[]THE ITALIAN.

CHAP. I.

WRAPT in Olivia's veil, Ellena de⯑ſcended to the muſic-room, and min⯑gled with the nuns, who were aſſembled within the grate. Among the monks and pilgrims without it, were ſome ſtran⯑gers in the uſual dreſs of the country, but ſhe did not perceive any perſon who reſembled Vivaldi; and ſhe conſidered, that, if he were preſent, he would not venture to diſcover himſelf, while her nun's veil concealed her as effectually from him [2] as from the lady Abbeſs. It would be ne⯑ceſſary, therefore, to ſeek an opportunity of withdrawing it for a moment at the grate, an expedient, which muſt certainly expoſe her to the notice of ſtrangers.

On the entrance of the lady Abbeſs, Ellena's fear of obſervation rendered her in⯑ſenſible to every other conſideration; ſhe fancied, that the eyes of the Superior were particularly directed upon herſelf. The veil ſeemed an inſufficient protection from their penetrating glances, and ſhe almoſt ſunk with the terror of inſtant diſcovery.

The Abbeſs, however, paſſed on, and, having converſed for a few moments with the padre Abate and ſome viſitors of diſ⯑tinction, took her chair; and the per⯑formance immediately opened with one of thoſe ſolemn and impreſſive airs, which the Italian nuns know how to give with ſo much taſte and ſweetneſs. It reſcued even Ellena for a moment from a ſenſe of dan⯑ger, and ſhe reſigned herſelf to the ſur⯑rounding [3] ſcene, of which the coup-d' oeil. was ſtriking and grand. In a vaulted apartment of conſiderable extent, lighted by innumerable tapers, and where even the ornaments, though pompous, partook of the ſolemn character of the inſtitution, were aſſembled about fifty nuns, who, in the intereſting habit of their order, ap⯑peared with graceful plainneſs. The deli⯑cacy of their air, and their beauty, ſoftened by the lawn that thinly veiled it, were con⯑traſted by the ſevere majeſty of the lady Abbeſs, who, ſeated on an elevated chair, apart from the audience, ſeemed the Em⯑preſs of the ſcene, and by the venerable figures of the father Abate and his attendant monks, who were arranged without that ſcreen of wire-work, extending the whole breadth of the apartment, which is called the grate. Near the holy father were placed the ſtrangers of diſtinction, dreſſed in the ſplendid Neapolitan habit, whoſe gay colouring and airy elegance oppoſed [4] well with the dark drapery of the eccleſiaſ⯑tics; their plumed hats loftily overtopping the half-cowled heads and grey locks of the monks. Nor was the contraſt of counte⯑nances leſs ſtriking; the grave, the auſtere, the ſolemn, and the gloomy, intermingling with the light, the blooming, and the de⯑bonaire, expreſſed all the various tempers, that render life a bleſſing or a burden, and, as with the ſpell of magic, transform this world into a tranſient paradiſe or purgatory. In the back ground of the picture ſtood ſome pilgrims, with looks leſs joyous and more demure than they had worn on the road the preceding day; and among them were ſome inferior brothers and attendants of the convent. To this part of the cham⯑ber Ellena frequently directed her atten⯑tion, but did not diſtinguiſh Vivaldi; and, though ſhe had taken a ſtation near the grate, ſhe had not courage indecorouſly to withdraw her veil before ſo many ſtran⯑gers. And thus, if he even were in the [5] apartment, it was not probable he would venture to come forward.

The concert concluded without his hav⯑ing been diſcovered by Ellena; and ſhe withdrew to the apartment, where the collation was ſpread, and where the Abbeſs and her gueſts ſoon after appeared. Pre⯑ſently, ſhe obſerved a ſtranger, in a pil⯑grim's habit, ſtation himſelf near the grate; his face was partly muffled in his cloak, and he ſeemed to be a ſpectator rather than a partaker of the feaſt.

Ellena, who underſtood this to be Vi⯑valdi, was watchful for an opportunity of approaching, unſeen by the Abbeſs; the place where he had fixed himſelf. Engag⯑ed in converſation with the ladies around her, the Superior ſoon favoured Ellena's wiſh, who, having reached the grate, ven⯑tured to lift her veil for one inſtant. The ſtranger, letting his cloak fall, thanked her with his eyes for her condeſcenſion, and ſhe perceived, that he was not Vivaldi! [6] Shocked at the interpretation, which might be given to a conduct apparently ſo impro⯑per, as much as by the diſappointment, which Vivaldi's abſence occaſioned, ſhe was haſtily retiring, when another ſtranger approached with quick ſteps, whom ſhe inſtantly knew, by the grace and ſpirit of his air, to be Vivaldi; but, determined not to expoſe herſelf a ſecond time to the poſſibi⯑lity of a miſtake, ſhe awaited for ſome fur⯑ther ſignal of his identity, before ſhe diſ⯑covered herſelf. His eyes were fixed upon her in earneſt attention for ſome moments, before he drew aſide the cloak from his face. But he ſoon did ſo:—and it was▪ Vivaldi himſelf.

Ellena, perceiving that ſhe was known, did not raiſe her veil, but advanced a few ſteps towards the grate. Vivaldi there de⯑poſited a ſmall folded paper, and before ſhe could venture to deliver her own billet, he had retired among the crowd. As ſhe ſtepped forward to ſecure his letter, ſhe [7] obſerved a nun haſtily approach the ſpot where he had laid it, and ſhe pauſed. The garment of the Recluſe wafted it from the place where it had been partly concealed; and when Ellena perceived the nun's foot reſt upon the paper, ſhe with difficulty diſguiſed her apprehenſions.

A friar, who from without the grate ad⯑dreſſed the ſiſter, ſeemed with much ear⯑neſtneſs, yet with a certain air of ſecreſy, communicating ſome important intelli⯑gence. The fears of Ellena ſuggeſted that he had obſerved the action of Vivaldi, and was making known his ſuſpicions; and ſhe expected, every inſtant, to ſee the nun lift up the paper, and deliver it to the Abbeſs.

From this immediate apprehenſion, how⯑ever, ſhe was releaſed when the ſiſter puſhed it gently aſide, without examina⯑tion, a circumſtance that not leſs ſurprized than relieved her. But, when the confe⯑rence broke up, and the friar, haſtily retreating among the crowd, diſappeared [8] from the apartment, and the nun ap⯑proached and whiſpered the Superior, all her terrors were renewed. She ſcarcely doubted, that Vivaldi was detected, and that his letter was deſignedly left where it had been depoſited, for the purpoſe of al⯑luring her to betray herſelf. Trembling, diſmayed, and almoſt ſinking with appre⯑henſion, ſhe watched the countenance of the Abbeſs, while the nun addreſſed her, and thought ſhe read her own fate in the frown that appeared there.

Whatever might be the intentions or the directions of the Superior, no active mea⯑ſure was at preſent employed; the Recluſe, having received an anſwer, retired quietly among the ſiſters, and the Abbeſs reſumed her uſual manner. Ellena, however, ſup⯑poſing ſhe was now obſerved, did not dare to ſeize the paper, though ſhe believed it contained momentous information, and feared that the time was now eſcaping, which might facilitate her deliverance. [9] Whenever ſhe ventured to look round, the eyes of the Abbeſs ſeemed pointed up⯑on her, and ſhe judged from the poſition of the nun, for the veil concealed her face, that ſhe alſo was vigilantly regarding her.

Above an hour had elapſed in this ſtate of anxious ſuſpenſe, when the collation concluded, and the aſſembly broke up; during the general buſtle of which, Ellena ventured to the grate, and ſecured the pa⯑per. As ſhe concealed it in her robe, ſhe ſcarcely dared to enquire by a haſty glance whether ſhe had been obſerved, and would have withdrawn immediately to examine the contents, had ſhe not perceived, at the ſame inſtant, the Abbeſs quitting the apart⯑ment. On looking round for the nun, El⯑lena diſcovered that ſhe was gone.

Ellena followed diſtantly in the Abbeſs's train; and, as ſhe drew nearer to Olivia, gave a ſignal, and paſſed on to her cell. There, once more alone, and having ſecured the door, ſhe ſat down to read Vivaldi's billet, [10] trying to command her impatience, and to underſtand the lines, over which her ſight rapidly moved, when in the eagerneſs of turning over the paper, the lamp dropt from her trembling hand and expired. Her diſtreſs now nearly reached deſpair. To go forth into the convent for a light was utterly impracticable, ſince it would betray that ſhe was no longer a priſoner, and not only would Olivia ſuffer from a diſcovery of the indulgence ſhe had grant⯑ed, but ſhe herſelf would be immediately confined. Her only hope reſted upon Oli⯑via's arrival before it might be too late to practice the inſtructions of Vivaldi, if, in⯑deed, they were ſtill practicable; and ſhe liſtened with intenſe ſolicitude for an ap⯑proaching footſtep, while ſhe yet held, ig⯑norant of its contents, the billet, that pro⯑bably would decide her fate. A thouſand times ſhe turned about the eventful paper, endeavoured to trace the lines with her fin⯑gers, and to gueſs their import, thus enve⯑loped [11] in myſtery; while ſhe experienced all the various torture that the conſciouſ⯑neſs of having in her very hand the infor⯑mation, on a timely knowledge of which her life, perhaps, depended, without being able to underſtand it, could inflict.

Preſently ſhe heard advancing ſteps, and a light gleamed from the paſſage before ſhe conſidered they might be ſome other than Olivia's; and that it was prudent to con⯑ceal the billet ſhe held. The conſidera⯑tion, however, came too late to be acted upon; for, before the ruſtling paper was diſpoſed of, a perſon entered the cell, and Ellena beheld her friend. Pale, trembling, and ſilent, ſhe took the lamp form the nun, and, eagerly running over Vivaldi's note, learned, that at the time it was written, bro⯑ther Jeronimo was in waiting without the gate of the nun's garden, where Vivaldi de⯑ſigned to join him immediately, and con⯑duct her by a private way beyond the walls. He added, that horſes were ſtationed at the [12] foot of the mountain, to convey her where⯑ever ſhe ſhould judge proper; and conjured her to be expeditious, ſince other circum⯑ſtances, beſides the univerſal engagement of the Recluſes, were at that moment parti⯑cularly favourable to an eſcape.

Ellena, deſponding and appalled, gave the paper to Olivia, requeſting ſhe would read it haſtily, and adviſe her how to act. It was now an hour and a half ſince Vival⯑di had ſaid, that ſucceſs depended upon ex⯑pedition, and that he had probably watch⯑ed at the appointed place; in ſuch an in⯑terval, how many circumſtances might have occurred to deſtroy every poſſibility of a retreat, which it was certain the en⯑gagement of the Abbeſs and the ſiſters no longered favoured!

The generous Olivia, having read the billet, partook of all her young friend's diſ⯑treſs, and was as willing, as Ellena was anxious, to dare every danger for the chance of obtaining deliverance.

[13] Ellena could feel gratitude for ſuch goodneſs even at this moment of agoniz⯑ing apprehenſion. After a pauſe of deep conſideration, Olivia ſaid, "In every ave⯑nue of the convent we are now liable to meet ſome of the nuns; but my veil, though thin, has hitherto protected you, and we muſt hope it may ſtill aſſiſt your purpoſe. It will be neceſſary, however, to paſs through the refectory, where ſuch of the ſiſters as did not partake of the colla⯑tion, are aſſembled at ſupper, and will re⯑main ſo, till the firſt mattin calls them to the chapel. If we wait till then, I fear it will be to no purpoſe to go at all."

Ellena's fears perfectly agreed with thoſe of Olivia; and entreating that another mo⯑ment might not be loſt in heſitation, and that ſhe would lead the way to the nun's garden, they quitted the cell together.

Several of the ſiſters paſſed them, as they deſcended to the refectory, but without particularly noticing Ellena; who, as ſhe [14] drew near that alarming apartment, wrapt her veil cloſer, and leaned with heavier preſſure upon the arm of her faithful friend. At the door they were met by the Abbeſs, who had been overlooking the nuns aſſem⯑bled at ſupper, and miſſing Olivia had en⯑quired for her. Ellena ſhrunk back to elude obſervation, and to let the Superior paſs; but Olivia was obliged to anſwer to the ſummons. Having, however, unveiled herſelf, ſhe was permitted to proceed; and Ellena, who had mingled with the crowd that ſurrounded the Abbeſs, and thus eſ⯑caped detection, followed Olivia with fal⯑tering ſteps, through the refectory. The nuns were luckily too much engaged by the entertainment, at this moment, to look round them, and the fugitive reach⯑ed, unſuſpected, an oppoſite door.

In the hall, to which they deſcended, the adventurers were frequently croſſed by ſervants bearing diſhes from the refectory to the kitchen; and, at the very moment [15] when they were opening the door, that led into the garden, a ſiſter, who had obſerved them, demanded whether they had vet heard the mattin-bell, ſince they were go⯑ing towards the chapel.

Terrified at this critical interruption, Ellena preſſed Olivia's arm, in ſignal of ſi⯑lence, and was haſtening forward, when the latter, more prudent, pauſed, and calmly anſwering the queſtion, was then ſuffered to proceed.

As they croſſed the garden towards the gate, Ellena's anxiety leſt Vivaldi ſhould have been compelled to leave it, encreaſed ſo much, that ſhe had ſcarcely power to proceed. "O if my ſtrength ſhould fail before I reach it!" ſhe ſaid ſoftly to Olivia, "or if I ſhould reach it too late!"

Olivia tried to cheer her, and pointed out the gate, on which the moonlight fell; "At the end of this walk only," ſaid Olivia, "ſee!—where the ſhadows of the trees open, is our goal."

[16] Encouraged by the view of it, Ellena fled with lighter ſteps along the alley; but the gate ſeemed to mock her approach, and to retreat before her. Fatigue overtook her in this long alley, before ſhe could overtake the ſpot ſo anxiouſly ſought, and, breath⯑leſs and exhauſted, ſhe was once more compelled to ſtop, and once more in the agony of terror exclaimed—"O, if my ſtrength ſhould fail before I reach it!—O, if I ſhould drop even while it is within my view."

The pauſe of a moment enabled her to proceed, and ſhe ſtopped not again till ſhe arrived at the gate; when Olivia ſuggeſted the prudence of aſcertaining who was with⯑out, and of receiving an anſwer to the ſig⯑nal, which Vivaldi had propoſed, before they ventured to make themſelves known. She then ſtruck upon the wood, and, in the anxious pauſe that followed, whiſpering voices were diſtinctly heard from without, but no ſignal ſpoke in reply to the nun's.

[17] "We are betrayed!" ſaid Ellena ſoftly, "but I will know the worſt at once;" and ſhe repeated the ſignal, when, to her un⯑ſpeakable joy, it was anſwered by three ſmart raps upon the gate. Olivia, more diſtruſtful, would have checked the ſud⯑den hope of her friend, till ſome further proof had appeared, that it was Vivaldi who waited without, but her precaution came too late; a key already grated in the lock; the door opened, and two perſons muffled in their garments appeared at it. Ellena was haſtily retreating, when a well-known voice recalled her, and ſhe perceiv⯑ed, by the rays of a half-hooded lamp, which Jeronimo held, Vivaldi.

"O heavens!" he exclaimed, in a voice tremulous with joy, as he took her hand, "is it poſſible that you are again my own! If you could but know what I have ſuffer⯑ed during this laſt hour!"—Then obſerv⯑ing Olivia, he drew back, till Ellena ex⯑preſſed [18] her deep ſenſe of obligation to the nun.

"We have no time to loſe," ſaid Jeroni⯑mo ſullenly; "we have ſtayed too long al⯑ready, as you will find, perhaps."

"Farewel, dear Ellena!" ſaid Olivia, "may the protection of heaven never leave you!"

The fears of Ellena now gave way to affectionate ſorrow, as, weeping on the boſom of the nun, ſhe ſaid "farewel! O farewel, my dear, my tender friend! I muſt never, never ſee you more, but I ſhall always love you; and you have promiſed, that I ſhall hear from you; remember the con⯑vent della Pieta!"

"You ſhould have ſettled this matter within," ſaid Jeronimo, "we have been here theſe two hours already."

"Ah Ellena!" ſaid Vivaldi, as he gently diſengaged her from the nun, "do I then hold only the ſecond place in your heart?"

[19] Ellena, as ſhe diſmiſſed her tears, replied with a ſmile more eloquent than words; and when ſhe had again and again bade adieu to Olivia, ſhe gave him her hand, and quitted the gate.

"It is moonlight," obſerved Vivaldi to Jeronimo, "your lamp is uſeleſs, and may betray us."

"It will be neceſſary in the church," re⯑plied Jeronimo, "and in ſome circuitous avenues we muſt paſs, for I dare not lead you out through the great gates, Signor▪ as you well know."

"Lead on, then," replied Vivaldi, and they reached one of the cypreſs walks, that extended to the church; but, before they entered it, Ellena pauſed and looked back to the garden gate, that ſhe might ſee Oli⯑via once again. The nun was ſtill there, and Ellena perceived her faintly in the moonlight, waving her hand in ſignal of a laſt adieu. Ellena's heart was full; ſhe wept, and lingered, and returned the ſig⯑nal, [20] till the gentle violence of Vivaldi with⯑drew her from the ſpot.

"I envy your friend thoſe tears," ſaid he, "and feel jealous of the tenderneſs that excites them. Weep no more, my El⯑lena."

"If you knew her worth," replied El⯑lena, "and the obligations I owe her!"—Her voice was loſt in ſighs, and Vivaldi only preſſed her hand in ſilence.

As they traverſed the gloomy walk, that led to the church, Vivaldi ſaid, "Are you certain, father, that not any of the brothers are doing penance at the ſhrines in our way?"

"Doing penance on a feſtival, Signor! they are more likely, by this time, to be taking down the ornaments."

"That would be equally unfortunate for us," ſaid Vivaldi; "cannot we avoid the church, father?"

Jeronimo aſſured him, that this was im⯑poſſible; and they immediately entered [21] one of its lonely aiſles, where he unhooded the lamp, for the tapers, which had given ſplendour, at an earlier hour, to the nu⯑merous ſhrines, had expired, except thoſe at the high altar, which were ſo remote, that their rays faded into twilight long be⯑fore they reached the part of the church where the fugitives paſſed. Here and there, indeed, a dying lamp ſhot a tremu⯑lous gleam upon the ſhrine below, and va⯑niſhed again, ſerving to mark the diſtances in the long perſpective of arches, rather than to enlighten the gloomy ſolitude; but no ſound, not even of a whiſper, ſtole along the pavement.

They croſſed to a ſide door communi⯑cating with the court, and with the rock, which enſhrined the image of our Lady of mount Carmel. There, the ſudden glare of tapers iſſuing from the cave, alarmed the fugitives, who had begun to retreat, when Jeronimo, ſtepping forward to examine the place, aſſured them, there was no ſymp⯑tom [22] of any perſon being within, and that lights burned day and night around the ſhrine.

Revived by this explanation, they fol⯑lowed into the cave, where their conduc⯑tor opened a part of the wire-work encloſ⯑ing the ſaint, and led them to the extremity of the vault, ſunk deep within which ap⯑peared a ſmall door. While Ellena trem⯑bled with apprehenſion, Jeronimo applied a key, and they perceived, beyond the door, a narrow paſſage winding away into the rock. The monk was leading on, but Vivaldi, who had the ſuſpicions of Ellena, pauſed at the entrance, and demanded whither he was conducting them.

To the place of your deſtination," replied the brother, in a hollow voice; an anſwer which alarmed Ellena, and did not ſatisfy Vivaldi. "I have given myſelf to your guidance," he ſaid, "and have confided to you what is dearer to me than exiſtence. Your life," pointing to the ſhort ſword [23] concealed beneath his pilgrim's veſt, "your life, you may rely upon my word, ſhall anſwer for your treachery. If your pur⯑poſe is evil, pauſe a moment, and repent, or you ſhall not quit this paſſage alive."

"Do you menace me!" replied the brother, his countenance darkening. "Of what ſervice would be my death to you? Do you not know that every brother in the convent would riſe to avenge it?"

"I know only that I will make ſure of one-traitor, if there be one," ſaid Vivaldi, "and defend this lady againſt your hoſt of monks; and, ſince you alſo know this, proceed accordingly."

At this inſtant it occurring to Ellena, that the paſſage in queſtion probably led to the priſon-chamber, which Olivia had deſcribed as ſituated within ſome deep receſs of the convent, and that Jeronimo had certainly betrayed them, ſhe refuſed to go further. "If your purpoſe is honeſt," ſaid ſhe, "why do you not conduct us through [24] ſome direct gate of the convent; why are we brought into theſe ſubterraneous laby⯑rinths?"

There is no direct gate but that of the portal," Jeronimo replied, "and this is the only other avenue leading beyond the walls." "And why can we not go out through the portal?" Vivaldi aſked.

"Becauſe it is beſet with pilgrims, and lay brothers," replied Jeronimo, "and though you might paſs them ſafely enough, what is to become of the lady? But all this you knew before, Signor; and was willing enough to truſt me, then. The paſſage we are entering opens upon the cliffs, at ſome diſtance. I have run ha⯑zard enough already, and will waſte no more time; ſo if you do not chuſe to go forward, I will leave you, and you may act as you pleaſe."

He concluded with a laugh of deriſion, and was re-locking the door, when Vivaldi, alarmed for the probable conſequence of [25] his reſentment, and ſomewhat re-aſſured by the indifference he diſcovered as to their purſuing the avenue or not, endeavoured to appeaſe him, as well as to encourage Ellena; and he ſucceeded in both.

As he followed in ſilence through the gloomy paſſage, his doubts were, however, not ſo wholly vanquiſhed, but that he was prepared for attack, and while he ſup⯑ported Ellena with one hand, he held his ſword in the other.

The avenue was of conſiderable length▪ and before they reached its extremity, they heard muſic from a diſtance, winding along the rocks. "Hark!" cried Ellena, "Whence come thoſe ſounds? Liſ⯑ten!"

"From the cave we have left," replied Jeronimo, "and it is midnight by that; it is the laſt chaunt of the pilgrims at the ſhrine of our Lady. Make haſte, Signor, I ſhall be called for."

[26] The fugitives now perceived, that all retreat was cut off, and that, if they had lingered only a few moments longer in the cave, they ſhould have been ſurprized by thoſe devotees, ſome one of whom, how⯑ever, it appeared poſſible might wander into this avenue, and ſtill interrupt their eſcape. When Vivaldi told his apprehen⯑sions, Jeronimo, with an arch ſneer, affirm⯑ed there was no danger of that, "for the paſſage," he added, "is known only to the brothers of the convent."

Vivaldi's doubts vaniſhed when he fur⯑ther underſtood, that the avenue led only from the cliffs without to the cave, and was uſed for the purpoſe of conveying ſe⯑cretly to the ſhrine, ſuch articles as were judged neceſſary to excite the ſuperſtitious wonder of the devotees.

While he proceeded in thoughtful ſilence, a diſtant chime ſounded hollowly through the chambers of the rock. "The [27] mattin-bell ſtrikes!" ſaid Jeronimo, in ſeeming alarm, "I am ſummoned. Sig⯑nora quicken your ſteps;" an unneceſſary requeſt, for Ellena already paſſed with her utmoſt ſpeed; and ſhe now rejoiced on perceiving a door in the remote wind⯑ing of the paſſage, which ſhe believed would emancipate her from the convent. But, as ſhe advanced, the avenue appear⯑ed extending beyond it; and the door, which ſtood a little open allowed her a glimpſe of a chamber in the cliff, duſkily lighted.

Vivaldi, alarmed by the light, enquired, when he had paſſed, whether any perſon was in the chamber, and received an equi⯑vocal anſwer from Jeronimo, who, how⯑ever, ſoon after pointed to an arched gate that terminated the avenue. They pro⯑ceeded with lighter ſteps, for hope now cheared their hearts, and, on reaching the gate, all apprehenſion vaniſhed. Jeroni⯑mo gave the lamp to Vivaldi, while he [28] began to unbar and unlock the door, and Vivaldi had prepared to reward the brother for his fidelity, before they perceived that the door refuſed to yield. A dreadful ima⯑gination ſeized on Vivaldi. Jeronimo turning round, coolly ſaid, "I fear we are betrayed; the ſecond lock is ſhot! I have only the key of the firſt."

"We are betrayed," ſaid Vivaldi, in a reſolute tone, "but do not ſuppoſe, that your diſſimulation conceals you. I under⯑ſtand by whom we are betrayed. Recollect my late aſſertion, and conſider once more, whether it is your intereſt to intercept us."

"My Signor," replied Jeronimo, "I do not deceive you when I proteſt by our holy Saint, that I have not cauſed this gate to be faſtened, and that I would open it if I could. The lock, which holds it, was not ſhot an hour ago. I am the more ſurprized at what has happened, becauſe this place is ſeldom paſſed, even by the holieſt footſtep; and I fear, whoever has [29] paſſed now, has been led hither by ſuſpi⯑cion, and comes to intercept your flight."

"Your wily explanation, brother, may ſerve you for an inferior occaſion, but not on this," replied Vivaldi, "either, there⯑fore, uncloſe the gate, or prepare for the worſt. You are not now to learn, that, however ſlightly I may eſtimate my own life, I will never abandon this lady to the horrors, which your community have al⯑ready prepared for her."

Ellena, ſummoning her fleeting ſpirits, endeavoured to calm the indignation of Vi⯑valdi, and to prevent the conſequence of his ſuſpicions, as well as to prevail with Je⯑ronimo, to unfaſten the gate. Her efforts were, however, followed by a long alterca⯑tion; but, at length, the art or the inno⯑cence of the brother, appeaſed Vivaldi, who now endeavoured to force the gate, while Jeronimo in vain repreſented its ſtrength, and the certain ruin, that muſt [30] fall upon himſelf, if it ſhould be diſcovered he had concurred in deſtroying it.

The gate was immoveable; but, as no other chance of eſcaping appeared, Vival⯑di was not eaſily prevailed with to deſiſt; all poſſibility of retreating too was gone, ſince the church and the cave were now crowded with devotees, attending the mat⯑tin ſervice.

Jeronimo, however, ſeemingly did not deſpair of effecting their releaſe, but he ac⯑knowledged that they would probably be compelled to remain concealed in this gloomy avenue all night, and perhaps the next day. At length, it was agreed, that he ſhould return to the church, to examine whether a poſſibility remained of the fugi⯑tives paſſing unobſerved to the great por⯑tal; and, having conducted them back to the chamber, of which they had taken a paſſing glimpſe, he proceeded to the ſhrine,

[31] For a conſiderable time after his de⯑parture, they were not without hope; but, their confidence diminiſhing as his delay encreaſed, their uncertainty at length be⯑came terrible; and it was only for the ſake of Vivaldi, from whom ſhe ſcrupu⯑louſly concealed all knowledge of the par⯑ticular fate, which ſhe was aware muſt await her in the convent, that Ellena ap⯑peared to endure it with calmneſs. Not⯑withſtanding the plauſibility of Jeronimo, ſuſpicion of his treachery returned upon her mind. The cold and earthy air of this chamber was like that of a ſepulchre; and when ſhe looked round, it appeared exact⯑ly to correſpond with the deſcription given by Olivia of the priſon where the nun had languiſhed and expired. It was walled and vaulted with the rock, had only one ſmall grated aperture in the roof to admit air, and contained no furniture, except one table, a bench, and the lamp, which dim⯑ly ſhewed the apartment. That a lamp [32] ſhould be found burning in a place ſo re⯑mote and ſolitary, amazed her ſtill more when ſhe recollected the aſſertion of Jero⯑nimo, —that even holy ſteps ſeldom paſſed this way; and when ſhe conſidered alſo, that he had expreſſed no ſurprize at a cir⯑cumſtance, according to his own aſſertion, ſo unuſual. Again it appeared, that ſhe had been betrayed into the very priſon, deſigned for her by the Abbeſs; and the horror, occaſioned by this ſuppoſition, was ſo great, that ſhe was on the point of dis⯑cloſing it to Vivaldi, but an apprehenſion of the diſtraction, into which his deſperate courage might precipitate him, reſtrained her.

While theſe conſiderations occupied El⯑lena, and it appeared that any certainty would be leſs painful than this ſuſpenſe, ſhe frequently looked round the chamber in ſearch of ſome object, which might con⯑tradict or confirm her ſuſpicion, that this was the death-room of the unfortunate [33] nun. No ſuch circumſtance appeared, but as her eyes glanced, with almoſt phrenzied eagerneſs? ſhe perceived ſomething ſha⯑dowy in a remote corner of the floor; and on approaching, diſcovered what ſeemed a dreadful hieroglyphic, a mattraſs of ſtraw, in which ſhe thought ſhe beheld the death-bed of the miſerable recluſe; nay more, that the impreſſion it ſtill retained, was that which her form had left there.

While Vivaldi was yet entreating her to explain the occaſion of the horror ſhe betrayed, the attention of each was withdrawn by a hollow ſigh, that roſe near them. Ellena caught unconſciouſly the arm of Vivaldi, and liſtened, aghaſt, for a return of the ſound, but all remained ſtill.

"It ſurely was not fancied!" ſaid Vival⯑di, after a long pauſe, "you heard it alſo?"

"I did!" replied Ellena.

"It was a ſigh, was it not?" he added.

"O yes, and ſuch a ſigh!"

[34] "Some perſon is concealed near us," ob⯑ſerved Vivaldi, looking round; "but be not alarmed, Ellena, I have a ſword."

"A ſword! alas! you know not—But hark! there, again!"

"That was very near us!" ſaid Vivaldi. "This lamp burns ſo ſickly!"—and he held it high, endeavouring to penetrate the furtheſt gloom of the chamber. "Hah! who goes there?" he cried, and ſtepped ſuddenly forward; but no perſon appear⯑ed, and a ſilence as of the tomb, returned.

"If you are in ſorrow, ſpeak!" Vivaldi, at length, ſaid; "from fellow-ſufferers you will meet with ſympathy. If your deſigns are evil—tremble, for you ſhall find I am deſperate."

Still no anſwer was returned, and he car⯑ried forward the lamp to the oppoſite end of the chamber, where he perceived a ſmall door in the rock. At the ſame in⯑ſtant he heard from within, a low tremu⯑lous ſound, as of a perſon in prayer, or in [35] agony. He preſſed againſt. the door, which, to his ſurprize, yielded immediate⯑ly, and diſcovered a figure kneeling before a crucifix, with an attention ſo wholly en⯑gaged, as not to obſerve the preſence of a ſtranger, till Vivaldi ſpoke. The perſon then roſe from his knees, and turning, ſhewed the ſilvered temples and pale fea⯑tures of an aged monk. The mild and ſor⯑rowful character of the countenance, and the lambent luſtre of eyes, which ſeemed ſtill to retain ſomewhat of the fire of ge⯑nius, intereſted Vivaldi, and encouraged Ellena, who had followed him.

An unaffected ſurprize appeared in the air of the monk; but Vivaldi, notwith⯑ſtanding the intereſting benignity of his countenance, feared to anſwer his enqui⯑ries, till the father hinted to him, that an explanation was neceſſary, even to his own ſafety. Encouraged by his manner, rather than intimidated by this hint, and per⯑ceiving, that his ſituation was deſperate, [36] Vivaldi confided to the friar ſome partial knowledge of his embarraſſment.

While he ſpoke, the father liſtened with deep attention, looked with compaſſion al⯑ternately upon him and Ellena; and ſome haraſſing objection ſeemed to contend with the pity, which urged him to aſſiſt the ſtrangers. He enquired how long Jeroni⯑mo had been abſent, and ſhook his head ſignificantly when he learned that the gate of the avenue was faſtened by a double lock. "You are betrayed, my children," ſaid he, "you have truſted with the ſim⯑plicity of youth, and the cunning of age has deceived you."

The terrible conviction affected Ellena to tears; and Vivaldi, ſcarcely able to com⯑mand the indignation which a view of ſuch treachery excited, was unable to offer her any conſolation.

"You, my daughter, I remember to have ſeen in the church this morning," obſerved the friar; "I remember too, that [37] you proteſted againſt the vows you were brought thither to ſeal. Alas! my child, was you aware of the conſequence of ſuch a proceeding?"

"I had only a choice of evils," Ellena replied.

"Holy father," ſaid Vivaldi, "I will not believe, that you are one of thoſe who either aſſiſted in or approved the perſecu⯑tion of innocence. If you were acquainted with the misfortunes of this lady, you would pity, and ſave her; but there is now no time for detail; and I can only conjure you, by every ſacred conſideration, to aſſiſt her to leave the convent! If there were leiſure to inform you of the unjuſtifiable means, which have been employed to bring her within theſe walls—if you knew that ſhe was; taken, an orphan, from her home at midnight—that armed ruffians brought her hither—and at the command of ſtran⯑gers —that ſhe has not a ſingle relation ſur⯑viving to aſſert her right of independence, [38] or reclaim her of her perſecutors.—O! holy father, if you knew all this!"—Vi⯑valdi was unable to proceed.

The friar again regarded Ellena with compaſſion, but ſtill in thoughtful ſilence. "All this may be very true," at length he ſaid, "but"—and he heſitated.

"I underſtand you, father," ſaid Vival⯑di —"you require proof; but how can proof be adduced here? You muſt rely up⯑on the honour of my word. And, if you are inclined to aſſiſt us, it muſt be immediate⯑ly!—while you heſitate, we are loſt. Even now I think I hear the footſteps of Jeronimo."

He ſtepped ſoftly to the door of the chamber, but all was yet ſtill. The friar, too, liſtened, but he alſo deliberated; while Ellena, with claſped hands and a look of eager ſupplication and terror, awaited his deciſion.

"No one is approaching," ſaid Vivaldi, "it is not yet too late!—Good father! if you would ſerve us, diſpatch."

[39] "Poor innocent!" ſaid the friar, half to himſelf, "in this chamber—in this fatal place!"—

"It In this chamber!" exclaimed Ellena, anticipating his meaning. "It was in this chamber, then, that a nun was ſuffered to periſh! and I, no doubt, am conducted hi⯑ther to undergo a ſimilar fate!"

"In this chamber!" re-echoed Vivaldi, in a voice of deſperation, "Holy father, if you are indeed diſpoſed to aſſiſt us, let us act this inſtant; the next, perhaps, may render your beſt intentions unavailing!"

The friar, who had regarded Ellena while ſhe mentioned the nun, with the ut⯑moſt ſurprize, now withdrew his attention; a few tears fell on his cheek, but he haſtily dried them, and ſeemed ſtruggling to over⯑come ſome grief, that was deep in his heart.

Vivaldi, finding that entreaty had no power to haſten his deciſion, and expect⯑ing every moment to hear the approach of [40] Jeronimo, paced the chamber in agonizing perturbation, now pauſing at the door to liſten, and then calling, though almoſt hopeleſſly, upon the humanity of the friar. While Ellena, looking round the room in ſhuddering horror, repeatedly exclaimed, "On this very ſpot! in this very chamber! O what ſufferings have theſe walls witneſſ⯑ed! what are they yet to witneſs!"

Vivaldi now endeavoured to ſoothe the ſpirits of Ellena, and again urged the friar to employ this critical moment in ſaving her; "O heaven!" ſaid he, "if ſhe is now diſcovered, her fate is certain!"

"I dare not ſay what that fate would be," interrupted the father, "or what my own, ſhould I conſent to aſſiſt you; but, though I am old, I have not quite for⯑gotten to feel for others! They may op⯑preſs the few remaining years of my age, but the blooming days of youth ſhould flouriſh; and they ſhall flouriſh, my chil⯑dren, if my power can aid you. Follow [41] me to the gate; we will ſee whether my key cannot unfaſten all the locks that hold it."

Vivaldi and Ellena immediately fol⯑lowed the feeble ſteps of the old man, who frequently ſtopped to liſten whether Jero⯑nimo, or any of the brothers, to whom the latter might have betrayed Ellena's ſitua⯑tion, were approaching; but not an echo wandered along the lonely avenue, till they reached the gate, when diſtant footſteps beat upon the ground.

"They are approaching, father!" whiſ⯑pered Ellena. "O, if the key ſhould not open theſe locks inſtantly, we are loſt! Hark! now I hear their voices—they call upon my name! Already they have diſco⯑vered we have left the chamber."

While the friar, with trembling hands, applied the key, Vivaldi endeavoured at once to aſſist him, and to encourage El⯑lena.

The locks gave way, and the gate opened [42] at once upon the moonlight mountains. Ellena heard once more, with the joy of li⯑berty, the midnight breeze paſſing among the penſile branches of the palms, that loftily overſhadowed a rude platform be⯑fore the gate, and ruſtling with fainter ſound among the pendent ſhrubs of the ſurrounding cliffs.

"There is no leiſure for thanks, my children," ſaid the friar, obſerving they were about to ſpeak. "I will fallen the gate, and endeavour to delay your pur⯑ſuers, that you may have time to eſcape. My bleſſing go with you!"

Ellena and Vivaldi had ſcarcely a mo⯑ment to bid him "farewell!" before he cloſed the door, and Vivaldi, taking her arm, was haſtening towards the place where he had ordered Paulo to wait with the horſes, when, on turning an angle of the convent wall, they perceived a long train of pilgrims iſſuing forth from the portal, at a little diſtance.

[43] Vivaldi drew back; yet dreading every moment, that he lingered near the monaſ⯑tery, to hear the voice of Jeronimo, or other perſons, from the avenue, he was ſometimes inclined to proceed at any ha⯑zard. The only practicable path leading to the baſe of the mountain, however, was now occupied by theſe devotees, and to mingle with them was little leſs than cer⯑tain deſtruction. A bright moonlight ſhewed diſtinctly every figure, that moved in the ſcene, and the fugitives kept within the ſhadow of the walls, till, warned by an approaching footſtep, they croſſed to the feet of the cliffs that roſe beyond ſome palmy hillocks on the right, whoſe duſky receſſes promiſed a temporary ſhelter. As they paſſed with ſilent ſteps along the winding rocks, the tranquillity of the land⯑ſcape below afforded an affecting contraſt with the tumult and alarm of their minds.

Being now at ſome diſtance from the monaſtery, they reſted under the ſhade of [44] the cliffs, till the proceſſion of devotees, which were traced deſcending among the thickets and hollows of the mountain, ſhould be ſufficiently remote. Often they looked back to the convent, expecting to ſee lights iſſue from the avenue, or the por⯑tal; and attended in mute anxiety for the ſullen murmurs of purſuit; but none came on the breeze; nor did any gleam⯑ing lamp betray the ſteps of a ſpy.

Releaſed, at length, from immediate apprehenſion, Ellena liſtened to the mat⯑tin-hymn of the pilgrims, as it came upon the ſtill air and aſcended towards the cloudleſs heavens. Not a ſound mingled with the holy ſtrain, and even in the mea⯑ſured pauſe of voices only the trembling of the foliage above was diſtinguiſhed. The reſponſes, as they ſoftened away in diſ⯑tance, and ſwelled again on the wafting breeze, appeared like the muſic of ſpirits, watching by night upon the ſummits of the mountains, and anſwering each other [45] in celeſtial airs, as they walk their high boundary, and overlook the ſleeping world.

"How often, Ellena, at this hour," ſaid Vivaldi, "have I lingered round your dwelling, conſoled by the conſciouſneſs of being near you! Within thoſe walls, I have ſaid, ſhe repoſes; they encloſe my worlds, all without is to me a deſart. Now, I am in your preſence! O Ellena! now that you are once more reſtored to me, ſuf⯑fer not the caprice of poſſibility again to ſeparate us! Let me lead you to the firſt altar that will confirm our vows."

Vivaldi forgot, in the anxiety of a ſtronger intereſt, the delicate ſilence he had reſolved to impoſe upon himſelf, till Ellena ſhould be in a place of ſafety.

"This is not a moment," ſhe replied, with heſitation, "for converſation; our ſituation is yet perilous, we tremble on the very brink pf danger."

[46] Vivaldi immediately roſe; "Into what imminent danger," ſaid he, "had my ſelf⯑iſh folly nearly precipitated you! We are lingering in this alarming neighbourhood, when that feeble ſtrain indicates the pil⯑grims to be ſufficiently remote to permit us to proceed!"

As he ſpoke, they deſcended cautiouſly among the cliffs, often looking back to the convent, where, however, no light ap⯑peared, except what the moon ſhed over the ſpires and tall windows of its cathedral. For a moment, Ellena fancied ſhe ſaw a taper in her favourite turret, and a belief, that the nuns, perhaps the Abbeſs herſelf, were ſearching for her there, renewed her terror and her ſpeed. But the rays were only thoſe of the moon, ſtriking through oppoſite caſements of the chamber; and the fugitives reached the baſe of the mountain without further alarm, where Paulo ap⯑peared with horſes, "Ah! Signormio," ſaid [47] the ſervant, "I am glad to ſee you alive and merry; I began to fear, by the length of your ſtay, that, the monks had clapped you up to do penance for life. How glad I am to ſee you Maéſtro!"

"Not more ſo than I am to ſee you, good Paulo. But where is the pilgrim's cloak I bade you provide?"

Paulo diſplayed it, and Vivaldi, having wrapt it round Ellena, and placed her on horſeback, they took the read towards Naples, Ellena deſigning to take refuge in the convent della Pieta. Vivaldi, how⯑ever, apprehending that their enemies would ſeek them on this road, propoſed leaving it as ſoon as practicable, and reach⯑ing the neighbourhood of Villa Altieri by a circuitous way.

They ſoon after arrived at the tremen⯑dous paſs, through which Ellena had ap⯑proached the monaſtery, and whoſe hor⯑rors were considerably heightened at this duſky hour, for the moonlight fell only [48] partially upon the deep barriers of the gorge, and frequently the precipice, with the road on its brow, was entirely ſhadow⯑ed by other cliffs and woody points that roſe above it. But Paulo, whoſe ſpirits ſeldom owned the influence of local ſcenery, jogged merrily along, frequently congratulating himſelf and his maſter on their eſcape, and carolling briſkly to the echoes of the rocks, till Vivaldi, appre⯑henſive for the consequence of this loud gaiety, deſired him to deſiſt.

"Ah Signormio! I muſt obey you," ſaid he, "but my heart was never ſo full in my life; and I would fain ſing, to unburden it of ſome of this joy. That ſcrape we got into in the dungeon there, at what's the name of the place? was bad enough, but it was nothing to this, becauſe here I was left out of it; and you, Maeſtro, might have been murdered again and again, while I, thinking of nothing at all, was quietly air⯑ing myſelf on the mountain by moonlight.

[49] But what is that yonder in the ſky, Sig⯑nor? It looks for all the world like a bridge; only it is perched ſo high, that nobody would think of building one in ſuch an out-of-the-way place, unleſs to croſs from cloud to cloud, much leſs would take the trouble of clambering up after it, for the pleaſure of going over.

Vivaldi looked forward, and Ellena per⯑ceived the Alpine bridge, ſhe had former⯑ly croſſed with ſo much alarm, in the moonlight perſpective, airily ſuſpended between tremendous cliffs, with the river far below, tumbling down the rocky chaſm. One of the ſupporting cliffs, with part of the bridge, was in deep ſhade, but the other, feathered with foliage, and the riſing ſurges at its foot, were ſtrongly illu⯑mined; and many a thicket wet with the ſpray, ſparkled in contraſt to the dark rock it overhung. Beyond the arch, the long-drawn proſpect faded into miſty light.

[50] "Well, to be ſure!" exclaimed Paulo, "to ſee what curioſity will do! If there are not ſome people have found their way up to the bridge already."

Vivaldi now perceived figures upon the ſlender arch, and, as their indiſtinct forms glided in the moonſhine, other emotions than thoſe of wonder diſturbed him, leſt theſe might be pilgrims going to the ſhrine of our Lady, and who would give infor⯑mation of his route. No poſſibility, how⯑ever, appeared of avoiding them, for the precipices that roſe immediately above, and fell below, forbade all excurſion, and the road itſelf was ſo narrow, as ſcarcely to admit of two horſes paſſing each other.

"They are all off the bridge now, and without having broken their necks, per⯑haps!" ſaid Paulo, "where, I wonder, will they go next! Why ſurely, Signor, this road does not lead to the bridge yonder; we are not going to pick our way in the air too? The roar of thoſe waters [51] has made my head dizzy already; and the rocks here are as dark as midnight, and ſeem ready to tumble upon one; they are enough to make one deſpair to look at them; you need not have checked my mirth, Signor."

"I would fain check your loquacity," replied Vivaldi. "Do, good Paulo, be ſilent and circumſpect, thoſe people may be near us, though we do not yet ſee them."

"The road does lead to the bridge, then Signor!" ſaid Paulo dolourouſly. "And ſee! there they are again; winding round that rock, and coming towards us."

"Huſh! they are pilgrims," whiſpered Vivaldi, "we will linger under the ſhade of theſe rocks, while they paſs. Remem⯑ber, Paulo, that a ſingle indiſcreet word may be fatal; and that if they hail us, I alone am to anſwer."

"You are obeyed, Signor."

The fugitives drew up cloſe under the cliffs, and proceeded ſlowly, while the [52] words of the devotees, as they advanced, became audible.

"It gives one ſome comfort," ſaid Paulo, to hear cheerful voices, in ſuch a place as this. Bleſs their merry hearts! theirs ſeems a pilgrimage of pleaſure; but they will be demure enough, I warrant, by and bye. I wiſh I"—

"Paulo! have you ſo ſoon forgot?" ſaid Vivaldi ſharply.

The devotees, on perceiving the tra⯑vellers, became ſuddenly ſilent; till he who appeared to be the Father-director, as they paſſed, ſaid "Hail! in the name of Our Lady of Mount Carmel!" and they repeated the ſalutation in chorus.

"Hail!" replied Vivaldi, "the firſt maſs is over," and he paſſed on.

"But if you make haſte, you may come in for the ſecond," ſaid Paulo, jogging after.

"You have juſt left the ſhrine, then?" ſaid one of the party, "and can tell us"—

[53] "Poor pilgrims, like yourſelves," replied Paulo, "and can tell as little. Good mor⯑row, fathers, yonder peeps the dawn!"

He came up with his maſter, who had hurried forward with Ellena, and who now ſeverely reproved his indiſcretion; while the voices of the Carmelites, ſinging the mattin-hymn, ſunk away among the rocks, and the quietneſs of ſolitude returned.

"Thank heaven! we are quit of this adventure," ſaid Vivaldi.

"And now we have only the bridge to get over," rejoined Paulo, "and, I hope, we ſhall all be ſafe."

They were now at the entrance of it; as they paſſed the trembling planks, and looked up the glen, a party of people ap⯑peared advancing on the road the fugitives had left, and a chorus of other voices than thoſe of the Carmelites, were heard ming⯑ling with the hollow ſound of the waters.

Ellena, again alarmed, haſtened for⯑ward, and Vivaldi, though he endeavoured [54] to appeaſe her apprehenſion of purſuit, en⯑couraged her ſpeed.

"Theſe are nothing but more pilgrims Signora," ſaid Paulo, "or they would not ſend ſuch loud ſhouts before them; they muſt needs think we can hear."

The travellers proceeded as faſt as the broken road would permit; and were ſoon beyond the reach of the voices; but as Paulo turned to look whether the party was within ſight, he perceived two perſons, wrapt in cloaks, advancing under the brow of the cliffs, and within a few paces of his horſe's heels. Before he could give notice to his maſter, they were at his ſide.

"Are you returning from the ſhrine of our Lady?" ſaid one of them.

Vivaldi, ſtartled by the voice, looked round, and demanded who aſked the queſ⯑tion?

"A brother pilgrim," replied the man, "one who has toiled up theſe ſteep rocks, till his limbs will ſcarcely bear him fur⯑ther. [55] Would that you would take com⯑paſſion on him, and give him a ride."

However compaſſionate Vivaldi might be to the ſufferings of others, this was not a moment when he could indulge his diſ⯑poſition, without endangering the ſafety of Ellena; and he even fancied the ſtran⯑ger ſpoke in a voice of diſſimulation. His ſuſpicions ſtrengthened when the traveller, not repulſed by a refuſal, enquired the way he was going, and propoſed to join his party; "For theſe mountains, they ſay, are infeſted with banditti," he added, "and a large company is leſs likely to be attacked than a ſmall one."

"If you are ſo very weary, my friend," ſaid Vivaldi, "how is it poſſible you can keep pace with our horſes?" though I ac⯑knowledge you have done wonders in over⯑taking them."

"The fear of theſe banditti," replied the ſtranger, "urged us on."

"You have nothing to apprehend from [56] robbers," ſaid Vivaldi, "if you will only moderate your pace; for a large company of pilgrims are on the road, who will ſoon overtake you."

He then put an end to the converſation, by clapping ſpurs to his horſe, and the ſtrangers were ſoon left far behind. The inconſiſtency of their complaints with their ability, and the whole of their manner, were ſerious ſubjects of alarm to the fu⯑gitives; but when they had loſt ſight of them, they loſt alſo their apprehenſions; and having, at length, emerged from the paſs, they quitted the high road to Naples, and ſtruck into a ſolitary one that led weſtward towards Aquila.

CHAP. II.

FROM the ſummit of a mountain, the morning light ſhewed the travellers the diſtant lake of Celano, gleaming at the feet of other lofty mountains of the Appen⯑nine, far in the ſouth. Thither Vivaldi judged it prudent to direct his courſe, for the lake lay ſo remote from the immediate way to Naples, and from the neighbour⯑hood of San Stefano, that it's, banks pro⯑miſed a ſecure retreat. He conſidered, alſo, that among the convents ſcattered along thoſe delightful banks, might eaſily be found a prieſt, who would ſolemnize their nuptials, ſhould Ellena conſent to an immediate marriage.

[58] The travellers deſcended among olive woods, and ſoon after were directed by ſome peaſants at work, into a road that leads from Aquila to the town of Celano, one of the very few roads which intrudes among the wild mountains, that on every ſide ſequeſter the lake. As they approach⯑ed the low grounds, the ſcent of orange bloſſoms breathed upon the morning air, and the ſpicy myrtle ſent forth all its fra⯑grance from among the cliffs, which it thickly tufted. Bowers of lemon and orange ſpread along the valley; and among the cabins of the peaſants, who cultivated them, Vivaldi hoped to obtain repoſe and refreſhment for Ellena.

The cottages, however, at which Paulo enquired were unoccupied, the owners be⯑ing all gone forth to their labour: and the travellers, again aſcending, found them⯑ſelves ſoon after among mountains inha⯑bited by the flocks, where the ſcent of the [59] orange was exchanged for the aromatic perfume of the paſturage.

"My Signor!" ſaid Paulo, "is not that a ſhepherd's horn ſounding at a diſtance? If ſo, the Signora may yet obtain ſome refreſhment."

While Vivaldi liſtened, a hautboy and a paſtoral drum were heard considerably nearer.

They followed the ſound over the turf, and came within view of a cabin, ſheltered from the ſun by a tuft of almond trees. It was a dairy-cabin belonging to ſome ſhepherds, who at a ſhort diſtance were watching their flocks, and, ſtretched be⯑neath the ſhade of cheſtnuts, were amuſ⯑ing themſelves by playing upon theſe rural inſtruments; a ſcene of Arcadian manners frequent at this day, upon the mountains of Abruzzo. The ſimplicity of their ap⯑pearance, approaching to wildneſs, was tempered by a hoſpitable ſpirit. A vene⯑rable man, the chief ſhepherd, advanced [60] to meet the ſtrangers; and, learning their wants, conducted them into his cool cabin, where cream, cheeſe made of goat's milk, honey extracted from the delicious herbage of the mountains, and dried figs were quickly placed before them.

Ellena, overcome with the fatigue of anxiety, rather than that of travelling, re⯑tired, when ſhe had taken breakfaſt, for an hour's repoſe; while Vivaldi reſted on the bench before the cottage, and Paulo, keep⯑ing watch, diſcuſſed his breakfaſt, toge⯑ther with the circumſtances of the late alarm, under the ſhade of the almond trees.

When Ellena again appeared, Vivaldi propoſed, that they ſhould reſt here dur⯑ing the intenſe heat of the day; and, ſince he now conſidered her to be in a place of temporary ſafety, he ventured to renew the ſubject neareſt his heart; to repreſent the evils, that might overtake them, and to urge an immediate ſolemnization of their marriage.

[61] Thoughtful and dejected, Ellena at⯑tended for ſome time in ſilence to the ar⯑guments and pleadings of Vivaldi. She ſecretly acknowledged the juſtneſs of his repreſentations, but ſhe ſhrunk, more than ever; from the indelicacy, the degradation of intruding herſelf into his family; a fa⯑mily, too, from whom ſhe had not only received proofs of ſtrong diſlike, but had ſuffered terrible injuſtice, and been me⯑naced with ſtill ſeverer cruelty. Theſe latter circumſtances, however, releaſed her from all obligations of delicacy or genero⯑ſity, ſo far as concerned only the authors of her ſuffering; and ſhe had now but to conſider the happineſs of Vivaldi and her⯑ſelf. Yet ſhe could not decide thus pre⯑cipitately on a ſubject, which ſo ſolemnly involved the fortune of her whole life; nor forbear reminding Vivaldi, affectionately, gratefully, as ſhe loved him, of the cir⯑cumſtances which with-held her deciſion.

"Tell me yourſelf," ſaid ſhe, "whether [62] I ought to give my hand, while your fa⯑mily —your mother"—She pauſed, and bluſhed, and burſt into tears.

"Spare me the view of thoſe tears," ſaid Vivaldi, "and a recollection of the circumſtances that excite them. O, let me not think of my mother, while I ſee you weep! Let me not remember, that her injuſtice and cruelty deſtined you to perpetual ſorrow!"

Vivaldi's features became ſlightly con⯑vulſed, while he ſpoke; he roſe, paced the room with quick ſteps, and then quitted it, and walked under the ſhade of the trees in front of the cabin.

In a few moments, however, he com⯑manded his emotion and returned. Again he placed himſelf on the bench beſide Ellena, and taking her hand, ſaid ſolemn⯑ly, and in a voice of extreme ſenſibility, "Ellena, you have long witneſſed how dear you are to me; you cannot doubt my love; you have long ſince promiſed— [63] ſolemnly promiſed, in the preſence of her who is now no more, but whoſe ſpirit may even at this moment look down upon us, —of her, who bequeathed you to my ten⯑dereſt care, to be mine for ever. By theſe ſacred truths, by theſe affecting recollec⯑tions! I conjure you, abandon me not to deſpair, nor in the energy of a juſt reſent⯑ment, ſacrifice the ſon to the cruel and miſtaken policy of the mother! You, nor I, can conjecture the machinations, which may be ſpread for us, when it ſhall be known that you have left San Stefano. If we delay to exchange our vows, I know, and I feel—that you are loſt to me for ever!"

Ellena was affected, and for ſome mo⯑ments unable to reply. At length, dry⯑ing her tears, ſhe ſaid tenderly, "Reſent⯑ment can have no influence on my con⯑duct towards you; I think I feel none towards the Marcheſa—for ſhe is your mother. But pride, inſulted pride, has a [64] right to dictate, and ought to be obeyed; and the time is now, perhaps, arrived when, if I would reſpect myſelf, I muſt renounce you."—

"Renounce me!" interrupted Vivaldi, "renounce me! And is it, then, poſſible you could renounce me?" he repeated, his eyes ſtill fixed upon her face with ea⯑gerneſs and conſternation. "Tell me at once, Ellena, is it poſſible?"

"I fear it is not," ſhe replied.

"You fear! alas! if you fear, it is too poſſible, and I have loſt you already! Say, O! ſay but, that you hope it is not, and I, too, will hope again."

The anguiſh, with which he uttered this, awakened all her tenderneſs, and, forget⯑ting the reſerve ſhe had impoſed upon her⯑ſelf, and every half-formed reſolution; ſhe ſaid, with a ſmile of ineffable ſweetneſs, "I will neither fear nor hope in this inſtance; I will obey the dictates of gratitude, of affection, and will believe. that I never [65] can renounce you, while you are un⯑changed."

"Believe!" repeated Vivaldi, "only believe! And why that mention of grati⯑tude; and why that unneceſſary reſerva⯑tion? Yet even this aſſurance, feebly as it ſuſtains my hopes, is extorted; you ſee my miſery, and from pity, from gratitude, not affection, would aſſuage it. Beſides, you will neither fear, nor hope! Ah, Elle⯑na! did love ever yet exiſt without fear—and without hope? O! never, never! I fear and hope with ſuch rapid tranſition; every aſſurance, every look of yours gives ſuch force either to the one, or to the other, that I ſuffer unceaſing anxiety. Why, too, that cold, that heart-breaking mention of gratitude? No, Ellena! it is too certain that you do not love me!—My mother's cruelty has eſtranged your heart from me!"

"How much you miſtake!" ſaid Elle⯑na. "You have already received ſacred [66] teſtimonies of my regard; if you doubt their ſincerity, pardon me, if I ſo far re⯑pect myſelf as to forbear entreating you will believe them."

"How calm, how indifferent, how cir⯑cumſpect, how prudent!" exclaimed Vi⯑valdi in tones of mournful reproach. "But I will not diſtreſs you; forgive me for renewing this ſubject at this time. It was my intention to be ſilent till you ſhould have reached a place of more permanent ſecurity than this; but how was it poſſible, with ſuch anxiety preſſing upon my heart, to perſevere in that deſign. And what have I gained by departing from it?—increaſe of anxiety—of doubt—of fear!"

"Why will you perſiſt in ſuch ſelf-in⯑flictions?" ſaid Ellena. "I cannot endure that you ſhould doubt my affection, even for a moment. And how can you ſuppoſe it poſſible, that I ever can become inſen⯑ſible of your's; that I can ever forget the imminent danger you have voluntarily in⯑curred [67] for my releaſe, or, remembering it, can ceaſe to feel the warmeſt gratitude?"

"That is the very word which tortures me beyond all others!" ſaid Vivaldi; "is it then, only a ſenſe of obligation you own for me? O! rather ſay you hate me, than ſuffer me to deceive my hopes with aſſur⯑ances of a ſentiment ſo cold, ſo circum⯑ſcribed, ſo dutiful as that of gratitude!"

"With me the word has a very diffe⯑rent acceptation," replied Ellena ſmiling. "I underſtand it to imply all that is tender and generous in affection; and the ſenſe of duty which you ſay it includes, is one of the ſweeteſt and moſt ſacred feelings of the human heart."

"Ah Ellena! I am too willing to be de⯑ceived, to examine your definition rigo⯑rouſly; yet I believe it is your ſmile, ra⯑ther than the accuracy of your explana⯑tion, that perſuades me to a confidence in your affection; and I will truſt, that the gratitude you feel is thus tender and com⯑prehenſive. [68] But, I beſeech you, name the word no more! Its ſound is like the touch of the Torpedo, I perceive my con⯑fidence chilled even while I liſten to my own pronunciation of it."

The entrance of Paulo interrupted the converſation, who advancing with an air of myſtery and alarm, ſaid in a low voice,

"Signor! as I kept watch under the almond trees, who ſhould I ſee mounting up the road from the valley yonder, but the two bare-footed Carmelites, that over took us in the paſs of Chiari! I loſt them again behind the woods, but I dare ſay they are coming this way, for the moment they ſpy out this dairy-hut, they will gueſs ſomething good is to be had here; and the ſhepherds would believe their flocks would all die, if"—

"I ſee them at this moment emerging from the woods," ſaid Vivaldi, "and now, [69] they are leaving the road and croſſing this way. Where is our hoſt, Paulo!

"He is without, at a little diſtance, Signor. Shall I call him?"

"Yes," replied Vivaldi, "or, ſtay; I will call him myſelf. Yet, if they ſee me"—

"Aye, Signor; or, for that matter, if they ſee me. But we cannot help our⯑ſelves now; for if we call the hoſt, we ſhall betray ourſelves, and, if we do not call him, he will betray us; ſo they muſt find us out, be it as it may."

"Peace! peace! let me think a mo⯑ment," ſaid Vivaldi. While Vivaldi un⯑dertook to think, Paulo was peeping about for a hiding place, if occaſion ſhould require one.

"Call our hoſt immediately," ſaid Vivaldi, "I muſt ſpeak with him."

"He paſſes the lattice at this inſtant," ſaid Ellena.

[70] Paulo obeyed, and the ſhepherd en⯑tered the cabin.

"My good friend," ſaid Vivaldi, "I muſt entreat that you will not admit thoſe friars, whom you ſee coming this way, nor ſuffer them to know what gueſts you have. They have been very troubleſome to us al⯑ready, on the road; I will reward you for any loſs their ſudden departure may occa⯑ſion you."

"Nay for that matter, friend," ſaid Paulo, "it is their viſit only that can occa⯑ſion you loſs, begging the Signor's par⯑don; their departure never occaſioned loſs to any body. And to tell you the truth, for my maſter will not ſpeak out, we were obliged to look pretty ſharply about us, while they bore us company, or we have reaſon to think our pockets would have been the lighter. They are deſign⯑ing people, friend, take my word for it; banditti, perhaps, in diſguiſe. The dreſs [71] of a Carmelite would ſuit their purpoſe, at this time of the pilgrimage. So be pretty blunt with them, if they want to come in here; and you will do well, when they go, to ſend ſomebody to watch which way they take, and ſee them clear off, or you may loſe a ſtray lamb, perhaps."

The old ſhepherd lifted up his eyes and hands, "To ſee how the world goes!" ſaid he. "But thank you, Maeſtro, for your warning; they ſhall not come within my threſhold, for all their holy ſeeming, and its the firſt time in my life I ever ſaid nay to one of their garb, and mine has been a pretty long one, as you may gueſs, per⯑haps, by my face. How old, Signor, ſhould you take me to be? I warrant you will gueſs ſhort of the matter tho'; for on theſe high mountains"—

"I will gueſs when you have diſmiſſed the travellers," ſaid Vivaldi, "after having given them ſome haſty refreſhment with⯑out; [72] they muſt be almoſt at the door, by this time. Diſpatch, friend."

"If they ſhould fall foul upon me, for refuſing them entrance," ſaid the ſhepherd, "you will come out to help me, Signor? for my lads are at ſome diſtance."

Vivaldi aſſured him that they would, and he left the cabin.

Paulo ventured to peep at the lattice, on what might be going forward without. "They are gone round to the door, Sig⯑nor, I fancy," ſaid he, "for I ſee nothing of them this way; if there was but another window What fooliſh people to build a cottage with no window. near the door! But I muſt liſten."

He ſtepped on tip-toe to the door, and bent his head in attention.

"They are certainly ſpies from the mo⯑naſtery," ſaid Ellena to Vivaldi, "they fo⯑llow us ſo cloſely! If they were pilgrims, it is improbable, too, that their way ſhould [73] be through this unfrequented region, and ſtill more ſo, that they ſhould not travel in a larger party. When my abſence was diſcovered, theſe people were ſent, no doubt, in purſuit of me, and having met the devotees whom we paſſed, they were enabled to follow our route."

"We ſhall do well to act upon this ſup⯑poſition," replied Vivaldi, "but, though I am inclined to believe them emiſſaries from San Stefano, it is not improbable that they are only Carmelites returning to ſome convent on the lake of Celano."

"I cannot hear a ſyllable, Signor," ſaid Paulo. "Pray do liſten yourſelf! and there is not a ſingle chink in this door to afford one conſolation. Well! if ever I build a cottage, there ſhall be a window near—"

"Liſten!" ſaid Vivaldi.

"Not a ſingle word, Signor!" cried Paulo, after a pauſe, "I do not even hear a voice!—But now I hear ſteps, and they [74] are coming to the door, too; they ſhall find it no eaſy matter to open it, though;" he added, placing himſelf againſt it. "Ay, ay, you may knock, friend, till your arm aches, and kick and lay about you—no matter for that."

"Silence! let us know who it is," ſaid Vivaldi; and the old ſhepherd's voice was heard without. "They are gone, Signors," ſaid he, "you may open the door."

"Which way did they go?" aſked Vi⯑valdi, when the man entered. "I cannot ſay, as to that, Signor, becauſe I did not happen to ſee them at all; and I have been looking all about, too."

"Why, I ſaw them myſelf, croſſing this way from the wood yonder," ſaid Paulo.

"And there is nothing to ſhelter them from our view between the wood, and this cottage, friend," added Vivaldi; "What can they have done with themſelves?"

[75] "For that matter, gone into the wood again, perhaps," ſaid the ſhepherd.

Paulo gave his maſter a ſignificant look, and added, "It is likely enough, friend; and you may depend upon it they are lurking there for no good purpoſe, You will do well to ſend ſomebody to look after them; your flocks will ſuffer for it, elſe. Depend upon it, they deſign no good."

"We are not uſed to ſuch ſort of folks in theſe parts," replied the ſhepherd, "but if they mean any harm, they ſhall find we can help ourſelves." As her con⯑cluded, he took down a horn from the roof, and blew a ſhrill blaſt that made the mountains echo; when immediately the younger ſhepherds were ſeen running from various quarters towards the cottage.

"Do not be alarmed, friend;" ſaid Vivaldi, "theſe travellers mean you no harm, I dare ſay, whatever they may de⯑ſign againſt us. But, as I think them ſuſ⯑picious perſons, and ſhould not like to [76] overtake them on the road, I will reward one of your lads if you will let him go a little ways towards Celano, and examine whether they are lurking on that route."

The old man conſented, and, when the ſhepherds came up, one of them received directions from Vivaldi.

"And be ſure you do not return, till you have found them," added Paulo.

"No maſter," replied the lad, "and I will bring them ſafe here, you may truſt me."

"If you do, friend, you will get your head broke for your trouble. You are only to diſcover where they are, and to watch where they go," ſaid Paulo.

Vivaldi, at length, made the lad com⯑prehend what was required of him, and he departed; while the old ſhepherd went out to keep guard.

The time of his abſence was paſſed in various conjectures by the party in the cabin, concerning the Carmelites, Vivaldi [77] ſtill inclined to believe they were honeſt people returning from a pilgrimage, but Paulo was decidedly againſt this opinion. "They are waiting for us on the road, you may depend upon it, Signor," ſaid the latter. "You may be certain they have ſome great deſign in hand, or they would never have turned their ſteps from this dairy-houſe when once they had ſpied it, and that they did ſpy it, we are ſure."

"But if they have in hand the great de⯑ſign you ſpeak of, Paulo," ſaid Vivaldi, "it is probable that they have ſpied us alſo, by their taking this obſcure road. Now it muſt have occurred to them when they ſaw a dairy-hut, in ſo ſolitary a region, that we might probably be found within—yet they have not examined. It appears, therefore, they have no deſign againſt us. What can you anſwer to this Paulo? I truſt the apprehenſions of Signora di Roſalba are unſounded.

[78] "Why! do you ſuppoſe, Signor, they would attack us when we were ſafe houſed, and had theſe good ſhepherds to lend us a helping hand? No, Signor, they would not even have shewn themſelves, if they could have helped it; and being once ſure we were here, they would ſkulk back to the woods, and lurk for us in the road they knew we muſt go, ſince, as it hap⯑pens, there is only one."

"How is it poſſible," ſaid Ellena, "that they can have diſcovered us here, ſince they did not approach the cabin to enquire."

"They came near enough for their pur⯑poſe, Signora, I dare ſay; and, if the truth were known, they ſpied my face looking at them through the lattice."

"Come, come," ſaid Vivaldi, "you are an ingenious tormentor, indeed, Paulo. Do you ſuppoſe they ſaw enough of thy face laſt night by moonlight, in that duſky glen, to enable them to recollect it again [79] at a diſtance of forty yards? Revive, my Ellena, I think every appearance is in our favour."

"Would I could think, ſo too!" ſaid ſhe, with a ſigh.

"O! for that matter, Signora," rejoined "Paulo, there is nothing to be afraid of; they ſhould find tough work of it, if they thought proper to attack us, lady."

"It is not an open attack that we have to fear," replied Ellena, "but they may ſurround us with their ſnares, and defy re⯑ſiſtance."

However Vivaldi might accede to the truth of this remark, he would not appear to do ſo; but tried to laugh away her ap⯑prehenſions; and Paulo was ſilenced for a while, by a ſignificant look from his maſter.

The ſhepherd's boy returned much ſooner than they had expected, and he probably ſaved his time, that he might ſpare his labour, for he brought no intelli⯑gence [80] of the Carmelites. "I looked for them among the woods along the road ſide in the hollow, yonder, too," ſaid the lad, "and then I mounted the hill further on, but I could ſee nothing of them far or near, nor of a ſingle ſoul, ex⯑cept our goats, and ſome of them do ſtray wide enough, ſometimes; they lead me a fine dance often. They ſometimes, Sig⯑nor, have wandered as far as Monte Nuvola, yonder, and got to the top of it, up among the clouds, and the crags, where I ſhould break my neck if I climbed; and the rogues ſeemed to know it, too, for when they have ſeen me coming, ſcrambling up, puffing and blowing, they have ceaſed their capering, and ſtood peep⯑ing over a crag ſo ſly, and ſo quiet, it ſeemed as if they were laughing at me; as much as to ſay, "Catch us if you can."

Vivaldi, who during the latter part of this ſpeech had been conſulting with [81] Ellena, whether they ſhould proceed on their way immediately, aſked the boy ſome further queſtions concerning the Carme⯑lites; and becoming convinced that they had either not taken the road to Celano, or, having taken it, were at a conſiderable diſtance, he propoſed ſetting out, and pro⯑ceeding leiſurely, "For I have now little apprehenſion of theſe people," he added, "and a great deal leſt night ſhould over take us before we reach the place of our deſtination, ſince the road is mountainous and wild, and, further, we are not perfectly acquainted with it."

Ellena approving the plan, they took leave of the good ſhepherd, who could with difficulty be prevailed with to accept any recompence for his trouble, and who gave them ſome further directions as to the road; and their way was long cheered by the ſound of the tabor and the ſweetneſs of the hautboy, wafted over the wild.

When they deſcended into the woody [82] hollow mentioned by the boy, Ellena ſent forth many an anxious look beneath the deep ſhade; while Paulo, ſometimes ſilent, and at others whiſtling and ſinging loudly, as if to overcome his fears, peeped under every bough that croſſed the road, ex⯑pecting to diſcover his friends the Carme⯑lites lurking within its gloom.

Having emerged from this valley, the road lay over mountains covered with flocks, for it was now the ſeaſon when they had quitted the plains of Apulia, to feed upon the herbage for which this region is celebrated; and it was near ſun-ſet, when, from a ſummit to which the travellers had long been aſcending, the whole lake of Celano, with its vaſt circle of mountains, burſt at once upon their view.

"Ah Signor!" exclaimed Paulo, "what a proſpect is here! It reminds me of home; it is almoſt as pleaſant as the bay of Naples! I ſhould never love it like that though, if it were an hundred times finer." [83] The travellers ſtopped to admire the ſcene, and to give their horſes reſt, after the labour of the aſcent. The evening ſun, ſhooting athwart a clear expanſe of water, between eighteen and twenty leagues in circumference, lighted up all the towns and villages, and towered caſtles, and ſpiry convents, that enriched the riſing ſhores; brought out all the various tints of culti⯑vation, and coloured with beamy purple the mountains which on every ſide formed the majeſtic background of the landſcape. Vivaldi pointed out to Ellena the gigan⯑tic Velino in the north, a barrier moun⯑tain, between the territories of Rome and Naples. Its peaked head towered far above every neighbouring ſummit, and its white precipices were oppoſed to the ver⯑dant points of the Majella, ſnow-crowned, and next in altitude, loved by the flocks. Weſtward, near woody hills, and riſing im⯑mediately from the lake, appeared Monte Salviano, covered with wild ſage, as its name imports, and once pompous with [84] foreſts of cheſtnut; a branch from the Ap⯑pennine extended to meet it. "See," ſaid Vivaldi "where Monte Corno ſtands like a ruffian, huge, ſcared, threatening, and horrid!—and in the ſouth, where the ſullen mountain of San Nicolo ſhoots up, barren and rocky! From thence, mark how other overtopping ridges of the mighty Apennine darken the horizon far along the eaſt, and circle to approach the Velino in the north!"

"Mark too," ſaid Ellena, "how ſweet⯑ly the banks and undulating plains repoſe at the feet of the mountains; what an image of beauty and elegance they oppoſe to the awful grandeur that overlooks and guards them! Obſerve, too, how many a delightful valley, opening from the lake, ſpreads its rice and corn fields, ſhaded with groves of the almond, far among the winding hills; how gaily vineyards and olives alternately chequer the acclivities, and how gracefully the lofty palms bend over the higher cliffs."

"Ay, Signora!" exclaimed Paulo, "and [85] have the goodneſs to obſerve how like are the fiſhing boats, that ſail towards the ham⯑let below, to thoſe one ſees upon the bay of Naples. They are worth all the reſt of the proſpect, except indeed this fine ſheet of water, which is almoſt as good as the bay, and that mountain, with its ſharp head, which is almoſt as good as Veſuvius —if it would but throw out fire!"

"We muſt deſpair of finding a moun⯑tain in this neighbourhood, ſo good as to do that, Paulo," ſaid Vivaldi, ſmiling at this ſtroke of nationality; "though, per⯑haps, many that we now ſee, have once been volcanic."

"I honour them for that, Signor; and look at them with double ſatisfaction; but our. mountain is the only mountain in the world. O! to ſee it of a dark night! what a blazing it makes! and what a height it will ſhoot to! and what a light it throws over the ſea! No other moun⯑tain can do ſo. It ſeems as if the waves [86] were all on fire. I have ſeen the reflec⯑tion as far off as Capri, trembling all acroſs the gulf, and ſhewing every veſſel as plain as at noon day; ay, and every ſailor on the deck. You never ſaw ſuch a ſight, Signor."

"Why you do, indeed, ſeem to have forgotten that I ever did, Paulo, and alſo that a volcano can do any miſchief. But let us return, Ellena, to the ſcene be⯑fore us. Yonder, a mile or two within the ſhore, is the town of Celano, whither we are going."

The clearneſs of an Italian atmoſphere permitted him to diſcriminate the minute through very diſtant features of the land⯑ſcape; and on an eminence riſing from the plains of a valley, opening to the weſt, he pointed out the modern Alba, crowned with the ruins of its ancient caſtle, ſtill viſible upon the ſplendor of the horizon, the priſon and tomb of many a Prince, who, "fallen from his high eſtate," was [87] ſent from Imperial Rome to finiſh here the ſad reverſe of his days; to gaze from the bars of his tower upon ſolitudes where beauty or grandeur adminiſtered no aſ⯑ſuaging feelings to him, whoſe life had paſſed amidſt the intrigues of the world, and the feveriſh contentions of diſappoint⯑ed ambition; to him, with whom reflec⯑tion brought only remorſe, and antici⯑pation deſpair; whom "no horizontal beam enlivened in the crimſon evening of life's duſty day."

"And to ſuch a ſcene as this," ſaid Vi⯑valdi, "a Roman Emperor came, only for the purpoſe of witneſſing the moſt barba⯑rous exhibition; to indulge the moſt ſa⯑vage delights! Here, Claudius celebrated the accompliſhment of his arduous work, an aqueduct to carry the overflowing wa⯑ters of the Celano to Rome, by a naval fight, in which hundreds of wretched ſlaves periſhed for his amuſement! Its pure and poliſhed ſurface was ſtained with human [88] blood, and roughened by the plunging bo⯑dies of the ſlain, while the gilded gallies of the Emperor floated gaily around, and theſe beautiful ſhores were made to echo with applauding yells, worthy of the furies!"

"We ſcarcely dare to truſt the truth of hiſtory, in ſome of its traits of human na⯑ture," ſaid Ellena.

"Signor," cried Paulo, "I have been thinking that while we are taking the air, ſo much at our eaſe, here, thoſe Carmelites may be ſpying at us from ſome hole or corner that we know nothing of, and may ſwoop upon us, all of a ſudden, before we can help ourſelves. Had we not better go on, Signor?"

"Our horſes are, perhaps, ſufficiently reſted," replied Vivaldi, "but, if I had not long ſince diſmiſſed all ſuſpicion of the evil intention of thoſe ſtrangers, I ſhould not willingly have ſtopped for a moment."

"But pray let us proceed," ſaid Ellena.

[89] "Ay, Signora, it is beſt to be of the ſafe ſide," obſerved Paulo. "Yonder, be⯑low, is Celano, and I hope we ſhall get ſafe houſed there, before it is quite dark, for here we have no mountain, that will light us on our way! Ah! if we were but within twenty miles of Naples, now,—and it was an illumination. night!"—

As they deſcended the mountain, Elle⯑na, ſilent and dejected, abandoned herſelf to reflection. She was too ſenſible of the difficulties of her preſent ſituation, and too apprehenſive of the influence, which her determination muſt have on all her fu⯑ture life, to be happy, though eſcaped from the priſon of San Stefano, and in the preſence of Vivaldi, her beloved deliverer and protector. He obſerved her dejec⯑tion with grief, and, not underſtanding all the finer ſcruples that diſtreſſed her, in⯑terpreted her reſerve into indifference towards himſelf. But he forbore to diſturb her again with a mention of his doubts, [90] or fears; and he determined not to urge the ſubject of his late entreaties, till he ſhould have placed her in ſome ſecure aſylum▪ where ſhe might feel herſelf at perfect li⯑berty to accept or to reject his propoſal. By acting with an honour ſo delicate, he unconſciouſly adopted a certain means of increaſing her eſteem and gratitude, and deſerved them the more, ſince he had to endure the apprehenſion of loſing her by the delay thus occaſioned to their nuptials.

They reached the town of Celano be⯑fore the evening cloſed; when Vivaldi was requeſted by Ellena to enquire for a con⯑vent, where ſhe might be lodged for the night. He left her at the inn, with Paulo for her guard, and proceeded on his ſearch. The firſt gate he knocked upon belonged to a convent of Carmelites. It appeared probable, that the pilgrims of that order, who had occaſioned him ſo much diſquie⯑tude, were honeſt brothers of this houſe; but as it was probable alſo, that if they [91] were emiſſaries of the Abbeſs of San Stefa⯑no, and came to Celano, they would take up their lodging with a ſociety of their own claſs, in preference to that of any other, Vivaldi thought it prudent to retire from their gates without making himſelf known. He paſſed on, therefore, and ſoon after arrived at a convent of Domi⯑nicans, where he learned, that there were only two houſes of nuns in Celano, and that theſe admitted no other boarders than permanent ones.

Vivaldi returned with this intelligence to Ellena, who endeavoured to reconcile herſelf to the neceſſity of remaining where ſhe was; but Paulo, ever active and zea⯑lous, brought intelligence, that at a little fiſhing town, at ſome diſtance, on the bank of the lake, was a convent of Urſa⯑lines, remarkable for their hoſpitality to ſtrangers. The obſcurity of ſo remote a place, was another reaſon for preferring it [92] to Celano, and Vivaldi propoſing to re⯑move thither, if Ellena was not too weary to proceed, ſhe readily, aſſented, and they immediately ſet off.

"It happens to be a fine night," ſaid Paulo, as they left Celano, "and ſo, Sig⯑nor, we cannot well loſe our way; be⯑ſides, they ſay, there is but one. The town we are going to lies yonder on the edge of the lake, about a mile and a hair off. I think I can ſee a gray ſteeple or two, a little to the right of that wood where the water gleams ſo."

"No, Paulo," replied Vivaldi, after looking attentively. "I perceive what you mean; but thoſe are not the points of ſteeples, they are only the tops of ſome tall cypreſſes."

"Pardon me, Signor, they are too ta⯑pering for trees; that muſt ſurely be the town. This road, however, will lead us right, for there is no other to puzzle us, as they ſay,"

[93] "This cool and balmy air revives me," ſaid Ellena; "and what a ſoothing ſhade prevails over the ſcene! How ſoftened, yet how diſtinct, is every near object; how ſweetly dubious the more removed ones; while the mountains beyond cha⯑racter themſelves ſublimely upon the ſtill glowing horizon."

"Obſerve, too," ſaid Vivaldi, "how their broken ſummits, tipt with the beams that have ſet to our lower region, exhibit the portraiture of towers and caſtles, and embattled ramparts, which ſeemed deſign⯑ed to guard them againſt the enemies, that may come by the clouds."

"Yes," replied Ellena, "the mountains themſelves diſplay a ſublimity, that ſeems to belong to a higher world; their be⯑ſiegers ought not to be of this earth; they can be only ſpirits of the air."

"They can be nothing elſe, Signora," ſaid Paulo, "for nothing of this earth can reach them. See! lady, they have ſome [94] of the qualities of your ſpirits, too; ſee! how they change their ſhapes and colours, as the ſun-beams ſink. And now, how gray and dim they grow! See but how faſt they vaniſh!"

"Every thing repoſes," ſaid Vivaldi." "who would willingly travel in the day, when Italy has ſuch nights as this!"

"Signor, that is the town before us," ſaid Paulo, "for now I can diſcern, plain enough, the ſpires of convents; and there goes a light! Hah, hah! and there is a bell, too, chiming from one of the ſpires! The monks are going to maſs; would we were going to ſupper, Signor!"

"That chime is nearer than the place you point to, Paulo, and I doubt whether it comes from the ſame quarter."

"Hark! Signor, the air wafts the ſound! and now it is gone again."

"Yes, I believe you are right, Paulo, and that we have not far to go."

The travellers deſcended the gradual [95] ſlopes, towards the ſhore; and Paulo, ſome time after, exclaimed, "See, Signor, where another light glides along See! it is reflected on the lake."

"I hear the faint daſhing of waves, now," ſaid Ellena, "and the ſound of oars, too. But obſerve, Paulo, the light is not in the town, it is in the boat that moves yonder."

"Now it retreats, and trembles in a lengthening line upon the waters," ſaid Vivaldi. "We have been too ready to be⯑lieve what we wiſh and have yet far to go."

The ſhore they were approaching form⯑ed a ſpacious bay for the lake, immediate⯑ly below. Dark woods ſeemed to ſpread along the banks, and aſcend among the cultivated ſlopes towards the mountains; except where, here and there, cliffs, bend⯑ing over the water, were diſtinguiſhed through the twilight by the whiteneſs of their limeſtone precipices. Within the [96] bay, the town became gradually viſible; lights twinkled between the trees, appear⯑ing and vaniſhing; like the ſtars of a cloudy night; and, at length was heard the me⯑lancholy ſong of boatmen, who were fiſh⯑ing near the ſhore.

Other ſounds ſoon after ſtruck the ear. "O, what merry notes!" exclaimed Paulo, "they make my heart dance. See! Sigr⯑nora, there is a group, footing it away ſo gaily on the bank of the lake, yonder, by thoſe trees. O, what a merry ſet! Would I were among them! that is, I mean, if you, Maeſtro, and the Signora were not here."

"Well corrected, Paulo."

"It is a feſtival, I fancy," obſerved Vi⯑valdi. "Theſe peaſants of the lake can make the moments fly as gaily as the vo⯑luptuaries of the city, it ſeems."

"O! what merry muſic!" repeated Paulo. "Ah! how often I have footed it as joyouſly on the beach at Naples, after [97] ſun-ſet, of a fine night, like this; with ſuch a pleaſant freſh breeze to cool one! Ah! there are none like the fiſhermen of Naples for a dance by moonlight; how lightly they do trip it! O! if I was but there now! That is, I mean, if you, Maeſtro, and the Signora were there too. O! what merry notes!"

"We thank you, good Signor Paulo," ſaid Vivaldi, "and I truſt we ſhall all be there ſoon; when you ſhall trip it away, with as joyous an heart as the beſt of them."

The travellers now entered the town, which conſiſted of one ſtreet, ſtraggling along the margin of the lake; and having enquired for the Urſaline convent, were directed to it's gates. The portreſs ap⯑peared immediately upon-the ringing of the bell, and carried a meſſage to the Ab⯑beſs, who as quickly returned an invita⯑tion to Ellena. She alighted, and fol⯑lowed the portreſs to the parlour, while [98] Vivaldi remained at the gate, till he ſhould know whether ſhe approved of her new lodging. A ſecond invitation induced him, alſo, to alight; he was admitted to the grate, and offered refreſhment, which, however, he declined ſtaying to accept, as he had yet a lodging to ſeek for the night. The Abbeſs, on learning this cir⯑cumſtance, courteouſly recommended him to a neighbouring ſociety of Benedictines, and deſired him to mention her name to the Abbot.

Vivaldi then took leave of Ellena, and, though it was only for a few hours, he left her with dejection, and with ſome degree of apprehenſion for her ſafety, which, though circumſtances could not juſtify him in admitting, he could not entirely ſubdue. She ſhared his dejection, but not his fears, when the door cloſed after him, and ſhe found herſelf once more among ſtrangers. The forlornneſs of her feelings could not be entirely overcome by the at⯑tentions [99] of the Abbeſs; and there was a degree of curioſity, and even of ſcrutiny, expreſſed in the looks of ſome of the ſiſters, which ſeemed more than was due to a ſtranger. From ſuch examination ſhe eagerly eſcaped to the apartment allotted for her, and to the repoſe from which ſhe had ſo long been withheld.

Vivaldi, meanwhile, had found an hoſ⯑pitable reception with the Benedictines, whoſe ſequeſtered ſituation made the viſit of a ſtranger a pleaſurable novelty to them. In the eagerneſs of converſation, and, yielding to the ſatisfaction which the mind receives from exerciſing ideas that have long ſlept in duſky indolence, and to the pleaſure of admitting new ones, the Abbot and a few of the brothers ſat with Vivaldi to a late hour. When, at length, the traveller was ſuffered to retire, other ſubjects than thoſe, which had intereſted his hoſt, engaged his thoughts; and he revolved the means of preventing the [100] miſery that threatened him, in a ſerious ſeparation from Ellena. Now, that ſhe was received into a reſpectable aſylum, every motive for ſilence upon this topic was done away. He determined, there⯑fore, that on the following morning, he would urge all his reaſons and entreaties for an immediate marriage; and among the brothers of the Benedictine, he had little doubt of prevailing with one to ſo⯑lemnize the nuptials, which he believed would place his happineſs and Ellena's peace, beyond the influence of malignant poſſibilities.

CHAP. III.

WHILE Vivaldi and Ellena were on the way from San Stefano, the Marcheſe Vivaldi was ſuffering the utmoſt vexation, reſpecting his ſon; and the Marcheſa felt not leſs apprehenſion, that the abode of Ellena might be diſcovered; yet this fear did not withhold her from mingling in all the gaieties of Naples. Her aſſem⯑blies were, as uſual, among the moſt brilliant of that voluptuous city, and ſhe patronized, as zealouſly as before, the ſtrains of her favourite compoſer. But, notwithſtanding this perpetual diſſipation, her thoughts frequently withdrew them⯑ſelves [102] from the ſcene, and dwelt on gloomy forebodings of diſappointed pride.

A circumſtance, which rendered her particularly ſuſceptible to ſuch diſappoint⯑ment at this time, was, that overtures of alliance had been lately made to the Mar⯑cheſe, by the father of a lady, who was held ſuitable, in every conſideration, to become his daughter; and whoſe wealth rendered the union particularly deſirable at a time, when the expences of ſuch an eſtabliſh⯑ment as was neceſſary to the vanity of the Marcheſa, conſiderably exceeded his in⯑come, large as it was.

The Marcheſa's temper had been thus irritated by the contemplation of her ſon's conduct in an affair, which ſo materially affected the fortune, and, as ſhe believed, the honour of his family; when a courier from the Abbeſs of San Stefano brought intelligence of the flight of Ellena with Vi⯑valdi. She was in a diſpoſition, which heightened diſappointment into fury; and [103] ſhe forfeited, by the tranſports to which ſhe yielded, the degree of pity that other⯑wiſe was due to a mother, who believed her only ſon to have ſacrificed his family and himſelf to an unworthy paſſion. She be⯑lieved, that he was now married, and irre⯑coverably loſt. Scarcely able to endure the agony of this conviction, ſhe ſent for her ancient adviſer Schedoni, that ſhe might, at leaſt, have the relief of expreſſ⯑ing her emotions; and of examining whe⯑ther there remained a poſſibility of diſſolv⯑ing theſe long-dreaded nuptials. The phrenzy of paſſion, however, did not ſo far overcome her circumſpection as to compel her to acquaint the Marcheſe with the contents of the Abbeſs's letter, before ſhe had conſulted with her Confeſſor. She knew that the principles of her huſband were too juſt, upon the grand points of morality, to ſuffer him to adopt the mea⯑ſures ſhe might judge neceſſary; and ſhe avoided informing him of the marriage of [104] his ſon, until the means of counteracting it ſhould have been ſuggeſted and accom⯑pliſhed, however deſperate ſuch means might be.

Schedoni was not to be found. Tri⯑fling circumſtances encreaſe the irritation of a mind in ſuch a ſtate as was her's. The delay of an opportunity for unbur⯑thening her heart to Schedoni, was hardly to be endured; another and another meſſenger were diſpatched to her Con⯑feſſor.

"My miſtreſs has committed ſome great ſin, truely!" ſaid the ſervant, who had been twice to the convent, within the laſt half hour. "It muſt lie heavy on her conſcience, in good truth, ſince ſhe cannot ſupport it for one half hour. Well! the rich have this comfort, however, that, let them be ever ſo guilty, they can buy themſelves innocent again, in the twink⯑ling of a ducat. Now a poor man might be a month before he recovered his inno⯑cence, [105] and that, too, not till after many a⯑bout of hard flogging.".

In the evening Schedoni came, but it was only to confirm her worſt fear. He, too, had heard of the eſcape of Ellena, as well as that ſhe was on the lake of Celano, and was married to Vivaldi. How he had obtained this information he did not chuſe to diſcloſe, but he mentioned ſo many mi⯑nute circumſtances in confirmation of it's truth, and appeared to be ſo perfectly con⯑vinced of the facts he related, that the Marcheſa believed them, as implicitly as himſelf; and her paſſion and deſpair tranſ⯑greſſed all bounds of decorum;

Schedoni obſerved, with dark and ſilent pleaſure, the turbulent exceſs of her feel⯑ings; and perceived that the moment was now arrived, when he might command them to his purpoſe, ſo as to render his aſſiſtance indiſpenſable to her repoſe; and probably ſo as to accompliſh the revenge he had long meditated againſt Vivaldi, [106] without hazarding the favour of the Mar⯑cheſa. So far was he from attempting to ſooth her ſufferings, that he continued to irritate her reſentment, and exaſperate her pride; effecting this, at the ſame time, with ſuch imperceptible art, that he ap⯑peared only to be palliating the conduct of Vivaldi, and endeavouring to conſole his diſtracted mother.

"This is a raſh ſtep, certainly," ſaid the Confeſſor;" but he is young, very young, and, therefore, does not foreſee the conſequence to which it leads. He does not perceive how ſeriouſly it will affect the dignity of his houſe;—how much it will depreciate his conſequence with the court, with the nobles of his own rank, and even with the plebeians, with whom he has con⯑deſcended to connect himſelf. Intoxi⯑cated with the paſſions of youth, he does not weigh the value of thoſe bleſſings, which wiſdom and the experience of ma⯑turer age know how to eſtimate. He ne⯑glects [107] them only becauſe he does not per⯑ceive their influence in ſociety, and that lightly to reſign them, is to degrade him⯑ſelf in the view of almoſt every mind. Unhappy young man! he is to be pitied fully as much as blamed."

"Your excuſes, reverend father," ſaid the tortured Marcheſa, "prove the good⯑neſs of your heart; but they illuſtrate, alſo, the degeneracy of his mind, and detail the full extent of the effects which he has brought upon his family. It affords me no conſolation to know, that this degra⯑dation proceeds from his head, rather than his heart; it is ſufficient that he has in⯑curred it, and that no poſſibility remains of throwing off the misfortune." "Perhaps that is affirming too much," obſerved Schedoni.

"How, father!" ſaid the Marcheſa.

"Perhaps a poſſibility does remain," ſaid he.

"Point it out to me, good father! I do not perceive it." [108] "Nay, my lady," replied the ſubtle Schedoni, correcting himſelf, "I am by no means aſſured, that ſuch poſſibility does exiſt. My ſolicitude for your tranquillity, and for the honour of your houſe, makes me ſo unwilling to relinquiſh hope, that, perhaps, I only imagine a poſſibility in your favour. Let me conſider.—Alas! the misfortune, ſevere as it is, muſt be en⯑dured; —there remain no means of eſcap⯑ing from it."

"It was cruel of you, father, to ſuggeſt a hope which you could not juſtify," ob⯑ſerved the Marcheſa.

"You muſt excuſe my extreme ſolici⯑tude, then," replied the Confeſſor. "But how is it poſſible for me to fee a family of your ancient eſtimation brought into ſuch circumſtances; its honours blighted by the folly of a thoughtleſs boy, without feel⯑ing ſorrow and indignation, and looking round for even ſome deſperate means of delivering it from diſgrace." He pauſed.

[109] "Diſgrace!" exclaimed the Marcheſa; "father, you—you—Diſgrace!—The word is a ſtrong one, but—it is, alas! juſt. And ſhall we ſubmit to this?—Is it poſſible we can ſubmit to it?"

"There is no remedy," ſaid Schedoni, coolly.

"Good God!" exclaimed the Marche⯑ſa, "that there ſhould be no law to pre⯑vent, or, at leaſt, to puniſh ſuch criminal marriages!"

"It is much to be lamented," replied Schedoni.

"The woman who obtrudes herſelf up⯑on a family, to diſhonour it," continued the Marcheſa, "deſerves a puniſhment nearly equal to that of a ſtate criminal, ſince ſhe injures thoſe who beſt ſupport the ſtate. She ought to ſuffer"—

"Not nearly, but quite equal, "inter⯑rupted the Confeſſor, "ſhe deſerves—death!"

He pauſed, and there was a moment [110] of profound ſilence, till he added—"for death only can obliviate the degradation ſhe has occaſioned; her death alone can reſtore the original ſplendor of the line ſhe would have ſullied."

He pauſed again, but the Marcheſa ſtill remaining ſilent, he added, "I have often marvelled that our lawgivers ſhould have failed to perceive the juſtneſs, nay the ne⯑ceſſity, of ſuch puniſhment!"

"It is aſtoniſhing," ſaid the Marcheſa, thoughtfully, "that a regard for their own honour did not ſuggeſt it."

"Juſtice does not the leſs exiſt, becauſe her laws are neglected," obſerved Schedoni. A ſenſe of what ſhe commands lives in our breaſts; and when we fail to obey that ſenſe, it is to weakneſs, not to virtue, that we yield."

"Certainly," replied the Marcheſa, "that truth never yet was doubted;"

"Pardon me, I am not ſo certain as to that," ſaid the Confeſſor, "when juſtice [111] happens to oppoſe prejudice, we are apt to believe it virtuous to diſobey her. For in⯑ſtance, though the law of juſtice demands the death of this girl, yet becauſe the law of the land forbears to enforce it, you, my daughter, even you! though poſſeſſed of a man's ſpirit, and his clear perceptions, would think that virtue bade her live, when it was only fear!"

"Hah!" exclaimed the Marcheſa, in a low voice, "What is that you mean? You ſhall find I have a man's courage alſo."

"I ſpeak without diſguiſe," replied Sche⯑doni, "my meaning requires none."

The Marcheſa muſed, and remained ſilent.

"I have done my duty," reſumed Sche⯑doni, at length. "I have pointed out the only way that remains for you to eſcape diſhonour. If my zeal is diſpleaſing—but I have done."

" No, good father, no," ſaid the Mar⯑cheſa; you miſtake the cauſe of my emo⯑tion. [112] New ideas, new proſpects, open!—they confuſe, they diſtract me! My mind has not yet attained ſufficient ſtrength to encounter them; ſome woman's weakneſs ſtill lingers at my heart."

"Pardon my inconſiderate zeal," ſaid Schedoni, with affected humility, "I hBve been to blame. If your's is a weakneſs, it is, at leaſt, an amiable one, and, perhaps, deſerves to be encouraged, rather than conquered."

"How, father! If it deſerves encou⯑ragement, it is not a weakneſs, but a vir⯑tue.".

"Be it ſo," ſaid Schedoni, coolly, "the intereſt I have felt on this ſubject, has, perhaps, miſled my judgment, and has made me unjuſt. Think no more of it, or, if you do, let it be only to pardon the zeal I have teſtified."

"It does not deſerve pardon, but thanks," replied the Marcheſa, "not thanks only, but reward. Good father, I hope it [113] will ſome time be in my power to prove the ſincerity of my words."

The Confeſſor bowed his head.

"I truſt that the ſervices you have ren⯑dered me, ſhall be gratefully repaid—re⯑warded, I dare not hope, for what benefit could poſſibly reward a ſervice ſo vaſt, as it may, perhaps, be in your power to confer upon my family! What recompence could be balanced againſt the benefit of having reſcued the honour of an ancient houſe!"

"Your goodneſs is beyond my thanks, or my deſert," ſaid Schedoni, and he was again ſilent.

The Marcheſa wiſhed him to lead her back to the point, from which ſhe herſelf had deviated, and he ſeemed determined, that ſhe ſhould lead him thither. She muſed, and heſitated. Her mind was not yet familiar with atrocious guilt; and the crime which Schedoni had ſuggeſted, ſome⯑what alarmed her. She feared to think, and ſtill more to name it; yet, ſo acutely [114] ſuſceptible was her pride, ſo ſtern her in⯑dignation, and ſo profound her deſire of vengeance, that her mind was toſſed as on a tempeſtuous ocean, and theſe terrible feelings threatened to overwhelm all the reſidue of humanity in her heart. Sche⯑doni obſerved all its progreſſive move⯑ments, and, like a gaunt tyger, lurked in ſilence, ready to ſpring forward at the mo⯑ment of opportunity.

"It is your advice, then, father," re⯑ſumed the Marcheſa, after a long pauſe,—"it is your opinion—that Ellena."—She heſitated, deſirous that Schedoni ſhould anticipate her meaning; but he choſe to ſpare his own delicacy rather than that of the Marcheſa.

"You think, then, that this inſidious girl deſerves"—She pauſed again, but the Confeſſor, ſtill ſilent, ſeemed to wait with ſubmiſſion for what the Marcheſa ſhould deliver.

"I repeat, father, that it is your opi⯑nion [115] this girl deſerves ſevere puniſh⯑ment."—

"Undoubtedly," replied Schedoni, "Is it not alſo your own?"

"That not any puniſhment can be too ſevere?" continued the Marcheſa. "That juſtice, equally with neceſſity, demands —her life? Is not this your opinion too?"

"O! pardon me," ſaid Schedoni, "I may have erred; that only was my opi⯑nion; and when I formed it, I was proba⯑bly too much under the influence of zeal to be juſt. When the heart is warm, how is it poſſible that the judgment can be cool."

"It is not then, your opinion, holy fa⯑ther," ſaid the Marcheſa with diſpleaſure.

"I do not abſolutely ſay that," replied the Confeſſor.—But I leave it to your bet⯑ter judgment to decide upon its juſtneſs."

As he ſaid this, he roſe to depart. The Marcheſa was agitated and perplexed, [116] and requeſted he would ſtay; but he ex⯑cuſed himſelf by alledging, that it was the hour when he muſt attend a particular maſs.

"Well then, holy father, I will occupy no more of your valuable moments at pre⯑ſent; but you know how highly I eſtimate your advice, and will not refuſe, when I ſhall at ſome future time requeſt it.

"I cannot refuſe to accept an honour," replied the Confeſſor, with an air of meek⯑neſs, "but the ſubject you allude to is delicate"—

"And therefore I muſt value, and re⯑quire your opinion upon it," rejoined the Marcheſa.

"I would wiſh you to value your own," replied Schedoni; "you cannot have a better director."

"You flatter, father."

"I only reply, my daughter."

"On the evening of to-morrow," ſaid the Marcheſa, gravely, "I ſhall be at veſpers [117] in the church of San Nicolo; if you ſhould happen to be there, you will probably ſee me, when the ſervice is over, and the con⯑gregation is departed, in the north cloiſter. We can there converſe on the ſubject neareſt my heart, and without obſervation. —Farewell!"

"Peace be with you, daughter! and wiſdom council your thoughts!" ſaid Sche⯑doni, "I will not fail to viſit San Nicolo."

He folded his hands upon his breaſt, bowed his head, and left the apartment with the ſilent footſtep, that indicates wea⯑rineſs and conſcious duplicity.

The Marcheſa remained in her cloſet, ſhaken by ever-varying paſſions, and ever-fluctuating opinions; meditating miſery for others, and inflicting it only upon herſelf.

CHAP. IV.

THE Marcheſa repaired, according to her appointment, to the church of San Ni⯑colo, and, ordering her ſervants to remain with the carriage at a ſide-door, entered the choir, attended only by her woman.

When veſpers had concluded, ſhe lin⯑gered till nearly every perſon had quitted the choir, and then walked through the ſo⯑litary aiſles to the north cloiſter. Her heart was as heavy as her ſtep; for when is it that peace and evil paſſions dwell to⯑gether? As ſhe ſlowly paced the cloiſters, ſhe perceived a monk paſſing between the [119] pillars, who, as he approached, lifted his cowl, and ſhe knew him to be Schedoni.

He inſtantly obſerved the agitation of her ſpirits, and that her purpoſe was not yet determined, according to his hope. But, though his mind became clouded, his countenance remained unaltered; it was grave and thoughtful. The ſternneſs of his vulture-eye was, however, ſomewhat ſoftened, and its lids were contracted by ſubtlety.

The Marcheſa bade her woman walk apart, while ſhe conferred with her Con⯑feſſor.

"This unhappy boy," ſaid ſhe, when the attendant was at ſome diſtance, "How much ſuffering does his folly inflict upon his family! My good father, I have need of all your advice and conſolation. My mind is perpetually haunted by a ſenſe of my misfortune; it has no reſpite; awake or in my dream, this ungrateful ſon alike purſues me! The only relief my heart re⯑ceives [120] is when converſing with you—my only counſellor, my only diſintereſted friend."

The Confeſſor bowed. "The Marcheſe is, no doubt, equally afflicted with your⯑ſelf," ſaid he; "but he is, notwithſtand⯑ing, much more competent to adviſe you on this delicate ſubject than I am."

"The Marcheſe has prejudices, father, as you well know; he is a ſenſible man, but he is ſometimes miſtaken, and he is incorrigible in error. He has the faults of a mind that is merely well diſpoſed; he is deſtitute of the diſcernment and the ener⯑gy which would make it great. If it is neceſſary to adopt a conduct, that departs in the ſmalleſt degree from thoſe common rules of morality which he has cheriſhed, without examining them, from his infancy, he is ſhocked, and ſhrinks from action. He cannot diſcriminate the circumſtances, that render the ſame action virtuous or vicious. How then, father, are we to ſup⯑pose [121] he would approve of the bold inflic⯑tions we meditate?"

"Moſt true!" ſaid the artful Schedoni, with an air of admiration.

"We, therefore, muſt not conſult him," continued the Marcheſa," leſt he ſhould now, as formerly, advance and maintain objections, to which we cannot yield. What paſſes in converſation with you, father, is ſacred, it goes no farther."

"Sacred as a confeſſion!" ſaid Schedoni, croſſing himſelf.

"I know not,"—reſumed the Marche⯑ſa, and heſitated; "I know not"—ſhe re⯑peated in a yet lower voice, "how this girl may be diſpoſed of; and this it is which diſtracts my mind."

"I marvel much at that," ſaid Schedo⯑ni. "With opinions ſo ſingularly juſt, with a mind ſo accurate, yet ſo bold as you have diſplayed, is it poſſible that you can heſitate as to what is to be done! You, my daughter, will not prove yourſelf one of thoſe ineffectual declaimers, who can think [122] vigorously, but cannot act ſo! One way, only, remains for you to purſue, in the preſent inſtance; it is the ſame which your ſuperior ſagacity pointed out, and taught me to approve. Is it neceſſary for me to perſuade her, by whom I am con⯑vinced! There is only one way."

"And on that I have been long medi⯑tating," replied the Marcheſa, "and, ſhall I own my weakneſs? I cannot yet decide."

"My daughter! can it be poſſible that you ſhould want courage to ſoar above vul⯑gar prejudice, in action, though not in opinion?" ſaid Schedoni, who, perceiving that his aſſiſtance was neceſſary to fix her fluctuating mind, gradually began to ſteal forth from the prudent reſerve, in which he had taken ſhelter.

"If this perſon was condemned by the law," he continued, "you would pro⯑nounce her ſentence to be juſt; yet you dare not, I am humbled while I re⯑peat it, you dare not diſpenſe juſtice your⯑ſelf!"

[123] The Marcheſa, after ſome heſitation, ſaid, "I have not the ſhield of the law to protect me, father: and the boldeſt virtue may pauſe, when it reaches the utmoſt verge of ſafety."

"Never!" replied the Confeſſor, warmly; "virtue never trembles; it is her glory, and ſublimeſt attribute to be ſuperior to danger; to deſpiſe it. The beſt principle is not virtue till it reaches this elevation."

A philoſopher might, perhaps, have been ſurprized to hear two perſons ſeriouſ⯑ly defining the limits of virtue, at the very moment in which they meditated the moſt atrocious crime; a man of the world would have conſidered it to be mere hypo⯑criſy; a ſuppoſition which might have diſ⯑cloſed his general knowledge of manners, but would certainly have betrayed his ignorance of the human heart.

The Marcheſa was for ſome time ſilent and thoughtful, and then repeated delibe⯑rately, "I have not the ſhield of the law to protect me."

[124] "But you have the ſhield of the church," replied Schedoni; "you ſhould not only have protection, but abſolution."

"Abſolution!—Does virtue—juſtice, require abſolution, father?"

"When I mentioned abſolution for the action which you perceive to be ſo juſt and neceſſary," replied Schedoni, "I accom⯑modated my ſpeech to vulgar prejudice, and to vulgar weakneſs. And, forgive me, that ſince you, my daughter, deſcended from the loftineſs of your ſpirit to regret the ſhield of the law, I endeavoured to conſole you, by offering a ſhield to con⯑ſcience. But enough of this; let us re⯑turn to argument. This girl is put out of the way of committing more miſchief, of injuring the peace and dignity of a diſtin⯑guiſhed family; ſhe is ſent to an eternal ſleep, before her time.—Where is the crime, where is the evil of this? On the contrary, you perceive, and you have con⯑vinced me, that it is only ſtrict juſtice, only ſelf-defence."

[125] The Marcheſa was attentive, and the Confeſſor added, "She is not immortal; and the few years more, that might have been allotted her, ſhe deſerves to forfeit, ſince ſhe would have employed them in cankering the honour of an illuſtrious houſe."

"Speak low, father," ſaid the Marche⯑ſa, though he ſpoke almoſt in a whiſper; "the cloiſter appears ſolitary, yet ſome perſon may lurk behind thoſe pillars. Adviſe me how this buſineſs may be ma⯑naged; I am ignorant of the particular means."

"There is ſome hazard in the accom⯑pliſhment of it, I grant," replied Schedo⯑ni; "I know not whom you may confide in.—The men who make a trade of blood"—

"Huſh!" ſaid the Marcheſa, looking round through the twilight—"a ſtep!"

"It is the Friar's, yonder, who croſſes to the choir," replied Schedoni.

[126] They were watchful for a few moments, and then he reſumed the ſubject. "Mer⯑cenaries ought not to be truſted,"—

"Yet who but mercenaries"—inter⯑rupted the Marcheſa, and inſtantly checked herſelf. But the queſtion thus implied, did not eſcape the Confeſſor.

"Pardon my aſtoniſhment," ſaid he, "at the inconſiſtency, or, what ſhall I ven⯑ture to call it? of your opinions! After the acuteneſs you have diſplayed on ſome points, is it poſſible you can doubt, that principle may both prompt and perform the deed? Why ſhould we heſitate to do what we judge to be right?"

"Ah! reverend father," ſaid the Mar⯑cheſa, with emotion," but where ſhall we find another like yourſelf—another, who not only can perceive with juſtneſs, but will act with energy."

Schedoni was ſilent.

"Such a friend is above all eſtimation; but where ſhall we ſeek him?"

[127] "Daughter!" ſaid the Monk, emphati⯑cally, "my zeal for your family is alſo above all calculation."

"Good father," replied the Marcheſa, comprehending his full meaning, "I know not how to thank you."

"Silence is ſometimes eloquence," ſaid Schedoni, ſignificantly.

The Marcheſa muſed; for her con⯑ſcience alſo was eloquent. She tried to overcome its voice, but it would be heard; and ſometimes ſuch ſtarts of horrible con⯑viction came over her mind, that ſhe felt as one who, awaking from a dream, opens his eyes only to meaſure the depth of the precipice on which he totters. In ſuch moments ſhe was aſtoniſhed, that ſhe had pauſed for an inſtant upon a ſubject ſo terrible as that of murder. The ſophiſtry of the Confeſſor, together with the incon⯑ſiſtencies which he had betrayed, and which had not eſcaped the notice of the Marcheſa, even at the time they were ut⯑tered, [128] though ſhe had been unconſcious of her own, then became more ſtrongly appa⯑rent, and ſhe almoſt determined to ſuffer the poor Ellena to live. But returning paſſion, like a wave that has recoiled from the ſhore, afterwards came with recollect⯑ed energy, and ſwept from her feeble mind the barriers, which reaſon and conſcience had begun to rear.

"This confidence with which you have thought proper to honour me," ſaid Sche⯑doni, at length, and pauſed; "This affair, ſo momentous"—

"Ay, this affair," interrupted the Mar⯑cheſa, in a hurried manner,—"but when, and where, good father? Being once con⯑vinced, I am anxious to have it ſettled."

"That muſt be as occaſion offers," re⯑plied the Monk, thoughtfully.—"On the ſhore of the Adriatic, in the province of Apulia, not far from Manfredonia, is a houſe that might ſuit the purpoſe. It is a lone dwelling on the beach, and con⯑cealed [129] from travellers, among the foreſts, which ſpread for many miles along the coaſt."

"And the people?" ſaid the Marcheſa.

"Ay, daughter, or why travel ſo far as Apulia? It is inhabited by one poor man, who ſuſtains a miſerable exiſtence by fiſh⯑ing. I know him, and could unfold the reaſons of his ſolitary life;—but no mat⯑ter, it is ſufficient that I know him.".

"And would truſt him, father?"

"Ay, lady, with the life of this girl—though ſcarcely with my own."

"How! If he is ſuch a villain he may not be truſted! think further. But now, you objected to a mercenary, yet this man is one!"

"Daughter, he may be truſted, when it is in ſuch a caſe; he is ſafe and ſure. I have reaſon to know him."

"Name your reaſons, father."

The Confeſſor was ſilent, and his coun⯑tenance aſſumed a very peculiar character; [130] it was more terrible than uſual, and over⯑ſpread with a dark, cadaverous hue of mingled anger and guilt. The Marcheſa ſtarted involuntarily as, paſſing by a win⯑dow, the evening gleam that fell there, diſ⯑covered it; and for the firſt time ſhe wiſh⯑ed, that ſhe had not committed herſelf ſo wholly to his power. But the die was now caſt; it was too late to be prudent; and ſhe again demanded his reaſons.

"No matter," ſaid Schedoni, in a ſtifled voice—"ſhe dies!"

"By his hands?" aſked the Marcheſa, with ſtrong emotion. "Think, once more, father."

They were both again ſilent and thought⯑ful. The Marcheſa, at length, ſaid, "Fa⯑ther, I rely upon your integrity and pru⯑dence;" and ſhe laid a very flattering em⯑phaſis upon the word integrity. "But I conjure you to let this buſineſs be finiſhed quickly, ſuſpenſe is to me the purgatory of this world, and not to truſt the accom⯑pliſhment [131] of it to a ſecond perſon." She pauſed, and then added, "I would not willingly owe ſo vaſt a debt of obligation to any other than yourſelf."

"Your requeſt, daughter, that I would not confide this buſineſs to a ſecond per⯑ſon," ſaid Schedoni, with diſpleaſure, "can⯑not be accorded to. Can you ſuppoſe, that I, myſelf"—

"Can I doubt that principle may both prompt and perform the deed," inter⯑rupted the Marcheſa with quickneſs, and anticipating his meaning, while ſhe retorted upon him his former words. "Why ſhould we heſitate to do what we judge to be right?"

The ſilence of Schedoni alone indicated his diſpleaſure, which the Marcheſa imme⯑diately underſtood.

"Conſider, good father," ſhe added ſignificantly, "how painful it muſt be to me, to owe to infinite an obligation to a ſtranger, or to any other than ſo highly valued a friend as yourſelf."

[132] Schedoni, while he detected her mean⯑ing, and perſuaded himſelf that he deſpiſ⯑ed the flattery, with which ſhe ſo thinly veiled it, unconſciouſly ſuffered his ſelf-love to be ſoothed by the compliment. He bowed his head, in ſignal of conſent to her wiſh.

"Avoid violence, if that be poſſible," ſhe added, immediately comprehending him, "but let her die quickly! The pu⯑niſhment is due to the crime."

The Marcheſa happened, as ſhe ſaid this, to caſt her eyes upon the inſcription over a Confeſſional, where appeared, in black letters, theſe awful words, "God hears thee!". It appeared an awful warning. Her countenance changed; it had ſtruck upon her heart. Schedoni was too much engaged by his own thoughts to obſerve, or underſtand her ſilence. She ſoon reco⯑vered herſelf; and conſidering that this was a common inſcription for Confeſ⯑ſionals, diſregarded what ſhe had at firſt [133] conſidered as a peculiar admonition; yet ſome moments elapſed, before ſhe could renew the ſubject.

"You was ſpeaking of a place, father," reſumed the Marcheſa—"you men⯑tioned a"—

"Ay," muttered the Confeſſor, ſtill muſing,—"in a chamber of that houſe there is"—

"What noiſe is that?" ſaid the Mar⯑cheſa, interrupting him. They liſtened. A few low and querulous notes of the organ ſounded at a diſtance, and ſtopped again.

"What mournful muſic is that?" ſaid the Marcheſa in a faultering voice, "It was touched by a fearful hand! Veſpers were over long ago!"

"Daughter," ſaid Schedoni, ſome⯑what ſternly, "you ſaid you had a man's courage. Alas! you have a woman's heart."

"Excuſe me, father; I know not why [134] I feel this agitation, but I will command it. That chamber?"—

"In that chamber," reſumed the Con⯑feſſor, "is a ſecret door, conſtructed long ago."—

"And for what purpoſe conſtructed?" ſaid the fearful Marcheſa.

"Pardon me, daughter; 'tis ſufficient that it is there; we will make a good uſe of it. Through that door—in the night—when ſhe ſleeps"—

"I comprehend you," ſaid the Marche⯑ſa, "I comprehend you. But why, you have your reaſons, no doubt, but why the neceſſity of a ſecret door in a houſe which you ſay is ſo lonely—inhabited by only one perſon?"

"A paſſage leads to the ſea," continued Schedoni, without replying to the queſ⯑tion. "There, on the ſhore, when dark⯑neſs covers it; there, plunged amidſt the waves, no ſtain ſhall hint of"—

"Hark!" interrupted the Marcheſa, ſtarting, "that note again!"

[135] The organ ſounded faintly from the choir, and pauſed, as before. In the next moment, a ſlow chaunting of voices was heard, mingling with the riſing peal, in a ſtrain particularly melancholy and ſo⯑lemn.

"Who is dead? ſaid the Marcheſa, changing countenance; "it is a requiem!"

"Peace be with the departed!" ex⯑claimed Schedoni, and croſſed himſelf; "Peace reſt with his ſoul!"

"Hark! to that chaunt!" ſaid the Mar⯑cheſa, in a trembling voice; "it is a firſt requiem; the ſoul has but juſt quitted the body!"

They liſtened in ſilence. The Marche⯑ſa was much affected; her complexion varied at every inſtant; her breathings were ſhort and interrupted, and ſhe even ſhed a few tears, but they were thoſe of deſpair, rather than of ſorrow. "That body is now cold," ſaid ſhe to herſelf, "which but an hour ago was warm and [136] animated! Thoſe fine ſenſes are cloſed in death! And to this condition would I re⯑duce a being like myſelf! Oh, wretched, wretched mother! to what has the folly of a ſon reduced thee!"

She turned from the Confeſſor, and walked alone in the cloiſter. Her agita⯑tion encreaſed; ſhe wept without reſtraint, for her veil and the evening gloom con⯑cealed her, and her ſighs were loſt amidſt the muſic of the choir.

Schedoni was ſcarcely leſs diſturbed, but his were emotions of apprehenſion and contempt. "Behold, what is woman!" ſaid he—"The ſlave of her paſſions, the dupe of her ſenſes! When pride and re⯑venge ſpeak in her breaſt, ſhe defies ob⯑ſtacles, and laughs at crimes! Aſſail but her ſenſes, let muſic, for inſtance, touch ſome feeble chord of her heart, and echo to her fancy, and lo! all her perceptions change:—ſhe ſhrinks from the act ſhe had but an inſtant before believed meritorious, [137] yields to ſome new emotion, and ſinks—the victim of a ſound! O, weak and con⯑temptible being!"

The Marcheſa, at leaſt, ſeemed to juſti⯑fy his obſervations. The deſperate paſ⯑ſions, which had reſiſted every remon⯑ſtrance of reaſon and humanity, were van⯑quiſhed only by other paſſions; and, her ſenſes touched by the mournful melody of muſic, and her ſuperſtitious fears awaken⯑ed by the occurrence of a requiem for the dead, at the very moment when ſhe was planning murder, ſhe yielded, for a while, to the united influence of pity and terror. Her agitation did not ſubſide; but ſhe returned to the Confeſſor.

"We will converſe on this buſineſs at ſome future time," ſaid ſhe; "at preſent, my ſpirits are diſordered. Good night, father! Remember me in your ori⯑ſons."

"Peace be with you, lady!" ſaid the Confeſſor, bowing gravely, "You [138] ſhall not be forgotten. Be reſolute, and yourſelf."

The Marcheſa beckoned her woman to approach, when, drawing her veil cloſer, and leaning upon the attendant's arm, ſhe left the cloiſter. Schedoni remained for a moment on the ſpot, looking after her, till her figure was loſt in the gloom of the long perſpective; he then, with thought⯑ful ſteps, quitted the cloiſter by another door. He was diſappointed, but he did not deſpair.

CHAP. V.

WHILE the Marcheſa and the Monk were thus meditating conſpiracies againſt Ellena, ſhe was ſtill in the Urſaline con⯑vent on the lake of Celano. In this ob⯑ſcure ſanctuary, indiſpoſition, the conſe⯑quence of the long and ſevere anxiety ſhe had ſuffered, compelled her to remain. A fever was on her ſpirits, and an univerſal laſſitude prevailed over her frame; which became the more effectual, from her very ſolicitude to conquer it. Every approach⯑ing [140] day ſhe hoped ſhe ſhould be able to purſue her journey homeward, yet every day found her as incapable of travelling as the laſt, and the ſecond week was already gone, before the fine air of Celano, and the tran⯑quillity of her aſylum, began to revive her. Vivaldi, who was her daily viſitor at the grate of the convent; and who, watching over her with intenſe ſolicitude, had hi⯑therto forbore to renew a ſubject, which, by agitating her ſpirits, might affect her health, now, that her health ſtrengthened, ventured gradually to mention his fears left the place of her retreat ſhould be diſco⯑vered, and left he yet might irrecoverably loſe her, unleſs ſhe would approve of their ſpeedy marriage. At every viſit he now urged the ſubject, repreſented the dangers that ſurrounded them, and repeated his ar⯑guments and entreaties; for now, when he believed that time was preſſing forward fatal evils, he could no longer attend to the delicate ſcruples, that bade him be [141] ſparing in entreaty. Ellena, had ſhe obey⯑ed the dictates of her heart, would have rewarded his attachment and his ſervices, by a frank approbation of his propoſal; but the objections which reaſon exhibited againſt ſuch a conceſſion, ſhe could neither overcome or diſregard.

Vivaldi, after he had again repreſented their preſent dangers, and claimed the pro⯑miſe of her hand, received in the preſence of her deceaſed relative, Signora Bianchi, gently ventured to remind her, that an event as ſudden as lamentable, had firſt deferred their nuptials, and that if Bianchi had lived, Ellena would have beſtowed, long ſince, the vows he now ſolicited. Again he intreated her, by every ſacred and tender recollection, to conclude the fearful uncertainty of their fate, and to beſtow up⯑on him the right to protect her, before they ventured forth from this temporary aſylum.

Ellena immediately admitted the ſacred⯑neſs of the promiſe, which ſhe had formerly [142] given, and aſſured Vivaldi that ſhe conſi⯑dered herſelf as indiſſolubly bound to wed him as if it had been given at the altar; but ſhe objected to a confirmation of it, till his family ſhould ſeem willing to re⯑ceive her for their daughter; when, forget⯑ting the injuries ſhe had received from them, ſhe would no longer refuſe their al⯑liance. She added, that Vivaldi ought to be more jealous of the dignity of the wo⯑man, whom he honoured with his eſteem, than to permit her making a greater con⯑ceſſion.

Vivaldi felt the full force of this appeal; he recollected, with anguiſh, circum⯑ſtances of which ſhe was happily ignorant, but which ſerved to ſtrengthen with him the juſtneſs of her reproof. And, as the aſperſions which the Marcheſe had thrown upon her name, crowded to his memory, pride and indignation ſwelled his heart, and ſo far overcame apprehenſion of ha⯑zard, that he formed a momentary reſolu⯑tion [143] to abandon every other conſideration, to that of aſſerting the reſpect which was due to Ellena, and to forbear, claiming her for his wife, till his family ſhould make acknowledgment of their error, and wil⯑lingly admit her in the rank of their child. But this reſolution was as tranſient as plauſible; other conſiderations, and for⯑mer fears preſſed upon him. He per⯑ceived the ſtrong improbability, that they would ever make a voluntary ſacrifice of their pride to his love; or yield miſtakes, nurtured by prejudice and by willing indul⯑gence, to truth and a ſenſe of juſtice. In the mean time, the plans, which would be formed for ſeparating him from Ellena, might ſucceed, and he ſhould loſe her for ever. Above all, it appeared, that the beſt, the only method, which remained for con⯑futing the daring aſperſions that had af⯑fected her name, was, by proving the high reſpect he himſelf felt for her, and preſent⯑ing her to the world in the ſacred charac⯑ter [144] of his wife. Theſe conſiderations quickly determined him to perſevere in his ſuit; but it was impoſſible to urge them to Ellena, ſince the circumſtances they muſt unfold, would not only ſhock her delicacy and afflict her heart, but would furniſh the proper pride ſhe cheriſh⯑ed with new arguments againſt approach⯑ing a family, who had thus groſſly inſulted her.

While theſe conſiderations occupied him, the emotion they occaſioned did not eſcape Ellena's obſervation; it encreaſed, as he reflected on the impoſſibility of urg⯑ing them to her, and on the hopeleſsneſs of prevailing with her, unleſs he could pro⯑duce new arguments in his favour. His unaffected diſtreſs awakened all her ten⯑derneſs and gratitude; ſhe aſked herſelf whether ſhe ought any longer to aſſert her own rights, when by doing ſo, ſhe ſa⯑crificed the peace of him, who had incur⯑red ſo much danger for her ſake, who had [145] reſcued her from ſevere oppreſſion, and had ſo long and ſo well proved the ſtrength of his affection.

As ſhe applied theſe queſtions, ſhe ap⯑peared to herſelf an unjuſt and ſelfiſh be⯑ing, unwilling to make any ſacrifice for the tranquillity of him, who had given her liberty, even at the riſk of his life. Her very virtues, now that they were carried to exceſs, ſeemed to her to border upon vices; her ſenſe of dignity, appeared to be narrow pride; her delicacy weakneſs; her moderated affection cold ingratitude; and her circumſpection, little leſs than pru⯑dence degenerated into meanneſs.

Vivaldi, as apt in admitting hope as fear, immediately perceived her reſolution be⯑ginning to yield, and he urged again every argument which was likely to prevail over it. But the ſubject was too important for Ellena, to be immediately decided upon; he departed with only a faint aſ⯑ſurance of encouragement; and ſhe for⯑bade [146] him to return till the following day, when ſhe would acquaint him with her final determination.

This interval was, perhaps, the moſt painful he had ever experienced. Alone, and on the banks of the lake, he paſſed many hours in alternate hope and fear; in endeavouring to anticipate the deciſion, on which ſeemed ſuſpended all his future peace, and abruptly recoiling from it, as often as imagination repreſented it to be adverſe.

Of the walls, that encloſed her, he ſcarcely ever loſt ſight; the view of them ſeemed to cheriſh his hopes, and, while he gazed upon their rugged ſurface, Ellena alone was pictured on his fancy; till his anxiety to learn her diſpoſition towards him aroſe to agony, and he would abruptly leave the ſpot. But an inviſible ſpell ſtill ſeemed to attract him back again, and evening found him pacing ſlowly beneath the ſhade of thoſe melancholy boundaries that con⯑cealed his Ellena.

[147] Her day was not more tranquil. When⯑ever prudence and decorous pride forbade her to become a member of the Vivaldi family, as conſtantly did gratitude, affec⯑tion, irreſiſtible tenderneſs plead the cauſe of Vivaldi The memory of paſt times re⯑turned; and the very accents of the deceaſ⯑ed ſeemed to murmur from the grave, and command her to fulfil the engagement, which had ſoothed the dying moments of Bianchi.

On the following morning, Vivaldi was at the gates of the convent, long before the appointed hour, and he lingered in dreadful impatience, till the clock ſtruck the ſignal for his entrance.

Ellena was already in the parlour; ſhe was alone, and roſe in diſorder on his ap⯑proach. His ſteps faultered, his voice was loſt, and his eyes only, which he fixed with a wild earneſtneſs on her's, had power to enquire her reſolution. She obſerved the paleneſs of his countenance, and his emo⯑tion, [148] with a mixture of concern and ap⯑probation. At that moment, he perceived her ſmile, and hold out her hand to him; and fear, care, and doubt vaniſhed at once from his mind. He was incapable of thanking her, but ſighed deeply as he preſſed her hand, and, overcome with joy, ſupported himſelf againſt the grate that ſeparated them.

"You are, then, indeed my own!" ſaid Vivaldi, at length recovering his voice—"We ſhall be no more parted—you are mine for ever! But your countenance changes! O heaven! ſurely I have not miſtaken! Speak! I conjure you, Ellena; relieve me from theſe terrible doubts!"

"I am yours, Vivaldi," replied Ellena faintly, "oppreſſion can part us no more."

She wept, and drew her veil over her eyes.

"What mean thoſe tears?" ſaid Vival⯑di, with alarm. "Ah! Ellena," he added in a ſoftened voice, "ſhould tears mingle [149] with ſuch moments as theſe! Should your tears fall upon my heart now! They tell me, that your conſent is given with reluc⯑tance—with grief; that your love is fee⯑ble, your heart—yes Ellena! that your whole heart is no longer mine!"

"They ought rather to tell you," re⯑plied Ellena, "that it is all your own; that my affection never was more powerful than now, when it can overcome every conſideration with reſpect to your family, and urge me to a ſtep which muſt degrade me in their eyes,—and, I fear, in my own."

"O retract that cruel aſſertion!" inter⯑rupted Vivaldi, "Degrade you in your own!—degrade you in their eyes!" He was much agitated; his countenance was fluſhed, and an air of more than uſual dignity dilated his figure.

"The time ſhall come, my Ellena," he added with energy, "when they ſhall un⯑derſtand your worth, and acknowledge your excellence. O! that I were an Em⯑peror, [150] that I might ſhew to all the world how much I love and honour you!"

Ellena gave him her hand, and, with⯑drawing her veil, ſmiled on him through her tears, with gratitude and reviving cou⯑rage.

Before Vivaldi retired to the convent, he obtained her conſent to conſult with an aged Benedictine, whom he had engaged in his intereſt, as to the hour at which the marriage might be ſolemnized with leaſt obſervation. The prieſt informed him, that at the concluſion of the veſper-ſervice, he ſhould be diſengaged for ſeveral hours; and that, as the firſt hour after ſun-ſet was more ſolitary than almoſt any other, the brotherhood being then aſſembled in the refectory, he would meet Vivaldi and El⯑lena at that time, in a chapel on the edge of the lake, a ſhort diſtance from the Bene⯑dictine convent, to which it belonged, and celebrate their nuptials.

With this propoſal, Vivaldi imme⯑diately [151] returned to Ellena; when it was agreed that the party ſhould aſſemble at the hour mentioned by the prieſt. Ellena, who had thought it proper to mention her intention to the Abbeſs of the Urſalines, was, by her permiſſion, to be attended by a lay-ſiſter; and Vivaldi was to meet her with⯑out the walls, and conduct her to the al⯑tar. When the ceremony was over, the fugitives were to embark in a veſſel, hired for the purpoſe, and, croſſing the lake, pro⯑ceed towards Naples. Vivaldi again with⯑drew to engage a boat, and Ellena to prepare for the continuance of her jour⯑ney.

As the appointed hour drew near, her ſpirits ſunk, and ſhe watched with melan⯑choly foreboding, the ſun retiring amidſt ſtormy clouds, and his rays fading from the higheſt points of the mountains, till the gloom of twilight prevailed over the ſcene. She then left her apartment, took a grateful leave of the hoſpitable Abbeſs, [152] and, attended by the lay-ſiſter, quitted the convent.

Immediately without the gate ſhe was met by Vivaldi, whoſe look, as he put her arm within his, gently reproached her for the dejection of her air.

They walked in ſilence towards the cha⯑pel of San Sebaſtian. The ſcene appeared to ſympathize with the ſpirits of Ellena. It was a gloomy evening, and the lake, which broke in dark waves upon the ſhore, mingled its hollow ſounds with thoſe of the wind, that bowed the lofty pines, and ſwept in guſts among the rocks. She ob⯑ſerved with alarm the heavy thunder clouds, that rolled along the ſides of the mountains, and the birds circling ſwiftly over the waters, and ſcudding away to their neſts among the cliffs; and the no⯑ticed to Vivaldi, that, as a ſtorm ſeemed approaching, ſhe wiſhed to avoid croſſing the lake. He immediately ordered Paulo to diſmiſs the boat, and to be in waiting [153] with a carriage, that, if the weather ſhould become clear, they might not be detained longer than was otherwiſe neceſſary.

As they approached the chapel, Ellena fixed her eyes on the mournful cypreſſes which waved over it, and ſighed. "Thoſe," ſhe ſaid, "are funereal mementos—not ſuch as ſhould grace the altar of marriage! Vivaldi, I could be ſupperſtitious.—Think you not they are portentous of future mis⯑fortune? But forgive me; my ſpirits are weak."

Vivaldi endeavoured to ſoothe her mind, and tenderly reproached her for the ſadneſs ſhe indulged. Thus they entered the chapel. Silence, and a kind of gloomy ſe⯑pulchral light, prevailed within. The ve⯑nerable Benedictine, with a brother, who was to ſerve as guardian to the bride, were already there, but they were kneeling, and engaged in prayer.

Vivaldi led the trembling Ellena to the altar, where they waited till the Benedic⯑tines [154] ſhould have finiſhed, and theſe were moments of great emotion. She often looked round the duſky chapel, in fearful expectation of diſcovering ſome lurking obſerver; and, though ſhe knew it to be very improbable, that any perſon in this neighbourhood could be intereſted in in⯑terrupting the ceremony, her mind in⯑voluntarily admitted the poſſibility of it. Once, indeed, as her eyes glanced over a caſement, Ellena fancied she diſtinguiſhed a human face laid cloſe to the glaſs, as if to watch what was paſſing within; but when ſhe looked again, the apparition was gone. Notwithſtanding this, ſhe liſtened with anxiety to the uncertain ſounds without, and ſometimes ſtarted as the ſurges of the lake daſhed over the rock below, almoſt believing ſhe heard the ſteps and whiſper⯑ing voices of men in the avenues of the chapel. She tried, however, to ſubdue apprehenſion, by conſidering, that if this were true, an harmleſs curioſity might [155] have attracted ſome inhabitants of the convent hither, and her ſpirits became more compoſed, till ſhe obſerved a door open a little way, and a dark countenance looking from behind it. In the next in⯑ſtant it retreated, and the door was cloſed.

Vivaldi, who perceived Ellena's com⯑plexion change, as ſhe laid her hand on his arm, followed her eyes to the door, but, no perſon appearing, he enquired the cauſe of her alarm.

"We are obſerved," ſaid Ellena, "ſome perſon appeared at that door!"

"And if we are obſerved, my love," re⯑plied Vivaldi, "who is there in this neigh⯑bourhood whoſe obſervation we can have reaſon to fear? Good father, diſpatch," he added, turning to the prieſt, "you forget that we are waiting."

The officiating prieſt made a ſignal that he had nearly concluded his oriſon; but the other brother roſe immediately, and ſpoke with Vivaldi, who deſired that the [156] doors of the chapel might be faſtened to prevent intruſion.

"We dare not bar the gates of this holy temple," replied the Benedictine, "it is a ſanctuary, and never may be cloſed."

"But you will allow me to repreſs idle curioſity," ſaid Vivaldi, "and to enquire who watches beyond that door? The tranquillity of this lady demands thus much."

The brother aſſented, and Vivaldi ſtep⯑ped to the door; but perceiving no perſon in the obſcure paſſage beyond it, he re⯑turned with lighter ſteps to the altar, from which the officiating prieſt now roſe.

"My children," ſaid he," I have made you wait,—but an old man's prayers are not leſs important than a young man's vows, though this is not a moment when you will admit that truth."

"I will allow whatever you pleaſe, good father," replied Vivaldi, "if you will [157] adminiſter thoſe vows, without further delay;—time preſſes."

The venerable prieſt took his ſtation at the altar, and opened the book. Vivaldi placed himſelf on his right hand, and with looks of anxious love, endeavoured to en⯑courage Ellena, who, with a dejected coun⯑tenance, which her veil but ill concealed, and eyes fixed on the ground, leaned on her attendant ſiſter. The figure and home⯑ly features of this ſiſter; the tall ſtature and harſh viſage of the brother, clothed in the gray habit of his order; the ſilvered head and placid phyſiognomy of the offici⯑ating prieſt, enlightened by a gleam from the lamp above, oppoſed to the youthful grace and ſpirit of Vivaldi, and the milder beauty and ſweetneſs of Ellena, formed altogether a group worthy of the pencil.

The prieſt had begun the ceremony, when a noiſe from without again alarmed Elle⯑na, who obſerved the door once more cau⯑tiouſly opened, and a man bend forward his [158] gigantic figure from behind it. He car⯑ried a torch, and its glare, as the door gra⯑dually uncloſed, diſcovered other perſons in the paſſage beyond, looking forward over his ſhoulder into the chapel. The fierceneſs of their air, and the ſtrange pe⯑culiarity of their dreſs, inſtantly convinced Ellena that they were not inhabitants of the Benedictine convent, but ſome terrible meſſengers of evil, Her half-ſtifled ſhriek alarmed Vivaldi, who caught her before ſhe fell to the ground; but, as he had not faced the door, he did not underſtand the occaſion of her terror, till the ſudden ruſh of footſteps made him turn, when he ob⯑ſerved ſeveral men armed, and very ſin⯑gularly habited, advancing towards the altar.

"Who is he that intrudes upon this ſanctuary?" he demanded ſternly, while he half roſe from the ground where Ellena had ſunk.

"What ſacrilegious footſteps," cried [159] the prieſt "thus rudely violate this holy placed?"

Ellena was now inſenſible; and the men⯑continuing to advance, Vivaldi drew his ſword to protect her.

The prieſt and Vivaldi now ſpoke toge⯑ther, but the words of neither could be diſtinguiſhed, when a voice, tremendous from its loudneſs; like burſting thunder, diſſipated the cloud of myſtery.

"You Vincentio di Vivaldi, and of Na⯑ples;" it ſaid, "and you Ellena di Roſal⯑ba, of Villa Altieri, we ſummon you to ſur⯑render, in the name of the moſt holy In⯑quiſition!"

"The Inquiſition!" exclaimed Vivaldi, ſcarcely believing what he heard. "Here is ſome miſtake!"

The official repeated the ſummons, without deigning to reply.

Vivaldi, yet more aſtoniſhed, added, "Do not imagine you can ſo far impoſe upon my credulity, as that I can believe [160] myſelf to have fallen within the cognizance of the Inquiſition."

"You may believe what you pleaſe, Signor," replied the chief officer, "but you and that lady are our priſoners."

"Begone, impoſtor!" ſaid Vivaldi, ſpringing from the ground, where he had ſupported Ellena," or my ſword ſhall teach you to repent your audacity!"

"Do you inſult an officer of the Inqui⯑ſition!" exclaimed the ruffian. "That holy Community will inform you what you incur by reſiſting it's mandate."

The prieſt interrupted Vivaldi's retort, "If you are really officers of that tremen⯑dous tribunal," he ſaid, "produce ſome proof of your office. Remember this place is ſanctified, and tremble for the conſe⯑quence of impoſition. You do wrong to believe, that I will deliver up to you per⯑ſons who have taken refuge here, with⯑out an unequivocal demand from that dread power."

[161] "Produce your form of ſummons," demanded Vivaldi, with haughty impa⯑tience.

"It is here," replied the official, draw⯑ing forth a black ſcroll, which he deli⯑vered to the prieſt, "Read, and be ſatis⯑fied!"

The Benedictine ſtarted the inſtant he beheld the ſcroll, but he received and de⯑liberately examined it. The kind of parch⯑ment, the impreſſion of the ſeal, the par⯑ticular form of words, the private ſignals, underſtood only by the initiated—all an⯑nounced this to be a true inſtrument of ar⯑reſtation from the Holy Office. The ſcroll dropped from his hand, and he fixed his eyes, with ſurprize and unutterable com⯑paſſion, upon Vivaldi, who ſtooped to reach the parchment, when it was ſnatch⯑ed by the official.

"Unhappy young man!" ſaid the prieſt, "it is too true; you are ſummoned by that awful power, to anſwer to your crime, [162] and I am ſpared from the commiſſion of a terrible offence!"

Vivaldi appeared thunderſtruck. "For what crime, holy father, am I called upon to anſwer? This is ſome bold and artful impoſture, ſince it can delude even you! What crime—what offence?"

"I did not think you had been thus hardened in guilt!" replied the prieſt, "Forbear! add not the audacity of falfe⯑hood, to the headlong, paſſions of youth. You underſtand too well your crime,"

"Falſehood!" retorted Vivaldi, "But your years, old man, and thoſe ſacred veſt⯑ments, protect you. For theſe ruffians, who have dared to implicate that inno⯑cent victim," pointing to Ellena, "in the charge, they ſhall have juſtice from my vengeance."

"Forbear! forbear!" ſaid the prieſt, ſeizing his arm, "have pity on yourſelf and on her. Know you not the puniſh⯑ment you incur from reſiſtance.?"

[163] "I know nor care not," replied Vivaldi, "but I will defend Ellena di Roſalba to the laſt moment. Let them approach if they dare."

"It is on her, on her who lies ſenſeleſs at your feet," ſaid the prieſt, "that they will wreck their vengeance for theſe in⯑ſults; on her—the partner of your guilt."

"The partner of my guilt!" exclaimed Vivaldi, with mingled aſtoniſhment and indignation—"of my guilt!"

"Raſh young man! does not the very veil ſhe wears betray it? I marvel how it could paſs my obſervation!"

"You have ſtolen a nun from her con⯑vent," ſaid the chief officer, "and muſt anſwer for the crime. When you have wearied yourſelf with theſe heroics, Signor, you muſt go with us; our patience is wearied already."

Vivaldi obſerved, for the firſt time, that Ellena was ſhrouded in a nun's veil; it was the one which Olivia had lent, to con⯑ceal [164] her from the notice of the Abbeſs, on the night of her departure from San Stefano, and which, in the hurry of that departure, ſhe had forgotten to leave with the nun. During this interval, her mind had been too entirely occupied by cares and apprehenſion to allow her once to no⯑tice, that the veil ſhe wore was other than her uſual one; but it had been too well obſerved by ſome of the Urſaline ſiſters.

Though he knew not how to account for the circumſtance of the veil, Vivaldi began to perceive others which gave co⯑lour to the charge brought againſt him, and to aſcertain the wide circumference of the ſnare that was ſpread around him. He fancied, too, that he perceived the hand of Schedoni employed upon it, and that his dark ſpirit was now avenging it⯑ſelf for the expoſure he had ſuffered in the church of the Spirito Santo, and for all the conſequent: mortifications. As Vivaldi was ignorant of the ambitious hopes which [165] the Marcheſa had encouraged in father Schedoni, he did not ſee the improbabili⯑ty, that the Confeſſor would have dared to hazard her favour by this arreſt of her ſon; much leſs could he ſuſpect, that Schedoni, having done ſo, had ſecrets in his poſſeſ⯑ſion, which enabled him ſafely to defy her reſentment, and bind her in ſilence to his decree.

With the conviction, that Schedoni's was the maſter-hand that directed the pre⯑ſent manoeuvre, Vivaldi ſtood aghaſt, and gazing in ſilent unutterable anguiſh on El⯑lena, who, as ſhe began to revive, ſtretched forth her helpleſs hands, and called upon him to ſave her, "Do not leave me," ſaid ſhe in accents the moſt ſupplicating, "I am ſafe while you are with me."

At the ſound of her voice, he ſtarted from his trance, and turning fiercely upon the ruffians, who ſtood in ſullen watchfulneſs around, bade them depart, or prepare for his fury. At the ſame in⯑ſtant [166] they all drew their ſwords, and the ſhrieks of Ellena, and the ſupplications of the officiating prieſt, were loſt amidſt the tumult of the combatants.

Vivaldi, moſt unwilling to ſhed blood, ſtood merely on the defenſive, till the vio⯑lence of his antagoniſts compelled him to exert all his ſkill and ſtrength. He then diſabled one of the ruffians; but his ſkill was inſufficient to repel the other two, and he was nearly overcome, when ſteps were heard approaching, and Paulo ruſhed into the chapel. Perceiving his maſter beſet, he drew his ſword, and came furiouſly to his aid. He fought with unconquerable audacity and fierceneſs, till nearly at the moment when his adverſary fell, other ruf⯑fians entered the chapel, and Vivaldi with his faithful ſervant was wounded, and, at length, diſarmed.

Ellena, who had been withheld from throwing herſelf between the combatants, now, on obſerving that Vivaldi was wound⯑ed, [167] renewed her efforts for liberty, accom⯑panied by ſuch agony of ſupplication and complaint, as almoſt moved to pity the hearts of the ſurrounding ruffians.

Diſabled by his wounds, and alſo held by his enemies, Vivaldi was compelled to witneſs her diſtreſs and danger, without a hope of reſcuing her. In frantic accents he called upon the old prieſt to protect her.

"I dare not oppoſe the orders of the In⯑quiſition," replied the Benedictine, "even if I had ſufficient ſtrength to defy it's offi⯑cials. Know you not, unhappy young man, that it is death to reſiſt them?"

"Death!" exclaimed Ellena, "death!"

"Ay lady, too ſurely ſo!"

"Signor, it would have been well for you," ſaid one of the officers, "if you had taken my advice; you will pay dearly for what you have done," pointing to the ruffian, who lay ſeverely wounded on the ground.

[168] "My maſter will not have that to pay for, friend," ſaid Paulo, "for if you muſt know, that is a piece of my work; and, if my arms were now at liberty, I would try if I could not match it among one of you, though I am ſo ſlaſhed."

"Peace, good Paulo! the deed was mine," ſaid Vivaldi; then addreſſing the official, "For myſelf I care not, I have done my duty—but for her!—Can you look upon her, innocent and helpleſs as ſhe is, and not relent! Can you, will you, barbarians! drag her, alſo, to deſtruc⯑tion, upon a charge too ſo daringly falſe?"

"Our relenting would be of no ſervice to her," replied the official, "we muſt do our duty. Whether the charge is true or falſe, ſhe muſt anſwer to it before her judges."

"What charge?" demanded Ellena.

"The charge of having broken your nun's vows," replied the prieſt.

[169] Ellena raiſed her eyes to heaven "Is it even ſo!" ſhe exclaimed.

"You hear ſhe acknowledges the crime," ſaid one of the ruffians.

"She acknowledges no crime," replied Vivaldi; "ſhe only perceives the extent of the malice that perſecutes her. O! El⯑lena, muſt I then abandon you to their power! leave you for ever!"

The agony of this thought re-animated him with momentary ſtrength; he burſt from the graſp of the officials, and once more claſped Ellena to his boſom, who, unable to ſpeak, wept, with the anguiſh of a breaking heart, as her head ſunk upon his ſhoulder. The ruffians around them ſo far reſpected their grief, that, for a mo⯑ment, they did not interrupt it.

Vivaldi's exertion was tranſient; faint from ſorrow, and from loſs of blood, he became unable to ſupport himſelf, and was compelled again to relinquiſh Ellena.

"Is there no help?" ſaid ſhe, with [170] agony; "will you ſuffer him to expire on the ground?"

The prieſt directed, that he ſhould be conveyed to the Benedictine convent, where his wounds might be examined, and medical aid adminiſtered. The diſ⯑abled ruffians were already carried thither; but Vivaldi refuſed to go, unleſs Ellena might accompany him. It was contrary to the rules of the place, that a woman ſhould enter it, and before the prieſt could reply, his Benedictine brother eagerly ſaid, that they dared not tranſgreſs the law of the convent.

Ellena's fears for Vivaldi entirely over⯑came thoſe for herſelf, and ſhe entreated, that he would ſuffer himſelf to be con⯑veyed to the Benedictines; but he could not be prevailed with to leave her. The officials, however, prepared to ſeparate them; Vivaldi in vain urged the uſeleſs cruelty of dividing him from Ellena, if, as they had hinted, ſhe alſo was to be carried [171] to the Inquiſition; and as ineffectually de⯑manded, whither they really deſigned to take her.

"We ſhall take good care of her, Signor," ſaid an officer, "that is ſufficient for you. It ſignifies nothing whether you are go⯑ing the ſame way, you mull not go toge⯑ther."

"Why, did you ever hear, Signor, of arreſted perſons being ſuffered to remain in company?" ſaid another ruffian, "Fine plots they would lay; I warrant they would not contradict each other's evidence a tittle."

"You ſhall not ſeparate me from my maſter, though," vociferated Paulo; "I demand to be ſent to the Inquiſition with him, or to the devil, but all is one for that."

"Fair and ſoftly," replied the officer; "you ſhall be ſent to the Inquiſition firſt, and to the devil afterwards; you muſt be tried before you are condemned."

[172] "But waſte no more time," he added to his followers, and pointing to Ellena, "away with her."

As he ſaid this, they lifted Ellena in their arms. "Let me looſe!" cried Pau⯑lo, when he ſaw they were carrying her from the place, "let me looſe, I ſay!" and the violence of his ſtruggles burſt aſunder the cords which held him; a vain releaſe, for he was inſtantly ſeized again.

Vivaldi, already exhauſted by the loſs of blood and the anguiſh of his mind, made, however, a laſt effort to ſave her; he tried to raiſe himſelf from the ground, but a ſudden film came over his ſight, and his ſenſes forſook him, while yet the name of Ellena faultered on his lips.

As they bore her from the chapel, ſhe continued to call upon Vivaldi, and alternately co ſupplicate that ſhe might once more behold him, and take one laſt adieu. The ruffians were inexorable, and ſhe heard his voice no more, for he no [173] longer heard—no longer was able to reply to her's.

"O! once again!" ſhe cried in agony, "One word, Vivaldi! Let me hear the ſound of your voice yet once again!" But it was ſilent.

As ſhe quitted the chapel, with eyes ſtill bent towards the ſpot where he lay, ſhe exclaimed, in the piercing accents of deſpair, "Farewell, Vivaldi!—O! for ever —ever, farewel!"

The tone, in which ſhe pronounced the laſt "farewel!" was ſo touching, that even the cold heart of the prieſt could not reſiſt it; but he impatiently wiped away the few tears, that ruſhed into his eyes, before they were obſerved. Vivaldi heard it—it ſeem⯑ed to arouſe him from death!—he heard her mournful voice for the laſt time, and, turning his eyes, ſaw her veil floating away through the portal of the chapel. All ſuffering, all effort, all reſiſtance were vain; the ruffians bound him, bleeding as he [174] was, and conveyed him to the Benedictine convent, together with the wounded Pau⯑lo, who unceaſingly vociferated on the way thither, "I demand to be ſent to the In⯑quiſion! I demand to be ſent to the In⯑quiſition!"

CHAP. VI.

THE wounds of Vivaldi, and of his ſer⯑vant, were pronounced, by the Benedic⯑tine who had examined and dreſſed them, to be not dangerous, but thoſe of one of the ruffians were declared doubtful. Some few of the brothers diſplayed much com⯑paſſion and kindneſs towards the priſon⯑ers; [175] but the greater part ſeemed fearful of expreſſing any degree of ſympathy for perſons who had fallen within the cogni⯑zance of the Holy Office, and even kept aloof from the chamber, in which they were confined. To this ſelf-reſtriction, how⯑ever, they were not long ſubjected; for Vivaldi and Paulo were compelled to be⯑gin their journey as ſoon as ſome ſhort reſt had ſufficiently revived them. They were placed in the ſame carriage, but the pre⯑ſence of two officers prevented all inter⯑change of conjecture as to the deſtination of Ellena, and with reſpect to the imme⯑diate occaſion of their misfortune. Paulo, indeed, now and then hazarded a ſurmiſe, and did not ſcruple to affirm, that the Ab⯑beſs of San Stefano was their chief enemy; that the Carmelite friars, who had over⯑taken them on the road, were her agents; and that, having traced their route, they had given intelligence where Vivaldi and Ellena might be found.

[176] "I gueſſed we never ſhould eſcape the Abbeſs," ſaid Paulo, "though I would not diſturb you, Signor mio, nor the poor lady Ellena, by ſaying ſo. But your Abbeſſes are as cunning as Inquiſitors, and are ſo fond of governing, that they had rather, like them, ſend a man to the devil, than ſend him no where."

Vivaldi gave Paulo a ſignificant look, which was meant to repreſs his imprudent loquacity, and then ſunk again into ſilence and the abſtractions of deep grief. The offi⯑cers, mean while, never ſpoke, but were ob⯑ſervant of all that Paulo ſaid, who per⯑ceived their watchfulneſs, but becauſe he deſpiſed them as ſpies, he thoughtleſsly de⯑ſpiſed them alſo as enemies, and was ſo far" from concealing opinions, which they might repeat to his prejudice, that he had a pride in exaggerating them, and in dar⯑ing the worſt, which the exaſperated tem⯑pers of theſe men, ſhut up in the ſame carriage with him, and compelled to hear [177] whatever he choſe to ſay againſt the inſti⯑tution to which they belonged, could effect. Whenever Vivaldi, recalled from his abſtractions by ſome bold aſſertion, endeavoured to check his imprudence, Paulo was contented to ſolace his con⯑ſcience, inſtead of protecting himſelf, by ſaying, "It is their own fault; they would thruſt themſelves into my company; let them have enough of it; and, if ever they take me before their reverences, the Inqui⯑ſitors, they ſhall have enough for it too. I will play up ſuch a tune in the Inquiſi⯑tion as is not heard there every day. I will jingle all the bells on their fool's caps, and tell them a little honeſt truth, if they make me ſmart for it ever ſo."

Vivaldi, arouſed once more, and ſeriouſ⯑ly alarmed for the conſequences which ho⯑neſt Paulo might be drawing upon him⯑ſelf, now inſiſted on his ſilence, and was obeyed.

They travelled during the whole night, ſtopping only to change horſes. At [178] every poſt houſe, Vivaldi looked for a car⯑riage that might incloſe Ellena, but none appeared, nor any ſound of wheels told him that ſhe followed.

With the morning light he perceived the dome of St. Peter, appearing faintly over the plains that ſurrounded Rome, and he underſtood, for the firſt time, that he was going to the priſons of the Inquiſition in that city. The travellers deſcended upon the Campania, and then reſted for a few hours at a ſmall town on its borders.

When they again ſet forward, Vivaldi perceived that the guard was changed, the officer who had remained with him in the apartment of the inn only appearing among the new faces which ſurrounded him. The dreſs and manners of theſe men differed conſiderably from thoſe of the other. Their conduct was more temper⯑rate, but their countenances expreſſed a darker cruelty, mingled with a ſly demure⯑neſs, and a ſolemn ſelf-importance, that an⯑nounced them at once as belonging to the [179] Inquiſition. They were almoſt invariably ſilent; and when they did ſpeak, it was only in a few ſententious words. To the abounding queſtions of Paulo, and the few earneſt entreaties of his maſter, to be in⯑formed of the place of Ellena's deſtination, they made not the leaſt reply; and liſten⯑ed to all the flouriſhing ſpeeches of the ſervant againſt Inquiſitors and the Holy Office with the moſt profound gravity.

Vivaldi was ſtruck with the circum⯑ſtance of the guard being changed, and ſtill more with the appearance of the par⯑ty, who now compoſed it. When he com⯑pared the manners of the late, with thoſe of the preſent guard, he thought he diſco⯑vered in the firſt the mere ferocity of ruſ⯑ſians; but in the latter, the principles of cunning and cruelty, which ſeemed parti⯑cularly to characterize Inquiſitors; he was inclined to believe, that a ſtratagem had enthralled him, and that now, for the firſt time, he was in the cuſtody of the Holy Office.

[180] It was near midnight when the priſoners entered the Porto del Popolo, and found themſelves in the midſt of the Carnival at Rome. The Corſo, through which they were obliged to paſs, was crowded with gay carriages and maſks, with proceſſions of muſicians, monks, and mountebanks, was lighted up with innumerable flambeaux, and reſounded with the heterogeneous rattling of wheels, the muſic of ſerenaders, and the jokes and laughter of the revel⯑lers, as they ſportively threw about their ſugar-plumbs. The heat of the weather made it neceſſary to have the windows of the coach open; and the priſoners, there⯑fore, ſaw all that paſſed without. It was a ſcene, which contraſted cruelly with the feelings and circumſtances of Vivaldi; torn as he was from her he moſt loved, in dreadful uncertainty as to her fate, and himſelf about to be brought before a tri⯑bunal, whoſe myſterious and terrible pro⯑ceedings appalled even the braveſt ſpirits. [181] Altogether, this was one of the moſt ſtrik⯑ing examples, which the chequer-work of human life could ſhew, or human feelings endure, Vivaldi ſickened as he looked upon the ſplendid crowd, while the carriage made its way ſlowly with it; but Paulo, as he gazed, was reminded of the Corſo of Naples, ſuch as it appeared at the time of Carnival, and, comparing the preſent ſcene with his native one, he found fault with every thing he beheld. The dreſſes were taſteleſſ, the equipages without ſplendor, the people without ſpirit; yet, ſuch was the propenſity of his heart to ſympathize with whatever was gay, that, for ſome mo⯑ments, he forgot that he was a priſoner on his way to the Inquiſition; almoſt forgot that he was a Neapolitan; and, while he exclaimed againſt the dullneſs of a Roman carnival, would have ſprung through the carriage window to partake of its ſpirit, if his fetters and his wounds had not with⯑held him. A deep ſigh from Vivaldi re⯑called [182] his wandering imagination; and, when he noticed again the ſorrow in his maſter's look, all his lightly joyous ſpirits fled.

"My maeſtro, my dear maeſtro!"—he ſaid, and knew not how to finiſh what he wiſhed to expreſs.

At that moment they paſſed the theatre of San Carlo, the doors of which were thronged with equipages, where Roman ladies, in their gala habits, courtiers in their fantaſtic dreſſes, and maſks of all de⯑ſcriptions, were haſtening to the opera. In the midſt of this gay buſtle, where the car⯑riage was unable to proceed, the officials of the Inquiſition looked on in ſolemn ſilence, not a muſcle of their features re⯑laxing in ſympathy, or yielding a ſingle wrinkle of the ſelf-importance that lifted their brows; and, while they regarded with ſecret contempt thoſe, who could be thus lightly pleaſed, the people, in return, more wiſely, perhaps, regarded with con⯑tempt [183] the proud moroſeneſs, that refuſed to partake of innocent pleaſures, becauſe they were trifling, and ſhrunk from coun⯑tenances ſurrowed with the ſternneſs of cruelty. But, when their office was dis⯑tinguiſhed, part of the crowd preſſed back from the carriage in affright, while ano⯑ther part advanced with curioſity; though, as the majority retreated, ſpace was left for the carriage to move on. After quit⯑ting the Corſo, it proceeded for ſome miles through dark and deſerted ſtreets, where only here and there a lamp, hung on high before the image of a ſaint, ſhed it's glimmering light, and where a melancholy and univerſal ſilence prevailed. At inter⯑vals, indeed, the moon, as the clouds paſſ⯑ed, away, ſhewed, for a moment, ſome of thoſe mighty monuments of Rome's eter⯑nal name, thoſe ſacred ruins, thoſe gigan⯑tic ſkeletons, which once encloſed a ſoul, whoſe energies governed a world! Even Vi⯑valdi could not behold with indifference the [184] grandeur of theſe reliques, as the rays fell upon the hoary walls and columns, or paſs among theſe ſcenes of ancient ſtory, without feeling a melancholy awe, a ſa⯑cred enthuſiaſm, that withdrew him from himſelf. But the illuſion was tranſient; his own misfortunes preſſed too heavily upon him to be long unfelt, and his eh⯑thuſiaſm vaniſhed like the moonlight.

A returning gleam lighted up, ſoon after, the rude and extenſive area, which the car⯑riage was croſſing. It appeared, from it's deſolation, and the ruins ſcattered diſtant⯑ly along its ſkirts, to be a part of the city entirely abandoned by the modern inhabi⯑tants to the reliques of its former grandeur. Not even the ſhadow of a human being croſſed the waſte, nor any building appear⯑ed, which might be ſuppoſed to ſhelter one. The deep tone of a bell, however, rolling on the ſilence of the night, an⯑nounced the haunts of man to be not far off; and Vivaldi perceived in the diſtance, [185] to which he was approaching, an extent of lofty walls and towers, that, as far as the gloom would permit his eye to penetrate, bounded the horizon. He judged theſe to be the priſons of the Inquiſition. Pau⯑lo pointed them out at the ſame moment. "Ah, Signor!" ſaid he deſpondingly; "that is the place! what ſtrength! If, my Lord, the Marcheſe were but to ſee where we are going! Ah!"—

He concluded with a deep ſigh, and ſunk again into the ſtate of apprehenſion and mute expectation, which he had ſuf⯑fered from the moment that he quitted the Corſo.

The carriage having reached the walls, followed their bendings to a conſiderable extent. Theſe walls, of immenſe height, and ſtrengthened by innumerable maſſy bulwarks, exhibited neither window or grate, but a vaſt and dreary blank; a ſmall round tower only, perched here and there upon the ſummit, breaking their monotony.

[186] The priſoners paſſed what ſeemed to be the principal entrance, from, the grandeur of its portal, and the gigantic loftineſs of the towers that roſe over it; and ſoon af⯑ter the carriage ſtopped at an arch-way in the walls, ſtrongly barricadoed. One of the eſcort alighted, and, having ſtruck up⯑on the bars, a folding door within was im⯑mediately opened, and a man bearing a torch appeared behind the barricado, whoſe countenance, as he looked through it, might have been copied for the "Grim-viſaged comfortleſs Deſpair" of the Poet.

No words were exchanged between him and the guard; but on perceiving who were without, he opened the iron gate, and the priſoners, having alighted, paſſed with the two officials beneath the arch, the guard following with a torch. They deſcended a flight of broad ſteps, at the foot of which another iron gate admitted them to a kind of hall; ſuch, however, it [187] at firſt appeared to Vivaldi, as his eyes glanced through its gloomy extent, im⯑perfectly aſcertaining it by the lamp, which hung from the centre of the roof. No perſon appeared, and a death-like ſilence prevailed; for neither the officials nor the guard yet ſpoke; nor did any diſtant found contradict the notion, that they were traverſing the chambers of the dead. To Vivaldi it occurred, that this was one of the burial vaults of the victims, who ſuf⯑fered in the Inquiſition, and his whole frame thrilled with horror. Several ave⯑nues, opening from the apartment, ſeemed to lead to diſtant quarters of this immenſe fabric, but ſtill no footſtep whiſpering along the pavement, or voice murmuring through the arched roofs, indicated it to be the reſidence of the living.

Having entered one of the paſſages, Vivaldi perceived a perſon clothed in black, and who bore a lighted taper, croſſing ſi⯑lently in the remote perſpective; and he [188] underſtood too well from his habit, that he was a member of this dreadful tribunal.

The found of footſteps ſeemed to reach the ſtranger, for he turned, and then pauſed, while the officers advanced. They then made ſigns to each other, and ex⯑changed a few words, which neither Vi⯑valdi or his ſervant could underſtand, when the ſtranger, pointing with his taper along another avenue, paſſed away. Vi⯑valdi followed him with his eyes, till a door at the extremity of the paſſage opened, and he ſaw the Inquiſitor enter an apart⯑ment, whence a great light proceeded, and where ſeveral other figures, habited like himſelf, appeared waiting to receive him. The door immediately cloſed; and, whe⯑ther the imagination of Vivaldi was af⯑fected, or that the ſounds were real, he thought, as it cloſed, he diſtinguiſhed half-ſtifled groans, as of a perſon in agony.

The avenue, through which the pri⯑ſoners paſſed, opened, at length, into an [189] ment gloomy like the firſt they had enter⯑ed, but more extenſive. The roof was ſupported by arches, and long arcades branched off from every ſide of the cham⯑ber, as from a central point, and were loſt in the gloom, which the rays of the ſmall lamps, ſuſpended in each, but feebly pe⯑netrated.

They reſted here, and a perſon ſoon af⯑ter advanced, who appeared to be the jai⯑lor, into whoſe hands Vivaldi and Paulo were delivered. A few myſterious words having been exchanged, one of the officials croſſed the hall, and aſcended a wide ſtair⯑caſe, while the other, with the jailor and the guard, remained below, as if awaiting his return.

A long interval elapſed, during which the ſtillneſs of the place was ſometimes interrupted by a cloſing door, and, at others, by indiſtinct ſounds, which yet appeared to Vivaldi like lamentations and extorted groans. Inquiſitors, in their long [190] black robes, iſſued, from time, to time from the paſſages, and croſſed the hall to other avenues. They eyed the priſoners with curioſity, but without pity. Their viſages, with few exceptions, ſeemed ſtamped with the characters of demons. Vivaldi could not look upon the grave cruelty, or the ferocious impatience, their countenances ſeverally expreſſed, without reading in them the fate of ſome fellow creature, the fate, which theſe men ſeemed going, even at this moment, to confirm; and, as they paſſed with ſoundleſs ſteps, he ſhrunk from obſervation, as if their very looks poſſeſſed ſome ſupernatural power, and could have ſtruck death. But he followed their fleeting figures, as they proceeded on their work of horror, to where the laſt glimmering ray faded into darkneſs, ex⯑pecting to ſee other doors of other cham⯑bers open to receive them. While medi⯑tating upon theſe horrors, Vivaldi loſt every ſelfiſh conſideration in aſtoniſhment [191] and indignation of the ſufferings, which the frenzied wickedneſs of man prepares for man, who, even at the moment of in⯑fliction, inſults his victim with aſſertions of the juſtice and neceſſity of ſuch procedure. "Is this poſſible!" ſaid Vivaldi internally, "Can this be in human nature!—Can ſuch horrible perverſion of right be per⯑mitted! Can man, who calls himſelf en⯑dowed with reaſon, and immeaſurably ſu⯑perior to every other created being, argue himſelf into the commiſſion of ſuch horri⯑ble folly, ſuch inveterate cruelty, as exceeds all the acts of the moſt irrational and fero⯑cious brute. Brutes do not deliberately ſlaughter their ſpecies; it remains for man only, man, proud of his prerogative of rea⯑ſon, and boaſting of his ſenſe of juſtice, to unite the moſt terrible extremes of folly and wickedneſs!"

Vivaldi had been no ſtranger to the ex⯑iſtence of this tribunal; he had long un⯑derſtood the nature of the eſtabliſhment, [192] and had often received particular accounts of its cuſtoms and laws; but, though he had believed before, it was now only that conviction appeared to impreſe his under⯑ſtanding. A new view of human nature ſeemed to burſt, at once, upon his mind, and he could not have experienced greater aſtoniſhment, if this had been the firſt moment, in which he had heard of the in⯑ſtitution. But, when he thought of Elle⯑na, conſidered that ſhe was in the power of this tribunal, and that it was probable ſhe was at this moment within the ſame dreadful walls, grief, indignation, and de⯑ſpair irritated him almoſt to frenzy. He ſeemed ſuddenly animated with ſuperna⯑tural ſtrength, and ready to attempt im⯑poſſibilities for her deliverance. It was by a ſtrong effort for ſelf command, that he forbore burſting the bonds, which held him, and making a deſperate attempt to ſeek her through the vaſt extent of theſe priſons. Reflection, however, had not ſo [193] entirely forſaken him, but that he ſaw the impoſſibility of ſucceeding in ſuch an ef⯑fort, the moment he had conceived it, and he forbore to ruſh upon the certain de⯑ſtruction, to which it muſt have led. His paſſions, thus reſtrained, ſeemed to become virtues, and to diſplay themſelves in the energy of his courage and his fortitude. His ſoul became ſtern and vigorous in deſpair, and his manner and countenance aſſumed a calm dignity, which ſeemed to awe, in ſome degree, even his guards. The pain of his wounds was no longer felt; it appeared as if the ſtrength of his intellect⯑tual ſelf had ſubdued the infirmities of the body, and, perhaps, in theſe moments of elevation, he could have endured the torture without ſhrinking.

Paulo, meanwhile, mute and grave, was watchful of all that paſſed; he obſerved the revolutions in his maſter's mind, with grief firſt, and then with ſurprize, but he could not imitate the noble fortitude, which now gave weight and ſteadineſs to Vivaldi's [194] thoughts. And when he looked on the power and gloom around him, and on the viſages of the paſſing Inquiſitors, he began to repent, that he had ſo freely delivered his opinion of this tribunal, in the pre⯑fence of its agents, and to perceive, that if he played up the kind of tune he had threatened, it would probably be the laſt he ſhould ever be permitted to perform in this world.

At length, the chief officer deſcended the ſtair-caſe, and immediately bade Vivaldi follow him. Paulo was accompanying his maſter, but was withheld by the guard, and told he was to be diſpoſed of in a dif⯑ferent way. This was the moment of his ſevereſt trial; he declared he would not be ſeparated from his maſter▪

"What did I demand to be brought here for," he cried, "if it was not that I might go ſhares with the Signor in all his troubles? This is not a place to come to for pleaſure, I warrant; and I can promiſe [195] ye, gentlemen, I would not have come within an hundred miles of you, if it had not been for my maſter's ſake."

The guards roughly interrupted him, and were carrying him away, when Vival⯑di's commanding voice arreſted them. He returned to ſpeak a few words of con⯑ſolation to his faithful ſervant, and, ſince they were to be ſeparated, to take leave of him.

Paulo embraced his knees, and, while he wept, and his words were almoſt ſtifled by ſobs, declared no force ſhould drag him from his maſter, while he had life; and repeatedly appealed to the guards, with—"What did I demand to be brought here for? Did ever any body come here to ſeek pleaſure? What right have you to prevent my going ſhares with my maſter in his troubles?"

"We do not intend to deny you that pleaſure, friend," replied one of the guards!

"Don't you? Then heaven bleſs you!" [196] cried Paulo, ſpringing From his knees, and ſhaking the man by the hand with a vio⯑lence, that would nearly have diſlocated the ſhoulder of a perſon leſs robuſt.

"So come with us," added the guard, drawing him away from Vivaldi. Paulo now became outrageous, and, ſtruggling with the guards, burſt from them, and again fell at the feet of his maſter, who raiſed and embraced him, endeavouring to prevail with him to ſubmit quietly to what was inevitable, and to encourage him with hope.

"I truſt that our ſeparation will be ſhort" ſaid Vivaldi, "and that we ſhall meet in happier circumſtances. My innocence muſt ſoon appear."

"We ſhall never, never meet again, Signormio, in this world," ſaid Paulo, ſob⯑bing violently, "ſo don't make me hope ſo. That old Abbeſs knows what ſhe is about too well to let us eſcape; or ſhe would not have catched us up ſo cunningly [197] as ſhe did; ſo what ſignifies innocence! O! if my old lord, the Marcheſe, did but know where we are!"

Vivaldi interrupted him, and turning to the guards ſaid, "I recommend my faith⯑ful ſervant to your compaſſion; he is inno⯑cent. It will ſome time, perhaps, be in my power to recompence you for any in⯑dulgence you may allow him, and I ſhall value it a thouſand times more highly, than any you could ſhew to myſelf! Fare⯑well, Paulo,—farewel! Officer, I am ready."

"O ſtay! Signor, for one moment—ſtay!" ſaid Paulo.

"We can wait no longer," ſaid the guard, and again drew Paulo away, who looking piteouſly after Vivaldi, alternately repeated, Farewel, dear maeſtro! farewel dear, dear maeſtro!" and "What did I demand to be brought here for? What did I demand to be brought here for?—what was it for, if not to go ſhares with my [198] maeſtro?" till Vivaldi was beyond the reach of ſight and of hearing.

Vivaldi, having followed the officer up the ſtair-caſe, paſſed through a gallery to an anti-chamber, where, being delivered into the cuſtody of ſome perſons in wait⯑ing, his conductor diſappeared beyond a folding door, that led to an inner apart⯑ments. Over this door was an inſcription in Hebrew characters, traced in blood-colour. Dante's inſcription on the entrance of the infernal regions, would have been ſuitable to a place, where every circumſtance and fea⯑ture ſeemed to ſay, "Hope, that comes to all, comes not here!".

Vivaldi conjectured, that in this cham⯑ber they were preparing for him the in⯑ſtruments, which were to extort a confeſ⯑ion; and though he knew little of the re⯑gular proceedings of this tribunal, he had always underſtood, that the torture was inflicted upon the accuſed perſon, till he made confeſſion of the crime, of which he was ſuſpected. By ſuch a mode of pro⯑ceeding, [199] the innocent were certain of ſuf⯑fering longer than the guilty; for, as they had nothing to confeſs, the Inquiſitor, miſtaking innocence for obſtinacy, perſe⯑vered in his inflictions, and it frequently happened that he compelled the innocent to become criminal, and aſſert a falſehood, that they might be releaſed from an⯑guiſh, which they could no longer ſuſtain. Vivaldi conſidered this circumſtance un⯑dauntedly; every faculty of his ſoul was bent up to firmneſs and endurance. He believed that he underſtood the extent of the charge, which would be brought againſt him, a charge as falſe, as a ſpecious confirmation of it, would be terrible in it's conſequence both to Ellena and himſelf. Yet every art would be practiſed to bring him to an acknowledgment of having car⯑ried off a nun, and he knew alſo, that, ſince the proſecutor and the witneſſes are never confronted with the priſoner in caſes of ſevere accuſation, and ſince their very [200] names are concealed from him, it would be ſcarcely poſſible for him to prove his innocence. But he did not heſitate an inſtant whether to ſacrifice himſelf for Ellena, determining rather to expire be⯑neath the mercileſs inflictions of the In⯑quiſitors, than to aſſert a falſehood, which muſt involve her in deſtruction.

The officer, at length, appeared, and, having beckoned Vivaldi to advance, un⯑covered his head, and bared his arms. He then led him forward through the folding door into the chamber; having done which, he immediately withdrew, and the door, which ſhut out Hope, cloſed after him.

Vivaldi found himſelf in a ſpacious apartment, where only two perſons were viſible, who were ſeated at a large table, that occupied the centre of the room. They were both habited in black; the one, who ſeemed by his piercing eye, and ex⯑traordinary phyſiognomy, to be an Inqui⯑ſitor, [201] wore on his head a kind of black turban, which heightened the natural fe⯑rocity of his viſage; the other was unco⯑vered, and his arms bared to the elbows. A book, with ſome inſtruments of ſingular appearance, lay before him. Round the table were ſeveral unoccupied chairs, on the backs of which appeared figurative ſigns, at the upper end of the apart⯑ment, a gigantic crucifix ſtretched nearly to the vaulted roof; and, at the lower end, ſuſpended from an arch in the wall, was a dark curtain, but whether it veiled a win⯑dow, or ſhrowded ſome object or perſon, neceſſary to the deſigns of the Inquiſitor, there were little means of judging. It was, however, ſuſpended from an arch ſuch as ſometimes contains a caſement, or leads to a deep receſs.

The Inquiſitor called on Vivaldi to ad⯑vance, and, when he had reached the ta⯑ble, put a book into his hands, and bade him ſwear to reveal the truth, and keep [202] for ever ſecret whatever he might ſee or hear in the apartment.

Vivaldi heſitated to obey ſo unqualified a command. The Inquiſitor reminded him, by a look, not to be miſtaken, that he was abſolute here; but Vivaldi ſtill he⯑ſitated. "Shall I conſent to my own condemnation?" ſaid he to himſelf, "The malice of demons like theſe may convert the moſt innocent circumſtances into mat⯑ter of accuſation, for my deſtruction, and I muſt anſwer whatever queſtions they chooſe to aſk. And ſhall I ſwear, alſo, to conceal whatever I may witneſs in this chamber, when I know that the moſt dia⯑bolical cruelties are hourly practiſed here?"

The Inquiſitor, in a voice which would have made a heart leſs fortified than was Vivaldi's tremble, again commanded him to ſwear; at the ſame time, he made a ſignal to the perſon, who ſat at the oppo⯑ſite end of the table, and who appeared to be an inferior officer.

[203] Vivaldi was ſtill ſilent, but, he began to conſider that, unconſcious as he was of crime, it was ſcarcely poſſible for his words to be tortured into a ſelf-accuſation; and that, whatever he might witneſs, no retri⯑bution would be prevented, no evil with⯑held by the oath, which bound him to ſecreſy, ſince his moſt ſevere denunciation could avail nothing againſt the ſupreme power of this tribunal. As he did not perceive any good, which could ariſe from refuſing the oath; and ſaw much imme⯑diate evil from reſiſtance, he conſented to receive it. Notwithſtanding this, when he put the book to his lips, and uttered the tremendous vow preſcribed to him, heſitation and reluctance returned upon his mind, and an icy coldneſs ſtruck to his heart. He was ſo much affected, that circumſtances, apparently the moſt trivial, had at this moment influence upon his imagination. As he accidentally threw his eyes upon the curtain, which he had [204] obſerved before without emotion, and now thought it moved, he almoſt ſtarted in expectation of ſeeing ſome perſon, an Inquiſitor perhaps, as terrific as the one before him, or an Accuſer as malicious as Schedoni, ſteal from behind it.

The Inquiſitor having adminiſtered the oath, and the attendant having noted it in his book, the examination began. After demanding, as is uſual, the names and titles of Vivaldi and his family, and his place of reſidence, to which he fully re⯑plied, the Inquiſitor aſked, whether he underſtood the nature of the accuſation on which he had been arreſted.

"The order for my arreſtation informed me." replied Vivaldi.

"Look to your words!" ſaid the Inqui⯑ſitor, "and remember your oath. What was the ground of accuſation?"

"I underſtood," ſaid Vivaldi, "that I was accuſed of having ſtolen a nun from her ſanctuary."

[205] A faint degree of ſurpriſe appeared on the brow of the Inquiſitor. "You confeſs it, then?" he ſaid, after the pauſe of a moment, and making a ſignal to the Se⯑cretary, who immediately noted Vivaldi's words.

"I ſolemnly deny it," replied Vivaldi, "the accuſation is falſe and mali⯑cious."

"Remember the oath you have taken!" repeated the Inquiſitor, "learn alſo, that mercy is ſhewn to ſuch as make full con⯑feſſion; but that the torture is applied to thoſe, who have the folly and the obſtinacy to withhold the truth."

"If you torture me till I acknowledge the juſtneſs of this accuſation," ſaid Vi⯑valdi, "I muſt expire under your inflic⯑tions, for ſuffering never ſhall compel me to aſſert a falſehood. It is not the truth, which you ſeek; it is not the guilty, whom you puniſh; the innocent, having no crimes to confeſs, are the victims of your [206] cruelty, or, to eſcape from it, become cri⯑minal, and proclam a lie."

"Recollect yourſelf," ſaid the Inquiſi⯑tor, ſternly. "You are not brought hi⯑ther to accuſe, but to anſwer accuſation. You ſay you are innocent; yet acknow⯑ledge yourſelf to be acquainted with the ſubject of the charge which is to be urged againſt you! How could you know this, but from the voice of con⯑ſcience?"

"From the words of your own ſum⯑mons," replied Vivaldi, "and from thoſe of your officials who arreſted me."

"How!" exclaimed the Inquiſitor, "note that," pointing to the Secretary; "he ſays by the words of our ſummons; now we know, that you never read that ſummons. He ſays alſo by the words of our officials;—it appears, then, he is igno⯑rant, that death would follow ſuch a breach of confidence."

"It is true, I never did read the ſum⯑mons," [207] replied Vivaldi, "and as true, that I never aſſerted I did; the friar, who read it, told of what it accuſed me, and your officials confirmed the teſtimony."

"No more of this equivocation!" ſaid the Inquiſitor, "Speak only to the queſ⯑tion."

"I will not ſuffer my aſſertions to be miſrepreſented," replied Vivaldi, "or my words to be perverted againſt myſelf. I have ſworn to ſpeak the truth only; ſince you believe I violate my oath, and doubt my direct and ſimple words, I will ſpeak no more."

The Inquiſitor half roſe from his chair, and his countenance grew paler. "Auda⯑cious heretic!" he ſaid, "will you diſpute, inſult, and diſobey, the commands of our moſt holy tribunal! You will be taught the conſequence of your deſperate im⯑piety. —To the torture with him!"

A ſtern ſmile was on the features of Vivaldi, his eyes were calmly fixed on the [208] Inquiſitor, and his attitude was undaunted and firm. His courage, and the cool contempt, which his looks expreſſed, ſeemed to touch his examiner, who per⯑ceived that he had not a common mind to operate upon. He abandoned, therefore, for the preſent, terrific meaſures, and, re⯑ſuming his uſual manner, proceeded in the examination.

"Where were you arreſted?"

"At the chapel of San Sebaſtian, on the lake of Celano."

"You are certain as to this?" aſked the Inquiſitor, "you are ſure it was not at the village of Legano, on the high road between Celano and Rome?"

Vivaldi, while he confirmed his aſſer⯑tion, recollected with ſome ſurprize that Legano was the place where the guard had been changed, and he mentioned the circumſtance. The Inquiſitor, however, proceeded in his queſtions, without ap⯑pearing to notice it. "Was any perſon arreſted with you?"

[209] "You cannot be ignorant," replied Vi⯑valdi, "that Signora di Roſalba, was ſeized at the ſame time, upon the falſe charge of being a nun, who had broken her vows, and eloped from her convent; nor that Paulo Mendrico, my faithful ſervant! was alſo made a priſoner, though upon what pretence he was arreſted I am utterly ignorant."

The Inquiſitor remained for ſome mo⯑ments in thoughtful ſilence, and then enquired ſlightly concerning the family of Ellena, and her uſual place of reſidence. Vivaldi, fearful of making ſome aſſertion that might be prejudicial to her, referred him to herſelf; but the inquiry was repeated.

"She is now within theſe walls," re⯑plied Vivaldi, hoping to learn from the manner of his examiner, whether his fears were juſt, "and can anſwer theſe queſtions better than myſelf."

The Inquiſitor merely bade the Notary [210] write down her name, and then remained for a few moments meditating. At length, he ſaid, "Do you know where you now are?"

Vivaldi, ſmiling the queſtion, replied, "I underſtand that I am in the priſons of the Inquiſition, at Rome."

"Do you know what are the crimes that ſubject perſons to the cognizance of the Holy Office?"

Vivaldi was ſilent.

"Your conſcience informs you, and your ſilence confirms me. Let me admoniſh you, once more, to make a full confeſſion of your guilt; remember that this is a merciful tribunal, and ſhews favour to ſuch as acknowledge their crimes?"

Vivaldi ſmiled; but the Inquiſitor pro⯑ceeded.

"It does not reſemble ſome ſevere, yet juſt courts, where immediate execution follows the confeſſion of a criminal. No! it is merciful, and though it puniſhes [211] guilt, it never applies the torture but in caſes of neceſſity, when the obſtinate ſi⯑lence of the priſoner requires ſuch a mea⯑ſure. You ſee, therefore, what you may avoid, and what expect."

"But if the priſoner has nothing to confeſs?" ſaid Vivaldi,—"Can your tor⯑tures make him guilty? They may force a weak mind to be guilty of falſehood; to eſcape preſent anguiſh, a man may un⯑warily condemn himſelf to the death! You will find that I am not ſuch an one."

"Young man," replied the Inquiſitor, "you will underſtand too ſoon, that we never act, but upon ſure authority; and will wiſh, too late, that you had made an honeſt confeſſion. Your ſilence cannot keep from us a knowledge of your of⯑fences; we are in poſſeſſion of facts; and your obſtinacy can neither wreſt from us the truth, or pervert it. Your moſt ſe⯑cret offences are already written on the tablets of the Holy Office; your con⯑ſcience [212] cannot reflect them more juſtly.—Tremble, therefore, and revere. But un⯑derſtand, that, though we have ſufficient proof of your guilt, we require you to confeſs; and that the puniſhment of ob⯑ſtinacy is as certain, as that of any other offence."

Vivaldi made no reply, and the Inquiſi⯑tor, after a momentary ſilence, added, "Was you ever in the church of the Spi⯑rito Santo, at Naples?"

"Before I anſwer the queſtion," ſaid Vivaldi, "I require the name of my accuſer."

"You are to recollect that you have no right to demand any thing in this place," obſerved the Inquiſitor, "nor can you be ignorant that the name of the Informer is always kept ſacred from the knowledge of the Accuſed. Who would venture to do his duty, if his name was arbitrarily to be expoſed to the vengeance of the criminal againſt whom he informs? It is only in a [213] particular proceſs that the Accuſer is brought forward,"

"The names of the Witneſſes?" demand⯑ed Vivaldi. The ſame juſtice conceals them alſo from the knowledge of the Accuſed, replied the Inquiſitor.

"And is no juſtice left for the Ac⯑cuſed?" ſaid Vivaldi. "Is he to be tried and condemned without being confront⯑ed with either his Proſecutor, or the Witneſſes!"

"Your queſtions are too many," ſaid the Inquiſitor, and your anſwers too few. The Informer is not alſo the Proſecutor; the Holy Office, before which the inform⯑ation is laid, is the Proſecutor, and the diſpenſer of juſtice; its Public Accuſer lays the circumſtances, and the teſtimonies of the Witneſſes, before the Court. But too much of this."

"How!" exclaimed Vivaldi, "is the tribunal at once the Proſecutor, Witneſs, and Judge! What can private malice [214] wiſh for more, than ſuch a court of juſtice, at which to arraign it's enemy? The ſtiletto of the Aſſaſſin is not ſo ſure, or ſo fatal to innocence. I now perceive, that it avails me nothing to be guiltleſs; a ſingle enemy is ſufficient to accompliſh my deſtruction."

"You have an enemy then?" obſerved the Inquiſitor.

Vivaldi was too well convinced that he had one, but there was not ſufficient proof, as to the perſon of this enemy, to juſtify, him in aſſerting that it was Schedoni. The circumſtance of Ellena having been arreſted, would have compelled him to ſuſpect another perſon as being at leaſt acceſſary to the deſigns of the Confeſſor, had not credulity ſtarted in horror from the ſuppoſition, that a mother's reſent⯑ment could poſſibly betray her ſon into the priſons of the Inquiſition, though this mother had exhibited a temper of re⯑morſeleſs cruelty towards a ſtranger, who had interrupted her views for that ſon.

[215] "You have an enemy then?" repeated the Inquiſitor.

"That I am here ſufficiently proves it," replied Vivaldi. "But I am ſo little any man's enemy, that I know not who to call mine."

"It is evident, then, that you have no enemy," obſerved the ſubtle Inquiſitor, "and that this accuſation is brought againſt you by a reſpecter of truth, and a faithful ſervant of the Roman intereſt."

Vivaldi was ſhocked to perceive the inſidious art, by which he had been be⯑trayed into a declaration apparently ſo harmleſs, and the cruel dexterity with which it had been turned againſt him. A lofty and contemptuous ſilence was all that he oppoſed to the treachery of his examiner, on whoſe countenance appear⯑ed a ſmile of triumph and ſelf-congratula⯑tion, the life of a fellow creature being, in his eſtimation, of no comparative impor⯑tance with the ſelf-applauſes of ſucceſs⯑ful [216] art; the art, too, upon which he moſt valued himſelf—that of his profeſſion.

The Inquiſitor proceeded, "You per⯑ſiſt then, in withholding the truth?" He pauſed, but Vivaldi making no reply, he reſumed.

"Since it is evident, from your own declaration, that you have no enemy, whom private reſentment might have in⯑ſtigated to accuſe you; and, from other circumſtances which have occurred in your conduct, that you are conſcious of more than you have confeſſed,—it appears, that the accuſation which has been urged againſt you, is not a malicious ſlander. I exhort you, therefore, and once more con⯑jure you, by our holy faith, to make an ingenuous confeſſion of your offences, and to fare yourſelf from the means, which muſt of neceſſity be enforced to obtain a confeſſion before your trial commences. I adjure you, alſo, to conſider, that by ſuch open conduct only, can mercy be [217] won to ſoften the juſtice of this moſt righteous tribunal!"

Vivaldi, perceiving that it was now ne⯑ceſſary for him to reply, once more ſo⯑lemnly aſſerted his innocence of the crime alledged againſt him in the ſummons, and of the conſciouſneſs of any act, which might lawfully ſubject him to the notice of the Holy Office.

The Inquiſitor again demanded what was the crime alledged, and, Vivaldi having repeated the accuſation, he again bade the Secretary note it, as he did which, Vivaldi thought he perceived upon his features ſomething of a malignant ſatisfaction, for which he knew not how to account. When the Secretary had finiſhed, Vivaldi was ordered to ſubſcribe his name and quality to the depoſitions, and he obeyed.

The Inquiſitor then bade him conſider of the admonition he had received, and prepare either to confeſs on the morrow, [218] or to undergo the queſtion As he con⯑cluded, he gave a ſignal, and the officer, who had conducted Vivaldi into the chamber, immediately appeared.

"You know your orders," ſaid the In⯑quiſitor, "receive your priſoner, and ſee that they are obeyed."

The official bowed, and Vivaldi fol⯑lowed him from the apartment in melan⯑choly ſilence.

CHAP. VII.

ELLENA, meanwhile, when ſhe had been carried from the chapel of San Sebaſtian, was placed upon a horſe in waiting, and, guarded by the two men who had ſeized her, commenced a journey, which conti⯑nued with little interruption during two nights and days. She had no means of judging whither ſhe was going, and liſtened [220] in vain expectation, for the feet of horſes, and the voice of Vivaldi, who, ſhe had been told, was following on the ſ ſame read.

The ſteps of travellers ſeldom broke upon the ſilence of theſe regions, and, during the journey, ſhe was met only by ſome market-people paſſing to a neigh⯑bouring town, or now and then by the vine-dreſſers or labourers in the olive grounds; and ſhe deſcended upon the vaſt plains of Apulia, ſtill ignorant of her ſi⯑tuation. An encampment, not of war⯑riors, but of ſhepherds, who were leading their flocks to the mountains of Abruzzo, enlivened a ſmall tract of theſe levels, which were ſhadowed on the north and eaſt by the mountainous ridge of the Garganus, ſtretching from the Apennine far into the Adriatic.

The appearance of the ſhepherds was nearly as wild and ſavage as that of the men, who conducted Ellena; but their [221] paſtoral inſtruments of flageolets and ta⯑bors ſpoke of more civilized feelings, as they ſounded ſweetly over the deſert. Her guards reſted, and refreſhed them⯑ſelves with goats milk, barley cakes, and almonds, and the manners of theſe ſhep⯑herds, like thoſe ſhe had formerly met with on the mountains, proved to be more hoſpitable than their air had indicated.

After Ellena had quitted this paſtoral camp, no veſtige of a human reſidence ap⯑peared for ſeveral leagues, except here and there the towers of a decayed fortreſs, perched upon the lofty acclivities ſhe was approaching, and half concealed in the woods. The evening of the ſecond day was drawing on, when her guards drew near the foreſt, which ſhe had long ob⯑ſerved in the diſtance, ſpreading over the many-riſing ſteeps of the Garganus. They entered by a track, a road it could not be called, which led among oaks and gigantic [222] cheſtnuts, apparently the growth of centu⯑ries, and ſo thickly interwoven, that their branches formed a canopy which ſeldom admitted the ſky. The gloom which they threw around, and the thickets of cyſtus, juniper, and lenticus, which flouriſhed be⯑neath the ſhade, gave a character of fearful wildneſs to the ſcene.

Having reached an eminence, where the trees were more thinly ſcattered, Ellena perceived the foreſts ſpreading on all ſides among hills and vallies, and deſcending to⯑wards the Adriatic, which bounded the diſtance in front. The coaſt, bending in⯑to a bay, was rocky and bold. Lofty pinnacles, wooded to their ſummits, roſe over the ſhores, and cliffs of naked marble of ſuch gigantic proportions, that they were awful even at a diſtance, obtruded themſelves far into the waves, breaſting their eternal fury. Beyond the margin of the coaſt, as far as the eye could reach, appeared pointed mountains, darkened with [223] foreſts, riſing ridge over ridge in many ſuc⯑ceſſions. Ellena, as ſhe ſurveyed this wild ſcenery, felt as if ſhe was going into eternal baniſhment from ſociety. She was tran⯑quil, but it was with the quietneſs of ex⯑hauſted grief, not of reſignation; and ſhe looked back upon the paſt, and awaited the future, with a kind of out-breathed deſpair.

She had travelled for ſome miles through the foreſt, her guards only now and then ut⯑tering to each other a queſtion, or an ob⯑ſervation concerning the changes which had taken place in the bordering ſcenery, ſince they laſt paſſed it, when night began to cloſe in upon them.

Ellena perceived her approach to the ſea, only by the murmurs of its ſurge upon the rocky coaſt, till, having reached an emi⯑nence, which was, however, no more than the baſe of two woody mountains that tower⯑ed cloſely over it, ſhe ſaw dimly it's gray ſurface ſpreading in the bay below. She [224] now ventured to aſk how much further ſhe was to go, and whether ſhe was to be taken on board one of the little veſſels, appa⯑rently fiſhing ſmacks, that ſhe could juſt diſcern at anchor.

"You have not far to go now," replied one of the guards, ſurlily; "you will ſoon be at the end of your journey, and at reſt."

They deſcended to the ſhore, and pre⯑ſently came to a lonely dwelling, which ſtood ſo near the margin of the ſea, as al⯑moſt to be waſhed by the waves. No light appeared at any of the lattices; and, from the ſilence that reigned within, it ſeemed to be uninhabited. The guard had pro⯑bably reaſon to know otherwiſe, for they halted at the door, and ſhouted with all their ſtrength. No voice, however, an⯑ſwered to their call, and, while they perſe⯑vered in efforts to rouſe the inhabitants, Ellena anxiouſly examined the building, as exactly as the twilight would permit. [225] It was of an ancient and peculiar ſtructure, and, though ſcarcely important enough for a manſion, had evidently never been de⯑ſigned for the reſidence of peaſants.

The walls, of unhewn marble, were high, and ſtrengthened by baſtions; and the edi⯑fice had turretted corners, which, with the porch in front, and the ſloping roof, were falling faſt into numerous ſymptoms of decay. The whole building, with it's dark windows and ſoundleſs avenues, had an air ſtrikingly forlorn and ſolitary. A high wall ſurrounded the ſmall court in which it ſtood, and probably had once ſerved as a defence to the dwelling; but the gates, which ſhould have cloſed againſt intruders, could no longer perform their office; one of the folds had dropped from it's faſtenings, and lay on the ground al⯑moſt concealed in a deep bed of weeds, and the other creaked on its hinges to every blaſt, at each ſwing ſeeming ready to follow the fate of it's companion.

[226] The repeated calls of the guard, were, at length, anſwered by a rough voice from within; when the door of the porch was lazily unbarred, and opened by a man, whoſe viſage was ſo miſery-ſtruck, that Ellena could not look upon it with indif⯑ference, though wrapt in miſery of her own. The lamp he held threw a gleam athwart it, and ſhewed the gaunt ferocity of famine, to which the ſhadow of his hol⯑low eyes added a terrific wildneſs. Ellena ſhrunk while ſhe gazed. She had never before ſeen villainy and ſuffering ſo ſtrong⯑ly pictured on the ſame face, and ſhe ob⯑ſerved him with a degree of thrilling cu⯑rioſity, which for a moment excluded from her mind all conſciouſneſs of the evils to be apprehended from him.

It was evident that this houſe had not been built for his reception; and ſhe conjectured, that he was the ſervant of ſome cruel agent of the Marcheſa di Vivaldi.

[227] From the porch, ſhe followed into an old hall, ruinous, and deſtitute of any kind of furniture. It was not extenſive but lofty, for it ſeemed to aſcend to the roof of the edifice, and the chambers above opened around it into a corridor.

Some half-ſullen ſalutations were ex⯑changed between the guard and the ſtran⯑ger, whom they called Spalatro, as they paſſed into a chamber, where, it appeared that he had been ſleeping on a mattreſs laid in a corner. All the other furniture of the place, were two or three broken chairs and a table. He eyed Ellena with a ſhrewd contracted brow, and then look⯑ed ſignificantly at the guard, but was ſi⯑lent, till he deſired them all to ſit down, adding, that he would dreſs ſome fiſh for ſupper. Ellena diſcovered that this ma [...] was the maſter of the place; it appear⯑ed alſo that he was the only inhabitant; and, when the guard ſoon after informed her their journey concluded here, her worſt [228] apprehenſions were confirmed. The ef⯑forts ſhe made to ſuſtain her ſpirits, were no longer ſucceſsful. It ſeemed that ſhe was brought hither by ruffians to a lonely houſe on the ſea-ſhore, inhabited by a man, who had "villain" engraved in every line of his face, to be the victim of inexorable pride and an inſatiable deſire of revenge. After conſidering theſe circum⯑ſtances, and the words, which had juſt told her, ſhe was to go no further, conviction ſtruck like lightning upon her heart; and, believing ſhe was brought hither to be aſ⯑ſaſſinated, horror chilled all her frame, and her ſenſes forſook her.

On recovering, ſhe found herſelf ſur⯑rounded by the guard and the ſtranger, and ſhe would have ſupplicated for their pity, but that ſhe feared to exaſperate them by betraying her ſuſpicions. She complained of fatigue, and requeſted to be ſhewn to her room. The men looked upon one another, heſitated, and then [229] aſked her to partake of the fiſh that was preparing. But Ellena having declined the invitation with as good a grace as ſhe could aſſume, they conſented that ſhe ſhould withdraw. Spalatro, taking the lamp, lighted her acroſs the hall, to the corridor above, where he opened the door of a chamber, in which he ſaid ſhe was to ſleep.

"Where is my bed?" ſaid the afflicted Ellena, fearfully as ſhe looked round.

"It is there—on the floor," replied Spalatro, pointing to a miſerable mattreſs, over which hung the tattered curtains of what had once been a canopy. "If you want the lamp," he added, "I will leave it, and come for it in a minute or two."

"Will you not let me have a lamp for the night," ſhe ſaid in a ſupplicating and timid voice.

"For the night!" ſaid the man gruffly; "What! to ſet fire to the houſe."

[230] Ellena ſtill entreated that he would al⯑low her the comfort of a light.

"Ay, ay," replied Spalatro, with a look ſhe could not comprehend, "it would be a great comfort to you, truly! You do not know what you aſk."

"What is it that you mean?" ſaid El⯑lena, eagerly; "I conjure you, in the name of our holy church, to tell me!"

Spalatro ſtepped ſuddenly back, and looked upon her with ſurpriſe, but with⯑out ſpeaking.

"Have mercy on me!" ſaid Ellena, greatly alarmed by his manner; "I am friendleſs, and without help!"

"What do you fear," ſaid the man, re⯑covering himſelf; and then, without wait⯑ing her reply, added—"Is it ſuch an unmerciful deed to take away a lamp?"

Ellena, who again feared to betray the extent of her ſuſpicions, only replied, that it would be merciful to leave it, for that her ſpirits were low, and ſhe required light to cheer them in a new abode.

[231] "We do not ſtand upon ſuch conceits here," replied Spalatro, "we have other matters to mind. Beſides, it's the only lamp in the houſe, and the company be⯑low are in darkneſs while I am loſing time here. I will leave it for two minutes, and no more." Ellena made a ſign for him to put down the lamp; and, when he left the room, ſhe heard the door barred upon her.

She employed theſe two minutes in ex⯑amining the chamber, and the poſſibility it might afford of an eſcape. It was a large apartment, unfurniſhed and unſwept of the cobweps of many years. The only door ſhe diſcovered was the one, by which ſhe had entered, and the only window a lattice, which was grated. Such prepara⯑tion for preventing eſcape ſeemed to hint how much there might be to eſcape from.

Having examined the chamber, with⯑out finding a ſingle circumſtance to encou⯑rage hope, tried the ſtrength of the bars, [232] which ſhe could not ſhake, and ſought in vain for an inſide faſtening to her door, ſhe placed the lamp beſide it, and awaited the return of Spalatro. In a few moments he came, and offered her a cup of ſour wine with a ſlice of bread; which, being ſome⯑what ſoothed by this attention, ſhe did not think proper to reject.

Spalatro then quitted the room, and the door was again barred. Left once more alone, ſhe tried to overcome appre⯑henſion by prayer; and after offering up her veſpers with a fervent heart, ſhe be⯑came more confiding and compoſed.

But it was impoſſible that ſhe could ſo far forget the dangers of her ſituation, as to ſeek ſleep, however wearied ſhe might be, while the door of her room remained unſecured againſt the intruſion of the ruf⯑fians below; and, as ſhe had no means of faſtening it, ſhe determined to watch dur⯑ing the whole night. Thus left to ſoli⯑tude and darkneſs, ſhe ſeated herſelf upon [233] the mattreſs to await the return of morn⯑ing, and was ſoon loſt in ſad reflection; every minute occurrence of the paſt day, and of the conduct of her guards, moved in review before her judgment; and, com⯑bining theſe with the circumſtances of her preſent ſituation, ſcarcely a doubt as to the fate deſigned for her remained. It ſeemed highly improbable, that the Marcheſa di Vivaldi had ſent her hither merely for im⯑priſonment, ſince ſhe might have confined her in a convent, with much leſs trouble; and ſtill more ſo, when Ellena conſidered the character of the Marcheſa, ſuch as ſhe had already experienced it. The appearance of this houſe, and of the man who inha⯑bited it, with the circumſtance of no wo⯑man being found residing here, each and all of theſe ſignified, that ſhe was brought hither, not for long impriſonment, but for death. Her utmoſt efforts for fortitude or reſignation could not overcome the cold tremblings, the ſickneſs of heart, the faint⯑neſs [234] and univerſal horror, that aſſailed her. How often, with tears of mingled terror and grief, did ſhe call upon Vivaldi—Vi⯑valdi, alas! ſar diſtant—to ſave her; how often exclaim in agony, that ſhe ſhould never, never ſee him more!

She was ſpared, however, the horror of believing that he was an inhabitant of the Inquiſition. Having detected the impo⯑ſition, which had been practiſed towards herſelf, and that ſhe was neither on the way to the Holy Office, nor conducted by perſons belonging to it, ſhe concluded, that the whole affair of Vivaldi's arreſt, had been planned by the Marcheſa, merely as a pretence for confining him, till ſhe ſhould be placed beyond the reach of his aſſiſtance. She hoped, therefore, that he had only been ſent to ſome private reſi⯑dence belonging to his family, and that, when her fate was decided, he would be releaſed, and ſhe be the only victim. This was the ſole conſideration, that afforded [235] any degree of aſſuagement to her ſuf⯑ferings.

The people below ſat till a late hour, She liſtened often to their diſtant voices, as they were diſtinguiſhable in the pauſes of the ſurge, that broke loud and hollow on the ſhore; and every time the creaking hinges of their room door moved, appre⯑hended they were coming to her. At length, it appeared they had left the apart⯑ment, or had fallen aſleep there, for a pro⯑found ſtilneſs reigned whenever the mur⯑mur of the waves ſunk. Doubt did not long deceive her, for, while ſhe yet liſtened, ſhe diſtinguiſhed footſteps aſcending to the corridor. She heard them approach her chamber, and ſtop at the door; ſhe heard, alſo, the low whiſperings of their voices, as they ſeemed conſulting on what was to be done, and ſhe ſcarcely ventured to draw breath, while ſhe intenſely attend⯑ed to them. Not a word, however, diſ⯑tinctly reached her, till, as one of them [236] was departing, another called out in a half-whiſper, "It is below on the table, in my girdle; make haſte." The man came back, and ſaid ſomething in a lower voice, to which the other replied, "ſhe ſleeps," or Ellena was deceived by the hiſſing conſonants of ſome other words. He then deſcended the ſtairs; and in a few minutes ſhe perceived his comrade alſo paſs away from the door; ſhe liſtened to his retreating ſteps, till the roar⯑ing of the ſea was alone heard in their ſtead.

Ellena's terrors were relieved only for a moment. Conſidering the import of the words, it appeared that the man who had deſcended, was gone for the ſtiletto of the other, ſuch an inſtrument being uſually worn in the girdle, and from the aſſurance, "ſhe ſleeps," he ſeemed to fear that his words had been overheard; and ſhe liſten⯑ed again for their ſteps; but they came no more.

[237] Happily for Ellena's peace, ſhe knew not that her chamber had a door, ſo con⯑trived as to open without ſound, by which aſſaſſins might enter unſuſpectedly at any hour of the night. Believing that the in⯑habitants of this houſe had now retired to reſt, her hopes and her ſpirits began to re⯑vive; but ſhe was yet ſleepleſs and watch⯑ [...]ul. She meaſured the chamber with un⯑equal ſteps, often ſtarting as the old boards ſhook and groaned where ſhe paſ⯑ſed; and often pauſing to liſten whether all was yet ſtill in the corridor. The gleam, which a riſing moon threw between the bars of her window, now began to ſhew many ſhadowy objects in the cham⯑ber, which ſhe did not recollect to have obſerved while the lamp was there. More than once, ſhe fancied ſhe ſaw ſomething glide along towards the place where the mattreſs was laid, and, almoſt congealed with terror, ſhe ſtood ſtill to watch it; but the illuſion, if ſuch it was, diſappeared [238] where the moon-light faded, and even her fears could not give ſhape to it beyond. Had ſhe not known that her chamber-door remained ſtrongly barred, ſhe would have believed this was an aſſaſſin ſtealing to the bed where it might be ſuppoſed ſhe ſlept. Even now the thought occurred to her, and vague as it was, had power to ſtrike an anguiſh, almoſt deadly, through her heart, while ſhe conſidered that her im⯑mediate ſituation was nearly as perilous as the one ſhe had imaged. Again ſhe liſtened, and ſcarcely dared to breathe; but not the lighteſt ſound occurred in the pauſes of the waves, and ſhe believed herſelf con⯑vinced that no perſon except herſelf was in the room. That ſhe was deceived in this belief, appeared from her unwillingneſs to approach the mattreſs, while it was yet involved in ſhade. Unable to over⯑come her reluctance, ſhe took her ſtation at the window, till the ſtrengthening rays ſhould allow a clearer view of the cham⯑ber, [239] and in ſome degree reſtore her confi⯑dence; and ſhe watched the ſcene without as it gradually became viſible. The moon, riſing over the ocean, ſhewed it's reſtleſs ſurface ſpreading to the wide horizon; and the waves, which broke in foam upon the rocky beach below, retiring in long white lines far upon the waters. She liſtened to their meaſured and ſolemn ſound, and, ſomewhat ſoothed by the ſoli⯑tary grandeur of the view, remained at the lattice till the moon had riſen high into the heavens; and even till morning began to dawn upon the ſea, and purple the eaſtern clouds.

Re-aſſured, by the light that now per⯑vaded her room, ſhe returned to the mat⯑treſs; where anxiety at length yielded to her wearineſs, and ſhe obtained a ſhort repoſe.

CHAP. VIII.

ELLENA was awakened from profound ſleep, by a loud noiſe at the door of her chamber; when, ſtarting from her mat⯑treſs, ſhe looked around her with ſurpriſe and diſmay, as imperfect recollections or the paſt began to gather on her mind. She diſtinguiſhed the undrawing of iron bars, and then the countenance of Spalatro at her door, before ſhe had a clear remem⯑brance of her ſituation—that ſhe was a priſoner in a houſe on a lonely ſhore, and that this man was her jailor. Such ſick⯑neſs [241] of the heart returned with theſe con⯑victions, ſuch faintneſs and terror, that unable to ſupport her trembling frame, ſhe ſunk again upon the mattreſs, with⯑out demanding the reaſon of this abrupt intruſion.

"I have brought you ſome breakfaſt," ſaid Spalatro, "if you are awake to take it; but you ſeem to be aſleep yet. Surely you have had ſleep ſufficient for one night; you went to reſt ſoon enough."

Ellena made no reply, but, deeply af⯑fected with a ſenſe of her ſituation, looked with beſeeching eyes at the man, who ad⯑vanced, holding forth an oaten cake and a baſon of milk. "Where ſhall I ſet them?" ſaid he, "you muſt needs be glad of them, ſince you had no ſupper."

Ellena thanked him, and deſired he would place them on the floor, for there was neither table nor chair in the room. As he did this, ſhe was ſtruck with the expreſſion of his countenance, which ex⯑hibited [242] a ſtrange mixture of archneſs and malignity. He ſeemed congratulating himſelf upon his ingenuity, and anticipa⯑ting ſome occaſion of triumph; and ſhe was ſo much intereſted, that her obſerva⯑tion never quitted him while he remained in the room. As his eyes accidentally met her's, he turned them away, with the ab⯑ruptneſs of a perſon who is conſcious of evil intentions, and fears leſt they ſhould be detected; nor once looked up till he haſtily left the chamber, when ſhe heard the door ſecured as formerly.

The impreſſion, which his look had left on her mind, ſo wholly engaged her in conjecture, that a conſiderable time elapſed before ſhe remembered that he had brought the refreſhment ſhe ſo much required; but, as ſhe now lifted it to her lips, a horrible ſuſpicion arreſted her hand; it was not, however, before ſhe had ſwal⯑lowed a ſmall quantity of the milk. The look of Spalatro, which occaſioned her ſur⯑priſe, [243] had accompanied the ſetting down of the breakfaſt, and it occurred to her, that poiſon was infuſed in this liquid. She was thus compelled to refuſe the ſuſte⯑nance, which was become neceſſary to her, for ſhe feared to taſte even of the oaten cake, ſince Spalatro had offered it, but the little milk ſhe had unwarily taken, was ſo very ſmall that ſhe had no apprehenſion concerning it.

The day, however, was paſſed in terror, and almoſt in deſpondency; ſhe could nei⯑ther doubt the purpoſe, for which ſhe had been brought hither, nor diſcover any poſſi⯑bility of eſcaping from her perſecutors; yet that propenſity to hope, which buoys up the human heart, even in the ſevereſt hours of trial, ſuſtained, in ſome degree, her fainting ſpirits.

During theſe miſerable hours of ſoli⯑tude and ſuſpenſe, the only alleviation to her ſuffering aroſe from a belief, that Vi⯑valid was ſafe, at leaſt from danger, though [244] not from grief; but ſhe now underſtood too much of the dexterous contrivances of the Marcheſa, his mother, to think it was practicable for him to eſcape from her deſigns, and again reſtore her to liberty.

All day Ellena either leaned againſt the bars of her window, loſt in reverie, while her unconſcious eyes were fixed upon the ocean, whoſe murmurs ſhe no longer heard; or ſhe liſtened for ſome ſound from within the houſe, that might aſſiſt her conjectures, as to the number of perſons below, or what might be paſ⯑ſing there. The houſe, however, was profoundly ſtill, except when now and then a footſtep ſauntered along a diſtant paſſage, or a door was heard to cloſe; but not the hum of a ſingle voice aroſe from the lower rooms, nor any ſymptom of there being more than one perſon, beſide herſelf, in the dwelling. Though ſhe had not heard her former guards depart, it [245] appeared certain that they were gone, and that ſhe was left alone in this place with Spalatro. What could be the purport of ſuch a proceeding, Ellena could not ima⯑gine; if her death was deſigned, it ſeemed ſtrange that one perſon only ſhould be left to the hazard of the deed, when three muſt have rendered the completion of it certain. But this ſurpriſe vaniſhed, when her ſusſ⯑picion of poiſon returned; for it was pro⯑bable, that theſe men had believed their ſcheme to be already nearly accompliſhed, and had abandoned her to die alone, in a chamber from whence eſcape was imprac⯑ticable, leaving Spalatro to diſpoſe of her remains. All the incongruities ſhe had ſeparately obſerved in their conduct, ſeem⯑ed now to harmonize and unite in one plan; and her death, deſigned by poiſon, and that poiſon to be conveyed in the diſ⯑guiſe of nouriſhment, appeared to have been the object of it. Whether it was that the ſtrength of this conviction affected her [246] fancy, or that the cauſe was real, Ellena, remembering at this moment that ſhe had taſted the milk, was ſeized with an univerſal ſhuddering, and thought ſhe felt that the poiſon had been ſufficiently potent to affect her, even in the inconſi⯑derable quantity ſhe might have taken.

While ſhe was thus agitated, ſhe diſ⯑tinguiſhed footſteps loitering near her door, and attentively liſtening, became con⯑vinced, that ſome perſon was in the corri⯑dor. The ſteps moved ſoftly, ſome⯑times ſtopping for an inſtant, as if to al⯑low time for liſtening, and ſoon after paſſed away.

"It is Spalatro!" ſaid Ellena; "he be⯑lieves that I have taken the poiſon, and he comes to liſten for my dying groans! Alas! he is only come ſomewhat too ſoon, perhaps!"

As this horrible ſuppoſition occurred, the ſhuddering returned with encreaſed violence, and ſhe ſunk, almoſt fainting, on [247] the mattreſs; but the fit was not of long continuance. When it gradually left her, and recollection revived, ſhe perceived, however, the prudence of ſuffering Spala⯑tro to ſuppoſe ſhe had taken the beve⯑rage he brought her, ſince ſuch belief would at leaſt procure ſome delay of fur⯑ther ſchemes, and every delay afforded ſome poſſibility for hope to reſt upon. Ellena, therefore, poured through the bars of her window, the milk, which ſhe believed Spalatro had deſigned ſhould be fatal in its conſequence.

It was evening, when ſhe again fancied footſteps were lingering near her door, and the ſuſpicion was confirmed, when, on turning her eyes, ſhe perceived a ſhade on the floor, underneath it, as of ſome perſon ſtationed without. Preſently the ſhadow glided away, and at the ſame time ſhe diſtinguiſhed departing ſteps treading cau⯑tiouſly.

"It is he!" ſaid Ellena; "he ſtill liſtens for my moans!"

[248] This further confirmation of his deſigns affected her nearly as much as the firſt; when anxiouſly turning her looks towards the corridor, the ſhadow again appeared beneath the door, but ſhe heard no ſtep. Ellena now watched it with intenſe ſolici⯑tude and expectation; fearing every in⯑ſtant that Spalatro would conclude her doubts by entering the room. "And O! when he diſcovers that I live," thought ſhe, "what may I not expect during the firſt moments of his diſappointment! What leſs than immediate death!"

The ſhadow, after remaining a few mi⯑nutes ſtationary, moved a little, and then glided away as before. But it quickly re⯑turned, and a low ſound followed, as of ſome perſon endeavouring to unfaſten bolts without noiſe. Ellena heard one bar gently undrawn, and then another; ſhe obſerved the door begin to move, and then to give way, till it gradually uncloſ⯑ed, and the face of Spalatro preſented it⯑ſelf [249] from behind it. Without immediate⯑ly entering, he threw a glance round the chamber, as if he wiſhed to aſcertain ſome circumſtance before he ventured further. His look was more than uſually haggard as it reſted upon Ellena, who apparently repoſed on her mattreſs.

Having gazed at her for an inſtant, he ventured towards the bed with quick and unequal ſteps; his countenance expreſſed at once impatience, alarm, and the con⯑ſciouſneſs of guilt. When he was within a few paces, Ellena raiſed herſelf, and he ſtarted back as if a ſudden ſpectre had croſſed him. The more than uſual wild⯑neſs and wanneſs of his looks, with the whole of his conduct, ſeemed to confirm all her former terrors; and, when he rough⯑ly aſked her how ſhe did, Ellena had not ſufficient preſence of mind to anſwer that ſhe was ill. For ſome moments, he re⯑garded her with an earneſt and ſullen at⯑tention, and then a ſly glance of ſcrutiny, [250] which he threw round the chamber, told her that he was enquiring whether ſhe had taken the poiſon. On perceiving that the baſon was empty, he lifted it from the floor, and Ellena fancied a gleam of ſatis⯑faction paſſed over his viſage.

"You have had no dinner." ſaid he, "I forgot you; but ſupper will ſoon be ready; and you may walk up the beach till then, if you will."

Ellena, extremely ſurpriſed and per⯑plexed by this offer of a ſeeming indul⯑gence, knew not whether to accept or re⯑ject it. She ſuſpected that ſome treachery lurked within it. The invitation appear⯑ed to be only a ſtratagem to lure her to deſtruction, and ſhe determined to decline accepting it; when again ſhe conſidered, that to accompliſh this, it was not neceſſary to withdraw her from the chamber, where ſhe was already ſufficiently in the power of her perſecutors. Her ſituation could not be more deſperate than it was at pre⯑ſent, [251] and almoſt any change might make it leſs ſo.

As ſhe deſcended from the corridor, and paſſed through the lower part of the houſe, no perſon appeared but her conductor; and ſhe ventured to enquire, whether the men who had brought her hither were de⯑parted. Spalatro did not return an an⯑ſwer, but led the way in ſilence to the court, and, having paſſed the gates, he pointed toward the weſt, and ſaid ſhe might walk that way.

Ellena bent her courſe towards the "ma⯑ny-ſounding waves," followed at a ſhort diſ⯑tance by Spalatro, and, wrapt in thought, purſued the windings of the ſhore, ſcarce⯑ly noticing the objects around her; till, on paſſing the foot of a rock, ſhe lifted her eyes to the ſcene that unfolded beyond, and obſerved ſome huts ſcattered at a con⯑ſiderable diſtance, apparently the reſidence of fiſhermen. She could juſt diſtinguiſh the dark ſails of ſome ſkiffs turning the [252] cliffs, and entering the little bay, where the hamlet margined the beach; but, though ſhe ſaw the ſails lowered, as the boats ap⯑proached the ſhore, they were too far off to allow the figures of the men to appear. To Ellena, who had believed that no hu⯑man habitation, except her priſon, inter⯑rupted the vaſt ſolitudes of theſe foreſts and ſhores, the view of the huts, remote as they were, imparted a feeble hope, and even ſomewhat of joy. She looked back, to obſerve whether Spalatro was near; he was already within a few paces; and, caſt⯑ing a wiſtful glance forward to the remote cottages, her heart ſunk again.

It was a lowering evening, and the ſea was dark and ſwelling; the ſcreams of the ſea-birds too, as they wheeled among the clouds, and ſought their high neſts in the rocks, ſeemed to indicate an approaching ſtorm. Ellena was not ſo wholly engaged by ſelfiſh ſufferings, but that ſhe could ſympathiſe with thoſe of others, and [253] ſhe rejoiced that the fiſherman, whoſe boats ſhe had obſerved, had eſcaped the threatening tempeſt, and were ſafely ſhel⯑tered in their little homes, where, as they heard the loud waves break along the coaſt, they could look with keener plea⯑ſure upon the ſocial circle, and the warm comforts around them. From ſuch conſi⯑derations however, ſhe returned again to a ſenſe of her own forlorn and friendleſs ſituation.

"Alas!" ſaid ſhe, "I have no longer a home, a circle to ſmile welcomes upon me! I have no longer even one friend to ſupport, to reſcue me! I—a miſerable wanderer on a diſtant ſhore! tracked, per⯑haps, by the footſteps of the aſſaſſin, who at this inſtant eyes his victim with ſilent watchfulneſs and awaits the moment of opportunity to ſacrifice her!"

Ellena ſhuddered as ſhe ſaid this, and turned again to obſerve whether Spalatro was near. He was not within view; and, while ſhe wondered, and congratulated [254] herſelf on a poſſibility of eſcaping, ſhe per⯑ceived a Monk walking ſilently beneath the dark rocks that overbrowed the beach. His black garments were folded round him; his face was inclined towards the ground, and he had the air of a man in deep medi⯑tation.

"His, no doubt, are worthy muſings!" ſaid Ellena, as ſhe obſerved him, with mingled hope and ſurpriſe. "I may ad⯑dreſs myſelf, without fear, to one of his order. It is probably as much his wiſh, as it is his duty, to ſuccour the unfortu⯑nate. Who could have hoped to find on this ſequeſtered ſhore ſo ſacred a pro⯑tector! his convent cannot be far off."

He approached, his face ſtill bent to⯑wards the ground, and Ellena advanced ſlowly, and with trembling ſteps, to meet him. As he drew near, he viewed her aſkance, without lifting his head; but ſhe perceived his large eyes looking from un⯑der the ſhade of his cowl, and the upper [255] of his peculiar countenance. Her confi⯑dence in his protection began to fail, and ſhe faultered, unable to ſpeak, and ſcarce⯑ly daring to meet his eyes. The Monk ſtalked paſt her in ſilence, the lower part of his viſage ſtill, muffled in his drapery, and as he paſſed her looked neither with curioſity, nor ſurprise.

Ellena pauſed, and determined, when he ſhould be at ſome diſtance, to endea⯑vour to make her way to the hamlet, and throw herſelf upon the humanity of it's inhabitants, rather than ſolicit the pity of this forbidding ſtranger. But in the next moment ſhe heard a ſtep behind her, and, on turning, ſaw the Monk again approach⯑ing. He ſtalked by as before, ſurveying her, however, with a ſly and ſcrutinizing glance from the corners of his eyes. His air and countenance were equally repulſive, arid ſtill Ellena could not ſummon courage enough to attempt engaging his compaſ⯑ſion; but ſhrunk as from an enemy. [256] There was ſomething alſo terrific in the ſilent ſtalk of ſo gigantic a form; it an⯑nounced both power and treachery. He paſſed ſlowly on to ſome diſtance, and diſappeared among the rocks.

Ellena turned once more with an in⯑tention of haſtening towards the diſtant hamlet, before Spalatro ſhould obſerve her, whoſe ſtrange abſence ſhe had ſcarcely time to wonder at; but ſhe had not pro⯑ceeded far, when ſuddenly ſhe perceived the Monk again at her ſhoulder. She ſtarted, and almoſt ſhrieked; while he re⯑garded her with more attention than be⯑fore. He pauſed a moment, and ſeemed to heſitate; after which he again paſſed on in ſilence. The diſtreſs of Ellena en⯑creaſed; he was gone the way ſhe had de⯑ſigned to run, and ſhe feared almoſt equal⯑ly to follow him, and to return to her pri⯑ſon. Preſently he turned, and paſſed her again, and Ellena haſtened forward. But, when fearful of being, purſued, ſhe again [257] looked back, ſhe obſerved him conver⯑ſing with Spalatro. They appeared to be in conſultation, while they ſlowly ad⯑vanced, till, probably obſerving her rapid progreſs, Spalatro called on her to ſtop, in a voice that echoed among all the rocks. It was a voice, which would not be dis⯑obeyed. She looked hopeleſsly at the ſtill diſtant cottages, and ſlackened her ſteps. Preſently the Monk again paſſed before her, and Spalatro had again diſappeared. The frown, with which the former now re⯑garded Ellena, was ſo terrific, that ſhe ſhrunk trembling back, though ſhe knew him not for her perſecutor, ſince ſhe had never conſcibuſly ſeen Schedoni. He was agitated, and his look became darker.

"Whither go you?" ſaid he in a voice that was ſtifled by emotion.

"Who is it, father, that aſks the queſ⯑tion?" ſaid Ellena, endeavouring to ap⯑pear compoſed.

"Whither go you, and who are you?" repeated the Monk more ſternly.

[258] "I am an unhappy orphan," replied Ellena, ſighing deeply, "If you are, as your habit denotes, a friend to the charities, you will regard me with compaſſion."

Schedoni was ſilent, and then ſaid—"Who, and what is it that you fear?"

"I fear—even for my life," replied Ellena, with heſitation. She obſerved a darker ſhade paſs over his countenance. "For your life!" ſaid he, with apparent ſurpriſe, "who is there that would think it worth the taking."

Ellena was ſtruck with theſe words.

"Poor inſect!" added Schedoni, "who would cruſh thee?"

Ellena made no reply; ſhe remained with her eyes fixed in amazement upon his face. There was ſomething in his manner of pronouncing this, yet more ex⯑traordinary than in the words themſelves. Alarmed by his manner, and awed by the encreaſing gloom, and ſwelling ſurge, that broke in thunder on the beach, ſhe at [259] length turned away, and again walked towards the hamlet which was yet very remote.

He ſoon overtook her; when rudely ſeizing her arm, and gazing earneſtly on her face, "Who is it, that you fear?" ſaid he, "ſay who!"

"That is more than I dare ſay," replied Ellena, ſcarcely able to ſuſtain herſelf;

"Hah! is it even ſo!" ſaid the Monk, with encreaſing emotion. His viſage how became ſo terrible, that Ellena ſtruggled to liberate her arm, and ſupplicated that he would not detain her. He was ſilent and ſtill gazed upon her, but his eyes, when ſhe had ceaſed to ſtruggle, aſſumed the fixt and vacant glare of a man, whoſe thoughts have retired within themſelves, and who is no longer conſcious to ſur⯑rounding objects.

"I beſeech you to releaſe me!" re⯑peated Ellena, "it is late, and I am far from home."

[260] "That is true," muttered Schedom, ſtill graſping her arm, and ſeeming to reply to his own thoughts rather than to her words, —"that is very true."

"The evening is cloſing faſt," continued Ellena, "and I ſhall be overtaken by the ſtorm."

Schedoni ſtill muſed, and then mut⯑tered —"The ſtorm, ſay you? Why ay, let it come."

As he ſpoke, he ſuffered her arm to drop, but ſtill held it, and walked ſlowly towards the houſe. Ellena, thus com⯑pelled to accompany him, and yet more alarmed both by his looks, his incoherent anſwers, and his approach to her priſon, renewed her ſupplications and her efforts for liberty, in a voice of piercing diſtreſs, adding, "I am far from home, father; night is coming on. See how the rocks darken! I am far from home, and ſhall be waited for."

"That is falſe!" ſaid Schedoni, with emphaſis; "and you know it to be ſo."

[261] "Alas! I do," replied Ellena, with mingled ſhame and grief, "I have no friends to wait for me!"

"What do thoſe deſerve, who delibe⯑rately utter falſehoods," continued the Monk, "who deceive, and flatter young men to their deſtruction?"

"Father!" exclaimed the aſtoniſhed Ellena.

"Who diſturb the peace of families—who trepan, with wanton arts, the heirs of noble houſes—who—hah! what do ſuch deſerve?"

Overcome with aſtoniſhment and terror, Ellena remained ſilent. She now under⯑ſtood that Schedoni, ſo far from being like⯑ly to prove a proteſtor, was an agent of her worſt, and as ſhe had believed her only enemy; and an apprehenſion of the im⯑mediate and terrible vengeance, which ſuch an agent ſeemed willing to accom⯑pliſh, ſubdued her ſenſes; ſhe tottered, and ſunk upon the beach. The weight, [262] which ſtrained the arm Schedoni held, called his attention to her ſituation.

As he gazed upon her helpleſs and faded form, he became agitated. He quitted it, and traverſed the beach in ſhort turns, and with haſty ſteps; came back again, and bent over it—his heart ſeemed ſenſi⯑ble to ſome touch of pity. At one mo⯑ment, he ſtepped towards the ſea, and taking water in the hollows of his hands, threw it upon her face; at another, ſeem⯑ing to regret that he had done ſo, he would ſtamp with ſudden fury upon the ſhore, and walk abruptly to a diſtance. The conflict between his deſign and his con⯑ſcience was ſtrong, or, perhaps, it was only between his paſſions. He, who had hitherto been inſenſible to every tender feeling, who, governed by ambition and reſentment had contributed, by his artful inſtigations, to fix the baleful reſolution of the Marcheſa di Vivaldi, and who was come to execute her purpoſe,—even he could not now [263] look upon the innocent, the wretched Ellena, without yielding to the momentary weakneſs, as he termed it, of compaſſion.

While he was yet unable to baffle the new emotion by evil paſſions, he deſpiſed that which conquered him. "And ſhall the weakneſs of a girl," ſaid he, "ſubdue the reſolution of a man! Shall the view of her tranſient ſufferings unnerve my firm heart, and compel me to renounce the lofty plans I have ſo ardently, ſo labori⯑ouſly imagined, at the very inſtant when they are changing into realities! Am I awake! Is one ſpark of the fire, which has ſo long ſmouldered within my boſom, and conſumed my peace, alive! Or am I tame and abject as my fortunes? hah! as my fortunes! Shall the ſpirit of my fa⯑mily yield for ever to circumſtances? The queſtion rouſes it, and I feel it's energy revive within me."

He ſtalked with haſty ſteps towards Ellena, as if he feared to truſt his reſolu⯑tion [264] with a ſecond pauſe. He had a dag⯑ger concealed beneath his Monk's habit; as he had alſo an aſſaſſin's heart ſhrouded by his garments. He had a dagger—but he heſitated to uſe it, the blood which it might ſpill, would be obſerved by the pea⯑ſants of the neighbouring hamlet, and might lead to a diſcovery. It would be ſafer, he conſidered, and eaſier, to lay Elle⯑na, ſenſeleſs as ſhe was, in the waves; their coldneſs would recal her to life, only at the moment before they would ſuffocate her.

As he ſtooped to lift her, his reſolution faultered again, on beholding her innocent face, and in that moment ſhe moved. He ſtarted back, as if ſhe could have known his purpoſe, and, knowing it, could, have avenged herſelf. The water, which he had thrown upon her face, had gra⯑dually revived her; ſhe uncloſed her eyes, and, on perceiving him, ſhrieked, and at⯑tempted to rife. His reſolution was ſub⯑dued, ſo tremblingly fearful is guilt in the [265] moment when it would execute it's atro⯑cities. Overcome with apprehenſions, yet agitated with ſhame and indignation againſt himſelf for being ſo, he gazed at her, for an inſtant in ſilence, and then ab⯑ruptly turned away his eyes and left her. Ellena liſtened to his departing ſteps, and, raiſing herſelf, obſerved him retiring among the rocks that led towards the houſe. Aſtoniſhed at his conduct, and ſur⯑priſed to find that ſhe was alone, Ellena renewed all her efforts to ſuſtain herſelf, till ſhe ſhould reach the hamlet ſo long the object of her hopes; but ſhe had pro⯑ceeded only, a few paces, when Spalatro again appeared ſwiftly approaching. Her utmoſt exertion availed her nothing; her feeble ſteps were ſoon overtaken, and El⯑lena perceived herſelf again his priſoner. The look with which ſhe reſigned herſelf, awakened no pity in Spalatro, who ut⯑tered ſome taunting jeſt upon the ſwiftneſs of her flight, as he led her back to her [266] priſon, and proceeded in ſullen watchful⯑neſs. Once again, then, ſhe entered the gloomy walls of that fatal manſion, never more, ſhe now believed, to quit them with life, a belief, which was ſtrengthened when ſhe remembered that the Monk, on leav⯑ing her, had taken the way hither; for, though ſhe knew not how to account for his late forbearance, ſhe could not ſuppoſe that he would long be merciful. He ap⯑peared no more, however, as ſhe paſſed to her chamber, where Spalatro left her again to ſolitude and terror, and ſhe heard that fateful door again barred upon her. When his retreating ſteps had ceaſed to ſound, a ſtilneſs, as of the grave, prevailed in the houſe; like the dead calm, which ſometimes precedes the horrors of a tem⯑peſt.

CHAP. IX.

SCHEDONI had returned from the beach to the houſe, in a ſtate of perturbation, that defied the controul of even his own ſtern will. On the way thither he met Spalatro, whom, as he diſpatched him to Ellena, he ſtrictly commanded not to ap⯑proach his chamber till he ſhould be ſummoned.

Having reached his apartment, he ſe⯑cured the door, though not any perſon, except himſelf, was in the houſe, nor any one expected, but thoſe who he knew would not dare to intrude upon him. Had it been poſſible to have ſhut out all conſciouſneſs of himſelf, alſo, how wil⯑lingly [268] would he have done ſo! He threw himſelf into a chair, and remained for a conſiderable time motionleſs and loſt in thought, yet the emotions of his mind were violent and contradictory. At the very inſtant when his heart reproached him with the crime he had meditated, he regretted the ambitious views he muſt relinquiſh if he failed to perpetrate it, and regarded himſelf with ſome degree of con⯑tempt for having hitherto heſitated on the ſubject. He conſidered the character of his own mind with aſtoniſhment, for cir⯑cumſtances had drawn forth traits, of which, till now, he had no ſuſpicion. He knew not by what doctrine to explain the inconſiſtencies, the contradictions, he ex⯑perienced, and, perhaps, it was not one of the leaſt that in theſe moments of direful and conflicting paſſions, his reaſon could ſtill look down upon their operations, and lead him to a cool, though brief examina⯑tion of his own nature. But the ſubtlety [269] of ſelf-love ſtill eluded his enquiries, and he did not detect that pride was even at this inſtant of ſelf-examination, and of cri⯑tical import, the maſter-ſpring of his mind. In the earlieſt dawn of his character this paſſion had displayed its predominancy, whenever occaſion permitted, and it's in⯑fluence had led to ſome of the chief events of his life.

The Count di Marinella, for ſuch had formerly been the title of the Confeſſor, was the younger ſon of an ancient family, who reſided in the duchy of Milan, and near the feet of the Tyrolean Alps, on ſuch eſtates of their anceſtors, as the Italian wars of a former century had left them. The portion, which he had received at the death of his father, was not large, and Schedoni was not of a diſpoſition to im⯑prove his patrimony by ſlow diligence, or to ſubmit to the reſtraint and humiliation, which his narrow finances would have im⯑poſed. He diſdained to acknowledge an [266] [...] [267] [...] [268] [...] [269] [...] [270] inferiority of fortune to thoſe, with whom he considered himſelf equal in rank; and, as he was destitute of generous feel⯑ing, and of ſound judgment, he had not that loftineſs of ſoul, which is ambitious of true grandeur. On the contrary, he was ſatisfied with an oſtentatious diſplay of pleaſures and of power, and, thoughtleſs of the conſequence of diſſipation, was con⯑tented with the pleaſures of the moment, till his exhauſted reſources compelled him to pauſe, and to reflect. He perceived, too late for his advantage, that it was neceſſary for him to diſpoſe of part of his eſtate, and to confine himſelf to the income of the re⯑mainder. Incapable of ſubmitting with grace to the reduction, which his folly had rendered expedient, he endeavoured to obtain by cunning, the luxuries that his prudence had failed to keep, and which neither his genius or his integrity could command. He withdrew, however, from the eyes of his neighbours, unwilling to [271] ſubmit his altered circumſtances to their obſervation.

Concerning ſeveral years of his life, from this period, nothing was generally known; and, when he was next diſcovered, it was in the Spirito Santo convent at Naples, in the habit of a Monk, and under the aſſumed name of Schedoni. His air and countenance were as much altered as his way of life; his looks had become gloomy and ſevere, and the pride, which had mingled with the gaiety of their for⯑mer expreſſion, occaſionally diſcovered it⯑ſelf under the diſguiſe of humility, but more frequently in the auſterity of ſilence, and in the barbarity of penance.

The perſon who diſcovered Schedoni, would not have recollected him, had not his remarkable eyes firſt fixed his atten⯑tion, and then revived remembrance. As he examined his features, he traced the faint reſemblance of what Marinella had been, to whom he made himſelf known.

[272] The Confeſſor affected to have forgotten his former acquaintance, and aſſured him, that he was miſtaken reſpecting himſelf, till the ſtrenger ſo cloſely urged ſome cir⯑cumſtances, that the former was no longer permitted to diſſemble. He retired, in ſome emotion, with the ſtranger, and, whatever might be the ſubject of their con⯑ference, he drew from him, before he quit⯑ted the convent, a tremendous vow, to keep ſecret from the brotherhood his knowledge of Schedoni's family, and never to reveal without thoſe walls, that he had ſeen him. Theſe requeſts he had urged in a manner, that at once ſurpriſed and awed the ſtranger, and which at the ſame time that it maniſeſted the weight of Sche⯑doni's fears, bade the former tremble for the conſequence of diſobedience; and he ſhuddered even while he promiſed to obey. Of the firſt part of the promiſe he was probably ſtrictly obſervant; whether he was equally ſo of the ſecond, does not ap⯑pear; [273] it is certain, that after this period, he was never more ſeen or heard of at Naples.

Schedoni, ever ambitious of diſtinction, adapted his manners to the views and pre⯑judices of the ſociety with whom he reſid⯑ed, and became one of the moſt exact ob⯑ſervers of their outward forms, and almoſt a prodigy for ſelf-denial and ſevere diſci⯑pline. He was pointed out by the fathers of the convent to the juniors as a great example, who was, however, rather to be looked up to with reverential admiration, than with an hope of emulating his ſublime virtues. But with ſuch panegyrics their friendſhip for Schedoni concluded. They found it convenient to applaud the auſte⯑rities, which they declined to practiſe; it procured them a character for ſanctity, and ſaved them the neceſſity of earning it by mortifications of their own; but they both feared and hated Schedoni for his pride and his gloomy auſterities, too [274] much, to gratify his ambition by any thing further than empty praiſe. He had been ſeveral years in the ſociety, without obtain⯑ing any conſiderable advancement, and with the mortification of ſeeing perſons, who had never emulated his ſeverity, raiſed to high offices in the church. Somewhat too late he diſcovered, that he was not to ex⯑pect any ſubſtantial favour from the bro⯑therhood, and then it was that his reſtleſs and diſappointed ſpirit firſt ſought prefer⯑ment by other avenues. He had been ſome years Confeſſor to the Marcheſa di Vivaldi, when the conduct of her ſon awakened his hopes, by ſhowing him, that he might render himſelf not only uſeful but neceſſary to her, by his councils. It was his cuſtom to ſtudy the characters of thoſe around him, with a view of adapting them to his purpoſes, and, having aſcer⯑tained that of the Marcheſa, theſe hopes were encouraged. He perceived that her paſſions were ſtrong, her judgment weak, [275] and he underſtood, that, if circumſtances ſhould ever enable him to be ſerviceable in promoting the end at which any one of thoſe paſſions might aim, his fortune would be eſtabliſhed.

At length, he ſo completely inſinuated himſelf into her confidence, and became ſo neceſſary to her views, that he could de⯑mand his own terms, and this he had not failed to do, though with all the affected de⯑licacy and fineſſe that his ſituatio ſeemed to require. An office of high dignity in the church, which had long vainly excited his ambition, was promiſed him by the Mar⯑cheſa, who had ſufficient influence to ob⯑tain it; her condition was that of his preſerv⯑ing the honour of her family, as ſhe delicately termed it, which ſhe was careful to make him underſtand could be ſecured only by the death of Ellena. He acknowledged, with the Marcheſa, that the death of this faſci⯑nating young woman was the only means of preſerving that honour, ſince, if ſhe lived, [276] they had every evil to expect from the at⯑tachment and character of Vivaldi, who would diſcover and extricate her from any place of confinement, however obſcure or difficult of acceſs, to which ſhe might be conveyed. How long and how arduouſly the Confeſſor had aimed to oblige the Mar⯑cheſa, has already appeared. The laſt ſcene was now arrived, and he was on the eve of committing that atrocious act, which was to ſecure the pride of her houſe, and to ſatisfy at once his ambition and his deſire of vengeance; when an emotion new and ſurpriſing to him, had arreſted his arm, and compelled his reſolution to fal⯑ter. But this emotion was tranſient, it disappeared almoſt with the object that had awakened it; and now, in the ſilence and retirement of his chamber, he had lei⯑ſure to recollect his thoughts, to review his ſchemes, to re-animate his reſolution, and to wonder again at the pity, which had al⯑moſt won him from his purpoſe. The [277] ruling paſſion of his nature once more re⯑ſumed it's authority, and he determined to earn the honour, which the Marcheſa had in ſtore for him.

After ſome cool, and more of tumultuous, conſideration, he reſolved that Ellena ſhould be aſſaſſinated that night, while ſhe ſlept, and afterwards conveyed through a paſſage of the houſe communicating with the ſea, into which the body might be thrown and buried, with her ſad ſtory, beneath the waves. For his own ſake, he would have avoided the danger of ſhedding blood, had this appeared eaſy; but he had too much reaſon to know ſhe had ſuſpicions of poiſon, to truſt to a ſecond attempt by ſuch means; and again his indignation roſe againſt himſelf, ſince by yielding to a momentary companion, he had loſt the opportunity afforded him of throwing her unreſiſtingly into the ſurge.

Spalatro, as has already been hinted, was a former confident of the Confeſſor, [278] who knew too truly, from experience, that he could be truſted, and had, therefore, engaged him to aſſiſt on this occaſion. To the hands of this man he conſigned the fete of the unhappy Ellena, himſelf recoil⯑ing from the horrible act he had willed; and intending by ſuch a ſtep to involve Spalatro more deeply in the guilt, and thus more effectually to ſecure his ſecret.

The night was far advanced before Schedoni's final reſolution was taken, when he ſummoned Spalatro to his chamber to inſtruct him in his office. He bolted the door, by which the man had entered, for⯑getting that themſelves were the only per⯑ſons in the houſe, except the poor Ellena, who, unſuſpicious of what was conſpiring, and her ſpirits worn out by the late ſcene, was ſleeping peacefully on her mattreſs above. Schedoni moved ſoftly from the door he had ſecured, and, beckoning Spa⯑latro to approach, ſpoke in a low voice, as if he feared to be overheard. "Have [279] you perceived any ſound from her cham⯑ber lately?" ſaid he, "Does ſhe ſleep, think you?"

"No one has moved there for this hour paſt, at leaſt," replied Spalatro, "I have been watching in the corridor, till you called, and ſhould have heard if ſhe had ſtirred, the old floor ſhakes ſo with every ſtep."

"Then hear rue, Spalatro," ſaid the Confeſſor. "I have tried, and found thee faithful, or I ſhould not truſt thee in a bu⯑ſineſs of confidence like this. Recollect all I ſaid to thee in the morning, and be reſolute and dexterous, as I have ever found thee."

Spalatro liſtened in gloomy attention, and the Monk proceeded, "It is late; go, thereſore, to her chamber; be certain that ſhe ſleeps. Take this," he added, "and this," giving him a dagger and a large cloak—"You know how you are to uſe them."

[280] He pauſed, and fixed his penetrating eyes on Spalatro, who held up the dagger in ſilence, examined the blade, and conti⯑nued to gaze upon it, with a vacant ſtare, as if he was unconſcious of what he did.

"You know your buſineſs," repeated Schedoni, authoritatively, "diſpatch! time wears; and I muſt ſet off early."

The man made no reply.

"The morning dawns already," ſaid the Confeſſor, ſtill more urgently, "Do you faulter? do you tremble? Do I not know you?"

Spalatro put up the poinard in his bo⯑ſom without ſpeaking, threw the cloak over his arm, and moved with a loitering ſtep towards the door.

"Diſpatch!" repeated the Confeſſor, "why do you linger?"

"I cannot ſay I like this buſineſs, Signor," ſaid Spalatro ſurlily. "I know not why I ſhould always do the moſt, and be paid the leaſt."

[281] "Sordid villain!" exclaimed Schedoni, "you are not ſatisfied then!"

"No more a villain than yourſelf, Signor," retorted the man, throwing down the cloak, "I only do your buſinſs; and 'tis you that are ſordid, for you would take all the reward, and I would only have a poor man have his dues. Do the work yourſelf, or give me the greater profit."

"Peace!" ſaid Schedoni, "dare no more to inſult me with the mention of reward. Do you imagine I have ſold myſelf! 'Tis my will that ſhe dies; this is ſufficient; and for you—the price you have aſked has been granted."

"It is too little," replied Spalatro, and beſides, I do not like the work.—What harm has ſhe done me?"

"Since when is it, that you have taken upon you to moralize?" ſaid the Con⯑feſſor, "and how long are theſe cowardly ſcruples to laſt? This is not the firſt time you have been employed; what harm [282] had others done you! You forget that I know you, you forget the paſt."

"No, Signer, I remember it too well, I wiſh I could forget; I remember it too well.—I have never been at peace ſince. The bloody hand is always before me! and often of a night, when the ſea roars, and ſtorms ſhake the houſe, they have come, all gaſned as I left them, and ſtood before my bed! I have got up, and ran out upon the ſhore for ſafety!"

"Peace!" repeated the Confeſſor, "where is this frenzy of fear to end? To what are theſe viſions, painted in blood, to lead? I thought I was talking with a man, but find I am ſpeaking only to a baby, poſſeſſed with his nurſe's dreams! Yet I underſtand you,—you ſhall be ſatisfied."

Schedoni, however, had for once miſun⯑derſtood this man, when he could not be⯑lieve it poſſible that he was really averſe to execute what he had undertaken. Whe⯑ther [283] the innocence and beauty of Ellena had ſoftened his heart, or that his con⯑ſcience did torture him for his paſt deeds, he perſiſted in refuſing to murder her. His conſcience, or his pity, was of a very peculiar kind however; for, though he re⯑fuſed to execute the deed himſelf, he con⯑ſented to wait at the foot of a back ſtair-caſe, that communicated with Ellena's chamber, while Schedoni accomplished it, and after⯑ward to aſſiſt in carrying the body to the ſhore. "This is a compromiſe between conſcience and guilt, worthy of a demons," muttered Schedoni, who appeared to be inſenſible that he had made the ſame com⯑promiſe with himſelf not an hour before; and whoſe extreme reluctance at this mo⯑ment, to perpetrate with his own hand, what he had willingly deſigned for ano⯑ther, ought to have reminded him of that compromiſe.

Spalatro, releaſed from the immediate office of an executioner, endured ſilently [284] the abuſive, yet half-ſtifled, indignation of the Confeſſor, who alſo bade him re⯑member, that, though he now ſhrunk from the moſt active part of this tranſaction, he had not always been reſtained, in offices of the ſame nature, by equal compunction; and that not only his means of ſubſiſtence, but his very life itſelf, was at his mercy. Spalatro readily acknowledged that it was ſo; and Schedoni knew, too well, the truth of what he had urged, to be re⯑ſtrained from his purpoſe, by any appre⯑henſion of the conſequence of a diſcovery from this ruffian.

"Give me the dagger, then," ſaid the Confeſſor, after a long pauſe, "take up the cloak, and follow to the ſtair-cafe. Let me ſee, whether your valour will carry you thus far."

Spalatro reſigned the ſtiletto, and threw the cloak again over his arm. The Con⯑feſſor ſtepped to the door, and, trying to open it, "It is faſtened!" ſaid he in alarm, [285] "ſome perſon has got into the houſe,—it is faſtened!"

"That well may be, Signor," replied Spalatro, calmly, "for I ſaw you bolt it yourſelf, after I came into the room."

"True," ſaid Schedoni, recovering himſelf; "that is true."

He opened it, and proceeded along the ſilent paſſages, towards the private ſtair⯑caſe, often pauſing to liſten, and then ſtepping more lightly;—the terrific Sche⯑doni, in this moment of meditative guilt, feared even the feeble Ellena. At the foot of the ſtair-cafe, he again ſtopped to liſten. "Do you hear any thing?" ſaid he in a whiſper.

"I hear only the ſea," replied the man.

"Huſh! it is ſomething more!" ſaid Schedoni; "that is the murmur of voices!"

They were ſilent. After a pauſe of ſome length, "It is, perhaps, the voice of the ſpectres I told you of, Signor," ſaid [286] Spalatro, with a ſneer. "Give me the dagger," ſaid Schedoni.

Spalatro, inſtead of obeying, now graſp⯑ed the arm of the Confeſſor, who, looking at him for an explanation of this extraor⯑dinary action, was ſtill more ſurpriſed to obſerve the paleneſs and horror of his coun⯑tenance. His ſtarting eyes ſeemed to fol⯑low ſome object along the paſſage, and Schedoni, who began to partake of his feek⯑ings, looked forward to diſcover what oc⯑caſioned this diſmay, but could not per⯑ceive any thing that juſtified it. "What is it you fear?" ſaid he at length.

Spalatro's eyes were ſtill moving in hor⯑ror, "Do you ſee nothing!" ſaid he point⯑ing. Schedoni looked again, but did not diſtinguiſh any object: in the remote gloom of the paſſage, whither Spalatro's ſight was now fixed.

"Come, come," ſaid he, aſhamed of his own weakneſs, "this is not a moment for ſuch fancies. Awake from this idle dream."

[287] Spalatro withdrew his eyes, but they retained all their wildneſs. "It was no dream," ſaid lie, in the voice of a man who is exhauſted by pain, and begins to breathe ſomewhat more freely again. "I ſaw it as plainly as I now ſee you."

"Dotard! what did you ſee!" enquir⯑ed the Confeſſor.

"It came before my eyes in a mo⯑ment, and ſhewed itſelf diſtinctly and out⯑ſpread."

"What ſhewed itſelf?" repeated Sche⯑doni.

"And then it beckoned—yes, it beck⯑oned me, with that blood-ſtained finger! and glided away down the paſſage, ſtilll beckoning—till it was loſt in the dark⯑neſs."

"This is very frenzy!" ſaid Schedoni, exceſſively agitated. "Arouſe yourſelf, and be a man!"

"Frenzy! would it were, Signor. I ſaw that dreadful hand—I ſee it now—it is there again!—there!"

[288] Schedoni, ſhocked, embarraſſed, and once more infected with the ſtrange emo⯑tions of Spalatro, looked forward expect⯑ing to diſcover ſome terrific object, but ſtill nothing was viſible to him, and he ſoon recovered himſelf ſufficiently to endeavour to appeaſe the fancy of this conscience⯑ſtruck ruffian. But Spalatro was inſen⯑ſible to all he could urge, and the Con⯑feſſor, fearing that his voice, though weak and ſtifled, would awaken Ellena, tried to withdraw him from the ſpot, to the apart⯑ment they had quitted.

"The wealth of San Loretto ſhould not make me go that way. Signor," replied he, ſhuddering—"that was the way it. beck⯑oned, it vaniſhed that way!"

Every emotion now yielded with Sche⯑doni, to that of apprehenſion leſt Ellena, being awakened, ſhould make his taſk more horrid by a ſtruggle, and his embar⯑raſſment encreaſed at each inſtant, for nei⯑ther command, menace, or entreaty could [289] prevail with Spalatro to retire, till the Monk luckily remembered a door, which opened beyond the ſtair-caſe, and would conduct them by another way to the oppoſite ſide of the houſe. The man conſented ſo to depart, when, Schedoni unlock⯑ing a ſuit of rooms, of which he had always kept the keys, they paſſed in ſilence through an extent of deſolate chambers, till they reached the one, which they had lately left.

Here, relieved from apprehenſion re⯑ſpecting Ellena, the Confeſſor expoſtulat⯑ed more freely with Spalatro, but neither argument or menace could prevail, and the man perſiſted in refuſing to return to the ſtair-caſe, though proteſting, at the ſame time, that he would not remain alone in any part of the houſe; till the wine, with which the Confeſſor abundantly ſupplied him, began to overcome the terrors of his imagination. At length, his courage was ſo much re-animated, that he conſented to reſume his ſtation, and await at the foot [290] of the ſtairs the accompliſhment of Sche⯑doni's dreadful errand, with which agree⯑ment they returned thither by the way they had lately paſſed. The wine, with which Schedoni alſo had found it neceſſary to ſtrengrhen his own reſolution, did not ſe⯑cure him from ſevere emotion, when he found himſelf again near Ellena; but he made a ſtrenuous effort for ſelf-ſubjec⯑tion, as he demanded the dagger of Spa⯑latro.

"You have it already, Signor," replied the man.

"True," ſaid the Monk; "aſcend ſoftly, or our ſteps may awaken her."

"You ſaid I was to wait at the foot of the ſtairs, Signor, while you"—

"True, true, true!" muttered the Con⯑feſſor, and had begun to aſcend, when his attendant deſired him to ſtop. "You are going in darkneſs, Signor, you have forgotten the lamp. I have another here."

[291] Schedoni took it angrily, without ſpeak⯑ing, and was again aſcending, when he he⯑ſitated, and once more pauſed. "The glare will diſturb her," thought he, "it is better to go in darkneſs.—Yet—". He conſidered, that he could not ſtrike with certainty without light to direct his hand, and he kept the lamp, but returned once more to charge Spalatro not to ſtir from the foot of the ſtairs till he called, and to aſcend to the chamber upon the firſt ſignal.

"I will obey, Signor, if you, on your part, will promiſe not to give the ſignal till all is over."

"I do promiſe," replied Schedoni. "No more!"

Again he, aſcended, nor ſtopped till he reached Ellena's door, where he liſtened for a ſound; but all was as ſilent as if death already reigned in the chamber. This door was, from long diſuſe, difficult to be opened; formerly it would have [292] yielded without ſound, but now Schedoni was fearful of noiſe from every effort he made to move it. After ſome difficulty, however, it gave way, and he perceived, by the ſtilneſs within the apartment, that he had not diſturbed Ellena. He ſhaded the lamp with the door for a moment, while he threw an enquiring glance for⯑ward, and when he did venture farther, held part of his dark drapery before the light, to prevent the rays from ſpreading through the room.

As he approached the bed, her gentle breathings informed him that ſhe ſtill ſlept, and the next moment he was at her ſide. She lay in deep and peaceful ſlum⯑ber, and ſeemed to have thrown herſelf upon the mattreſs, after having been wea⯑ried by her griefs; for, though ſleep preſ⯑ſed heavily on her eyes, their lids were yet wet with tears.

While Schedoni gazed for a moment upon her innocent countenance, a faint [293] ſmile ſtole over it. He ſtepped back. "She ſmiles in her murderer's face!" ſaid he, ſhuddering, "I muſt be ſpeedy."

He ſearched for the dagger, and it was ſome time before his trembling hand could diſengage it from the folds of his garment; but, having done ſo, he again drew near, and prepared to ſtrike. Her dreſs perplex⯑ed him; it would interrupt the blow, and he ſtooped to examine whether he could turn her robe aſide, without waking her. As the light paſſed over her face, he per⯑ceived that the ſmile had vaniſhed—the viſions of her ſleep were changed, for tears ſtole from beneath her eye-lids, and her features ſuffered a ſlight convulſion. She ſpoke! Schedoni, apprehending that the light had diſturbed her, ſuddenly drew back, and, again irreſolute, ſhaded the lamp, and concealed himſelf behind the curtain, while he liſtened. But her words were inward and indiſtinct, and con⯑vinced him that ſhe ſtill ſlumbered.

[294] His agitation and repugnance to ſtrike encreaſed with every moment of delay, and, as often as he prepared to plunge the poi⯑nard in her boſom, a ſhuddering horror reſtrained him. Aſtoniſhed at his own feelings, and indignant at what he termed a daſtardly weakneſs, he found it neceſſary to argue with himſelf, and his rapid thoughts ſaid, "Do I not feel the neceſſity of this act! Does not what is dearer to me than exiſtence—does not my conſe⯑quence depend on the execution of it? Is ſhe not alſo beloved by the young Vival⯑di?—have I already forgotten the church of the Spirito Santo?" This conſideration re-animated him; vengeance nerved his arm, and drawing aſide the lawn from her boſom, he once more raiſed it to ſtrike; when, aſter gazing for an inſlant, ſome new cauſe of horror ſeemed to ſeize all his frame, aud he ſtood for ſome moments aghaſt and motionleſs like a ſtatue. His reſpi⯑ration was ſhort and laborious, chilly drops [295] ſtood on his forehead, and all his faculties of mind ſeemed ſuſpended. When he re⯑covered, he ſtooped to examine again the miniature, which had occaſioned this revo⯑lution, and which had lain concealed be⯑neath the lawn that he withdrew. The terrible certainty was almoſt confirmed, and forgetting, in his impatience to know the truth, the imprudence of ſuddenly diſ⯑covering himſelf to Ellena at this hour of the night and with a dagger at his feet, he called loudly "Awake! awake! Say, what is your name? Speak! ſpeak quick⯑ly!"

Ellena, arouſed by a man's voice, ſtart⯑ed from her mattreſs, when, perceiving Schedoni, and by the pale glare of the lamp, his haggard countenance, ſhe ſhriek⯑ed, and ſunk back on the pillow. She had not fainted; and believing that he came to murder her, ſhe now exerted herſelf to plead for mercy. The energy of her feelings enabled her to riſe and throw herſelf at [296] his feet, "Be merciful, O father! be merci⯑ful!" ſaid ſhe, in a trembling voice.

"Father!" interrupted Schedoni, with earneſtneſs; and then, ſeeming to reſtrain himſelf, he added, with unaffected ſur⯑priſe," Why are you thus terrified?" for he had loſt, in new intereſts and emotions, all conſciouſneſs of evil intention, and of the ſingularity of his ſituation. "What do you fear?" he repeated.

"Have pity, holy father!" exclaimed Ellena in agony.

"Why do you not ſay whoſe portrait that is?" demanded he, forgetting that he had not aſked the queſtion before.

"Whoſe portrait!" repeated the Con⯑feſſor in a loud voice.

"Whoſe portrait!" ſaid Ellena, with extreme ſurpriſe.

"Ay, how came you by it? Be quick —whoſe reſemblance is it?"

"Why ſhould you wiſh to know?" ſaid Ellena.

[297] "Anſwer my queſtion," repeated Sche⯑doni, with encreaſing ſternneſs.

"I cannot part with it, holy father," replied Ellena, preſſing it to her boſom, "you do not wiſh me to part with it!"

"Is it impoſſible to make you anſwer my queſtion!" ſaid he, in extreme perturba⯑tion, and turning away from her, "has fear utterly confounded you!" Then, again ſtepping towards her, and ſeizing her wriſt, he repeated the demand in a tone of deſperation.

"Alas! he is dead! or I ſhould not now want a protector," replied Ellena, ſhrink⯑ing from his graſp, and weeping.

"You trifle," ſaid Schedoni, with a terrible look, "I once more demand an anſwer—whoſe picture?"—

Ellena lifted it, gazed upon it for a moment, and then preſſing it to her lips ſaid, "This was my father."

"Your father!" he repeated in an inward [298] voice, "your father!" and ſhuddering, turned away.

Ellena looked at him with ſurpriſe. "I never knew a father's care," ſhe ſaid, "nor till lately did I perceive the want of it.—But now."—

"His name?" interrupted the Con⯑feſſor.

"But now" continued Ellena—"if you are not as a father to me—to whom can I look for protection?"

"His name? "repeated Schedoni, with ſterner emphaſis.

"It is ſacred," replied Ellena, "for he was unfortunate!"

"His name?" demanded the Confeſſor, furiouſly.

"I have promiſed to conceal it, father."

"On your life, I charge you tell it; remember, on your life!"

Ellena trembled, was ſilent, and with ſupplicating looks implored him to deſiſt from enquiry, but he urged the queſtion [299] more irreſiſtibly. "His name, then," ſaid ſhe, "was Marinella."

Schedoni groaned and turned away; but in a few ſeconds, ſtruggling to com⯑mand the agitation that ſhattered his whole frame, he returned to Ellena, and raiſed her from her knees, on which ſhe had thrown herſelf to implore mercy.

"The place of his reſidence?" ſaid; the Monk.

"It was far from hence," ſhe replied; but he demanded an unequivocal anſwer, and ſhe reluctantly gave one.

Schedoni turned away as before, groan⯑ed heavily, and paced the chamber with⯑out ſpeaking; while Ellena, in her turn, enquired the motive of his queſtions, and the occaſion of his agitation. But he ſeemed not to notice any thing ſhe ſaid and, wholly given up to his feelings, was inflexibly ſilent, while he ſtalked, with meaſured ſteps, along the room, and his face, half hid by his cowl, was bent towards the ground.

[300] Ellena's terror began to yield to aſtoniſh⯑ment, and this emotion encreaſed, when, Schedoni approaching her, ſhe perceived tears ſwell in his eyes, which were fixt on her's, and his countenance ſoften from the wild diſorder that had marked it. Still he could not ſpeak. At length he yielded to the fulneſs of his heart, and Schedoni, the ſtern Schedoni, wept and ſighed! He ſeated himſelf on the mattreſs beſide Ellena, took her hand, which ſhe af⯑frighted attempted to withdraw, and when he could command his voice, ſaid, "Unhappy child!—behold your more unhappy father!" As he concluded, his voice was overcome by groans, and he drew the cowl entirely over his face.

"My father!" exclaimed the aſtoniſhed and doubting Ellena—"my father!" and fixed her eyes upon him. He gave no reply, but when, a moment after, he lifted his head, "Why do you reproach me with thoſe looks!" ſaid the conſcious Schedoni.

[301] "Reproach you!—reproach my fa⯑ther!" repeated Ellena, in accents ſoften⯑ing into tenderneſs, Why ſhould I reproach my father!"

"Why!". exclaimed Schedoni, ſtarting from his feat, "Great God!"

As he moved, he ſtumbled over the dagger at his foot; at that moment it might be ſaid to ſtrike into his heart. He puſhed it haſtily from ſight. Ellena had not obſerved it; but ſhe obſerved his la⯑bouring breaſt, his diſtracted looks, and quick ſteps, as he walked to and fro in the chamber; and ſhe aſked, with the moſt ſoothing accents of compaſſion, and looks of anxious gentleneſs, what made him ſo unhappy, and tried to aſſuage his ſuffer⯑ings. They ſeemed to encreaſe with every wiſh ſhe expreſſed to diſpel them; at one moment he would pauſe to gaze upon her, and in the next would quit her with a frenzied ſtart.

"Why do you look ſo piteouſly upon [302] me, father?" Ellena ſaid, "why are you ſo unhappy? Tell me, that I may com⯑fort you."

This appeal renewed all the violence of remorſe and grief, and he preſſed her to his boſom, and wetted her cheek with his tears. Ellena wept to ſee him weep, till her doubts began to take alarm. What⯑ever might be the proofs, that had con⯑vinced Schedoni of the relationſhip be⯑tween them, he had not explained theſe to her, and, however ſtrong was the eloquence of nature which ſhe witneſſed, it was not ſufficient to juſtify an entire confidence in the aſſertion he had made, or to allow her to permit his careſſes without trembling. She ſhrunk, and endeavoured to diſengage herſelf; when, immediately underſtanding her, he ſaid, "Can you doubt the cauſe of theſe emotions? theſe ſigns of paternal affection?"

"Have I not reaſon to doubt," replied Ellena, timidly, "ſince I never witneſſed them before?"

[303] He withdrew his arms, and, fixing his eyes earneſtly on hers, regarded her for ſome moments in expreſſive ſilence "Poor Innocent!" ſaid he, at length, "you know not how much your words convey!—It is too true, you never have known a father's tenderneſs till now!"

His countenance darkened while he ſpoke, and he roſe again from his ſeat. Ellena, meanwhile, aſtoniſhed, terrified and oppreſſed by a variety of emotions, had no power to demand his reaſons for the belief that ſo much agitated him, or any explanation of his conduct; but ſhe appealed to the portrait, and endeavoured, by tracing ſome reſemblance between it and Schedoni, to decide her doubts. The countenance of each was as diffe⯑rent in character as in years. The mi⯑niature diſplayed a young man rather handſome, of a gay and ſmiling coun⯑tenance; yet the ſmile expreſſed triumph, [304] rather than ſweetneſs, and his whole air and features were diſtinguiſhed by a con⯑ſciouſneſs of ſuperiority that role even to haughtineſs.

Schedoni, on the contrary, advanced in years, exhibited a ſevere phyſiognomy, furrowed by thought, no leſs than by time, and darkened by the habitual in⯑dulgence of moroſe paſſions. He looked as if he had never ſmiled ſince the por⯑trait was drawn; and it ſeemed as if the painter, prophetic of Schedoni's future diſpoſition, had arreſted and embodied that ſmile, to prove hereafter that cheer⯑fulneſs had once played upon his fea⯑tures.

Though the expreſſion was ſo different between the countenance, which Schedoni formerly owned, and that he now wore, the ſame character of haughty pride was viſible in both; and Ellena did trace a reſemblance in the bold outline of the features, but not ſufficient to convince [305] her, without farther evidence, that each belonged to the ſame perſon, and that the Confeſſor had ever been the young cavalier in the portrait. In the firſt tumult of her thoughts, ſhe had not had leiſure to dwell upon the ſingularity of Schedoni's viſiting her at this deep hour of the night, or to urge any queſtions, ex⯑cept vague ones, concerning the truth of her relationſhip to him. But now, that her mind was ſomewhat recollected, and that his looks were leſs terrific, ſhe ven⯑tured to aſk a fuller explanation of theſe circumſtances, and his reaſons for the late extraordinary aſſertion. "It is paſt midnight, father," ſaid Ellena, "you may judge then how anxious I am to learn, what motive led you to my cham⯑ber at this lonely hour?"

Schedoni made no reply.

"Did you come to warn me of danger?" ſhe continued, "had you dis⯑covered the cruel deſigns of Spalatro?

[306] Ah! when I ſupplicated for your com⯑paſſion on the ſhore this evening, you little thought what perils ſurrounded me! or you would—"

"You ſay true!" interrupted he, in a hurried manner, "but name the ſub⯑ject no more. Why will you perſiſt in returning to it?"

His words ſurprized Ellena, who had not even alluded to the ſubject till now; but the returning wildneſs of his coun⯑tenance, made her fearful of dwelling upon the topic, even ſo far as to point out his error.

Another deep pauſe ſucceeded, during which Schedoni continued to pace the room, ſometimes ſtopping for an inſtant, to fix his eyes on Ellena, and regarding her with an earneſtneſs that ſeemed to partake of frenzy, and then gloomily withdrawing his regards, and ſighing heavily, as he turned away to a diſtant part of the room. She, meanwhile, agi⯑tated [307] with aſtoniſhment at his conduct, as well as at her own circumſtances, and with the fear of offending him by further queſtions, endeavoured to ſummon courage to ſolicit the explanation which was ſo important to her tranquillity. At length ſhe aſked, how ſhe might venture to be⯑lieve a circumſtance ſo ſurpriſing, as that of which he had juſt aſſured her, and to remind him that he had not yet diſcloſed his reaſon for admitting the belief.

The Confeſſor's feelings were eloquent in reply; and, when at length they were ſufficiently ſubdued, to permit him to talk coherently, he mentioned ſome cir⯑cumſtances concerning Ellena's family, that proved him at leaſt to have been intimately acquainted with it; and others, which ſhe believed were known only to Bianchi and herſelf, that removed every doubt of his identity.

This, however, was a period of his life too big with remorſe, horror, and [308] the firſt pangs of parental affection, to allow him to converſe long; deep ſoli⯑tude was neceſſary for his ſoul. He wiſhed to plunge where no eye might reſtrain his emotions, or obſerve the overflowing anguiſh of his heart. Hav⯑ing obtained ſufficient proof to convince him that Ellena was indeed his child, and aſſured her that ſhe ſhould be re⯑moved from this houſe on the follo⯑ing day, and be reſtored to her home, he abruptly left the chamber.

As he deſcended the ſtair-caſe, Spa⯑latro ſtepped forward to meet him, with the cloak which had been deſigned to wrap the mangled form of Ellena, when it ſhould be carried to the ſhore. "Is it done?" ſaid the ruffian, in a ſtifled voice, "I am ready;" and he ſpread forth the cloak, and began to aſcend.

"Hold! villain, hold!" ſaid Schedoni, lifting up his head for the firſt time, "Dare to enter that chamber, and your life ſhill anſwer for it."

[309] "What!" exclaimed the-man, ſhrink⯑ing back aſtoniſhed—"will not her's ſa⯑tisfy you!"

He trembled for the conſequence of what he had ſaid, when he obſerved the changing countenance of the Confeſſor. But Schedoni ſpoke not: the tumult in his breaſt was too great for utterance, and he preſſed haſtily forward. Spalatro fol⯑lowed. "Be pleaſed to tell me what I am to do," ſaid he, again holding forth the cloak.

"Avaunt!" exclaimed the other, turn⯑ing fiercely upon him; "leave me."

"How!" ſaid the man, whoſe ſpirit was now arouſed, "has your courage failed too, Signor? If ſo, I will prove myſelf no daſ⯑tard, though you called me one; I'll do the buſineſs myſelf."

"Villain! fiend!" cried Schedoni, ſeiz⯑ing the ruffian by the throat, with a graſp that ſeemed intended to annihilate him; when, recollecting that the fellow was only [310] willing to obey the very inſtructions he had himſelf but lately delivered to him, other emotions ſucceeded to that of rage; he ſlowly liberated him, and in accents broken, and ſoftening from ſternneſs, bade him retire to reſt. "Tomorrow," he ad⯑ded, "I will ſpeak further with you. As for this night—I have changed my pur⯑poſe. Begone!"

Spalatro was about to expreſs the in⯑dignation, which aſtoniſhment and fear had hitherto, overcome, but his employer re⯑peated his command in a voice of thun⯑der, and cloſed the door of his apartment with violence, as he ſhut out a man, whoſe preſence was become hateful to him. He felt relieved by his abſence, and began to breathe more freely, till, remembering that this accomplice had juſt boaſted that he was no daſtard, he dreaded leſt, by way of proving the aſſertion, he ſhould attempt to commit the crime, from which he had lately ſhrunk. Terrified at the poſſibili⯑ty, [311] and even apprehending that it might already have become a reality, he ruſhed from the room, and found Spalatro in the paſſage leading to the private ſtair-caſe; but, whatever might have been his pur⯑poſe, the ſituation and looks of the latter were ſufficiently alarming. At the ap⯑proach of Schedoni, he turned his ſullen and malignant countenance towards him, without anſwering the call, or the demand as to his buſineſs there; and with ſlow ſteps obeyed the order of his maſter, that he ſhould withdraw to his room. Thither Schedoni followed, and, having locked him in it for the night, he repaired to the apart⯑ment of Ellena, which he ſecured from the poſſibility of intruſion. He then returned to his own, not to ſleep, but to abandon himſelf to the agonies of remorſe and hor⯑ror; and he yet ſhuddered like a man, who has juſt recoiled from the brink of a pre⯑cipice, but who ſtill meaſures the gulf with his eye.

CHAP. X.

ELLENA, when Schedoni had left her, recollected all the particulars, which he had thought proper to reveal concerning her family, and, comparing them with ſuch circumſtances as the late Bianchi had re⯑lated on the ſame ſubject, ſhe perceived nothing that was contradictory between the two accounts. But ſhe knew not even yet enough of her own ſtory, to underſtand why Bianchi had been ſilent as to ſome particulars, which had juſt been diſcloſed. From Bianchi ſhe had always underſtood, that her mother had married a nobleman of the duchy of Milan, and of the houſe of [313] Marinella; that the marriage had been unfortunate; and that ſhe herſelf, even before the death of the Counteſs, had been committed to the care of Bianchi, the only ſiſter of that lady. Of this event, or of her mother, Ellena had no remembrance; for the kindneſs of Bianchi had obliterated from her mind the loſs and the griefs of her early infancy; and ſhe recollected only the accident which had diſcovered to her, in Bianchi's cabinet, after the death of the latter, the miniature and the name of her father. When ſhe had enquired the reaſon of this injunc⯑tion, Bianchi replied, that the degrad⯑ed fortune of her houſe rendered pri⯑vacy deſirable; and anſwered her fur⯑ther queſtions concerning her father, by relating, that he had died while ſhe was an infant. The picture, which Ellena had diſcovered, Bianchi had found among the trinkets of the departed Counteſs, and [314] deſigned to preſent it at ſome future pe⯑riod to. Ellena, when her diſcretion might be truſted with a knowledge of her family. This was the whole of what Signora Bian⯑chi had judged it neceſſary to explain, though in her laſt hours it appeared that ſhe wiſhed to reveal more; but it was then too late.

Though Ellena perceived that many circumſtances of the relations given by Schedoni, and by Signora Bianchi, coin⯑cided, and that none were contradictory, except that of his death, ſhe could not yet ſubdue her amazement at this diſcovery, or even the doubts which occasionally re⯑curred to her as to it's truth. Schedoni, on the contrary, had not even appeared ſurpriſed, when ſhe aſſured him, that ſhe always underſtood her father had been dead many years; though when ſhe aſked if her mother too was living, both his diſ⯑treſs and his aſſurances confirmed the rela⯑tion made by Bianchi.

[315] When Ellena's mind became more tran⯑quil, ſhe noticed again the ſingularity of Schedoni's viſit to her apartment at ſo ſa⯑cred an hour; and her thoughts glanced back involuntarily to the ſcene of the pre⯑ceding evening on the ſea-ſhore, and the image of her father appeared in each, in the terrific character of an agent of the Marcheſa di Vivaldi. The ſuſpicions, however, which ſhe had formerly admit⯑ted, reſpecting his deſigns, were new impa⯑tiently rejected, for ſhe was leſs anxious to diſcover truth, than to releaſe herſelf from horrible ſuppoſitions; and ſhe willingly believed that Schedoni, having miſunder⯑ſtood her character, had only deſigned to aſſiſt in removing her beyond the reach of Vivaldi. The ingenuity of hope ſuggeſted alſo, that, having juſt heard from her con⯑ductors, or from Spalatro, ſome circum⯑ſtances of her ſtory, he had been led to a ſuſpicion of the relationſhip between them, [316] and that in the firſt impatience of paren⯑tal anxiety, he had diſregarded the hour, and come, though at midnight, to her apartment to aſcertain the truth.

While ſhe ſoothed herſelf with this ex⯑planation of a circumſtance, which had oc⯑caſioned her conſiderable ſurpriſe, ſhe per⯑ceived on the floor the point of a dagger peeping from beneath the curtains! Emo⯑tions almoſt too horrible to be ſuſtained, followed this diſcovery; ſhe took the in⯑ſtrument, and gazed upon it aghaſt and trembling, for a ſuſpicion of the real mo⯑tive of Schedoni's viſit glanced upon her mind. But it was only for a moment; ſuch a ſuppoſition was too terrible to be willing⯑ly endured; ſhe again believed that Spa⯑latro alone had meditated her deſtruction, and ſhe thanked the Confeſſor as her deli⯑verer, inſtead of ſhrinking from him as an aſſaſſin. She now underſtood that Sche⯑doni, having diſcovered the ruffian's deſign, [317] had ruſhed into the chamber to ſave a ſtranger from his murderous poniard, and had unconſciouſly reſcued his own daugh⯑ter, when the portrait at her boſom in⯑formed him of the truth. With this conviction Ellena's eyes overflowed with gratitude, and her heart was huſhed to peace.

Schedoni, meanwhile, ſhut up in his chamber, was agitated by feelings of a ve⯑ry oppoſite nature. When their firſt ex⯑ceſs was exhauſted, and his mind was calm enough to reflect, the images that appeared on it ſtruck him with ſolemn wonder. In purſuing Ellena at the crimi⯑nal inſtigation of the Marcheſa di Vivaldi, it appeared that he had been perſecuting his own child; and in thus conſenting to conſpire againſt the innocent, he had in the event been only puniſhing the guilty, and preparing mortification for himſelf on the exact ſubject to which he had ſacrificed his conſcience. Every ſtep that he had [318] taken with a view of gratifying his ambi⯑tion was retrograde, and while he had been wickedly intent to ſerve the Marcheſa and himſelf, by preventing the marriage of Vivaldi and Ellena, he had been laboriousſ⯑ly counteracting his own fortune. An alli⯑ance with the illuſtrious houſe of Vivaldi, was above his loftieſt hope of advance⯑ment, and this event he had himſelf nearly prevented by the very means which had been adoped, at the expence of every vir⯑tuous conſideration, to obtain an infe⯑rior promotion. Thus by a ſingular re⯑tribution, his own crimes had recoiled upon himſelf.

Schedoni perceived the many obſtacles, which lay between him and his newly awakened hopes, and that much was to be overcome before thoſe nuptials could be publicly ſolemnized, which he was now ſtill more anxious to promote, than he had lately been to prevent. The appro⯑bation of the Marcheſa was, at leaſt, deſir⯑able, [319] for ſhe had much at her diſpoſal, and without it, though his daughter might be the wife of Vivaldi, he himſelf would be no otherwiſe benefited at preſent than by the honour of the connection. He had ſome peculiar reaſons for believing, that her con⯑ſent might be obtained, and, though there was hazard in delaying the nuptials till ſuch an experiment had been made, he re⯑ſolved to encounter it, rather than forbear to ſolicit her concurrence. But, if the Marcheſa ſhould prove inexorable, he de⯑termined to beſtow the hand of Ellena, without her knowledge, and in doing ſo, he well knew that he incurred little dan⯑ger from her reſentment, ſince he had ſe⯑crets in his poſſeſſion, the conſciouſneſs of which muſt awe her into a ſpeedy neutrali⯑ty. The conſent of the Marcheſe, as he deſpaired of obtaining it, he did not mean to ſolicit, and the influence of the Mar⯑cheſa was ſuch, that Schedoni did not re⯑gard that as eſſential.

[320] The firſt ſteps, however, to be taken, were thoſe that might releaſe Vivaldi from the Inquiſition, the tremendous priſon in⯑to which Schedoni himſelf, little foreſeeing that he ſhould ſo ſoon wiſh for his libera⯑tion, had cauſed him to be thrown. He had always underſtoood, indeed, that if the Informer forbore to appear againſt the Accuſed in this Court, the latter would of courſe be liberated; and he alſo believ⯑ed, that Vivaldi's freedom could be ob⯑tained whenever he ſhould think proper to apply to a perſon at Naples, whom he knew to be connected with the Holy Office of Rome. How much the Confeſſor had ſuffered his wiſhes to deceive him, may ap⯑pear hereafter. His motives for having thus confined Vivaldi, were partly thoſe of ſelf-defence. He dreaded the diſcovery and the vengeance, which might follow the loſs of Ellena, ſhould Vivaldi be at liberty immediately to purſue his enquiries. But he believed that all trace of her muſt be [321] loſt, after a few weeks had elapſed, and that Vivaldi's ſufferings from confinement in the Inquiſition would have given inte⯑reſts to his mind, which muſt weaken the one he felt for Ellena. Yet, though in this inſtance ſelf-defence had been a prin⯑cipal motive with Schedoni, a deſire of revenging the inſult he had received in the church of the Spirito Santo, and all the conſequent mortifications he expe⯑rienced, had been a ſecond; and, ſuch was the blackneſs of his hatred, and the avarice of his revenge, that he had not conſidered the ſuffering, which the loſs of Ellena would occaſion Vivaldi, as ſufficient retaliation.

In adopting a mode of puniſhment ſo extraordinary as that of impriſonment in the Inquiſition, it appears, therefore, that Schedoni was influenced, partly by the dif⯑ficulty of otherwiſe confining Vivaldi, du⯑ring the period for which confinement was abſolutely neceſſary to the ſucceſs of his own ſchemes, and partly by a deſire of in⯑flicting [322] the tortures of terror. He had alſo been encouraged by his diſcovery of this opportunity for conferring new obli⯑gations on the Marcheſa. The very con⯑duct, that muſt have appeared to the firſt glance of an honeſt mind fatal to his in⯑tereſts, he thought might be rendered beneficial to them, and that his dexterity could ſo command the buſineſs, as that the Marcheſa ſhould eventually thank him as the deliverer of her ſon, inſtead of diſ⯑covering and execrating him as his Accu⯑ſer; a ſcheme favoured by the unjuſt and cruel rule enacted by the tribunal he ap⯑proached, which permitted anonymous In⯑formers.

To procure the arreſtation of Vivaldi, it had been only neceſſary to ſend a written accuſation, without a name, to the Holy Office, with a mention of the place where the accuſed perſon might be ſeized; but the ſuffering in conſequence of this did not always proceed further than the queſ⯑tion;. [323] ſince, if the Informer failed to disco⯑ver himſelf to the Inquiſitors, the priſoner, after many examinations, was releaſed, unleſs he happened unwarily to criminate himſelf. Schedoni, as he did not intend to proſecute, believed, therefore, that Vivaldi would of courſe be diſcharged after a certain period, and ſuppoſing it alſo utterly impoſſible that he could ever diſcover his Accuſer, the Confeſſor determined to appear anxious and active in effecting his releaſe. This character of a deliverer, he knew he ſhould be the bet⯑ter enabled to ſupport by means of a per⯑ſon officially connected with the Holy Of⯑fice, who had already unconſciouſly aſſiſted his views. In the apartment of this man, Schedoni had accidentally ſeen a formula of arreſtation againſt a perſon ſuſpected of Hereſy, the view of which had not only ſuggeſted to him the plan he had ſince adopted, but had in ſome degree aſſiſted him to carry it into effect. He had ſeen [324] the ſcroll only for a ſhort time, but his obſervations were ſo minute, and his me⯑mory ſo clear, that he was able to copy it with at leaſt ſufficient exactneſs to impoſe upon the Benedictine prieſt, who had, perhaps, ſeldom or never ſeen a real in⯑ſtrument of this kind. Schedoni had em⯑ployed this artifice for the purpoſe of im⯑mediately ſecuring Vivaldi, apprehending that, while the Inquiſitors were ſlowly de⯑liberating upon his arreſt, he might quit Celano, and elude diſcovery. If the de⯑caption ſucceeded, it would enable him alſo to ſeize Ellena, and to miſlead Vivaldi reſpecting her deſtination. The charge of having carried off a nun might appear to be corroborated by many circumſtances, and Schedoni would probably have made theſe the ſubject of real denunciation, had he not foreſeen the danger and the trouble in which it might implicate himſelf; and that, as the charge could not be ſubstan⯑tiated, Ellena would finally eſcape. As [325] far as his plan now went, it had been ſuc⯑ceſsful; ſome of the bravoes whom he hired to perſonate officials, had conveyed Vivaldi to the town, where the real officers of the Inquiſition were appointed to re⯑ceive him; while the others carried Ellena to the ſhore of the Adriatic. Schedoni had much applauded his own ingenuity, in thus contriving, by the matter of the forged accuſation, to throw an impene⯑trable veil over the fate of Ellena, and to ſecure himſelf from the ſuſpicions or ven⯑geance of Vivaldi, who, it appeared, would always believe that ſhe had died, or was ſtill confined in the unſearchable priſons of the Inquiſition.

Thus he had betrayed himſelf in endea⯑vouring to betray Vivaldi, whoſe releaſe, however, he yet ſuppoſed could be eaſily obtained; but how much his policy had, in this inſtance, outrun his ſagacity, now remained to be proved.

The ſubject of Schedoni's immediate [326] perplexity was, the difficulty of convey⯑ing Ellena back to Naples; ſince, not chuſ⯑ing to appear at preſent in the character of her father, he could not decorouſly accompany her thither himſelf, nor could he prudently entruſt her to the conduct of any perſon, whom he knew in this neigh⯑bourhood. It was, however, neceſſary to form a ſpeedy determination, for he could neither endure to paſs another day in a ſcene, which muſt continually impreſs him with the horrors of the preceding night, nor that Ellena ſhould remain in it; and the morning light already gleamed upon his caſements.

After ſome further deliberation, he re⯑ſolved to be himſelf her conductor, as far at leaſt as through the foreſts of the Garga⯑nus, and at the firſt town where conve⯑niencies could be procured, to throw aſide his Monk's habit, and, aſſuming the dreſs of a layman, accompany her in this diſ⯑guiſe towards Naples, till he ſhould either [327] diſcover ſome ſecure means of ſending her forward to that city, or a temporary aſy⯑lum for her in a convent on the way.

His mind was ſcarcely more tranquil, after having formed this determination, than before, and he did not attempt to repoſe himſelf even for a moment. The circumſtances of the late diſcovery were almoſt perpetually recurring to his af⯑frighted conſcience, accompanied by a fear that Ellena might ſuſpect the real purpoſe of his midnight viſit; and he alternately formed and rejected plauſible falſehoods, that might aſſuage her curio⯑ſity, and delude her apprehenſion.

The hour arrived, however, when it was neceſſary to prepare for departure, and found him ſtill undecided as to the explanation he ſhould form.

Having releaſed Spalatro from his chamber, and given him directions to procure horſes and a guide immediately from the neighbouring hamlet, he re⯑paired [328] to Ellena's room, to prepare her for this haſty removal. On approaching it, a remembrance of the purpoſe, with which he had laſt paſſed through theſe ſame paſſages and ſtair-caſe, appealed ſo powerfully to his feelings, that he was unable to proceed, and he turned back to his own apartment to recover ſome command over himſelf. A few moments reſtored to him his uſual addreſs, though not his tranquillity, and he again ap⯑proached the chamber; it was now, how⯑ever, by way of the corridor. As he un⯑barred the door, his hand trembled; but, when he entered the room, his counte⯑nance and manner had reſumed their uſual ſolemnity, and his voice only would have betrayed, to an attentive obſerver, the agi⯑tation of his mind.

Ellena was conſiderably affected on ſeeing him again, and he examined with a jealous eye the emotions he witneſſed. The ſmile with which ſhe met him was [329] tender, but he perceived it paſs away from her features, like the aërial colouring that illumines a mountain's brow; and the gloom of doubt and apprehenſion again overſpread them. As he advanced, he held forth his hand for her's, when, ſuddenly per⯑ceiving the dagger he had left in the cham⯑ber, he involuntarily withdrew his prof⯑fered courteſy, and his countenance chang⯑ed. Ellena, whoſe eyes followed his to the object that attracted them, pointed to the inſtrument, took it up, and approaching him ſaid, "This dagger I found laſt night in my chamber! O my father!"—

"That dagger!" ſaid Schedoni, with affected ſurprize.

"Examine it," continued Ellena, while ſhe held it up, "Do you know to whom it belongs? and who brought it hither?"

"What is it you mean?" aſked Sche⯑doni, betrayed by his feelings.

"Do you know, too, for what pur⯑poſe [330] it was brought?" ſaid Ellena mourn⯑fully.

The Confeſſor made no reply, but irre⯑ſolutely attempted to ſeize the inſtrument.

"O yes, I perceive you know too well," continued Ellena, "here, my father, while I ſlept"—

"Give me the dagger," interrupted Schedoni, in a frightful voice.

"Yes, my father, I will give it as an offering of my gratitude," replied Ellena, but as ſhe raiſed her eyes, filled with tears, his look and fixed attitude terrified her, and ſhe added with a ſtill more perſua⯑ſive tenderneſs, "Will you not accept the offering of your child, for having preſerved her from the poniard of an aſſaſſin?"

Schedoni's looks became yet darker; he took the dagger in ſilence, and threw it with violence to the furtheſt end of the chamber, while his eyes remained fixed on her's. The force of the action [331] alarmed her; "Yes, it is in vain that you would conceal the truth," ſhe added, weeping unreſtrainedly, "your goodneſs cannot avail; I know the whole."—

The laſt words arouſed Schedoni again from his trance, his features became con⯑vulſed, and his look furious."What do you know?" he demanded in a ſubdued voice, that ſeemed ready to burſt in thunder.

"All that I owe you," replied Ellena, "that laſt night, while I ſlept upon this mattreſs, unſuſpicious of what was de⯑ſigned againſt me, an aſſaſſin entered the chamber with that inſtrument in his hand, and—"

A ſtiſled groan from Schedoni checked Ellena; ſhe obſerved his rolling eyes, and trembled; till, believing that his agitation was occaſioned by indignation againſt the aſſaſſin, ſhe reſumed, "Why ſhould you think it neceſſary to conceal the danger which has threatened me, ſince it is to you [332] that I owe my deliverance from it? O! my father, do not deny me the pleaſure of ſhedding theſe tears of gratitude, do not refuſe the thanks, which are due to you! While I ſlept upon that couch, while a ruffian ſtole upon my ſlumber—it was you, yes! can I ever forget that it was my father, who ſaved me from his poniard!"

Schedoni's paſſions were changed, but they were not leſs violent; he could ſcarcely controul them, while he ſaid in a tremulous tone—"It is enough, ſay no more;" and he raiſed Ellena, but turned away without embracing her.

His ſtrong emotion, as he paced in ſilence the furtheſt end of the apartment, excited her ſurprize, but ſhe then attri⯑buted it to a remembrance, of the peri⯑lous moment, from which he had reſcued her.

Schedoni, meanwhile, to whom her thanks were daggers, was trying to ſub⯑due [333] he feelings of remorſe that tore his heart; and was ſo enveloped in a world of his own, as to be for ſome time un⯑conſcious of all around him. He con⯑tinued to ſtalk in gloomy ſilence along the chamber, till the voice of Ellena, entreating him rather to rejoice that he had been permitted to ſave her, than ſo deeply to conſider dangers which were paſt, again touched the chord that vibrated to his conſcience, and recalled him to a ſenſe of his ſituation. He then bade her prepare for immediate departure, and abruptly quitted the room.

Vainly hoping that in flying from the ſcene of his meditated crime, he ſhould leave with it the acuteneſs of remem⯑brance, and the agonizing ſtings of re⯑morſe, he was now more anxious than ever to leave this place. Yet he ſhould ſtill be accompanied by Ellena, and her innocent looks, her affectionate thanks, inflicted an anguiſh, which was ſcarcely [334] endurable. Sometimes, thinking that her hatred, or what to him would be ſtill ſeverer, her contempt, muſt be more tolerable than this gratitude, he almoſt reſolved to undeceive her reſpecting his conduct, but as conſtantly and impa⯑tiently repelled the thought with horror, and finally determined to ſuffer her to account for his late extraordinary viſit in the way ſhe had choſen.

Spalatro, at length, returned from the hamlet with horſes, but without having procured a guide to conduct the tra⯑vellers through a tract of the long-devolving foreſts of the Garganus, which it was neceſſary for them to paſs. No perſon had been willing to undertake ſo arduous a taſk; and Spalatro, who was well acquainted with all the labyrinths of the way, now offered his ſervices.

Schedoni, though he could ſcarcely endure the preſence of this man, had no alternative but to accept him, ſince he [335] had diſmiſſed the guide who had con⯑ducted him hither. Of perſonal violence Schedoni had no apprehenſion, though he too well underſtood the villainy of his pro⯑poſed companion; for he conſidered that he himſelf ſhould be well armed, and he determined to aſcertain that Spalatro was without weapons; he knew alſo, that in caſe of a conteſt, his own ſuperior ſtature would eaſily enable him to overcome ſuch an antagoniſt.

Every thing being now ready for de⯑parture, Ellena was ſummoned, and the Confeſſor led her to his own apartment, where a ſlight breakfaſt was prepared.

Her ſpirits being revived by the ſpeed of this departure, ſhe would again have expreſſed her thanks, but he peremptorily interrupted her, and forbade any further mention of gratitude.

On entering the court where the horſes were in waiting, and perceiving Spalatro, Ellena ſhrunk and put her arm within [336] Schedoni's for protection. "What recol⯑lections does the preſence of that man re⯑vive!" ſaid ſhe, "I can ſcarcely venture to believe myſelf ſafe, even with you, when he is here."

Schedoni made no reply, till the remark was repeated, "You have nothing to fear from him," muttered the Confeſſor, while he haſtened her forward, "and we have no time to loſe in vague apprehenſion."

"How!" exclaimed Ellena, "is not he the aſſaſſin from whom you ſaved me! I cannot doubt, that you know him to be ſuch, though you would ſpare me the pain of believing ſo."

"Well, well, be it ſo," replied the Con⯑feſſor; "Spalatro, lead the horſes this way."

The party were ſoon mounted, when, quitting this eventful manſion, and the those of the Adriatic, as Ellena hoped for ever, they entered upon the gloomy wil⯑derneſs of the Garganus. She often turn⯑ed her eyes back upon the houſe with [326] emotions of inexpreſſible awe, aſtoniſh⯑ment, and thankfulneſs, and gazed while a glimpſe of it's turretted walls could be caught beyond the dark branches, which, cloſing over it, at length ſhut it from her view. The joy of this departure, however, was conſiderably abated by the preſence of Spalatro, and her fearful countenance enquired of Schedoni the meaning of his being ſuffered to accompany them. The Confeſſor was reluctant to ſpeak con⯑cerning a man, of whoſe very exiſtence he would willingly have ceaſed to think. El⯑lena guided her horſe ſtill cloſer to Sche⯑doni's, but, forbearing to urge the enquiry otherwiſe than by looks, ſhe received no reply, and endeavoured to quiet her appre⯑henſions, by conſidering that he would not have permitted this man to be their guide, unleſs he had believed he might be truſted. This conſideration, though it relieved her fears, encreaſed her perplexity reſpecting the late deſigns [338] of Spalatro, and her ſurpriſe that Sche⯑doni, if he had really underſtood them to be evil, ſhould endure his preſence. Every time ſhe ſtole a glance at the dark countenance of this man, rendered ſtill barker by the ſhade of the trees, ſhe thought "aſſaſſin" was written in each line or it, and could ſcarcely doubt that he, and not the people who had conducted her to the manſion, had dropped the dag⯑ger in her chamber. Whenever ſhe looked round through the deep glades, and on the foreſt-mountains that on every ſide cloſed the ſcene, and ſeemed to exclude all cheer⯑ful haunt of man, and then regarded her companions, her heart ſunk, notwith⯑ſtanding the reaſons ſhe had for believing herſelf in the protection of a father. Nay, the very looks of Schedoni himſelf, more than once reminding her of his appearance on the ſea-ſhore, renewed the impreſſions of alarm and even of diſmay, which ſhe had there experienced. At ſuch moments [339] it was ſcarcely poſſible for her to conſider him as her parent, and, in ſpite of every late appearance, ſtrange and unaccounta⯑ble doubts began to gather on her mind.

Schedoni, meanwhile, loſt in thought, broke not, by a ſingle word, the deep ſilence of the ſolitudes through which they paſſed. Spalatro was equally mute, and equally engaged by his reflections on the ſudden change in Schedoni's purpoſe, and by wonder as to the motive, which could have induced him to lead Ellena in ſafety, from the very ſpot whither ſhe was brought by his expreſs command to be deſtroyed. He, however, was not ſo wholly occupied, as to be unmindful of his ſituation, or unwatchful of an oppor⯑tunity of ſerving his own intereſts, and re⯑taliating upon Schedoni for the treatment he had received on the preceding night.

Among the various ſubjects that diſ⯑tracted the Confeſſor, the difficulty of diſpoſing of Ellena, without betraying at [340] Naples that ſhe was his relative, was not the leaſt diſtreſſing. Whatever might be the reaſon which could juſtify ſuch feelings, his fears of a premature diſcovery of the circumſtance to the ſociety with whom he lived, were ſo ſtrong, as often to produce the moſt violent effect upon his countenance, and it was, perhaps, when he was occupied by this ſubject, that it's terrific expreſſion revived with Ellena the late ſcene upon the ſhore. His embar⯑raſſment was not leſs, as to the excuſe to be offered the Marcheſa, for having failed to fulfil his engagement, and reſpecting the means by which he might intereſt her in favour of Ellena, and even diſpoſe her to approve the marriage, before ſhe ſhould be informed of the family of this unfortu⯑nate young woman. Perceiving all the ne⯑ceſſity for aſcertaining the probabilities of ſuch conſent, before he ventured to make an avowal of her origin, he determined not to reveal himſelf till he ſhould be perfectly [341] ſure that the diſcovery would be accepta⯑ble to the Marcheſa. In the mean time, as it would be neceſſary to ſay ſomething of Ellena's birth, he meant to declare, that he had diſcovered it to be noble, and her family worthy, in every reſpect, of a con⯑nection with that of the Vivaldi.

An interview with the Marcheſa, was almoſt equally wiſhed for and dreaded by the Confeſſor. He ſhuddered at the ex⯑pectation of meeting a woman, who had inſtigated him to the murder of his own child, which, though he had been happily prevented from committing it, was an act that would ſtill be wiſhed for by the Marcheſa. How could he endure her reproaches, when ſhe ſhould diſcover that he had failed to accompliſh her will! How conceal the indignation of a father, and diſſimulate all a father's various feelings, when, in reply to ſuch reproaches, he muſt form excuſes, and act humility, from which his whole ſoul would revolt! Ne⯑ver [342] could his arts of diſſimilation have been ſo ſeverely tried, not even in the late ſcenes with Ellena, never have returned upon himſelf in puniſhment ſo ſevere, as in that which awaited him with the Mar⯑cheſa. And from it's approach, the cool and politic Schedoni often ſhrunk in ſuch horror, that he almoſt determined to avoid it at any hazard, and ſecretly to unite Vi⯑valdi and Ellena, without even ſoliciting the conſent of the Marcheſa.

A deſire, however, of the immediate preferment, ſo neceſſary to his pride, con⯑ſtantly checked this ſcheme, and finally made him willing to ſubject every honeſt feeling, and ſubmit to any meanneſs, however vicious, rather than forego the favourite object of his erroneous ambition. Never, perhaps, was the paradoxical union of pride and abjectneſs, more ſtrongly ex⯑hibited than on this occaſion.

While thus the travellers ſilently proceed⯑ed, Ellena's thoughts often turned to Vi⯑valdi, [343] and ſhe conſidered, with trembling anxiety, the effect which the late diſcovery was likely to have upon their future lives. It appeared to her, that Schedoni muſt approve of a connection thus flattering to the pride of a father, though he would pro⯑bably refuſe his conſent to a private mar⯑riage. And, when ſhe further conſidered the revolution, which a knowledge of her family might occaſion towards herſelf in the minds of the Vivaldi, her proſpects ſeemed to brighten, and her cares began to diſſi⯑pate. Judging that Schedoni muſt be acquainted with the preſent ſituation of Vivaldi, ſhe was continually on the point of mentioning him, but was as conſtantly reſtrained by timidity, though, had ſhe ſuſpected him to be an inhabitant of the Inquiſition, her ſcruples would have vaniſhed before an irreſiſtible intereſt. As it was, believing that he, like herſelf, had been impoſed upon by the Marcheſa's agents, in the diſguiſe of officials, ſhe con⯑cluded, [344] as has before appeared, that he how ſuffered a temporary impriſonment by order of his mother, at one of the family villas. When, however, Schedoni, awaking from his reverie, abruptly men⯑tioned Vivaldi, her ſpirits fluttered with impatience to learn his exact ſituation, and ſhe enquired reſpecting it.

"I am no ſtranger to your attach⯑ment," ſaid Schedoni, evading the queſ⯑tion, "but I wiſh to be informed of ſome circumſtances relative to it's commence⯑ment."

Ellena, confuſed, and not knowing what to reply, was for a moment ſilent, and then repeated her enquiry.

"Where did you firſt meet?" ſaid the Confeſſor, ſtill diſregarding her queſtion. Ellena related, that ſhe had firſt ſeen Vivaldi, when attending her aunt from the church of San Lorenzo. For the preſent ſhe was ſpared the embarraſſment of further explanation by Spalatro, who, [345] riding up to Schedoni, informed him they were approaching the town of Zanti. On looking forward, Ellena perceived houſes peeping from among the foreſt-trees, at a ſhort diſtance, and preſently heard the cheerful bark of a dog, that ſure herald and faithful ſervant of man!

Soon after the travellers entered Zanti, a ſmall town ſurrounded by the foreſt, where, however, the poverty of the inha⯑bitants ſeemed to forbid a longer ſtay than was abſolutely neceſſary for repoſe, and a flight refreſhment. Spalatro led the way to a cabin, in which the few per⯑ſons, that journied this road were uſually entertained. The appearance of the peo⯑ple, who owned it, was as wild as their country, and the interior of the dwelling was ſo dirty and comfortleſs, that Sche⯑doni, preferring to take his repaſt in the open air, a table was ſpread under the luxuriant ſhade of the foreſt-trees, at a little diſtance. Here, when the hoſt [346] had withdrawn, and Spalatro had been diſpatched to examine the poſt-horſes, and to procure a lay-habit for the Confeſſor, the latter, once more alone with Ellena, began to experience again ſomewhat of the embaraſſments of conſcience; and Ellena, whenever her eyes glanced upon him, ſuffered a ſolemnity of fear that roſe almoſt to terror. He, at length, termi⯑nated this emphatic ſilence, by renewing his mention of Vivaldi, and his command that Ellena ſhould relate the hiſtory of their affection. Not daring to refuſe, ſhe obeyed, but with as much brevity as poſ⯑ſible, and Schedoni did not interrupt her by a ſingle obſervation. However eligible their nuptials now appeared to him, he for⯑bore to give any hint of approbation, till he ſhould have extricated the object of her regards from his perilous ſituation. But, with Ellena, this very ſilence implied the opinion it was meant to conceal, and, encouraged by the hope it imparted, ſhe [347] ventured once more to aſk, by whoſe order Vivaldi had been arreſted; whither he had been conveyed, and the circumſtances of his preſent ſituation.

Too politic to intruſt her with a know⯑ledge of his actual condition, the Confeſſor ſpared her the anguiſh of learning that he was a priſoner in the Inquiſition. He af⯑fected ignorance of the late tranſaction at Celano, but ventured to believe, that both Vivaldi and herſelf had been arreſted by order of the Marcheſa, who, he conjec⯑tured, had thrown him into temporary confinement, a meaſure which ſhe, no doubt, had meant to enforce alſo towards Ellena.

"And you, my father," obſerved Elle⯑na, "what brought you to my priſon,—you who was not informed with the Mar⯑cheſa's deſigns? What accident conducted you to that remote ſolitude, juſt at the moment when you could ſave your child!"

[348] "Informed of the Marcheſa's deſigns!" ſaid Schedoni, with embarraſſment and diſ⯑pleaſure: "Have you ever imagined that I could be acceſſary—that I could conſent to aſſiſt, I mean could conſent to be a con⯑fidant of ſuch atrocious"—Schedoni, bewildered, confounded, and half betrayed, checked himſelf.

"Yet you have ſaid, the Marcheſa meant only to confine me,!" obſerved Ellena; "was that deſign ſo atrocious? Alas, my father! I know too well that her plan was more atrocious, and ſince you had too much reaſon to know this, why do you ſay that impriſonment only was intended for me? But your ſolicitude for my tran⯑quillity leads you to"—

"What means," interrupted the ſuſpi⯑cious Schedoni, "can I particularly have of underſtanding the Marcheſa's ſchemes? I repeat, that I am not her confidant; how then is it to be ſuppoſed I ſhould know that they extended further than to impri⯑ſonment?"

[349] "Did you not ſave me from the arm of the aſſaſſin!" ſaid Ellena tenderly; "did not you wrench the very dagger from his graſp!"

"I had forgotten, I had forgotten," ſaid the Conſeſſor, yet more embarraſſed.

"Yes, good minds are ever thus apt to forget the benefits they confer," replied Ellena. "But you ſhall find, my father, that a grateful heart is equally tenacious to remember them; it is the indelible regi⯑ſter of every act that is diſmiſſed from the memory of the benefactor."

"Mention no more of benefits," ſaid Schedoni, impatiently; "let ſilence on this ſubject henceforth indicate your wiſh to oblige me."

He roſe, and joined the hoſt, who was at the door of his cabin. Schedoni wiſh⯑ed to diſmiſs Spalatro as ſoon as poſſible, and he enquired for a guide to conduct him through that part of the foreſt, which remained to be traverſed. In this poor [350] town, a perſon willing to undertake that office was eaſily to be found, but the hoſt went in queſt of a neighbour whom he had recommended.

Meanwhile Spalatro returned, without having ſucceeded in his commiſſion. Not any lay-habit could be procured, upon ſo ſhort a notice, that ſuited Schedoni. He was obliged, therefore, to continue his journey to the next town at leaſt, in his own dreſs, but the. neceſſity was not very ſerious to him, ſince it was improbable that he ſhould be known in this obſcure re⯑gion.

Preſently the hoſt appeared with his neighbour, when Schedoni, having receiv⯑ed ſatisfactory anſwers to his queſtions, engaged him for the remainder of the fo⯑reſt-road, and diſmiſſed Spalatro. The ruffian departed with ſullen reluctance and evident ill-will, circumſtances which the Confeſſor ſcarcely noticed, while occupied by the ſatisfaction of eſcaping from the [351] preſence of the atrocious partner of his conſcience. But Ellena, as he paſſed her, obſerved the malignant diſappointment of his look, and it ſerved only to heighten the thankfulneſs his departure occaſioned her.

It was afternoon before the travellers proceeded. Schedoni had calculated that they could eaſily reach the town, at which they deſigned to paſs the night, before the cloſe of evening, and he had been in no haſte to depart during the heat of the day. Their track now lay through a country leſs ſavage, though ſcarcely leſs wild than that they had paſſed in the morning. It emerged from the interior towards the border of the foreſt; they were no lon⯑ger encloſed by impending mountains; the withdrawing ſhades were no longer impenetrable to the eye, but now and then opened to gleams of ſunſhine-land⯑ſcape, and blue diſtances; and in the im⯑mediate ſcene, many a green glade ſpread [352] it's boſom to the ſun. The grandeur of the trees, however, did not decline; the plane, the oak, and the cheſtnut ſtill threw a pomp of foliage round theſe ſmil⯑ing ſpots, and ſeemed to conſecrate the mountain ſtreams, that deſcended beneath their ſolemn ſhade.

To the haraſſed ſpirits of Ellena the changing ſcenery was refreſhing, and ſhe frequently yielded her cares to the in⯑fluence of majeſtic nature. Over the gloom of Schedoni, no ſcenery had, at any moment, power; the ſhape and paint of external imagery gave neither impreſſion or colour to his fancy. He contemned the ſweet illuſions, to which other ſpirits are liable, and which often confer a delight more exquiſite, and not leſs innocent, than any, which deliberative reaſon can beſtow.

The ſame thoughtful ſilence, that had wrapt him at the beginning of the jour⯑ney, he ſtill preſerved, except when occa⯑ſionally [353] he aſked a queſtion of the guide con⯑cerning the way, and received anſwers too loquacious for his humour. This loqua⯑city, however, was not eaſily repreſſed, and the peaſant had already begun to relate ſome terrible ſtories of murder, committed in theſe foreſts upon people, who had been hardy enough to venture into them with⯑out a guide, before the again abſtracted Schedoni even noticed that he ſpoke. Though Ellena did not give much credit to theſe narratives, they had ſome effect upon her fears, when ſoon after ſhe entered the deep ſhades of a part of the foreſt, that lay along a narrow defile, whence every glimpſe of cheerful landſcape was again ex⯑cluded by precipices, which towered on ei⯑ther ſide. The ſtilneſs was not leſs effectual than the gloom, for no ſounds were heard, except ſuch as ſeemed to characterize ſoli⯑tude, and impreſs it's awful power more deeply on the heart,—the hollow daſh⯑ing of torrents deſcending diſtantly, and the [354] deep ſighings of the wind, as it paſſed among trees, which threw their broad arms over the cliffs, and crowned the higheſt ſummits. Onward, through the narrow⯑ing windings of the defile, no living object appeared; but, as Ellena looked fearfully back, ſhe thought ſhe diſtinguiſhed a hu⯑man figure advancing beneath the duſky umbrage that cloſed the view. She com⯑municated her ſuſpicion to Schedoni, though not her fears, and they ſtopped for a moment, to obſerve further. The object advanced ſlowly, and they perceived the ſtature of a man, who, having conti⯑nued to approach, ſuddenly pauſed, and then glided away behind the foliage that croſſed the perſpective, but not before Ellena fancied ſhe diſcriminated the figure of Spalatro, None but a purpoſe the moſt deſperate, ſhe believed, could have urged him to follow into this paſs, inſtead of returning, as he had pretended, to his home. Yet it appeared improbable, that [355] he alone ſhould be willing to attack two armed perſons, for both Schedoni and the guide had weapons of defence. This con⯑ſideration afforded her only a momentary reſpite from apprehenſion, ſince it was poſ⯑ſible that he might not be alone, though only one perſon had yet been ſeen among the ſhrouding branches of the woods. "Did you not think he reſembled Spala⯑tro?" ſaid Ellena to the Confeſſor, "was he not of the ſame ſtature and air? You are well armed, or I ſhould fear for you, as well as for myſelf."

"I did not obſerve a reſemblance," replied Schedoni, throwing a glance back, "but whoever he is, you have nothing to apprehend from him, for he has diſ⯑appeared."

"Yes, Signor, ſo much the worſe," obſerved the guide, "ſo much the worſe, if he means us any harm, for he can ſteal along the rocks behind theſe thickets, and ſtrike out upon us before [356] we are aware of him. Or, if he knows the path that runs among thoſe old oaks yonder, on the left, where the ground riſes, he has us ſure at the turning of the next cliff."

" Speak lower," ſaid Schedoni, " un⯑leſs you mean that he ſhould benefit by your inſtructions."

Though the Confeſſor ſaid this without any ſuſpicion of evil intention from the guide, the man immediately began to juſtify himſelf, and added, " I'll give him a hint of what he may expect, however, if he attacks us." As he ſpoke, he fired his trombone in the air, when every rock reverberated the ſound, and the faint and fainter thunder retired in murmurs through all the windings of the defile. The eagerneſs, with which the guide had juſtified himſelf, produced an effect upon Schedoni contrary to what he deſigned; and the Confeſſor, as he watched him ſuſpiciouſly, obſerved, that after he had [357] fired, he did not load his piece again. " Since you have given the enemy ſuffi⯑cient intimation where to find us," ſaid Schedoni, " you will do well to prepare for his reception; load again, friend. I have arms too, and they are ready."

While the man ſullenly obeyed, El⯑lena, again alarmed, looked back in ſearch of the ſtranger, but not any perſon ap⯑peared beneath the gloom, and no foot⯑ſtep broke upon the ſtilneſs. When, however, ſhe ſuddenly heard a ruſtling noiſe, ſhe looked to the bordering thick⯑ets, almoſt expecting to ſee Spalatro break from among them, before ſhe perceived that it was only the ſounding pinions of birds, which, ſtartled by the report of the trombone from their high neſts in the cliffs, winged their way from danger.

The ſuſpicions of the Confeſſor had, probably, been ſlight, for they were tran⯑ſient; and when Ellena next addreſſed him, he had again retired within himſelf. He was ruminating upon an excuſe to be [358] offered the Marcheſa, which might be ſufficient both to aſſuage her diſappoint⯑ment and baffle her curioſity, and he could not, at preſent, fabricate one that might ſoothe her reſentment, without riſk of betraying his ſecret.

Twilight had added its gloom to that of the rocks, before the travellers diſtin⯑guiſhed the town, at which they meant to paſs the night. It terminated the defile, and its grey houſes could ſcarcely be diſ⯑cerned from the precipice upon which they hung, or from the trees that em⯑boſomed them. A rapid ſtream rolled below, and over it a bridge conducted the wanderers to the little inn, at which they were to take up their abode. Here, quietly lodged, Ellena diſmiſſed all preſent apprehenſion of Spalatro, but ſhe ſtill believed ſhe had ſeen him, and her ſuſpi⯑cions, as to the motive of his extraordinary journey, were not appeaſed.

As this was a town of ampler accom⯑modation than the one they had left, Sche⯑doni [359] eaſily procured a lay-habit, that would diſguiſe him for the remainder of the journey; and Ellena was permitted to lay aſide the nun's veil, for one of a more general faſhion; but, in diſmiſſing it, ſhe did not forget that it had been the veil of Olivia, and ſhe preſerved it as a ſacred relique of her favourite recluſe.

The diſtance between this town and Naples was ſtill that of ſeveral days jour⯑ney, according to the uſual mode of tra⯑velling; but the moſt dangerous part of the way was now overcome, the road having emerged from the foreſts; and when Schedoni, on the following morn⯑ing, was departing, he would have diſ⯑charged the guide, had not the hoſt aſſured him, he would find one ſtill neceſ⯑ſary in the open, but wild, country through which he muſt paſs. Schedoni's diſtruſt of this guide had never been very ſerious, and, as the reſult of the preceding even⯑ing proved favourable, he had reſtored him ſo entirely to his confidence, as will⯑ingly [360] to engage him for the preſent day. In this confidence, however, Ellena did not perfectly coincide; ſhe had obſerved the man while he loaded the trombone, on Schedoni's order, and his evident reluc⯑tance had almoſt perſuaded her, that he was in league with ſome perſon who de⯑ſigned to attack them; a conjecture, per⯑haps, the more readily admitted while her mind was ſuffering from the impreſſion of having ſeen Spalatro. She now ventured to hint her diſtruſt to the Confeſſor, who paid little attention to it, and reminded her, that ſufficient proof of the man's honeſty had appeared, in their having been permitted to paſs in ſafety, a defile ſo con⯑venient for the purpoſe of rapine as that of yeſterday. To a reply apparently ſo reaſonable, Ellena could oppoſe nothing, had ſhe even dared to preſs the topic; and ſhe re-commenced the journey with gayer hopes.