The Fiend read his intention and prevented it—

'What?' He cried, darting at him a look of fury: 'Dare you still
implore the Eternal's mercy? Would you feign penitence, and
again act an Hypocrite's part? Villain, resign your hopes of
pardon. Thus I secure my prey!'

As He said this, darting his talons into the Monk's shaven crown,
He sprang with him from the rock. The Caves and mountains rang
with Ambrosio's shrieks. The Daemon continued to soar aloft, till
reaching a dreadful height, He released the sufferer. Headlong
fell the Monk through the airy waste; The sharp point of a rock
received him; and He rolled from precipice to precipice, till
bruised and mangled He rested on the river's banks. Life still
existed in his miserable frame: He attempted in vain to raise
himself; His broken and dislocated limbs refused to perform their
office, nor was He able to quit the spot where He had first
fallen. The Sun now rose above the horizon; Its scorching beams
darted full upon the head of the expiring Sinner. Myriads of
insects were called forth by the warmth; They drank the blood
which trickled from Ambrosio's wounds; He had no power to drive
them from him, and they fastened upon his sores, darted their
stings into his body, covered him with their multitudes, and
inflicted on him tortures the most exquisite and insupportable.
The Eagles of the rock tore his flesh piecemeal, and dug out his
eyeballs with their crooked beaks. A burning thirst tormented
him; He heard the river's murmur as it rolled beside him, but
strove in vain to drag himself towards the sound. Blind, maimed,
helpless, and despairing, venting his rage in blasphemy and
curses, execrating his existence, yet dreading the arrival of
death destined to yield him up to greater torments, six miserable
days did the Villain languish. On the Seventh a violent storm
arose: The winds in fury rent up rocks and forests: The sky was
now black with clouds, now sheeted with fire: The rain fell in
torrents; It swelled the stream; The waves overflowed their
banks; They reached the spot where Ambrosio lay, and when they
abated carried with them into the river the Corse of the
despairing Monk.

END OF VOLUME III

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