CHAP▪ I▪

SCARCELY had the abbey-bell tolled for five minutes, and already was the church of the Capuchins thronged with auditors. Do not encourage the idea, that the crowd was aſſembled either from mo⯑tives of piety or thirſt of information. But very few were influenced by thoſe reaſons; and in a city where ſuperſtition reigns with [2] ſuch deſpotic ſway as in Madrid, to ſeek for true devotion would be a fruitleſs attempt. The audience now aſſembled in the Ca⯑puchin church was collected by various cauſes, but all of them were foreign to the oſtenſible motive. The women came to ſhow themſelves, the men to ſee the women: ſome were attracted by curioſity to hear an orator ſo celebrated; ſome came, becauſe they had no better means of employing their time till the play began; ſome, from being aſſured that it would be impoſſible to find places in the church; and one half of Madrid was brought thi⯑ther by expecting to meet the other half. The only perſons truly anxious to hear the preacher, were a few antiquated devotees, and half a dozen rival orators, determined to find fault with and ridicule the diſ⯑courſe. As to the remainder of the au⯑dience, the ſermon might have been omit⯑ted altogether, certainly without their being diſappointed, and very probably without their perceiving the omiſſion.

[3]Whatever was the occaſion, it is at leaſt certain, that the Capuchin church had never witneſſed a more numerous aſſem⯑bly. Every corner was filled, every ſeat was occupied. The very ſtatues which ornamented the long aiſles were preſſed into the ſervice. Boys ſuſpended themſelves upon the wings of cherubims; St. Francis and St. Mark bore each a ſpectator on his ſhoulders; and St. Agatha found herſelf under the neceſſity of carrying double. The conſequence was, that, in ſpite of all their hurry and expedition, our two new⯑comers, on entering the church, looked round in vain for places.

However, the old woman continued to move forwards. In vain were exclama⯑tions of diſpleaſure vented againſt her from all ſides: in vain was ſhe addreſſed with—"I aſſure you, Segnora, there are no places here,"—"I beg, Segnora, that you will not crowd me ſo intolerably!"— "Segnora, you cannot paſs this way. Bleſs me! How can people be ſo trouble⯑ſome!" [4] —The old woman was obſtinate, and on ſhe went. By dint of perſeverance and two brawny arms ſhe made a paſſage through the crowd, and managed to buſtle herſelf into the very body of the church, at no great diſtance from the pulpit. Her companion had followed her with timidity and in ſilence, profiting by the exertions of her conductreſs.

"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the old woman in a tone of diſappointment, while ſhe threw a glance of enquiry round her; "Holy Virgin! what heat! what a crowd! I wonder what can be the meaning of all this. I believe we muſt return: there is no ſuch thing as a ſeat to be had, and no⯑body ſeems kind enough to accommodate us with theirs."

This broad hint attracted the notice of two cavaliers, who occupied ſtools on the right hand, and were leaning their backs againſt the ſeventh column from the pul⯑pit. Both were young, and richly habited. Hearing this appeal to their politeneſs pro⯑nounced [5] in a female voice, they interrupted their converſation to look at the ſpeaker. She had thrown up her veil in order to take a clearer look round the cathedral. Her hair was red, and ſhe ſquinted. The cava⯑liers turned round, and renewed their converſation.

"By all means," replied the old woman's companion; "by all means, Leonella, let us return home immediately; the heat is exceſſive, and I am terrified at ſuch a crowd."

Theſe words were pronounced in a tone of unexampled ſweetneſs. The cavaliers again broke off their diſcourſe, but for this time they were not contented with looking up: both ſtarted involuntarily from their feats, and turned themſelves towards the ſpeaker.

The voice came from a female, the deli⯑cacy and elegance of whoſe figure inſpired the youths with the moſt lively curioſity to view the face to which it belonged. This ſatisfaction was denied them. Her [6] features were hidden by a thick veil; but ſtruggling through the crowd had de⯑ranged it ſufficiently to diſcover a neck which for ſymmetry and beauty might have vied with the Medicean Venus. It was of the moſt dazzling whiteneſs, and received additional charms from being ſhaded by the treſſes of her long fair hair, which de⯑ſcended in ringlets to her waiſt. Her figure was rather below than above the middle ſize: it was light and airy as that of an Hamadryad. Her boſom was carefully veiled. Her dreſs was white; it was faſtened by a blue ſaſh, and juſt permitted to peep out from under it a little foot of the moſt delicate proportions. A chaplet of large grains hung upon her arm, and her face was covered with a veil of thick black gauze. Such was the female, to whom the youngeſt of the cavaliers now offered his ſeat, while the other thought it neceſſary to pay the ſame attention to her companion.

The old lady with many expreſſions of gratitude, but without much difficulty, ac⯑cepted [7] the offer, and ſeated herſelf: the young one followed her example, but made no other compliment than a ſimple and graceful reverence. Don Lorenzo (ſuch was the cavalier's name, whoſe ſeat ſhe had accepted) placed himſelf near her; but firſt he whiſpered a few words in his friend's ear, who immediately took the hint, and endeavoured to draw off the old woman's attention from her lovely charge.

"You are doubtleſs lately arrived at Madrid," ſaid Lorenzo to his fair neigh⯑bour; "it is impoſſible that ſuch charms ſhould have long remained unobſerved; and had not this been your firſt public appear⯑ance, the envy of the women and adoration of the men would have rendered you al⯑ready ſufficiently remarkable."

He pauſed, in expectation of an anſwer. As his ſpeech did not abſolutely require one, the lady did not open her lips: After a few moments he reſumed his diſcourſe:

"Am I wrong in ſuppoſing you to be a ſtranger to Madrid?"

[8]The lady heſitated; and at laſt, in ſo low a voice as to be ſcarcely intelligible, ſhe made ſhift to anſwer,—"No, Segnor."

"Do you intend making a ſtay of any length?"

"Yes, Segnor."

"I ſhould eſteem myſelf fortunate, were it in my power to contribute to making your abode agreeable. I am well known at Madrid, and my family has ſome intereſt at court, If I can be of any ſervice, you cannot honour or oblige me more than by permitting me to be of uſe to you."—"Sure⯑ly," ſaid he to himſelf, "ſhe cannot anſwer that by a monoſyllable; now ſhe muſt ſay ſomething to me."

Lorenzo was deceived, for the lady an⯑ſwered only by a bow.

By this time he had diſcovered, that his neighbour was not very converſible; but whether her ſilence proceeded from pride, diſcretion, timidity, or idiotiſm, he was ſtill unable to decide.

After a pauſe of ſome minutes—"It [9] is certainly from your being a ſtranger," ſaid he, "and as yet unacquainted with our cuſtoms, that you continue to wear your veil. Permit me to remove it."

At the ſame time he advanced his hand towards the gauze: the lady raiſed hers to prevent him.

"I never unveil in public, Segnor."

"And where is the harm, I pray you?" interrupted her companion ſomewhat ſharp⯑ly. "Do not you ſee, that the other ladies have all laid their veils aſide, to do honour no doubt to the holy place in which we are? I have taken off mine already; and ſurely, if I expoſe my features to general obſervation, you have no cauſe to put your⯑ſelf in ſuch a wonderful alarm! Bleſſed Maria! Here is a fuſs and a buſtle about a chit's face! Come, come, child! Unco⯑ver it! I warrant you that nobody will run away with it from you—"

"Dear aunt, it is not the cuſtom in Murcia—"

"Murcia, indeed! Holy St. Barbara, [10] what does that ſignify? You are always put⯑ting me in mind of that villanous province. If it is the cuſtom in Madrid, that is all that we ought to mind; and therefore I de⯑ſire you to take off your veil immediately. Obey me this moment, Antonia, for you know that I cannot bear contradiction."

Her niece was ſilent, but made no fur⯑ther oppoſition to Don Lorenzo's efforts, who, armed with the aunt's ſanction, haſ⯑tened to remove the gauze. What a ſeraph's head preſented itſelf to his ad⯑miration! Yet it was rather bewitching than beautiful; it was not ſo lovely from regularity of features, as from ſweetneſs and ſenſibility of countenance. The ſeve⯑ral parts of her face conſidered ſeparately, many of them were far from handſome; but, when examined together, the whole was adorable. Her ſkin, though fair, was not entirely without freckles; her eyes were not very large, nor their laſhes particularly long. But then her lips were of the moſt roſy freſhneſs; her fair and undulating hair, [11] confined by a ſimple ribband, poured itſelf below her waiſt in a profuſion of ringlets; her neck was full and beautiful in the extreme; her hand and arm were form⯑ed with the moſt perfect ſymmetry; her mild blue eyes ſeemed an heaven of ſweet⯑neſs, and the cryſtal in which they mov⯑ed ſparkled with all the brilliance of dia⯑monds. She appeared to be ſcarcely fif⯑teen; an arch ſmile, playing round her mouth, declared her to be poſſeſſed of livelineſs, which exceſs of timidity at pre⯑ſent repreſſed. She looked round her with a baſhful glance; and whenever her eyes ac⯑cidentally met Lorenzo's, ſhe dropped them haſtily upon her roſary; her cheek was immediately ſuffuſed with bluſhes, and ſhe began to tell her beads; though her manner evidently ſhowed that ſhe knew not what ſhe was about.

Lorenzo gazed upon her with mingled ſurpriſe and admiration; but the aunt thought it neceſſary to apologize for An⯑tonia's mauvaiſe honte.

[12]"'Tis a young creature," ſaid ſhe, "who is totally ignorant of the world. She has been brought up in an old caſtle in Mur⯑cia, with no other ſociety than her mo⯑ther's, who, God help her! has no more ſenſe, good ſoul, than is neceſſary to carry her ſoup to her mouth. Yet ſhe is my own ſiſter, both by father and mother."

"And has ſo little ſenſe?" ſaid Don Chriſtoval with feigned aſtoniſhment. "How very extraordinary!"

"Very true, Segnor. Is it not ſtrange? However, ſuch is the fact; and yet only to ſee the luck of ſome people! A young nobleman, of the very firſt quality, took it into his head that Elvira had ſome pre⯑tenſions to beauty.—As to pretenſions, in truth ſhe had always enough of them; but as to beauty!—If I had only taken half the pains to ſet myſelf off which ſhe did!— But this is neither here nor there. As I was ſaying, Segnor, a young nobleman fell in love with her, and married her un⯑known to his father. Their union remained [13] a ſecret near three years; but at laſt it came to the ears of the old marquis, who, as you may well ſuppoſe, was not much pleaſed with the intelligence. Away he poſted in all haſte to Cordova, determined to ſeize Elvira, and ſend her away to ſome place or other, where ſhe would never be heard of more. Holy St. Paul! How he ſtormed on finding that ſhe had eſcaped him, had joined her huſband, and that they had embarked together for the Indies! He ſwore at us all, as if the evil ſpirit had poſſeſſed him; he threw my father into pri⯑ſon—as honeſt a pains-taking ſhoe-maker as any in Cordova; and when he went away, he had the cruelty to take from us my ſiſter's little boy, then ſcarcely two years old, and whom in the abruptneſs of her flight ſhe had been obliged to leave behind her. I ſuppoſe that the poor little wretch met with bitter bad treatment from him, for in a few months after we received in⯑telligence of his death."

[14]"Why, this was a moſt terrible old fellow, Segnora!"

"Oh! ſhocking! and a man ſo totally devoid of taſte! Why, would you believe it, Segnor? when I attempted to pacify him, he curſed me for a witch, and wiſhed that, to puniſh the count, my ſiſter might become as ugly as myſelf! Ugly indeed! I like him for that."

"Ridiculous!" cried Don Chriſtoval. "Doubtleſs the count would have thought himſelf fortunate, had he been permitted to exchange the one ſiſter for the other."

"Oh! Chriſt! Segnor, you are really too polite. However, I am heartily glad that the condé was of a different way of thinking. A mighty pretty piece of buſi⯑neſs, to be ſure, Elvira has made of it! Af⯑ter broiling and ſtewing in the Indies for thirteen long years, her huſband dies, and ſhe returns to Spain, without an houſe to hide her head, or money to procure her one! This Antonia was then but an infant, [15] and her only remaining child. She found that her father-in-law had married again, that he was irreconcileable to the condé, and that his ſecond wife had produced him a ſon, who is reported to be a very fine young man. The old marquis refuſed to ſee my ſiſter or her child; but ſent her word that, on condition of never hear⯑ing any more of her, he would aſſign her a ſmall penſion, and ſhe might live in an old caſtle which he poſſeſſed in Mur⯑cia. This had been the favourite habita⯑tion of his eldeſt ſon; but, ſince his flight from Spain, the old marquis could not bear the place, but let it fall to ruin and confuſion.—My ſiſter accepted the propoſal; ſhe retired to Murcia, and has remained there till within the laſt month."

"And what brings her now to Madrid?" enquired Don Lorenzo, whom admiration of the young Antonia compelled to take a lively intereſt in the talkative old wo⯑man's narration.

"Alas! Segnor, her father-in-law being [16] lately dead, the ſteward of his Murcian eſtates has refuſed to pay her penſion any longer. With the deſign of ſupplicating his ſon to renew it, ſhe is now come to Madrid; but I doubt that ſhe might have ſaved herſelf the trouble. You young noblemen have always enough to do with your money, and are not very often diſ⯑poſed to throw it away upon old women. I adviſed my ſiſter to ſend Antonia with her petition; but ſhe would not hear of ſuch a thing. She is ſo obſtinate! Well! ſhe will find herſelf the worſe for not fol⯑lowing my counſels: the girl has a good pretty face, and poſſibly might have done much."

"Ah, Segnora!" interrupted Don Chriſ⯑toval, counterfeiting a paſſionate air; "if a pretty face will do the buſineſs, why has not your ſiſter recourſe to you?"

"Oh! Jeſus! my lord, I ſwear you quite overpower me with your gallantry! But I promiſe you that I am too well aware of the danger of ſuch expeditions to truſt [17] myſelf in a young nobleman's power! No, no; I have as yet preſerved my reputation without blemiſh or reproach, and I always knew how to keep the men at a proper diſ⯑tance."

"Of that, Segnora, I have not the leaſt doubt. But permit me to aſk you, Have you then any averſion to matrimony?"

"That is an home queſtion. I cannot but confeſs, that if an amiable cavalier was to preſent himſelf—"

Here ſhe intended to throw a tender and ſignificant look upon Don Chriſtoval; but, as ſhe unluckily happened to ſquint moſt abominably, the glance fell directly upon his companion. Lorenzo took the compli⯑ment to himſelf, and anſwered it by a pro⯑found bow.

"May I enquire," ſaid he, "the name of the marquis?"

"The marquis de las Ciſternas."

"I know him intimately well. He is not at preſent in Madrid, but is expected here daily. He is one of the beſt of men; [18] and if the lovely Antonia will permit me to be her advocate with him, I doubt not my being able to make a favourable re⯑port of her cauſe."

Antonia raiſed her blue eyes, and ſilently thanked him for the offer by a ſmile of inexpreſſible ſweetneſs. Leonella's ſatiſ⯑faction was much more loud and audible. Indeed, as her niece was generally ſilent in her company, ſhe thought it incumbent upon her to talk enough for both: this ſhe managed without difficulty, for ſhe very ſeldom found herſelf deficient in words.

"Oh, Segnor!" ſhe cried; "you will lay our whole family under the moſt ſignal ob⯑ligations! I accept your offer with all poſ⯑ſible gratitude, and return you a thouſand thanks for the generoſity of your propoſal. Antonia, why do not you ſpeak, child? While the cavalier ſays all ſorts of civil things to you, you ſit like a ſtatue, and never utter a ſyllable of thanks, either bad, good, or indifferent!—"

"My dear aunt, I am very ſenſible that—"

[19]"Fye, niece! How often have I told you, that you never ſhould interrupt a perſon who is ſpeaking! When did you ever know me do ſuch a thing? Are theſe your Murcian manners? Mercy on me! I ſhall never be able to make this girl any thing like a perſon of good breeding. But pray, Segnor," ſhe continued, addreſ⯑ſing herſelf to Don Chriſtoval, "inform me, why ſuch a crowd is aſſembled to-day in this cathedral."

"Can you poſſibly be ignorant, that Ambroſio, abbot of this monaſtery, pro⯑nounces a ſermon in this church every Thurſday? All Madrid rings with his praiſes. As yet he has preached but thrice; but all who have heard him are ſo delight⯑ed with his eloquence, that it is as difficult to obtain a place at church, as at the firſt repreſentation of a new comedy. His fame certainly muſt have reached your ears?"

"Alas! Segnor, till yeſterday I never had the good fortune to ſee Madrid; and at Cordova we are ſo little informed of [20] what is paſſing in the reſt of the world, that the name of Ambroſio has never been mentioned in its precincts."

"You will find it in every one's mouth at Madrid. He ſeems to have faſcinated the inhabitants; and, not having attended his ſermons myſelf, I am aſtoniſhed at the enthuſiaſm which he has excited. The adoration paid him both by young and old, by man and woman, is unexampled. The grandees load him with preſents; their wives refuſe to have any other con⯑feſſor; and he is known through all the city by the name of The Man of Holineſs."

"Undoubtedly, Segnor, he is of no⯑ble origin?"

"That point ſtill remains undecided. The late ſuperior of the Capuchins found him while yet an infant at the abbey-door. All attempts to diſcover who had left him there were vain, and the child himſelf could give no account of his parents. He was educated in the monaſtery, where he has remained ever ſince. He early ſhowed a [21] ſtrong inclination for ſtudy and retirement; and as ſoon as he was of a proper age, he pronounced his vows. No one has ever appeared to claim him, or clear up the myſtery which conceals his birth; and the monks, who find their account in the fa⯑vour which is ſhewn to their eſtabliſhment from reſpect to him, have not heſitated to publiſh, that he is a preſent to them from the Virgin. In truth, the ſingular auſterity of his life gives ſome countenance to the report. He is now thirty years old, every hour of which period has been paſſed in ſtudy, total ſecluſion from the world, and mortification of the fleſh. Till theſe laſt three weeks, when he was choſen ſuperior of the ſociety to which he belongs, he had never been on the outſide of the abbey-walls. Even now he never quits them except on Thurſdays, when he delivers a diſcourſe in this cathedral, which all Madrid aſſem⯑bles to hear. His knowledge is ſaid to be the moſt profound, his eloquence the moſt perſuaſive. In the whole courſe of his life [22] he has never been known to tranſgreſs a ſingle rule of his order; the ſmalleſt ſtain is not to be diſcovered upon his character; and he is reported to be ſo ſtrict an obſerver of chaſtity, that he knows not in what con⯑ſiſts the difference of man and woman. The common people therefore eſteem him to be a ſaint."

"Does that make a ſaint?" enquired Antonia. "Bleſs me! then am I one."

"Holy St. Barbara!" exclaimed Leo⯑nella, "what a queſtion! Fye, child, fye! theſe are not fit ſubjects for young wo⯑men to handle. You ſhould not ſeem to remember that there is ſuch a thing as a man in the world, and you ought to ima⯑gine every body to be of the ſame ſex with yourſelf. I ſhould like to ſee you give people to underſtand, that you know that a man has no breaſts, and no hips, and no—"

Luckily for Antonia's ignorance, which her aunt's lecture would ſoon have diſ⯑pelled, an univerſal murmur through the [23] church announced the preacher's arrival. Donna Leonella roſe from her ſeat to take a better view of him, and Antonia followed her example.

He was a man of noble port and com⯑manding preſence. His ſtature was lofty, and his features uncommonly handſome. His noſe was aquiline, his eyes large, black and ſparkling, and his dark brows almoſt joined together. His complexion was of a deep but clear brown; ſtudy and watch⯑ing had entirely deprived his cheek of colour. Tranquillity reigned upon his ſmooth unwrinkled forehead; and content, expreſſed upon every feature, ſeemed to announce the man equally unacquainted with cares and crimes. He bowed him⯑ſelf with humility to the audience. Still there was a certain ſeverity in his look and manner that inſpired univerſal awe, and few could ſuſtain the glance of his eye, at once fiery and penetrating. Such was Am⯑broſio, abbot of the Capuchins, and ſur⯑named "The Man of Holineſs."

[24]Antonia, while ſhe gazed upon him eagerly, felt a pleaſure fluttering in her bo⯑ſom which till then had been unknown to her, and for which ſhe in vain endeavoured to account. She waited with impatience till the ſermon ſhould begin; and when at length the friar ſpoke, the ſound of his voice ſeemed to penetrate into her very ſoul. Though no other of the ſpectators felt ſuch violent ſenſations as did the young Antonia, yet every one liſtened with in⯑tereſt and emotion. They who were inſen⯑ſible to religion's merits, were ſtill enchant⯑ed with Ambroſio's oratory. All found their attention irreſiſtibly attracted while he ſpoke, and the moſt profound ſilence reign⯑ed through the crowded aiſles. Even Lorenzo could not reſiſt the charm: he forgot that Antonia was ſeated near him, and liſtened to the preacher with undivided attention.

In language nervous, clear, and ſimple, the monk expatiated on the beauties of reli⯑gion. He explained ſome abſtruſe parts of the [25] ſacred writings in a ſtyle that carried with it univerſal conviction. His voice, at once diſtinct and deep, was fraught with all the terrors of the tempeſt, while he inveighed againſt the vices of humanity, and de⯑ſcribed the puniſhments reſerved for them in a future ſtate. Every hearer looked back upon his paſt offences, and trembled: the thunder ſeemed to roll, whoſe bolt was deſtined to cruſh him, and the abyſs of eternal deſtruction to open before his feet! But when Ambroſio, changing his theme, ſpoke of the excellence of an unſullied conſcience, of the glorious proſpect which eternity preſented to the ſoul untainted with reproach, and of the recompenſe which awaited it in the regions of everlaſt⯑ing glory, his auditors felt their ſcattered ſpirits inſenſibly return. They threw them⯑ſelves with confidence upon the mercy of their judge; they hung with delight up⯑on the conſoling words of the preacher; and while his full voice ſwelled into me⯑lody, they were tranſported to thoſe happy [26] regions which he painted to their imagi⯑nations in colours ſo brilliant and glow⯑ing.

The diſcourſe was of conſiderable length: yet, when it concluded, the audience grieved that it had not laſted longer. Though the monk had ceaſed to ſpeak, enthuſiaſtic ſi⯑lence ſtill prevailed through the church. At length the charm gradually diſſolving, the general admiration was expreſſed in audible terms. As Ambroſio deſcended from the pulpit, his auditors crowded round him, loaded him with bleſſings, threw themſelves at his feet, and kiſſed the hem of his garment. He paſſed on ſlowly, with his hands croſſed devoutly upon his boſom, to the door opening into the abbey-chapel, at which his monks waited to receive him. He aſcended the ſteps, and then, turning towards his followers, addreſſed to them a few words of gratitude and exhortation. While he ſpoke, his roſary, compoſed of large grains of amber, fell from his hand, and dropped among the ſurrounding multi⯑tude. [27] It was ſeized eagerly, and imme⯑diately divided amidſt the ſpectators. Who⯑ever became poſſeſſor of a bead, preſerved it as a ſacred relique; and had it been the chaplet of thrice-bleſſed St. Francis him⯑ſelf, it could not have been diſputed with greater vivacity. The abbot, ſmiling at their eagerneſs, pronounced his benediction and quitted the church, while humility dwelt upon every feature. Dwelt ſhe alſo in his heart?

Antonia's eyes followed him with an⯑xiety. As the door cloſed after him, it ſeemed to her as ſhe had loſt ſome one eſſential to her happineſs. A tear ſtole in ſilence down her cheek.

"He is ſeparated from the world!" ſaid ſhe to herſelf; "perhaps, I ſhall never ſee him more!"

As ſhe wiped away the tear, Lorenzo obſerved her action.

"Are you ſatisfied with our orator?" ſaid he; "or do you think that Madrid over-rates his talents?"

[28]Antonia's heart was ſo filled with admira⯑tion for the monk, that ſhe eagerly ſeized the opportunity of ſpeaking of him: be⯑ſides, as ſhe now no longer conſidered Lo⯑renzo as an abſolute ſtranger, ſhe was leſs embarraſſed by her exceſſive timidity.

"Oh! he far exceeds all my expecta⯑tions," anſwered ſhe; "till this moment I had no idea of the powers of eloquence. But when he ſpoke, his voice inſpired me with ſuch intereſt, ſuch eſteem, I might almoſt ſay ſuch affection for him, that I am myſelf aſtoniſhed at the acuteneſs of my feelings."

Lorenzo ſmiled at the ſtrength of her expreſſions.

"You are young, and juſt entering into life," ſaid he: "your heart, new to the world, and full of warmth and ſenſibility, receives its firſt impreſſions with eagerneſs. Artleſs yourſelf, you ſuſpect not others of deceit; and viewing the world through the medium of your own truth and innocence, you fancy all who ſurround you to deſerve [29] your confidence and eſteem. What pity, that theſe gay viſions muſt ſoon be diſſi⯑pated! What pity, that you muſt ſoon diſ⯑cover the baſeneſs of mankind, and guard againſt your fellow-creatures as againſt your [...]oes!"

"Alas! Segnor," replied Antonia, "the misfortunes of my parents have al⯑ready placed before me but too many ſad examples of the perfidy of the world! Yet ſurely in the preſent inſtance the warmth of ſympathy cannot have deceived me."

"In the preſent inſtance, I allow that it has not. Ambroſio's character is per⯑fectly without reproach; and a man who has paſſed the whole of his life within the walls of a convent, cannot have found the opportunity to be guilty, even were he poſſeſſed of the inclination. But now, when, obliged by the duties of his ſituation, he muſt enter occaſionally into the world, and be thrown into the way of temptation, it is now that it behoves him to ſhow the brilliance of his virtue. The trial is dan⯑gerous; [30] he is juſt at that period of life when the paſſions are moſt vigorous, un⯑bridled, and deſpotic; his eſtabliſhed re⯑putation will mark him out to ſeduction as an illuſtrious victim; novelty will give additional charms to the allurements of pleaſure; and even the talents with which nature has endowed him will contribute to his ruin, by facilitating the means of obtaining his object. Very few would re⯑turn victorious from a conteſt ſo ſevere."

"Ah! ſurely Ambroſio will be one of thoſe few."

"Of that I have myſelf no doubt: by all accounts he is an exception to mankind in general, and envy would ſeek in vain for a blot upon his character."

"Segnor, you delight me by this aſ⯑ſurance! It encourages me to indulge my prepoſſeſſion in his favour; and you know not with what pain I ſhould have repreſſed the ſentiment! Ah! deareſt aunt, en⯑treat my mother to chooſe him for our con⯑feſſor."

[31]"I entreat her?" replied Leonella; "I promiſe you that I ſhall do no ſuch thing. I do not like this ſame Ambroſio in the leaſt; he has a look of ſeverity about him that made me tremble from head to foot. Were he my confeſſor, I ſhould never have the courage to avow one half of my peccadilloes, and then I ſhould be in a rare condition! I never ſaw ſuch a ſtern-looking mortal, and hope that I never ſhall ſee ſuch another. His deſcription of the devil, God bleſs us! almoſt terrified me out of my wits, and when h [...] ſpoke about ſinners he ſeemed as if he was ready to eat them."

"You are right, Segnora," anſwered Don Chriſtoval. "Too great ſeverity is ſaid to be Ambroſio's only fault. Ex⯑empted himſelf from human failings, he is not ſufficiently indulgent to thoſe of others; and though ſtrictly juſt and diſintereſted in his deciſions, his government of the monks has already ſhown ſome proofs of his inflexibility. But the crowd is nearly [32] diſſipated: will you permit us to attend you home?"

"O Chriſt! Segnor," exclaimed Leo⯑nella affecting to bluſh; "I would not ſuffer ſuch a thing for the univerſe! If I came home attended by ſo gallant a ca⯑valier, my ſiſter is ſo ſcrupulous that ſhe would read me an hour's lecture, and I ſhould never hear the laſt of it. Beſides, I rather wiſh you not to make your pro⯑poſals juſt at preſent.—"

My propoſals? I aſſure you, Seg⯑nora."

"Oh! Segnor, I believe that your aſ⯑ſurances of impatience are all very true; but really I muſt deſire a little reſpite. It would not be quite ſo delicate in me to accept your hand at firſt ſight."

"Accept my hand? As I hope to live and breathe—"

"Oh! dear Segnor, preſs me no fur⯑ther if you love me! I ſhall conſider your obedience as a proof of your affection; you ſhall hear from me to-morrow, and ſo [33] farewell. But pray, cavaliers, may I not enquire your names?"

"My friend's," replied Lorenzo, "is the Condé d'Oſſorio, and mine Lorenzo de Medina."

"'Tis ſufficient. Well, Don Lorenzo, I ſhall acquaint my ſiſter with your oblig⯑ing offer, and let you know the reſult with all expedition. Where may I ſend to you?"

"I am always to be found at the Me⯑dina palace."

"You may depend upon hearing from me. Farewell, cavaliers. Segnor Condé, let me entreat you to moderate the exceſ⯑ſive ardour of your paſſion. However, to prove that I am not diſpleaſed with you, and prevent your abandoning yourſelf to deſpair; receive this mark of my affection, and ſometimes beſtow a thought upon the abſent Leonella."

As ſhe ſaid this, ſhe extended a lean and wrinkled hand; which her ſuppoſed ad⯑mirer [34] kiſſed with ſuch ſorry grace and con⯑ſtraint ſo evident, that Lorenzo with dif⯑ficulty repreſſed his inclination to laugh. Leonella then haſtened to quit the church: the lovely Antonia followed her in ſilence; but when ſhe reached the porch, ſhe turn⯑ed involuntarily, and caſt back her eyes to⯑wards Lorenzo. He bowed to her, as bidding her farewell; ſhe returned the compliment, and haſtily withdrew.

"So, Lorenzo!" ſaid Don Chriſtoval as ſoon as they were alone, "you have procured me an agreeable intrigue! To fa⯑vour your deſigns upon Antonia, I oblig⯑ingly make a few civil ſpeeches which mean nothing to the aunt, and at the end of an hour I find myſelf upon the brink of matrimony! How will you reward me for having ſuffered ſo grievouſly for your ſake? What can repay me for having kiſ⯑ſed the leathern paw of that confounded old witch? Diavolo! She has left ſuch a ſcent upon my lips, that I ſhall ſmell of [35] garlick for this month to come! As I paſs along the Prado, I ſhall be taken for a walking omelet, or ſome large onion run⯑ning to ſeed!"

"I confeſs, my poor count," replied Lorenzo, "that your ſervice has been at⯑tended with danger; yet am I ſo far from ſuppoſing it to be paſt all endurance; that I ſhall probably ſolicit you to carry on your amours ſtill further."

"From that petition I conclude, that the little Antonia has made ſome impreſ⯑ſion upon you."

"I cannot expreſs to you how much I am charmed with her. Since my father's death, my uncle the duke de Medina has ſignified to me his wiſhes to ſee me mar⯑ried; I have till now eluded his hints, and refuſed to underſtand them; but what I have ſeen this evening—"

"Well, what have you ſeen this even⯑ing? Why ſurely, Don Lorenzo, you cannot be mad enough to think of mak⯑ing a wife out of this grand-daughter of [36] 'as honeſt a pains-taking ſhoemaker as any in Cordova'?"

"You forget, that ſhe is alſo the grand-daughter of the late marquis de las Ciſter⯑nas; but without diſputing about birth and titles, I muſt aſſure you, that I never be⯑held a woman ſo intereſting as Antonia."

"Very poſſibly; but you cannot mean to marry her?"

"Why not, my dear condé? I ſhall have wealth enough for both of us, and you know that my uncle thinks liberally upon the ſubject. From what I have ſeen of Ray⯑mond de las Ciſternas, I am certain that he will readily acknowledge Antonia for his niece. Her birth therefore will be no objection to my offering her my hand. I ſhould be a villain, could I think of her on any other terms than marriage; and in truth ſhe ſeems poſſeſſed of every quality requiſite to make me happy in a wife— young, lovely, gentle, ſenſible—"

"Senſible? Why, ſhe ſaid nothing but Yes, and No."

[37]"She did, not ſay much more, I muſt confeſs—but then ſhe always ſaid Yes or No in the right place."

"Did ſhe ſo? Oh! your moſt obedi⯑ent! That is uſing a right lover's argu⯑ment, and I dare diſpute no longer with ſo profound a caſuiſt. Suppoſe we ad⯑journ to the comedy?"

"It is out of my power. I only ar⯑rived laſt night at Madrid, and have not yet had an opportunity of ſeeing my ſiſter. You know that her convent is in this ſtreet, and I was going thither when the crowd which I ſaw thronging into this church excited my curioſity to know what was the matter. I ſhall now purſue my firſt intention, and probably paſs the even⯑ing with my ſiſter at the parlour-grate."

"Your ſiſter in a convent, ſay you? Oh! very true, I had forgotten. And how does Donna Agnes? I am amazed, Don Lorenzo, how you could poſſibly think of immuring ſo charming a girl within the walls of a cloiſter!"

[38]"I think of it, Don Chriſtoval? How can you ſuſpect me of ſuch barbarity? You are conſcious that ſhe took the veil by her own deſire, and that particular cir⯑cumſtances made her wiſh for a ſecluſion from the world. I uſed every means in my power to induce her to change her reſolution; the endeavour was fruitleſs, and I loſt a ſiſter!"

"The luckier fellow you: I think, Lo⯑renzo, you were a conſiderable gainer by that loſs; if I remember right, Donna Agnes had a portion of ten thouſand piſ⯑toles, half of which reverted to your lord⯑ſhip. By St. Jago! I wiſh that I had fifty ſiſters in the ſame predicament: I ſhould conſent to loſing them every ſoul without much heartburning."

"How, condé?" ſaid Lorenzo in an angry voice; "do you ſuppoſe me baſe enough to have influenced my ſiſter's re⯑tirement? do you ſuppoſe that the deſpi⯑cable wiſh to make myſelf maſter of her fortune could—"

[39]"Admirable! Courage, Don Lorenzo! Now the man is all in a blaze. God grant that Antonia may ſoften that fiery temper, or we ſhall certainly cut each other's throat before the month is over! However, to prevent ſuch a tragical cataſtrophe for the preſent, I ſhall make a retreat, and leave you maſter of the field. Farewell, my knight of Mount Aetna! Moderate that inflammable diſpoſition, and remember that, whenever it is neceſſary to make love to yonder harridan, you may reckon upon my ſervices."

He ſaid, and darted out of the cathedral.

"How wild-brained!" ſaid Lorenzo. "With ſo excellent an heart, what pity that he poſſeſſes ſo little ſolidity of judg⯑ment!"

The night was now faſt advancing. The lamps were not yet lighted. The faint beams of the riſing moon ſcarcely could pierce through the gothic obſcurity of the church. Lorenzo found himſelf unable to quit the ſpot. The void left in [40] his boſom by Antonia's abſence, and his ſiſter's ſacrifice which Don Chriſtoval had juſt recalled to his imagination, created that melancholy of mind, which accorded but too well with the religious gloom ſurrounding him. He was ſtill leaning againſt the ſeventh column from the pulpit. A ſoft and cooling air breathed along the ſolitary aiſles; the moon-beams darting into the church through painted windows, tinged the fretted roofs and maſſy pillars with a thouſand various ſhades of light and colours. Univerſal ſilence prevailed around, only interrupted by the occaſional cloſing of doors in the adjoining abbey.

The calm of the hour and ſolitude of the place contributed to nouriſh Lo⯑renzo's diſpoſition to melancholy. He threw himſelf upon a ſeat which ſtood near him, and abandoned himſelf to the deluſions of his fancy. He thought of his union with Antonia; he thought of the obſtacles which might oppoſe his wiſhes; and a thouſand changing viſions floated [41] before his fancy, ſad 'tis true, but not unpleaſing. Sleep inſenſibly ſtole over him, and the tranquil ſolemnity of his mind when awake, for a while continued to in⯑fluence his ſlumbers.

He ſtill fancied himſelf to be in the church of the Capuchins; but it was no longer dark and ſolitary. Multitudes of ſilver lamps ſhed ſplendour from the vault⯑ed roofs; accompanied by the captivating chaunt of diſtant choriſters, the organ's melody ſwelled through the church; the altar ſeemed decorated as for ſome diſtin⯑guiſhed feaſt; it was ſurrounded by a brilliant company; and near it ſtood Anto⯑nia arrayed in bridal white, and bluſhing with all the charms of virgin modeſty.

Half hoping, half fearing, Lorenzo gazed upon the ſcene before him. Sud⯑den the door leading to the abbey uncloſed; and he ſaw, attended by a long train of monks, the preacher advance to whom he had juſt liſtened with ſo much admiration. He drew near Antonia.

[42]"And where is the bridegroom?" ſaid the imaginary friar.

Antonia ſeemed to look round the church with anxiety. Involuntarily the youth ad⯑vanced a few ſteps from his concealment. She ſaw him; the bluſh of pleaſure glowed upon her cheek; with a graceful motion of her hand ſhe beckoned to him to advance. He diſobeyed not the command; he ſlew to⯑wards her, and threw himſelf at her feet.

She retreated for a moment; then gazing upon him with unutterable delight, "Yes," ſhe exclaimed, "my bridegroom! my deſtined bridegroom!"

She ſaid, and haſtened to throw herſelf into his arms; but before he had time to receive her, an unknown ruſhed between them: his form was gigantic; his com⯑plexion was ſwarthy, his eyes fierce and terrible; his mouth breathed out volumes of fire, and on his forehead was written in legible characters—"Pride! Luſt! Inhu⯑manity!"

Antonia ſhrieked. The monſter claſped [43] her in his arms, and, ſpringing with her upon the altar, tortured her with his odious careſſes. She endeavoured in vain to eſcape from his embrace. Lorenzo flew to her ſuccour; but, ere he had time to reach her, a loud burſt of thunder was heard. In⯑ſtantly the cathedral ſeemed crumbling in⯑to pieces; the monks betook themſelves to ſlight, ſhrieking fearfully; the lamps were extinguiſhed, the altar ſunk down, and in its place appeared an abyſs vomiting forth clouds of flame. Uttering a loud and terrible cry the monſter plunged into the gulph, and in his fall attempted to drag Antonia with him. He ſtrove in vain. Animated by ſupernatural pow⯑ers, ſhe diſengaged herſelf from his em⯑brace; but her white robe was left in his poſſeſſion. Inſtantly a wing of brilliant ſplendour ſpread itſelf from either of Anto⯑nia's arms. She darted upwards, and while aſcending cried to Lorenzo, "Friend! we ſhall meet above!"

At the ſame moment the roof of the cathe⯑dral [44] opened; harmonious voices pealed along the vaults; and the glory into which Antonia was received, was compoſed of rays of ſuch dazzling brightneſs, that Lo⯑renzo was unable to ſuſtain the gaze. His ſight failed, and he ſunk upon the ground.

When he awoke he found himſelf extend⯑ed upon the pavement of the church: it was illuminated, and the chaunt of hymns ſounded from a diſtance. For a while Lorenzo could not perſuade himſelf that what he had juſt witneſſed had been a dream, ſo ſtrong an impreſſion had it made upon his fancy. A little recollection con⯑vinced him of its fallacy: the lamps had been lighted during his ſleep, and the muſic which he heard was occaſioned by the monks, who were celebrating their veſpers in the abbey-chapel.

Lorenzo roſe, and prepared to bend his ſteps towards his ſiſter's convent; his mind fully occupied by the ſingularity of his dream. He already drew near the porch, when his attention was attracted by [45] perceiving a ſhadow moving upon the oppo⯑ſite wall. He looked curiouſly round, and ſoon deſcried a man wrapped up in his cloak, who ſeemed carefully examining whether his actions were obſerved. Very few peo⯑ple are exempt from the influence of curi⯑oſity. The unknown ſeemed anxious to conceal his buſineſs in the cathedral; and it was this very circumſtance which made Lorenzo wiſh to diſcover what he was about.

Our hero was conſcious that he had no right to pry into the ſecrets of this unknown cavalier.

"I will go," ſaid Lorenzo. And Lo⯑renzo ſtayed where he was.

The ſhadow thrown by the column ef⯑fectually concealed him from the ſtranger, who continued to advance with caution. At length he drew a letter from beneath his cloak, and haſtily placed it beneath a coloſſal ſtatue of St. Francis. Then re⯑tiring with precipitation, he concealed him⯑ſelf in a part of the church at a conſider⯑able [46] diſtance from that in which the image ſtood.

"So!" ſaid Lorenzo to himſelf; "this is only ſome fooliſh love affair. I believe, I may as well be gone, for I can do no good in it."

In truth, till that moment it never came into his head that he could do any good in it; but he thought it neceſſary to make ſome little excuſe to himſelf for having in⯑dulged his curioſity. He now made a ſecond attempt to retire from the church. For this time he gained the porch without meeting with any impediment; but it was deſtined that he ſhould pay it another viſit that night. As he deſcended the ſteps leading into the ſtreet, a cavalier ruſhed againſt him with ſuch violence, that both were nearly overturned by the concuſſion. Lorenzo put his hand to his ſword.

"How now, Segnor?" ſaid he; "what mean you by this rudeneſs?"

"Ha! is it you, Medina?" replied the new comer, whom Lorenzo by his voice [47] now recognized for Don Chriſtoval. "You [...]re the luckieſt fellow in the univerſe, not [...]o have left the church before my return. [...]n, in! my dear lad! they will be here immediately!"

"Who will be here?"

"The old hen and all her pretty little chickens. In, I ſay; and then you ſhall know the whole hiſtory."

Lorenzo followed him into the cathe⯑dral, and they concealed themſelves behind the ſtatue of St. Francis.

"And now," ſaid our hero, "may I take the liberty of aſking what is the mean⯑ing of all this haſte and rapture?"

"Oh! Lorenzo, we ſhall ſee ſuch a glo⯑rious ſight! The prioreſs of St. Clare and her whole train of nuns are coming hither. You are to know, that the pious father Am⯑broſio [the Lord reward him for it!] will up⯑on no account move out of his own precincts. It being abſolutely neceſſary for every fa⯑ſhionable convent to have him for its con⯑feſſor, [48] the nuns are in conſequence obliged to viſit him at the abbey; ſince, when the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Ma⯑homet muſt needs go to the mountain. Now the prioreſs of St. Clare, the better to eſcape the gaze of ſuch impure eyes as belong to yourſelf and your humble ſervant, thinks proper to bring her holy flock to confeſ⯑ſion in the duſk: ſhe is to be admitted into the abbey-chapel by you private door. The portereſs of St. Clare, who is a worthy old ſoul and a particular friend of mine, has juſt aſſured me of their being here in a few moments. There is news for you, you rogue! We ſhall ſee ſome of the prettieſt faces in Madrid!"

"In truth, Chriſtoval, we ſhall do no ſuch thing. The nuns are always veiled."

"No! no! I know better. On entering a place of worſhip, they ever take off their veils, from reſpect to the ſaint to whom 'tis dedicated. But hark, they are coming! Si⯑lence! ſilence! Obſerve, and be convinced."

[49]"Good!" ſaid Lorenzo to himſelf; "I may poſſibly diſcover to whom the vows are addreſſed of this myſterious ſtranger."

Scarcely had Don Chriſtoval ceaſed to ſpeak, when the domina of St. Clare appear⯑ed, followed by a long proceſſion of nuns. Each upon entering the church took off her veil. The prioreſs croſſed her hands upon her boſom, and made a profound re⯑verence as ſhe paſſed the ſtatue of St. Fran⯑cis, the patron of this cathedral. The nuns followed her example, and ſeveral moved onwards without having ſatisfied Lo⯑renzo's curioſity. He almoſt began to de⯑ſpair of ſeeing the myſtery cleared up, when, in paying her reſpects to St. Francis, one of the nuns happened to drop her roſary. As ſhe ſtooped to pick it up the light flaſh⯑ed full in her face. At the ſame moment ſhe dexterouſly removed the letter from beneath the image, placed it in her boſom, and haſt⯑ened to reſume her rank in the proceſſion.

"Ha!" ſaid Chriſtoval in a low [50] voice, "here we have ſome little in⯑trigue, no doubt."

"Agnes, by heaven!" cried Lorenzo.

"What, your ſiſter? Diavolo! Then ſomebody, I ſuppoſe, will have to pay for our peeping."

"And ſhall pay for it without delay," replied the incenſed brother.

The pious proceſſion had now entered the abbey; the door was already cloſed upon it. The unknown immediately quit⯑ted his concealment, and haſtened to leave the church: ere he could effect his inten⯑tion, he deſcried Medina ſtationed in his paſſage. The ſtranger haſtily retreated, and drew his hat over his eyes.

"Attempt not to fly me!" exclaimed Lorenzo; "I will know who you are, and what were the contents of that letter."

"Of that letter?" repeated the unknown. "And by what title do you aſk the queſ⯑tion?"

"By a title of which I am now aſhamed; but it becomes not you to queſtion me. [51] Either reply circumſtantially to my de⯑mands, or anſwer me with your ſword."

"The latter method will be the ſhorteſt," rejoined the other, drawing his rapier; "come on, Segnor Bravo! I am ready."

Burning with rage, Lorenzo haſtened to the attack: the antagoniſts had already exchanged ſeveral paſſes, before Chriſtoval, who at that moment had more ſenſe than either of them, could throw himſelf be⯑tween their weapons.

"Hold! hold! Medina!" he exclaim⯑ed; "remember the conſequences of ſhed⯑ding blood on conſecrated ground!"

The ſtranger immediately dropped his ſword.

"Medina?" he cried. "Great God, is it poſſible! Lorenzo, have you quite for⯑gotten Raymond de las Ciſternas?"

Lorenzo's aſtoniſhment increaſed with every ſucceeding moment. Raymond ad⯑vanced towards him; but with a look of ſuſpicion he drew back his hand, which the other was preparing to take.

"You here, Marquis? What is the [52] meaning of all this? You engaged in a clandeſtine correſpondence with my ſiſter, whoſe affections—"

"Have ever been, and ſtill are mine. But this is no fit place for an explanation. Accompany me to my hotel, and you ſhall know every thing. Who is that with you?"

"One whom I believe you to have ſeen before," replied Don Chriſtoval, "though probably not at church."

"The condé d'Oſſorio?"

"Exactly ſo, marquis."

"I have no objection to entruſting you with my ſecret, for I am ſure that I may depend upon your ſilence."

"Then your opinion of me is better than my own, and therefore I muſt beg leave to decline your confidence. Do you go your own way, and I ſhall go mine. Marquis, where are you to be found?"

"As uſual, at the hotel de las Ciſternas; but remember that I am incognito, and that, if you wiſh to ſee me, you muſt aſk for Alphonſo d'Alvarada."

[53]"Good! good! Farewell, cavaliers!" ſaid Don Chriſtoval, and inſtantly de⯑parted.

"You, marquis," ſaid Lorenzo in the accent of ſurpriſe; "you, Alphonſo d'Al⯑varada?"

"Even ſo, Lorenzo: but unleſs you have already heard my ſtory from your ſiſter, I have much to relate that will aſto⯑niſh you. Follow me, therefore, to my hotel without delay."

At this moment the porter of the Capu⯑chins entered the cathedral to lock up the doors for the night. The two noblemen in⯑ſtantly withdrew, and haſtened with all ſpeed to the palace de las Ciſternas.

"Well, Antonia," ſaid the aunt, as ſoon as ſhe had quitted the church," what think you of our gallants? Don Lorenzo really ſeems a very obliging good ſort of young man: he paid you ſome attention, and nobody [54] knows what may come of it. But as to Don Chriſtoval, I proteſt to you, he is the very phoenix of politeneſs; ſo gallant! ſo well-bred! ſo ſenſible, and ſo pathetic! Well! if ever man can prevail upon me to break my vow never to marry, it will be that Don Chriſtoval. You ſee, niece, that every thing turns out exactly as I told you: the very moment that I produced myſelf in Madrid, I knew that I ſhould be ſurround⯑ed by admirers. When I took off my veil, did you ſee, Antonia, what an effect the action had upon the condé? And when I preſented him my hand, did you obſerve the air of paſſion with which he kiſſed it? If ever I witneſſed real love, I then ſaw it impreſſed upon Don Chriſtoval's counte⯑nance!"

Now Antonia had obſerved the air with which Don Chriſtoval had kiſſed this ſame hand; but as ſhe drew concluſions from it ſomewhat different from her aunt's, ſhe was wiſe enough to hold her tongue. As this is the only inſtance known of a wo⯑man's [55] ever having done ſo, it was judged worthy to be recorded here.

The old lady continued her diſcourſe to Antonia in the ſame ſtrain, till they gained the ſtreet in which was their lodg⯑ing. Here a crowd collected before their door permitted them not to approach it; and placing themſelves on the oppoſite ſide of the ſtreet, they endeavoured to make out what had drawn all theſe people together. After ſome minutes the crowd formed itſelf into a circle; and now An⯑tonia perceived in the midſt of it a woman of extraordinary height, who whirled her⯑ſelf repeatedly round and round, uſing all ſorts of extravagant geſtures. Her dreſs was compoſed of ſhreds of various-coloured ſilks and linens fantaſtically arranged, yet not entirely without taſte. Her head was covered with a kind of turban ornamented with vine-leaves and wild flowers. She ſeemed much ſun-burnt, and her com⯑plexion was of a deep olive: her eyes look⯑ed fiery and ſtrange; and in her hand ſhe [56] bore a long black rod, with which ſhe at intervals traced a variety of ſingular figures upon the ground, round about which ſhe danced in all the eccentric attitudes of folly and delirium. Suddenly ſhe broke off her dance, whirled herſelf round thrice with rapidity, and after a moment's pauſe ſhe ſung the following ballad:

"Dear aunt!" ſaid Antonia when the ſtranger had finiſhed. "is ſhe not mad?"

"Mad? Not ſhe, child; ſhe is only wicked. She is a gipſy, a ſort of vagabond, whoſe ſole occupation is to run about the country telling lyes, and pilfering from thoſe who come by their money honeſtly. Out upon ſuch vermin! If I were king of Spain, every one of them ſhould be burnt alive, who was found in my dominions after the next three weeks."

Theſe words were pronounced ſo audibly, that they reached the gipſy's ears. She [58] immediately pierced through the crowd, and made towards the ladies. She ſaluted them thrice in the eaſtern faſhion, and then addreſſed herſelf to Antonia.

"Deareſt aunt!" ſaid Antonia, "indulge me this once! let me have my fortune told me!"

"Nonſenſe, child! She will tell you nothing but falſehoods."

"No matter; let me at leaſt hear what ſhe has to ſay. Do, my dear aunt, oblige me, I beſeech you!"

"Well, well! Antonia, ſince you are ſo bent upon the thing—Here, good wo⯑man, you ſhall ſee the hands of both of us. There is money for you, and now let me hear my fortune."

[59]As ſhe ſaid this, ſhe drew off her glove, and preſented her hand. The gipſy looked at it for a moment, and then made this reply:

The audience rang with laughter dur⯑ing [60] the gipſy's addreſs; and—"fifty-one,"—ſquinting eyes,—red hair,—paint and patches,"—&c. were bandied from mouth to mouth. Leonella was almoſt choaked with paſſion, and loaded her ma⯑licious adviſer with the bittereſt reproaches. The ſwarthy propheteſs for ſome time liſ⯑tened to her with a contemptuous ſmile: at length ſhe made her a ſhort anſwer, and then turned to Antonia.

In imitation of Leonella, Antonia drew off her glove, and preſented her white hand to the gipſy, who, having gazed upon it for ſome time with a mingled expreſſion of pity and aſtoniſhment, pronounced her oracle in the following words:

Having ſaid this, the gipſy again whirl⯑ed herſelf round thrice, and then haſtened out of the ſtreet with frantic geſture. The [62] crowd followed her; and Elvira's door being now unembarraſſed, Leonella entered the houſe, out of humour with the gipſy, with her niece, and with the people; in ſhort, with every body but herſelf and her charm⯑ing cavalier. The gipſy's predictions had alſo conſiderably affected Antonia; but the impreſſion ſoon wore off, and in a few hours ſhe had forgotten the adventure, as totally as had it never taken place.

CHAP. II.

THE monks having attended their ab⯑bot to the door of his cell, he diſmiſſed them with an air of conſcious ſuperiority, in which humility's ſemblance combated with the reality of pride.

He was no ſooner alone, than he gave free looſe to the indulgence of his vanity. [64] When he remembered the enthuſiaſm which his diſcourſe had excited, his heart ſwelled with rapture, and his imagination preſent⯑ed him with ſplendid viſions of aggrandize⯑ment. He looked round him with exul⯑tation; and pride told him loudly, that he was ſuperior to the reſt of his fellow-creatures.

"Who," thought he, "who but my⯑ſelf has paſſed the ordeal of youth, yet ſees no ſingle ſtain upon his conſcience? Who elſe has ſubdued the violence of ſtrong paſ⯑ſions and an impetuous temperament, and ſubmitted even from the dawn of life to voluntary retirement? I ſeek for ſuch a man in vain. I ſee no one but myſelf poſſeſſed of ſuch reſolution. Religion can⯑not boaſt Ambroſio's equal! How power⯑ful an effect did my diſcourſe produce up⯑on its auditors! How they crowded round me! How they loaded me with benedic⯑tions, and pronounced me the ſole uncor⯑rupted pillar of the church! What then now is left for me to do? Nothing, but to [65] watch as carefully over the conduct of my brethren, as I have hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold! May I not be tempt⯑ed from thoſe paths, which till now I have purſued without one moment's wandering? Am I not a man, whoſe nature is frail and prone to error? I muſt now abandon the ſolitude of my retreat; the faireſt and no⯑bleſt dames of Madrid continually preſent themſelves at the abbey, and will uſe no other confeſſor. I muſt accuſtom my eyes to objects of temptation, and expoſe my⯑ſelf to the ſeduction of luxury and deſire. Should I meet in that world which I am conſtrained to enter, ſome lovely female— lovely as you—Madona—!"

As he ſaid this, he fixed his eyes upon a picture of the Virgin, which was ſuſ⯑pended oppoſite to him: this for two years had been the object of his increaſing won⯑der and adoration. He pauſed, and gazed upon it with delight.

"What beauty in that countenance!" he continued after a ſilence of ſome mi⯑nutes; [66] "how graceful is the turn of that head! what ſweetneſs, yet what majeſty in her divine eyes! how ſoftly her cheek reclines upon her hand! Can the roſe vie with the bluſh of that cheek? can the lily rival the whiteneſs of that hand? Oh! if ſuch a creature exiſted, and exiſted but for me! were I permitted to twine round my fingers thoſe golden ringlets, and preſs with my lips the treaſures of that ſnowy boſom! gracious God, ſhould I then reſiſt the temptation? Should I not barter for a ſingle embrace the reward of my ſufferings for thirty years? Should I not abandon—Fool that I am! Whi⯑ther do I ſuffer my admiration of this picture to hurry me? Away, impure ideas! Let me remember, that woman is for ever loſt to me. Never was mortal formed ſo perfect as this picture. But even did ſuch exiſt, the trial might be too mighty for a common virtue; but Ambroſio's is proof againſt temptation. Temptation, did I ſay? To me it would be none. What [67] charms me, when ideal and conſidered as a ſuperior being, would diſguſt me, be⯑come woman and tainted with all the fail⯑ings of mortality. It is not the woman's beauty that fills me with ſuch enthuſiaſm: it is the painter's ſkill that I admire; it is the Divinity that I adore. Are not the paſ⯑ſions dead in my boſom? have I not freed myſelf from the frailty of mankind? Fear not, Ambroſio! Take confidence in the ſtrength of your virtue. Enter boldly in⯑to the world, to whoſe failings you are ſu⯑perior; reflect that you are now exempted from humanity's defects, and defy all the arts of the ſpirits of darkneſs. They ſhall know you for what you are!"

Here his reverie was interrupted by three ſoft knocks at the door of his cell. With difficulty did the abbot awake from his delirium. The knocking was repeated.

"Who is there?" ſaid Ambroſio at length.

"It is only Roſario," replied a gentle voice.

[68]"Enter! enter, my ſon!"

The door was immediately opened, and Roſario appeared with a ſmall baſket in his hand.

Roſario was a young novice belonging to the monaſtery, who in three months in⯑tended to make his profeſſion. A ſort of myſtery enveloped this youth, which ren⯑dered him at once an object of intereſt and curioſity. His hatred of ſociety, his pro⯑found melancholy, his rigid obſervation of the duties of his order, and his volun⯑tary ſecluſion from the world, at his age ſo unuſual, attracted the notice of the whole fraternity. He ſeemed fearful of being re⯑cogniſed, and no one had ever ſeen his face. His head was continually muffled up in his cowl; yet ſuch of his features as acci⯑dent diſcovered, appeared the moſt beauti⯑ful and noble. Roſario was the only name by which he was known in the monaſtery. No one knew from whence he came, and when queſtioned on the ſubject he preſerved a profound ſilence. A ſtranger, whoſe rich [69] habit and magnificent equipage declared him to be of diſtinguiſhed rank, had en⯑gaged the monks to receive a novice, and had depoſited the neceſſary ſums. The next day he returned with Roſario, and from that time no more had been heard of him.

The youth had carefully avoided the company of the monks: he anſwered their civilities with ſweetneſs, but reſerve, and evidently ſhowed that his inclination led him to ſolitude. To this general rule the ſuperior was the only exception. To him he looked up with a reſpect approaching idolatry: he ſought his company with the moſt attentive aſſiduity, and eagerly ſeized every means to ingratiate himſelf in his favour. In the abbot's ſociety his heart ſeemed to be at eaſe, and an air of gaiety pervaded his whole manners and diſcourſe. Ambroſio on his ſide did not feel leſs at⯑tracted towards the youth; with him alone did he lay aſide his habitual ſeverity. When he ſpoke to him, he inſenſibly aſ⯑ſumed [70] a tone milder than was uſual to him; and no voice ſounded ſo ſweet to him as did Roſario's. He repaid the youth's attentions by inſtructing him in various ſciences; the novice received his leſſons with docility; Ambroſio was every day more charmed with the vivacity of his genius, the ſimplicity of his manners, and the rectitude of his heart: in ſhort, he loved him with all the affection of a father. He could not help ſometimes indulging a de⯑ſire ſecretly to ſee the face of his pupil; but his rule of ſelf-denial extended even to curioſity, and prevented him from com⯑municating his wiſhes to the youth.

"Pardon my intruſion, father," ſaid Roſario, while he placed his baſket upon the table; "I come to you a ſuppliant. Hearing that a dear friend is dangerouſly ill, I entreat your prayers for his recovery. If ſupplications can prevail upon heaven to ſpare him, ſurely yours muſt be effi⯑cacious."

[71]Whatever depends upon me, my ſon, you know that you may command. What is your friend's name?"

"Vincentio della Ronda."

"'Tis ſufficient. I will not forget him in my prayers, and may our thrice-bleſſed St. Francis deign to liſten to my interceſ⯑ſion!—What have you in your baſket, Roſario?"

"A few of thoſe flowers, reverend fa⯑ther, which I have obſerved to be moſt acceptable to you. Will you permit my arranging them in your chamber?"

"Your attentions charm me, my ſon."

While Roſario diſperſed the contents of his baſket in ſmall vaſes, placed for that purpoſe in various parts of the room, the abbot thus continued the converſation:

"I ſaw you not in the church this even⯑ing, Roſario."

"Yet I was preſent, father. I am too grateful for your protection to loſe an op⯑portunity of witneſſing your triumph."

"Alas! Roſario, I have but little cauſe [72] to triumph: the ſaint ſpoke by my mouth; to him belongs all the merit. It ſeems then you were contented with my diſ⯑courſe?"

"Contented, ſay you? Oh! you ſur⯑paſſed yourſelf! Never did I hear ſuch eloquence—ſave once!"

Here the novice heaved an involuntary ſigh.

"When was that once?" demanded the abbot.

"When you preached upon the ſudden indiſpoſition of our late ſuperior."

"I remember it: that is more than two years ago. And were you preſent? I knew you not at that time, Roſario."

"'Tis true, father; and would to God I had expired ere I beheld that day! What ſufferings, what ſorrows ſhould I have eſcaped!"

"Sufferings at your age, Roſario?"

"Aye, father; ſufferings, which if known to you, would equally raiſe your anger and compaſſion! Sufferings, which [73] form at once the torment and pleaſure of my exiſtence! Yet in this retreat my bo⯑ſom would feel tranquil, were it not for the tortures of apprehenſion. Oh God! oh God! how cruel is a life of fear!— Father! I have given up all; I have abandoned the world and its delights for ever: nothing now remains, nothing now has charms for me, but your friendſhip, but your affection. If I loſe that, father! oh! if I loſe that, tremble at the effects of my deſpair!"

"You apprehend the loſs of my friend⯑ſhip? How has my conduct juſtified this fear? Know me better, Roſario, and think me worthy of your confidence. What are your ſufferings? Reveal them to me, and believe, that if 'tis in my power to re⯑lieve them—"

"Ah! 'tis in no one's power but yours. Yet I muſt not let you know them. You would hate me for my avowal! you would drive me from your preſence with ſcorn and ignominy."

[74]"My ſon, I conjure you! I entreat you—"

"For pity's ſake, enquire no further! I muſt not—I dare not—Hark! the bell rings for veſpers! Father, your benedic⯑tion, and I leave you."

As he ſaid this, he threw himſelf upon his knees, and received the bleſſing which he demanded. Then preſſing the abbot's hand to his lips, he ſtarted from the ground, and haſtily quitted the apartment. Soon after Ambroſio deſcended to veſpers (which were celebrated in a ſmall chapel belong⯑ing to the abbey), filled with ſurpriſe at the ſingularity of the youth's behaviour.

Veſpers being over, the monks retired to their reſpective cells. The abbot alone remained in the chapel to receive the nuns of St. Clare. He had not been long ſeated in the confeſſional chair, before the prioreſs made her appearance. Each of the nuns was heard in her turn, while the others waited with the domina in the adjoining veſtry. Ambroſio liſtened to the confeſ⯑ſions [75] with attention, made many exhorta⯑tions, enjoined penance proportioned to each offence, and for ſome time every thing went on as uſual: till at laſt one of the nuns, conſpicuous from the nobleneſs of her air and elegance of her figure, care⯑leſsly permitted a letter to fall from her boſom. She was retiring, unconſcious of her loſs. Ambroſio ſuppoſed it to have been written by ſome one of her relations, and picked it up, intending to reſtore it to her.

"Stay, daughter," ſaid he; "you have let fall—"

At this moment, the paper being already open, his eye involuntarily read the firſt words. He ſtarted back with ſurpriſe. The nun had turned round on hearing his voice: the perceived her letter in his hand, and, uttering a ſhriek of terror, flew haſtily to regain it.

"Hold!" ſaid the friar in a tone of ſeverity; "daughter, I muſt read this let⯑ter."

[76]"Then I am loſt!" ſhe exclaimed, claſping her hands together wildly.

All colour inſtantly faded from her face; ſhe trembled with agitation, and was obliged to fold her arms round a pillar of the chapel to ſave herſelf from ſinking upon the floor. In the mean while the abbot read the following lines:

"All is ready for your eſcape, my dear⯑eſt Agnes! At twelve to-morrow night I ſhall expect to find you at the garden-door: I have obtained the key, and a few hours will ſuffice to place you in a ſecure aſylum. Let no miſtaken ſcruples induce you to reject the certain means of preſerv⯑ing yourſelf and the innocent creature whom you nouriſh in your boſom. Re⯑member that you had promiſed to be mine, long ere you engaged yourſelf to the church; that your ſituation will ſoon be evident to the prying eyes of your com⯑panions; and that flight is the only means of avoiding the effects of their malevolent [77] reſentment. Farewell, my Agnes! my dear and deſtined wife! Fail not to be at the garden-door at twelve!"

As ſoon as he had finiſhed, Ambroſio bent an eye ſtern and angry upon the im⯑prudent nun.

"This letter muſt to the prioreſs," ſaid he, and paſſed her.

His words ſounded like thunder to her ears: ſhe awoke from her torpidity only to be ſenſible of the dangers of her ſitua⯑tion. She followed him haſtily, and de⯑tained him by his garment.

"Stay! oh! ſtay!" ſhe cried in the accents of deſpair, while ſhe threw herſelf at the friar's feet, and bathed them with her tears. "Father, compaſſionate my youth! Look with indulgence on a wo⯑man's weakneſs, and deign to conceal my frailty! The remainder of my life ſhall be employed in expiating this ſingle fault, and your lenity will bring back a ſoul to heaven!"

[78]"Amazing confidence! What! ſhall St. Clare's convent become the retreat of proſtitutes? Shall I ſuffer the church of Chriſt to cheriſh in its boſom debauchery and ſhame? Unworthy wretch! ſuch le⯑nity would make me your accomplice. Mercy would here be criminal. You have abandoned yourſelf to a ſeducer's luſt; you have defiled the ſacred habit by your impurity; and ſtill dare you think your⯑ſelf deſerving my compaſſion? Hence, nor detain me longer. Where is the lady prioreſs?" he added, raiſing his voice.

"Hold! father, hold! Hear me but for one moment! Tax me not with im⯑purity, nor think that I have erred from the warmth of temperament. Long before I took the veil, Raymond was maſter of my heart: he inſpired me with the pureſt, the moſt irreproachable paſſion, and was on the point of becoming my lawful huſ⯑band. An horrible adventure, and the treachery of a relation, ſeparated us from each other. I believed him for ever loſt to [79] me, and threw myſelf into a convent from motives of deſpair. Accident again united us; I could not refuſe myſelf the melan⯑choly pleaſure of mingling my tears with his. We met nightly in the gardens of St. Clare, and in an unguarded moment I violated my vows of chaſtity. I ſhall ſoon become a mother. Reverend Ambroſio, take com⯑paſſion on me; take compaſſion on the in⯑nocent being whoſe exiſtence is attached to mine. If you diſcover my imprudence to the domina, both of us are loſt. The puniſhment which the laws of St. Clare aſſign to unfortunates like myſelf, is moſt ſevere and cruel. Worthy, worthy father! let not your own untainted con⯑ſcience render you unfeeling towards thoſe leſs able to withſtand temptation! Let not mercy be the only virtue of which your heart is unſuſceptible! Pity me, moſt re⯑verend! Reſtore my letter, nor doom me to inevitable deſtruction!"

"Your boldneſs confounds me. Shall I conceal your crime—I whom you have [80] deceived by your feigned confeſſion?—No, daughter, no. I will render you a more eſſential ſervice. I will reſcue you from perdition, in ſpite of yourſelf. Penance and mortification ſhall expiate your offence, and ſeverity force you back to the paths of ho⯑lineſs. What, ho! Mother St. Agatha!"

"Father! by all that is ſacred, by all that is moſt dear to you, I ſupplicate, I entreat——"

"Releaſe me. I will not hear you. Where is the domina? Mother St. Agatha, where are you?"

The door of the veſtry opened, and the prioreſs entered the chapel, followed by her nuns.

"Cruel, cruel!" exclaimed Agnes, re⯑linquiſhing her hold.

Wild and deſperate, ſhe threw herſelf upon the ground, beating her boſom, and rending her veil in all the delirium of de⯑ſpair. The nuns gazed with aſtoniſhment upon the ſcene before them. The friar now preſented the fatal paper to the prioreſs, [81] informed her of the manner in which he had found it, and added, that it was her buſineſs to decide what penance the de⯑linquent merited.

While ſhe peruſed the letter, the domina's countenance grew inflamed with paſſion. What! ſuch a crime committed in her con⯑vent, and made known to Ambroſio, to the idol of Madrid, to the man whom ſhe was moſt anxious to impreſs with the opinion of the ſtrictneſs and regularity of her houſe! Words were inadequate to expreſs her fury. She was ſilent, and darted upon the proſtrate nun looks of menace and malig⯑nity.

"Away with her to the convent!" ſaid ſhe at length to ſome of her attendants.

Two of the oldeſt nuns now approach⯑ing Agnes, raiſed her forcibly from the ground, and prepared to conduct her from the chapel.

"What!" ſhe exclaimed ſuddenly, ſhak⯑ing off their hold with diſtracted geſtures, "is all hope then loſt? Already do you [82] drag me to puniſhment? Where are you, Raymond? Oh! ſave me! ſave me!" Then caſting upon the abbot a frantic look, "Hear me!" ſhe continued, "man of an hard heart! Hear me, proud, ſtern, and cruel! You could have ſaved me; you could have reſtored me to happineſs and virtue, but would not; you are the de⯑ſtroyer of my ſoul; you are my murderer, and on you fall the curſe of my death and my unborn infant's! Inſolent in your yet-unſhaken virtue, you diſdained the prayers of a penitent; but God will ſhew mercy, though you ſhew none. And where is the merit of your boaſted virtue? What temp⯑tations have you vanquiſhed? Coward! you have fled from it, not oppoſed ſe⯑duction. But the day of trial will arrive. Oh! then when you yield to impetuous paſſions; when you feel that man is weak, and born to err; when, ſhuddering, you look back upon your crimes, and ſolicit, with terror, the mercy of your God, oh! in that fearful moment think upon me! [83] think upon your cruelty! think upon Agnes, and deſpair of pardon."

As ſhe uttered theſe laſt words, her ſtrength was exhauſted, and ſhe ſunk inani⯑mate upon the boſom of a nun who ſtood near her. She was immediately conveyed from the chapel, and her companions fol⯑lowed her.

Ambroſio had not liſtened to her re⯑proaches without emotion. A ſecret pang at his heart made him feel that he had treated this unfortunate with too great ſe⯑verity. He therefore detained the prioreſs, and ventured to pronounce ſome words in favour of the delinquent.

"The violence of her deſpair," ſaid he, "proves that at leaſt vice is not become familiar to her. Perhaps, by treating her with ſomewhat leſs rigour than is generally practiſed, and mitigating in ſome degree the accuſtomed penance——"

"Mitigate it, father?" interrupted the lady prioreſs: "Not I, believe me. The laws of our order are ſtrict and ſevere; [84] they have fallen into diſuſe of late; but the crime of Agnes ſhews me the neceſſity of their revival. I go to ſignify my inten⯑tion to the convent, and Agnes ſhall be the firſt to feel the rigour of thoſe laws, which ſhall be obeyed to the very letter. Father, farewell!"

Thus ſaying, ſhe haſtened out of the chapel.

"I have done my duty," ſaid Ambroſio to himſelf.

Still did he not feel perfectly ſatisfied by this reflection. To diſſipate the unpleaſant ideas which this ſcene had excited in him, upon quitting the chapel he deſcended into the abbey-garden. In all Madrid there was no ſpot more beautiful, or better regulated. It was laid out with the moſt exquiſite taſte; the choiceſt flowers adorned it in the height of luxuriance, and, though artfully arranged, ſeemed only planted by the hand of Nature. Fountains, ſpring⯑ing from baſons of white marble, cooled the air with perpetual ſhowers; and the [85] walls were entirely covered by jeſſamine, vines, and honey-ſuckles. The hour now added to the beauty of the ſcene. The full moon, ranging through a blue and cloudleſs ſky, ſhed upon the trees a trem⯑bling luſtre, and the waters of the fountains ſparkled in the ſilver beam; a gentle breeze breathed the fragrance of orange-bloſſoms along the alleys, and the nightingale poured forth her melodious murmur from the ſhel⯑ter of an artificial wilderneſs. Thither the abbot bent his ſteps.

In the boſom of this little grove ſtood a ruſtic grotto, formed in imitation of an hermitage. The walls were conſtructed of roots of trees, and the interſtices filled up with moſs and ivy. Seats of turf were placed on either ſide, and a natural caſcade fell from the rock above. Buried in him⯑ſelf, the monk approached the ſpot. The univerſal calm had communicated itſelf to his boſom, and a voluptuous tranquillity ſpread languor through his ſoul.

He reached the hermitage, and was en⯑tering [86] to repoſe himſelf, when he ſtopped on perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one of the banks lay a man in a melancholy poſture. His head was ſupported upon his arm, and he ſeemed loſt in meditation. The monk drew nearer, and recogniſed Roſario: he watched him in ſilence, and entered not the hermitage. After ſome minutes the youth raiſed his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the oppoſite wall.

"Yes," ſaid he, with a deep and plaint⯑ive ſigh, "I feel all the happineſs of thy ſituation, all the miſery of my own. Happy were I, could I think like thee! Could I look like thee with diſguſt upon mankind, could bury myſelf for ever in ſome impe⯑netrable ſolitude, and forget that the world holds beings deſerving to be loved! O God! what a bleſſing would miſanthropy be to me!"

"That is a ſingular thought, Roſario," ſaid the abbot, entering the grotto.

[87]"You here, reverend father?" cried the novice.

At the ſame time ſtarting from his place in confuſion, he drew his cowl haſtily over his face. Ambroſio ſeated himſelf upon the bank, and obliged the youth to place himſelf by him.

"You muſt not indulge this diſpoſition to melancholy," ſaid he: "What can poſ⯑ſibly have made you view in ſo deſirable a light, miſanthropy, of all ſentiments the moſt hateful?"

"The peruſal of theſe verſes, father, which till now had eſcaped my obſervation. The brightneſs of the moon-beams permitted my reading them; and, oh! how I envy the feelings of the writer!"

As he ſaid this, he pointed to a marble tablet fixed againſt the oppoſite wall: on it were engraved the following lines:

"Were it poſſible," ſaid the friar, "for man to be ſo totally wrapped up in him⯑ſelf as to live in abſolute ſecluſion from human nature, and could yet feel the con⯑tented tranquillity which theſe lines ex⯑preſs, I allow that the ſituation would be more deſirable, than to live in a world ſo [90] pregnant with every vice and every folly. But this never can be the caſe. This in⯑ſcription was merely placed here for the ornament of the grotto, and the ſentiments and the hermit are equally imaginary. Man was born for ſociety. However little he may be attached to the world, he never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by it. Diſguſted at the guilt or abſurdity of mankind, the miſanthrope flies from it; he reſolves to become an hermit, and buries himſelf in the cavern of ſome gloomy rock. While hate inflames his boſom, poſſibly he may feel contented with his ſituation: but when his paſſions begin to cool; when Time has mellowed his ſor⯑rows, and healed thoſe wounds which he bore with him to his ſolitude, think you that Content becomes his companion? Ah! no, Roſario. No longer ſuſtained by the violence of his paſſions, he feels all the monotony of his way of living, and his heart becomes the prey of ennui and wea⯑rineſs. He looks round, and finds himſelf [91] alone in the univerſe: the love of ſociety [...]evives in his boſom, and he pants to re⯑ [...]urn to that world which he has abandoned. Nature loſes all her charms in his eyes: no one is near him to point out her beauties, or ſhare in his admiration of her excellence and variety. Propped upon the fragment of ſome rock, he gazes upon the tumbling water-fall with a vacant eye; he views, without emotion, the glory of the ſetting ſun. Slowly he returns to his cell at even⯑ing, for no one there is anxious for his ar⯑rival; he has no comfort in his ſolitary, unfavoury meal: he throws himſelf upon his couch of moſs deſpondent and diſſa⯑tisfied, and wakes only to paſs a day as joyleſs, as monotonous as the former."

"You amaze me, father! Suppoſe that circumſtances condemned you to ſolitude; would not the duties of religion, and the conſciouſneſs of a life well ſpent, commu⯑nicate to your heart that calm which——"

"I ſhould deceive myſelf, did I fancy that they could. I am convinced of the [92] contrary, and that all my fortitude would not prevent me from yielding to melan⯑choly and diſguſt. After conſuming the day in ſtudy, if you knew my pleaſure at meeting my brethren in the evening! Af⯑ter paſſing many a long hour in ſolitude, if I could expreſs to you the joy which I feel at once more beholding a fellow-crea⯑ture! 'Tis in this particular that I place the principal merit of a monaſtic inſtitu⯑tion. It ſecludes man from the temptations of vice; it procures that leiſure neceſſary for the proper ſervice of the Supreme; it ſpares him the mortification of witneſſing the crimes of the worldly, and yet permits him to enjoy the bleſſings of ſociety. And do you, Roſario, do you envy an hermit's life? Can you be thus blind to the happi⯑neſs of your ſituation? Reflect upon it for a moment. This abbey is become your aſylum: your regularity, your gentleneſs, your talents have rendered you the object of univerſal eſteem: you are ſecluded from the world which you profeſs to hate; yet [93] you remain in poſſeſſion of the benefits of [...]ociety, and that a ſociety compoſed of the moſt eſtimable of mankind."

"Father! father! 'tis that which cauſes [...]ny torment. Happy had it been for me, [...]ad my life been paſſed among the vicious [...]nd abandoned; had I never heard pro⯑nounced the name of virtue. 'Tis my unbounded adoration of religion; 'tis my [...]oul's exquiſite ſenſibility of the beauty of [...]air and good, that loads me with ſhame— [...]hat hurries me to perdition. Oh! that I had never ſeen theſe abbey-walls!"

"How, Roſario? When we laſt con⯑verſed, you ſpoke in a different tone. Is my friendſhip then become of ſuch little conſequence? Had you never ſeen theſe abbey-walls, you never had ſeen me. Can that really be your wiſh?"

"Had never ſeen you?" repeated the novice, ſtarting from the bank, and graſp⯑ing the friar's hand with a frantic air— "You! you! Would to God that light⯑ning had blaſted them before you ever [94] met my eyes! Would to God that I were never to ſee you more, and could forget that I had ever ſeen you!"

With theſe words he flew haſtily from the grotto. Ambroſio remained in his for⯑mer attitude, reflecting on the youth's un⯑accountable behaviour. He was inclined to ſuſpect the derangement of his ſenſes: yet the general tenor of his conduct, the connexion of his ideas, and calmneſs of his demeanour till the moment of his quit⯑ting the grotto, ſeemed to diſcountenance this conjecture. After a few minutes Ro⯑ſario returned. He again ſeated himſelf upon the bank: he reclined his cheek upon one hand, and with the other wiped away the tears which trickled from his eyes at intervals.

The monk looked upon him with com⯑paſſion, and forbore to interrupt his medi⯑tations. Both obſerved for ſome time a profound ſilence. The nightingale had now taken her ſtation upon an orange-tree fronting the hermitage, and poured forth [95] a ſtrain the moſt melancholy and melo⯑dious. Roſario raiſed his head, and liſtened to her with attention.

"It was thus," ſaid he, with a deep-drawn ſigh, "it was thus that, during the laſt month of her unhappy life, my ſiſter uſed to ſit liſtening to the nightingale. Poor Matilda! ſhe ſleeps in the grave, and her broken heart throbs no more with paſſion."

"You had a ſiſter?"

"You ſay right, that I bad. Alas! I have one no longer. She ſunk beneath the weight of her ſorrows in the very ſpring of life."

"What were thoſe ſorrows?"

"They will not excite your pity. You know not the power of thoſe irreſiſtible, thoſe fatal ſentiments to which her heart was a prey. Father, ſhe loved unfortu⯑nately. A paſſion for one endowed with every virtue, for a man—oh! rather let me ſay for a divinity—proved the bane of her exiſtence. His noble form, his ſpotleſs cha⯑racter, his various talents, his wiſdom ſolid, [96] wonderful, and glorious, might have warmed the boſom of the moſt inſenſible. My ſiſter ſaw him, and dared to love, though ſhe never dared to hope."

"If her love was ſo well beſtowed, what forbad her to hope the obtaining of its object?"

"Father, before he knew her, Julian had already plighted his vows to a bride moſt fair, moſt heavenly! Yet ſtill my ſiſter loved, and for the huſband's ſake ſhe doted upon the wife. One morning ſhe found means to eſcape from our father's houſe: arrayed in humble weeds ſhe of⯑fered herſelf as a domeſtic to the conſort of her beloved, and was accepted. She was now continually in his preſence: ſhe ſtrove [...] ingratiate herſelf into his favour: ſhe ſucceeded. Her attentions attracted Ju⯑lian's notice: the virtuous are ever grate⯑ful, and he diſtinguiſhed Matilda above the reſt of her companions."

"And did not your parents ſeek for her? Did they ſubmit tamely to their loſs, [97] nor attempt to recover their wandering daughter?"

"Ere they could find her, ſhe diſcover⯑ed herſelf. Her love grew too violent for concealment; yet ſhe wiſhed not for Ju⯑lian's perſon, ſhe ambitioned but a ſhare of his heart. In an unguarded moment ſhe confeſſed her affection. What was the re⯑turn? Doting upon his wife, and believing that a look of pity beſtowed upon another was a theft from what he owed to her, he drove Matilda from his preſence: he for⯑bad her ever again appearing before him. His ſeverity broke her heart: ſhe returned to her father's, and in a few months after was carried to her grave."

"Unhappy girl! Surely her fate was too ſevere, and Julian was too cruel."

"Do you think ſo, father?" cried the novice with vivacity: "Do you think that he was cruel?"

"Doubtleſs I do, and pity her moſt ſincerely."

[98]"You pity her? you pity her? Oh! father! father! then pity me—"

The friar ſtarted; when, after a mo⯑ment's pauſe, Roſario added with a falter⯑ing voice, "for my ſufferings are ſtill greater. My ſiſter had a friend, a real friend, who pitied the acuteneſs of her feel⯑ings, nor reproached her with her inability to repreſs them. I—! I have no friend! The whole wide world cannot furniſh an heart that is willing to participate in the ſorrows of mine."

As he uttered theſe words, he ſobbed audibly. The friar was affected. He took Roſario's hand, and preſſed it with tender⯑neſs.

"You have no friend, ſay you? What then am I? Why will you not confide in me, and what can you fear? My ſeverity? Have I ever uſed it with you? The dig⯑nity of my habit? Roſario, I lay aſide the monk, and bid you conſider me as no other than your friend, your father. Well may [99] I aſſume that title, for never did parent watch over a child more fondly than I have watched over you. From the moment in which I firſt beheld you, I perceived ſen⯑ſations in my boſom till then unknown to me; I found a delight in your ſociety which no one's elſe could afford; and when I wit⯑neſſed the extent of your genius and infor⯑mation, I rejoiced as does a father in the perfections of his ſon. Then lay aſide your fears; ſpeak to me with openneſs: ſpeak to me, Roſario, and ſay that you will con⯑fide in me. If my aid or my pity can al⯑leviate your diſtreſs——"

"Yours can; yours only can. Ah! fa⯑ther, how willingly would I unveil to you my heart! how willingly would I declare the ſecret which bows me down with its weight! But oh! I fear, I fear—"

"What, my ſon?"

"That you ſhould abhor me for my weakneſs; that the reward of my confidence ſhould be the loſs of your eſteem."

"How ſhall I reaſſure you? Reflect [100] upon the whole of my paſt conduct, upon the paternal tenderneſs which I have ever ſhown you. Abhor you, Roſario? It is no longer in my power. To give up your ſociety would be to deprive myſelf of the greateſt pleaſure of my life. Then reveal to me what afflicts you, and believe me while I ſolemnly ſwear—"

"Hold!" interrupted the novice. "Swear, that whatever be my ſecret, you will not oblige me to quit the monaſtery till my noviciate ſhall expire."

"I promiſe it faithfully; and as I keep my vows to you, may Chriſt keep his to mankind! Now then explain this myſtery, and rely upon my indulgence."

"I obey you. Know then—Oh! how I tremble to name the word! Liſten to me with pity, revered Ambroſio! Call up every latent ſpark of human weakneſs that may teach you compaſſion for mine! Father!" continued he, throwing himſelf at the friar's feet, and preſſing his hand to his lips with eagerneſs, while agitation for a [101] moment choaked his voice; "father!" continued he in faltering accents, "I am a woman!"

The abbot ſtarted at this unexpected avowal. Proſtrate on the ground lay the feigned Roſario, as if waiting in ſilence the deciſion of his judge. Aſtoniſhment on the one part, apprehenſion on the other, for ſome minutes chained them in the ſame attitudes, as they had been touched by the rod of ſome magician. At length reco⯑vering from his confuſion, the monk quit⯑ted the grotto, and ſped with precipitation towards the abbey. His action did not eſcape the ſuppliant. She ſprang from the ground; ſhe haſtened to follow him, overtook him, threw herſelf in his paſſage, and embraced his knees. Ambroſio ſtrove in vain to diſengage himſelf from her graſp.

"Do not fly me!" ſhe cried. "Leave me not abandoned to the impulſe of de⯑ſpair! Liſten, while I excuſe my impru⯑dence; while I acknowledge my ſiſter's [102] ſtory to be my own! I am Matilda; you are her beloved."

If Ambroſ [...]o's ſurpriſe was great at her firſt avowal, upon hearing her ſecond it ex⯑ceeded all bounds. Amazed, embarraſſed, and irreſolute, he found himſelf incapable of pronouncing a ſyllable, and remained in ſilence gazing upon Matilda. This gave her opportunity to continue her explana⯑tion as follows:

"Think not, Ambroſio, that I come to rob your bride of your affections. No, believe me: Religion alone deſerves you; and far is it from Matilda's wiſh to draw you from the paths of virtue. What I feel for you is love, not licentiouſneſs. I ſigh to be poſſeſſor of your heart, not luſt for the enjoyment of your perſon. Deign to liſten to my vindication: a few moments will convince you that this holy retreat is not polluted by my preſence, and that you may grant me your compaſſion without treſpaſſing againſt your vows."—She ſeated [103] herſelf. Ambroſio, ſcarcely conſcious of what he did, followed her example, and ſhe proceeded in her diſcourſe:—

"I ſpring from a diſtinguiſhed family; my father was chief of the noble houſe of Villanegas: he died while I was ſtill an in⯑fant, and left me ſole heireſs of his immenſe poſſeſſions. Young and wealthy, I was ſought in marriage by the nobleſt youths of Madrid; but no one ſucceeded in gaining my affections. I had been brought up un⯑der the care of an uncle poſſeſſed of the moſt ſolid judgment and extenſive erudi⯑tion: he took pleaſure in communicating to me ſome portion of his knowledge. Under his inſtructions my underſtanding acquired more ſtrength and juſtneſs than generally falls to the lot of my ſex: the ability of my preceptor being aided by natural curio⯑ſity, I not only made a conſiderable progreſs in ſciences univerſally ſtudied, but in others revealed but to few, and lying under cen⯑ſure from the blindneſs of ſuperſtition. But [104] while my guardian laboured to enlarge the ſphere of my knowledge, he carefully in⯑culcated every moral precept: he relieved me from the ſhackles of vulgar prejudice: he pointed out the beauty of religion: he taught me to look with adoration upon the pure and virtuous; and, wo is me! I have obeyed him but too well.

"With ſuch diſpoſitions, judge whether I could obſerve with any other ſentiment than diſguſt, the vice, diſſipation, and igno⯑rance which diſgrace our Spaniſh youth. I rejected every offer with diſdain: my heart remained without a maſter, till chance con⯑ducted me to the cathedral of the Capuchins. Oh! ſurely on that day my guardian angel ſlumbered, neglectful of his charge! Then was it that I firſt beheld you: you ſupplied the ſuperior's place, abſent from illneſs.— You cannot but remember the lively en⯑thuſiaſm which your diſcourſe created. Oh! how I drank your words! how your elo⯑quence ſeemed to ſteal me from myſelf! I [105] ſcarcely dared to breathe, fearing to loſe a ſyllable; and while you ſpoke, methought a radiant glory beamed round your head, and your countenance ſhone with the ma⯑jeſty of a god. I retired from the church, glowing with admiration. From that mo⯑ment you became the idol of my heart; the never-changing object of my meditations. I enquired reſpecting you. The reports which were made me of your mode of life, of your knowledge, piety, and ſelf-denial, riveted the chains impoſed on me by your eloquence. I was conſcious that there was no longer a void in my heart; that I had found the man whom I had ſought till then, in vain. In expectation of hearing you, again, every day I viſited your cathedral: you remained ſecluded within the abbey walls, and I always withdrew, wretched and diſappointed. The night was more propi⯑tious to me, for then you ſtood before me in my dreams; you vowed to me eternal friendſhip; you led me through the paths of virtue, and aſſiſted me to ſupport the [106] vexations of life. The morning diſpelled theſe pleaſing viſions: I awoke, and found myſelf ſeparated from you by barriers which appeared inſurmountable. Time ſeemed only to increaſe the ſtrength of my paſſion: I grew melancholy and deſpondent; I fled from ſociety, and my health declined daily. At length, no longer able to exiſt in this ſtate of torture, I reſolved to aſſume the diſ⯑guiſe in which you ſee me. My artifice was fortunate; I was received into the mo⯑naſtery, and ſucceeded in gaining your eſ⯑teem.

"Now, then, I ſhould have felt com⯑pletely happy, had not my quiet been diſ⯑turbed by the fear of detection. The pleaſure which I received from your ſociety was embittered by the idea, that perhaps I ſhould ſoon be deprived of it: and my heart throbbed ſo rapturouſly at obtaining the marks of your friendſhip, as to convince me that I never ſhould ſurvive its loſs. I reſolved, therefore, not to leave the diſcovery of my ſex to chance—to confeſs the whole to [107] you, and throw myſelf entirely on your mercy and indulgence. Ah! Ambroſio, can I have been deceived? Can you be leſs generous than I thought you? I will not ſuſpect it. You will not drive a wretch to deſpair; I ſhall ſtill be permitted to ſee you, to converſe with you, to adore you! Your virtues ſhall be my example through life; and, when we expire, our bodies ſhall reſt in the ſame grave."

She ceaſed.—While ſhe ſpoke, a thou⯑ſand oppoſing ſentiments combated in Am⯑broſio's boſom. Surpriſe at the ſingularity of this adventure; confuſion at her abrupt declaration; reſentment at her boldneſs in entering the monaſtery; and conſciouſneſs of the auſterity with which it behoved him to reply; ſuch were the ſentiments of which he was aware: but there were others alſo which did not obtain his notice. He per⯑ceived not that his vanity was flattered by the praiſes beſtowed upon his eloquence and virtue; that he felt a ſecret pleaſure in re⯑flecting that a young and ſeemingly lovely [108] woman had for his ſake abandoned the world, and ſacrificed every other paſſion to that which he had inſpired: ſtill leſs did he perceive, that his heart throbbed with deſire, while his hand was preſſed gently by Matil⯑da's ivory fingers.

By degrees he recovered from his confu⯑ſion: his ideas became leſs bewildered: he was immediately ſenſible of the extreme im⯑propriety, ſhould Matilda be permitted to remain in the abbey after this avowal of her ſex. He aſſumed an air of ſeverity, and drew away his hand.

"How, lady!" ſaid he, "can you really hope for my permiſſion to remain amongſt us? Even were I to grant your requeſt, what good could you derive from it? Think you, that I ever can reply to an af⯑fection, which—"

"No, father, no! I expect not to inſpire you with a love like mine: I only wiſh for the liberty to be near you; to paſs ſome hours of the day in your ſociety; to obtain your compaſſion, your friendſhip, and eſ⯑teem. [109] Surely my requeſt is not unreaſon⯑able."

"But reflect, lady! reflect only for a mo⯑ment on the impropriety of my harbouring a woman in the abbey, and that too a wo⯑man who confeſſes that ſhe loves me. It muſt not be. The riſk of your being diſ⯑covered is too great; and I will not expoſe myſelf to ſo dangerous a temptation."

"Temptation, ſay you? Forget that I am a woman, and it no longer exiſts: con⯑ſider me only as a friend; as an unfortunate, whoſe happineſs, whoſe life, depends upon your protection. Fear not, leſt I ſhould ever call to your remembrance, that love the moſt impetuous, the moſt unbounded, has induced me to diſguiſe my ſex; or that, inſtigated by deſires, offenſive to your vows and my own honour, I ſhould endeavour to ſeduce you from the path of rectitude. No, Ambroſio! learn to know me better: I love you for your virtues: loſe them, and with them you loſe my affections. I look upon you as a ſaint: prove to me that you are no [110] more than man, and I quit you with diſguſt. Is it then from me that you fear temptation? from me, in whom the world's dazzling pleaſures created no other ſentiment than contempt? from me, whoſe attachment is grounded on your exemption from human frailty? Oh! diſmiſs ſuch injurious appre⯑henſions! think nobler of me; think nobler of yourſelf. I am incapable of ſeducing you to error; and ſurely your virtue is eſta⯑bliſhed on a baſis too firm to be ſhaken by unwarranted deſires. Ambroſio! deareſt Ambroſio! drive me not from your pre⯑ſence; remember your promiſe, and au⯑thoriſe my ſtay."

"Impoſſible, Matilda! your intereſt com⯑mands me to refuſe your prayer, ſince I tremble for you, not for myſelf. After vanquiſhing the impetuous ebullitions of youth; after paſſing thirty years in mortifi⯑cation and penance, I might ſafely permit your ſtay, nor fear your inſpiring me with warmer ſentiments than pity: but to yourſelf, remaining in the abbey can produce none [111] but fatal conſequences. You will miſcon⯑ſtrue my every word and action; you will ſeize every circumſtance with avidity which encourages you to hope the return of your affection; inſenſibly, your paſſions will gain a ſuperiority over your reaſon; and, far from being repreſſed by my preſence, every moment which we paſs together will only ſerve to irritate and excite them. Believe me, unhappy woman! you poſſeſs my ſincere compaſſion. I am convinced that you have hitherto acted upon the pureſt motives; but though you are blind to the imprudence of your conduct, in me it would be culpable not to open your eyes. I feel that duty obliges my treating you with harſhneſs; I muſt reject your prayer, and remove every ſhadow of hope which may aid to nouriſh ſentiments ſo pernicious to your repoſe. Ma⯑tilda, you muſt from hence to-morrow."

"To morrow, Ambroſio? to-morrow? Oh! ſurely you cannot mean it! you can⯑not reſolve on driving me to deſpair! you cannot have the cruelty—"

[112]"You have heard my deciſion, and it muſt be obeyed: the laws of our order for⯑bid your ſtay: it would be perjury to con⯑ceal that a woman is within theſe walls, and my vows will oblige me to declare your ſtory to the community. You muſt from hence. I pity you, but can do no more."

He pronounced theſe words in a faint and trembling voice; then, riſing from his ſeat, he would have haſtened towards the mo⯑naſtery. Uttering a loud ſhriek, Matilda followed, and detained him.

"Stay yet one moment, Ambroſio! hear me yet ſpeak one word!"

"I dare not liſten. Releaſe me: you know my reſolution."

"But one word! but one laſt word, and I have done!"

"Leave me. Your entreaties are in vain: you muſt from hence to-morrow."

"Go then, barbarian! But this reſource is ſtill left me."

As ſhe ſaid this, ſhe ſuddenly drew a poniard. She rent open her garment, and [113] placed the weapon's point againſt her boſom.

"Father, I will never quit theſe walls alive."

"Hold! hold, Matilda! what would you do?"

"You are determined, ſo am I: the mo⯑ment that you leave me, I plunge this ſteel in my heart."

"Holy St. Francis! Matilda, have you your ſenſes? Do you know the conſe⯑quences of your action? that ſuicide is the greateſt of crimes? that you deſtroy your ſoul? that you loſe your claim to ſalvation? that you prepare for yourſelf everlaſting torments?"

"I care not, I care not," ſhe replied paſſionately: "either your hand guides me to paradiſe, or my own dooms me to per⯑dition. Speak to me, Ambroſio! Tell me that you will conceal my ſtory; that I ſhall remain your friend and your companion, or this poniard drinks my blood."

As ſhe uttered theſe laſt words, ſhe lifted [114] her arm, and made a motion as if to ſtab herſelf. The friar's eyes followed with dread the courſe of the dagger. She had torn open her habit, and her boſom was half expoſed. The weapon's point reſted upon her left breaſt: and, oh! that was ſuch a breaſt! The moon-beams darting full upon it enabled the monk to obſerve its dazzling whiteneſs: his eye dwelt with in⯑ſatiable avidity upon the beauteous orb: a ſenſation till then unknown filled his heart with a mixture of anxiety and delight; a raging fire ſhot through every limb; the blood boiled in his veins, and a thouſand wild wiſhes bewildered his imagination.

"Hold!" he cried, in an hurried, fal⯑tering voice; "I can reſiſt no longer! Stay then, enchantreſs! ſtay for my deſtruc⯑tion!".

He ſaid; and, ruſhing from the place, haſtened towards the monaſtery: he regained his cell, and threw himſelf upon his couch, diſtracted, irreſolute and confuſed.

He found it impoſſible for ſome time to [115] arrange his ideas. The ſcene in which he had been engaged, had excited ſuch a va⯑riety of ſentiments in his boſom, that he was incapable of deciding which was pre⯑dominant. He was irreſolute what conduct he ought to hold with the diſturber of his repoſe; he was conſcious that prudence, re⯑ligion, and propriety, neceſſitated his oblig⯑ing her to quit the abbey: but, on the other hand, ſuch powerful reaſons authoriſed her ſtay, that he was but too much inclined to conſent to her remaining. He could not avoid being flattered by Matilda's declara⯑tion, and at reflecting that he had uncon⯑ſciouſly vanquiſhed an heart which had re⯑ſiſted the attacks of Spain's nobleſt cavaliers. The manner in which he had gained her affections was alſo the moſt ſatisfactory to his vanity: he remembered the many happy hours which he had paſſed in Roſario's ſo⯑ciety; and dreaded that void in his heart which parting with him would occaſion. Beſides all this, he conſidered, that as Ma⯑tilda [116] was wealthy, her favour might be of eſſential benefit to the abbey.

"And what do I riſk," ſaid he to himſelf, "by authorizing her ſtay? May I not ſafely credit her aſſertions? Will it not be eaſy for me to forget her ſex, and ſtill conſider her as my friend and my diſciple? Surely her love is as pure as ſhe deſcribes: had it been the offspring of mere licentiouſneſs, would ſhe ſo long have concealed it in her own boſom? Would ſhe not have employed ſome means to procure its gratification? She has done quite the contrary: ſhe ſtrove to keep me in ignorance of her ſex; and nothing but the fear of detection, and my inſtances, would have compelled her to reveal the ſecret: ſhe has obſerved the duties of religion not leſs ſtrictly than myſelf: ſhe has made no attempt to rouſe my ſlumbering paſſions, nor has ſhe ever converſed with me till this night on the ſubject of love. Had ſhe been deſirous to gain my affections, not my eſteem, ſhe would not have concealed from me her [117] charms ſo carefully: at this very moment I have never ſeen her face; yet certainly that face muſt be lovely, and her perſon beautiful, to judge by her—by what I have ſeen."

As this laſt idea paſſed through his ima⯑gination, a bluſh ſpread itſelf over his cheek. Alarmed at the ſentiments which he was in⯑dulging, he betook himſelf to prayer: he ſtarted from his couch, knelt before the beautiful Madona, and entreated her aſſiſt⯑ance in ſtifling ſuch culpable emotions: he then returned to his bed, and reſigned him⯑ſelf to ſlumber.

He awoke heated and unrefreſhed. During his ſleep, his inflamed imagination had pre⯑ſented him with none but the moſt voluptuous objects. Matilda ſtood before him in his dreams, and his eyes again dwelt upon her naked breaſt; ſhe repeated her proteſtations of eternal love, threw her arms round his neck, and loaded him with kiſſes: he returned them; he claſped her paſſionately to his bo⯑ſom, and—the viſion was diſſolved. Some⯑times his dreams preſented the image of his [118] favourite Madona, and he fancied that he was kneeling before her: as he offered up his vows to her, the eyes of the figure ſeemed to beam on him with inexpreſſible ſweetneſs; he preſſed his lips to hers, and found them warm: the animated form ſtarted from the canvas, embraced him affectionately, and his ſenſes were unable to ſupport delight ſo exquiſite. Such were the ſcenes on which his thoughts were employed while ſleeping: his unſatisfied deſires placed before him the moſt luſtful and provoking images, and he rioted in joys till then unknown to him.

He ſtarted from his couch, filled with confuſion at the remembrance of his dreams: ſcarcely was he leſs aſhamed when he re⯑flected on his reaſons of the former night, which induced him to authoriſe Matilda's ſtay. The cloud was now diſſipated which had obſcured his judgment; he ſhuddered when he beheld his arguments blazoned in their proper colours, and found that he had been a ſlave to flattery, to avarice, and ſelf-love. If in one hour's converſation Ma⯑tilda [119] had produced a change ſo remarkable in his ſentiments, what had he not to dread from her remaining in the abbey? Be⯑come ſenſible of his danger, awakened from his dream of confidence, he reſolved to in⯑ſiſt on her departing without delay: he be⯑gan to feel that he was not proof againſt temptation; and that, however Matilda might reſtrain herſelf within the bounds of modeſty, he was unable to contend with thoſe paſſions from which he falſely thought himſelf exempted.

"Agnes! Agnes!" he exclaimed, while reflecting on his embarraſſments, "I al⯑ready feel thy curſe!"

He quitted his cell, determined upon diſ⯑miſſing the feigned Roſario. He appeared at matins; but his thoughts were abſent, and he paid them but little attention: his heart and brain were both of them filled with worldly objects, and he prayed with⯑out devotion. The ſervice over, he de⯑ſcended into the garden; he bent his ſteps towards the ſame ſpot where on the pre⯑ceding [120] night he had made this embarraſſing diſcovery: he doubted not that Matilda would ſeek him there. He was not deceived: ſhe ſoon entered the hermitage, and ap⯑proached the monk with a timid air. After a few minutes, during which both were ſilent, ſhe appeared as if on the point of ſpeaking; but the abbot, who during this time had been ſummoning up all his reſo⯑lution, haſtily interrupted her. Though ſtill unconſcious how extenſive was its influence, he dreaded the melodious ſeduction of her voice.

"Seat yourſelf by my ſide, Matilda," ſaid he, aſſuming a look of firmneſs, though care⯑fully avoiding the leaſt mixture of ſeverity; "liſten to me patiently, and believe that, in what I ſhall ſay, I am not more influenced by my own intereſt than by yours; believe that I feel for you the warmeſt friendſhip, the trueſt compaſſion; and that you cannot feel more grieved than I do, when I declare to you that we muſt never meet again."

"Ambroſio!" ſhe cried, in a voice at [121] once expreſſive both of ſurpriſe and of ſor⯑row.

"Be calm, my friend! my Roſario! ſtill let me call you by that name ſo dear to me: our ſeparation is unavoidable; I bluſh to own how ſenſibly it affects me.—But yet it muſt be ſo; I feel myſelf incapable of treat⯑ing you with indifference; and that very conviction obliges me to inſiſt upon your departure. Matilda, you muſt ſtay here no longer."

"Oh! where ſhall I now ſeek for probity? Diſguſted with a perfidious world, in what happy region does Truth conceal herſelf? Father, I hoped that ſhe reſided here; I thought that your boſom had been her fa⯑vourite ſhrine. And you too prove falſe? Oh God! and you too can betray me?"

"Matilda?"

"Yes, father, yes; 'tis with juſtice that I reproach you. Oh! where are your pro⯑miſes? My noviciate is not expired, and yet will you compel me to quit the mo⯑naſtery? Can you have the heart to drive me [122] from you? and have I not received your ſolemn oath to the contrary?"

"I will not compel you to quit the mo⯑naſtery; you have received my ſolemn oath to the contrary: but yet, when I throw my⯑ſelf upon your generoſity; when I declare to you the embarraſſments in which your pre⯑ſence involves me, will you not releaſe me from that oath? Reflect upon the danger of a diſcovery; upon the opprobrium in which ſuch an event would plunge me: re⯑flect, that my honour and reputation are at ſtake; and that my peace of mind depends on your compliance. As yet, my heart is free; I ſhall ſeparate from you with regret, but not with deſpair. Stay here, and a few weeks will ſacrifice my happineſs on the al⯑tar of your charms; you are but too inter⯑eſting, too amiable! I ſhould love you, I ſhould doat on you! my boſom would be⯑come the prey of deſires, which honour and my profeſſion forbid me to gratify. If I re⯑ſiſted them, the impetuoſity of my wiſhes unſatisfied would drive me to madneſs: if I [123] yielded to the temptation, I ſhould ſacrifice to one moment of guilty pleaſure, my repu⯑tation in this world, my ſalvation in the next. To you, then, I ſly for defence againſt myſelf. Preſerve me from loſing the reward of thirty years of ſufferings! pre⯑ſerve me from becoming the victim of re⯑morſe! Your heart has already felt the anguiſh of hopeleſs love: oh! then, if you really value me, ſpare mine that anguiſh! give me back my promiſe; fly from theſe walls. Go, and you bear with you my warmeſt prayers for your happineſs, my friendſhip, my eſteem, and admiration: ſtay, and you become to me the ſource of danger, of ſuf⯑ferings, of deſpair. Anſwer me, Matilda, what is your reſolve?" She was ſilent.— "Will you not ſpeak, Matilda? Will you not name your choice?"

"Cruel! cruel!" ſhe exclaimed, wring⯑ing her hands in agony; "you know too well that you offer me no choice: you know too well that I can have no will but yours!"

"I was not then deceived. Matilda's generoſity equals my expectations."

[124]"Yes; I will prove the truth of my affection by ſubmitting to a decree which cuts me to the very heart. Take back your promiſe. I will quit the monaſtery this very day. I have a relation, abbeſs of a convent in Eſtramadura: to her will I bend my ſteps, and ſhut myſelf from the world for ever. Yet tell me, father, ſhall I bear your good wiſhes with me to my ſo⯑litude? Will you ſometimes abſtract your attention from heavenly objects to beſtow a thought upon me?"

"Ah! Matilda, I fear that I ſhall think on you but too often for my repoſe!"

"Then I have nothing more to wiſh for, ſave that we may meet in heaven. Fare⯑well, my friend! my Ambroſio! And yet, methinks, I would fain bear with me ſome token of your regard."

"What ſhall I give you?"

"Something—any thing—one of thoſe flowers will be ſufficient." [Here ſhe pointed to a buſh of roſes, planted at the door of the grotto.] "I will hide it in my boſom, [125] and, when I am dead, the nuns ſhall find it withered upon my heart."

The friar was unable to reply: with ſlow ſteps, and a ſoul heavy with affliction, he quitted the hermitage. He approached the buſh, and ſtooped to pluck one of the roſes. Suddenly he uttered a piercing cry, ſtarted back haſtily, and let the flower, which he already held, fall from his hand. Matilda heard the ſhriek, and flew anxiouſly towards him.

"What is the matter?" ſhe cried. "An⯑ſwer me, for God's ſake! What has hap⯑pened?"

"I have received my death" he replied in a faint voice: "concealed among the roſes—a ſerpent—"

Here the pain of his wound became ſo exquiſite, that nature was unable to bear it: his ſenſes abandoned him, and he ſunk inanimate into Matilda's arms.

Her diſtreſs was beyond the power of deſcription. She rent her hair, beat her boſom, and, not daring to quit Ambroſio, [126] endeavoured by loud cries to ſummon the monks to her aſſiſtance. She at length ſuc⯑ceeded. Alarmed by her ſhrieks, ſeveral of the brothers haſtened to the ſpot, and the ſuperior was conveyed back to the ab⯑bey. He was immediately put to bed, and the monk, who officiated as ſurgeon to the fraternity, prepared to examine the wound. By this time Ambroſio's hand had ſwelled to an extraordinary ſize: the remedies which had been adminiſtered to him, 'tis true, reſtored him to life, but not to his ſenſes: he raved in all the horrors of delirium, foamed at the mouth, and four of the ſtrongeſt monks were ſcarcely able to hold him in his bed.

Father Pablos (ſuch was the ſurgeon's name) haſtened to examine the wounded hand. The monks ſurrounded the bed, anxiouſly waiting for the deciſion: among theſe the feigned Roſario appeared not the moſt inſenſible to the friar's calamity: he gazed upon the ſufferer with inexpreſſible anguiſh; and his groans, which every mo⯑ment [127] eſcaped from his boſom, ſufficiently betrayed the violence of his affliction.

Father Pablos probed the wound. As he drew out his lancet, its point was tinged with a greeniſh hue. He ſhook his head mournfully, and quitted the bed ſide.

"'Tis as I feared," ſaid he; "there is no hope."

"No hope!" exclaimed the monks with one voice; "ſay you, no hope?"

"From the ſudden effects, I ſuſpected that the abbot was ſtung by a cientipedo⯑ro ^*: the venom which you ſee upon my lancet confirms my idea. He cannot live three days."

"And can no poſſible remedy be found?" enquired Roſario.

"Without extracting the poiſon, he cannot recover; and how to extract it is to me ſtill a ſecret. All that I can do is to apply ſuch herbs to the wound as will re⯑lieve [128] the anguiſh: the patient will be re⯑ſtored to his ſenſes; but the venom will corrupt the whole maſs of his blood, and in three days he will exiſt no longer."

Exceſſive was the univerſal grief at hear⯑ing this deciſion. Pablos, as he had pro⯑miſed, dreſſed the wound, and then retired, followed by his companions. Roſario alone remained in the cell, the abbot, at his ur⯑gent entreaty, having been committed to his care. Ambroſio's ſtrength worn out by the violence of his exertions, he had by this time fallen into a profound ſleep. So totally was he overcome by wearineſs, that he ſcarcely gave any ſigns of life. He was ſtill in this ſituation, when the monks re⯑turned to enquire whether any change had taken place. Pablos looſened the bondage which concealed the wound, more from a principle of curioſity, than from indulging the hope of diſcovering any favourable ſymptoms. What was his aſtoniſhment at finding that the inflammation had totally ſubſided! He probed the hand; his lancet [129] came out pure and unſullied; no traces of the venom were perceptible; and had not the orifice ſtill been viſible, Pablos might have doubted that there had ever been a wound.

He communicated this intelligence to his brethren: their delight was only equalled by their ſurpriſe. From the latter ſenti⯑ment, however, they were ſoon releaſed, by explaining the circumſtance according to their own ideas. They were perfectly con⯑vinced that their ſuperior was a ſaint, and thought that nothing could be more natu⯑ral than for St. Francis to have operated a miracle in his favour. This opinion was adopted unanimouſly. They declared it ſo loudly, and vociferated "A miracle! a miracle!" with ſuch fervour, that they ſoon interrupted Ambroſio's ſlumbers.

The monks immediately crowded round his bed, and expreſſed their ſatisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was perfectly in his ſenſes, and free from every com⯑plaint, except feeling weak and languid. [130] Pablos gave him a ſtrengthening medi⯑cine, and adviſed his keeping his bed for the two ſucceeding days: he then retired, having deſired his patient not to exhauſt himſelf by converſation, but rather to en⯑deavour at taking ſome repoſe. The other monks followed his example, and the abbot and Roſario were left without obſervers.

For ſome minutes Ambroſio regarded his attendant with a look of mingled plea⯑ſure and apprehenſion. She was ſeated upon the ſide of the bed, her head bending down, and, as uſual, enveloped in the cowl of her habit.

"And you are ſtill here, Matilda?" ſaid the friar at length; "are you not ſa⯑tisfied with having ſo nearly effected my de⯑ſtruction, that nothing but a miracle could have ſaved me from the grave? Ah! ſurely heaven ſent that ſerpent to puniſh—"

Matilda interrupted him by putting her hand before his lips with an air of gaiety.

"Huſh! father, huſh! you muſt not talk."

[131]"He who impoſed that order, knew not how intereſting are the ſubjects on which I wiſh to ſpeak."

"But I know it, and yet iſſue the ſame poſitive command. I am appointed your nurſe, and you muſt not diſobey my orders."

"You are in ſpirits, Matilda!"

"Well may I be ſo; I have juſt received a pleaſure unexampled through my whole life."

"What was that pleaſure?"

"What I muſt conceal from all, but moſt from you."

"But moſt from me? Nay then, I en⯑treat you, Matilda—"

"Huſh! father, huſh! you muſt not talk. But as you do not ſeem inclined to ſleep, ſhall I endeavour to amuſe you with my harp?"

"How! I knew not that you underſtood muſic."

"Oh! I am a ſorry performer! Yet as ſilence is preſcribed you for eight-and-forty [132] hours, I may poſſibly entertain you, when wearied of your own reflections. I go to fetch my harp."

She ſoon returned with it.

"Now, father, what ſhall I ſing? Will you hear the ballad which treats of the gal⯑lant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of Roncevalles?"

"What you pleaſe, Matilda."

"Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Roſario, call me your friend. Thoſe are the names which I love to hear from your lips. Now liſten."

She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for ſome moments with ſuch ex⯑quiſite taſte as to prove her a perfect miſ⯑treſs of the inſtrument. The air which ſhe played was ſoft and plaintive. Ambroſio, while he liſtened, felt his uneaſineſs ſubſide, and a pleaſing melancholy ſpread itſelf into his boſom. Suddenly Matilda changed the ſtrain: with an hand bold and rapid, ſhe ſtruck a few loud martial chords, and then [133] chanted the following ballad to an air at once ſimple and melodious:

While ſhe ſung, Ambroſio liſtened with delight: never had he heard a voice more harmonious; and he wondered how ſuch [136] heavenly ſounds could be produced by any but angels. But though he indulged the ſenſe of hearing, a ſingle look convinced him, that he muſt not truſt to that of ſight. The ſongſtreſs ſat at a little diſtance from his bed. The attitude in which ſhe bent over her harp was eaſy and graceful: her cowl had fallen backwarder than uſual: two coral lips were viſible, ripe, freſh, and melting, and a chin, in whoſe dimples ſeemed to lurk a thouſand Cupids. Her habit's long ſleeve would have ſwept along the chords of the inſtrument: to prevent this inconvenience ſhe had drawn it above her elbow; and by this means an arm was diſcovered, formed in the moſt perfect ſym⯑metry, the delicacy of whoſe ſkin might have contended with ſnow in whiteneſs. Ambroſio dared to look on her but once: that glance ſufficed to convince him, how dangerous was the preſence of this ſedu⯑cing object. He cloſed his eyes, but ſtrove in vain to baniſh her from his thoughts. There ſhe ſtill moved before him, adorned [137] with all thoſe charms which his heated ima⯑gination could ſupply. Every beauty which he had ſeen appeared embelliſhed; and thoſe ſtill concealed fancy repreſented to him in glowing colours. Still, however, his vows, and the neceſſity of keeping to them, were preſent to his memory. He ſtruggled with deſire, and ſhuddered when he beheld how deep was the precipice before him.

Matilda ceaſed to ſing. Dreading the influence of her charms, Ambroſio remained with his eyes cloſed, and offered up his pray⯑ers to St. Francis to aſſiſt him in this dan⯑gerous trial! Matilda believed that he was ſleeping: ſhe roſe from her ſeat, ap⯑proached the bed ſoftly, and for ſome mi⯑nutes gazed upon him attentively.

"He ſleeps!" ſaid ſhe at length in a low voice, but whoſe accents the abbot diſtin⯑guiſhed perfectly: "now then I may gaze upon him without offence; I may mix my breath with his; I may doat upon his fea⯑tures, and he cannot ſuſpect me of impurity and deceit. He fears my ſeducing him to [138] the violation of his vows. Oh! the unjuſt! Were it my wiſh to excite deſire, ſhould I conceal my features from him ſo carefully? —thoſe features, of which I daily hear him—"

She ſtopped, and was loſt in her reflec⯑tions.

"It was but yeſterday," ſhe continued; "but a few ſhort hours have paſſed ſince I was dear to him; he eſteemed me, and my heart was ſatisfied: now, oh! now, how cru⯑elly is my ſituation changed! He looks on me with ſuſpicion; he bids me leave him, leave him for ever. Oh! you, my ſaint, my idol! You! holding the next place to God in my breaſt, yet two days, and my heart will be unveiled to you. Could you know my feelings, when I beheld your agony! Could you know how much your ſufferings have endeared you to me! But the time will come, when you will be convinced that my paſſion is pure and diſintereſted. Then you will pity me, and feel the whole weight of theſe ſorrows."

As ſhe ſaid this, her voice was choaked by [139] weeping. While ſhe bent over Ambroſio, a tear fell upon his cheek.

"Ah! I have diſturbed him," cried Matilda, and retreated haſtily.

Her alarm was ungrounded. None ſleep ſo profoundly as thoſe who are determined not to wake. The friar was in this predi⯑cament: he ſtill ſeemed buried in a repoſe, which every ſucceeding minute rendered him leſs capable of enjoying. The burn⯑ing tear had communicated its warmth to his heart.

"What affection! what purity!" ſaid he internally. "Ah! ſince my boſom is thus ſenſible of pity, what would it be if agitated by love?"

Matilda again quitted her ſeat, and re⯑tired to ſome diſtance from the bed. Am⯑broſio ventured to open his eyes, and to caſt them upon her fearfully. Her face was turned from him. She reſted her head in a melancholy poſture upon her harp, and gazed on the picture which hung oppo⯑ſite to the bed.

[140]"Happy, happy image!" Thus did ſhe addreſs the beautiful Madona; "'tis to you that he offers his prayers; 'tis on you that he gazes with admiration. I thought you would have lightened my ſorrows; you have only ſerved to increaſe their weight; you have made me feel, that, had I known him ere his vows were pronounced, Am⯑broſio and happineſs might have been mine. With what pleaſure he views this picture! With what fervour he addreſſes his prayers to the inſenſible image! Ah! may not his ſentiments be inſpired by ſome kind and ſecret genius, friend to my affection? May it not be man's natural inſtinct which, in⯑forms him —? Be ſilent! idle hopes! let me not encourage an idea, which takes from the brilliance of Ambroſio's virtue. 'Tis religion, not beauty, which attracts his admiration; 'tis not to the woman, but the divinity that he kneels. Would he but addreſs to me the leaſt tender expreſſion which he pours forth to this Madona! Would he but ſay, that were he not already [141] affianced to the church, he would not have deſpiſed Matilda! Oh! let me nouriſh that fond idea. Perhaps he may yet acknow⯑ledge that he feels for me more than pity, and that affection like mine might well have deſerved a return. Perhaps he may own thus much when I lie on my death-bed. He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and the confeſſion of his regard will ſoften the p [...]gs of dying. Would I were ſure of this! Oh! how earneſtly ſhould I ſigh for the moment of diſſolution!"

Of this diſcourſe the abbot loſt not a ſyllable; and the tone in which ſhe pro⯑nounced theſe laſt words pierced to his heart. Involuntarily he raiſed himſelf from his pillow.

"Matilda!" he ſaid in a troubled voice; "Oh! my Matilda!"

She ſtarted at the ſound, and turned to⯑wards him haſtily. The ſuddenneſs of her movement made her cowl fall back from her head; her features became viſible to the monk's enquiring eye. What was his [142] amazement at beholding the exact reſem⯑blance of his admired Madona! The ſame exquiſite proportion of features, the ſame profuſion of golden hair, the ſame roſy lips, heavenly eyes, and majeſty of countenance adorned Matilda! Uttering an exclama⯑tion of ſurpriſe, Ambroſio ſunk back upon his pillow, and doubted whether the object before him was mortal or divine.

Matilda ſeemed penetrated with confu⯑ſion. She remained motionleſs in her place, and ſupported herſelf upon her inſtrument. Her eyes were bent upon the earth, and her fair cheeks overſpread with bluſhes. On recovering herſelf, her firſt action was to conceal her features. She then, in an unſteady and troubled voice, ventured to addreſs theſe words to the friar:

"Accident has made you maſter of a ſecret, which I never would have revealed but on the bed of death: yes, Ambroſio, in Matilda de Villanegas you ſee the ori⯑ginal of your beloved Madona. Soon after I conceived my unfortunate paſſion, I formed [143] the project of conveying to you my picture. Crowds of admirers had perſuaded me that I poſſeſſed ſome beauty, and I was anxious to know what effect it would produce upon you. I cauſed my portrait to be drawn by Martin Galuppi, a celebrated Venetian at that time reſident in Madrid. The reſem⯑blance was ſtriking: I ſent it to the Capu⯑chin-abbey as if for ſale; and the Jew from whom you bought it was one of my emiſ⯑ſaries. You purchaſed it. Judge of my rapture, when informed that you had gazed upon it with delight, or rather with adora⯑tion; that you had ſuſpended it in your cell, and that you addreſſed your ſupplica⯑tions to no other ſaint! Will this diſcovery make me ſtill more regarded as an object of ſuſpicion? Rather ſhould it convince you how pure is my affection, and engage you to ſuffer me in your ſociety and eſteem. I heard you daily extol the praiſes of my portrait. I was an eye witneſs of the tranſ⯑ports which its beauty excited in you: yet I forbore to uſe againſt your virtue thoſe [144] arms with which yourſelf had furniſhed me I concealed thoſe features from your ſight which you loved unconſciouſly. I ſtrove no [...] to excite deſire by diſplaying my charms, or to make myſelf miſtreſs of your hear [...] through the medium of your ſenſes. To attract your notice by ſtudiouſly attending to religious duties, to endear myſelf to you by convincing you that my mind was vir⯑tuous and my attachment ſincere, ſuch was my only aim. I ſucceeded; I became your companion and your friend. I concealed my ſex from your knowledge; and had you not preſſed me to reveal my ſecret, had I not been tormented by the fear of a diſco⯑very, never had you known me for any other than Roſario. And ſtill are you re⯑ſolved to drive me from you? The few hours of life which yet remain for me, may I not paſs them in your preſence? Oh! ſpeak, Ambroſio, and tell me that I may ſtay."

This ſpeech gave the abbot an oppor⯑tunity of recollecting himſelf. He was [145] conſcious that, in the preſent diſpoſition of his mind, avoiding her ſociety was his only refuge from the power of this enchanting woman.

"Your declaration has ſo much aſtoniſh⯑ed me," ſaid he, "that I am at preſent inca⯑pable of anſwering you. Do not inſiſt upon a reply, Matilda; leave me to myſelf, I have need to be alone."

"I obey you; but, before I go, promiſe not to Inſiſt upon my quitting the abbey immediately."

"Matilda, reflect upon your ſituation: reflect upon the conſequences of your ſtay: our ſeparation is indiſpenſable, and we muſt part."

"But not to day, father! Oh! in pity, not to-day!"

"You preſs me too hard; but I cannot reſiſt that tone of ſupplication. Since you inſiſt upon it, I yield to your prayer; I conſent to your remaining here a ſufficient time to prepare, in ſome meaſure, the bre⯑thren for your departure: ſtay yet two days; [146] but on the third"—(He ſighed involun⯑tarily)—"remember, that on the third we muſt part for ever!"

She caught his hand eagerly, and preſſed it to her lips.

"On the third!" ſhe exclaimed with an air of wild ſolemnity: "You are right, fa⯑ther, you are right! On the third we muſt part for ever!"

There was a dreadful expreſſion in her eye as ſhe uttered theſe words, which pene⯑trated the friar's ſoul with horror. Again ſhe kiſſed his hand, and then fled with rapidity from the chamber.

Anxious to authoriſe the preſence of his dangerous gueſt, yet conſcious that her ſtay was infringing the laws of his order, Am⯑broſio's boſom became the theatre of a thouſand contending paſſions. At length his attachment to the feigned Roſario, aided by the natural warmth of his temperament, ſeemed-likely to obtain the victory: the ſucceſs was aſſured, when that preſumption which formed the ground-work of his cha⯑racter [147] came to Matilda's aſſiſtance. The monk reflected, that to vanquiſh tempta⯑tion was an infinitely greater merit than to avoid it; he thought that he ought rather to rejoice in the opportunity given him of proving the firmneſs of his virtue. St. An⯑thony had withſtood all ſeductions to luſt, then why ſhould not he? Beſides, St. An⯑thony was tempted by the devil, who put every art into practice to excite his paſſions; whereas Ambroſio's danger proceeded from a mere mortal woman, fearful and modeſt, whoſe apprehenſions of his yielding were not leſs violent than his own.

"Yes," ſaid he, "the unfortunate ſhall ſtay; I have nothing to fear from her pre⯑ſence: even ſhould my own prove too weak to reſiſt the temptation, I am ſecured from danger by the innocence of Matilda."

Ambroſio was yet to learn, that to an heart unacquainted with her, vice is ever moſt dangerous when lurking behind the maſk of virtue.

He found himſelf ſo perfectly recovered, [148] that, when father Pablos viſited him again at night, he entreated permiſſion to quit his chamber on the day following. His requeſt was granted. Matilda appeared no more that evening, except in company with the monks when they came in a body to en⯑quire after the abbot's health. She ſeemed fearful of converſing with him in private, and ſtayed but a few minutes in his room. The friar ſlept well; but the dreams of the former night were repeated, and his ſenſa⯑tions of voluptuouſneſs were yet more keen and exquiſite; the ſame luſt-exciting vi⯑ſions floated before his eyes; Matilda, in all the pomp of beauty, warm, tender and luxurious, claſped him to her boſom, and laviſhed upon him the moſt ardent careſſes. He returned them as eagerly; and already was on the point of ſatisfying his deſires, when the faithleſs form diſappeared, and left him to all the horrors of ſhame and diſ⯑appointment.

The morning dawned. Fatigued, ha⯑raſſed, and exhauſted by his provoking [149] dreams, he was not diſpoſed to quit his bed: he excuſed himſelf from appearing at ma⯑tins: it was the firſt morning in his life that he had ever miſſed them. He roſe late: during the whole of the day he had no op⯑portunity of ſpeaking to Matilda without witneſſes; his cell was thronged by the monks, anxious to expreſs their concern at his illneſs; and he was ſtill occupied in re⯑ceiving their compliments on his recovery, when the bell ſummoned them to the re⯑fectory.

After dinner the monks ſeparated, and diſperſed themſelves in various parts of the garden, where the ſhade of trees, or retire⯑ment of ſome grotto, preſented the moſt agreeable means of enjoying the fieſta. The abbot bent his ſteps towards the hermitage; a glance of his eye invited Matilda to ac⯑company him: ſhe obeyed, and followed him thither in ſilence: they entered the grotto, and ſeated themſelves: both ſeemed unwilling to begin the converſation, and to labour under the influence of mutual em⯑barraſſment. [150] At length the abbot ſpoke: he converſed only on indifferent topics, and Matilda anſwered him in the ſame tone; ſhe ſeemed anxious to make him forget that the perſon who ſat by him was any other than Roſario. Neither of them dared, or in⯑deed wiſhed, to make an alluſion to the ſubject which was moſt at the hearts of both.

Matilda's efforts to appear gay were evi⯑dently forced; her ſpirits were oppreſſed by the weight of anxiety; and when ſhe ſpoke, her voice was low and feeble: ſhe ſeemed deſirous of finiſhing a converſation which embarraſſed her; and, complaining that ſhe was unwell, ſhe requeſted Ambroſio's per⯑miſſion to return to the abbey. He accom⯑panied her to the door of her cell; and, when arrived there, he ſtopped her to declare his conſent to her continuing the partner of his ſolitude, ſo long as ſhould be agreeable to herſelf.

She diſcovered no marks of pleaſure at receiving this intelligence, though on the [151] preceding day ſhe had been ſo anxious to obtain the permiſſion.

"Alas, father," ſhe ſaid, waving her head mournfully, "your kindneſs comes too late; my doom is fixed; we muſt ſeparate for ever; yet believe that I am grateful for your generoſity; for your compaſſion of an unfortunate who is but too little deſerving of it."

She put her handkerchief to her eyes; her cowl was only half drawn over her face. Ambroſio obſerved that ſhe was pale, and her eyes ſunk and heavy.

"Good God!" he cried, "you are very ill, Matilda; I ſhall ſend father Pablos to you inſtantly."

"No, do not; I am ill, 'tis true, but he cannot cure my malady. Farewell, father! Remember me in your prayers to-morrow, while I ſhall remember you in heaven."

She entered her cell, and cloſed the door.

The abbot diſpatched to her the phyſi⯑cian without loſing a moment, and waited his report impatiently; but father Pablos [152] ſoon returned, and declared that his errand had been fruitleſs. Roſario refuſed to ad⯑mit him, and had poſitively rejected his of⯑fers of aſſiſtance. The uneaſineſs which this account gave Ambroſio was not trifling; yet he determined that Matilda ſhould have her own way for that night; but that, if her ſituation did not mend by the morning, he would inſiſt upon her taking the advice of father Pablos.

He did not find himſelf inclined to ſleep; he opened his caſement, and gazed upon the moon-beams as they played upon the ſmall ſtream whoſe waters bathed the walls of the monaſtery. The coolneſs of the night breeze, and tranquillity of the hour, inſpired the friar's mind with ſadneſs; he thought upon Matilda's beauty and affection; upon the pleaſures which he might have ſhared with her, had he not been reſtrained by monaſtic ſetters. He reflected that, unſuſtained by hope, her love for him could not long exiſt; that doubtleſs ſhe would ſucceed in extin⯑guiſhing her paſſion, and ſeek for happineſs [153] in the arms of one more fortunate. He ſhud⯑dered at the void which her abſence would leave in his boſom; he looked with diſguſt on the monotony of a convent, and breathed a ſigh towards that world from which he was for ever ſeparated. Such were the reflec⯑tions which a loud knocking at his door in⯑terrupted. The bell of the church had al⯑ready ſtruck two. The abbot haſtened to enquire the cauſe of this diſturbance. He opened the door of his cell, and a lay-bro⯑ther entered, whoſe looks declared his hurry and confuſion.

"Haſten, reverend father!" ſaid he, "haſten to the young Roſario: he earneſtly requeſts to ſee you; he lies at the point of death."

"Gracious God! where is father Pa⯑blos? Why is he not with him? Oh! I fear, I fear—"

"Father Pablos has ſeen him, but his art can do nothing. He ſays that he ſuſ⯑pects the youth to be poiſoned."

"Poiſoned? Oh! the unfortunate! It is [154] then as I ſuſpected! But let me not loſe a moment; perhaps it may yet be time to ſave her."

He ſaid, and flew towards the cell of the novice. Several monks were already in the chamber; father Pablos was one of them, and held a medicine in his hand, which he was endeavouring to perſuade Roſario to ſwallow. The others were em⯑ployed in admiring the patient's divine countenance, which they now ſaw for the firſt time. She looked lovelier than ever; ſhe was no longer pale or languid; a bright glow had ſpread itſelf over her cheeks; her eyes ſparkled with a ſerene delight, and her countenance was expreſſive of confidence and reſignation.

"Oh! torment me no more!" was ſhe ſaying to Pablos, when the terrified abbot ruſhed haſtily into the cell; "my diſeaſe is far beyond the reach of your ſkill, and I wiſh not to be cured of it." Then per⯑ceiving Ambroſio—"Ah, 'tis he!" ſhe cried; "I ſee him once again before we part for [155] ever! Leave me, my brethren; much have I to tell this holy man in private."

The monks retired immediately, and Ma⯑tilda and the abbot remained together.

"What have you done, imprudent wo⯑man?" exclaimed the latter, as ſoon as they were left alone: "tell me; are my ſuſpi⯑cions juſt? Am I indeed to loſe you? Has your own hand been the inſtrument of your deſtruction?"

She ſmiled, and graſped his hand.

"In what have I been imprudent, father? I have ſacrificed a pebble, and ſaved a dia⯑mond. My death preſerves a life valua⯑ble to the world, and more dear to me than my own.—Yes, father, I am poiſoned; but know, that the poiſon once circulated in your veins."

"Matilda!"

"What I tell you I reſolved never to diſcover to you but on the bed of death; that moment is now arrived. You cannot have forgotten the day already, when your life was endangered by the bite of a cienti⯑pedoro. [156] The phyſician gave you over, de⯑claring himſelf ignorant how to extract the venom. I knew but of one means, and he⯑ſitated not a moment to employ it. I was left alone with you; you ſlept; I looſened the bandage from your hand; I kiſſed the wound, and drew out the poiſon with my lips. The effect has been more ſudden than I expected. I feel death at my heart; yet an hour, and I ſhall be in a better world."

"Almighty God!" exclaimed the abbot, and ſunk almoſt lifeleſs upon the bed.

After a few minutes he again raiſed him⯑ſelf up ſuddenly, and gazed upon Matilda with all the wildneſs of deſpair.

"And you have ſacrificed yourſelf for me! You die, and die to preſerve Ambro⯑ſio! And is there indeed no remedy, Ma⯑tilda? And is there indeed no hope? Speak to me, oh! ſpeak to me! Tell me that you have ſtill the means of life!"

"Be comforted, my only friend! Yes, I have ſtill the means of life in my power; but it is a means which I dare not employ; [157] it is dangerous; it is dreadful! Life would be purchaſed at too dear a rate,—unleſs it were permitted me to live for you."

"Then live for me, Matilda; for me and gratitude!"—(He caught her hand, and preſſed it rapturouſly to his lips.)—"Re⯑member our late converſations; I now con⯑ſent to every thing. Remember in what lively colours you deſcribed the union of ſouls; be it ours to realize thoſe ideas. Let us forget the diſtinctions of ſex, deſpiſe the world's prejudices, and only conſider each other as brother and friend. Live then, Matilda, oh! live for me!"

"Ambroſio, it muſt not be. When I thought thus, I deceived both you and my⯑ſelf: either I muſt die at preſent, or expire by the lingering torments of unſatisfied de⯑ſire. Oh! ſince we laſt converſed together, a dreadful veil has been rent from before my eyes. I love you no longer with the de⯑votion which is paid to a ſaint; I prize you no more for the virtues of your ſoul; I luſt for the enjoyment of your perſon. The wo⯑man [158] reigns in my boſom, and I am become a prey to the wildeſt of paſſions. Away with friendſhip! 'tis a cold unfeeling word: my boſom burns with love, with unutterable love, and love muſt be its return. Tremble then, Ambroſio, tremble to ſucceed in your prayers. If I live, your truth, your reputa⯑tion, your reward of a life paſt in ſufferings, all that you value, is irretrievably loſt. I ſhall no longer be able to combat my paſ⯑ſions, ſhall ſeize every opportunity to excite your deſires, and labour to effect your diſ⯑honour and my own. No, no, Ambroſio, I muſt not live; I am convinced with every moment that I have but one alternative; I feel with every heart throb, that I muſt en⯑joy you or die."

"Amazement! Matilda! Can it be you who ſpeak to me?"

He made a movement as if to quit his feat. She uttered a loud ſhriek, and, raiſing herſelf half out of the bed, threw her arms round the friar to detain him.

"Oh! do not leave me! Liſten to my [159] errors with compaſſion: in a few hours I ſhall be no more: yet a little, and I am free from this diſgraceful paſſion."

"Wretched woman, what can I ſay to you? I cannot—I muſt not—But live, Matilda! oh, live!"

"You do not reflect on what you aſk. What? live to plunge myſelf in infamy? to become the agent of hell? to work the deſtruction both of you and of myſelf? Feel this heart, father."

She took his hand. Confuſed, embar⯑raſſed, and faſcinated, he withdrew it not, and felt her heart throb under it.

"Feel this heart, father! It is yet the ſeat of honour, truth, and chaſtity: if it beats to-morrow, it muſt fall a prey to the blackeſt crimes. Oh, let me then die to-day! Let me die while I yet deſerve the tears of the virtuous. Thus will I expire!"—(She re⯑clined her head upon his ſhoulder; her golden hair poured itſelf over his cheſt.)— "Folded in your arms, I ſhall ſink to ſleep; your hand ſhall cloſe my eyes for ever, and [160] your lips receive my dying breath. And will you not ſometimes think of me? Will you not ſometimes ſhed a tear upon my tomb? Oh, yes, yes, yes! that kiſs is my aſſurance."

The hour was night. All was ſilence around. The faint beams of a ſolitary lamp darted upon Matilda's figure, and ſhed through the chamber a dim, myſterious light. No prying eye or curious ear was near the lovers: nothing was heard but Ma⯑tilda's melodious accents. Ambroſio was in the full vigour of manhood; he ſaw be⯑fore him a young and beautiful woman, the preſerver of his life, the adorer of his per⯑ſon; and whom affection for him had re⯑duced to the brink of the grave. He ſat upon her bed; his hand reſted upon her boſom; her head reclined voluptuouſly upon his breaſt. Who then can wonder if he yielded to the temptation? Drunk with deſire, he preſſed his lips to thoſe which ſought them; his kiſſes vied with Matilda's in warmth and paſſion: he claſped her rap⯑turouſly [161] in his arms; he forgot his vows, his ſanctity, and his fame; he remembered nothing but the pleaſure and opportunity.

"Ambroſio! Oh, my Ambroſio!" ſighed Matilda.

"Thine, ever thine," murmured the friar, and ſunk upon her boſom.

CHAP. III.

THE marquis and Lorenzo proceeded to the hotel in ſilence. The former employ⯑ed himſelf in calling every circumſtance to his mind, which related might give Loren⯑zo's the moſt favourable idea of his con⯑nexion with Agnes. The latter, juſtly alarmed for the honour of his family, felt embarraſſed by the preſence of the marquis: the adventure which he had juſt witneſſed forbad his treating him as a friend; and Antonia's intereſts being entruſted to his mediation, he ſaw the impolicy of treating him as a foe. He concluded from theſe [163] reflections, that profound ſilence would be the wiſeſt plan, and waited with impatience for Don Raymond's explanation.

They arrived at the hotel de las Ciſternas. The marquis immediately conducted him to his apartment, and began to expreſs his ſatisfaction at finding him at Madrid. Lo⯑renzo interrupted him.

"Excuſe me, my lord," ſaid he with a diſtant air, "if I reply ſomewhat coldly to your expreſſions of regard. A ſiſter's honour is involved in this affair: till that is eſta⯑bliſhed, and the purport of your correſpon⯑dence with Agnes cleared up, I cannot con⯑ſider you as my friend. I am anxious to hear the meaning of your conduct; and hope that you will not delay the promiſed explanation."

"Firſt give me your word, that you will liſten with patience and indulgence."

"I love my ſiſter too well to judge her harſhly; and, till this moment, I poſſeſſed no friend ſo dear to me as yourſelf. I will alſo confeſs, that your having it in your power [164] to oblige me in a buſineſs which I have much at heart, makes me very anxious to find you ſtill deſerving my eſteem."

"Lorenzo, you tranſport me! No greater pleaſure can be given me, than an opportunity of ſerving the brother of Agnes."

"Convince me that I can accept your favours without diſhonour, and there is no man in the world to whom I am more willing to be obliged."

"Probably you have already heard your ſiſter mention the name of Alphonſo d'Al⯑varada?"

"Never. Though I feel for Agnes an affection truly fraternal, circumſtances have prevented us from being much together. While yet a child, ſhe was conſigned to the care of her aunt, who had married a Ger⯑man nobleman. At his caſtle ſhe remained till two years ſince, when ſhe returned to Spain, determined upon ſecluding herſelf from the world."

"Good God! Lorenzo, you knew of her [165] intention, and yet ſtrove not to make her change it?"

"Marquis, you wrong me: the intelli⯑gence which I received at Naples ſhocked me extremely, and I haſtened my return to Madrid for the expreſs purpoſe of prevent⯑ing the ſacrifice. The moment that I ar⯑rived, I flew to the convent of St. Clare, in which Agnes had choſen to perform her noviciate. I requeſted to ſee my ſiſter. Conceive my ſurpriſe, when ſhe ſent me a refuſal: ſhe declared poſitively that, appre⯑hending my influence over her mind, ſhe would not truſt herſelf in my ſociety, 'till the day before that on which ſhe was to re⯑ceive the veil. I ſupplicated the nuns; I inſiſted upon ſeeing Agnes; and heſitated not to avow my ſuſpicions, that her being kept from me was againſt her own inclina⯑tions. To free herſelf from the imputation of violence, the prioreſs brought me a few lines, written in my ſiſter's well-known hand, repeating the meſſage already deliver⯑ed. All future attempts to obtain a mo⯑ment's [166] converſation with her were as fruit⯑leſs as the firſt. She was inflexible, and I was not permitted to ſee her till the day preceding that on which ſhe entered the cloiſter, never to quit it more. This inter⯑view took place in the preſence of our prin⯑cipal relations. It was for the firſt time ſince her childhood that I ſaw her, and the ſcene was moſt affecting: ſhe threw herſelf upon my boſom, kiſſed me, and wept bitterly. By every poſſible argument, by tears, by prayers, by kneeling, I ſtrove to make her abandon her intention. I repreſented to her all the hardſhips of a religious life; I painted to her imagination all the pleaſures which ſhe was going to quit; and beſought her to diſcloſe to me what occaſioned her diſguſt to the world. At this laſt queſtion ſhe turned pale, and her tears flowed yet faſter. She entreated me not to preſs her on that ſubject; that it ſufficed me to know that her reſolution was taken, and that a convent was the only place where ſhe could now hope for tranquillity. She perſevered in [167] her deſign, and made her profeſſion. I vi⯑ſited her frequently at the grate; and every moment that I paſſed with her made me feel more affliction at her loſs. I was ſhortly after obliged to quit Madrid; I returned but yeſterday evening, and, ſince then, have not had time to call at St. Clare's convent."

"Then, till I mentioned it, you never heard the name of Alphonſo d'Alvarada?"

"Pardon me: my aunt wrote me word, that an adventurer ſo called had found means to get introduced into the caſtle of Lindenberg; that he had inſinuated him⯑ſelf into my ſiſter's good graces; and that ſhe had even conſented to elope with him. However, before the plan could be execu⯑ted, the cavalier diſcovered, that the eſtates which he believed Agnes to poſſeſs in Hiſ⯑paniola, in reality belonged to me. This intelligence made him change his intention; he diſappeared on the day that the elope⯑ment was to have taken place; and Agnes, in deſpair at his perfidy and meanneſs, had reſolved upon ſecluſion in a convent. She [168] added, that as this adventurer had given himſelf out to be a friend of mine, ſhe wiſh⯑ed to know whether I had any knowledge of him. I replied in the negative. I had then very little idea, that Alphonſo d'Alva⯑rada and the marquis de las Ciſternas were one and the ſame perſon: the deſcription given me of the firſt, by no means tallied with what I knew of the latter."

"In this I eaſily recognize Donna Ro⯑dopha's perfidious character. Every word of this account is ſtamped with marks of her malice, of her falſehood, of her talents for miſrepreſenting thoſe whom ſhe wiſhes to injure. Forgive me, Medina, for ſpeaking ſo freely of your relation. The miſchief which ſhe has done me authoriſes my reſent⯑ment; and when you have heard my ſtory, you will be convinced that my expreſſions have not been too ſevere."

He then began his narrative in the fol⯑lowing manner:—