CHAP. IV.

CHAP. V.

HERE the marquis concluded his ad⯑ventures. Lorenzo, before he could deter⯑mine on his reply, paſſed ſome moments in reflection. At length he broke ſilence.

"Raymond," ſaid he, taking his hand, "ſtrict honour would oblige me to waſh off in your blood the ſtain thrown upon my fa⯑mily; but the circumſtances of your caſe forbid me to conſider you as an enemy. The temptation was too great to be reſiſted. 'Tis the ſuperſtition of my relations which has [124] occaſioned theſe misfortunes, and they are more the offenders than yourſelf and Agnes. What has paſſed between you cannot be re⯑called, but may yet be repaired by uniting you to my ſiſter. You have ever been, you ſtill continue to be, my deareſt, and indeed my only friend. I feel for Agnes the trueſt affection, and there is no one on whom I would beſtow her more willingly than on yourſelf. Purſue, then, your deſign. I will accompany you to-morrow night, and conduct her myſelf to the houſe of the car⯑dinal. My preſence will be a ſanction for her conduct, and prevent her incurring blame by her flight from the convent."

The marquis thanked him in terms by no means deficient in gratitude. Lorenzo then informed him, that he had nothing more to apprehend from Donna Rodolpha's enmity. Five months had already elapſed ſince, in an exceſs of paſſion, ſhe broke a blood-veſſel, and expired in the courſe of a few hours. He then proceeded to mention the intereſts of Antonia. The marquis was much ſur⯑priſed [125] at hearing of this new relation. His father had carried his hatred of Elvira to the grave, and had never given the leaſt hint that he knew what was become of his eldeſt ſon's widow. Don Raymond aſſured his friend, that he was not miſtaken in ſuppoſing him ready to acknowledge his ſiſter-in-law, and her amiable daughter. The prepara⯑tions for the elopement would not permit his viſiting them the next day; but, in the mean while, he deſired Lorenzo to aſſure them of his friendſhip, and to ſupply Elvira, upon his account, with any ſums which ſhe might want. This the youth promiſed to do, as ſoon as her abode ſhould be known to him. He then took leave of his future brother, and returned to the palace de Medina.

The day was already on the point of break⯑ing when the marquis retired to his chamber. Conſcious that his narrative would take up ſome hours, and wiſhing to ſecure himſelf from interruption, on returning to the hotel he ordered his attendants not to ſit up for [126] him; conſequently, he was ſomewhat ſur⯑priſed, on entering his anti-room, to find Theodore eſtabliſhed there. The page ſat near a table with a pen in his hand, and was ſo totally occupied by his employment, that he perceived not his lord's approach. The marquis ſtopped to obſerve him. Theodore wrote a few lines, then pauſed, and ſcratched out a part of the writing; then wrote again, ſmiled, and ſeemed highly pleaſed with what he had been about. At laſt he threw down his pen, ſprang from his chair, and clapped his hands together joyfully.

"There it is!" cried he aloud: "now they are charming!"

His tranſports were interrupted by a laugh from the marquis, who ſuſpected the nature of his employment.

"What is ſo charming, Theodore?"

The youth ſtarted, and looked round: he bluſhed, ran to the table, ſeized the paper on which he had been writing, and con⯑cealed it in confuſion.

"Oh! my lord, I knew not that you were [127] ſo near me. Can I be of uſe to you? Lu⯑cas is already gone to bed."

"I ſhall follow his example when I have given my opinion of your verſes."

"My verſes, my lord?"

"Nay, I am ſure that you have been writing ſome, for nothing elſe could have kept you awake till this time of the morning. Where are they, Theodore? I ſhall like to ſee your compoſition."

Theodore's cheeks glowed with ſtill deeper crimſon: he longed to ſhew his poetry, but firſt choſe to be preſſed for it.

"Indeed, my lord, they are not worthy your attention."

"Not theſe verſes, which you juſt now declared to be ſo charming? Come, come, let me ſee whether our opinions are the ſame. I promiſe that you ſhall find in me an in⯑dulgent critic."

The boy produced his paper with ſeem⯑ing reluctance; but the ſatisfaction which ſparkled in his dark expreſſive eyes be⯑trayed the vanity of his little boſom. The [128] marquis ſmiled while he obſerved the emo⯑tions of an heart as yet but little ſkilled in veiling its ſentiments. He ſeated himſelf upon a ſopha. Theodore, while hope and fear contended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude for his maſter's de⯑ciſion, while the marquis read the following lines:

The marquis returned the paper with a ſmile of encouragement.

[133]"Your little poem pleaſes me much," ſaid he: "however, you muſt not count my opinion for any thing. I am no judge of verſes, and for my own part never com⯑poſed more than ſix lines in my life: thoſe ſix produced ſo unlucky an effect, that I am fully reſolved never to compoſe another. But I wander from my ſubject. I was go⯑ing to ſay that you cannot employ your time worſe than in making verſes. An au⯑thor, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom every body is privileged to attack: for though all are not able to write books, all conceive themſelves able to judge them. A bad compoſition carries with it its own puniſhment—con⯑tempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails upon its author a thou⯑ſand mortifications: he finds himſelf aſ⯑ſailed by partial and ill-humoured criticiſm: one man finds fault with the plan, another with the ſtyle, a third with the precept which it ſtrives to inculcate; and they who can⯑not ſucceed in finding fault with the book, [134] employ themſelves in ſtigmatizing its au⯑thor. They maliciouſly rake out from ob⯑ſcurity every little circumſtance which may throw ridicule upon his private character or conduct, and aim at wounding the man ſince they cannot hurt the writer. In ſhort, to enter the liſts of literature is wilfully to expoſe yourſelf to the arrows of neglect, ri⯑dicule, envy, and diſappointment. Whe⯑ther you write well or ill, be aſſured that you will not eſcape from blame. Indeed this circumſtance contains a young author's chief conſolation: he remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjuſt and en⯑vious critics, and he modeſtly conceives himſelf to be exactly in their predicament. But I am conſcious that all theſe ſage ob⯑ſervations are thrown away upon you. Au⯑thorſhip is a mania, to conquer which no reaſons are ſufficiently ſtrong; and you might as eaſily perſuade me not to love, as I perſuade you not to write. However, if you cannot help being occaſionally ſeized with a poetical paroxyſm, take at leaſt the [135] precaution of communicating your verſes to none but thoſe whoſe partiality for you ſecures their approbation."

"Then, my lord, you do not think theſe lines tolerable?" ſaid Theodore, with an humble and dejected air.

"You miſtake my meaning. As I ſaid before, they have pleaſed me much: but my regard for you makes me partial, and others might judge them leſs favourably. I muſt ſtill remark, that even my prejudice in your favour does not blind me ſo much as to prevent my obſerving ſeveral faults. For inſtance, you make a terrible confuſion of metaphors; you are too apt to make the ſtrength of your lines conſiſt more in the words than ſenſe; ſome of the verſes only ſeem introduced in order to rhyme with others; and moſt of the beſt ideas are bor⯑rowed from other poets, though poſſibly you are unconſcious of the theft yourſelf. Theſe faults may occaſionally be excuſed in a work of length; but a ſhort poem muſt be correct and perfect."

[136]"All this is true, ſegnor; but you ſhould conſider that I only write for pleaſure."

"Your defects are the leſs excuſable. Their incorrectneſs may be forgiven, who work for money, who are obliged to com⯑plete a given taſk in a given time, and are paid according to the bulk, not value of their productions. But in thoſe whom no neceſſity forces to turn author, who merely write for fame, and have full leiſure to po⯑liſh their compoſitions, faults are unpardon⯑able, and merit the ſharpeſt arrows of criti⯑ciſm."

The marquis roſe from the ſopha; the page looked diſcouraged and melancholy; and this did not eſcape his maſter's obſer⯑vation.

"However," added he, ſmiling, "I think that theſe lines do you no diſcredit. Your verſification is tolerably eaſy, and your ear ſeems to be juſt. The peruſal of your little poem upon the whole gave me much plea⯑ſure; and if it is nor aſking too great a fa⯑vour, [137] I ſhall be highly obliged to you for a copy."

The youth's countenance immediately cleared up. He perceived not the ſmile, half approving, half ironical, which accom⯑panied the requeſt, and he promiſed the copy with great readineſs. The marquis withdrew to his chamber, much amuſed by the inſtantaneous effect produced upon Theodore's vanity by the concluſion of his criticiſm. He threw himſelf upon his couch, ſleep ſoon ſtole over him, and his dreams preſented him with the moſt flattering pic⯑tures of happineſs with Agnes.

On reaching the hotel de Medina, Lo⯑renzo's firſt care was to enquire for letters. He found ſeveral waiting for him; but that which he ſought was not amongſt them. Leonella had found it impoſſible to write that evening. However, her impatience to ſecure Don Chriſtoval's heart, on which ſhe flattered herſelf with having made no ſlight impreſſion, permitted her not to paſs an⯑other day without informing him where [138] ſhe was to be found. On her return from the Capuchin-church, ſhe had related to her ſiſter, with exultation, how attentive an handſome cavalier had been to her; as alſo how his companion had undertaken to plead Antonia's cauſe with the marquis de las Ciſternas. Elvira received this intelligence with ſenſations very different from thoſe with which it was communicated. She blamed her ſiſter's imprudence in confiding her hiſtory to an abſolute ſtranger, and ex⯑preſſed her fears leſt this inconſiderate ſtep ſhould prejudice the marquis againſt her. The greateſt of her apprehenſions ſhe con⯑cealed in her own breaſt. She had obſerved, with inquietude, that at the mention of Lo⯑renzo a deep bluſh ſpread itſelf over her daughter's cheek. The timid Antonia dared not to pronounce his name. Without know⯑ing wherefore, ſhe felt embarraſſed when he was made the ſubject of diſcourſe, and en⯑deavoured to change the converſation to Ambroſio. Elvira perceived the emotions of this young boſom: in conſequence, ſhe [39] inſiſted upon Leonella's breaking her pro⯑miſe to the cavaliers. A ſigh, which on hearing this order eſcaped from Antonia, confirmed the wary mother in her reſolution.

Through this reſolution Leonella was determined to break: ſhe conceived it to be inſpired by envy, and that her ſiſter dreaded her being elevated above her. Without imparting her deſign to any one, ſhe took an opportunity of diſpatching the following note to Lorenzo: it was delivered to him as ſoon as he woke:

[141]The latter ſentences were written in red ink, to expreſs the bluſhes of her cheek while ſhe committed an outrage upon her virgin modeſty.

Lorenzo had no ſooner peruſed this note, than he ſet out in ſearch of Don Chriſ⯑toval. Not being able to find him in the courſe of the day, he proceeded to Donna Elvira's alone, to Leonella's infinite diſap⯑pointment. The domeſtic by whom he ſent up his name having already declared his lady to be at home, ſhe had no excuſe for refuſing his viſit: yet ſhe conſented to receive it with much reluctance. That re⯑luctance was increaſed by the changes which his approach produced in Antonia's countenance; nor was it by any means a⯑bated, when the youth himſelf appeared. The ſymmetry of his perſon, animation of his features, and natural elegance of his manners and addreſs, convinced Elvira that ſuch a gueſt muſt be dangerous for her daughter. She reſolved to treat him with diſtant politeneſs, to decline his ſer⯑vices [142] with gratitude for the tender of them, and to make him feel, without offence, that his future viſits would be far from accepta⯑ble.

On his entrance he found Elvira, who was indiſpoſed, reclining upon a ſopha; Antonia ſat by her embroidery frame; and Leonella, in a paſtoral dreſs, held "Monte⯑mayor's Diana." In ſpite of her being the mother of Antonia, Lorenzo could not help expecting to find in Elvira Leonella's true ſiſter, and the daughter of "as honeſt a pains-taking ſhoemaker as any in Cordova." A ſingle glance was ſufficient to undeceive him. He beheld a woman whoſe features, though impaired by time and ſorrow, ſtill bore the marks of diſtinguiſhed beauty: a ſerious dignity reigned upon her counte⯑nance, but was tempered by a grace and ſweetneſs which rendered her truly enchant⯑ing. Lorenzo fancied that ſhe muſt have reſembled her daughter in her youth, and readily excuſed the imprudence of the late Condé de las Ciſternas. She deſired him [143] to be ſeated, and immediately reſumed her place upon the ſopha.

Antonia received him with a ſimple re⯑verence, and continued her work: her cheeks were ſuffuſed with crimſon, and ſhe ſtrove to conceal her emotion by lean⯑ing over her embroidery frame. Her aunt alſo choſe to play off her airs of modeſty: ſhe affected to bluſh and tremble, and waited with her eyes caſt down to receive, as ſhe expected, the compliments of Don Chriſto⯑val. Finding, after ſome time, that no ſign of his approach was given, ſhe ventured, to look round the room, and perceived with vexation that Medina was unaccompanied. Impatience would not permit her waiting for an explanation: interrupting Lorenzo, who was delivering Raymond's meſſage, ſhe deſired to know what was become of his friend.

He, who thought it neceſſary to main⯑tain himſelf in her good graces, ſtrove to conſole her under her diſappointment by committing a little violence upon truth.

[144]"Ah! ſegnora," he replied in a melan⯑choly voice, "how grieved will he be at loſing this opportunity of paying you his reſpects! A relation's illneſs has obliged him to quit Madrid in haſte: but on his re⯑turn he will doubtleſs ſeize the firſt mo⯑ment with tranſport to throw himſelf at your feet!"

As he ſaid this, his eyes met thoſe of Elvira: ſhe puniſhed his falſehood ſuffi⯑ciently by darting at him a look expreſſive of diſpleaſure and reproach. Neither did the deceit anſwer his intention. Vexed and diſappointed, Leonella roſe from her ſeat, and retired in dudgeon to her own apart⯑ment.

Lorenzo haſtened to repair the fault which had injured him in Elvira's opinion. He related his converſation with the mar⯑quis reſpecting her: he aſſured her that Raymond was prepared to acknowledge her for his brother's widow; and that, till it was in his power to pay his compliments to her in perſon, Lorenzo was commiſſioned [145] to ſupply his place. This intelligence re⯑lieved Elvira from an heavy weight of un⯑eaſineſs: ſhe had now found a protector for the fatherleſs Antonia, for whoſe future fortunes ſhe had ſuffered the greateſt appre⯑henſions. She was not ſparing of her thanks to him, who had interfered ſo generouſly in her behalf; but ſtill ſhe gave him no invi⯑tation to repeat his viſit. Howerer, when upon riſing to depart he requeſted permiſ⯑ſion to enquire after her health occaſionally, the polite earneſtneſs of his manner, grati⯑tude for his ſervices, and reſpect for his friend the marquis, would not admit of a refuſal. She conſented reluctantly to re⯑ceive him: he promiſed not to abuſe her goodneſs, and quitted the houſe.

Antonia was now left alone with her mo⯑ther: a temporary ſilence enſued. Both wiſhed to ſpeak upon the ſame ſubject, but neither knew how to introduce it. The one felt a baſhfulneſs which ſealed up her lips, and for which ſhe could not account; the other feared to find her apprehenſions true, [146] or to inſpire her daughter with notions to which ſhe might be ſtill a ſtranger. At length Elvira began the converſation.

"That is a charming young man, An⯑tonia; I am much pleaſed with him. Was he long near you yeſterday in the cathe⯑dral?"

"He quitted me not for a moment while I ſtaid in the church: he gave me his ſeat, and was very obliging and attentive."

"Indeed? Why then have you never mentioned his name to me? Your aunt lanched out in praiſe of his friend, and you vaunted Ambroſio's eloquence: but neither ſaid a word of Don Lorenzo's perſon and accompliſhments. Had not Leonella ſpoken of his readineſs to undertake our cauſe, I ſhould not have known him to be in ex⯑iſtence."

She pauſed. Antonia coloured, but was ſilent.

"Perhaps you judge him leſs favourably than I do. In my opinion his figure is pleaſing, his converſation ſenſible, and man⯑ners [147] engaging. Still he may have ſtruck you differently: you may think him diſ⯑agreeable, and—"

"Diſagreeable? Oh! dear mother, how ſhould I poſſibly think him ſo? I ſhould be very ungrateful were I not ſenſible of his kindneſs yeſterday, and very blind if his merits had eſcaped me. His figure is ſo graceful, ſo noble! His manners ſo gentle, yet ſo manly! I never yet ſaw ſo many ac⯑compliſhments united in one perſon, and I doubt whether Madrid can produce his equal."

"Why then were you ſo ſilent in praiſe of this phoenix of Madrid? Why was it concealed from me, that his ſociety had af⯑forded you pleaſure?"

"In truth, I know not: you aſk me a queſtion which I cannot reſolve myſelf. I was on the point of mentioning him a thou⯑ſand times; his name was conſtantly on my lips; but when I would have pronounced it, I wanted courage to execute my deſign. [148] However, if I did not ſpeak of him, it was not that I thought of him the leſs."

"That I believe. But ſhall I tell you why you wanted courage? It was becauſe, accuſtomed to confide to me your moſt ſe⯑cret thoughts, you knew not how to con⯑ceal, yet feared to acknowledge, that your heart nouriſhed a ſentiment which you were conſcious I ſhould diſapprove. Come hither to me, my child."

Antonia quitted her embroidery frame, threw herſelf upon her knees by the ſopha, and hid her face in her mother's lap.

"Fear not, my ſweet girl! Conſider me equally as your friend and parent, and ap⯑prehend no reproof from me. I have read the emotions of your boſom; you are yet ill ſkilled in concealing them, and they could not eſcape my attentive eye. This Lorenzo is dangerous to your repoſe; he has already made an impreſſion upon your heart. 'Tis true that I perceive eaſily that your affection is returned: but what can be [149] the conſequences of this attachment? You are poor and friendleſs, my Antonia; Lo⯑renzo is the heir of the duke of Medina Celi. Even ſhould himſelf mean honour⯑ably, his uncle never will conſent to your union; nor, without that uncle's conſent, will I. By ſad experience I know what ſorrow ſhe muſt endure, who marries into a family unwilling to receive her. Then ſtruggle with your affection: whatever pains it may coſt you, ſtrive to conquer it. Your heart is tender and ſuſceptible: it has al⯑ready received a ſtrong impreſſion; but when once convinced that you ſhould not encourage ſuch ſentiments, I truſt that you have ſufficient fortitude to drive them from your boſom."

Antonia kiſſed her hand, and promiſed implicit obedience. Elvira then conti⯑nued—

"To prevent your paſſion from growing ſtronger, it will be needful to prohibit Lo⯑renzo's viſits. The ſervice which he has rendered me permits not my forbidding [150] them poſitively; but unleſs I judge too fa⯑vourably of his character, he will diſcon⯑tinue them without taking offence, if I con⯑feſs to him my reaſons, and throw myſelf entirely on his generoſity. The next time that I ſee him, I will honeſtly avow to him the embarraſſment which his preſence oc⯑caſions. How ſay you, my child? Is not this meaſure neceſſary?"

Antonia ſubſcribed to every thing with⯑out heſitation, though not without regret. Her mother kiſſed her affectionately, and retired to bed. Antonia followed her ex⯑ample, and vowed ſo frequently never more to think of Lorenzo, that till ſleep cloſed her eyes ſhe thought of nothing elſe.

While this was paſſing at Elvira's, Lo⯑renzo haſtened to rejoin the marquis. Every thing was ready for the ſecond elopement of Agnes; and at twelve the two friends with a coach and four were at the garden-wall of the convent. Don Ray⯑mond drew out his key, and unlocked the [151] door. They entered, and waited for ſome time in expectation of being joined by Agnes. At length the marquis grew impatient: be⯑ginning to fear that his ſecond attempt would ſucceed no better than the firſt, he propoſed to reconnoitre the convent. The friends advanced towards it. Every thing was ſtill and dark. The prioreſs was an⯑xious to keep the ſtory a ſecret, fearing leſt the crime of one of its members ſhould bring diſgrace upon the whole community, or that the interpoſition of powerful relations ſhould deprive her vengeance of its intended vic⯑tim. She took care therefore to give the lover of Agnes no cauſe to ſuppoſe that his deſign was diſcovered, and his miſtreſs on the point of ſuffering the puniſhment of her fault. The ſame reaſon made her reject the idea of arreſting the unknown ſeducer in the garden: ſuch a proceeding would have created much diſturbance, and the diſgrace of her convent would have been noiſed about Madrid. She contented her⯑ſelf with confining Agnes cloſely: as to the [152] lover, ſhe left him at liberty to purſue his deſigns. What ſhe had expected was the reſult. The marquis and Lorenzo waited in vain till the break of day; they then re⯑tired without noiſe, alarmed at the failure of their plan, and ignorant of the cauſe of its ill ſucceſs.

The next morning Lorenzo went to the convent, and requeſted to ſee his ſiſter. The prioreſs appeared at the grate with a melancholy countenance. She informed him that for ſeveral days Agnes had appeared much agitated; that ſhe had been preſſed by the nuns in vain to reveal the cauſe, and apply to their tenderneſs for advice and conſolation; that ſhe had obſtinately perſiſted in concealing the cauſe of her diſ⯑treſs; but that on Thurſday evening it had produced ſo violent an effect upon her con⯑ſtitution, that ſhe had fallen ill, and was actually confined to her bed. Lorenzo did not credit a ſyllable of this account: he inſiſted upon ſeeing his ſiſter; if ſhe was unable to come to the grate, he deſired to [153] be admitted to her cell. The prioreſs croſſed herſelf! ſhe was ſhocked at the very idea of a man's profane eye pervading the interior of her holy manſion, and profeſſed herſelf aſtoniſhed that Lorenzo could think of ſuch a thing. She told him that his requeſt could not be granted; but that, if he returned the next day, ſhe hoped that her beloved daughter would then be ſuffi⯑ciently recovered to join him at the parlour grate. With this anſwer Lorenzo was obliged to retire, unſatisfied, and trembling for his ſiſter's ſafety.

He returned the next morning at an early hour. "Agnes was worſe; the phyſi⯑cian had pronounced her to be in imminent danger; ſhe was ordered to remain quiet, and it was utterly impoſſible for her to re⯑ceive her brother's viſit." Lorenzo ſtormed at this anſwer, but there was no reſource. He raved, he entreated, he threatened; no means were left untried to obtain a fight of Agnes. His endeavours were as fruitleſs as thoſe of the day before, and he returned in [154] deſpair to the marquis. On his ſide, the latter had ſpared no pains to diſcover what had occaſioned his plot to fail. Don Chriſ⯑toval, to whom the affair was now entruſt⯑ed, endeavoured to worm out the ſecret from the old portereſs of St. Clare, with whom he had formed an acquaintance; but ſhe was too much upon her guard, and he gained from her no intelligence. The marquis was almoſt diſtracted, and Lorenzo felt ſcarcely leſs inquietude. Both were convinced that the purpoſed elopement muſt have been diſcovered: they doubted not but the malady of Agnes was a pre⯑tence, but they knew not by what means to reſcue her from the hands of the pri⯑oreſs.

Regularly every day did Lorenzo viſit the convent: as regularly was he informed that his ſiſter rather grew worſe than bet⯑ter. Certain that her indiſpoſition was feigned, theſe accounts did not alarm him: but his ignorance of her fate, and of the motives which induced the prioreſs to keep [155] her from him, excited the moſt ſerious un⯑eaſineſs. He was ſtill uncertain what ſteps he ought to take, when the marquis receiv⯑ed a letter from the cardinal-duke of Ler⯑ma. It incloſed the pope's expected bull, ordering that Agnes ſhould be releaſed from her vows, and reſtored to her rela⯑tions. This eſſential paper decided at once the proceedings of her friends; they reſolved that Lorenzo ſhould carry it to the domina without delay, and demand that his ſiſter ſhould be inſtantly given up to him. Againſt this mandate illneſs could not be pleaded: it gave her brother the power of removing her inſtantly to the palace de Medina, and he determined to uſe that power on the following day.

His mind relieved from inquietude re⯑ſpecting his ſiſter, and his ſpirits raiſed by the hope of ſoon reſtoring her to freedom, he now had time to give a few moments to love and to Antonia. At the ſame hour as on his former viſit, he repaired to Donna Elvira's. She had given orders for his ad⯑miſſion. [156] As ſoon as he was announced, her daughter retired with Leonella; and when he entered the chamber, he found the lady of the houſe alone. She received him with leſs diſtance than before, and deſired him to place himſelf near her upon the ſopha. She then, without loſing time, opened her bu⯑ſineſs, as had been agreed between herſelf and Antonia.

"You muſt not think me ungrateful, Don Lorenzo, or forgetful how eſſential are the ſervices which you have rendered me with the marquis. I feel the weight of my obligations: nothing under the ſun ſhould induce my taking the ſtep to which I am now compelled, but the intereſt of my child, of my beloved Antonia. My health is declining; God only knows how ſoon I may be ſummoned before his throne. My daughter will be left without parents, and, ſhould ſhe loſe the protection of the Ciſ⯑ternas family, without friends. She is young and artleſs, uninſtructed in the world's per⯑fidy, and with charms ſufficient to render [157] her an object of ſeduction. Judge then how I muſt tremble at the proſpect before her! Judge, how anxious I muſt be to keep her from their ſociety, who may excite the yet dormant paſſions of her boſom. You are amiable, Don Lorenzo; Antonia has a ſuſceptible, a loving heart, and is grateful for the favours conferred upon us by your interference with the marquis. Your pre⯑ſence makes me tremble: I fear leſt it ſhould inſpire her with ſentiments which may embitter the remainder of her life, or encourage her to cheriſh hopes in her ſitu⯑ation unjuſtifiable and futile. Pardon me, when I avow my terrors, and let my frank⯑neſs plead in my excuſe. I cannot forbid you my houſe, for gratitude reſtrains me; I can only throw myſelf upon your genero⯑ſity, and entreat you to ſpare the feelings of an anxious, of a doting mother. Believe me, when I aſſure you, that I lament the neceſſity of rejecting your acquaintance; but there is no remedy, and Antonia's in⯑tereſt obliges me to beg you to forbear your [158] viſits. By complying with my requeſt, you will increaſe the eſteem which I already feel for you, and of which every thing convinces me that you are truly deſerv⯑ing."

"Your frankneſs charms me," replied Lorenzo: "You ſhall find, that in your favourable opinion of me you were not de⯑ceived; yet I hope that the reaſons now in my power to allege, will perſuade you to withdraw a requeſt which I cannot obey without infinite reluctance. I love your daughter, love her moſt ſincerely; I wiſh for no greater happineſs than to inſpire her with the ſame ſentiments, and receive her hand at the altar as her huſband. 'Tis true I am not rich myſelf, my father's death has left me but little in my own poſſeſſion; but my expectations juſtify my pretending to the Condé de las Ciſternas' daughter."

He was proceeding, but Elvira interrupt⯑ed him——

"Ah! Don Lorenzo, you forget in that pompous title the meanneſs of my origin. [159] You forget that I have now paſſed fourteen years in Spain, diſavowed by my huſband's family, and exiſting upon a ſtipend barely ſufficient for the ſupport and education of my daughter. Nay, I have even been neglected by moſt of my own relations, who out of en⯑vy affect to doubt the reality of my marriage. My allowance being diſcontinued at my father-in-law's death, I was reduced to the very brink of want. In this ſituation I was found by my ſiſter, who, amongſt all her foibles, poſſeſſes a warm, generous, and af⯑fectionate heart. She aided me with the little fortune which my father left her, perſuaded me to viſit Madrid, and has ſup⯑ported my child and myſelf ſince our quit⯑ting Murcia. Then, conſider not Antonia as deſcended from the Condé de las Ciſter⯑nas; conſider her as a poor and unprotected orphan, as the grand-child of the tradeſman Torribio Dalfa, as the needy penſioner of that tradeſman's daughter. Reflect upon the difference between ſuch a ſituation and that of the nephew and heir of the potent [160] duke of Medina. I believe your intentions to be honourable; but as there are no hopes that your uncle will approve of the union, I foreſee that the conſequences of your at⯑tachment muſt be fatal to my child's re⯑poſe."

"Pardon me, Segnora; you are miſin⯑formed if you ſuppoſe the duke of Medina to reſemble the generality of men. His ſentiments are liberal and diſintereſted; he loves me well, and I have no reaſon to dread his forbidding the marriage, when he perceives that my happineſs depends upon Antonia. But ſuppoſing him to refuſe his ſanction, what have I ſtill to fear? My pa⯑rents are no more; my little fortune is in my own poſſeſſion; it will be ſufficient to ſupport Antonia, and I ſhall exchange for her hand Medina's dukedom without one ſigh of regret."

"You are young and eager; it is natural for you to entertain ſuch ideas. But expe⯑rience has taught me to my coſt, that curſes accompany an unequal alliance. I married [161] the Condé de las Ciſternas in oppoſition to the will of his relations; many an heart-pang has puniſhed me for the imprudent ſtep. Wherever we bent our courſe, a fa⯑ther's execration purſued Gonzalvo. Po⯑verty overtook us, and no friend was near to relieve our wants. Still our mutual af⯑fection exiſted, but, alas! not without inter⯑ruption. Accuſtomed to wealth and eaſe, ill could my huſband ſupport the tranſition to diſtreſs and indigence. He looked back with repining to the comforts which he once enjoyed. He regretted the ſituation which for my ſake he had quitted; and, in moments when deſpair poſſeſſed his mind, has reproached me with having made him the companion of want and wretchedneſs. He has called me his bane! the ſource of his ſorrows, the cauſe of his deſtruction! Ah! God! he little knew how much keener were my own heart's reproaches! He was ig⯑norant that I ſuffered trebly, for myſelf, for my children, and for him! 'Tis true that [162] his anger ſeldom laſted long: his ſincere af⯑fection for me ſoon revived in his heart, and then his repentance for the tears which he had made me ſhed, tortured me even more than his reproaches. He would throw himſelf on the ground, implore my forgiveneſs in the moſt frantic terms, and load himſelf with curſes for being the mur⯑derer of my repoſe. Taught by experience, that an union contracted againſt the incli⯑nations of families on either ſide muſt be unfortunate, I will ſave my daughter from thoſe miſeries which I have ſuffered. With⯑out your uncle's conſent, while I live, ſhe never ſhall be yours. Undoubtedly he will diſapprove of the union; his power is im⯑menſe, and Antonia ſhall not be expoſed to his anger and perſecution."

"His perſecution? How eaſily may that be avoided! Let the worſt happen, it is but quitting Spain. My wealth may eaſily be realiſed. The Indian iſlands will offer us a ſecure retreat. I have an eſtate, though [163] not of value, in Hiſpaniola: thither will we ſly, and I ſhall conſider it to be my native country, if it gives me Antonia's undiſturbed poſſeſſion."

"Ah! youth, this is a fond, romantic viſion. Gonzalvo thought the ſame. He fancied that he could leave Spain without regret; but the moment of parting unde⯑ceived him. You know not yet what it is to quit your native land: to quit it, never to behold it more! You know not what it is to exchange the ſcenes where you have paſſed your infancy, for unknown realms and barbarous climates!—to be forgotten, utterly, eternally forgotten by the compa⯑nions of your youth!—to ſee your deareſt friends, the fondeſt objects of your affection, periſhing with diſeaſes incidental to Indian atmoſpheres, and find yourſelf unable to procure for them neceſſary aſſiſtance! I have felt all this! My huſband and two ſweet babes found their graves in Cuba: nothing would have ſaved my young An⯑tonia, but my ſudden return to Spain. Ah! [164] Don Lorenzo, could you conceive what I ſuffered during my abſence! Could you know how ſorely I regretted all that I left behind, and how dear to me was the very name of Spain! I envied the winds which blew towards it: and when the Spaniſh ſailor chaunted ſome well-known air as he paſſed my window, tears filled my eyes, while I thought upon my native land. Gon⯑zalvo too—my huſband—"

Elvira pauſed. Her voice faltered, and ſhe concealed her face with her handker⯑chief. After a ſhort ſilence ſhe roſe from the ſopha, and proceeded—

"Excuſe my quitting you for a few mo⯑ments: the remembrance of what I have ſuffered has much agitated me, and I need to be alone. Till I return, peruſe theſe lines. After my huſband's death I found them among his papers. Had I known ſooner that he entertained ſuch ſentiments, grief would have killed me. He wrote theſe verſes on his voyage to Cuba, when his mind was clouded by ſorrow, and he forgot that [165] he had a wife and children. What we are loſing ever ſeems to us the moſt precious. Gonzalvo was quitting Spain for ever, and therefore was Spain dearer to his eyes than all elſe which the world contained. Read them, Don Lorenzo, they will give you ſome idea of the feelings of a baniſhed man."

Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo's hand, and retired from the chamber. The youth examined the contents, and found them to be as follows:

Lorenzo had ſcarcely time to read theſe lines, when Elvira returned to him: the giving a free courſe to her tears had relieved her, and her ſpirits had regained their uſual compoſure.

"I have nothing more to ſay, my lord," ſaid ſhe; "you have heard my apprehen⯑ſions, and my reaſons for begging you not to repeat your viſits. I have thrown myſelf in full confidence upon your honour. I am certain that you will not prove my opinion of you to have been too favourable."

"But one queſtion more, Segnora, and I leave you. Should the duke of Medina [169] approve my love, would my addreſſes be unacceptable to yourſelf and the fair An⯑tonia?"

"I will be open with you, Don Lorenzo: there being little probability of ſuch an union taking place, I fear that it is deſired but too ardently by my daughter. You have made an impreſſion upon her young heart which gives me the moſt ſerious alarm: to prevent that impreſſion from growing ſtronger; I am obliged to decline your ac⯑quaintance. For me, you may be ſure that I ſhould rejoice at eſtabliſhing my child ſo advantageouſly. Conſcious that my conſti⯑tution, impaired by grief and illneſs, forbids me to expect a long continuance in this world, I tremble at the thought of leaving her under the protection of a perfect ſtranger. The marquis de las Ciſternas is totally un⯑known to me. He will marry: his lady may look upon Antonia with an eye of diſ⯑pleaſure, and deprive her of her only friend. Should the duke, your uncle, give his con⯑ſent, [170] you need not doubt obtaining mine and my daughter's; but, without his, hope not for ours. At all events, whatever ſteps you may take, whatever may be the duke's deciſion, till you know it, let me beg your forbearing to ſtrengthen, by your preſence, Antonia's prepoſſeſſion. If the ſanction of your relations authoriſes your addreſſing her as your wife, my doors fly open to you. If that ſanction is refuſed, be ſatisfied to poſſeſs my eſteem and gratitude, but re⯑member that we muſt meet no more."

Lorenzo promiſed reluctantly to conform to this decree: but he added, that he hoped ſoon to obtain that conſent, which would give him a claim to the renewal of their ac⯑quaintance. He then explained to her why the marquis had not called in perſon; and made no ſcruple of confiding to her his ſiſter's hiſtory. He concluded by ſaying, "that he hoped to ſet Agnes at liberty the next day; and that, as ſoon as Don Ray⯑mond's fears were quieted upon this ſubject, [171] he would loſe no time in aſſuring Donna Elvira of his friendſhip and protection."

The lady ſhook her head.

"I tremble for your ſiſter," ſaid ſhe; "I have heard many traits of the domina of St. Clare's character from a friend who was educated in the ſame convent with her: ſhe reported her to be haughty, inflexible, ſu⯑perſtitious, and revengeful. I have ſince heard, that ſhe is infatuated with the idea of rendering her convent the moſt regular in Madrid, and never forgave thoſe whoſe im⯑prudence threw upon it the ſlighted ſtain. Though naturally violent and ſevere, when her intereſts require it, ſhe well knows how to aſſume an appearance of benignity. She leaves no means untried to perſuade young women of rank to become members of her community: ſhe is implacable when once incenſed, and has too much intrepidity to ſhrink at taking the moſt rigorous meaſures for puniſhing the offender. Doubtleſs, ſhe will conſider your ſiſter's quitting the con⯑vent [172] as a diſgrace thrown upon it: ſhe will uſe every artifice to avoid obeying the man⯑date of his holineſs; and I ſhudder to think that Donna Agnes is in the hands of this dangerous woman."

Lorenzo now roſe to take leave. Elvira gave him her hand at parting, which he kiſſed reſpectfully; and, telling her that he ſoon hoped for the permiſſion to ſalute that of Antonia, he returned to his hotel. The lady was perfectly ſatisfied with the conver⯑ſation which had paſſed between them: ſhe looked forward with ſatisfaction to the pro⯑ſpect of his becoming her ſon-in-law; but prudence bade her conceal from her daugh⯑ter's knowledge the flattering hopes which herſelf now ventured to entertain.

Scarcely was it day, and already Lorenzo was at the convent of St. Clare, furniſhed with the neceſſary mandate. The nuns were at matins. He waited impatiently for the concluſion of the ſervice; and at length the prioreſs appeared at the parlour-grate. Ag⯑nes [173] was demanded. The old lady replied with a melancholy air, that the dear child's ſituation grew hourly more dangerous: that the phyſicians deſpaired of her life; but that they had declared the only chance for her recovery to conſiſt in keeping her quiet, and not to permit thoſe to approach her whoſe preſence was likely to agitate her. Not a word of all this was believed by Lorenzo, any more than he credited the expreſſions of grief and affection for Agnes with which this account was interlarded. To end the buſineſs, he put the pope's bull into the hands of the domina, and inſiſted that, ill or in health, his ſiſter ſhould be delivered to him without delay.

The prioreſs received the paper with an air of humility; but no ſooner had her eye glanced over the contents than her reſent⯑ment baffled all the efforts of hypocriſy. A deep crimſon ſpread itſelf over her face, and ſhe darted upon Lorenzo looks of rage and menace.

"This order is poſitive," ſaid ſhe, in a [174] voice of anger, which ſhe in vain ſtrove to diſguiſe: "willingly would I obey it, but, unfortunately, it is out of my power."

Lorenzo interrupted her by an exclama⯑tion of ſurpriſe.

"I repeat it, Segnor, to obey this order is totally out of my power. From tender⯑neſs to a brother's feelings, I would have communicated the ſad event to you by de⯑grees, and have prepared you to hear it with fortitude. My meaſures are broken through: this order commands me to deliver up to you the ſiſter Agnes without delay; I am, therefore, obliged to inform you, without circumlocution, that on Friday laſt ſhe ex⯑pired."

Lorenzo ſtarted back with horror, and turned pale. A moment's recollection con⯑vinced him that this aſſertion muſt be falſe, and it reſtored him to himſelf.

"You deceive me!" ſaid he, paſſionately: "but five minutes paſt you aſſured me that, though ill, ſhe was ſtill alive. Pro⯑duce her this inſtant! See her I muſt and [175] will; and every attempt to keep her from me will be unavailing."

"You forget yourſelf, Segnor: you owe reſpect to my age as well as my profeſſion. Your ſiſter is no more. If I at firſt con⯑cealed her death, it was from dreading leſt an event ſo unexpected ſhould produce on you too violent an effect. In truth, I am but ill repaid for my attention. And what intereſt, I pray you, ſhould I have in de⯑taining her? To know her wiſh of quitting our ſociety is a ſufficient reaſon for me to wiſh her abſence, and think her a diſgrace to the ſiſterhood of St. Clare: but ſhe has forfeited my affection in a manner yet more culpable. Her crimes were great; and when you know the cauſe of her death, you will doubtleſs rejoice, Don Lorenzo, that ſuch a wretch is no longer in exiſtence. She was taken ill on Thurſday laſt on returning from confeſſion in the Capuchin chapel: her malady ſeemed attended with ſtrange circumſtances; but ſhe perſiſted in con⯑cealing its cauſe. Thanks to the Virgin, [176] we were too ignorant to ſuſpect it! Judge then what muſt have been our conſternation, our horror, when ſhe was delivered the next day of a ſtill-born child, whom ſhe imme⯑diately followed to the grave. How, Seg⯑nor? Is it poſſible that your countenance expreſſes no ſurpriſe, no indignation? Is it poſſible that your ſiſter's infamy was known to you, and that ſtill ſhe poſſeſſed your af⯑fection? In that caſe, you have no need of my compaſſion. I can ſay nothing more, except repeat my inability of obeying the orders of his holineſs. Agnes is no more; and, to convince you that what I ſay is true, I ſwear by our bleſſed Saviour, that three days have paſſed ſince ſhe was buried."

Here ſhe kiſſed a ſmall crucifix which hung at her girdle: ſhe then roſe from her chair, and quitted the parlour. As ſhe with⯑drew ſhe caſt upon Lorenzo a ſcornful ſmile.

"Farewell, Segnor," ſaid ſhe; "I know no remedy for this accident. I fear that even a ſecond bull from the pope will not procure your ſiſter's reſurrection."

[177]Lorenzo alſo retired, penetrated with af⯑fliction: but Don Raymond's, at the news of this event, amounted to madneſs: he would not be convinced that Agnes was really dead; and continued to inſiſt that the walls of St. Clare ſtill confined her. No arguments could make him abandon his hopes of regaining her. Every day ſome freſh ſcheme was invented for procuring in⯑telligence of her, and all of them were at⯑tended with the ſame ſucceſs.

On his part, Medina gave up the idea of ever ſeeing his ſiſter more; yet he believed that ſhe had been taken off by unfair means. Under this perſuaſion, he encouraged Don Raymond's reſearches, determined, ſhould he diſcover the leaſt warrant for his ſuſpi⯑cions, to take a ſevere vengeance upon the unfeeling prioreſs. The loſs of his ſiſter af⯑fected him ſincerely: nor was it the leaſt cauſe of his diſtreſs, that propriety obliged him for ſome time to defer mentioning An⯑tonia to the duke. In the mean while, his emiſſaries conſtantly ſurrounded Elvira's [178] door. He had intelligence of all the move⯑ments of his miſtreſs. As ſhe never failed every Thurſday to attend the ſermon in the Capuchin cathedral, he was ſecure of ſeeing her once a week; though, in compliance with his promiſe, he carefully ſhunned her obſervation. Thus two long months paſſed away. Still no information was procured of Agnes. All but the marquis credited her death: and now Lorenzo determined to diſcloſe his ſentiments to his uncle: he had already dropped ſome hints of his in⯑tention to marry: they had been as favour⯑ably received as he could expert; and he harboured no doubt of the ſucceſs of his application.

CHAP. VI.

THE burſt of tranſport was paſſed: Am⯑broſio's luſt was ſatisfied. Pleaſure fled, and Shame uſurped her ſeat in his boſom. Con⯑fuſed and terrified at his weakneſs, he drew himſelf from Matilda's arms: his perjury preſented itſelf before him: he reflected on the ſcene which had juſt been acted, and trembled at the conſequences of a diſcovery: he looked forward with horror: his heart was deſpondent, and became the abode of ſatiety and diſguſt: he avoided the eyes of his partner in frailty. A melancholy ſilence prevailed, during which both ſeemed buſied with diſagreeable reflections.

[180]Matilda was the firſt to break it. She took his hand gently, and preſſed it to her burning lips.

"Ambroſio!" ſhe murmured, in a ſoft and trembling voice.

The abbot ſtarted at the ſound: he turned his eyes upon Matilda's; they were filled with tears; her cheeks were covered with bluſhes, and her ſupplicating looks ſeemed to ſolicit his compaſſion.

"Dangerous woman!" ſaid he; "into what an abyſs of miſery have you plunged me! Should your ſex be diſcovered, my honour, nay, my life, muſt pay for the pleaſure of a few moments. Fool that I was, to truſt myſelf to your ſeductions! What can now be done? How can my offence be expiated? What atonement can purchaſe the pardon of my crime? Wretched Matilda, you have deſtroyed my quiet for ever!"

"To me theſe reproaches, Ambroſio? to me, who have ſacrificed for you the world's pleaſures, the luxury of wealth, the [181] delicacy of ſex, my friends, my fortune, and my fame? What have you loſt which I preſerved? Have I not ſhared in your guilt? Have you not ſhared in my pleaſure? Guilt, did I ſay? In what conſiſts ours, un⯑leſs in the opinion of an ill judging world? Let that world be ignorant of them, and our joys become divine and blameleſs! Un⯑natural were your vows of celibacy; man was not created for ſuch a ſtate: and were love a crime, God never would have made it ſo ſweet, ſo irreſiſtible! Then baniſh thoſe clouds from your brow, my Ambroſio. Indulge in thoſe pleaſures freely, without which life is a worthleſs gift. Ceaſe to re⯑proach me with having taught you what is bliſs, and feel equal tranſports with the woman who adores you!"

As ſhe ſpoke, her eyes were filled with a delicious languor: her boſom panted: ſhe twined her arms voluptuouſly round him, drew him towards her, and glued her lips to his. Ambroſio again raged with deſire: the die was thrown: his vows were already [182] broken: he had already committed the crime, and why ſhould he refrain from enjoying its reward? He claſped her to his breaſt with redoubled ardour. No longer repreſſed by the ſenſe of ſhame, he gave a looſe to his intemperate appetites; while the fair wanton put every invention of luſt in practice, every refinement in the art of pleaſure, which might heighten the bliſs of her poſſeſſion, and render her lover's tranſports ſtill more exquiſite. Ambroſio rioted in delights till then unknown to him. Swift fled the night, and the morning bluſhed to behold him ſtill claſped in the embraces of Matilda.

Intoxicated with pleaſure, the monk roſe from the ſyren's luxurious couch: he no longer reflected with ſhame upon his inconti⯑nence, or dreaded the vengeance of offended heaven: his only fear was leſt death ſhould rob him of enjoyments, for which his long faſt had only given a keener edge to his ap⯑petite. Matilda was ſtill under the influ⯑ence of poiſon; and the voluptuous monk trembled leſs for his preſerver's life than his [183] concubine's. Deprived of her, he would not eaſily find another miſtreſs with whom he could indulge his paſſions ſo fully, and ſo ſafely; he therefore preſſed her with earneſtneſs to uſe the means of preſervation which ſhe had declared to be in her poſ⯑ſeſſion.

"Yes!" replied Matilda; "ſince you have made me feel that life is valuable, I will reſcue mine at any rate. No dangers ſhall appal me: I will look upon the conſequences of my action boldly, nor ſhudder at the hor⯑rors which they preſent: I will think my ſacrifice ſcarcely worthy to purchaſe your poſſeſſion; and remember, that a moment paſſed in your arms in this world, o'erpays an age of puniſhment in the next. But be⯑fore I take this ſtep, Ambroſio, give me your ſolemn oath never to enquire by what means I ſhall preſerve myſelf."

He did ſo, in a manner the moſt bind⯑ing.

"I thank you, my beloved. This pre⯑caution is neceſſary; for, though you know [184] it not, you are under the command of vul⯑gar prejudices. The buſineſs on which I muſt be employed this night might ſtartle you, from its ſingularity, and lower me in your opinion. Tell me, are you poſſeſſed of the key of the low door on the weſtern ſide of the garden?"

"The door which opens into the bury⯑ing-ground common to us and the ſiſter⯑hood of St. Clare? I have not the key, but can eaſily procure it."

"You have only this to do. Admit me into the burying-ground at midnight. Watch while I deſcend into the vaults of St. Clare, leſt ſome prying eye ſhould ob⯑ſerve my actions. Leave me there alone for an hour, and that life is ſafe which I de⯑dicate to your pleaſures. To prevent cre⯑ating ſuſpicion, do not viſit me during the day. Remember the key, and that I expect you before twelve. Hark! I hear ſteps ap⯑proaching! Leave me; I will pretend to ſleep."

The friar obeyed, and left the cell. As [185] he opened the door, father Pablos made his appearance.

"I come," ſaid the latter, "to enquire after the health of my young patient."

"Huſh!" replied Ambroſio, laying his finger upon his lip; "ſpeak ſoftly; I am juſt come from him: he has fallen into a profound ſlumber, which doubtleſs will be of ſervice to him. Do not diſturb him at preſent, for he wiſhes to repoſe."

Father Pablos obeyed, and, hearing the bell ring, accompanied the abbot to matins. Ambroſio felt embarraſſed as he entered the chapel. Guilt was new to him, and he fancied that every eye could read the tranſ⯑actions of the night upon his countenance. He ſtrove to pray: his boſom no longer glowed with devotion: his thoughts inſen⯑ſibly wandered to Matilda's ſecret charms. [...]ut what he wanted in purity of heart, he [...]upplied by exterior ſanctity. The better [...] cloak his tranſgreſſion, he redoubled [...]is pretenſions to the ſemblance of virtue, [...]d ever appeared more devoted to heaven [186] than ſince he had broken through his engage⯑ments. Thus did he unconſciouſly add hy⯑pocriſy to perjury and incontinence: he had fallen into the latter errors from yielding to ſeduction almoſt irreſiſtible; but he was now guilty of a voluntary fault, by endeavouring to conceal thoſe into which another had be⯑trayed him.

The matins concluded, Ambroſio retired to his cell. The pleaſures which he had juſt taſted for the firſt time were ſtill im⯑preſſed upon his mind: his brain was be⯑wildered, and preſented a confuſed chaos of remorſe, voluptuouſneſs, inquietude, and fear: he looked back with regret to that peace of ſoul, that ſecurity of virtue, which till then had been his portion: he had in⯑dulged in exceſſes whoſe very idea, but four-and-twenty hours before, he had recoiled [...] with horror: he ſhuddered at reflecting tha [...] a trifling indiſcretion on his part, or on Ma⯑tilda's, would overturn that fabric of repu⯑tation which it had coſt him thirty years [...] erect, and render him the abhorrence of th [...] [187] people of whom he was then the idol. Con⯑ſcience painted to him in glaring colours his perjury, and weakneſs; apprehenſion magni⯑fied to him the honors of puniſhment, and he already fancied himſelf in the priſons of the Inquiſition. To theſe tormenting ideas ſucceeded Matilda's beauty, and thoſe de⯑licious leſſons, which once learnt can never be forgotten. A ſingle glance thrown upon theſe reconciled him with himſelf: he con⯑ſidered the pleaſures of the former night to have been purchaſed at an eaſy price by the ſacrifice of innocence and honour. Their very remembrance filled his ſoul with ec⯑ſtacy: he curſed his fooliſh vanity, which [...]ad induced him to waſte in obſcurity the [...]loom of life, ignorant of the bleſſings of [...]re and woman: he determined, at all [...]ents, to continue his commerce with Ma⯑ [...]da, and called every argument to his aid [...]hich might confirm his reſolution: he [...]ed himſelf, provided his irregularity was [...]known, in what would his fault conſiſt, [...]d what conſequences he had to apprehend? [188] By adhering ſtrictly to every rule of his or⯑der ſave chaſtity, he doubted not to retain the eſteem of men, and even the protection of heaven: he truſted eaſily to be forgiven ſo ſlight and natural a deviation from his vows; but he forgot that, having pronounced thoſe vows, incontinence, in laymen the moſt venial of errors, became in his perſon the moſt heinous of crimes.

Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind became more eaſy: he threw him⯑ſelf upon his bed, and ſtrove by ſleeping to recruit his ſtrength, exhauſted by his noc⯑turnal exceſſes. He awoke refreſhed, an [...] eager for a repetition of his pleaſures. Obe⯑dient to Matilda's order, he viſited not h [...] cell during the day. Father Pablos me [...] ⯑tioned in the reſectory, that Roſario had [...] length been prevailed upon to follow his pr [...] ⯑ſcription; but that the medicine had [...] produced the ſlighteſt effect, and that he b [...] ⯑lieved no mortal ſkill could reſcue him fr [...] the grave. With this opinion the [...] agreed, and affected to lament the untim [...] [189] fate of a youth whoſe talents had appeared ſo promiſing.

The night arrived. Ambroſio had taken care to procure from the porter the key of the low door opening into the cemetery. Furniſhed with this, when all was ſilent in the monaſtery, he quitted his cell, and haſ⯑tened to Matilda's. She had left her bed, and was dreſſed before his arrival.

"I have been expecting you with impa⯑tience," ſaid ſhe; "my life depends upon theſe moments. Have you the key?"

"I have."

"Away then to the garden. We have no time to loſe. Follow me!"

She took a ſmall covered baſket from the table. Bearing this in one hand, and the lamp, which was flaming upon the hearth, in the other, ſhe haſtened from the cell. Ambroſio followed her. Both maintained [...] profound ſilence. She moved on with quick but cautious ſteps, paſſed through the cloiſters, and reached the weſtern ſide of the [...]arden; her eyes flaſhed with a fire and [190] wildneſs which impreſſed the monk at once with awe and horror. A determined deſ⯑perate courage reigned upon her brow: ſhe gave the lamp to Ambroſio; then taking from him the key, ſhe unlocked the low door, and entered the cemetery. It was a vaſt and ſpacious ſquare, planted with yew-trees; half of it belonged to the abbey, the other half was the property of the ſiſterhood of St. Clare, and was protected by a roof of ſtone: the diviſion was marked by an iron railing, the wicket of which was gene⯑rally left unlocked.

Thither Matilda bent her courſe: ſhe opened the wicket, and ſought for the door leading to the ſubterraneous vaults where re⯑poſed the mouldering bodies of the votaries of St. Clare. The night was perfectly dark▪ neither moon nor ſtars were viſible. Luckily there was not a breath of wind, and the fria [...] bore his lamp in full ſecurity: by the aſſiſt⯑ance of its beams, the door of the ſepulchr [...] was ſoon diſcovered. It was ſunk within th [...] hollow of a wall, and almoſt concealed [...] [191] thick feſtoons of ivy hanging over it. Three ſteps of rough-hewn ſtone conducted to it, and Matilda was on the point of deſcend⯑ing them, when ſhe ſuddenly ſtarted back.

"There are people in the vaults!" ſhe whiſpered to the monk; "conceal yourſelf till they are paſſed."

She took refuge behind a lofty and mag⯑nificent tomb, erected in honour of the con⯑vent's foundreſs. Ambroſio followed her example, carefully hiding his lamp, leſt its beams ſhould betray them. But a few mo⯑ments had elapſed when the door was puſhed open leading to the ſubterraneous caverns. Rays of light proceeded up the ſtair-caſe: they enabled the concealed ſpectators to ob⯑ſerve two females dreſſed in religious habits, who ſeemed engaged in earneſt converſation. The abbot had no difficulty to recognize the prioreſs of St. Clare in the firſt, and one of the elder nuns in her companion.

"Every thing is prepared," ſaid the prio⯑reſs: "her-fate ſhall be decided to-morrow; all her tears and ſighs will be unavailing. [192] No! In five-and-twenty years that I have been ſuperior of this convent, never did I witneſs a tranſaction more infamous!"

"You muſt expect much oppoſition to your will," the other replied in a milder voice: "Agnes has many friends in the convent, and in particular the mother St. Urſula will eſpouſe her cauſe moſt warmly. In truth, ſhe merits to have friends; and I wiſh I could prevail upon you to conſider her youth, and her peculiar ſituation. She ſeems ſenſible of her fault; the exceſs of her grief proves her penitence, and I am convinced that her tears flow more from contrition than fear of puniſhment. Reve⯑rend mother, would you be perſuaded to mitigate the ſeverity of your ſentence; would you but deign to overlook this firſt tranſgreſſion; I offer myſelf as the pledge of her future conduct."

"Overlook it, ſay you? Mother Camil⯑la, you amaze me! What? after diſgracing me in the preſence of Madrid's idol, of the very man on whom I moſt wiſhed to im⯑preſs [193] an idea of the ſtrictneſs of my diſci⯑pline? How deſpicable muſt I have appeared to the reverend abbot! No, mother, no! I never can forgive the inſult. I cannot bet⯑ter convince Ambroſio that I abhor ſuch crimes, than by puniſhing that of Agnes with all the rigour of which our ſevere laws admit. Ceaſe then your ſupplications, they will all be unavailing. My reſolution is taken. To-morrow Agnes ſhall be made a terrible example of my juſtice and reſent⯑ment."

The mother Camilla ſeemed not to give up the point, but by this time the nuns were out of hearing. The prioreſs unlock⯑ed the door which communicated with St. Clare's chapel, and having entered with her companion, cloſed it again after them.

Matilda now aſked, who was this Agnes with whom the prioreſs was thus incenſed, and what connexion ſhe could have with Ambroſio. He related her adventure; and he added, that ſince that time his ideas having undergone a thorough revolution, [194] he now felt much compaſſion for the unfor⯑tunate nun.

"I deſign," ſaid he, "to requeſt an au⯑dience of the domina to-morrow, and uſe every means of obtaining a mitigation of her ſentence."

"Beware of what you do," interrupted Matilda; "your ſudden change of ſenti⯑ment may naturally create ſurpriſe, and may give birth to ſuſpicions which it is moſt our intereſt to avoid. Rather redouble your outward auſterity, and thunder out menaces againſt the errors of others, the better to conceal your own. Abandon the nun to her fate. Your interfering might be dangerous, and her imprudence merits to be puniſhed: ſhe is unworthy to enjoy love's pleaſures, who has not wit enough to conceal them. But in diſcuſſing this tri⯑fling ſubject, I waſte moments which are precious. The night flies apace, and much muſt be done before morning. The nuns are retired, all is ſafe. Give me the lamp, Ambroſio, I muſt deſcend alone into theſe [195] caverns: wait here, and if any one ap⯑proaches warn me by your voice; but as you value your exiſtence, preſume not to follow me, your life would fall a victim to your imprudent curioſity."

Thus ſaying, ſhe advanced towards the ſepulchre, ſtill holding her lamp in one hand, and her little baſket in the other. She touched the door, it turned ſlowly upon its grating hinges, and a narrow wind⯑ing ſtair-caſe of black marble preſented it⯑ſelf to her eyes. She deſcended it; Ambro⯑ſio remained above, watching the faint beams of the lamp, as they ſtill receded down the ſtairs. They diſappeared, and he found himſelf in total darkneſs.

Left to himſelf, he could not reflect without ſurpriſe on the ſudden change in Matilda's character and ſentiments. But a few days had paſſed, ſince ſhe appeared the mildeſt and ſofteſt of her ſex, devoted to his will, and looking up to him as to a ſupe⯑rior being. Now ſhe aſſumed a ſort of cou⯑rage and manlineſs in her manners and diſ⯑courſe, [196] but ill calculated to pleaſe him. She ſpoke no longer to inſinuate, but com⯑mand: he found himſelf unable to cope with her in argument, and was unwillingly obliged to confeſs the ſuperiority of her judgment. Every moment convinced him of the aſtoniſhing powers of her mind; but what ſhe gained in the opinion of the man, ſhe loſt with intereſt in the affection of the lover. He regretted Roſario, the fond, the gentle, and ſubmiſſive; he grieved that Ma⯑tilda preferred the virtues of his ſex to thoſe of her own; and when he thought of her expreſſions reſpecting the devoted nun, he could not help blaming them as cruel and unfeminine. Pity is a ſentiment ſo na⯑tural, ſo appropriate to the female charac⯑ter, that it is ſcarcely a merit for a woman to poſſeſs it, but to be without it is a griev⯑ous crime. Ambroſio could not eaſily for⯑give his miſtreſs for being deficient in this amiable quality. However, though he blamed her inſenſibility, he felt the truth of her obſervations; and though he pitied ſin⯑cerely [197] the unfortunate Agnes, he reſolved to drop the idea of interpoſing in her be⯑half.

Near an hour had elapſed ſince Matilda deſcended into the caverns; ſtill ſhe return⯑ed not. Ambroſio's curioſity was excited. He drew near the ſtair-caſe—he liſtened—all was ſilent, except that at intervals he caught the ſound of Matilda's voice, as it wound along the ſubteraneous paſſages, and was re⯑echoed by the ſepulchre's vaulted roofs. She was at too great a diſtance for him to diſtinguiſh her words, and ere they reached him, they were deadened into a low mur⯑mur. He longed to penetrate into this myſtery. He reſolved to diſobey her in⯑junctions, and follow her into the cavern. He advanced to the ſtair-caſe; he had al⯑ready deſcended ſome ſteps, when his cou⯑rage failed him. He remembered Matilda's menaces if he infringed her orders, and his boſom was filled with a ſecret unaccountable awe. He returned up the ſtairs, reſumed [198] his former ſtation, and waited impatiently for the concluſion of this adventure.

Suddenly he was ſenſible of a violent ſhock. An earthquake rocked the ground, the columns which ſupported the roof un⯑der which he ſtood; were ſo ſtrongly ſhaken, that every moment menaced him with its fall, and at the ſame moment he heard a loud and tremendous burſt of thunder; it ceaſed, and his eyes being fixed upon the ſtair-caſe, he ſaw a bright column of light flaſh along the caverns beneath. It was ſeen but for an inſtant. No ſooner did it diſappear, than all was once more quiet and obſcure. Profound darkneſs again ſur⯑rounded him, and the ſilence of night was only broken by the whirring bat as ſhe flit⯑ted ſlowly by him.

With every inſtant Ambroſio's amaze⯑ment increaſed. Another hour elapſed, after which the ſame light again appeared, and was loſt again as ſuddenly. It was ac⯑companied by a ſtrain of ſweet but ſolemn [199] muſic, which, as it ſtole through the vaults below, inſpired the monk with mingled de⯑light and terror. It had not long been huſhed, when he heard Matilda's ſteps upon the ſtair-caſe. She aſcended from the ca⯑vern; the moſt lively joy animated her beautiful features.

"Did you ſee any thing?" ſhe aſked.

"Twice I ſaw a column of light flaſh up the ſtair-caſe."

"Nothing elſe?"

"Nothing.

"The morning is on the point of break⯑ing, let us retire to the abbey, leſt day-light ſhould betray us."

With a light ſtep ſhe haſtened from the burying-ground. She regained her cell, and the curious abbot ſtill accompanied her. She cloſed the door, and diſembarraſſed herſelf of her lamp and baſket.

"I have ſucceeded!" ſhe cried, throw⯑ing herſelf upon his boſom; "ſucceeded beyond my fondeſt hopes! I ſhall live, Am⯑broſio, ſhall live for you! the ſtep, which [200] I ſhuddered at taking, proves to me a ſource of joys inexpreſſible! Oh! that I dared communicate thoſe joys to you! Oh! that I were permitted to ſhare with you my power, and raiſe you as high above the level of your ſex, as one bold deed has ex⯑alted me above mine!"

"And what prevents you, Matilda?" interrupted the friar, "Why is your bu⯑ſineſs in the cavern made a ſecret? Do you think me undeſerving of your confidence? Matilda, I muſt doubt the truth of your af⯑fection, while you have joys in which I am forbidden to ſhare."

"You reproach me with injuſtice; I grieve ſincerely that I am obliged to con⯑ceal from you my happineſs: but I am not to blame; the fault lies not in me, but in yourſelf, my Ambroſio. You are ſtill too much the monk, your mind is enſlaved by the prejudices of education; and ſuperſti⯑tion might make you ſhudder at the idea of that which experience has taught me to prize and value. At preſent you are unfit [201] to be truſted with a ſecret of ſuch impor⯑tance; but the ſtrength of your judgment, and the curioſity which I rejoice to ſee ſpark⯑ling in your eyes, makes me hope that you will one day deſerve my confidence. Till that period arrives, reſtrain your impatience. Remember that you have given me your ſolemn oath, never to enquire into this night's adventures. I inſiſt upon your keeping this oath; for, though," ſhe added ſmiling, while ſhe ſealed his lips with a wanton kiſs, "though I forgive your break⯑ing your vows to heaven, I expect you to keep your vows to me."

The friar returned the embrace, which had ſet his blood on fire. The luxurious and unbounded exceſſes of the former night were renewed, and they ſeparated not till the bell rang for matins.

The ſame pleaſures were frequently re⯑peated. The monks rejoiced in the feign⯑ed Roſario's unexpected recovery, and none of them ſuſpected his real ſex. The [202] abbot poſſeſſed his miſtreſs in tranquillity, and, perceiving his frailty unſuſpected, abandoned himſelf to his paſſions in full ſecurity. Shame and remorſe no longer tormented him. Frequent repetitions made him familiar with ſin, and his boſom became proof againſt the ſtings of conſcience. In theſe ſentiments he was encouraged by Matilda; but ſhe ſoon was aware that ſhe had ſatiated her lover by the unbounded freedom of her careſſes. Her charms be⯑coming accuſtomed to him, they ceaſed to excite the ſame deſires which at firſt they had inſpired. The delirium of paſſion being paſt, he had leiſure to obſerve every trifling defect; where none were to be found, ſatiety made him fancy them. The monk was glutted with the fullneſs of plea⯑ſure. A week had ſcarcely elapſed, before he was wearied of his paramour: his warm conſtitution ſtill made him ſeek in her arms the gratification of his luſt. But when the moment of paſſion was over, he quitted her [203] with diſguſt, and his humour, naturally in⯑conſtant, made him ſigh impatiently for variety.

Poſſeſſion, which cloys man, only in⯑creaſes the affection of women. Matilda with every ſucceeding day grew more at⯑tached to the friar. Since he had obtained her favours, he was become dearer to her than ever, and ſhe felt grateful to him for the pleaſures in which they had equally been ſharers. Unfortunately as her paſſion grew ardent, Ambroſio's grew cold; the very marks of her fondneſs excited his diſ⯑guſt, and its exceſs ſerved to extinguiſh the flame which already burned but feebly in his boſom. Matilda could not but remark that her ſociety ſeemed to him daily leſs agreeable; he was inattentive while ſhe ſpoke; her muſical talents, which ſhe poſ⯑ſeſſed in perfection, had loſt the power of amuſing him; or if he deigned to praiſe them, his compliments were evidently forced and cold. He no longer gazed upon her with affection, or applauded her ſenti⯑ments [204] with a lover's partiality. This Ma⯑tilda well perceived, and redoubled her ef⯑forts to revive thoſe ſentiments which he once had felt. She could not but fail, ſince he conſidered as importunities, the pains which ſhe took to pleaſe him, and was diſ⯑guſted by the very means which ſhe uſed to recall the wanderer. Still, however, their illicit commerce continued; but it was clear that he was led to her arms, not by love, but the cravings of brutal appetite. His con⯑ſtitution made a woman neceſſary to him, and Matilda was the only one with whom he could indulge his paſſions ſafely. In ſpite of her beauty, he gazed upon every other female with more deſire; but fearing that his hypocriſy ſhould be made public, he confined his inclinations to his own breaſt.

It was by no means his nature to be ti⯑mid: but his education had impreſſed his mind with fear ſo ſtrongly, that apprehen⯑ſion was now become part of his character. Had his youth been paſſed in the world, he would have ſhown himſelf poſſeſſed of [205] many brilliant and manly qualities. He was naturally enterprizing, firm, and fear⯑leſs: he had a warrior's heart, and he might have ſhone with ſplendour at the head of an army. There was no want of genero⯑ſity in his nature: the wretched never failed to find in him a compaſſionate auditor: his abilities were quick and ſhining, and his judgment vaſt, ſolid, and deciſive. With ſuch qualifications he would have been an ornament to his country: that he poſſeſſed them he had given proofs in his earlieſt in⯑fancy, and his parents had beheld his dawn⯑ing virtues with the fondeſt delight and ad⯑miration. Unfortunately, while yet a child, he was deprived of thoſe parents. He fell into the power of a relation, whoſe only wiſh about him was never to hear of him more: for that purpoſe he gave him in charge to his friend, the former ſuperior of the Capuchins. The abbot, a very monk, uſed all his endeavours to perſuade the boy that happineſs exiſted not without the walls of a convent. He ſucceeded fully. To de⯑ſerve [206] admittance into the order of St. Fran⯑cis was Ambroſio's higheſt ambition. His inſtructors carefully repreſſed thoſe virtues, whoſe grandeur and diſintereſtedneſs were ill ſuited to the cloiſter. Inſtead of univer⯑ſal benevolence, he adopted a ſelfiſh parti⯑ality for his own particular eſtabliſhment: he was taught to conſider compaſſion for the errors of others as a crime of the blackeſt dye: the noble frankneſs of his temper was exchanged for ſervile humility; and in or⯑der to break his natural ſpirit, the monks terrified his young mind, by placing before him all the horrors with which ſuperſtition could furniſh them: they painted to him the torments of the damned in colours the moſt dark, terrible and fantaſtic, and threa⯑tened him at the ſlighteſt fault with eternal perdition. No wonder that his imagina⯑tion conſtantly dwelling upon theſe fearful objects ſhould have rendered his character timid and apprehenſive. Add to this, that his long abſence from the great world, and total unacquaintance with the common dan⯑gers [207] of life, made him form of them an idea far more diſmal than the reality. While the monks were buſied in rooting out his virtues, and narrowing his ſentiments, they allowed every vice which had fallen to his ſhare to arrive at full perfection. He was ſuffered to be proud, vain, ambitious, and diſdainful: he was jealous of his equals, and deſpiſed all merit but his own: he was implacable when offended, and cruel in his revenge. Still in ſpite of the pains taken to pervert them, his natural good qualities would occaſionally break through the gloom, caſt over them ſo carefully. At ſuch times the conteſt for ſuperiority between his real and acquired character was ſtriking and un⯑accountable to thoſe unacquainted with his original diſpoſition. He pronounced the moſt ſevere ſentences upon offenders, which the moment after compaſſion induced him to mitigate: he undertook the moſt daring enterprizes, which the fear of their conſe⯑quences ſoon obliged him to abandon: his inborn genius darted a brilliant light upon [208] ſubjects the moſt obſcure; and almoſt in⯑ſtantaneouſly his ſuperſtition replunged them in darkneſs more profound than that from which they had juſt been reſcued. His brother monks, regarding him as a ſu⯑perior being, remarked not this contradic⯑tion in their idol's conduct. They were perſuaded that what he did muſt be right, and ſuppoſed him to have good reaſons for changing his reſolutions. The fact was, that the different ſentiments with which education and nature had inſpired him, were combating in his boſom: it remained for his paſſions, which as yet no opportu⯑nity had called into play, to decide the vic⯑tory. Unfortunately his paſſions were the very worſt judges to whom he could poſſi⯑bly have applied. His monaſtic ſecluſion had till now been in his favour, ſince it gave him no room for diſcovering his bad qua⯑lities. The ſuperiority of his talents raiſed him too far above his companions to per⯑mit his being jealous of them: his exem⯑plary piety, perſuaſive eloquence, and [209] pleaſing manners had ſecured him univer⯑ſal eſteem, and conſequently he had no in⯑juries to revenge: his ambition was juſti⯑fied by his acknowledged merit, and his pride conſidered as no more than proper confidence. He never ſaw, much leſs con⯑verſed with the other ſex: he was ignorant of the pleaſures in woman's power to be⯑ſtow; and if he read in the courſe of his ſtudies ‘That men were fond, he ſmiled, and wondered how.’

For a time ſpare diet, frequent watching, and ſevere penance cooled and repreſſed the natural warmth of his conſtitution: but no ſooner did opportunity preſent itſelf, no ſooner did he catch a glimpſe of joys to which he was ſtill a ſtranger, than religion's barriers were too feeble to reſiſt the over⯑whelming torrent of his deſires. All im⯑pediments yielded before the force of his temperament, warm, ſanguine, and volup⯑tuous in the exceſs. As yet his other paſ⯑ſions lay dormant; but they only needed to [210] be once awakened, to diſplay themſelves with violence as great and irreſiſtible.

He continued to be the admiration of Madrid. The enthuſiaſm created by his eloquence ſeemed rather to increaſe than diminiſh. Every Thurſday, which was the only day when he appeared in public, the Capuchin cathedral was crowded with auditors, and his diſcourſe was always re⯑ceived with the ſame approbation. He was named confeſſor to all the chief families in Madrid; and no one was counted faſhion⯑able who was injoined penance by any other than Ambroſio. In his reſolution of never ſtirring out of his convent he ſtill perſiſted. This circumſtance created a ſtill greater opinion of his ſanctity and ſelf-denial. A⯑bove all, the women ſang forth his praiſes loudly, leſs influenced by devotion than by his noble countenance, majeſtic air, and well-turned graceful figure. The abbey-door was thronged with carriages from morning to night; and the nobleſt and [211] faireſt dames of Madrid confeſſed to the abbot their ſecret peccadilloes. The eyes of the luxurious friar devoured their charms. Had his penitents conſulted thoſe interpre⯑ters, he would have needed no other means of expreſſing his deſires. For his misfor⯑tune, they were ſo ſtrongly perſuaded of his continence, that the poſſibility of his harbouring indecent thoughts never once entered their imaginations. The climate's heat, 'tis well known, operates with no ſmall influence upon the conſtitutions of the Spa⯑niſh ladies: but the moſt abandoned would have thought it an eaſier taſk to inſpire with paſſion the marble ſtatue of St. Francis than the cold and rigid heart of the immaculate Ambroſio.

On his part, the friar was little acquainted with the depravity of the world: he ſuſpected not that but few of his penitents would have rejected his addreſſes. Yet had he been better inſtructed on this head, the danger attending ſuch an attempt would have ſealed up his lips in ſilence. He knew that it [212] would be difficult for a woman to keep a ſecret ſo ſtrange and ſo important as his frailty; and he even trembled, leſt Matilda ſhould betray him. Anxious to preſerve a reputation which was infinitely dear to him, he ſaw all the riſque of committing it to the power of ſome vain giddy female; and as the beauties of Madrid affected only his ſenſes without touching his heart, he forgot them as ſoon as they were out of his ſight. The danger of diſcovery, the fear of being repulſed, the loſs of reputation; all theſe conſiderations counſelled him to ſtifle his deſires; and though he now felt for it the moſt perfect indifference, he was ne⯑ceſſitated to confine himſelf to Matilda's perſon.

One morning, the confluence of peni⯑tents was greater than uſual. He was de⯑tained in the confeſſional chair till a late hour. At length the crowd was diſpatched, and he prepared to quit the chapel, when two females entered, and drew near him with humility. They threw up their veils, [213] and the youngeſt entreated him to liſten to her for a few moments. The melody of her voice, of that voice to which no man ever liſtened without intereſt, immediately caught Ambroſio's attention. He ſtopped. The petitioner ſeemed bowed down with affliction: her cheeks were pale, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her hair fell in diſ⯑order over her face and boſom. Still her countenance was ſo ſweet, ſo innocent, ſo heavenly, as might have charmed an heart leſs ſuſceptible than that which panted in the abbot's breaſt. With more than uſual ſoftneſs of manner he deſired her to pro⯑ceed, and heard her ſpeak as follows, with an emotion which increaſed every moment.

"Reverend father, you ſee an unfortu⯑nate threatened with the loſs of her deareſt, of almoſt her only friend! My mother, my excellent mother lies upon the bed of ſick⯑neſs. A ſudden and dreadful malady ſeized her laſt night, and ſo rapid has been its pro⯑greſs that the phyſicians deſpair of her life. Human aid fails me; nothing re⯑mains [214] for me but to implore the mercy of heaven. Father, all Madrid rings with the report of your piety and virtue. Deign to remember my mother in your prayers: per⯑haps they may prevail on the Almighty to ſpare her; and ſhould that be the caſe, I engage myſelf every Thurſday in the next three months to illuminate the ſhrine of St. Francis in his honour."

"So!" thought the monk; "here we have a ſecond Vincentio della Ronda. Ro⯑ſario's adventure began thus;" and he wiſhed ſecretly that this might have the ſame concluſion.

He acceded to the requeſt. The peti⯑tioner returned him thanks with every mark of gratitude, and then continued:

"I have yet another favour to aſk. We are ſtrangers in Madrid: my mother needs a confeſſor, and knows not to whom ſhe ſhould apply. We underſtand that you never quit the abbey, and, alas! my poor mother is unable to come hither! If you would have the goodneſs, reverend father, [215] to name a proper perſon, whoſe wiſe and pious conſolations may ſoften the agonies of my parent's death-bed, you will confer an everlaſting favour upon hearts not un⯑grateful."

With this petition alſo the monk com⯑plied. Indeed, what petition would he have refuſed, if urged in ſuch enchanting accents? The ſuppliant was ſo intereſting! Her voice was ſo ſweet, ſo harmonious! Her very tears became her, and her afflic⯑tion ſeemed to add new luſtre to her charms. He promiſed to ſend to her a confeſſor that ſame evening, and begged her to leave her addreſs. The companion preſented him with a card on which it was written, and then withdrew with the fair petitioner, who pronounced before her departure a thouſand benedictions on the abbot's goodneſs. His eyes followed her out of the chapel. It was not till ſhe was out of ſight that he exami⯑ned the card, on which he read the follow⯑ing words:

"Donna Elvira Dalfa, ſtrada di San [216] Iago, four doors from the palace d'Albor⯑nos."

The ſuppliant was no other than Anto⯑nia, and Leonella was her companion. The latter had not conſented without difficulty to accompany her niece to the abbey: Am⯑broſio had inſpired her with ſuch awe, that ſhe trembled at the very ſight of him. Her fears had conquered even her natural loqua⯑city, and while in his preſence ſhe uttered not a ſingle ſyllable.

The monk retired to his cell, whither he was purſued by Antonia's image. He felt a thouſand new emotions ſpringing in his boſom, and he trembled to examine into the cauſe which gave them birth. They were totally different from thoſe inſpired by Matilda, when ſhe firſt declared her ſex and her affection. He felt not the provocation of luſt; no voluptuous deſires rioted in his boſom; nor did a burning imagination pic⯑ture to him the charms which modeſty had veiled from his eyes. On the contrary, what he now felt was a mingled ſentiment [217] of tenderneſs, admiration, and reſpect. A ſoft and delicious melancholy infuſed itſelf into his ſoul, and he would not have ex⯑changed it for the moſt lively tranſports of joy. Society now diſguſted him: he de⯑lighted in ſolitude, which permitted his indulging the viſions of fancy: his thoughts were all gentle, ſad, and ſoothing; and the whole wide world preſented him with no other object than Antonia.

"Happy man!" he exclaimed in his ro⯑mantic enthuſiaſm, "happy man, who is deſtined to poſſeſs the heart of that lovely girl! what delicacy in her features! what elegance in her form! how enchanting was the timid innocence of her eyes! and how different from the wanton expreſſion, the wild luxurious fire, which ſparkles in Ma⯑tilda's! Oh! ſweeter muſt one kiſs be, ſnatched from the roſy lips of the firſt, than all the full and luſtful favours beſtowed ſo freely by the ſecond. Matilda gluts me with enjoyment even to loathing, forces me to her arms, apes the harlot, and glories in [218] her proſtitution. Diſguſting! Did ſhe know the inexpreſſible charm of modeſty, how irreſiſtibly it enthrals the heart of man, how firmly it chains him to the throne of beauty, ſhe never would have thrown it off. What would be too dear a price for this lovely girl's affections? What would I refuſe to ſacrifice, could I be releaſed from my vows, and permitted to declare my love in the ſight of earth and heaven? While I ſtrove to inſpire her with tenderneſs, with friendſhip and eſteem, how tranquil and undiſturbed would the hours roll away! Gracious God! to ſee her blue downcaſt eyes beam upon mine with timid fondneſs! to ſit for days, for years, liſtening to that gentle voice! to acquire the right of ob⯑liging her, and hear the artleſs expreſſions of her gratitude! to watch the emotions of her ſpotleſs heart! to encourage each dawning virtue! to ſhare in her joy when happy, to kiſs away her tears when diſ⯑treſſed, and to ſee her fly to my arms for comfort and ſupport! Yes; if there is per⯑fect [219] bliſs on earth, 'tis his lot alone who be⯑comes that angel's huſband."

While his fancy coined theſe ideas, he paced his cell with a diſordered air. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy: his head reclined upon his ſhoulder: a tear rolled down his cheek, while he reflected that the viſion of happineſs for him could never be realized.

"She is loſt to me;" he continued, "by marriage ſhe cannot be mine: and to ſe⯑duce ſuch innocence, to uſe the confidence repoſed in me to work her ruin—Oh! it would be a crime, blacker than yet the world ever witneſſed! Fear not, lovely girl! your virtue runs no riſque from me. Not for Indies would I make that gentle boſom know the tortures of remorſe."

Again he paced his chamber haſtily. Then ſtopping, his eye fell upon the picture of his once-admired Madona. He tore it with indignation from the wall: he threw it on the ground, and ſpurned it from him with his foot.

[220]"The proſtitute!"

Unfortunate Matilda! her paramour for⯑got, that for his ſake alone ſhe had forfeited her claim to virtue; and his only reaſon for deſpiſing her was, that ſhe had loved him much too well.

He threw himſelf into a chair, which ſtood near the table. He ſaw the card with Elvira's addreſs. He took it up, and it brought to his recollection his promiſe re⯑ſpecting a confeſſor. He paſſed a few mi⯑nutes in doubt: but Antonia's empire over him was already too much decided to per⯑mit his making a long reſiſtance to the idea which ſtruck him. He reſolved to be the confeſſor himſelf. He could leave the ab⯑bey unobſerved without difficulty: by wrap⯑ping up his head in his cowl he hoped to paſs through the ſtreets without being re⯑cogniſed: by taking theſe precautions, and by recommending ſecreſy to Elvira's fa⯑mily, he doubted not to keep Madrid in ignorance that he had broken his vow ne⯑ver to ſee the outſide of the abbey-walls. [221] Matilda was the only perſon whoſe vigilance he dreaded: but by informing her at the refectory, that during the whole of that day buſineſs would confine him to his cell, he thought himſelf ſecure from her wakeful jealouſy. Accordingly, at the hours when the Spaniards are generally taking their fieſta, he ventured to quit the abbey by a private door, the key of which was in his poſſeſſion. The cowl of his habit was thrown over his face: from the heat of the weather the ſtreets were almoſt totally de⯑ſerted: the monk met with few people, found the ſtrada di San Iago, and arrived without accident at Donna Elvira's door. He rang, was admitted, and immediately uſhered into an upper apartment.

It was here that he ran the greateſt riſque of a diſcovery. Had Leonella been at home, ſhe would have recognized him di⯑rectly. Her communicative diſpoſition would never have permitted her to reſt, till all Madrid was informed that Ambroſio had ventured out of the abbey, and viſited [222] her ſiſter. Fortune here ſtood the monk's friend. On Leonella's return home, ſhe found a letter inſtructing her, that a couſin was juſt dead, who had left what little he poſſeſſed between herſelf and Elvira. To ſecure this bequeſt ſhe was obliged to ſet out for Cordova without loſing a moment. Amidſt all her foibles, her heart was truly warm and affectionate, and ſhe was unwil⯑ling to quit her ſiſter in ſo dangerous a ſtate. But Elvira inſiſted upon her taking the journey, conſcious that in her daughter's forlorn ſituation, no increaſe of fortune, however trifling, ought to be neglected. Accordingly Leonella left Madrid, ſincere⯑ly grieved at her ſiſter's illneſs, and giving ſome few ſighs to the memory of the amia⯑ble but inconſtant Don Chriſtoval. She was fully perſuaded, that at firſt ſhe had made a terrible breach in his heart; but hearing nothing more of him, ſhe ſuppoſed that he had quitted the purſuit, diſguſted by the lowneſs of her origin, and knowing upon other terms than marriage he had no⯑thing [223] to hope from ſuch a dragon of virtue as ſhe profeſſed herſelf; or elſe, that being naturally capricious and changeable, the re⯑membrance of her charms had been effaced from the Condé's heart by thoſe of ſome newer beauty. Whatever was the cauſe of her loſing him, ſhe lamented it ſorely. She ſtrove in vain, as ſhe aſſured every body who was kind enough to liſten to her, to tear his image from her too ſuſceptible heart. She affected the airs of a love ſick virgin, and carried them all to the moſt ri⯑diculous exceſs. She heaved lamentable ſighs, walked with her arms folded, uttered long ſoliloquies, and her diſcourſe generally turned upon ſome forſaken maid, who ex⯑pired of a broken heart! Her fiery looks were always ornamented with a garland of willow. Every evening ſhe was ſeen ſtray⯑ing upon the banks of a rivulet by moon⯑light; and ſhe declared herſelf a violent admirer of murmuring ſtreams and night⯑ingales—

Such was the ſtate of Leonella's mind when obliged to quit Madrid. Elvira was out of patience at all theſe follies, and en⯑deavoured at perſuading her to act like a reaſonable woman. Her advice was thrown away: Leonella aſſured her at parting, that nothing could make her forget the perfi⯑dious Don Chriſtoval. In this point ſhe was fortunately miſtaken. An honeſt youth of Cordova, journeyman to an apo⯑thecary, found that her fortune would be ſufficient to ſet him up in a genteel ſhop of his own. In conſequence of this reflection he avowed himſelf her admirer. Leonella was not inflexible; the ardour of his ſighs melted her heart, and ſhe ſoon conſented to make him the happieſt of mankind. She wrote to inform her ſiſter of her marriage; but, for reaſons which will be explained hereafter, Elvira never anſwered her let⯑ter.

[225]Ambroſio was conducted into the anti⯑chamber to that where Elvira was repoſing. The female domeſtic who had admitted him, left him alone, while ſhe announced his arrival to her miſtreſs. Antonia, who had been by her mother's bed-ſide, im⯑mediately came to him.

"Pardon me, father," ſaid me, advanc⯑ing towards him; when recognizing his his features, ſhe ſtopped ſuddenly, and ut⯑tered a cry of joy. "Is it poſſible?" ſhe continued, "do not my eyes deceive me? Has the worthy Ambroſio broken through his reſolution, that he may ſoften the ago⯑nies of the beſt of women? What pleaſure will this viſit give my mother! Let me not delay for a moment the comfort which your piety and wiſdom will afford her."

Thus ſaying, ſhe opened the chamber-door, preſented to her mother her diſtin⯑guiſhed viſitor, and, having placed an arm⯑chair by the ſide of the bed, withdrew into another apartment.

Elvira was highly gratified by this viſit: [226] her expectations had been raiſed high by general report, but ſhe found them far ex⯑ceeded. Ambroſio, endowed by nature with powers of pleaſing, exerted them to the utmoſt, while converſing with Antonia's mother. With perſuaſive eloquence he calmed every fear, and diſſipated every ſcru⯑ple. He bid her reflect on the infinite mer⯑cy of her judge, deſpoiled death of his darts and terrors, and taught her to view with⯑out ſhrinking the abyſs of eternity, on whoſe brink ſhe then ſtood. Elvira was abſorbed in attention and delight; while ſhe liſtened to his exhortations, confidence and comfort ſtole inſenſibly into her mind. She unbo⯑ſomed to him without heſitation her cares and apprehenſions. The latter reſpecting a future life he had already quieted, and he now removed the former, which ſhe felt for the concerns of this. She trembled for Antonia; ſhe had none to whoſe care ſhe could recommend her, ſave to the marquis de las Ciſternas, and her ſiſter Leonella. The protection of the one was very uncer⯑tain; [227] and as to the other, though fond of her niece, Leonella was ſo thoughtleſs and vain, as to make her an improper perſon to have the ſole direction of a girl ſo young and ignorant of the world. The friar no ſooner learned the cauſe of her alarms, than he begged her to make herſelf eaſy upon that head. He doubted not being able to ſecure for Antonia a ſafe refuge in the houſe of one of his penitents, the marchioneſs of Villa-Franca: this was a lady of acknow⯑ledged virtue, remarkable for ſtrict princi⯑ples and extenſive charity. Should acci⯑dent deprive her of this reſource, he engag⯑ed to procure Antonia a reception in ſome reſpectable convent, that is to ſay, in qua⯑lity of boarder; for Elvira had declared herſelf no friend to a monaſtic life, and the monk was either candid or complaiſant enough to allow that her diſapprobation was not unfounded.

Theſe proofs of the intereſt which he felt for her, completely won Elvira's heart. In [228] thanking him, ſhe exhauſted every ex⯑preſſion which gratitude could furniſh, and proteſted, that now ſhe ſhould reſign herſelf with tranquillity to the grave. Am⯑broſio roſe to take leave; he promiſed to return the next day at the ſame hour, but requeſted that his viſits might be kept ſe⯑cret.

"I am unwilling," ſaid he, "that my breaking through a rule impoſed by neceſ⯑ſity, ſhould be generally known. Had I not reſolved never to quit my convent, except upon circumſtances as urgent as that which has conducted me to your door, I ſhould be frequently ſummoned upon in⯑ſignificant occaſions; that time would be engroſſed by the curious, the unoccupied, and the fanciful, which I now paſs at the bed-ſide of the ſick, in comforting the ex⯑piring penitent, and clearing the paſſage to eternity from thorns."

Elvira commended equally his prudence and compaſſion, promiſing to conceal care⯑fully [229] the honour of his viſits. The monk then gave her his benediction, and retired from the chamber.

In the anti-room he found Antonia; he could not refuſe himſelf the pleaſure of paſſ⯑ing a few moments in her ſociety. He bid her take comfort, for that her mother ſeemed compoſed and tranquil, and he hoped that ſhe might yet do well. He en⯑quired who attended her, and engaged to ſend the phyſician of his convent to ſee her, one of the moſt ſkilful in Madrid. He then launched out in Elvira's commenda⯑tion, praiſed her purity and fortitude of mind, and declared that ſhe had inſpired him with the higheſt eſteem and reverence. Antonia's innocent heart ſwelled with gra⯑titude, joy danced in her eyes, where a tear ſtill ſparkled. The hopes which he gave her of her mother's recovery, the lively in⯑tereſt which he ſeemed to feel for her, and the flattering way in which ſhe was men⯑tioned by him, added to the report of his [230] judgment and virtue, and to the impreſſion made upon her by his eloquence, confirm⯑ed the favourable opinion with which his firſt appearance had inſpired Antonia. She replied with diffidence, but without re⯑ſtraint: ſhe feared not to relate to him all her little ſorrows, all her little fears and anxieties; and ſhe thanked him for his goodneſs with all the genuine warmth which favours kindle in a young and inno⯑cent heart. Such alone knows how to eſti⯑mate benefits at their full value. They who are conſcious of mankind's perfidy and ſelfiſhneſs, ever receive an obligation with apprehenſion and diſtruſt; they ſuſpect that ſome ſecret motive muſt lurk behind it; they expreſs their thanks with reſtraint and caution, and fear to praiſe a kind ac⯑tion to its full extent, aware that ſome fu⯑ture day a return may be required. Not ſo Antonia—ſhe thought the world was com⯑poſed only of thoſe who reſembled her, and that vice exiſted was to her ſtill a ſecret. The monk had been of ſervice to her; he [231] ſaid that he wiſhed her well; ſhe was grate⯑ful for his kindneſs, and thought that no terms were ſtrong enough to be the vehicle of her thanks. With what delight did Ambroſio liſten to the declaration of her artleſs gratitude! The natural grace of her manners, the unequalled ſweetneſs of her voice, her modeſt vivacity, her unſtudied elegance, her expreſſive countenance and intelligent eyes united to inſpire him with pleaſure and admiration; while the ſolidity and correctneſs of her remarks received ad⯑ditional beauty from the unaffected ſimpli⯑city of the language in which they were conveyed.

Ambroſio was at length obliged, to tear himſelf from this converſation, which poſ⯑ſeſſed for him but too many charms. He repeated to Antonia his wiſhes, that his viſits ſhould not be made known, which deſire ſhe promiſed to obſerve. He then quitted the houſe, while his enchantreſs haſtened to her mother, ignorant of the miſchief which her beauty had cauſed. She was eager to [232] know Elvira's opinion of the man whom ſhe had praiſed in ſuch enthuſiaſtic terms, and was delighted to find it equally favour⯑able, if not even more ſo, than her own.

"Even before he ſpoke," ſaid Elvira, "I was prejudiced in his favour; the fer⯑vour of his exhortations, dignity of his manner, and cloſeneſs of his reaſoning, were very far from inducing me to alter my opinion. His fine and full-toned voice ſtruck me particularly; but ſurely, Antonia, I have heard it before. It ſeemed perfectly familiar to my ear; either I muſt have known the abbot in former times, or his voice bears a wonderful reſemblance to that of ſome other, to whom I have often liſten⯑ed. There were certain tones which touch⯑ed my very heart, and made me feel ſenſa⯑tions ſo ſingular, that I ſtrive in vain to ac⯑count for them."

"My deareſt mother, it produced the ſame effect upon me; yet certainly neither of us ever heard his voice till we came to Madrid. I ſuſpect that what we attribute [233] to his voice, really proceeds from his plea⯑ſant manners, which forbid our conſidering him as a ſtranger. I know not why, but I feel more at my eaſe while converſing with him, than I uſually do with people who are unknown to me. I feared not to repeat to him all my childiſh thoughts; and ſomehow I felt confident that he would hear my folly with indulgence. Oh! I was not deceived in him; he liſtened to me with ſuch an air of kindneſs and attention; he anſwered me with ſuch gentleneſs, ſuch condeſcenſion: he did not call me an in⯑fant, and treat me with contempt, as our croſs old confeſſor at the Caſtle uſed to do. I verily believe, that if I had lived in Mur⯑cia a thouſand years, I never ſhould have liked that fat old father Dominic!"

"I confeſs, that father Dominic had not the moſt pleaſing manners in the world; but he was honeſt, friendly, and well-mean⯑ing."

"Ah! my dear mother, thoſe qualities are ſo common—"

[234]"God grant, my child, that experience may not teach you to think them rare and precious: I have found them but too much ſo. But tell me, Antonia, why is it impoſ⯑ſible for me to have ſeen the abbot be⯑fore?"

"Becauſe ſince the moment when he en⯑tered the abbey, he has never been on the outſide of its walls. He told me juſt now, that from his ignorance of the ſtreets, he had ſome difficulty to find the ſtrada di San Iago, though ſo near the abbey."

"All this is poſſible, and ſtill I may have ſeen him before he entered the abbey: in order to come out, it was rather neceſſary that he ſhould firſt go in."

"Holy virgin! as you ſay, that is very true.—Oh! But might he not have been born in the abbey?"

Elvira ſmiled.

"Why, not very eaſily."

"Stay, ſtay! Now I recollect how it was. He was put into the abbey quite a child; the common people ſay, that he fell from [235] heaven, and was ſent as a preſent to the Ca⯑puchins by the Virgin."

That was very kind of her. And ſo he fell from heaven, Antonia? He muſt have had a terrible tumble."

"Many do not credit this; and I fancy, my dear mother, that I muſt number you among the unbelievers. Indeed, as our landlady told my aunt, the general idea is, that his parents, being poor, and unable to maintain him, left him juſt born at the abbey-door; the late ſuperior, from pure charity, had him educated in the convent, and he proved to be a model of virtue, and piety, and learning, and I know not what elſe beſides. In conſequence, he was firſt received as a brother of the order, and not long ago was choſen abbot. However, whether this account or the other is the true one—at leaſt all agree, that when the monks took him under their care, he could not ſpeak; therefore you could not have heard his voice before he entered the [236] monaſtery, becauſe at that time he had no voice at all."

"Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very cloſely; your concluſions are infallible. I did not ſuſpect you of being ſo able a lo⯑gician."

"Ah! you are mocking me; but ſo much the better. It delights me to ſee you in ſpirits; beſides you ſeem tranquil and eaſy, and I hope that you will have no more convulſions. Oh! I was ſure the abbot's viſit would do you good."

"It has indeed done me good, my child. He has quieted my mind upon ſome points which agitated me, and I already feel the ef⯑fects of his attention. My eyes grow hea⯑vy, and I think I can ſleep a little. Draw the curtains, my Antonia: but if I ſhould not wake before midnight, do not ſit up with me, I charge you."

Antonia promiſed to obey her; and hav⯑ing received her bleſſing, drew the curtains of the bed. She then ſeated herſelf in [237] ſilence at her embroidery frame, and be⯑guiled the hours with building caſtles in the air. Her ſpirits were enlivened by the evi⯑dent change for the better in Elvira, and her fancy preſented her with viſions bright and pleaſing. In theſe dreams Ambroſio made no deſpicable figure. She thought of him with joy and gratitude; but for every idea which fell to the friar's ſhare, at leaſt two were unconſciouſly beſtowed upon Loren⯑zo. Thus paſſed the time, till the bell in the neighbouring ſteeple of the Capuchin cathedral announced the hour of midnight. Antonia remembered her mother's injunc⯑tions, and obeyed them, though with reluc⯑tance. She undrew the curtains with cau⯑tion. Elvira was enjoying a profound and quiet ſlumber; her cheek glowed with health's returning colours: a ſmile declared that her dreams were pleaſant, and as Anto⯑nia bent over her, ſhe fancied that ſhe heard her name pronounced. She kiſſed her mo⯑ther's forehead ſoftly, and retired to her chamber; there ſhe knelt before a ſtatue of [238] St. Roſolia, her patroneſs; ſhe recommend⯑ed herſelf to the protection of heaven, and, as had been her cuſtom from infancy, con⯑cluded her devotions by chaunting the fol⯑lowing ſtanzas:

Having finiſhed her uſual devotions, An⯑tonia retired to bed. Sleep ſoon ſtole over her ſenſes; and for ſeveral hours ſhe en⯑joyed that calm repoſe which innocence alone can know, and for which many a mo⯑narch with pleaſure would exchange his crown.

CHAP. VII.

RETURNED undiſcovered to the ab⯑bey, Ambroſio's mind was filled with the moſt pleaſing images. He was wilfully blind to the danger of expoſing himſelf to Antonio's charms: he only remembered the pleaſure which her ſociety had afforded him, and rejoiced in the proſpect of that pleaſure being repeated. He failed not to profit by Elvira's indiſpoſition to obtain a [242] ſight of her daughter every day. At firſt he bounded his wiſhes to inſpire Antonia with friendſhip: but no ſooner was he con⯑vinced that ſhe felt that ſentiment in its fulleſt extent, than his aim became more decided, and his attentions aſſumed a warmer colour. The innocent familiarity with which ſhe treated him, encouraged his deſires. Grown uſed to her modeſty, it no longer commanded the ſame reſpect and awe: he ſtill admired it, but it only made him more anxious to deprive her of that quality which formed her principal charm. Warmth of paſſion, and natural penetra⯑tion, of which latter, unfortunately both for himſelf and Antonia, he poſſeſſed an ample ſhare, ſupplied a knowledge of the arts of ſeduction. He eaſily diſtinguiſhed the emotions which were favourable to his de⯑ſigns, and ſeized every means with avidity of infuſing corruption into Antonia's bo⯑ſom. This he found no eaſy matter. Ex⯑treme ſimplicity prevented her from per⯑ceiving the aim to which the monk's inſi⯑nuations tended; but the excellent morals [243] which ſhe owed to Elvira's care, the ſoli⯑dity and correctneſs of her underſtanding, and a ſtrong ſenſe of what was right, im⯑planted in her heart by nature, made her feel that his precepts muſt be faulty. By a few ſimple words ſhe frequently over⯑threw the whole bulk of his ſophiſtical ar⯑guments, and made him conſcious how weak they were when oppoſed to virtue and truth. On ſuch occaſions he took refuge in his eloquence; he overpowered her with a torrent of philoſophical paradoxes, to which, not underſtanding them, it was impoſſible for her to reply; and thus, though he did not convince her that his reaſoning was juſt, he at leaſt prevented her from diſcovering it to be falſe. He perceived that her reſpect for his judgment augmented daily, and doubted not with time to bring her to the point deſired.

He was not unconſcious that his attempts were highly criminal. He ſaw dearly the baſeneſs of ſeducing the innocent girl; but his paſſion was too violent to permit his abandoning his deſign. He reſolved to [244] purſue it, let the conſequences be what they might. He depended upon finding Anto⯑nia in ſome unguarded moment; and ſee⯑ing no other man admitted into her ſociety, nor hearing any mentioned either by her or by Elvira, he imagined that her young heart was ſtill unoccupied. While he wait⯑ed for the opportunity of ſatisfying his un⯑warrantable luſt, every day increaſed his coldneſs for Matilda. Not a little was this occaſioned by the conſciouſneſs of his faults to her. To hide them from her, he was not ſufficiently maſter of himſelf; yet he dread⯑ed leſt, in a tranſport of jealous rage, ſhe ſhould betray the ſecret, on which his cha⯑racter and even his life depended. Matil⯑da could not but remark his indifference: he was conſcious that ſhe remarked it, and, fearing her reproaches, ſhunned her ſtudi⯑ouſly. Yet, when he could not avoid her, her mildneſs might have convinced him that he had nothing to dread from her re⯑ſentment. She had reſumed the character of the gentle intereſting Roſario: ſhe taxed him not with ingratitude; but her eyes fill⯑ed [245] with involuntary tears, and the ſoft me⯑lancholy of her countenance and voice ut⯑tered complaints far more touching than words could have conveyed. Ambroſio was not unmoved by her ſorrow; bur, un⯑able to remove its cauſe, he forbore to ſhow that it affected him. As her conduct con⯑vinced him that he needed not fear her ven⯑geance, he continued to neglect her, and avoided her company with care. Matilda ſaw that ſhe in vain attempted to regain his affections, yet ſhe ſtifled the impulſe of reſentment, and continued to treat her in⯑conſtant lover with her former fondneſs and affection.

By degrees Elvira's conſtitution recovered itſelf. She was no longer troubled with convulſions, and Antonia ceaſed to tremble for her mother. Ambroſio beheld this re⯑eſtabliſhment with diſpleaſure. He ſaw that Elvira's knowledge of the world would not be the dupe of his ſanctified demeanour, and that ſhe would eaſily perceive his views upon her daughter. He reſolved therefore, [246] before ſhe quitted her chamber, to try the extent of his influence over the innocent Antonia.

One evening, when he had found Elvira almoſt perfectly reſtored to health, he quit⯑ted her earlier than was his uſual cuſtom. Not finding Antonia in the antichamber, he ventured to follow her to her own. It was only ſeparated from her mother's by a cloſet, in which Flora, the waiting-woman, generally ſlept. Antonia ſat upon a ſopha with her back towards the door, and read attentively. She heard not his approach, till he had ſeated himſelf by her. She ſtarted, and welcomed him with a look of pleaſure: then riſing, ſhe would have con⯑ducted him to the ſitting-room; but Ambro⯑ſio, taking her hand, obliged her by gentle violence to reſume her place. She com⯑plied without difficulty: ſhe knew not that there was more impropriety in converſing with him in one room than another. She thought herſelf equally ſecure of his prin⯑ciples and her own; and having replaced [247] herſelf upon the ſopha, ſhe began to prat⯑tle to him with her uſual eaſe and viva⯑city.

He examined the book which ſhe had been reading, and had now placed upon the table. It was the Bible.

"How!" ſaid the friar to himſelf, "An⯑tonia reads the Bible, and is ſtill ſo igno⯑rant?"

But, upon a further inſpection, he found that Elvira had made exactly the ſame re⯑mark. That prudent mother, while ſhe admired the beauties of the ſacred writings, was convinced that, unreſtricted, no read⯑ing more improper could be permitted a young woman. Many of the narratives can only tend to excite ideas the worſt cal⯑culated for a female breaſt: every thing is called plainly and roundly by its name; and the annals of a brothel would ſcarcely furniſh a greater choice of indecent expreſ⯑ſions. Yet this is the book which young women are recommended to ſtudy, which is put into the hands of children, able to [248] comprehend little more than thoſe paſſages of which they had better remain ignorant, and which but too frequently inculcates the firſt rudiments of vice, and gives the firſt alarm to the ſtill ſleeping paſſions. Of this was Elvira ſo fully convinced, that ſhe would have preferred putting into her daughter's hands "Amadis de Gaul," or "The Valiant Champion, Tirante the White;" and would ſooner have authoriſed her ſtu⯑dying the lewd exploits of Don Galaor, or the laſcivious jokes of the Damſel Plazer di mi vida. She had in conſequence made two reſolutions reſpecting the Bible. The firſt was, that Antonia ſhould not read it till ſhe was of an age to feel its beauties, and profit by its morality. The ſecond, that it ſhould be copied out with her own hand, and all improper paſſages either al⯑tered or omitted. She had adhered to this determination, and ſuch was the Bible which Antonia was reading: it had been lately delivered to her, and ſhe peruſed it with an avidity, with a delight that was in⯑expreſſible. [249] Ambroſio perceived his miſ⯑take, and replaced the book upon the table.

Antonia ſpoke of her mother's health with all the enthuſiaſtic joy of a youthful heart.

"I admire your filial affection," ſaid the abbot; "it proves the excellence and ſenſi⯑bility of your character; it promiſes a trea⯑ſure to him whom Heaven has deſtined to poſſeſs your affections. The breaſt ſo ca⯑pable of fondneſs for a parent, what will it feel for a lover? Nay, perhaps, what feels it for one even now? Tell me, my lovely daughter, have you known what it is to love? Anſwer me with ſincerity: forget my habit, and conſider me only as a friend."

"What it is to love?" ſaid ſhe, repeating his queſtion. "Oh! yes, undoubtedly; I have loved many, many people."

"That is not what I mean. The love of which I ſpeak can be felt only for one. [250] Have you never ſeen the man whom you wiſhed to be your huſband?"

"Oh! no, indeed!"

This was an untruth, but ſhe was uncon⯑ſcious of its falſehood: ſhe knew not the nature of her ſentiments for Lorenzo; and never having ſeen him ſince his firſt viſit to Elvira, with every day his image grew leſs feebly impreſſed upon her boſom: beſides, ſhe thought of a huſband with all a virgin's terror, and negatived the friar's demand without a moment's heſitation.

"And do you not long to ſee that man, Antonia? Do you feel no void in your heart, which you fain would have filled up? Do you heave no ſighs for the abſence of ſome one dear to you, but who that ſome one is you know not? Perceive you not that what formerly could pleaſe, has charms for you no longer? that a thouſand new wiſhes, new ideas, new ſenſations, have ſprung in your boſom, only to be felt, never to be deſcribed? Or, while you fill every [251] other heart with paſſion, is it poſſible that your own remains inſenſible and cold? It cannot be! That melting eye, that bluſh⯑ing cheek, that enchanting voluptuous me⯑lancholy which at times overſpreads your features—all theſe marks belie your words: you love, Antonia, and in vain would hide it from me."

"Father, you amaze me! What is this love of which you ſpeak? I neither know its nature, nor, if I felt it, why I ſhould con⯑ceal the ſentiment."

"Have you ſeen no man, Antonia, whom, though never ſeen before, you ſeemed long to have ſought? whoſe form, though a ſtranger's, was familiar to your eyes? the found of whoſe voice ſoo [...]hed you, pleaſed you, penetrated to your very ſoul? in whoſe preſence you rejoiced, for whoſe ab⯑ſence you lamented? with whom your heart ſeemed to expand, and in whoſe bo⯑ſom, with confidence unbounded, you re⯑poſed the cares of your own? Have you not felt all this, Antonia?"

[252]"Certainly I have: the firſt time that I ſaw you, I felt it."

Ambroſio ſtarted. Scarcely dared he credit his hearing.

"Me, Antonia?" he cried, his eyes ſparkling with delight and impatience, while he ſeized her hand, and preſſed it raptu⯑rouſly to his lips. "Me, Antonia? You felt theſe ſentiments for me?"

"Even with more ſtrength than you have deſcribed. The very moment that I beheld you, I felt ſo pleaſed, ſo intereſted! I waited ſo eagerly to catch the ſound of your voice; and, when I heard it, it ſeemed ſo ſweet! it ſpoke to me a language till then ſo unknown! Methought it told me a thouſand things which I wiſhed to hear! It ſeemed as if I had long known you; as if I had a right to your friendſhip, your advice, and your protection. I wept when you departed, and longed for the time which ſhould reſtore you to my ſight."

"Antonia! my charming Antonia!" exclaimed the monk, and caught her to [253] his boſom: "Can I believe my ſenſes? Repeat it to me, my ſweet girl! Tell me again that you love me, that you love me truly and tenderly!"

"Indeed, I do: let my mother be ex⯑cepted, and the world holds no one more dear to me."

At this frank avowal Ambroſio no lon⯑ger poſſeſſed himſelf: wild with deſire, he claſped the bluſhing trembler in his arms. He faſtened his lips greedily upon hers, ſucked in her pure delicious breath, vio⯑lated with his bold hand the treaſures of her boſom, and wound around him her ſoft and yielding limbs. Startled, alarmed, and confuſed at his action, ſurpriſe at firſt de⯑prived her of the power of reſiſtance. At length recovering herſelf, ſhe ſtrove to eſcape from his embrace.

"Father!—Ambroſio!" ſhe cried, "re⯑leaſe me, for God's ſake!"

But the licentious monk heeded not her prayers: he perſiſted in his deſign, and proceeded to take ſtill greater liberties. [254] Antonia prayed, wept, and ſtruggled: terri⯑fied to the extreme, though at what ſhe knew not, ſhe exerted all her ſtrength to repulſe the friar, and was on the point of ſhrieking for aſſiſtance, when the chamber-door was ſuddenly thrown open. Ambroſio had juſt ſufficient preſence of mind to be ſenſible of his danger. Reluctantly he quitted his prey, and ſtarted haſtily from the couch. Antonia uttered an exclama⯑tion of joy, flew towards the door, and found herſelf claſped in the arms of her mother.

Alarmed at ſome of the abbot's ſpeeches, which Antonia had innocently repeated, Elvira reſolved to aſcertain the truth of her ſuſpicions. She had known enough of mankind, not to be impoſed upon by the monk's reputed virtue. She reflected on ſeveral circumſtances, which, though trifling, on being put together ſeemed to autho⯑rize her fears. His frequent viſits, which, as far as ſhe could ſee, were confined to her family; his evident emotion, whenever ſhe [255] ſpoke of Antonia; his being in the full prime and heat of manhood; and above all, his pernicious philoſophy communicated to her by Antonia, and which accorded but ill with his converſation in her pre⯑ſence; all theſe circumſtances inſpired her with doubts reſpecting the purity of Am⯑broſio's friendſhip. In conſequence ſhe reſolved, when he ſhould next be alone with Antonia, to endeavour at ſurpriſing him. Her plan had ſucceeded. 'Tis true, that when ſhe entered the room, he had already abandoned his prey; but the diſ⯑order of her daughter's dreſs, and the ſhame and confuſion ſtamped upon the fri⯑ar's countenance, ſufficed to prove that her ſuſpicions were but too well founded. How⯑ever, ſhe was too prudent to make thoſe ſuſpicions known. She judged, that to unmaſk the impoſtor would be no eaſy matter, the public being ſo much preju⯑diced in his favour: and having but few friends, ſhe thought it dangerous to make herſelf ſo powerful an enemy. She affected [256] therefore not to remark his agitation, ſeated herſelf tranquilly upon the ſopha, aſſigned ſome trifling reaſon for having quitted her room unexpectedly, and converſed on va⯑rious ſubjects with ſeeming confidence and eaſe.

Re-aſſured by her behaviour, the monk began to recover himſelf. He ſtrove to anſwer Elvira without appearing embar⯑raſſed: but he was ſtill too great a novice in diſſimulation, and he felt that he muſt look confuſed and awkward. He ſoon broke off the converſation, and roſe to de⯑part. What was his vexation when, on tak⯑ing leave, Elvira told him, in polite terms, that being now perfectly re-eſtabliſhed, ſhe thought it an injuſtice to deprive others of his company who might be more in need of it! She aſſured him of her eternal gratitude, for the benefit which during her illneſs ſhe had derived from his ſociety and exhorta⯑tions: and ſhe lamented that her domeſtic affairs, as well as the multitude of buſineſs which his ſituation muſt of neceſſity impoſe [257] upon him, would in future deprive her of the pleaſure of his viſits. Though delivered in the mildeſt language, this hint was too plain to be miſtaken. Still he was prepar⯑ing to put in a remonſtrance, when an ex⯑preſſive look from Elvira ſtopped him ſhort. He dared not preſs her to receive him, for her manner convinced him that he was diſcovered: he ſubmitted without reply, took an haſty leave, and retired to the abbey, his heart filled with rage and ſhame, with bitterneſs and diſappointment.

Antonia's mind felt relieved by his de⯑parture; yet ſhe could not help lamenting that ſhe was never to ſee him more. Elvira alſo felt a ſecret ſorrow: ſhe had received too much pleaſure from thinking him her friend, not to regret the neceſſity of chang⯑ing her opinion; but her mind was too much accuſtomed to the fallacy of worldly friendſhips to permit her preſent diſappoint⯑ment to weigh upon it long. She now en⯑deavoured to make her daughter aware of [...]e riſk which ſhe had run: but ſhe was [258] obliged to treat the ſubject with caution, leſt, in removing the bandage of ignorance, the veil of innocence ſhould be rent away. She therefore contented herſelf with warn⯑ing Antonia to be upon her guard, and or⯑dering her, ſhould the abbot perſiſt in his viſits, never to receive them but in com⯑pany. With this injunction Antonia pro⯑miſed to comply.

Ambroſio haſtened to his cell. He cloſed the door after him, and threw himſelf upon the bed in deſpair. The impulſe of deſire, the ſtings of diſappointment, the ſhame of detection, and the fear of being publicly unmaſked, rendered his boſom a ſcene of the moſt horrible confuſion. He knew not what courſe to purſue. Debarred the preſence of Antonia, he had no hopes of ſatisfying that paſſion which was now be⯑come a part of his exiſtence. He reflected that his ſecret was in a woman's power: he trembled with apprehenſion when he be⯑held the precipice before him, and with rage when he thought that, had it not been [259] for Elvira, he ſhould now have poſſeſſed the object of his deſires. With the direſt imprecations he vowed vengeance againſt her: he ſwore that, coſt what it would, he ſtill would poſſeſs Antonia. Starting from the bed, he paced the chamber with diſor⯑dered ſteps, howled with impotent fury, daſhed himſelf violently againſt the walls, and indulged all the tranſports of rage and madneſs.

He was ſtill under the influence of this ſtorm of paſſions, when he heard a gentle knock at the door of his cell. Conſcious that his voice muſt have been heard, he dared not refuſe admittance to the impor⯑tuner. He ſtrove to compoſe himſelf, and to hide his agitation. Having in ſome de⯑gree ſucceeded, he drew back the bolt: the door opened, and Matilda appeared.

At this preciſe moment there was no one with whoſe preſence he could better have diſpenſed. He had not ſufficient command over himſelf to conceal his vexation. He ſtarted back, and frowned.

[260]"I am buſy," ſaid he in a ſtern and haſty tone; "leave me."

Matilda heeded him not: ſhe again faſ⯑tened the door, and then advanced towards him with an air gentle and ſupplicating.

"Forgive me, Ambroſio," ſaid ſhe; "for your own ſake I muſt not obey you. Fear no complaints from me; I come not to reproach you with your ingratitude. I pardon you from my heart; and ſince your love can no longer be mine, I requeſt the next beſt gift, your confidence and friend⯑ſhip. We cannot force our inclinations: the little beauty which you once ſaw in me has periſhed with its novelty; and if it can no longer excite deſire, mine is the fault, not yours. But why perſiſt in ſhunning me? why ſuch anxiety to ſly my preſence? You have ſorrows, but will not permit me to ſhare them; you have diſappointments but will not accept my comfort; you have wiſhes, but forbid my aiding your purſuits. 'Tis of this which I complain, not of your indifference to my perſon. I have given [261] up the claims of the miſtreſs, but nothing ſhall prevail on me to give up thoſe of the friend."

"Generous Matilda!" he replied, taking her hand, "how far do you riſe ſuperior to the foibles of your ſex! Yes, I accept your offer. I have need of an adviſer, and a confident: in you I find every needful quality united. But to aid my purſuits —Ah! Matilda, it lies not in your power!"

"It lies in no one's power but mine. Ambroſio, your ſecret is none to me: your every ſtep, your every action has been ob⯑ſerved by my attentive eye. You love."

"Matilda!"

"Why conceal it from me? Fear not the little jealouſy which taints the gene⯑rality of women: my ſoul diſdains ſo de⯑ſpicable a paſſion. You love, Ambroſio; Antonia Dalfa is the object of your flame. I know every circumſtance reſpecting your paſſion. Every converſation has been re⯑peated to me. I have been informed of [262] your attempt to enjoy Antonia's perſon, your diſappointment, and diſmiſſion from Elvira's houſe. You now deſpair of poſ⯑ſeſſing your miſtreſs; but I come to revive your hopes, and point out the road to ſuc⯑ceſs."

"To ſucceſs? Oh! impoſſible."

"To thoſe who dare, nothing is impoſſi⯑ble. Rely upon me, and you may yet be happy. The time is come, Ambroſio, when regard for your comfort and tran⯑quillity compels me to reveal a part of my hiſtory, with which you are ſtill unacquaint⯑ed. Liſten, and do not interrupt me. Should my confeſſion diſguſt you, remem⯑ber that in making it my ſole aim is to ſa⯑tisfy your wiſhes, and reſtore that peace to your heart which at preſent has abandoned it. I formerly mentioned, that my guar⯑dian was a man of uncommon knowledge. He took pains to inſtil that knowledge into my infant mind. Among the various ſci⯑ences which curioſity had induced him to explore, he neglected not that which by [263] moſt is eſteemed impious, and by many chimerical: I ſpeak of thoſe arts which re⯑late to the world of ſpirits. His deep re⯑ſearches into cauſes and effects, his unwea⯑ried application to the ſtudy of natural phi⯑loſophy, his profound and unlimited know⯑ledge of the properties and virtues of every gem which enriches the deep, of every herb which the earth produces, at length procured him the diſtinction which he had ſought ſo long, ſo earneſtly. His curioſity was fully flaked, his ambition amply gra⯑tified. He gave laws to the elements: he could reverſe the order of nature: his eye read the mandates of futurity, and the in⯑fernal ſpirits were ſubmiſſive to his com⯑mands. Why ſhrink you from me? I underſtand that enquiring look. Your ſuſpicions are right, though your terrors are unfounded. My guardian concealed not from me his moſt precious acquiſition. Yet, had I never ſeen you, I ſhould never have exerted my power. Like you, I ſhud⯑dered at the thoughts of magic. Like you, [264] I had formed a terrible idea of the conſe⯑quences of raiſing a daemon. To preſerve that life which your love had taught me to prize, I had recourſe to means which I trembled at employing. You remember that night which I paſſed in St. Clare's ſepulchre? Then was it that, ſurrounded by mouldering bodies, I dared to perform thoſe myſtic rites, which ſummoned to my aid a fallen angel. Judge what muſt have been my joy at diſcovering that my terrors were imaginary. I ſaw the daemon obedient to my orders: I ſaw him trembling at my frown; and found that, inſtead of ſelling my ſoul to a maſter, my courage had pur⯑chaſed for myſelf a ſlave."

"Raſh Matilda! What have you done? You have doomed yourſelf to endleſs per⯑dition; you have bartered for momentary power eternal happineſs! If on witchcraft depends the fruition of my deſires, I re⯑nounce your aid moſt abſolutely. The conſequences are too horrible. I dote upon Antonia, but am not ſo blinded by [265] luſt, as to ſacrifice for her enjoyment my exiſtence both in this world and in the next."

"Ridiculous prejudices! Oh! bluſh, Ambroſio, bluſh at being ſubjected to their dominion. Where is the riſque of accept⯑ing my offers? What ſhould induce my perſuading you to this ſtep, except the wiſh of reſtoring you to happineſs; and quiet? If there is danger, it muſt fall upon me. It is I who invoke the miniſtry of the ſpirits: mine therefore will be the crime, and yours the profit; but danger there is none. The enemy of mankind is my ſlave, not my ſovereign. Is there no difference between giving and receiving laws, between ſerving and commanding? Awake from your idle dreams, Ambroſio! throw from you theſe terrors ſo ill ſuited to a ſoul like yours; leave them for common men, and dare to be happy! Accompany me this night to St. Clare's ſepulchre; there wit⯑neſs my incantations, and Antonia is your own."

[266]"To obtain her by ſuch means, I neither can nor will. Ceaſe then to perſuade me, for I dare not employ hell's agency."

"You dare not? How have you deceived me! That mind which I eſteemed ſo great and valiant, proves to be feeble, puerile, and grovelling, a ſlave to vulgar errors, and weaker than a woman's."

"What? Though conſcious of the dan⯑ger, wilfully ſhall I expoſe myſelf to the ſeducer's arts? Shall I renounce for ever my title to ſalvation? Shall my eyes ſeek a ſight which I know will blaſt them? No, no, Matilda, I will not ally myſelf with God's enemy."

"Are you then God's friend at preſent? Have you not broken your engagements with him, renounced his ſervice, and aban⯑doned yourſelf to the impulſe of your paſ⯑ſions? Are you not planning the deſtruc⯑tion of innocence, the ruin of a creature whom he formed in the mould of angels? If not of daemons, whoſe aid would you in⯑voke to forward this laudable deſign? Will [267] the ſeraphims protect it, conduct Antonia to your arms, and ſanction with their mi⯑niſtry your illicit pleaſures? Abſurd! But I am not deceived, Ambroſio! It is not virtue which makes you reject my offer; you would accept it, but you dare not. 'Tis not the crime which holds your hand, but the pu⯑niſhment; 'tis not reſpect for God which reſtrains you, but the terror of his ven⯑geance! Fain would you offend him in ſe⯑cret, but you tremble to profeſs yourſelf his foe. Now ſhame on the coward ſoul, which wants the courage either to be a firm friend, or an open enemy!"

"To look upon guilt with horror, Ma⯑tilda, is in itſelf a merit: in this reſpect I glory to confeſs myſelf a coward. Though my paſſions have made me deviate from her laws, I ſtill feel in my heart an innate love of virtue. But it ill becomes you to tax me with my perjury; you who firſt ſedu⯑ced me to violate my vows; you who firſt rouſed my ſleeping vices, made me feel the weight of religion's chains, and bade me [268] be convinced that guilt had pleaſures. Yet though my principles have yielded to the force of temperament, I ſtill have ſufficient grace to ſhudder at ſorcery, and avoid a crime ſo monſtrous, ſo unpardonable!"

"Unpardonable, ſay you? Where then is your conſtant boaſt of the Almighty's infi⯑nite mercy? Has he of late ſet bounds to it? Receives he no longer a ſinner with joy? You injure him, Ambroſio; you will always have time to repent, and he have goodneſs to forgive. Afford him a glori⯑ous opportunity to exert that goodneſs: the greater your crime, the greater his merit in pardoning. Away then with theſe childiſh ſcruples; be perſuaded to your good, and follow me to the ſepulchre."

"Oh! ceaſe, Matilda! That ſcoffing tone, that bold and impious language is horrible in every mouth, but moſt ſo in a woman's. Let us drop a converſation, which excites no other ſentiments than hor⯑ror and diſguſt. I will not follow you to the ſepulchre, or accept the ſervices of [269] your infernal agents. Antonia ſhall be mine, but mine by human means."

"Then yours ſhe will never be! You are baniſhed her preſence; her mother has opened her eyes to your deſigns, and ſhe is now upon her guard againſt them. Nay, more, ſhe loves another; a youth of diſtin⯑guiſhed merit poſſeſſes her heart; and unleſs you interfere, a few days will make her his bride. This intelligence was brought me by my inviſible ſervants, to whom I had re⯑courſe on firſt perceiving your indifference. They watched your every action, related to me all that paſſed at Elvira's, and in⯑ſpired me with the idea of favouring your deſigns. Their reports have been my only comfort. Though you ſhunned my preſence, all your proceedings were known to me; nay, I was conſtantly with you in ſome degree, thanks to this moſt pre⯑cious gift!"

With theſe words ſhe drew from beneath her habit a mirror of poliſhed ſteel, the [270] borders of which were marked with various ſtrange and unknown characters.

"Amidſt all my ſorrows, amidſt all my regrets for your coldneſs, I was ſuſtained from deſpair by the virtues of this taliſman. On pronouncing certain words, the perſon appears in it on whom the obſerver's thoughts are bent: thus, though I was ex⯑iled from your ſight, you, Ambroſio, were ever preſent to mine."

The friar's curioſity was ſtrongly excited.

"What you relate is incredible! Matil⯑da, are you not amuſing yourſelf with my credulity?"

"Be your own eyes the judge."

She put the mirror into his hand. Curi⯑oſity induced him to take it, and love, to wiſh that Antonia might appear. Matilda pronounced the magic words. Immediately a thick ſmoke roſe from the characters traced upon the borders, and ſpread itſelf over the ſurface. It diſperſed again gradu⯑ally; a confuſed mixture of colours and [271] images preſented themſelves to the friar's eyes, which at length arranging themſelves in their proper places, he beheld in mini⯑ature Antonia's lovely form.

The ſcene was a ſmall cloſet belonging to her apartment. She was undreſſing to bathe herſelf. The long treſſes of her hair were already bound up. The amorous monk had full opportunity to obſerve the voluptuous contours and admirable ſym⯑metry of her perſon. She threw off her laſt garment, and, advancing to the bath pre⯑pared for her, put her foot into the wa⯑ter. It ſtruck cold, and ſhe drew it back again. Though unconſcious of being ob⯑ſerved, an in-bred ſenſe of modeſty i [...] ⯑duced her to veil her charms; and ſhe ſtood heſitating upon the brink, in the at⯑titude of the Venus de Medicis. At this moment a tame linnet flew towards her, neſtled its head between her breaſts, and nibbled them in wanton play. The ſmiling Antonia ſtrove in vain to ſhake off the bird, and at length raiſed her hands to drive it [272] from its delightful harbour. Ambroſio could bear no more. His deſires were worked up to phrenſy.

"I yield!" he cried, daſhing the mirror upon the ground: "Matilda, I follow you! Do with me what you will!"

She waited not to bear his conſent repeated. It was already midnight. She flew to her cell, and ſoon returned with her little baſket and the key of the cemetery, which had remain⯑ed in her poſſeſſion ſince her firſt viſit to the vaults. She gave the monk no time for reflection.

"Come!" ſhe ſaid, and took his hand; "follow me, and witneſs the effects of your reſolve."

This ſaid, ſhe drew him haſtily along. They paſſed into the burying-ground un⯑obſerved, opened the door of the ſepulchre, and found themſelves at the head of the ſubterraneous ſtair-caſe. As yet the beams of the full moon had guided their ſteps, but that reſource now failed them. Matil⯑da had neglected to provide herſelf with a [273] lamp. Still holding Ambroſio's hand ſhe de⯑ſcended the marble ſteps; but the profound obſcurity with which they were overſpread, obliged them to walk ſlow and cautiouſly.

"You tremble!" ſaid Matilda to her companion; "fear not, the deſtined ſpot is near."

They reached the foot of the ſtair-caſe, and continued to proceed, feeling their way along the walls. On turning a corner, ſud⯑denly they deſcried faint gleams of light, which ſeemed burning at a diſtance. Thi⯑ther they bent their ſteps. The rays pro⯑ceeded from a ſmall ſepulchral lamp which flamed unceaſingly before the ſtatue of St. Clare. It tinged with dim and cheerleſs beams the maſſy columns which ſupported the roof, but was too feeble to diſſipate the thick gloom in which the vaults above were buried.

Matilda took the lamp.

"Wait for me!" ſaid ſhe to the friar; "in a few moments I am here again."

With theſe words ſhe haſtened into one [274] of the paſſages which branched in various directions from this ſpot, and formed a ſort of labyrinth. Ambroſio was now left alone. Darkneſs the moſt profound ſurrounded him, and encouraged the doubts which began to revive in his boſom. He had been hurried away by the delirium of the mo⯑ment. The ſhame of betraying his terrors, while in Matilda's preſence, had induced him to repreſs them; but, now that he was abandoned to himſelf, they reſumed their former aſcendancy. He trembled at the ſcene which he was ſoon to witneſs. He knew not how far the deluſions of magic might operate upon his mind: they poſſibly might force him to ſome deed, whoſe com⯑miſſion would make the breach between himſelf and Heaven irreparable. In this fearful dilemma, he would have implored God's aſſiſtance, but was conſcious that he had forfeited all claim to ſuch protection. Gladly would he have returned to the ab⯑bey; but as he had paſſed through innu⯑merable caverns and winding paſſages, the [275] attempt of regaining the ſtairs was hopeleſs. His fate was determined; no poſſibility of eſcape preſented itſelf. He therefore com⯑bated his apprehenſions, and called every argument to his ſuccour, which might en⯑able him to ſupport the trying ſcene with fortitude. He reflected, that Antonia would be the reward of his daring. He inflamed his imagination by enumerating her charms. He perſuaded himſelf, that [as Matilda had obſerved] he always ſhould have time ſuf⯑ficient for repentance; and that, as he em⯑ployed her aſſiſtance, not that of daemons, the crime of ſorcery could not be laid to his charge. He had read much reſpecting witchcraft; he underſtood that, unleſs a formal act was ſigned renouncing his claim to ſalvation, Satan would have no power over him. He was fully determined not to execute any ſuch act, whatever threats might be uſed, or advantages held out to him.

Such were his meditations while waiting for Matilda. They were interrupted by a [276] low murmur, which ſeemed at no great diſ⯑tance from him. He was ſtartled—he liſ⯑tened. Some minutes paſſed in ſilence, after which the murmur was repeated. It appeared to be the groaning of one in pain. In any other ſituation, this circumſtance would only have excited his attention and curioſity. In the preſent, his predominant ſenſation was that of terror. His imagination totally engroſſed by the ideas of ſorcery and ſpirits, he fancied that ſome unquiet ghoſt was wandering near him; or elſe that Ma⯑tilda had fallen a victim to her preſump⯑tion, and was periſhing under the cruel fangs of the daemons. The noiſe ſeemed not to approach, but continued to be heard at intervals. Sometimes it became more audible—doubtleſs, as the ſufferings of the perſon who uttered the groans became more acute and inſupportable. Ambroſio now and then thought that he could diſtin⯑guiſh accents, and once in particular he was almoſt convinced that he heard a faint voice exclaim,

[277]"God! Oh! God! No hope! No ſuc⯑cour!"

Yet deeper groans followed theſe words: they died away gradually, and univerſal ſilence again prevailed.

"What can this mean?" thought the bewildered monk.

At that moment an idea which flaſhed into his mind, almoſt petrified him with horror. He ſtarted, and ſhuddered at himſelf.

"Should it be poſſible!" He groaned involuntarily; "ſhould it but be poſſible; Oh! what a monſter am I!"

He wiſhed to reſolve his doubts, and to repair his fault, if it were not too late al⯑ready. But theſe generous and compaſ⯑ſionate ſentiments were ſoon put to flight by the return of Matilda. He forgot the groaning ſufferer, and remembered no⯑thing but the danger and embarraſſment of his own ſituation. The light of the return⯑ing lamp gilded the walls, and in a few moments after Matilda ſtood beſide him. [278] She had quitted her religious habit: ſhe was now clothed in a long ſable robe, on which was traced in gold embroidery a va⯑riety of unknown characters: it was faſ⯑tened by a girdle of precious ſtones, in which was fixed a poniard. Her neck and arms were uncovered; in her hand ſhe bore a golden wand; her hair was looſe, and flowed wildly upon her ſhoul⯑ders; her eyes ſparkled with terrific expreſ⯑ſion; and her whole demeanour was calcu⯑lated to inſpire the beholder with awe and admiration.

"Follow me!" ſhe ſaid to the monk in a low and ſolemn voice; "all is ready!"

His limbs trembled while he obeyed her. She led him through various narrow paſ⯑ſages; and on every ſide, as they paſſed along, the beams of the lamp diſplayed none but the moſt revolting objects; ſculls, bones, graves, and images whoſe eyes ſeemed to glare on them with horror and ſurpriſe. At length they reached a ſpacious cavern, whoſe lofty roof the eye ſought [279] in vain to diſcover. A profound obſcurity hovered through the void; damp vapours ſtruck cold to the friar's heart, and he liſ⯑tened ſadly to the blaſt while it howled along the lonely vaults. Here Matilda ſtop⯑ped. She turned to Ambroſio. His cheeks and lips were pale with apprehenſion. By a glance of mingled ſcorn and anger ſhe reproved his puſillanimity, but ſhe ſpoke not. She placed the lamp upon the ground near the baſket. She motioned that Ambro⯑ſio ſhould be ſilent, and began the myſte⯑rious rites. She drew a circle round him, another round himſelf; and then, taking a ſmall phial from the baſket, poured a few drops upon the ground before her. She bent over the place, muttered ſome indiſ⯑tinct ſentences, and immediately a pale ſul⯑phurous flame aroſe from the ground. It increaſed by degrees, and at length ſpread its waves over the whole ſurface, the circles alone excepted in which ſtood Matilda and the monk. It then aſcended the huge columns of unhewn ſtone, glided along the [280] roof, and formed the cavern into an im⯑menſe chamber totally covered with blue trembling fire. It emitted no heat: on the contrary, the extreme chillneſs of the place ſeemed to augment with every moment. Matilda continued her incantations; at in⯑tervals ſhe took various articles from the baſket, the nature and name of moſt of which were unknown to the friar: but among the few which he diſtinguiſhed, he particularly obſerved three human fingers, and an agnus dei which ſhe broke in pieces. She threw them all into the flames which burned before her, and they were inſtantly conſumed.

The monk beheld her with anxious cu⯑rioſity. Suddenly ſhe uttered a loud and piercing ſhriek. She appeared to be ſeiz⯑ed with an acceſs of delirium; ſhe tore her hair, beat her boſom, uſed the moſt frantic geſtures, and, drawing the poniard from her girdle, plunged it into her left arm. The blood guſhed out plentifully; and, as ſhe ſtood on the brink of the circle, ſhe [281] took care that it ſhould fall on the outſide. The flames retired from the ſpot on which the blood was pouring, A volume of dark clouds roſe ſlowly from the enſanguined earth, and aſcended gradually till it reached the vault of the cavern. At the ſame time a clap of thunder was heard, the echo pealed fearfully along the ſubterraneous paſſages, and the ground ſhook beneath the feet of the enchantreſs.

It was now that Ambroſio repented of his raſhneſs. The ſolemn ſingularity of the charm had prepared him for ſomething ſtrange and horrible. He waited with fear for the ſpirit's appearance, whoſe coming was announced by thunder and earthquakes. He looked wildly around him, expecting that ſome dreadful apparition would meet his eyes, the ſight of which would drive him mad. A cold ſhivering ſeized his bo⯑dy, and he ſunk upon one knee, unable to ſupport himſelf.

"He comes!" exclaimed Matilda in a joyful accent.

[282]Ambroſio ſtarted, and expected the dae⯑mon with terror. What was his ſurpriſe when, the thunder ceaſing to roll, a full ſtrain of melodious muſic ſounded in the air! At the ſame time the cloud diſappear⯑ed, and he beheld a figure more beautiful than fancy's pencil ever drew. It was a youth ſeemingly ſcarce eighteen, the per⯑fection of whoſe form and face was unri⯑valled. He was perfectly naked: a bright ſtar ſparkled upon his forehead, two crim⯑ſon wings extended themſelves from his ſhoulders, and his ſilken locks were con⯑fined by a band of many-coloured fires, which played round his head, formed them⯑ſelves into a variety of figures, and ſhone with a brilliance far ſurpaſſing that of pre⯑cious ſtones. Circlets of diamonds were faſ⯑tened round his arms and ankles, and in his right hand he bore a ſilver branch imi⯑tating myrtle. His form ſhone with daz⯑zling glory: he was ſurrounded by clouds of roſe-coloured light, and, at the moment that he appeared, a refreſhing air breathed [283] perfumes through the cavern. Enchanted at a viſion ſo contrary to his expectations, Ambroſio gazed upon the ſpirit with de⯑light and wonder: yet, however beautiful the figure, he could not but remark a wild⯑neſs in the daemon's eyes, and a myſterious melancholy impreſſed upon his features, betraying the fallen angel, and inſpiring the ſpectators with ſecret awe.

The muſic ceaſed. Matilda addreſſed herſelf to the ſpirit: ſhe ſpoke in a language unintelligible to the monk, and was anſwer⯑ed in the ſame. She ſeemed to inſiſt upon ſomething which the daemon was unwilling to grant. He frequently darted upon Am⯑broſio angry glances, and at ſuch times the friar's heart ſank within him. Matilda appeared to grow incenſed; ſhe ſpoke in a loud and commanding tone, and her geſ⯑tures declared that ſhe was threatening him with her vengeance. Her menaces had the deſired effect. The ſpirit ſank upon his knee, and with a ſubmiſſive air preſented to her the branch of myrtle. No [284] ſooner had ſhe received it, than the muſic was again heard; a thick cloud ſpread itſelf over the apparition; the blue flames diſap⯑peared, and total obſcurity reigned through the cave. The abbot moved not from his place: his faculties were all bound up in pleaſure, anxiety, and ſurpriſe. At length the darkneſs diſperſing, he perceived Ma⯑tilda ſtanding near him in her religious habit, with the myrtle in her hand. No traces remained of the incantation, and the vaults were only illuminated by the faint rays of the ſepulchral lamp.

"I have ſucceeded," ſaid Matilda, "though with more difficulty than I ex⯑pected. Lucifer, whom I ſummoned to my aſſiſtance, was at firſt unwilling to obey my commands: to enforce his compliance, I was conſtrained to have recourſe to my ſtrongeſt charms. They have produced the deſired effect, but I have engaged never more to invoke his agency in your favour. Beware then how you employ an opportu⯑nity which never will return. My magic [285] arts will now be of no uſe to you: in future you can only hope for ſupernatural aid, by invoking the daemons yourſelf, and accept⯑ing the conditions of their ſervice. This you will never do. You want ſtrength of mind to force them to obedience; and un⯑leſs you pay their eſtabliſhed price, they will not be your voluntary ſervants. In this one inſtance they conſent to obey you; I offer you the means of enjoying your miſ⯑treſs, and be careful not to loſe the oppor⯑tunity. Receive this conſtellated myrtle: while you bear this in your hand, every door will fly open to you. It will procure you acceſs to-morrow night to Antonia's chamber: then breathe upon it thrice, pro⯑nounce her name, and place it upon her pillow. A death-like ſlumber will imme⯑diately ſeize upon her, and deprive her of the power of reſiſting your attempts. Sleep will hold her till break of morning. In this ſtate you may ſatisfy your deſires without danger of being diſcovered; ſince, when day⯑light ſhall diſpel the effects of the enchant⯑ment, [286] Antonia will perceive her diſhonour, but be ignorant of the raviſher. Be happy then, my Ambroſio, and let this ſervice convince you that my friendſhip is diſin⯑tereſted and pure. The night muſt be near expiring: let us return to the ab⯑bey, leſt our abſence ſhould create ſur⯑priſe."

The abbot received the taliſman with ſilent gratitude. His ideas were too much bewildered by the adventures of the night, to permit his expreſſing his thanks audi⯑bly, or indeed as yet to feel the whole value of her preſent. Matilda took up her lamp and baſket, and guided her companion from the myſterious cavern. She reſtored the lamp to its former place, and continued her route in darkneſs till ſhe reached the foot of the ſtair-caſe. The firſt beams of the riſing ſun darting down it facilitated the aſcent. Matilda and the abbot haſten⯑ed out of the ſepulchre, cloſed the door af⯑ter them, and ſoon regained the abbey's weſtern cloiſter. No one met them, and [287] they retired unobſerved to their reſpective cells.

The confuſion of Ambroſio's mind now began to appeaſe. He rejoiced in the for⯑tunate iſſue of his adventure, and, reflecting upon the virtues of the myrtle, looked upon Antonia as already in his power. Imagi⯑nation retraced to him thoſe ſecret charms betrayed to him by the enchanted mirror, and he waited with impatience for the ap⯑proach of midnight.