CHAP. VIII.

ALL the reſearches of the marquis de las Ciſternas proved vain. Agnes was loſt to him for ever. Deſpair produced ſo vio⯑lent an effect upon his conſtitution, that the conſequence was a long and ſevere ill⯑neſs. This prevented him from viſiting Elvira, as he had intended; and ſhe being ignorant of the cauſe of his neglect, it gave her no trifling uneaſineſs. His ſiſter's death [2] had prevented Lorenzo from communicat⯑ing to his uncle his deſigns reſpecting An⯑tonia. The injunctions of her mother for⯑bade his preſenting himſelf to her without the duke's conſent; and as ſhe heard no more of him or his propoſals, Elvira con⯑jectured that he had either met with a bet⯑ter match, or had been commanded to give up all thoughts of her daughter. Every day made her more uneaſy reſpecting An⯑tonia's fate; yet, while ſhe retained the ab⯑bot's protection, ſhe bore with fortitude the diſappointment of her hopes with regard to Lorenzo and the marquis. That reſource now failed her. She was convinced that Am⯑broſio had meditated her daughter's ruin; and when ſhe reflected that her death would leave Antonia friendleſs and unprotected in a world ſo baſe, ſo perfidious and de⯑praved, her heart ſwelled with the bitter⯑neſs of apprehenſion. At ſuch times ſhe would ſit for hours gazing upon the lovely girl, and ſeeming to liſten to her innocent prattle, while in reality her thoughts dwelt [3] upon the ſorrows into which a moment would ſuffice to plunge her. Then ſhe would claſp her in her arms ſuddenly, lean her head upon her daughter's boſom, and bedew it with her tears.

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

Don Raymond's malady ſeemed to gain ground. Lorenzo was conſtantly at his bed-ſide, and treated him with a tenderneſs truly fraternal. Both the cauſe and effects of the diſorder were highly afflicting to the brother of Agnes; yet Theodore's grief was ſcarcely leſs ſincere. That amiable boy quitted not his maſter for a moment, and put every means in practice to conſole and alleviate his ſufferings. The marquis had conceived ſo rooted an affection for his de⯑ceaſed [4] miſtreſs, that it was evident to all that he never could ſurvive her loſs. No⯑thing could have prevented him from ſink⯑ing under his grief, but the perſuaſion of her being ſtill alive, and in need of his aſſiſt⯑ance. Though convinced of its falſehood, his attendants encouraged him in a belief which formed his only comfort. He was aſſured daily, that freſh perquiſitions were making reſpecting the fate of Agnes; ſto⯑ries were invented recounting the various attempts made to get admittance into the convent; and circumſtances were related, which, though they did not promiſe her ab⯑ſolute recovery, at leaſt were ſufficient to keep his hopes alive. The marquis con⯑ſtantly fell into the moſt terrible acceſs of paſſion, when informed of the failure of theſe ſuppoſed attempts. Still he would not credit that the ſucceeding ones would have the ſame fate, but flattered himſelf that the next would prove more fortu⯑nate.

Theodore was the only one who exerted [5] himſelf to realize his maſter's chimeras. He was eternally buſied in planning ſchemes for entering the convent, or at leaſt of ob⯑taining from the nuns ſome intelligence of Agnes. To execute theſe ſchemes was the only inducement which could prevail on him to quit Don Raymond. He became a very Proteus, changing his ſhape every day; but all his metamorphoſes were to very little purpoſe. He regularly returned to the palace de las Ciſternas without any in⯑telligence to confirm his maſter's hopes. One day he took it into his head to diſ⯑guiſe himſelf as a beggar; he put a patch over his left eye, took his guitar in hand, and poſted himſelf at the gate of the con⯑vent.

"If Agnes is really confined in the con⯑vent," thought he, "and hears my voice, ſhe will recollect it, and poſſibly may find means to let me know that ſhe is here."

With this idea he mingled with a crowd of beggars who aſſembled daily at the gate of St. Clare to receive ſoup, which the nuns [6] were accuſtomed to diſtribute at twelve o'clock. All were provided with jugs or bowls to carry it away; but as Theodore had no utenſil of this kind, he begged leave to eat his portion at the convent door. This was granted without difficulty. His ſweet voice, and, in ſpite of his patched eye, his engaging countenance, won the heart of the good old portereſs, who, aided by a lay-ſiſter, was buſied in ſerving to each his meſs. Theodore was bid to ſtay till the others ſhould depart, and promiſed that his requeſt ſhould then be granted. The youth deſired no better, ſince it was not to eat ſoup that he preſented himſelf at the con⯑vent. He thanked the portereſs for her permiſſion, retired from the door, and, ſeating himſelf upon a large ſtone, amuſed himſelf in tuning his guitar while the beg⯑gars were ſerved.

As ſoon as the crowd was gone, Theodore was beckoned to the gate, and deſired to come in. He obeyed with infinite readineſs, but affected great reſpect at paſſing the [7] hallowed threſhold, and to be much daunted by the preſence of the reverend ladies. His feigned timidity flattered the vanity of the nuns, who endeavoured to re-aſſure him. The portereſs took him into her own little parlour: in the mean while, the lay-ſiſter went to the kitchen, and ſoon re⯑turned with a double portion of ſoup of better quality than what was given to the beggars. His hoſteſs added ſome fruits and confections from her own private ſtore, and both encouraged the youth to dine heartily. To all theſe attentions he re⯑plied with much ſeeming gratitude, and abundance of bleſſings upon his benefac⯑treſſes. While he ate, the nuns admired the delicacy of his features, the beauty of his hair, and the ſweetneſs and grace which accompanied all his actions. They lament⯑ed to each other in whiſpers, that ſo charm⯑ing a youth ſhould be expoſed to the ſe⯑ductions of the world, and agreed that he would be a worthy pillar of the catholic church. They concluded their conference [8] by reſolving, that heaven would be ren⯑dered a real ſervice, if they entreated the prioreſs to intercede with Ambroſio for the beggar's admiſſion into the order of capuchins.

This being determined, the portereſs, who was a perſon of great influence in the convent, poſted away in all haſte to the domina's cell. Here ſhe made ſo flaming a narrative of Theodore's merits, that the old lady grew curious to ſee him. Accordingly the portereſs was commiſſioned to convey him to the parlour-grate. In the interim, the ſuppoſed beggar was ſifting the lay-ſiſter with reſpect to the fate of Agnes: her evidence only corroborated the domina's aſſertions. She ſaid, that Agnes had been taken ill on returning from confeſſion▪ had never quitted her bed from that moment, and that ſhe had herſelf been preſent at the funeral. She even atteſted having ſeen her dead body, and aſſiſted with her own hands in adjuſting it upon the bier. This account diſcouraged Theodore; yet, as he had puſh⯑ed [9] the adventure ſo far, he reſolved to wit⯑neſs its concluſion.

The portereſs now returned, and ordered him to follow her. He obeyed, and was conducted into the parlour, where the lady prioreſs was already poſted at the grate. The nuns ſurrounded her, who all flocked with eagerneſs to a ſcene which promiſed ſome diverſion. Theodore ſaluted them with profound reſpect, and his preſence had the power to ſmooth for a moment even the ſtern brow of the ſuperior. She aſked ſeveral queſtions reſpecting his pa⯑rents, his religion, and what had reduced him to a ſtate of beggary. To theſe de⯑mands his anſwers were perfectly ſatisfac⯑tory and perfectly falſe. He was then aſked his opinion of a monaſtic life. He replied in terms of high eſtimation and reſpect for it. Upon this the prioreſs told him, that his obtaining an entrance into a religious order was not impoſſible; that her recom⯑mendation would not permit his poverty to be an obſtacle; and that, if ſhe found him [10] deſerving it, he might depend in future upon her protection. Theodore aſſured her, that to merit her favour would be his higheſt ambition; and having ordered him to return next day, when ſhe would talk with him further, the domina quitted the parlour.

The nuns, whom reſpect for the ſuperior had till then kept ſilent, now crowded all together to the grate, and aſſailed the youth with a multitude of queſtions. He had al⯑ready examined each with attention. Alas! Agnes was not amongſt them. The nuns heaped queſtion upon queſtion ſo thickly, that it was ſcarcely poſſible for him to re⯑ply. One aſked where he was born, ſince his accent declared him to be a foreigner: another wanted to know why he wore a patch upon his left eye: ſiſter Helena en⯑quired whether he had not a ſiſter like him, becauſe ſhe ſhould like ſuch a companion: and ſiſter Rachael was fully perſuaded that the brother would be the pleaſanter com⯑panion of the two. Theodore amuſed him⯑ſelf [11] with relating to the credulous nuns, for truths, all the ſtrange ſtories which his ima⯑gination could invent. He related to them his ſuppoſed adventures, and penetrated every auditor with aſtoniſhment, while he talked of giants, ſavages, ſhipwrecks, and iſlands inhabited

with many other circumſtances to the full as remarkable. He ſaid that he was born in Teria Incognita, was educated at an Hottentot univerſity, and had paſſed two years among the Americans of Sileſia.

"For what regards the loſs of my eye," ſaid he, "it was a juſt puniſhment upon me for diſreſpect to the Virgin, when I made my ſecond pilgrimage to Loretto. I ſtood near the altar in the miraculous chapel the monks were proceeding to array the ſtatue in her beſt apparel. The pilgrims were ordered to cloſe their eyes during this cere⯑mony; but though by nature extremely re⯑ligious, curioſity was too powerful. At the [12] moment . . . . . I ſhall penetrate you with horror, reverend ladies, when I reveal my crime! . . . . At the moment that the monks were changing her ſhift, I ventured to open my left eye, and gave a little peep towards the ſtatue. That look was my laſt! The glory which ſurrounded the Virgin was too great to be ſupported. I haſtily ſhut my ſacrilegious eye, and never have been able to uncloſe it ſince!"

At the relation of this miracle the nuns all croſſed themſelves, and promiſed to in⯑tercede with the bleſſed Virgin for the reco⯑very of his ſight. They expreſſed their wonder at the extent of his travels, and at the ſtrange adventures which he had met with at ſo early an age. They now remark⯑ed his guitar, and enquired whether he was an adept in muſic. He replied with mo⯑deſty, that it was not for him to decide upon his talents, but requeſted permiſſion to appeal to them as judges. This was granted without difficulty.

[13]"But at leaſt," ſaid the old portereſs, "take care not to ſing any thing profane."

"You may depend upon my diſcretion," replied Theodore; "you ſhall hear how dan⯑gerous it is for young women to abandon themſelves to their paſſions, illuſtrated by the adventure of a damſel, who fell ſud⯑denly in love with an unknown knight."

"But is the adventure true?" enquired the portereſs.

"Every word of it. It happened in Denmark; and the heroine was thought ſo beautiful, that ſhe was known by no other name but that of "the lovely maid."

"In Denmark, ſay you?" mumbled an old nun: "Are not the people all blacks in Denmark?"

"By no means, reverend lady; they are of a delicate pea-green, with flame-coloured hair and whiſkers."

"Mother of God! Pea-green?" ex⯑claimed ſiſter Helena: "Oh! 'tis impoſ⯑ſible!"

"Impoſſible!" ſaid the portereſs, with a [14] look of contempt and exultation: "Not at all: when I was a young woman, I remem⯑ber ſeeing ſeveral of them myſelf."

Theodore now put his inſtrument in pro⯑per order. He had read the ſtory of a king of England, whoſe priſon was diſcovered by a minſtrel; and he hoped that the ſame ſcheme would enable him to diſcover Ag⯑nes, ſhould ſhe be in the convent. He choſe a ballad, which ſhe had taught him herſelf in the caſtle of Lindenberg: ſhe might poſſibly catch the ſound, and he hoped to hear her replying to ſome of the ſtanzas. His guitar was now in tune, and he prepared to ſtrike it.

"But, before I begin," ſaid he, "it is neceſſary to inform you, ladies, that this ſame Denmark is terribly infeſted by ſor⯑cerers, witches, and evil ſpirits. Every element poſſeſſes its appropriate daemons. The woods are haunted by a malignant power, called "The Erl, or Oak-King:" he it is who blights the trees, ſpoils the harveſt, and commands the imps and gob⯑lins. [15] He appears in the form of an old man of majeſtic figure, with a golden crown, and long white beard. His principal amuſement is to entice young children from their parents; and as ſoon as he gets them into his cave, he tears them into a thouſand pieces. The rivers are governed by ano⯑ther fiend, called "The Water-King:" his province is to agitate the deep, occaſion ſhipwrecks, and drag the drowning ſailors beneath the waves. He wears the appear⯑ance of a warrior, and employs himſelf in luring young virgins into his ſnare: what he does with them, when he catches them in the water, reverend ladies, I leave for you to imagine. "The Fire-King" ſeems to be a man all formed of flames: he raiſes the meteors and wandering lights, which beguile travellers into ponds and marſhes, and he directs the lightning where it may do moſt miſchief. The laſt of theſe ele⯑mentary daemons is called "The Cloud-King:" his figure is that of a beautiful youth, and he is diſtinguiſhed by two large [16] ſable wings: though his outſide is ſo en⯑chanting, he is not a bit better diſpoſed than the others. He is continually employed in raiſing ſtorms, tearing up foreſts by the roots, and blowing caſtles and convents about the ears of their inhabitants. The firſt has a daughter, who is queen of the elves and fairies: the ſecond has a mother, who is a powerful enchantreſs. Neither of theſe ladies are worth more than the gen⯑tlemen. I do not remember to have heard any family aſſigned to the two other dae⯑mons, but at preſent I have no buſineſs with any of them except the fiend of the waters. He is the hero of my ballad; but I thought it neceſſary, before I began, to give you ſome account of his proceed⯑ings."

Theodore then played a ſhort ſymphony; after which, ſtretching his voice to its ut⯑moſt extent, to facilitate its reaching the ear of Agnes, he ſung the following ſtanzas:

The youth ceaſed to ſing. The nuns were delighted with the ſweetneſs of his voice, and maſterly manner of touching the inſtrument; but however acceptable this applauſe would have been at any other time, at preſent it was inſipid to Theodore. His artifice had not ſucceeded. He pauſed in vain between the ſtanzas; no voice re⯑plied to his, and he abandoned the hope of equalling Blondel.

The convent-bell now warned the nuns that it was time to aſſemble in the refecto⯑ry. They were obliged to quit the grate: [21] they thanked the youth for the entertain⯑ment which his muſic had afforded them, and charged him to return the next day. This he promiſed. The nuns, to give him the greater inclination to keep his word, told him that he might always depend upon the convent for his meals, and each of them made him ſome little preſent. One gave him a box of ſweetmeats; another, an ag⯑nus dei; ſome brought reliques of ſaints, waxen images, and conſecrated croſſes; and others preſented him with pieces of thoſe works in which the religious excel, ſuch as embroidery, artificial flowers, lace, and needle-work. All theſe he was adviſed to ſell, in order to put himſelf into better caſe; and he was aſſured that it would be eaſy to diſpoſe of them, ſince the Spaniards hold the performances of the nuns in high eſtimation. Having received theſe gifts with ſeeming reſpect and gratitude, he re⯑marked, that, having no baſket, he knew not how to convey them away. Several of the nuns were haſtening in ſearch of one, [22] when they were ſtopped by the return of an elderly woman, whom Theodore had not till then obſerved. Her mild countenance and reſpectable air prejudiced him imme⯑diately in her favour.

"Hah!" ſaid the portereſs, "here comes the mother St. Urſula with a baſket."

The nun approached the grate, and pre⯑ſented the baſket to Theodore: it was of willow, lined with blue ſatin, and upon the four ſides were painted ſcenes from the le⯑gend of St. Genevieve.

"Here is my gift," ſaid ſhe, as ſhe gave it into his hand: "Good youth, deſpiſe it not. Though its value ſeems inſignificant, it has many hidden virtues."

She accompanied theſe words with an expreſſive look. It was not loſt upon The⯑odore. In receiving the preſent, he drew as near the grate as poſſible.

"Agnes!" ſhe whiſpered in a voice ſcarcely intelligible.

Theodore, however, caught the ſound. He concluded that ſome myſtery was con⯑cealed [23] in the baſket, and his heart beat with impatience and joy. At this moment the domina returned. Her air was gloomy and frowning, and ſhe looked if poſſible more ſtern than ever.

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

The nun changed colour, and was evi⯑dently diſconcerted.

"With me?" ſhe replied in a faltering voice.

The domina motioned that ſhe muſt follow her, and retired. The mother St. Urſula obeyed her. Soon after, the refec⯑tory bell ringing a ſecond time, the nuns quitted the grate, and Theodore was left at liberty to carry off his prize. Delighted that at length he had obtained ſome intelli⯑gence for the marquis, he flew rather than ran till he reached the hotel de las Ciſternas. In a few minutes he ſtood by his maſter's bed with the baſket in his hand. Lorenzo was in the chamber, endeavouring to recon⯑cile [24] his friend to a misfortune which he felt himſelf but too ſeverely. Theodore related his adventure, and the hopes which had been created by the mother St. Ur⯑ſula's gift. The marquis ſtarted from his pillow. That fire which ſince the death of Agnes had been extinguiſhed, now re⯑vived in his boſom, and his eyes ſparkled with the eagerneſs of expectation. The emotions which Lorenzo's countenance be⯑trayed were ſcarcely weaker, and he waited with inexpreſſible impatience for the ſolu⯑tion of this myſtery. Raymond caught the baſket from the hands of his page: he emp⯑tied the contents upon the bed, and ex⯑amined them with minute attention. He hoped that a letter would be found at the bottom. Nothing of the kind appeared. The ſearch was reſumed, and ſtill with no better ſucceſs. At length Don Raymond obſerved, that one corner of the blue ſatin lining was unripped: he tore it open haſtily, and drew forth a ſmall ſcrap of paper, nei⯑ther [25] folded nor ſealed. It was addreſſed to the marquis de las Ciſternas, and the con⯑tents were as follow:

No ſooner had the marquis read the note, than he fell back upon his pillow deprived of ſenſe or motion. The hope failed him which till now had ſupported his exiſtence; and [26] theſe lines convinced him but too poſitively that Agnes was indeed no more. Lorenzo felt this circumſtance leſs forcibly, ſince it had always been his idea that his ſiſter had periſhed by unfair means. When he found by the mother ST. Urſula's letter how true were his ſuſpicions, the confirmation excited no other ſentiment in his boſom than a wiſh to puniſh the murderers as they deſerved. It was no eaſy taſk to recall the marquis to himſelf. As ſoon as he recovered his ſpeech, he broke out into execrations againſt the aſſaſſins of his beloved, and vowed to take upon them a ſignal vengeance. He con⯑tinued to rave and torment himſelf with impotent paſſion, till his conſtitution, en⯑feebled by grief and illneſs, could ſupport itſelf no longer, and relapſed into inſenſi⯑bility. His melancholy ſituation ſincerely affected Lorenzo, who would willingly have remained in the apartment of his friend; but other cares now demanded his preſence. It was neceſſary to procure the order for ſeizing the prioreſs of St. Clare. [27] For this purpoſe, having committed Ray⯑mond to the care of the beſt phyſicians in Madrid, he quitted the hotel de las Ciſter⯑nas, and bent his courſe towards the palace of the cardinal-duke.

His diſappointment was exceſſive, when he found that affairs of ſtate had obliged the cardinal to ſet out for a diſtant pro⯑vince. It wanted but five days to Friday: yet, by travelling day and night, he hoped to return in time for the pilgrimage of St. Clare. In this he ſucceeded. He found the cardinal-duke, and repreſented to him the ſuppoſed culpability of the prioreſs, as alſo the violent effects which it had pro⯑duced upon Don Raymond. He could have uſed no argument ſo forcible as this laſt. Of all his nephews the marquis was the only one to whom the cardinal-duke was ſincere⯑ly attached: he perfectly doted upon him, and the prioreſs could have committed no greater crime in his eyes, than to have en⯑dangered the life of the marquis. Conſe⯑quently, he granted the order of arreſt [28] without difficulty. He alſo gave Lorenzo a letter to a principal officer of the Inqui⯑ſition, deſiring him to ſee his mandate exe⯑cuted. Furniſhed with theſe papers, Me⯑dina haſtened back to Madrid, which he reached on the Friday a few hours before dark. He found the marquis ſomewhat eaſier, but ſo weak and exhauſted, that without great exertion he could neither ſpeak nor move. Having paſſed an hour by his bed-ſide, Lorenzo left him to commu⯑nicate his deſign to his uncle, as alſo to give Don Ramirez de Mello the cardinal's letter. The firſt was petrified with horror, when he learned the fate of his unhappy niece. He encouraged Lorenzo to puniſh her aſſaſſins, and engaged to accompany him at night to St. Clare's convent. Don Ramirez pro⯑miſed his firmeſt ſupport, and ſelected a band of truſty archers to prevent oppoſition on the part of the populace.

But while Lorenzo was anxious to un⯑maſk one religious hypocrite, he was un⯑conſcious of the ſorrows prepared for him [29] by another. Aided by Matilda's infernal agents, Ambroſio had reſolved upon the innocent Antonia's ruin. The moment deſtined to be ſo fatal to her arrived. She had taken leave of her mother for the night. As ſhe kiſſed her, ſhe felt an unuſual de⯑ſpondency infuſe itſelf into her boſom. She left her, and returned to her inſtantly, threw herſelf into her maternal arms, and bathed her cheek with tears. She felt uneaſy at quitting her, and a ſecret preſentiment aſ⯑ſured her that never muſt they meet again. Elvira obſerved, and tried to laugh her out of this childiſh prejudice. She chid her mildly for encouraging ſuch ungrounded ſadneſs, and warned her how dangerous it was to encourage ſuch ideas.

To all her remonſtrances ſhe received no other anſwer than—

"Mother! Dear mother! Oh! would to God it were morning!"

Elvira, whoſe inquietude reſpecting her daughter was a great obſtacle to her perfect re-eſtabliſhment, was ſtill labouring under [30] the effects of her late ſevere illneſs. She was this evening more than uſually indiſ⯑poſed, and retired to bed before her accuſ⯑tomed hour. Antonia withdrew from her mother's chamber with regret, and, till the door cloſed, kept her eyes fixed upon her with melancholy expreſſion. She retired to her own apartment: her heart was filled with bitterneſs. It ſeemed to her that all her proſpects were blaſted, and the world contained nothing for which it was worth exiſting; She ſank into a chair, reclined her head upon her arm, and gazed upon the floor with a vacant ſtare, while the moſt gloomy images floated before her fancy. She was ſtill in this ſtate of inſenſibility, when ſhe was diſturbed by hearing a ſtrain of ſoft muſic breathed beneath her window. She roſe, drew near the caſement, and opened it to hear it more diſtinctly. Having thrown her veil over her face, ſhe ventured to look out. By the light of the moon ſhe perceived ſeveral men below with guitars and lutes in their hands; and at a little diſtance from [31] them ſtood another wrapped in his cloak, whoſe ſtature and appearance bore a ſtrong reſemblance to Lorenzo's. She was not deceived in this conjecture. It was indeed Lorenzo himſelf, who, bound by his word not to preſent himſelf to Antonia without his uncle's conſent, endeavoured, by occa⯑ſional ſerenades, to convince his miſtreſs that his attachment ſtill exiſted. His ſtra⯑tagem had not the deſired effect. Antonia was far from ſuppoſing that this nightly muſic was intended as a compliment to her. She was too modeſt to think herſelf worthy ſuch attentions; and concluding them to be addreſſed to ſome neighbouring lady, ſhe grieved to find that they were offered by Lorenzo.

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

The muſic ceaſed: the performers diſ⯑perſed, and ſilence prevailed through the ſtreet. Antonia quitted the window with regret. She, as uſual, recommended her ſelf to the protection of St. Roſolia, ſaid her accuſtomed prayers, and retired to bed. Sleep was not long abſent, and his preſence relieved her from her terrors and inquie⯑tude.

It was almoſt two o'clock before the luſtful monk ventured to bend his ſteps towards Antonia's dwelling. It has been already mentioned, that the abbey was at no great diſtance from the ſtrada di San Iago. He reached the houſe unobſerved. Here he ſtopped, and heſitated for a mo⯑ment. He reflected on the enormity of the crime, the conſequences of a diſcovery, and [34] the probability, after what had paſſed, of Elvira's ſuſpecting him to be her daughter's raviſher. On the other hand it was ſug⯑geſted, that ſhe could do no more than ſuſ⯑pect; that no proofs of his guilt could be produced; that it would ſeem impoſſible for the rape to have been committed without Antonia's knowing when, where, or by whom; and finally, he believed that his ſame was too firmly eſtabliſhed to be ſhaken by the unſupported accuſations of two un⯑known women. This latter argument was perfectly falſe. He knew not how uncer⯑tain is the air of popular applauſe, and that a moment ſuffices to make him to-day the deteſtation of the world, who yeſterday was its idol. The reſult of the monk's delibe⯑rations was, that he ſhould proceed in his enterpriſe. He aſcended the ſteps leading to the houſe. No ſooner did he touch the door with the ſilver myrtle, than it flew open, and preſented him with a free paſſage. He entered, and the door cloſed after him of its own accord.

[35]Guided by the moon-beams, he pro⯑ceeded up the ſtair-caſe with ſlow and cau⯑tious ſteps. He looked round him every moment with apprehenſion and anxiety. He ſaw a ſpy in every ſhadow, and heard a voice in every murmur of the night-breeze. Conſciouſneſs of the guilty buſineſs on which he was employed appalled his heart, and rendered it more timid than a woman's. Yet ſtill he proceeded. He reached the door of Antonia's chamber. He ſtopped, and liſtened. All was huſhed within. The total ſilence perſuaded him that his intended victim was retired to reſt, and he ventured to lift up the latch. The door was faſtened, and reſiſted his efforts. But no ſooner was it touched by the taliſ⯑man, than the bolt flew back. The ra⯑viſher ſtepped on, and found himſelf in the chamber, where ſlept the innocent girl, un⯑conſcious how dangerous a viſitor was draw⯑ing near her couch. The door cloſed after him, and the bolt ſhot again into its faſten⯑ing.

[36]Ambroſio advanced with precaution. He took care that not a board ſhould creak un⯑der his foot, and held in his breath as he approached the bed. His firſt attention was to perform the magic ceremony, as Matilda had charged him: he breathed thrice upon the ſilver myrtle, pronounced over it Antonia's name, and laid it upon her pillow▪ The effects which it had al⯑ready produced permitted not his doubting its ſucceſs in prolonging the ſlumbers of his devoted miſtreſs. No ſooner was the inchantment performed, than he conſidered her to be abſolutely in his power, and his eyes flaſhed with luſt and impatience. He now ventured to caſt a glance upon the ſleeping beauty. A ſingle lamp, burning before the ſtatue of St. Roſolia, ſhed a faint light through the room, and permitted him to examine all the charms of the lovely object before him. The heat of the wea⯑ther had obliged her to throw off part of the bed-clothes. Thoſe which ſtill covered her Ambroſio's inſolent hand haſtened to [37] remove. She lay with her cheek reclining upon one ivory arm: the other reſted on the ſide of the bed with graceful indolence. A few treſſes of her hair had eſcaped from beneath the muſlin which confined the reſt, and fell careleſsly over her boſom, as it heaved with ſlow and regular ſuſpiration. The warm air had ſpread her check with higher colour than uſual. A ſmile inex⯑preſſibly ſweet played round her ripe and coral lips, from which every now and then eſcaped a gentle ſigh, or an half-pronounced ſentence. An air of enchanting innocence and candour pervaded her whole form; and there was a ſort of modeſty in her very nakedneſs, which added freſh ſtings to the deſires of the luſtful monk.

He remained for ſome moments devour⯑ing thoſe charms with his eyes, which ſoon were to be ſubjected to his ill-regulated paſſions. Her mouth half-opened ſeemed to ſolicit a kiſs: he bent over her: he joined his lips to hers, and drew in the fragrance of her breath with rapture. This momen⯑tary [38] pleaſure increaſed his longing for ſtill greater. His deſires were raiſed to that frantic height by which brutes are agitated. He reſolved not to delay for one inſtant longer the accompliſhment of his wiſhes, and haſtily proceeded to tear off thoſe gar⯑ments which impeded the gratification of his luſt.

"Gracious God!" exclaimed a voice behind him: "Am I not deceived? Is not this an illuſion?"

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

A frightful dream had repreſented to her Antonia on the verge of a precipice. She ſaw her trembling on the brink: every mo⯑ment ſeemed to threaten her fall, and ſhe heard her exclaim with ſhrieks, "Save me, mother! ſave me!—Yet a moment, and it will be too late." Elvira woke in terror. [39] The viſion had made too ſtrong an im⯑preſſion upon her mind, to permit her reſt⯑ing till aſſured of her daughter's ſafety. She haſtily ſtarted from her bed, threw on a looſe night-gown, and, paſſing through the cloſet in which ſlept the waiting-woman, reached Antonia's chamber juſt in time to reſcue her from the graſp of the raviſher.

His ſhame and her amazement ſeemed to have petrified into ſtatues both Elvira and the monk. They remained gazing upon each other in ſilence. The lady was the firſt to recover herſelf.

"It is no dream," ſhe cried: "it is really Ambroſio, who ſtands before me. It is the man whom Madrid eſteems a ſaint, that I find at this late hour near the couch of my unhappy child. Monſter of hypocriſy! I already ſuſpected your deſigns, but forbore your accuſation in pity to human frailty. Silence would now be criminal. The whole city ſhall be informed of your incontinence. I will unmaſk you, villain, and convince the [40] church what a viper ſhe cheriſhes in her boſom."

Pale and confuſed, the baffled culprit ſtood trembling before her. He would fain have extenuated his offence, but could find no apology for his conduct. He could pro⯑duce nothing but broken ſentences, and ex⯑cuſes which contradicted each other. Elvira was too juſtly incenſed to grant the pardon which he requeſted. She proteſted that ſhe would raiſe the neighbourhood, and make him an example to all future hypocrites. Then haſtening to the bed, ſhe called to Antonia to wake; and finding that her voice had no effect, ſhe took her arm, and raiſed her forcibly from the pillow. The charm operated too powerfully. Antonia remained inſenſible; and, on being releaſed by her mother, ſank back upon the pillow.

"This ſlumber cannot be natural," cried the amazed Elvira, whoſe indignation in⯑creaſed with every moment: "ſome myſtery is concealed in it. But tremble, hypocrite! All your villany ſhall ſoon be unravelled. [41] Help! help!" ſhe exclaimed aloud: "Within there! Flora! Flora!"

"Hear me for one moment, lady!" cried the monk, reſtored to himſelf by the urgency of the danger: "by all that is ſa⯑cred and holy, I ſwear that your daughter's honour is ſtill unviolated. Forgive my tranſgreſſion! Spare me the ſhame of a diſ⯑covery, and permit me to regain the abbey undiſturbed. Grant me this requeſt in mercy! I promiſe not only that Antonia ſhall be ſecure from me in future, but that the reſt of my life ſhall prove—"

Elvira interrupted him abruptly.

"Antonia ſecure from you? I will ſe⯑cure her. You ſhall betray no longer the confidence of parents. Your iniquity ſhall be unveiled to the public eye. All Madrid ſhall ſhudder at your perfidy, your hypo⯑criſy, and incontinence. What ho! there! Flora! Flora! I ſay."

While ſhe ſpoke thus, the remembrance of Agnes ſtruck upon his mind. Thus had ſhe ſued to him for mercy, and thus had [42] he refuſed her prayer! It was now his turn to ſuffer, and he could not but acknowledge that his puniſhment was juſt. In the mean while Elvira continued to call Flora to her aſſiſtance; but her voice was ſo choaked with paſſion, that the ſervant, who was bu⯑ried in profound ſlumber, was inſenſible to all her cries: Elvira dared not go towards the cloſet in which Flora ſlept, leſt the monk ſhould take that opportunity to eſcape. Such indeed was his intention: he truſted that, could he reach the abbey unobſerved by any other than Elvira, her ſingle teſtimony would not ſuffice to ruin a reputation ſo well eſtabliſhed as his was in Madrid. With this idea he gathered up ſuch garments as he had already thrown off, and haſtened towards the door. Elvira was aware of his deſign: ſhe followed him, and, ere he could draw back the bolt, ſeized him by the arm, and detained him.

"Attempt not to fly!" ſaid ſhe: "you quit not this room without witneſſes of your guilt."

[43]Ambroſio ſtruggled in vain to diſengage himſelf. Elvira quitted not her hold, but redoubled her cries for ſuccour. The fri⯑ar's danger grew more urgent. He expected every moment to hear people aſſembling at her voice; and, worked up to madneſs by the approach of ruin, he adopted a reſolu⯑tion equally deſperate and ſavage. Turn⯑ing round ſuddenly, with one hand he graſped Elvira's throat ſo as to prevent her continuing her clamour, and with the other, daſhing her violently upon the ground, he dragged her towards the bed. Confuſed by this unexpected attack, ſhe ſcarcely had power to ſtrive at forcing her⯑ſelf from his graſp: while the monk, ſnatch⯑ing the pillow from beneath her daughter's head, covering with it Elvira's face, and preſſing his knee upon her ſtomach with all his ſtrength, endeavoured to put an end to her exiſtence. He ſucceeded but too well. Her natural ſtrength increaſed by the ex⯑ceſs of anguiſh, long did the ſufferer ſtrug⯑gle [44] to diſengage herſelf, but in vain. The monk continued to kneel upon her breaſt, witneſſed without mercy the convulſive trembling of her limbs beneath him, and ſuſtained with inhuman firmneſs the ſpecta⯑cle of her agonies, when ſoul and body were on the point of ſeparating. Thoſe agonies at length were over. She ceaſed to ſtruggle for life. The monk took off the pillow, and gazed upon her. Her face was covered with a frightful blackneſs: her limbs moved no more: the blood was chilled in her veins: her heart had forgotten to beat; and her hands were ſtiff and frozen. Ambroſio beheld before him that once noble and ma⯑jeſtic form, now become a corſe, cold, ſenſeleſs, and diſguſting.

This horrible act was no ſooner perpe⯑trated, than the friar beheld the enormity of his crime. A cold dew flowed over his limbs: his eyes cloſed: he ſtaggered to a chair, and ſank into it almoſt as lifeleſs as the unfortunate who lay extended at his [45] feet. From this ſtate he was rouſed by the neceſſity of flight, and the danger of being found in Antonia's apartment. He had no deſire to profit by the execution of his crime. Antonia now appeared to him an ob⯑ject of diſguſt. A deadly cold had uſurped the place of that warmth which glowed in his boſom. No ideas offered themſelves to his mind but thoſe of death and guilt, of preſent ſhame and future puniſhment. Agi⯑tated by remorſe and fear, he prepared for flight: yet his terrors did not ſo completely maſter his recollection, as to prevent his taking the precautions neceſſary for his ſafety. He replaced the pillow upon the bed, gathered up his garments, and, with the fatal taliſman in his hand, bent his un⯑ſteady ſteps towards the door. Bewildered by fear, he fancied that his flight was op⯑poſed by legions of phantoms. Wherever he turned, the disfigured corſe ſeemed to lie in his paſſage, and it was long before he ſucceeded in reaching the door. The enchanted myrtle produced its former ef⯑fect. [46] The door opened, and he haſtened down the ſtair-caſe. He entered the abbey unobſerved; and having ſhut himſelf into his cell, he abandoned his ſoul to the tor⯑tures of unavailing remorſe, and terrors of impending detection.

CHAP. IX.

AMBROSIO ſhuddered at himſelf when he reflected on his rapid advances in ini⯑quity. The enormous crime which he had [...]uſt committed, filled him with real horror. The murdered Elvira was continually before his eyes, and his guilt was already puniſhed [...]y the agonies of his conſcience. Time, [...]owever, conſiderably weakened theſe im⯑preſſions: one day paſſed away; another [...]ollowed it, and ſtill not the leaſt ſuſpicion [48] was thrown upon him. Impunity recon⯑ciled him to his guilt. He began to re⯑ſume his ſpirits; and as his fears of detec⯑tion died away, he paid leſs attention to the reproaches of remorſe. Matilda exerted herſelf to quiet his alarms. At the firſt intelligence of Elvira's deaths, ſhe ſeemed greatly affected, and joined the monk in deploring the unhappy cataſtrophe of his adventure: but when ſhe found his agita⯑tion to be ſomewhat calmed, and himſelf better diſpoſed to liſten to her arguments, ſhe proceeded to mention his offence in milder terms, and convince him that he was not ſo highly culpable as he appeared to conſider himſelf. She repreſented, that he had only availed himſelf of the rights which nature allows to every one, thoſe of ſelf-preſervation: that either Elvira or himſelf muſt have periſhed; and that her inflexibility and reſolution to ruin him had deſervedly marked her out for the victim. She next ſtated, that as he had before ren⯑dered himſelf ſuſpected to Elvira, it was a [49] fortunate event for him that her lips were cloſed by death; ſince, without this laſt ad⯑venture, her ſuſpicions, if made public, might have produced very diſagreeable con⯑ſequences. He had therefore freed himſelf from an enemy, to whom the errors of his conduct were ſufficiently known to make her dangerous, and who was the greateſt obſtacle to his deſigns upon Antonia. Thoſe deſigns ſhe encouraged him not to abandon. She aſſured him that, no longer protected by her mother's watchful eye, the daughter would fall an eaſy conqueſt; and by praiſing and enumerating Antonia's charms, ſhe ſtrove to rekindle the deſires of the monk. In this endeavour ſhe ſucceed⯑ed but too well.

As if the crimes into which his paſſion had ſeduced him, had only increaſed its vi⯑olence, he longed more eagerly than ever to enjoy Antonia. The ſame ſucceſs in concealing his preſent guilt, he truſted, would attend his future. He was deaf to the murmurs of conſcience, and reſolved [50] to ſatisfy his deſires at any price. He wait⯑ed only for an opportunity of repeating his former enterpriſe; but to procure that op⯑portunity by the ſame means was now im⯑practicable. In the firſt tranſports of de⯑ſpair he had daſhed the enchanted myrtle into a thouſand pieces. Matilda told him plainly, that he muſt expect no further aſ⯑ſiſtance from the infernal powers, unleſs he was willing to ſubſcribe to their eſtabliſhed conditions. This Ambroſio was determined not to do. He perſuaded himſelf that, however great may be his iniquity, ſo long as he preſerved his claim to ſalvation, he need not deſpair of pardon. He therefore reſolutely refuſed to enter into any bond or compact with the fiends; and Matilda, find⯑ing him obſtinate upon this point, forbore to preſs him further. She exerted her in⯑vention to diſcover ſome means of putting Antonia into the abbot's power: nor was it long before that means preſented itſelf.

While her ruin was thus meditating, the unhappy girl herſelf ſuffered ſeverely from [51] the loſs of her mother. Every morning on waking, it was her firſt care to haſten to El⯑vira's chamber. On that which followed Ambroſio's fatal viſit, ſhe woke later than was her uſual cuſtom: of this ſhe was con⯑vinced by the abbey chimes. She ſtarted from her bed, threw on a few looſe garments haſtily, and was ſpeeding to enquire how her mother had paſſed the night, when her foot ſtruck againſt ſomething which lay in her paſſage. She looked down. What was her horror at recognizing Elvira's livid corſe! She uttered a loud ſhriek, and threw herſelf upon the floor. She claſped the in⯑animate form to her boſom, felt that it was dead cold, and, with a movement of diſguſt, of which ſhe was not the miſtreſs, let it fall again from her arms. The cry had alarm⯑ed Flora, who haſtened to her aſſiſtance. The ſight which ſhe beheld penetrated her with horror; but her alarm was more audi⯑ble than Antonia's. She made the houſe ring with her lamentations, while her miſ⯑treſs, almoſt ſuffocated with grief, could only [52] mark her diſtreſs by ſobs and groans. Flo⯑ra's ſhrieks ſoon reached the ears of the hoſteſs, whole terror and ſurpriſe were ex⯑ceſſive on learning the cauſe of this diſturb⯑ance. A phyſician was immediately ſent for; but, on the firſt moment of beholding the corſe, he declared that Elvira's recovery was beyond the power of art. He proceeded therefore to give his aſſiſtance to Antonia, who by this time was truly in need of it. She was conveyed to bed, while the land⯑lady buſied herſelf in giving orders for Elvira's burial. Dame Jacintha was a plain good kind of woman, charitable, ge⯑nerous, and devout; but her intellects were weak, and ſhe was a miſerable ſlave to fear and ſuperſtition. She ſhuddered at the idea of paſſing the night in the ſame houſe with a dead body. She was perſuaded that Elvira's ghoſt would appear to her, and no leſs certain that ſuch a viſit would kill her with fright. From this perſuaſion, ſhe reſolved to paſs the night at a neigh⯑bour's, and inſiſted that the funeral ſhould [53] take place the next day. St. Clare's ceme⯑tery being the neareſt, it was determined that Elvira ſhould be buried there. Dame Jacintha engaged to defray every expence attending the burial. She knew not in what circumſtances Antonia was left; but, from the ſparing manner in which the fa⯑mily had lived, ſhe concluded them to be indifferent: conſequently ſhe entertained very little hope of ever being recompenſed. But this conſideration prevented her not from taking care that the interment was performed with decency, and from ſhew⯑ing the unfortunate Antonia all poſſible reſpect.

Nobody dies of mere grief; of this An⯑tonia was an inſtance. Aided by her youth and healthy conſtitution, ſhe ſhook off the malady which her mother's death had oc⯑caſioned; but it was not ſo eaſy to remove the diſeaſe of her mind. Her eyes were conſtantly filled with tears; every trifle af⯑fected her, and ſhe evidently nouriſhed in her boſom a profound and rooted melan⯑choly. [54] The ſlighteſt mention of Elvira, the moſt trivial circumſtance recalling that beloved parent to her memory, was ſuf⯑ficient to throw her into ſerious agitation. How much would her grief have been in⯑creaſed, had ſhe known the agonies which terminated her mother's exiſtence! But of this no one entertained the leaſt ſuſpicion. Elvira was ſubject to ſtrong convulſions: it was ſuppoſed that, aware of their approach, ſhe had dragged herſelf to her daughter's chamber in hopes of aſſiſtance; that a ſud⯑den acceſs of her fits had ſeized her, too vi⯑olent to be reſiſted by her already enfeebled ſtate of health; and that ſhe had expired ere ſhe had time to reach the medicine which generally relieved her, and which ſtood upon a ſhelf in Antonia's room. This idea was firmly credited by the few people who intereſted themſelves about Elvira. Her death was eſteemed a natu⯑ral event, and ſoon forgotten by all, ſave by her, who had but too much reaſon to deplore her loſs.

[55]In truth Antonia's ſituation was ſufficient⯑ly embarraſſing and unpleaſant. She was alone, in the midſt of a diſſipated and ex⯑penſive city; ſhe was ill provided with money, and worſe with friends. Her aunt Leonella was ſtill at Cordova, and ſhe knew not her direction. Of the marquis de las Ciſternas ſhe heard no news. As to Lo⯑renzo, ſhe had long given up the idea of poſſeſſing any intereſt in his boſom. She knew not to whom ſhe could addreſs her⯑ſelf in her preſent dilemma. She wiſhed to conſult Ambroſio, but ſhe remembered her mother's injunctions to ſhun him as much as poſſible; and the laſt converſation which Elvira had held with her upon the ſubject, had given her ſufficient lights re⯑ſpecting his deſigns, to put her upon her guard againſt him in future. Still all her mother's warnings could not make her change her good opinion of the friar. She continued to feel that his friendſhip and ſociety were requiſite to her happineſs: ſhe looked upon his failings with a partial eye, [56] and could not perſuade herſelf that he re⯑ally had intended her ruin. However, Elvira had poſitively commanded her to drop his acquaintance, and ſhe had too much reſpect for her orders to diſobey them.

At length ſhe reſolved to addreſs herſelf for advice and protection to the marquis de las Ciſternas, as being her neareſt rela⯑tion. She wrote to him, briefly ſtating her deſolate ſituation; ſhe beſought him to compaſſionate his brother's child, to conti⯑nue to her Elvira's penſion, and to autho⯑riſe her retiring to his old caſtle in Murcia, which till now had been her retreat. Hav⯑ing ſealed her letter, ſhe gave it to the truſty Flora, who immediately ſet out to execute her commiſſion. But Antonia was born under an unlucky ſtar. Had ſhe made her application to the marquis but one day ſooner, received as his niece, and placed at the head of his family, ſhe would have eſcaped all the misfortunes with which ſhe was now threatened. Raymond had [57] always intended to execute this plan: but firſt, his hopes of making the propoſal to Elvira through the lips of Agnes, and af⯑terwards his diſappointment at loſing his intended bride, as well as the ſevere illneſs which for ſome time had confined him to his bed, made him defer from day to day the giving an aſylum in his houſe to his brother's widow. He had commiſſioned Lorenzo to ſupply her liberally with mo⯑ney. But Elvira, unwilling to receive ob⯑ligations from that nobleman, had aſſured him that ſhe needed no immediate pecu⯑niary aſſiſtance. Conſequently the mar⯑quis did not imagine that a trifling delay on his part would create any embarraſſ⯑ment; and the diſtreſs and agitation of his mind might well excuſe his negligence.

Had he been informed that Elvira's death had left her daughter friendleſs and unpro⯑tected, he would doubtleſs have taken ſuch meaſures as would have enſured her from every danger. But Antonia was not deſtined to be ſo fortunate. The day on [58] which ſhe ſent her letter to the palace de las Ciſternas, was that following Lorenzo's departure from Madrid. The marquis was in the firſt paroxyſms of deſpair at the con⯑viction that Agnes was indeed no more: he was delirious; and, his life being in dan⯑ger, no one was ſuffered to approach him. Flora was informed that he was incapable of attending to letters, and that probably a few hours would decide his fate. With this unſatisfactory anſwer ſhe was obliged to return to her miſtreſs, who now found herſelf plunged into greater difficulties than ever.

Flora and Dame Jacintha exerted them⯑ſelves to conſole her. The latter begged her to make herſelf eaſy, for that as long as ſhe choſe to ſtay with her ſhe would treat her like her own child. Antonia, finding that the good woman had taken a real af⯑fection for her, was ſomewhat comforted by thinking that ſhe had at leaſt one friend in the world. A letter was now brought to her, directed to Elvira. She recognized [59] Leonella's writing, and, opening it with joy, found a detailed account of her aunt's adventures at Cordova. She informed her ſiſter that ſhe had recovered her legacy, had loſt her heart, and had received in ex⯑change that of the moſt amiable of apothe⯑caries, paſt, preſent, and to come. She added, that ſhe ſhould be at Madrid on the Tueſday night, and meant to have the pleaſure of preſenting her caro ſpoſo in form. Though her nuptials were far from pleaſing Antonia, Leonella's ſpeedy return gave her niece much delight. She rejoiced in thinking that ſhe ſhould once more be under a relation's care. She could not but judge it to be highly improper for a young woman to be living among abſolute ſtrangers, with no one to regulate her con⯑duct, or protect her from the inſults to which in her defenceleſs ſituation ſhe was expoſed. She therefore looked forward with impatience to the Tueſday night.

It arrived. Antonia liſtened anxiouſly to the carriages as they rolled along the [60] ſtreet. None of them ſtopped, and it grew late without Leonella's appearing. Still Antonia reſolved to ſit up till her aunt's arrival; and, in ſpite of all her remonſtrances, Dame Jacintha and Flora inſiſted upon doing the ſame. The hours paſſed on ſlow and tediouſly. Lorenzo's departure from Madrid had put a ſtop to the nightly ſerenades: ſhe hoped in vain to hear the uſual ſound of guitars beneath her window. She took up her own, and ſtruck a few chords; but muſic that evening had loſt its charms for her, and ſhe ſoon replaced the inſtru⯑ment in its caſe. She ſeated herſelf at her embroidery frame, but nothing went right: the ſilks were miſſing, the thread ſnapped every moment, and the needles were ſo ex⯑pert at falling that they ſeemed to be ani⯑mated. At length a ſlake of wax fell from the taper which ſtood near her upon a fa⯑vourite wreath of violets: this completely diſcompoſed her; ſhe threw down her needle, and quitted the frame. It was de⯑creed that for that night nothing ſhould [61] have the power of amuſing her. She was the prey of ennui, and employed herſelf in making fruitleſs wiſhes for the arrival of her aunt.

As ſhe walked with a liſtleſs air up and down the chamber, the door caught her eye conducing to that which had been her mother's. She remembered that Elvira's little library was arranged there, and thought that ſhe might poſſibly find in it ſome book to amuſe her till Leonella ſhould arrive. Accordingly ſhe took her taper from the table, paſſed through the little cloſet, and entered the adjoining apart⯑ment. As ſhe looked around her, the ſight of this room brought to her recollec⯑tion a thouſand painful ideas. It was the firſt time of her entering it ſince her mo⯑ther's death. The total ſilence prevailing through the chamber, the bed deſpoiled of its furniture, the cheerleſs hearth where ſtood an extinguiſhed lamp, and a few dy⯑ing plants in the window, which ſince El⯑vira's loſs had been neglected, inſpired [62] Antonia with a melancholy awe. The gloom of night gave ſtrength to this ſenſa⯑tion. She placed her light upon the table, and ſunk into a large chair, in which ſhe had ſeen her mother ſeated a thouſand and a thouſand times. She was never to ſee her ſeated there again! Tears unbidden ſtream⯑ed down her cheek, and ſhe abandoned herſelf to the ſadneſs which grew deeper with every moment.

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

The peruſal of this ſtory was ill calculated to diſpel Antonia's melancholy. She had naturally a ſtrong inclination to the mar⯑vellous; and her nurſe, who believed firm⯑ly in apparitions, had related to her, when an infant, ſo many horrible adventures of this kind, that all Elvira's attempts had failed to eradicate their impreſſions from her daughter's mind. Antonia ſtill nou⯑riſhed a ſuperſtitious prejudice in her bo⯑ſom: ſhe was often ſuſceptible of terrors, which, when ſhe diſcovered their natural and inſignificant cauſe, made her bluſh at [67] her own weakneſs. With ſuch a turn of mind, the adventure which ſhe had juſt been reading ſufficed to give her appre⯑henſions the alarm. The hour and the ſcene combined to authoriſe them. It was the dead of night; ſhe was alone, and in the chamber once occupied by her deceaſed mother. The weather was comfortleſs and ſtormy; the wind howled around the houſe, the doors rattled in their frames, and the heavy rain pattered againſt the windows. No other ſound was heard. The taper, now burnt down to the ſocket, ſometimes flaring upwards, ſhot a gleam of light through the room, then ſinking again ſeem⯑ed upon the point of expiring. Antonia's heart throbbed with agitation; her eyes wandered fearfully over the objects around her, as the trembling flame illuminated them at intervals. She attempted to riſe from her ſeat, but her limbs trembled ſo violently that ſhe was unable to proceed. She then called Flora, who was in a room at no great diſtance; but agitation choked [68] her voice, and her cries died away in hol⯑low murmurs.

She paſſed ſome minutes in this ſituation, after which her terrors began to diminiſh. She ſtrove to recover herſelf, and acquire ſtrength enough to quit the room. Sud⯑denly ſhe fancied that ſhe heard a low ſigh drawn near her. This idea brought back her former weakneſs. She had already raiſed herſelf from her ſeat, and was on the point of taking the lamp from the table. The imaginary noiſe ſtopped her; ſhe drew back her hand, and ſupported herſelf upon the back of a chair. She liſtened anxiouſ⯑ly, but nothing more was heard.

"Gracious God!" ſhe ſaid to herſelf, "what could be that ſound? Was I de⯑ceived, or did I really hear it?"

Her reflections were interrupted by a voice at the door ſcarcely audible; it ſeem⯑ed as if ſomebody was whiſpering. Anto⯑nia's alarm increaſed; yet the bolt ſhe knew to be faſtened, and this idea in ſome degree re-aſſured her. Preſently the latch was [69] lifted up ſoftly, and the door moved with caution backwards and forwards. Exceſs of terror now ſupplied Antonia with that ſtrength, of which ſhe had till then been deprived. She ſtarted from her place, and made towards the cloſet door, whence ſhe might ſoon have reached the chamber where ſhe expected to find Flora and Dame Ja⯑cintha. Scarcely had ſhe reached the middle of the room, when the latch was lifted up a ſecond time. An involuntary movement obliged her to turn her head. Slowly and gradually the door turned upon its hinges, and ſtanding upon the threſhold ſhe beheld a tall thin figure, wrapped in a white ſhroud which covered it from head to foot.

This viſion arreſted her feet; ſhe re⯑mained as if petrified in the middle of the apartment. The ſtranger with meaſured and ſolemn ſteps drew near the table. The dying taper darted a blue and melancholy flame as the figure advanced towards it. Over the table was fixed a ſmall clock; the [70] hand of it was upon the ſtroke of three. The figure ſtopped oppoſite to the clock: it raiſed its right arm, and pointed to the hour, at the ſame time looking earneſtly upon Antonia, who waited for the conclu⯑ſion of this ſcene, motionleſs and ſilent.

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

"Yet three days," ſaid a voice ſaint, hollow, and ſepulchral; "yet three days, and we meet again!"

Antonia ſhuddered at the words.

"We meet again?" ſhe pronounced at length with difficulty: "Where ſhall we meet? Whom ſhall I meet?"

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

"Almighty God! My mother?"

Antonia ſhrieked, and fell lifeleſs upon the floor.

Dame Jacintha, who was at work in a [71] neighbouring chamber, was alarmed by the cry: Flora was juſt gone down ſtairs to fetch freſh oil for the lamp by which they had been ſitting. Jacintha therefore haſt⯑ened alone to Antonia's aſſiſtance, and great was her amazement to find her ex⯑tended upon the floor. She raiſed her in her arms, conveyed her to her apartment, and placed her upon the bed, ſtill ſenſeleſs. She then proceeded to bathe her temples, chafe her hands, and uſe all poſſible means of bringing her to herſelf. With ſome dif⯑ficulty the ſucceeded. Antonia opened her eyes, and looked round her wildly.

"Where is ſhe?" ſhe cried in a trem⯑bling voice: "Is ſhe gone? Am I ſafe? Speak to me! Comfort me! Oh! ſpeak to me, for God's ſake!"

"Safe from whom, my child?" replied the aſtoniſhed Jacintha: "What alarms you? Of whom are you afraid?"

"In three days! She told me that we ſhould meet in three days! I heard her ſay [72] it! I ſaw her, Jacintha, I ſaw her but this moment!"

She threw herſelf upon Jacintha's bo⯑ſom.

"You ſaw her?—Saw whom?

"My mother's ghoſt!"

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

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

"Go to your miſtreſs, Flora," ſaid ſhe; "here are rare doings! Oh! I am the moſt unfortunate woman alive! My houſe is filled with ghoſts and dead bodies, and the Lord knows what beſides; yet I am ſure nobody likes ſuch company leſs than I do. But go your way to Donna Antonia, Flora, and let me go mine."

Thus ſaying, ſhe continued her courſe to the ſtreet-door, which ſhe opened; and, without allowing herſelf time to throw on [73] her oil, ſhe made the beſt of her way to the Capuchin-abbey. In the mean while, Flo⯑ra haſtened to her lady's chamber, equally ſurpriſed and alarmed at Jacintha's conſter⯑nation. She found Antonia lying upon the bed, inſenſible. She uſed the ſame means for her recovery that Jacintha had already employed; but finding that her miſtreſs only recovered from one fit to fall into another, ſhe ſent in all haſte for a phy⯑ſician. While expecting his arrival, ſhe undreſſed Antonia, and conveyed her to bed.

Heedleſs of the ſtorm, terrified almoſt out of her ſenſes, Jacintha ran through the ſtreets, and ſtopped not till ſhe reached the gate of the abbey. She rang loudly at the bell; and as ſoon as the porter appeared, ſhe deſired permiſſion to ſpeak to the ſupe⯑rior. Ambroſio was then conferring with Matilda upon the means of procuring ac⯑ceſs to Antonia. The cauſe of Elvira's death remaining unknown, he was con⯑vinced that crimes were not ſo ſwiftly fol⯑lowed [74] by puniſhment as his inſtructors the monks had taught him, and as till then he had himſelf believed. This perſuaſion made him reſolve upon Antonia's ruin, for the enjoyment of whoſe perſon dangers and difficulties only ſeemed to have in⯑creaſed his paſſion. The monk had al⯑ready made one attempt to gain admiſſion to her preſence; but Flora had refuſed him in ſuch a manner as to convince him that all future endeavours muſt be vain. El⯑vira had confided her ſuſpicions to that truſty ſervant: ſhe had deſired her never to leave Ambroſio alone with her daughter, and, if poſſible, to prevent their meeting al⯑together. Flora promiſed to obey her, and had executed her orders to the very letter. Ambroſio's viſit had been rejected that morning, though Antonia was ignorant of it. He ſaw that to obtain a ſight of his miſtreſs by open means was out of the que⯑ſtion; and both himſelf and Matilda had conſumed the night in endeavouring to in⯑vent ſome plan, whoſe event might be more [75] ſucceſsful. Such was their employment when a lay-brother entered the abbot's cell, and informed him that a woman call⯑ing herſelf Jacintha Zuniga requeſted au⯑dience for a few minutes.

Ambroſio was by no means diſpoſed to grant the petition of his viſitor. He refuſed it poſitively, and bade the lay-brother tell the ſtranger to return the next day. Matilda interrupted him—

"See this woman," ſaid ſhe in a low voice; "I have my reaſons."

The abbot obeyed her, and ſignified that he would go to the parlour immediately. With this anſwer the lay-brother withdrew. As ſoon as they were alone, Ambroſio en⯑quired why Matilda wiſhed him to ſee this Jacintha.

"She is Antonia's hoſteſs," replied Ma⯑tilda; "ſhe may poſſibly be of uſe to you but let us examine her, and learn what brings her hither."

They proceeded together to the parlour, where Jacintha was already waiting for the [76] abbot. She had conceived a great opinion of his piety and virtue; and, ſuppoſing him to have much influence over the devil, thought that it muſt be an eaſy matter for him to lay Elvira's ghoſt in the red ſea. Filled with this perſuaſion, ſhe had haſten⯑ed to the abbey. As ſoon as ſhe ſaw the monk enter the parlour, ſhe dropped upon her knees, and began her ſtory as follows:

"Oh! reverend father! ſuch an acci⯑dent! ſuch an adventure! I know not what courſe to take; and unleſs you can help me, I ſhall certainly go diſtracted. Well, to be ſure, never was woman ſo unfortunate as myſelf! All in my power to keep clear of ſuch abomination have I done, and yet that all is too little. What ſignifies my telling my beads four times a day, and obſerving every faſt preſcribed by the calendar? What ſignifies my having made three pil⯑grimages to St. James of Compoſtella, and purchaſed as many pardons from the pope as would buy off Cain's puniſhment? No⯑thing proſpers with me! All goes wrong, [77] and God only knows whether any thing will ever go right again! Why now, be your holineſs the judge—My lodger dies in convulſions; out of pure kindneſs I bury her at my own expence; [not that ſhe is any relation of mine, or that I ſhall be be⯑nefited a ſingle piſtole by her death: I got nothing by it, and therefore you know, re⯑verend father, that her living or dying was juſt the ſame to me. But that is nothing to the purpoſe; to return to what I was ſaying], I took care of her funeral, had every thing performed decently and pro⯑perly, and put myſelf to expence enough, God knows! And how do you think the lady repays me for my kindneſs? Why truly by refuſing to ſleep quietly in her comfortable deal coffin, as a peaceable well diſpoſed ſpirit ought to do, and com⯑ing to plague me, who never wiſh to ſet eyes on her again. Forſooth it well be⯑comes her to go racketing about my houſe at midnight, popping into her daughter's room through the key hole, and frighten⯑ing [78] the poor child out of her wits! Though ſhe be a ghoſt, ſhe might be more civil than to bolt into a perſon's houſe who likes her company ſo little. But as for me, re⯑verend father, the plain ſtate of the caſe is this: if ſhe walks into my houſe, I muſt walk out of it, for I cannot abide ſuch viſi⯑tors—not I. Thus you ſee, your ſanctity, that without your aſſiſtance I am ruined and undone for ever. I ſhall be obliged to quit my houſe: nobody will take it, when 'tis known that ſhe haunts it, and then I ſhall find myſelf in a fine ſituation. Miſerable woman that I am! what ſhall I do? what will become of me?"

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

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

"Let me die," cried Jacintha, "but [79] your ſanctity is in the right. This then is the fact ſtated briefly—A lodger of mine is lately dead; a very good ſort of woman, that I muſt needs ſay for her; as far as my knowledge of her went, though that was not a great way. She kept me too much at a diſtance; for indeed ſhe was given to be upon the high ropes; and when⯑ever I ventured to ſpeak to her, ſhe had a look with her which always made me feel a little queeriſh: God forgive me for ſaying ſo! However, though ſhe was more ſtately than needful, and affected to look down upon me (though, if I am well informed, I come of as good parents as ſhe could do for her ears, for her father was a ſhoe-maker at Cordova, and mine was an hatter at Madrid—aye, and a very creditable hatter too, let me tell you), yet for all her pride ſhe was a quiet well-behaved body, and I never wiſh to have a better lodger. This makes me wonder the more at her not ſleep⯑ing quietly in her grave; but there is no truſting to people in this world. For my [80] part, I never ſaw her do amiſs, except on the Friday before her death. To be ſure, I was then much ſcandalized by ſeeing her eat the wing of a chicken. 'How, Madona Flora!' quoth I (Flora, may it pleaſe your reverence, is the name of the waiting maid) —'how, Madona Flora!' quoth I, 'does your miſtreſs eat fleſh upon Fridays? Well! well! ſee the event, and then remember that Dame Jacintha warned you of it!' Theſe were my very words; but, alas! I might as well have held my tongue. No⯑body minded me; and Flora, who is ſome⯑what pert and ſnappiſh (more is the pity, ſay I), told me, that there was no more harm in eating a chicken than the egg from which it came: nay ſhe even declared, that if her lady added a ſlice of bacon, ſhe would not be an inch nearer damnation. God protect us! a poor ignorant ſinful ſoul! I proteſt to your holineſs, I trembled to hear her utter ſuch blaſphemies, and expected every moment to ſee the ground open and ſwallow her up, chicken and all; for you muſt know, wor⯑ſhipful [81] father, that while ſhe talked thus, ſhe held the plate in her hand on which lay the identical roaſt fowl: and a fine bird it was, that I muſt ſay for it—done to a turn, for I ſuperintended the cooking of it my⯑ſelf. It was a little gallician of my own raiſing, may it pleaſe your holineſs, and the fleſh was as white as an egg-ſhell, as indeed Donna Elvira told me herſelf. 'Dame Jacintha," ſaid ſhe very good-humouredly, though to ſay the truth ſhe was always very polite to me—"

Here Ambroſio's patience failed him. Eager to know Jacintha's buſineſs in which Antonia ſeemed to be concerned, he was almoſt diſtracted while liſtening to the ramb⯑ling of this proſing old woman. He inter⯑rupted her, and proteſted that if ſhe did not immediately tell her ſtory and have done with it, he ſhould quit the parlour, and leave her to get out of her difficulties by herſelf. This threat had the deſired effect. Jacintha related her buſineſs in as few words as ſhe could manage: but her [82] account was ſtill ſo prolix, that Ambroſio had need of his patience to bear him to the concluſion.

"And ſo, your reverence," ſaid ſhe, af⯑ter relating Elvira's death and burial, with all their circumſtances—"and ſo, your reverence, upon hearing the ſhriek, I put away my work, and away poſted I to Donna Antonia's chamber. Finding nobody there, I paſſed on to the next: but I muſt own I was a little timorous at going in; for this was the very room where Donna Elvira uſed to ſleep. However in I went, and ſure enough there lay the young lady at full length upon the floor, as cold as a ſtone, and as white as a ſheet. I was ſurpriſed at this, as your holineſs may well ſuppoſe: but, oh me! how I ſhook when I ſaw a great tall figure at my elbow, whoſe head touched the cieling! The face was Donna Elvira's, I muſt confeſs; but out of its mouth came clouds of fire; its arms were loaded with heavy chains, which it rattled piteouſly; and every hair on its head was a ſerpent as big [83] as my arm. At this I was frightened enough, and began to ſay my ave-maria: but the ghoſt interrupting me uttered three loud groans, and roared out in a terrible voice, 'Oh! that chicken's wing! my poor ſoul ſuffers for it.' As ſoon as ſhe had ſaid this, the ground opened, the ſpectre ſank down; I heard a clap of thunder, and the room was filled with a ſmell of brimſtone. When I recovered from my fright, and had brought Donna Antonia to herſelf, who told me that ſhe had cried out upon ſeeing her mother's ghoſt (and well might ſhe cry, poor ſoul! had I been in her place, I ſhould have cried, ten times louder), it directly came into my head, that if any one had power to quiet this ſpectre, it muſt be your reverence. So hither I came in all diligence, to beg that you will ſprinkle my houſe with holy water, and lay the apparition in the Red Sea."

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

"Did Donna Antonia alſo ſee the ghoſt?" ſaid he.

[84]"As plain as I ſee you, reverend fa⯑ther."

Ambroſio pauſed for a moment. Here was an opportunity offered him of gaining acceſs to Antonia, but he heſitated to em⯑ploy it. The reputation which he enjoyed in Madrid was ſtill dear to him; and ſince he had loſt the reality of virtue, it appeared as if its ſemblance was become more valu⯑able. He was conſcious that publicly to break through the rule never to quit the abbey-precincts would derogate much from his ſuppoſed auſterity. In viſiting Elvira, he had always taken care to keep his fea⯑tures concealed from the domeſtics. Except by the lady, her daughter, and the faithful Flora, he was known in the family by no other name than that of father Jerome. Should he comply with Jacintha's requeſt, and accompany her to her houſe, he knew that the violation of his rule could not be kept a ſecret. However, his eagerneſs to ſee Antonia obtained the victory. He even hoped that the ſingularity of this adven⯑ture [85] would juſtify him in the eyes of Madrid. But whatever might be the conſequences, he reſolved to profit by the opportunity which chance had preſented to him. An expreſſive look from Matilda confirmed him in this reſolution.

"Good woman," ſaid he to Jacintha, "what you tell me is ſo extraordinary that I can ſcarcely credit your aſſertions. How⯑ever, I will comply with your requeſt. To-morrow, after matins, you may expect me at your houſe: I will then examine into what I can do for you; and if it is in my power, will free you from this unwelcome viſitor. Now then go home, and peace be with you!"

"Home!" exclaimed Jacintha; "I go home? Not I, by my troth!—except under your protection, I ſet no foot of mine within the threſhold. God help me! the ghoſt may meet me upon the ſtairs, and whiſk me away with her to the devil! Oh! that I had accepted young Melchior Baſco's offer! then I would have had ſomebody to pro⯑tect [86] me; but now I am a lone woman, and meet with nothing but croſſes and misfor⯑tunes. Thank Heaven it is not yet too late to repent. There is Simon Gonzalez will have me any day of the week; and if I live till day-break, I will marry him out of hand: an huſband I will have, that is de⯑termined; for, now this ghoſt is once in my houſe, I ſhall be frightened out of my wits to ſleep alone. But, for God's ſake, reve⯑rend father! come with me now. I ſhall have no reſt till the houſe is purified, or the poor young lady either. The dear girl! ſhe is in a piteous taking: I left her in ſtrong convulſions, and I doubt ſhe will not eaſily recover her fright."

The friar ſtarted, and interrupted her haſtily.

"In convulſions, ſay you? Antonia in convulſions? Lead on, good woman, I fol⯑low you this moment."

Jacintha inſiſted upon his ſtopping to furniſh himſelf with the veſſel of holy wa⯑ter. With this requeſt he complied. Think⯑ing [87] herſelf ſafe under his protection ſhould a legion of ghoſts attack her, the old wo⯑man returned the monk a profuſion of thanks, and they departed together for the ſtrada di San Iago.

So ſtrong an impreſſion had the ſpectre made upon Antonia, that for the firſt two or three hours the phyſician declared her life to be in danger. The fits at length becoming leſs frequent, induced him to al⯑ter his opinion. He ſaid that to keep her quiet was all that was neceſſary; and he ordered a medicine to be prepared, which would tranquillize her nerves, and procure her that repoſe which at preſent ſhe much wanted. The ſight of Ambroſio, who now appeared with Jacintha at her bed-ſide, contributed eſſentially to compoſe her ruf⯑fled ſpirits. Elvira had not ſufficiently ex⯑plained herſelf upon the nature of his de⯑ſigns, to make a girl ſo ignorant of the world as her daughter aware how dangerous was his acquaintance. At this moment, when penetrated with horror at the ſcene which [88] had juſt paſſed, and dreading to contem⯑plate the ghoſt's prediction, her mind had need of all the ſuccours of friendſhip and religion. Antonia regarded the abbot with an eye doubly partial. That ſtrong prepoſ⯑ſeſſion in his favour ſtill exiſted, which ſhe had felt for him at firſt ſight: ſhe fancied, yet knew not wherefore, that his preſence was a ſafeguard to her from every danger, inſult, or misfortune. She thanked him gratefully for his viſit, and related to him the adven⯑ture which had alarmed her ſo ſeriouſly.

The abbot ſtrove to re-aſſure her and convince her that the whole had been a de⯑ception of her over-heated fancy. The ſo⯑litude in which ſhe had paſſed the evening, the gloom of night, the book which ſhe had been reading, and the room in which ſhe ſat, were all calculated to place before her ſuch a viſion. He treated the idea of ghoſts with ridicule, and produced ſtrong argu⯑ments to prove the fallacy of ſuch a ſyſ⯑tem. His converſation tranquillized and comforted her, but did not convince her. [89] She could not believe that the ſpectre had been a mere creature of her imagination: every circumſtance was impreſſed upon her mind too forcibly to permit her flattering herſelf with ſuch an idea. She perſiſted in aſſerting that ſhe had really ſeen her mo⯑ther's ghoſt, had heard the period of her diſſolution announced, and declared that ſhe never ſhould quit her bed alive. Am⯑broſio adviſed her againſt encouraging theſe ſentiments, and then quitted her chamber, having promiſed to repeat his viſit on the morrow. Antonia received this aſſurance with every mark of joy: but the monk eaſily perceived that he was not equally ac⯑ceptable to her attendant. Flora obeyed Elvira's injunctions with the moſt ſcrupulous obſervance. She examined with an anxious eye every circumſtance likely in the leaſt to prejudice her young miſtreſs, to whom ſhe had been attached for many years. She was a native of Cuba, had followed Elvira to Spain, and loved the young Antonia [90] with a mother's affection. Flora quitted not the room for a moment while the abbot remained there: ſhe watched his every word, his every look, his every action. He ſaw that her ſuſpicious eye was always fixed upon him; and, conſcious that his deſigns would not bear inſpection ſo minute, he felt frequently confuſed and diſconcerted. He was aware that ſhe doubted the purity of his intentions; that ſhe would never leave him alone with Antonia; and, his miſtreſs defended by the preſence of this vigilant obſerver, he deſpaired of finding the means to gratify his paſſion.

As he quitted the houſe, Jacintha met him, and begged that ſome maſſes might be ſung for the repoſe of Elvira's ſoul, which ſhe doubted not was ſuffering in purgatory.

He promiſed not to forget her requeſt; but he perfectly gained the old woman's heart, by engaging to watch during the whole of the approaching night in the haunted chamber. Jacintha could find no [91] terms ſufficiently ſtrong to expreſs her gra⯑titude, and the monk departed loaded with her benedictions.

It was broad day when he returned to the abbey. His firſt care was to communi⯑cate what had paſſed to his confidante. He felt too ſincere a paſſion for Antonia, to have heard unmoved the prediction of her ſpeedy death, and he ſhuddered at the idea of loſing an object ſo dear to him. Upon this head Matilda re-aſſured him. She con⯑firmed the arguments which himſelf had already uſed: ſhe declared Antonia to have been deceived by the wandering of her brain, by the ſpleen which oppreſſed her at the moment, and by the natural turn of her mind to ſuperſtition and the marvellous. As to Jacintha's account, the abſurdity re⯑futed itſelf. The abbot heſitated not to believe that ſhe had fabricated the whole ſtory, either confuſed by terror, or hoping to make him comply more readily with her requeſt. Having over-ruled the monk's ap⯑prehenſions, Matilda continued thus:

[92]"The prediction and the ghoſt are equally falſe: but it muſt be your care, Ambroſio, to verify the firſt. Antonia within three days muſt indeed be dead to the world: but ſhe muſt live for you. Her preſent illneſs, and this fancy which ſhe has taken into her head, will colour a plan which I have long meditated, but which was im⯑practicable without your procuring acceſs to Antonia. She ſhall be yours, not for a ſingle night, but for ever. All the vigilance of her duenna ſhall not avail her. You ſhall riot unreſtrained in the charms of your miſtreſs. This very day muſt the ſcheme be put in execution, for you have no time to loſe. The nephew of the duke of Me⯑dina Celi prepares to demand Antonia for his bride: in a few days ſhe will be removed to the palace of her relation, the marquis de las Ciſternas, and there ſhe will be ſecure from your attempts. Thus during your abſence have I been informed by my ſpies, who are ever employed in bringing me in⯑telligence for your ſervice. Now then liſten [93] to me. There is a juice extracted from certain herbs known but to few, which brings on the perſon who drinks it the exact image of death. Let this be adminiſtered to Antonia: you may eaſily find means to pour a few drops into her medicine. The effect will be throwing her into ſtrong con⯑vulſions for an hour: after which her blood will gradually ceaſe to flow, and heart to beat: a mortal paleneſs will ſpread itſelf over her features, and ſhe will appear a corſe to every eye. She has no friends about her: you may charge yourſelf unſuſ⯑pected with the ſuperintendence of her fu⯑neral, and cauſe her to be buried in the vaults of St. Clare. Their ſolitude and eaſy acceſs render theſe caverns favourable to your deſigns. Give Antonia the ſopo⯑rific draught this evening: eight-and forty hours after ſhe has drank it, life will revive in her boſom. She will then be abſolutely in your power: ſhe will find all reſiſtance unavailing, and neceſſity will compel her to receive you in her arms."

[94]"Antonia will be in my power!" ex⯑claimed the monk; "Matilda, you tranſ⯑port me! At length then happineſs will be mine, and that happineſs will be Matilda's gift, will be the gift of friendſhip! I ſhall claſp Antonia in my arms, far from every prying eye, from every tormenting in⯑truder! I ſhall ſigh out my ſoul upon her boſom; ſhall teach her young heart the firſt rudiments of pleaſure, and revel uncon⯑trouled in the endleſs variety of her charms! And ſhall this delight indeed be mine? Shall I give the reins to my deſires, and gratify every wild tumultuous wiſh? Oh! Matilda, how can I expreſs to you my gra⯑titude?"

"By profiting by my counſels. Ambro⯑ſio, I live but to ſerve you; your intereſt and happineſs are equally mine. Be your perſon Antonia's, but to your friendſhip and your heart I ſtill aſſert my claim. Contributing to yours, forms now my only pleaſure. Should my exertions procure the gratification of your wiſhes, I ſhall con⯑ſider [95] my trouble to be amply repaid. But let us loſe no time. The liquor of which I ſpoke, is only to be found in St. Clare's laboratory. Haſten then to the prioreſs, requeſt of her admiſſion to the laboratory, and it will not be denied. There is a clo⯑ſet at the lower end of the great room, fill⯑ed with liquids of different colours and qualities; the bottle in queſtion ſtands by itſelf, upon the third ſhelf on the left. It contains a greeniſh liquor: fill a ſmall phial with it when you are unobſerved, and An⯑tonia is your own."

The monk heſitated not to adopt this in⯑famous plan. His deſires, but too violent before, had acquired freſh vigour from the ſight of Antonia. As he ſat by her bed-ſide, accident had diſcovered to him ſome of thoſe charms which till then had been concealed from him: he found them even more perfect than his ardent imagination had pictured them. Sometimes her white and poliſhed arm was diſplayed in arrang⯑ing the pillow: ſometimes a ſudden move⯑ment [96] diſcovered part of her ſwelling boſom: but wherever the new-found charm preſent⯑ed itſelf, there reſted the friar's gloating eyes. Scarcely could he maſter himſelf ſufficiently to conceal his deſires from An⯑tonia and her vigilant duenna. Inflamed by the remembrance of theſe beauties, he entered into Matilda's ſcheme without he⯑ſitation.

No ſooner were matins over, than he bent his courſe towards the convent of St. Clare; his arrival threw the whole ſiſterhood into the utmoſt amazement. The prioreſs was ſen⯑ſible of the honour done her convent by his paying it his firſt viſit, and ſtrove to expreſs her gratitude by every poſſible attention. He was paraded through the garden, ſhewn all the reliques of ſaints and martyrs, and treated with as much reſpect and diſtinc⯑tion as had he been the Pope himſelf. On his part, Ambroſio received the domi⯑na's civilities very graciouſly, and ſtrove to remove her ſurpriſe at his having broken through his reſolution. He ſtated [97] that among his penitents, illneſs prevented many from quitting their houſes. Theſe were exactly the people who moſt needed his advice and the comforts of religion. Many repreſentations had been made to him upon this account, and, though highly repugnant to his own wiſhes, he had found it abſolutely neceſſary, for the ſervice of Heaven, to change his determination, and quit his beloved retirement. The prioreſs applauded his zeal in his profeſſion, and his charity towards mankind. She declared that Madrid was happy in poſſeſſing a man ſo perfect and irreproachable. In ſuch diſ⯑courſe the friar at length reached the labo⯑ratory: he found the cloſet; the bottle ſtood in the place which Matilda had de⯑ſcribed, and the monk ſeized an opportu⯑nity to fill his phial unobſerved with the ſo⯑porific liquor. Then, having partaken of a collation in the refectory, he retired from the convent, pleaſed with the ſucceſs of his viſit, and leaving the nuns delighted by the honour conferred upon them.

[98]He waited till evening before he took the road to Antonia's dwelling. Jacintha welcomed him with tranſport, and beſought him not to forget his promiſe to paſs the night in the haunted chamber. That pro⯑miſe he now repeated. He found Antonia tolerably well, but ſtill harping upon the ghoſt's prediction. Flora moved not from her lady's bed, and, by ſymptoms yet ſtronger than on the former night, teſtified her diſlike to the abbot's preſence. Still Ambroſio affected not to obſerve them. The phyſician arrived while he was converſing with Antonia. It was dark already; lights were called for, and Flora was compelled to deſcend for them herſelf. However, as ſhe left a third perſon in the room, and ex⯑pected to be abſent but a few minutes, ſhe believed that ſhe riſqued nothing in quit⯑ting her poſt. No ſooner had ſhe left the room, than Ambroſio moved towards the table, on which ſtood Antonia's medicine. It was placed in a receſs of the window. The phyſician, ſeated in an arm chair, and [99] employed in queſtioning his patient, paid no attention to the proceedings of the monk. Ambroſio ſeized the opportunity; he drew out the fatal phial, and let a few drops fall into the medicine: he then haſtily left the table, and returned to the ſeat which he had quitted. When Flora made her ap⯑pearance with lights, every thing ſeemed to be exactly as ſhe had left it.

The phyſician declared that Antonia might quit her chamber the next day with perfect ſafety. He recommended her fol⯑lowing the ſame preſcription which on the night before had procured her a refreſhing ſleep. Flora replied, that the draught ſtood ready upon the table: he adviſed the pati⯑ent to take it without delay, and then re⯑tired. Flora poured the medicine into a cup, and preſented it to her miſtreſs. At that moment Ambroſio's courage failed him. Might not Matilda have deceived him? Might not jealouſy have perſuaded her to deſtroy her rival, and ſubſtitute poi⯑ſon in the room of an opiate? This idea [100] appeared ſo reaſonable, that he was on the point of preventing her from ſwallowing the medicine. His reſolution was adopted too late. The cup was already emptied, and Antonia reſtored it into Flora's hands. No remedy was now to be found; Ambro⯑ſio could only expect the moment impati⯑ently deſtined to decide upon Antonia's life or death, upon his own happineſs or deſpair.

Dreading to create ſuſpicion by his ſtay, or betray himſelf by his mind's agitation, he took leave of his victim, and withdrew from the room. Antonia parted from him with leſs cordiality than on the former night. Flora had repreſented to her miſ⯑treſs, that to admit his viſits was to diſobey her mother's orders. She deſcribed to her his emotion on entering the room, and the fire which ſparkled in his eyes while he gazed upon her. This had eſcaped An⯑tonia's obſervation, but not her attendant's, who, explaining the monk's deſigns, and their probable conſequences, in terms much [101] clearer than Elvira's, though not quite ſo delicate, had ſucceeded in alarming her young lady, and perſuading her to treat him more diſtantly than ſhe had done hi⯑therto. The idea of obeying her mother's will at once determined Antonia. Though ſhe grieved at loſing his ſociety, ſhe con⯑quered herſelf ſufficiently to receive the monk with ſome degree of reſerve and cold⯑neſs. She thanked him with reſpect and gratitude for his former viſits, but did not invite his repeating them in future. It now was not the friar's intereſt to ſolicit admiſſion to her preſence, and he took leave of her as if not deſigning to return. Fully perſuaded that the acquaintance which ſhe dreaded was now at an end, Flora was ſo much worked upon by his eaſy com⯑pliance, that ſhe began to doubt the juſtice of her ſuſpicions. As ſhe lighted him down ſtairs, ſhe thanked him for having endea⯑voured to root out from Antonia's mind her ſuperſtitious terrors of the ſpectre's pre⯑diction: ſhe added, that as he ſeemed in⯑tereſted [102] in Donna Antonia's welfare, ſhould any change take place in her ſituation, ſhe would be careful to let him know it. The monk, in replying, took pains to raiſe his voice, hoping that Jacintha would hear it. In this he ſucceeded. As he reached the foot of the ſtairs with his conductreſs, the landlady failed not to make her appear⯑ance.

"Why ſurely you are not going away, reverend father?" cried ſhe: "Did you not promiſe to paſs the night in the haunted chamber? Chriſt Jeſus! I ſhall be left alone with the ghoſt, and a fine pickle I ſhall be in by morning! Do all I could, ſay all I could, that obſtinate old brute, Simon Gon⯑zalez, refuſed to marry me to-day; and be⯑fore to-morrow comes, I ſuppoſe I ſhall be torn to pieces by the ghoſts and goblins, and devils, and what not! For God's ſake, your holineſs, do not leave me in ſuch a woful condition! On my bended knees I beſeech you to keep your promiſe: watch this night in the haunted chamber; lay the [103] apparition in the red ſea, and Jacintha re⯑members you in her prayers to the laſt day of her exiſtence!"

This requeſt Ambroſio expected and de⯑ſired; yet he affected to raiſe objections, and to ſeem unwilling to keep his word. He told Jacintha that the ghoſt exiſted no where but in her own brain, and that her inſiſting upon his ſtaying all night in the houſe was ridiculous and uſeleſs. Jacintha was obſtinate; ſhe was not to be convinced, and preſſed him ſo urgently not to leave her a prey to the devil, that at length he granted her requeſt. All this ſhow of re⯑ſiſtance impoſed not upon Flora, who was naturally of a ſuſpicious temper. She ſuſ⯑pected the monk to be acting a part very contrary to his own inclinations, and that he wiſhed for no better than to remain where he was. She even went ſo far as to believe that Jacintha was in his intereſt; and the poor old woman was immediately ſet down as no better than a procureſs. While ſhe applauded herſelf for having pe⯑netrated [104] into this plot againſt her lady's honour, ſhe reſolved in ſecret to render it fruitleſs.

"So then," ſaid ſhe to the abbot with a look half ſatirical and half indignant—"ſo then you mean to ſtay here to-night? Do ſo, in God's name! Nobody will prevent you. Sit up to watch for the ghoſt's arrival: I ſhall ſit up too, and the Lord grant that I may ſee nothing worſe than a ghoſt! I quit not Donna Antonia's bed-ſide during this bleſſed night. Let me ſee any one dare to enter the room, and be he mortal or immortal, be he ghoſt, devil, or man, I warrant his repenting that ever he croſſed the threſhold!"

This hint was ſufficiently ſtrong, and Ambroſio underſtood its meaning. But inſtead of ſhewing that he perceived her ſuſpicions, he replied mildly, that he ap⯑proved the duenna's precautions, and ad⯑viſed her to perſevere in her intention. This ſhe aſſured him faithfully that he might depend upon her doing. Jacintha [105] then conducted him into the chamber where the ghoſt had appeared, and Flora returned to her lady's.

Jacintha opened the door of the haunted room with a trembling hand; ſhe ventured to peep in, but the wealth of India would not have tempted her to croſs the threſhold. She gave the taper to the monk, wiſhed him well through the adventure, and haſt⯑ened to be gone. Ambroſio entered. He bolted the door, placed the light upon the table, and ſeated himſelf in the chair which on the former night had ſuſtained Antonia. In ſpite of Matilda's aſſurances, that the ſpectre was a mere creation of fancy, his mind was impreſſed with a certain myſte⯑rious horror. He in vain endeavoured to ſhake it off. The ſilence of the night, the ſtory of the apparition, the chamber wain⯑ſcotted with dark oak pannels, the recol⯑lection which it brought with it of the murdered Elvira, and his incertitude re⯑ſpecting the nature of the drops given by him to Antonia, made him feel uneaſy at [106] his preſent ſituation. But he thought much leſs of the ſpectre than of the poiſon. Should he have deſtroyed the only object which rendered life dear to him; ſhould the ghoſt's prediction prove true; ſhould Antonia in three days be no more, and he the wretched cauſe of her death . . . . . . The ſuppoſition was too horrible to dwell upon. He drove away theſe dreadful images, and as often they preſented them⯑ſelves again before him. Matilda had aſ⯑ſured him that the effects of the opiate would be ſpeedy. He liſtened with fear, yet with eagerneſs, expecting to hear ſome diſturbance in the adjoining chamber. All was ſtill ſilent. He concluded that the drops had not begun to operate. Great was the ſtake for which he now played: a moment would ſuffice to decide upon his miſery or happineſs. Matilda had taught him the means of aſcertaining, that life was not extinct for ever: upon this aſſay de⯑pended all his hopes. With every in⯑ſtant his impatience redoubled; his terrors [107] grew more lively, his anxiety more awake. Unable to bear this ſtate of incertitude, he endeavoured to divert it by ſubſtituting the thoughts of others to his own. The books, as was before mentioned, were ranged upon ſhelves near the table: this ſtood exactly oppoſite to the bed, which was placed in an alcove near the cloſet-door. Ambroſio took down a volume, and ſeated himſelf by the table: but his attention wandered from the pages before him. Antonia's image, and that of the murdered Elvira, perſiſted to force themſelves before his imagination. Still he continued to rend, though his eyes ran over the characters without his mind being conſcious of their import.

Such was his occupation when he fan⯑cied that he heard a foot-ſtep. He turned his head, but nobody was to be ſeen. He reſumed his book; but in a few minutes af⯑ter, the ſame ſound was repeated, and fol⯑lowed by a ruſtling noiſe cloſe behind him. He now ſtarted from his ſeat, and looking round him, perceived the cloſet-door ſtand⯑ing [108] half uncloſed. On his firſt entering the room, he had tried to open it, but found it bolted on the inſide.

"How is this?" ſaid he to himſelf; "How comes this door unfaſtened?"

He advanced towards it, he puſhed it open, and looked into the cloſet: no one was there. While he ſtood irreſolute, he thought that he diſtinguiſhed a groaning in the adjacent chamber: it was Antonia's, and he ſuppoſed that the drops began to take effect. But upon liſtening more at⯑tentively, he found the noiſe to be cauſed by Jacintha, who had fallen aſleep by the lady's bed-ſide, and was ſnoaring moſt luſ⯑tily. Ambroſio drew back, and returned to the other room, muſing upon the ſud⯑den opening of the cloſet-door, for which he ſtrove in vain to account.

He paced the chamber up and down in ſilence. At length he ſtopped, and the bed attracted his attention. The curtain of the receſs was but half drawn. He ſigh⯑ed involuntarily.

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

As he uttered theſe words, his eyes, which were fixed upon the bed, ſaw the curtain ſhaken gently backwards and forwards. The apparition was recalled to his mind, and he almoſt fancied that he beheld El⯑vira's [110] viſionary form reclining upon the bed. A few moments conſideration ſufficed to re-aſſure him.

"It was only the wind," ſaid he, recover⯑ing himſelf.

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

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

Haſtily he mounted the ſteps, when a figure dreſſed in white ſtarted from the al⯑cove, and gliding by him, made with pre⯑cipitation towards the cloſet. Madneſs and deſpair now ſupplied the monk with that courage, of which he had till then been de⯑ſtitute. He flew down the ſteps, purſued the apparition, and attempted to graſp it.

"Ghoſt, or devil, I hold you!" he [111] exclaimed, and ſeized the ſpectre by the arm.

"Oh! Chriſt Jeſus!" cried a ſhrill voice; "Holy father, how you gripe me! I pro⯑teſt that I meant no harm!"

This addreſs, as well as the arm which he held, convinced the abbot that the ſup⯑poſed ghoſt was ſubſtantial fleſh and blood. He drew the intruder towards the table, and holding up the light, diſcovered the features of . . . . . . Madona Flora!

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

"I proteſt, reverend father," ſaid ſhe, "that I am quite grieved at having diſ⯑turbed you; nothing was further from my intention. I meant to get out of the room as quietly as I got in; and had you been [112] ignorant that I watched you, you know it would have been the ſame thing as if I had not watched you at all. To be ſure I did very wrong in being a ſpy upon you—that I cannot deny. But, Lord! your reverence, how can a poor weak woman reſiſt curi⯑oſity? Mine was ſo ſtrong to know what you were doing, that I could not but try to get a little peep without any body know⯑ing any thing about it. So with that I left old Dame Jacintha ſitting by my lady's bed, and I ventured to ſteal into the cloſet. Being unwilling to interrupt you, I con⯑tented myſelf at firſt with putting my eye to the key-hole; but as I could ſee nothing by this means, I undrew the bolt, and while your back was turned to the alcove, I whipt me in ſoftly and ſilently. Here I lay ſnug behind the curtain, till your reve⯑rence found me out, and ſeized me ere I had time to regain the cloſet-door. This is the whole truth, I aſſure you, holy father, and I beg your pardon a thouſand times for my impertinence."

[113]During this ſpeech the abbot had time to recollect himſelf: he was ſatisfied with reading the penitent ſpy a lecture upon the dangers of curioſity, and the meanneſs of the action in which ſhe had been juſt diſ⯑covered. Flora declared herſelf fully per⯑ſuaded that ſhe had done wrong; ſhe pro⯑miſed never to be guilty of the ſame fault again, and was retiring very humble and contrite to Antonia's chamber, when the cloſet-door was ſuddenly thrown open, and in ruſhed Jacintha pale and out of breath.

"Oh! Father! Father!" ſhe cried in a voice almoſt choked with terror, "What ſhall I do! What ſhall I do! Here is a fine piece of work! Nothing but misfor⯑tunes! Nothing but dead people, and dy⯑ing people! Oh! I ſhall go diſtracted! I ſhall go diſtracted!"

"Speak! Speak!" cried Flora and the monk at the ſame time; "what has hap⯑pened? what is the matter?

"Oh! I ſhall have another corſe in my houſe! Some witch has certainly caſt a ſpell [114] upon it, upon me, and upon all about me! Poor Donna Antonia! there ſhe lies in juſt ſuch convulſions as killed her mother! The ghoſt told her true! I am ſure the ghoſt told her true!"

Flora ran, or rather ſlew to her lady's chamber: Ambroſio followed her, his bo⯑ſom trembling with hope and apprehenſion. They found Antonia as Jacintha had de⯑ſcribed, torn by racking convulſions, from which they in vain endeavoured to relieve her. The monk diſpatched Jacintha to the abbey in all haſte, and commiſſioned her to bring father Pablos back with her with⯑out loſing a moment.

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

With this reſolution ſhe ſet out for the monaſtery, and delivered to father Pablos the abbot's orders. She then betook herſelf to the houſe of old Simon Gonzalez, whom [115] ſhe reſolved never to quit till ſhe had made him her huſband, and his dwelling her own.

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

"Worthy Ambroſio," ſhe ſaid in a fee⯑ble voice, while ſhe preſſed his hand to her lips; "I am now at liberty to expreſs how grateful is my heart for your attention and kindneſs. I am upon the bed of death; yet an hour, and I ſhall be no more. I may therefore acknowledge without reſtraint, that to relinquiſh your ſociety was very painful to me: but ſuch was the will of a [116] parent, and I dared not diſobey. I die with⯑out repugnance: there are few who will la⯑ment my leaving them—there are few whom I lament to leave. Among thoſe few, I lament for none more than for yourſelf; but we ſhall meet again, Ambroſio! we ſhall one day meet in heaven: there ſhall our friendſhip be renewed, and my mother ſhall view it with pleaſure!"

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

"You are grieved for me, father," ſhe continued; "Ah! ſigh not for my loſs. I have no crimes to repent, at leaſt none of which I am conſcious; and I reſtore my ſoul without fear to him from whom I re⯑ceived it. I have but few requeſts to make; yet let me hope that what few I have ſhall be granted. Let a ſolemn maſs be ſaid for my ſoul's repoſe, and another for that or my beloved mother; not that I doubt her reſting in her grave. I am now con⯑vinced that my reaſon wandered, and the [117] falſehood of the ghoſt's prediction is ſuf⯑ficient to prove my error. But every one has ſome failing: my mother may have had her's, though I knew them not: I there⯑fore wiſh a maſs to be celebrated for her repoſe, and the expence may be defrayed by the little wealth of which I am poſſeſſ⯑ed. Whatever may then remain, I be⯑queath to my aunt Leonella. When I am dead, let the marquis de las Ciſternas know that his brother's unhappy family can no longer importune him. But diſap⯑pointment makes me unjuſt: they tell me that he is ill, and perhaps, had it been in his power, he wiſhed to have protected me. Tell him, then, father, only that I am dead, and that if he had any faults to me, I forgave him from my heart. This done, I have nothing more to aſk for than your prayers. Promiſe to remember my re⯑queſts, and I ſhall reſign my life without a pang or ſorrow."

Ambroſio engaged to comply with her deſires, and proceeded to give her abſo⯑lution. [118] Every moment announced the ap⯑proach of Antonia's fate. Her ſight failed, her heart beat ſluggiſhly, her fingers ſtif⯑fened and grew cold, and at two in the morning ſhe expired without a groan. As ſoon as the breath had forſaken her body, father Pablos retired, ſincerely affected at the melancholy ſcene. On her part, Flora gave way to the moſt unbridled ſorrow. Far different concerns employed Ambro⯑ſio; he ſought for the pulſe whoſe throb⯑bing, ſo Matilda had aſſured him, would prove Antonia's death but temporal. He found it—he preſſed it—it palpitated be⯑neath his hand, and his heart was filled with ecſtacy. However, he carefully con⯑cealed his ſatisfaction at the ſucceſs of his plan. He aſſumed a melancholy air, and, addreſſing himſelf to Flora, warned her againſt abandoning herſelf to fruitleſs ſor⯑row. Her tears were too-ſincere to permit her liſtening to his counſels, and ſhe con⯑tinued to weep unceaſingly. The friar withdrew, firſt promiſing to give orders [119] himſelf about the funeral, which, out of conſideration for Jacintha as he pretended, ſhould take place with all expedition. Plunged in grief for the loſs of her beloved miſtreſs, Flora ſcarcely attended to what he ſaid. Ambroſio haſtened to command the burial. He obtained permiſſion from the prioreſs, that the corſe ſhould be depo⯑ſited in St. Clare's ſepulchre: and on the Friday morning, every proper and needful ceremony being performed, Antonia's body was committed to the tomb.

On the ſame day Leonella arrived at Madrid, intending to preſent her young huſband to Elvira. Various circumſtances had obliged her to defer her journey from Tueſday to Friday; and ſhe had no op⯑portunity of making this alteration in her plans known to her ſiſter. As her heart was truly affectionate, and as ſhe had ever entertained a ſincere regard for Elvira and her daughter, her ſurpriſe at hearing of their ſudden and melancholy fate was fully equal⯑led by her ſorrow and diſappointment. [120] Ambroſio ſent to inform her of Antonia's bequeſt: at her ſolication, he promiſed, as ſoon as Elvira's trifling debts were diſ⯑charged, to tranſmit to her the remainder. This being ſettled, no other buſineſs de⯑tained Leonella in Madrid, and ſhe re⯑turned to Cordova with all diligence.

CHAP. X.

HIS whole attention bent upon bringing to juſtice the aſſaſſins of his ſiſter, Lorenzo little thought how ſeverely his intereſt was ſuffering in another quarter. As was before mentioned, he returned not to Madrid till the evening of that day on which Antonia was buried. Signifying to the Grand In⯑quiſitor the order of the cardinal-duke (a ceremony not to be neglected when a mem⯑ber of the church was to be arreſted pub⯑licly), communicating his deſign to his un⯑cle [122] and Don Ramirez, and aſſembling a troop of attendants ſufficient to prevent op⯑poſition, furniſhed him with full occupation during the few hours preceding midnight. Conſequently he had no opportunity to enquire about his miſtreſs, and was perfectly ignorant both of her death and her mo⯑ther's.

The marquis was by no means out of danger: his delirium was gone, but had left him ſo much exhauſted, that the phy⯑ſicians declined pronouncing upon the con⯑ſequences likely to enſue. As for Raymond himſelf, he wiſhed for nothing more ear⯑neſtly than to join Agnes in the grave. Ex⯑iſtence was hateful to him: he ſaw nothing in the world deſerving his attention; and he hoped to hear that Agnes was revenged and himſelf given over in the ſame moment.

Followed by Raymond's ardent prayers for ſucceſs, Lorenzo was at the gates of St. Clare a full hour before the time ap⯑pointed by the Mother St. Urſula. He was accompanied by his uncle, by Don [123] Ramirez de Mello, and a party of choſen archers. Though in conſiderable numbers, their appearance created no ſurpriſe: a great crowd was already aſſembled before the convent-doors, in order to witneſs the proceſſion. It was naturally ſuppoſed, that Lorenzo and his attendants were conducted thither by the ſame deſign. The duke of Medina being recogniſed, the people drew back, and made way for his party to ad⯑vance. Lorenzo placed himſelf oppoſite to the great gate, through which the pil⯑grims were to paſs. Convinced that the prioreſs could not eſcape him, he waited patiently for her appearance, which ſhe was expected to make exactly at midnight.

The nuns were employed in religious duties eſtabliſhed in honour of St. Clare, and to which no prophane was ever ad⯑mitted. The chapel-windows were illu⯑minated. As they ſtood on the outſide, the auditors heard the full ſwell of the or⯑gan, accompanied by a chorus of female voices, riſe upon the ſtillneſs of the night. [124] This died away, and was ſucceeded by a ſingle ſtrain of harmony: it was the voice of her who was deſtined to ſuſtain in the proceſſion the character of St. Clare. For this office the moſt beautiful virgin of Ma⯑drid was always ſelected, and ſhe upon whom the choice fell, eſteemed it as the higheſt of honours. While liſtening to the muſic, whoſe melody diſtance only ſeemed to render ſweeter, the audience was wrapped up in profound attention. Univerſal ſilence prevailed through the crowd, and every heart was filled with reverence for religion —every heart but Lorenzo's. Conſcious that among thoſe who chaunted the praiſes of their God ſo ſweetly there were ſome who cloaked with devotion the fouleſt ſins, their hymns inſpired him with deteſtation at their hypocriſy. He had long obſerved with diſ⯑approbation and contempt the ſuperſtition which governed Madrid's inhabitants. His good ſenſe had pointed out to him the arti⯑fices of the monks, and the groſs abſurdity of their miracles, wonders, and ſuppoſi⯑titious [125] reliques. He bluſhed to ſee his countrymen the dupes of deceptions ſo ri⯑diculous, and only wiſhed for an opportu⯑nity to free them from their monkiſh fetters. That opportunity, ſo long deſired in vain, was at length preſented to him. He re⯑ſolved not to let it ſlip, but to ſet before the people, in glaring colours, how enormous were the abuſes but too frequently practiſed in monaſteries, and how unjuſtly public eſteem was beſtowed indiſcriminately upon all who wore a religious habit. He longed for the moment deſtined to unmaſk the hy⯑pocrites, and convince his countrymen, that a ſanctified exterior does not always hide a virtuous heart.

The ſervice laſted till midnight was an⯑nounced by the convent-bell. That ſound being heard, the muſic ceaſed: the voices died away ſoftly, and ſoon after the lights diſappeared from the chapel-windows. Lo⯑renzo's heart beat high, when he found the execution of his plan to be at hand. From the natural ſuperſtition of the people he [126] had prepared himſelf for ſome reſiſtance: but he truſted that the Mother St. Urſula would bring good reaſons to juſtify his pro⯑ceeding. He had force with him to repel the firſt impulſe of the populace, till his ar⯑guments ſhould be heard: his only fear was, leſt the domina, ſuſpecting his deſign, ſhould have ſpirited away the nun on whoſe depoſition every thing depended. Unleſs the Mother St. Urſula ſhould be preſent, he could only accuſe the prioreſs upon ſuſ⯑picion; and this reflection gave him ſome little apprehenſion for the ſucceſs of his en⯑terpriſe. The tranquillity which ſeemed to reign through the convent, in ſome degree re-aſſured him: ſtill he expected the mo⯑ment eagerly, when the preſence of his ally ſhould deprive him of the power of doubt⯑ing.

The abbey of Capuchins was only ſepa⯑rated from the convent by the garden and cemetery. The monks had been invited to aſſiſt at the pilgrimage. They now ar⯑rived, marching two by two with lighted [127] torches in their hands, and chaunting hymns in honour of St. Clare. Father Pablos was at their head, the abbot hav⯑ing excuſed himſelf from attending. The people made way for the holy train, and the friars placed themſelves in ranks on either ſide of the great gates. A few minutes ſuf⯑ficed to arrange the order of the proceſſion. This being ſettled, the convent-doors were thrown open, and again the female chorus ſounded in full melody. Firſt appeared a band of choriſters. As ſoon as they had paſſed, the monks fell in two by two, and followed with ſteps ſlow and meaſured: next came the novices: they bore no tapers, as did the profeſſed, but moved on with eyes bent downwards, and ſeemed to be occu⯑pied by telling their beads. To them ſuc⯑ceeded a young and lovely girl, who repre⯑ſented St. Lucia: ſhe held a golden baſon, in which were two eyes: her own were co⯑vered by a velvet bandage, and ſhe was conducted by another nun habited as an angel. She was followed by St. Catherine, [128] a palm-branch in one hand, a flaming ſword in the other: ſhe was robed in white, and her brow was ornamented with a ſpark⯑ling diadem. After her appeared St. Ge⯑nevieve, ſurrounded by a number of imps, who putting themſelves into groteſque atti⯑tudes, drawing her by the robe, and ſporting round her with antic geſtures, endeavoured to diſtract her attention from the book, on which her eyes were conſtantly fixed. Theſe merry devils greatly entertained the ſpectators, who teſtified their pleaſure by repeated burſts of laughter. The prioreſs had been careful to ſelect a nun whoſe diſ⯑poſition was naturally ſolemn and ſatur⯑nine. She had every reaſon to be ſatiſ⯑fied with her choice: the drolleries of the imps were entirely thrown away, and St. Genevieve moved on without diſcompoſing a muſcle.

Each of theſe ſaints was ſeparated from the other by a band of choriſters, exalting her praiſe in their hymns, but declaring her to be very much inferior to St. Clare, [129] the convent's avowed patroneſs. Theſe having paſſed, a long train of nuns ap⯑peared, bearing like the choriſters each a burning taper. Next came the reliques of St. Clare, incloſed in vaſes equally precious for their materials and workmanſhip: but they attracted not Lorenzo's attention. The nun who bore the heart occupied him en⯑tirely. According to Theodore's deſcrip⯑tion, he doubted not her being the Mother St. Urſula. She ſeemed to look round with anxiety. As he ſtood foremoſt in the rank by which the proceſſion paſſed, her eye caught Lorenzo's. A fluſh of joy over-ſpread her till then pallid cheek. She turned to her companion eagerly.

"We are ſafe," he heard her whiſper, "'tis her brother."

His heart being now at eaſe, Lorenzo gazed with tranquillity upon the remainder of the ſhow. Now appeared its moſt bril⯑liant ornament: it was a machine faſhioned like a throne, rich with jewels, and dazzling with light. It rolled onwards upon con⯑cealed [130] wheels, and was guided by ſeveral lovely children dreſſed as ſeraphs. The ſummit was covered with ſilver clouds, upon which reclined the moſt beautiful form that eyes ever witneſſed. It was a damſel repreſenting St. Clare: her dreſs was of ineſtimable price, and round her head a wreath of diamonds formed an arti⯑ficial glory: but all theſe ornaments yielded to the luſtre of her charms. As ſhe ad⯑vanced, a murmur of delight ran through the crowd. Even Lorenzo confeſſed ſe⯑cretly, that he never beheld more perfect beauty; and had not his heart been Anto⯑nia's, it muſt have fallen a ſacrifice to this enchanting girl. As it was, he conſidered her only as a fine ſtatue: ſhe obtained from him no tribute ſave cold admiration; and when ſhe had paſſed him, he thought of her no more.

"Who is ſhe?" aſked a by-ſtander in Lorenzo's hearing.

"One whoſe beauty you muſt often have heard celebrated. Her name is Virginia [131] de Villa-Franca: ſhe is a penſioner of St. Clare's convent, a relation of the prioreſs, and has been ſelected with juſtice as the or⯑nament of the proceſſion."

The throne moved onwards. It was fol⯑lowed by the prioreſs herſelf: ſhe marched at the head of the remaining nuns with a devout and ſanctified air, and cloſed the proceſſion. She moved on ſlowly: her eyes were raiſed to heaven: her counte⯑nance, calm and tranquil, ſeemed abſtracted from all ſublunary things, and no feature betrayed her ſecret pride at diſplaying the pomp and opulence of her convent. She paſſed along, accompanied by the prayers and benedictions of the populace: but how great was the general confuſion and ſur⯑priſe when Don Ramirez, ſtarting forward, challenged her as his priſoner!

For a moment amazement held the do⯑mina ſilent and immoveable: but no ſooner did ſhe recover herſelf, than ſhe exclaimed againſt ſacrilege and impiety, and called upon the people to reſcue a daughter of the [132] church. They were eagerly preparing to obey her; when Don Ramirez, protected by the archers from their rage, commanded them to forbear, and threatened them with the ſevereſt vengeance of the Inquiſition. At that dreaded word every arm fell, every ſword ſhrunk back into its ſcabbard. The prioreſs herſelf turned pale, and trembled. The general ſilence convinced her that ſhe had nothing to hope but from innocence, and ſhe beſought Don Ramirez in a fault⯑ering voice, to inform her of what crime ſhe was accuſed.

"That you ſhall know in time," replied he; "but firſt I muſt ſecure the Mother St. Urſula."

"The Mother St. Urſula?" repeated the domina faintly.

At this moment caſting her eyes round, ſhe ſaw Lorenzo and the duke, who had followed Don Ramirez.

"Ah! great God!" ſhe cried, claſping her hands together with a frantic air, "I am betrayed."

[133]"Betrayed?" replied St. Urſula, who now arrived conducted by ſome of the archers, and followed by the nun her com⯑panion in the proceſſion: "not betrayed, but diſcovered. In me recogniſe your accuſer: you know not how well I am in⯑ſtructed in your guilt:—Segnor," ſhe con⯑tinued, turning to Don Ramirez, "I com⯑mit myſelf to your cuſtody. I charge the prioreſs of St. Clare with murder, and ſtake my life for the juſtice of my accuſation."

A general cry of ſurpriſe was uttered by the whole audience, and an explanation was loudly demanded. The trembling nuns, terrified at the noiſe and univerſal confu⯑ſion, had diſperſed, and fled different ways. Some regained the convent: others ſought refuge in the dwellings of their relations; and many, only ſenſible of their preſent danger, and anxious to eſcape from the tu⯑mult, ran through the ſtreets, and wandered they knew not whither. The lovely Vir⯑ginia was one of the firſt to fly. And in order that ſhe might be better ſeen and [134] heard, the people deſired that St. Urſula ſhould harangue them from the vacant throne. The nun complied: ſhe aſcended the glittering machine, and then addreſſed the ſurrounding multitude as follows:

"However ſtrange and unſeemly may appear my conduct, when conſidered to be adopted by a female and a nun, neceſſity will juſtify it moſt fully. A ſecret, an hor⯑rible ſecret weighs heavy upon my ſoul: no reſt can be mine till I have revealed it to the world, and ſatisfied that innocent blood which calls from the grave for venge⯑ance. Much have I dared, to gain this opportunity of lightening my conſcience. Had I failed in my attempt to reveal the crime, had the domina but ſuſpected that the myſtery was none to me, my ruin was inevitable. Angels who watch unceaſingly over thoſe who deſerve their favour, have enabled me to eſcape detection. I am now at liberty to relate a tale, whoſe circum⯑ſtances will freeze every honeſt ſoul with horror. Mine is the taſk to rend the veil [135] from hypocriſy, and ſhew miſguided pa⯑rents to what dangers the woman is ex⯑poſed, who falls under the ſway of a mo⯑naſtic tyrant.

"Among the votaries of St. Clare, none was more lovely, none more gentle, than Agnes de Medina. I knew her well: ſhe entruſted to me every ſecret of her heart: I was her friend and confidante, and I loved her with ſincere affection. Nor was I ſingular in my attachment. Her piety unfeigned, her willingneſs to oblige, and her angelic diſpoſition, rendered her the darling of all that was eſtimable in the convent. The prioreſs herſelf, proud, ſcru⯑pulous and forbidding, could not refuſe Agnes that tribute of approbation which ſhe beſtowed upon no one elſe. Every one has ſome fault. Alas! Agnes had her weak⯑neſs: ſhe violated the laws of our order, and incurred the inveterate hate of the unforgiving domina. St. Clare's rules are ſevere: but grown antiquated and neglected, many of late years have either been forgot⯑ten, [136] or changed by univerſal conſent into milder puniſhments. The penance adjudged to the crime of Agnes was moſt cruel, moſt inhuman. The law had been long explo⯑ded. Alas! it ſtill exiſted, and the re⯑vengeful prioreſs now determined to revive it. This law decreed, that the offender ſhould be plunged into a private dungeon, expreſsly conſtituted to hide from the world for ever the victim of cruelty and tyrannic ſuperſtition. In this dreadful abode ſhe was to lead a perpetual ſolitude, deprived of all ſociety, and believed to be dead by thoſe, whom affection might have prompted to attempt her reſcue. Thus was ſhe to languiſh out the remainder of her days, with no other food than bread and water, and no other comfort than the free indulgence of her tears."

The indignation created by this account was ſo violent, as for ſome moments to in⯑terrupt St. Urſula's narrative. When the diſturbance ceaſed, and ſilence again pre⯑vailed through the aſſembly, ſhe continued [137] her diſcourſe, while at every word the do⯑mina's countenance betrayed her increaſing terrors.

"A council of the twelve elder nuns was called: I was of the number. The prio⯑reſs in exaggerated colours deſcribed the offence of Agnes, and ſcrupled not to pro⯑poſe the revival of this almoſt forgotten law. To the ſhame of our ſex be it ſpoken, that either ſo abſolute was the domina's will in the convent, or ſo much had diſap⯑pointment, ſolitude, and ſelf-denial harden⯑ed their hearts and ſoured their tempers, that this barbarous propoſal was aſſented to by nine voices out of the twelve. I was not one of the nine. Frequent opportunities had convinced me of the virtues of Agnes, and I loved and pitied her moſt ſincerely. The mothers Bertha and Cornelia joined my party: we made the ſtrongeſt oppoſition, poſſible, and the ſuperior found herſelf compelled to change her intention. In ſpite of the majority in her favour, ſhe feared to break with us openly. She knew [138] that, ſupported by the Medina family, our forces would be too ſtrong for her to cope with: and ſhe alſo knew that, after being once impriſoned, and ſuppoſed dead, ſhould Agnes be diſcovered, her ruin would be inevitable; ſhe therefore gave up her de⯑ſign, though with much reluctance. She demanded ſome days to reflect upon a mode of puniſhment, which might be agreeable to the whole community; and ſhe promiſed, that as ſoon as her reſolution was fixed, the ſame council ſhould be again ſummoned. Two days paſſed away: on the evening of the third it was announced, that on the next day Agnes ſhould be examined; and that according to her be⯑viour on that occaſion her puniſhment ſhould be either ſtrengthened or miti⯑gated.

"On the night preceding this exami⯑nation, I ſtole to the cell of Agnes at an hour when I ſuppoſed the other nuns to be buried in ſleep. I comforted her to the beſt of my power: I bade her take courage, [139] told her to rely upon the ſupport of her friends, and taught her certain ſigns, by which I might inſtruct her to anſwer the domina's queſtions by an aſſent or negative. Conſcious that her enemy would ſtrive to confuſe, embarraſs, and daunt her, I feared her being enſnared into ſome confeſſion prejudicial to her intereſts. Being anxious to keep my viſit ſecret. I ſtayed with Agnes but a ſhort time. I bade her not to let her ſpirits be caſt down. I mingled my tears with thoſe which ſtreamed down her cheek, embraced her fondly, and was on the point of retiring, when I heard the ſound of ſteps approaching the cell. I ſtarted back. A curtain which veiled a large crucifix of⯑fered me a retreat, and I haſtened to place myſelf behind it. The door opened. The prioreſs entered, followed by four other nuns. They advanced towards the bed of Agnes. The ſuperior reproached her with her errors in the bittereſt terms. She told her, that ſhe was a diſgrace to the convent, that ſhe was reſolved to deliver the world [140] and herſelf from ſuch a monſter, and com⯑manded her to drink the contents of a gob⯑let now preſented to her by one of the nuns. Aware of the fatal properties of the liquor, and trembling to find herſelf upon the brink of eternity, the unhappy girl ſtrove to excite the domina's pity by the moſt af⯑fecting prayers. She ſued for life in terms which might have melted the heart of a fiend. She promiſed to ſubmit patiently to any puniſhment, to ſhame, impriſon⯑ment, and torture, might ſhe but be per⯑mitted to live! Oh! might ſhe but live another month, or week, or day! Her mer⯑cileſs enemy liſtened to her complaints un⯑moved: ſhe told her, that at firſt ſhe meant to have ſpared her life, and that if ſhe had altered her intention, ſhe had to thank the oppoſition of her friends. She continued to inſiſt upon her ſwallowing the poiſon: ſhe bade her recommend herſelf to the Al⯑mighty's mercy, not to hers; and aſſured her that in an hour ſhe would be numbered with the dead. Perceiving that it was [141] vain to implore this unfeeling woman, ſhe attempted to ſpring from her bed, and call for aſſiſtance: ſhe hoped, if ſhe could not eſcape the fate announced to her, at leaſt to have witneſſes of the violence commit⯑ted. The prioreſs gueſſed her deſign: ſhe ſeized her forcibly by the arm, and puſhed her back upon her pillow; at the ſame time drawing a dagger, and placing it at the breaſt of the unfortunate Agnes, ſhe proteſted that if ſhe uttered a ſingle cry, or heſitated a ſingle moment to drink the poi⯑ſon, ſhe would pierce her heart that in⯑ſtant. Already half-dead with fear, ſhe could make no further reſiſtance. The nun approached with the fatal goblet; the domina obliged her to take it, and ſwallow the contents. She drank, and the horrid deed was accompliſhed. The nuns then ſeated themſelves round the bed; they an⯑ſwered her groans with reproaches; they interrupted with ſarcaſms the prayers in which ſhe recommended her parting ſoul to mercy: they threatened her with hea⯑ven's [142] vengeance and eternal perdition: they bade her deſpair of pardon, and ſtrowed with yet ſharper thorns death's painful pillow. Such were the ſufferings of this young unfortunate, till releaſed by fate from the malice of her tormentors. She expired in horror of the paſt, in fears for the future; and her agonies were ſuch as muſt have amply gratified the hate and vengeance of her enemies. As ſoon as her victim ceaſed to breathe, the domina re⯑tired, and was followed by her accom⯑plices.

"It was now that I ventured from my con⯑cealment. I dared not to aſſiſt my unhap⯑py friend, aware that, without preſerving her, I ſhould only have brought on myſelf the ſame deſtruction. Shocked and terri⯑fied beyond expreſſion at this horrid ſcene, ſcarcely had I ſufficient ſtrength to regain my cell. As I reached the door of that of Agnes, I ventured to look towards the bed on which lay her lifeleſs body, once ſo lovely and ſo ſweet! I breathed a prayer [143] for her departed ſpirit, and vowed to re⯑venge her death by the ſhame and puniſh⯑ment of her aſſaſſins. With danger and difficulty I have kept my oath. I unwarily dropped ſome words at the funeral of Ag⯑nes, white thrown off my guard by exceſ⯑ſive grief, which alarmed the guilty con⯑ſcience of the prioreſs. My every action was obſerved; my every ſtep was traced. I was conſtantly ſurrounded by the ſupe⯑rior's ſpies. It was long before I could find the means of conveying to the unhap⯑py girl's relations an intimation of my ſe⯑cret. It was given out, that Agnes had ex⯑pired ſuddenly: this account was credited not only by her friends in Madrid, but even by thoſe within the convent. The poiſon had left no marks upon her body: no one ſuſpected the true cauſe of her death, and it remained unknown to all, ſave the aſſaſſins and myſelf.

"I have no more to ſay; for what I have already ſaid, I will anſwer with my life. I repeat, that the prioreſs is a murdereſs; that [144] ſhe has driven from the world, perhaps from heaven, an unfortunate, whoſe offence was light and venial; that ſhe has abuſed the power intruſted to her hands, and has been a tyrant, a barbarian, and an hypo⯑crite. I alſo accuſe the four nuns, Vio⯑lante, Camilla, Alix, and Mariana, as be⯑ing her accomplices, and equally crimi⯑nal."

Here St. Urſula ended her narrative. It created horror and ſurpriſe throughout; but when ſhe related the inhuman murder of Agnes, the indignation of the mob was ſo audibly teſtified, that it was ſcarcely poſ⯑ſible to hear the concluſion. This confu⯑ſion increaſed with every moment. At length a multitude of voices exclaimed, that the prioreſs ſhould be given up to their fury. To this Don Ramirez poſitively refuſed to conſent. Even Lorenzo bade the people remember, that ſhe had undergone no trial, and adviſed them to leave her pu⯑niſhment to the Inquiſition. All repreſen⯑tations were fruitleſs; the diſturbance grew [145] ſtill more violent, and the populace more exaſperated. In vain did Ramirez attempt to convey his priſoner out of the throng. Wherever he turned, a band of rioters barred his paſſage, and demanded her being delivered over to them more loudly than before. Ramirez ordered his attendants to cut their way through the multitude. Oppreſſed by numbers, it was impoſſible for them to draw their ſwords. He threat⯑ened the mob with the vengeance of the In⯑quiſition: but, in this moment of popular phrenſy, even this dreadful name had loſt its effect. Though regret for his ſiſter made him look upon the prioreſs with ab⯑horrence, Lorenzo could not help pitying a woman in a ſituation ſo terrible: but in ſpite of all his exertions and thoſe of the duke, of Don Ramirez and the archers, the people continued to preſs onwards. They forced a paſſage through the guards who protected their deſtined victim, drag⯑ged her from her ſhelter, and proceeded to take upon her a moſt ſummary and cruel [146] vengeance. Wild with terror, and ſcarcely knowing what ſhe ſaid, the wretched wo⯑man ſhrieked for a moment's mercy: ſhe proteſted that ſhe was innocent of the death of Agnes, and could clear herſelf from the ſuſpicion beyond the power of doubt. The rioters heeded nothing but the gratifi⯑cation of their barbarous vengeance. They refuſed to liſten to her: they ſhewed her every ſort of inſult, loaded her with mud and filth, and called her by the moſt op⯑probrious appellations. They tore her one from another, and each new tormentor was more ſavage than the former. They ſtifled with howls and execrations her ſhrill cries for mercy, and dragged her through the ſtreets, ſpurning her, trampling her, and treating her with every ſpecies of cruelty which hate or vindictive fury could invent. At length a flint, aimed by ſome well-directing hand, ſtruck her full upon the temple. She ſank upon the ground bathed in blood, and in a few minutes terminated her miſerable exiſtence. Yet though ſhe [147] no longer felt their inſults, the rioters ſtill exerciſed their impotent rage upon her life⯑leſs body. They beat it, trod upon it, and ill-uſed it, till it became no more than a maſs of fleſh, unſightly, ſhapeleſs, and diſ⯑guſting.

Unable to prevent this ſhocking event, Lorenzo and his friends had beheld it with the utmoſt horror: but they were rouſed from their compelled inactivity, on hearing that the mob was attacking the convent of St. Clare. The incenſed populace, con⯑founding the innocent with the guilty, had reſolved to ſacrifice all the nuns of that or⯑der to their rage, and not to leave one ſtone of the building upon another. Alarmed at this intelligence, they haſtened to the convent, reſolved to defend it if poſſible, or at leaſt to reſcue the inhabitants from the fury of the rioters. Moſt of the nuns had fled, but a few ſtill remained in their habi⯑tation. Their ſituation was truly danger⯑ous. However, as they had taken the pre⯑caution of faſtening the inner gates, with [148] this aſſiſtance Lorenzo hoped to repel the mob, till Don Ramirez ſhould return to him with a more ſufficient force.

Having been conducted by the former diſturbance to the diſtance of ſome ſtreets from the convent, he did not immediately reach it. When he arrived, the throng ſurrounding it was ſo exceſſive, as to pre⯑vent his approaching the gates. In the in⯑terim, the populace beſieged the building with perſevering rage: they battered the walls, threw lighted torches in at the win⯑dows, and ſwore that by break of day not a nun of St. Clare's order ſhould be left alive. Lorenzo had juſt ſucceeded in piercing his way through the crowd, when one of the gates was forced open. The rioters pour⯑ed into the interior part of the building, where they exerciſed their vengeance upon every thing which found itſelf in their paſ⯑ſage. They broke the furniture into pieces, tore down the pictures, deſtroyed the re⯑liques, and in their hatred of her ſervant forgot all reſpect to the ſaint. Some em⯑ployed [149] themſelves in ſearching out the nuns, others in pulling down parts of the convent, and others again in ſetting fire to the pictures and valuable furniture which it contained. Theſe latter produced the moſt deciſive deſolation. Indeed the con⯑ſequences of their action were more ſudden than themſelves had expected or wiſhed. The flames riſing from the burning piles caught part of the building, which being old and dry, the conflagration ſpread with rapidity from room to room. The walls were ſoon ſhaken by the devouring ele⯑ment. The columns gave way, the roofs came tumbling down upon the rioters, and cruſhed many of them beneath their weight. Nothing was to be heard but ſhrieks and groans. The convent was wrapped in flames, and the whole preſented a ſcene of devaſtation and horror.

Lorenzo was ſhocked at having been the cauſe, however innocent, of this fright⯑ful diſturbance: he endeavoured to repair his fault by protecting the helpleſs inhabi⯑tants [150] of the convent. He entered it with the mob, and exerted himſelf to repreſs the prevailing fury, till the ſudden and alarm⯑ing progreſs of the flames compelled him to provide for his own ſafety. The people now hurried out as eagerly as they had be⯑fore thronged in; but their numbers clog⯑ging up the door-way, and the fire gaining upon them rapidly, many of them periſhed ere they had time to effect their eſcape. Lorenzo's good fortune directed him to a ſmall door in a farther aiſle of the chapel. The bolt was already undrawn: he opened the door, and found himſelf at the foot of St. Clare's ſepulchre.

Here he ſtopped to breathe. The duke and ſome of his attendants had followed him, and thus were in ſecurity for the pre⯑ſent. They now conſulted what ſteps they ſhould take to eſcape from this ſcene of diſ⯑turbance; but their deliberations were con⯑ſiderably interrupted by the ſight of volumes of fire riſing from amidſt the convent's maſſy walls, by the noiſe of ſome heavy [151] arch tumbling down in ruins, or by the mingled ſhrieks of the nuns and rioters, either ſuffocating in the preſs, periſhing in the flames, or cruſhed beneath the weight of the falling manſion.

Lorenzo enquired, whither the wicket led? He was anſwered, to the garden of the Capuchins; and it was reſolved to explore an outlet upon that ſide. Accordingly the duke raiſed the latch, and paſſed into the adjoining cemetery. The attendants fol⯑lowed without ceremony. Lorenzo, being the laſt, was alſo on the point of quitting the colonnade, when he ſaw the door of the ſepulchre opened ſoftly. Some one looked out, but on perceiving ſtrangers uttered a loud ſhriek, ſtarted back again, and flew down the marble ſtairs.

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

Thus ſaying, he haſtened into the ſepul⯑chre, and purſued the perſon who continued to fly before him. The duke knew not the [152] cauſe of this exclamation, but, ſuppoſing that he had good reaſons for it, followed him without heſitation. The others did the ſame, and the whole party ſoon arrived at the foot of the ſtairs. The upper door having been left open, the neighbouring flames darted from above a ſufficient light to enable Lorenzo's catching a glance of the fugitive running through the long paſ⯑ſages and diſtant vaults; but when a ſudden turn deprived him of this aſſiſtance, total darkneſs ſucceeded, and he could only trace the object of his enquiry by the faint echo of retiring feet. The purſuers were now compelled to proceed with caution: as well as they could judge, the fugitive alſo ſeemed to ſlacken pace, for they heard the ſteps follow each other at longer intervals. They at length were bewildered by the la⯑byrinth of paſſages, and diſperſed in various directions. Carried away by his eagerneſs to clear up this myſtery, and to penetrate into which he was impelled by a move⯑ment ſecret and unaccountable, Lorenzo [153] heeded not this circumſtance till he found himſelf in total ſolitude. The noiſe of foot⯑ſteps had ceaſed, all was ſilent around, and no clue offered itſelf to guide him to the flying perſon. He ſtopped to reflect on the means moſt likely to aid his purſuit. He was perſuaded that no common cauſe would have induced the fugitive to ſeek that drea⯑ry place at an hour ſo unuſual: the cry which he had heard, ſeemed uttered in a voice of terror; and he was convinced that ſome myſtery was attached to this event. After ſome minutes paſſed in heſitation, he continued to proceed, feeling his way along the walls of the paſſage. He had already paſſed ſome time in this ſlow progreſs, when he deſcried a ſpark of light glimmer⯑ing at a diſtance. Guided by this obſer⯑vation, and having drawn his ſword, he bent his ſteps towards the place whence the beam ſeemed to be emitted.

It proceeded from the lamp which flamed before St. Clare's ſtatue. Before it ſtood ſe⯑veral females; their white garments ſtream⯑ing [154] in the blaſt as it howled along the vaulted dungeons. Curious to know what had brought them together in this melan⯑choly ſpot, Lorenzo drew near with pre⯑caution. The ſtrangers ſeemed earneſtly engaged in converſation. They heard not Lorenzo's ſteps, and he approached unobſerved, till he could hear their voices diſtinctly.

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

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

"God grant that my fears may be falſe," rejoined the firſt; "but I doubt they are murderers! If they diſcover us, we are loſt! As for me, my fate is certain. My affinity [155] to the prioreſs will be a ſufficient crime to condemn me; and though till now theſe vaults have afforded me a retreat . . . . . ."

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

"The murderers!" ſhe cried.

She ſtarted away from the ſtatue's pedeſ⯑tal on which ſhe had been ſeated, and at⯑tempted to eſcape by flight. Her com⯑panions at the ſame moment uttered a ter⯑rified ſcream, while Lorenzo arreſted the fugitive by the arm. Frightened and de⯑ſperate, ſhe ſank upon her knees before him.

"Spare me!" ſhe exclaimed; "for Chriſt's ſake, ſpare me! I am innocent, indeed, I am!"

While ſhe ſpoke, her voice was almoſt choaked with fear. The beams of the lamp darting full upon her face, which was unveiled, Lorenzo recognized the beauti⯑ful Virginia de Villa-Franca. He haſten⯑ed to raiſe her from the ground, and be [156] ſought her to take courage. He promiſed to protect her from the rioters, aſſured her that her retreat was ſtill a ſecret, and that ſhe might depend upon his readineſs to de⯑fend her to the laſt drop of his blood. During this converſation, the nuns had thrown themſelves into various attitudes: one knelt, and addreſſed herſelf to Heaven; another hid her face in the lap of her neighbour; ſome liſtened motionleſs with fear to the diſcourſe of the ſuppoſed aſſaſ⯑ſin; while others embraced the ſtatue of St. Clare, and implored her protection with frantic cries. On perceiving their miſtake, they crowded round Lorenzo, and heaped benedictions on him by dozens. He found that on hearing the threats of the mob, and terrified by the cruelties which from the convent towers they had ſeen inflicted on the ſuperior, many of the penſioners and nuns had taken refuge in the ſepulchre. Among the former was to be reckoned the lovely Virginia, nearly related to the prioreſs. She had more reaſon than the [157] reſt to dread the rioters, and now beſought Lorenzo earneſtly not to abandon her to their rage. Her companions, moſt of whom were women of noble family, made the ſame requeſt, which he readily granted: he promiſed not to quit them till he had ſeen each of them ſafe in the arms of her relations. But he adviſed their defer⯑ring to quit the ſepulchre for ſome time longer, when the popular fury ſhould be ſomewhat calmed, and the arrival of mili⯑tary force have diſperſed the multitude.

"Would to God," cried Virginia, "that I were already ſafe in my mother's embraces! How ſay you, Segnor? will it be long ere we may leave this place? Every moment that I paſs here, I paſs in tor⯑ture!"

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

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

"Excuſe me," replied Lorenzo, "if I am ſurpriſed, that while menaced by real woes you are capable of yielding to imagi⯑nary dangers. Theſe terrors are puerile and groundleſs: combat them, holy ſiſter; I have promiſed to guard you from the rioters, but againſt the attacks of ſuperſti⯑tion you muſt depend for protection upon yourſelf. The idea of ghoſts is ridiculous [159] in the extreme; and if you continue to be ſwayed by ideal terrors . . . . . ."

"Ideal?" exclaimed the nuns with one voice: "Why we heard it ourſelves, Seg⯑nor! Every one of us heard it! It was fre⯑quently repeated, and it ſounded every time more melancholy and deep. You will never perſuade me that we could all have been deceived. Not we, indeed; no, no; had the noiſe been merely created by fancy . . . ."

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

The nuns claſped their hands together, and ſank upon their knees. Lorenzo look⯑ed round him eagerly, and was on the point of yielding to the fears which already had poſſeſſed the women. Univerſal ſilence prevailed. He examined the vault, but nothing was to be ſeen. He now prepared to addreſs the nuns, and ridicule their child⯑iſh apprehenſions, when his attention was arreſted by a deep and long-drawn groan.

[160]"What was that?" he cried, and ſtart⯑ed.—

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

As ſhe ſaid this, a ſecond groan was heard yet more diſtinctly. The nuns croſſed themſelves, and haſtened to repeat their prayers againſt evil ſpirits. Lorenzo liſ⯑tened attentively. He even thought that he could diſtinguiſh ſounds as of one ſpeak⯑ing in complaint, but diſtance rendered them inarticulate. The noiſe ſeemed to come from the midſt of the ſmall vault in which he and the nuns then were, and [161] which a multitude of paſſages branching out in various directions formed into a ſort of ſtar. Lorenzo's curioſity, which was ever awake, made him anxious to ſolve this myſtery. He deſired that ſilence might be kept. The nuns obeyed him. All was huſhed till the general ſtillneſs was again diſturbed by the groaning, which was re⯑peated ſeveral times ſucceſſively. He per⯑ceived it to be moſt audible, when upon following the ſound he was conducted cloſe to the ſhrine of St. Clare.

"The noiſe comes from hence," ſaid he: "Whoſe is this ſtatue?"

Helena, to whom he addreſſed the queſ⯑tion, pauſed for a moment. Suddenly ſhe clapped her hands together.

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

The nuns crowded round her, and be⯑ſought her eagerly to explain herſelf. She gravely replied, that for time immemorial the ſtatue had been famous for performing [162] miracles. From this ſhe inferred, that the ſaint was concerned at the conflagration of a convent which ſhe protected, and expreſſ⯑ed her grief by audible lamentations. Not having equal faith in the miraculous ſaint, Lorenzo did not think this ſolution of the myſtery-quite ſo ſatisfactory, as the nuns, who ſubſcribed to it without heſitation. In one point 'tis true that he agreed with Helena. He ſuſpected that the groans proceeded from the ſtatue: the more he liſ⯑tened the more was he confirmed in this idea. He drew nearer to the image, de⯑ſigning to inſpect it more cloſely: but per⯑ceiving his intention, the nuns beſought him for God's ſake to deſiſt, ſince, if he touched the ſtatue, his death was inevi⯑table.

"And in what conſiſts the danger?" ſaid he.

"Mother of God! In what?" replied Helena, ever eager to relate a miraculous adventure: "If you had only heard the hundredth part of thoſe marvellous ſtories [163] about this ſtatue, which the domina uſed to recount! She aſſured us often and often, that if we only dared to lay a finger upon it, we might expect the moſt fatal conſe⯑quences. Among other things ſhe told us, that a robber having entered theſe vaults by night, he obſerved yonder ruby, whoſe value is ineſtimable. Do you ſee it, Seg⯑nor? It ſparkles upon the third finger of the hand in which ſhe holds a crown of thorns. This jewel naturally excited the villain's cupidity. He reſolved to make himſelf matter of it. For this purpoſe he aſcended the pedeſtal; he ſupported him⯑ſelf by graſping the ſaint's right arm, and extended his own towards the ring. What was his ſurpriſe, when he ſaw the ſtatue's hand raiſed in a poſture of menace, and heard her lips pronounce his eternal perdi⯑tion! Penetrated with awe and conſterna⯑tion, he deſiſted from his attempt, and pre⯑pared to quit the ſepulchre. In this he alſo failed. Flight was denied him. He found it impoſſible to diſengage the hand [164] which reſted upon the right arm of the ſtatue. In vain did he ſtruggle: he re⯑mained fixed to the image, till the inſup⯑portable and fiery anguiſh which darted itſelf through his veins, compelled his ſhrieking for aſſiſtance. The ſepulchre was now filled with ſpectators. The villain confeſſed his ſacrilege, and was only re⯑leaſed by the ſeparation of his hand from his body. It has remained ever ſince faſ⯑tened to the image. The robber turned hermit, and led ever after an exemplary life. But yet the ſaint's decree was per⯑formed; and tradition ſays, that he con⯑tinues to haunt this ſepulchre, and implore St. Clare's pardon with groans and lamen⯑tations. Now I think of it, thoſe which we have juſt heard, may very poſſibly have been uttered by the ghoſt of this ſinner: but of this I will not be poſitive. All that I can ſay is, that ſince that time no one has ever dared to touch the ſtatue. Then do not be fool-hardy, good Segnor! For the love of heaven, give up your deſign, nor [165] expoſe yourſelf unneceſſarily to certain de⯑ſtruction."

Not being convinced that his deſtruction would be ſo certain as Helena ſeemed to think it, Lorenzo perſiſted in his reſolu⯑tion. The nuns beſought him to deſiſt, in piteous terms, and even pointed out the robber's hand, which was in effect ſtill viſi⯑ble upon the arm of the ſtatue. This proof, as they imagined, muſt convince him. It was very far from doing ſo; and they were greatly ſcandalized when he declared his ſuſpicion that the dried and ſhrivelled fin⯑gers had been placed there by order of the prioreſs. In ſpite of their prayers and threats he approached the ſtatue. He ſprang over the iron rails which defended it, and the ſaint underwent a thorough examina⯑tion. The image at firſt appeared to be of ſtone, but proved on further inſpection to be formed of no more ſolid materials than coloured wood. He ſhook it, and attempted to move it: but it appeared to be of a piece with the baſe which it ſtood upon. He ex⯑amined [166] it over and over: ſtill no clue guided him to the ſolution of this myſtery, for which the nuns were become equally ſolicitous, when they ſaw that he touched the ſtatue with impunity. He pauſed, and liſtened: the groans were repeated at inter⯑vals, and he was convinced of being in the ſpot neareſt to them. He muſed upon this ſingular event, and ran over the ſtatue with enquiring eyes. Suddenly they reſted upon the ſhrivelled hand. It ſtruck him, that ſo particular an injunction was not given without cauſe, not to touch the arm of the image. He again aſcended the pedeſtal: he examined the object of his attention, and diſcovered a ſmall knob of iron con⯑cealed between the ſaint's ſhoulder and what was ſuppoſed to have been the hand of the robber. This obſervation delighted him. He applied his fingers to the knob, and preſſed it down forcibly. Immediately a rumbling noiſe was heard within the ſtatue, as if a chain tightly ſtretched was flying back. Startled at the ſound, the timid nuns [167] ſtarted away, prepared to haſten from the vault at the firſt appearance of danger. All remaining quiet and ſtill, they again gathered round Lorenzo, and beheld his proceedings with anxious curioſity.

Finding that nothing followed this diſ⯑covery, he deſcended. As he took his hand from the ſaint, ſhe trembled beneath his touch. This created new terrors in the ſpectators, who believed the ſtatue to be animated. Lorenzo's ideas upon the ſub⯑ject were widely different. He eaſily com⯑prehended, that the noiſe which he had heard was occaſioned by his having looſened a chain which attached the image to its pedeſtal. He once more attempted to move it, and ſucceeded without much exertion. He placed it upon the ground, and then perceived the pedeſtal to be hollow, and covered at the opening with an heavy iron grate.

This excited ſuch general curioſity, that the ſiſters forgot both their real and imagi⯑nary dangers. Lorenzo proceeded to raiſe [168] the grate, in which the nuns aſſiſted him to the utmoſt of their ſtrength. The at⯑tempt was accompliſhed with little diffi⯑culty. A deep abyſs now preſented itſelf before them, whoſe thick obſcurity the eye ſtrove in vain to pierce. The rays of the lamp were too feeble to be of much aſſiſt⯑ance. Nothing was diſcernible, ſave a flight of rough unſhapen ſteps, which ſank into the yawning gulph, and were ſoon loſt in darkneſs. The groans were heard no more: but all believed them to have aſ⯑cended from this cavern. As he bent over it, Lorenzo fancied that he diſtinguiſhed ſomething bright twinkling through the gloom. He gazed attentively upon the ſpot where it ſhowed itſelf, and was con⯑vinced, that he ſaw a ſmall ſpark of light, now viſible, now diſappearing. He com⯑municated this circumſtance to the nuns: they alſo perceived the ſpark: but when he declared his intention to deſcend into the cave, they united to oppoſe his reſolu⯑tion. All their remonſtrances could not [169] prevail on him to alter it. None of them had courage enough to accompany him; neither could he think of depriving them of the lamp. Alone therefore, and in dark⯑neſs, he prepared to purſue his deſign, while the nuns were contented to offer up prayers for his ſucceſs and ſafety.

The ſteps were ſo narrow and uneven, that to deſcend them was like walking down the ſide of a precipice. The obſcu⯑rity by which he was ſurrounded, rendered his footing inſecure. He was obliged to proceed with great caution, leſt he ſhould miſs the ſteps, and fall into the gulph be⯑low him. This he was ſeveral times on the point of doing. However, he arrived ſooner upon ſolid ground than he had ex⯑pected. He now found, that the thick darkneſs and impenetrable miſts which reigned through the cavern, had deceived him into the belief of its being much more profound than it proved upon inſpection. He reached the foot of the ſtairs unhurt: he now ſtopped, and looked round for the [170] ſpark, which had before caught his atten⯑tion. He ſought it in vain: all was dark and gloomy. He liſtened for the groans; but his ear caught no ſound except the diſtant murmur of the nuns above, as in low voices they repeated their ave-marias. He ſtood irreſolute to which ſide he ſhould addreſs his ſteps. At all events he deter⯑mined to proceed: he did ſo, but ſlowly, fearful leſt, inſtead of approaching, he ſhould be retiring from the object of his ſearch. The groans ſeemed to announce one in pain, or at leaſt in ſorrow, and he hoped to have the power of relieving the mourner's calamities. A plaintive tone, ſounding at no great diſtance, at length reached his hearing: he bent his courſe joyfully towards it. It became more audi⯑ble as he advanced; and he ſoon beheld again the ſpark of light, which a low pro⯑jecting wall had hitherto concealed from him.

It proceeded from a ſmall lamp which was placed upon an heap of ſtones, and [171] whoſe faint and melancholy rays ſerved ra⯑ther to point out than diſpel the horrors of a narrow gloomy dungeon, formed in one ſide of the cavern: it alſo ſhewed ſeveral other receſſes of ſimilar conſtruction, but whoſe depth was buried in obſcurity. Cold⯑ly played the light upon the damp walls, whoſe dew-ſtained ſurface gave back a fee⯑ble reflection. A thick and peſtilential fog clouded the height of the vaulted dungeon. As Lorenzo advanced, he felt a piercing chillneſs ſpread itſelf through his veins. The frequent groans ſtill engaged him to move forwards. He turned towards them, and by the lamp's glimmering beams be⯑held, in a corner of this loathſome abode, a creature ſtretched upon a bed of ſtraw, ſo wretched, ſo emaciated, ſo pale, that he doubted to think her woman. She was half naked: her long diſhevelled hair fell in diſ⯑order order her face, and almoſt entirely concealed it. One waſted arm hung liſt⯑leſsly upon a tattered rug, which covered her convulſed and ſhivering limbs: the [172] other was wrapped round a ſmall bundle; and held it cloſely to her boſom. A large roſary lay near her: oppoſite to her was a crucifix, on which ſhe bent her ſunk eyes fixedly, and by her ſide ſtood a baſket and a ſmall earthen pitcher.

Lorenzo ſtopped: he was petrified with horror. He gazed upon the miſerable ob⯑ject with diſguſt and pity. He trembled at the ſpectacle: he grew ſick at heart: his ſtrength failed him, and his limbs were unable to ſupport his weight. He was obliged to lean againſt the low wall which was near him, unable to go forward or to addreſs the ſufferer. She caſt her eyes to⯑wards the ſtair-caſe: the wall concealed Lo⯑renzo, and ſhe obſerved him not.

"No one comes!" ſhe at length mur⯑mured.

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

"No one comes!" ſhe repeated: "no! they have forgotten me! they will come no more!"

[173]She pauſed for a moment; then conti⯑nued mournfully:

"Two days! two long, long days, and yet no food! and yet no hope, no comfort! Fooliſh woman! how can I wiſh to lengthen a life ſo wretched!—Yet ſuch a death! O God! to periſh by ſuch a death! to linger out ſuch ages in torture! Till now, I knew not what it was to hunger!—Hark!—No! no one comes: they will come no more."

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

"I am very cold: I am ſtill unuſed to the damps of this dungeon: 'tis ſtrange: but no matter. Colder ſhall I ſoon be, and yet not feel it. I ſhall be cold, cold as thou art."

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

"It was once ſo ſweet! It would have been ſo lovely, ſo like him! I have loſt it for ever. How a few days have changed it! I ſhould not know it again myſelf. [174] Yet it is dear to me. God! how dear!—I will forget what it is! I will only remember what it was, and love it as well, as when it was ſo ſweet! ſo lovely! ſo like him! — I thought that I had wept away all my tears, but here is one ſtill lingering."

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

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

She again fixed her eyes upon the cru⯑cifix, took her roſary, and, while ſhe told [175] her beads, the quick motion of her lips de⯑clared her to be praying with fervency.

While he liſtened to her melancholy ac⯑cents, Lorenzo's ſenſibility became yet more violently affected. The firſt ſight of ſuch miſery had given a ſenſible ſhock to his feelings: but that being paſt, he now advanced towards the captive. She heard his ſteps, and, uttering a cry of joy, dropped the roſary.

"Hark! hark! hark!" ſhe cried, "ſome one comes!"

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

"Is it you, Camilla? You are come then, at laſt? Oh! it was time! I thought that you had forſaken me; that I was doomed to periſh of hunger. Give me to drink, Camilla, for pity's ſake; I am faint with [176] long faſting, and grown ſo weak that I can⯑not raiſe myſelf from the ground. Good Camilla, give me to drink, leſt I expire be⯑fore you."

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

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

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

"You miſtake my buſineſs," replied Lo⯑renzo; [177] "I am no emiſſary of the cruel pri⯑oreſs. I pity your ſorrows, and come hi⯑ther to relieve them."

"To relieve them?" repeated the cap⯑tive; "ſaid you, to relieve them?"

At the ſame time ſtarting from the ground, and ſupporting herſelf upon her hands, ſhe gazed upon the ſtranger ear⯑neſtly.

"Great God!—Is it no illuſion?—A man? Speak! Who are you? What brings you hither? Come you to ſave me, to re⯑ſtore me to liberty, to life and light? Oh! ſpeak, ſpeak quickly, leſt I encourage an hope whoſe diſappointment will deſtroy me."

"Be calm!" replied Lorenzo, in a voice ſoothing and compaſſionate; "the domina of whoſe cruelty you complain, has already paid the forfeit of her offences: you have nothing more to fear from her. A few mi⯑nutes will reſtore you to liberty and the embraces of your friends, from whom you have been ſecluded. You may rely upon my [178] protection. Give me your hand, and be not fearful. Let me conduct you where you may receive thoſe attentions which your feeble ſtate requires."

"Oh! yes! yes! yes!" cried the priſoner with an exulting ſhriek; "there is a God then, and a juſt one! Joy! Joy! I ſhall once more breathe the freſh air, and view the light of the glorious ſunbeams! I will go with you! Stranger, I will go with you! Oh! Heaven will bleſs you for pity⯑ing an unfortunate! But this too muſt go with me," ſhe added, pointing to the ſmall bundle, which ſhe ſtill claſped to her bo⯑ſom; "I cannot part with this. I will bear it away: it ſhall convince the world how dreadful are the abodes ſo falſely term⯑ed religious. Good ſtranger! lend me your hand to riſe; I am faint with want, and ſorrow, and ſickneſs, and my ſtrength has quite forſaken me! So, that is well!"

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

[179]"Almighty God!" ſhe exclaimed: "Is it poſſible?—That look! thoſe features!— Oh! yes, it is, it is . . . . ."

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

Lorenzo was ſurpriſed at her laſt excla⯑mation. He thought that he had before heard ſuch accents as her hollow voice had juſt formed, but where, he could not re⯑member. He ſaw, that in her dangerous ſituation immediate phyſical aid was abſo⯑lutely neceſſary, and he haſtened to convey her from the dungeon. He was at firſt prevented from doing ſo by a ſtrong chain faſtened round the priſoner's body, and fix⯑ing her to the neighbouring wall. How⯑ever, his natural ſtrength being aided by anxiety to relieve the unfortunate, he ſoon forced out the ſtaple, to which one end of the chain was attached: then taking the captive in his arms, he bent his courſe to⯑wards [180] the ſtair-caſe. The rays of the lamp above, as well as the murmur of female voices, guided his ſteps. He gained the ſtairs, and in a few minutes after arrived at the iron-grate.

The nuns during his abſence had been terribly tormented by curioſity and appre⯑henſion. They were equally ſurpriſed and delighted on ſeeing him ſuddenly emerge from the cave. Every heart was filled with compaſſion for the miſerable creature, whom he bore in his arms. While the nuns, and Virginia in particular, employed themſelves in ſtriving to recall her to her ſenſes, Lo⯑renzo related in few words the manner of his finding her. He then obſerved to them, that by this time the tumult muſt have been quelled, and that he could now con⯑duct them to their friends without danger. All were eager to quit the ſepulchre. Still, to prevent all poſſibility of ill-uſage, they beſought Lorenzo to venture out firſt alone, and examine whether the coaſt was clear. With this requeſt he complied. [181] Helena offered to conduct him to the ſtair⯑caſe, and they were on the point of depart⯑ing, when a ſtrong light flaſhed from ſeve⯑ral paſſages upon the adjacent walls. At the ſame time ſteps were heard of people approaching haſtily, and whoſe number ſeemed to be conſiderable. The nuns were greatly alarmed at this circumſtance; they ſuppoſed their retreat to be diſcovered, and the rioters to be advancing in purſuit of them. Haſtily quitting the priſoner, who remained inſenſible, they crowded round Lorenzo, and claimed his promiſe to protect them. Virginia alone forgot her own danger by ſtriving to relieve the ſorrows of another. She ſupported the ſufferer's head upon her knees, bathing her temples with roſe-water, chafing her cold hands, and ſprinkling her face with tears which were drawn from her by compaſſion. The ſtrangers approaching nearer, Lorenzo was enabled to diſpel the fears of the ſup⯑pliants. His name pronounced by a num⯑ber of voices, among which he diſtinguiſh⯑ed the duke's, pealed along the vaults, [182] and convinced him that he was the object of their ſearch. He communicated this intelligence to the nuns, who received it with rapture. A few moments after con⯑firmed his idea. Don Ramirez as well as the duke appeared, followed by atten⯑dants with torches. They had been ſeek⯑ing him through the vaults, in order to let him know that the mob was diſperſed, and the riot entirely over. Lorenzo recounted briefly his adventure in the cavern, and explained how much the unknown was in want of medical aſſiſtance. He beſought the duke to take charge of her, as well as of the nuns and penſioners.

"As for me," ſaid he, "other cares de⯑mand my attention. While you with one half of the archers convey theſe ladies to their reſpective homes, I wiſh the other half to be left with me. I will examine the cavern below, and pervade the moſt ſecret receſſes of the ſepulchre. I cannot reſt till convinced that yonder wretched victim was the only one confined by ſuper⯑ſtition in theſe vaults."

[183]The duke applauded his intention. Don Ramirez offered to aſſiſt him in his enqui⯑ry, and his propoſal was accepted with gra⯑titude. The nuns, having made their ac⯑knowledgments to Lorenzo, committed themſelves to the care of his uncle, and were conducted from the ſepulchre. Vir⯑ginia requeſted that the unknown might be given to her in charge, and promiſed to let Lorenzo know, whenever ſhe was ſuffi⯑ciently recovered to accept his viſits. In truth, ſhe made this promiſe more from conſideration for herſelf, than for either Lorenzo or the captive. She had witneſſ⯑ed his politeneſs, gentleneſs, and intrepi⯑dity with ſenſible emotion. She wiſhed earneſtly to preſerve his acquaintance; and in addition to the ſentiments of pity which the priſoner excited, ſhe hoped that her at⯑tention to this unfortunate would raiſe her a degree in the eſteem of Lorenzo. She had no occaſion to trouble herſelf upon this head. The kindneſs already diſplayed by her, and the tender concern which ſhe had ſhewn for the ſufferer, had gained her an [184] exalted place in his good graces. While occupied in alleviating the captive's ſor⯑rows, the nature of her employment adorn⯑ed her with new charms, and rendered her beauty a thouſand times more intereſting. Lorenzo viewed her with admiration and delight: he conſidered her as a miniſtering angel deſcended to the aid of afflicted in⯑nocence; nor could his heart have reſiſted her attractions, had it not been ſteeled by the remembrance of Antonia.

The duke now conveyed the nuns in ſafety to the dwellings of their reſpective friends. The reſcued priſoner was ſtill in⯑ſenſible, and gave no ſigns of life, except by occaſional groans. She was borne upon a ſort of litter. Virginia, who was conſtantly by the ſide of it, was apprehenſive that, ex⯑hauſted by long abſtinence, and ſhaken by the ſudden change from bonds and darkneſs to liberty and light, her frame would never get the better of the ſhock. Lorenzo and Don Ramirez ſtill remained in the ſepulchre. After deliberating upon their proceedings, it was reſolved that, to prevent loſing time, [185] the archers ſhould be divided into two bodies: that with Don Ramirez ſhould ex⯑amine the cavern, while Lorenzo, with the other, might penetrate into the further vaults. This being arranged, and his fol⯑lowers being provided with torches, Don Ramirez advanced to the cavern. He had already deſcended ſome ſteps, when he heard people approaching haſtily from the interior part of the ſepulchre. This ſurpriſed him, and he quitted the cave precipitately.

"Do you hear foot-ſteps?" ſaid Loren⯑zo. "Let us bend our courſe towards them. 'Tis from this ſide that they ſeem to pro⯑ceed."

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

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

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

CHAP. XI.

ALL this while Ambroſio was uncon⯑ſcious of the dreadful ſcenes which were paſſing ſo near. The execution of his de⯑ſigns upon Antonia employed his every thought. Hitherto he was ſatisfied with the ſucceſs of his plans. Antonia had drunk [187] the opiate, was buried in the vaults of St. Clare, and abſolutely in his diſpoſal. Ma⯑tilda, who was well acquainted with the na⯑ture and effects of the ſoporific medicine, had computed that it would not ceaſe to operate till one in the morning. For that hour he waited with impatience. The feſtival of St. Clare preſented him with a favourable opportunity of conſummating his crime. He was certain that the friars and nuns would be engaged in the proceſ⯑ſion, and that he had no cauſe to dread an interruption: from appearing himſelf at the head of his monks, he had deſired to be excuſed. He doubted not, that being be⯑yond the reach of help, cut off from all the world, and totally in his power, Antonia would comply with his deſires. The affec⯑tion which ſhe had ever expreſſed for him, warranted this perſuaſion: but he reſolved, that ſhould ſhe prove obſtinate, no con⯑ſideration whatever ſhould prevent him from enjoying her. Secure from a diſco⯑very, he ſhuddered not at the idea of em⯑ploying [188] force; or, if he felt any repug⯑nance, it aroſe not from a principle of ſhame or compaſſion, but from his feeling for Antonia the moſt ſincere and ardent af⯑fection, and wiſhing to owe her favours to no one but herſelf.

The monks quitted the abbey at mid⯑night. Matilda was among the choriſters, and led the chaunt. Ambroſio was left by himſelf, and at liberty to purſue his own inclinations. Convinced that no one re⯑mained behind to watch his motions, or diſturb his pleaſures, he now haſtened to the weſtern aiſles. His heart beating with hope not unmingled with anxiety, he croſſed the garden, unlocked the door which ad⯑mitted him into the cemetery, and in a few minutes he ſtood before the vaults. Here he pauſed: he looked round him with ſuſ⯑picion, conſcious that his buſineſs was unfit for any other eye. As he ſtood in heſita⯑tion, he heard the melancholy ſhriek of the ſcreech-owl: the wind rattled loudly againſt the windows of the adjacent convent, and, [189] as the current ſwept by him, bore with it the faint notes of the chaunt of choriſters. He opened the door cautiouſly, as if fearing to be overheard; he entered, and cloſed it again after him. Guided by his lamp, he thread⯑ed the long paſſages, in whoſe windings Matilda had inſtructed him, and reached the private vault which contained his ſleep⯑ing miſtreſs.

Its entrance was by no means eaſy to diſ⯑cover; but this was no obſtacle to Ambro⯑ſio, who at the time of Antonia's funeral had obſerved it too carefully to be deceived. He found the door, which was unfaſtened, puſhed it open, and deſcended into the dungeon. He approached the humble tomb in which Antonia repoſed. He had provided himſelf with an iron crow and a pick-axe: but this precaution was unne⯑ceſſary. The grate was ſlightly faſtened on the outſide: he raiſed it, and, placing the lamp upon its ridge, bent ſilently over the tomb. By the ſide of three putrid half-corrupted bodies lay the ſleeping beauty. [190] A lively red, the forerunner of returning animation, had already ſpread itſelf over her cheeks; and as wrapped in her ſhroud ſhe reclined upon her funeral bier, ſhe ſeemed to ſmile at the images of death around her. While he gazed upon their rotting bones and diſguſting figures, who perhaps were once as ſweet and lovely, Ambroſio thought upon Elvira, by him reduced to the ſame ſtate. As the memory of that horrid act glanced upon his mind, it was clouded with a gloomy horror; yet it ſerved but to ſtrengthen his reſolution to deſtroy Antonia's honour.

"For your ſake, fatal beauty!" mur⯑mured the monk, while gazing on his de⯑voted prey, "for your ſake have I com⯑mitted this murder, and ſold myſelf to eter⯑nal tortures. Now you are in my power: the produce of my guilt will at leaſt be mine. Hope not that your prayers breath⯑ed in tones of unequalled melody, your bright eyes filled with tears, and your hands lifted in ſupplication, as when ſeeking in [191] penitence the Virgin's pardon: hope not, that your moving innocence, your beau⯑teous grief, or all your ſuppliant arts, ſhall ranſom you from my embraces. Before the break of day, mine you muſt, and mine you ſhall be!"

He lifted her, ſtill motionleſs, from the tomb: he ſeated himſelf upon a bank of ſtone, and, ſupporting her in his arms, watched impatiently for the ſymptoms of returning animation. Scarcely could he command his paſſions ſufficiently, to reſtrain himſelf from enjoying her while yet inſen⯑ſible. His natural luſt was increaſed in ar⯑dour by the difficulties which had oppoſed his ſatisfying it; as alſo by his long abſti⯑nence from woman, ſince, from the moment of reſigning her claim to his love, Matilda had exiled him from her arms for ever.

"I am no proſtitute, Ambroſio," had ſhe told him, when, in the fullneſs of his luſt, he demanded her favours with more than uſual earneſtneſs; "I am now no more than your friend, and will not be your miſ⯑treſs. [192] Ceaſe then to ſolicit my complying with deſires which inſult me. While your heart was mine, I gloried in your embraces. Thoſe happy times are paſt; my perſon is become indifferent to you, and 'tis neceſſity, not love, which makes you ſeek my enjoy⯑ment. I cannot yield to a requeſt ſo hu⯑miliating to my pride."

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

Gradually he felt the boſom which reſted [193] againſt his glow with returning warmth. Her heart throbbed again, her blood flow⯑ed ſwifter, and her lips moved. At length ſhe opened her eyes; but, ſtill oppreſſed and bewildered by the effects of the ſtrong opiate, ſhe cloſed them again immediately. Ambroſio watched her narrowly, nor per⯑mitted a movement to eſcape him. Perceiv⯑ing that ſhe was fully reſtored to exiſtence, he caught her in rapture to his boſom, and cloſely preſſed his lips to hers. The ſud⯑denneſs of his action ſufficed to diſſipate the fumes which obſcured Antonia's reaſon. She haſtily raiſed herſelf, and caſt a wild look round her. The ſtrange images which preſented themſelves on every ſide contri⯑buted to confuſe her. She put her hand to her head, as if to ſettle her diſordered ima⯑gination. At length ſhe took it away, and threw her eyes through the dungeon a ſe⯑cond time. They fixed on the abbot's face.

"Where am I?" ſhe ſaid abruptly. "How came I here?—Where is my mo⯑ther? [194] Methought I ſaw her! Oh! a dream, a dreadful dreadful dream told me . . . . . . But where am I? Let me go! I cannot ſtay here!"

She attempted to riſe, but the monk pre⯑vented her.

"Be calm, lovely Antonia!" he replied; "no danger is near you: confide in my pro⯑tection. Why do you gaze on me ſo ear⯑neſtly? Do you not know me? Not know your friend, Ambroſio?"

"Ambroſio? my friend?—Oh! yes, yes; I remember . . . . . . But why am I here? Who has brought me? Why are you with me?—Oh! Flora bade me beware . . . . .! —Here are nothing but graves, and tombs, and ſkeletons! This place frightens me! Good Ambroſio, take me away from it, for it recalls my fearful dream!—Methought I was dead, and laid in my grave!—Good Ambroſio, take me from hence!—Will you not? Oh! will you not?—Do not look on me thus!—Your flaming eyes terrify [195] me!—Spare me, father! Oh! ſpare me for God's ſake!"

"Why theſe terrors, Antonia?" rejoined the abbot, folding her in his arms, and co⯑vering her boſom with kiſſes which ſhe in vain ſtruggled to avoid. "What fear you from me, from one who adores you? What matters it where you are? This ſepulchre ſeems to me Love's bower. This gloom is the friendly night of Myſtery, which he ſpreads over our delights! Such do I think it, and ſuch muſt my Antonia. Yes, my ſweet girl! yes! Your veins ſhall glow with the fire which circles in mine, and my tranſ⯑ports ſhall be doubled by your ſharing them!"

While he ſpoke thus, he repeated his embraces, and permitted himſelf the moſt indecent liberties. Even Antonia's igno⯑rance was not proof againſt the freedom of his behaviour. She was ſenſible of her dan⯑ger, forced herſelf from his arms, and her ſhroud being her only garment, ſhe wrap⯑ped it cloſely round her.

[196]"Unhand me, father!" ſhe cried, her honeſt indignation tempered by alarm at her unprotected poſition: "Why have you brought me to this place? Its appearance freezes me with horror! Convey me from hence, if you have the leaſt ſenſe of pity and humanity! Let me return to the houſe, which I have quitted I know not how; but ſtay here one moment longer, I neither will nor ought."

Though the monk was ſomewhat ſtartled by the reſolute tone in which this ſpeech was delivered, it produced upon him no other effect than ſurpriſe. He caught her hand, forced her upon his knee, and, gaz⯑ing upon her with gloting eyes, he thus replied to her:

"Compoſe yourſelf, Antonia. Reſiſtance is unavailing, and I need diſavow my paſſion for you no longer. You are imagined dead; ſociety is for ever loſt to you. I poſ⯑ſeſs you here alone; you are abſolutely in my power, and I burn with deſires which I muſt either gratify or die: but I would [197] owe my happineſs to yourſelf. My lovely girl! my adorable Antonia! let me inſtruct you in joys to which you are ſtill a ſtranger, and teach you to feel thoſe pleaſures in my arms, which I muſt ſoon enjoy in yours. Nay, this ſtruggling is childiſh," he con⯑tinued, ſeeing her repel his careſſes, and endeavour to eſcape from his graſp; "no aid is near; neither heaven nor earth ſhall ſave you from my embraces. Yet why reject pleaſures ſo ſweet, ſo rapturous? No one obſerves us; our loves will be a ſecret to all the world. Love and opportunity in⯑vite your giving looſe to your paſſions. Yield to them, my Antonia! yield to them, my lovely girl! Throw your arms thus fondly round me; join your lips thus cloſely to mine! Amidſt all her gifts, has Nature denied her moſt precious, the ſenſibility of pleaſure? Oh! impoſſible! Every feature, look, and motion declares you formed to bleſs, and to be bleſſed yourſelf! Turn not on me thoſe ſupplicating eyes: conſult your own charms; they will tell you that I [198] am proof againſt entreaty. Can I relin⯑quiſh theſe limbs ſo white, ſo ſoft, ſo deli⯑cate! theſe ſwelling breaſts, round, full, and elaſtic! theſe lips fraught with ſuch inexhauſtible ſweetneſs? Can I relinquiſh theſe treaſures, and leave them to another's enjoyment? No, Antonia; never, never! I ſwear it by this kiſs! and this! and this!"

With every moment the friar's paſſion became more ardent, and Antonia's terror more intenſe. She ſtruggled to diſengage herſelf from his arms. Her exertions were unſucceſsful; and, finding that Ambroſio's conduct became ſtill freer, ſhe ſhrieked for aſſiſtance with all her ſtrength. The aſpect of the vault, the pale glimmering of the lamp, the ſurrounding obſcurity, the ſight of the tomb, and the objects of mortality which met her eyes on either ſide, were ill calculated to inſpire her with thoſe emo⯑tions by which the friar was agitated. Even his careſſes terrified her from their fury, and created no other ſentiment than [199] fear. On the contrary, her alarm, her evi⯑dent diſguſt, and inceſſant oppoſition, ſeem⯑ed only to inflame the monk's deſires, and ſupply his brutality with additional ſtrength. Antonia's ſhrieks were unheard; yet ſhe continued them, nor abandoned her endea⯑vours to eſcape, till exhauſted and out of breath ſhe ſank from his arms upon her knees, and once more had recourſe to prayers and ſupplications. This attempt had no better ſucceſs than the former. On the contrary, taking advantage of her ſitu⯑ation, the raviſher threw himſelf by her ſide. He claſped her to his boſom almoſt lifeleſs with terror, and faint with ſtruggling. He ſtifled her cries with kiſſes, treated her with the rudeneſs of an unprincipled barbarian, proceeded from freedom to freedom, and, in the violence of his luſtful delirium, wounded and bruiſed her tender limbs. Heedleſs of her tears, cries and entreaties, he gradually made himſelf maſter of her perſon, and deſiſted not from his prey, till [200] he had accompliſhed his crime and the diſ⯑honour of Antonia.

Scarcely had he ſucceeded in his deſign, than he ſhuddered at himſelf, and the means by which it was effected. The very exceſs of his former eagerneſs to poſſeſs Antonia now contributed to inſpire him with diſ⯑guſt; and a ſecret impulſe made him feel how baſe and unmanly was the crime which he had juſt committed. He ſtarted haſtily from her arms. Star, who ſo lately had been the object of his adoration, now raiſed no other ſentiment in his heart than aver⯑ſion and rage. He turned away from her; or, if his eyes reſted upon her figure invo⯑luntarily, it was only to dart upon her looks of bate. The unfortunate had fainted ere the completion of her diſgrace: ſhe only recovered life to be ſenſible of her misfor⯑tune. She remained ſtretched upon the earth in ſilent deſpair; the tears chaſed each other ſlowly down her cheeks, and her boſom heaved with frequent ſobs. Oppreſſed with [201] grief, ſhe continued for ſome time in this ſtate of torpidity. At length ſhe roſe with difficulty, and, dragging her feeble ſteps towards the door, prepared to quit the dungeon.

The ſound of her foot-ſteps rouſed the monk from his ſullen apathy. Starting from the tomb againſt which he reclined, while his eyes wandered over the images of corruption contained in it, he purſued the victim of his brutality, and ſoon over⯑took her. He ſeized her by the arm, and violently forced her back into the dun⯑geon.

"Whither go you?" he cried in a ſtern voice; "return this inſtant!"

Antonia trembled at the fury of his coun⯑tenance.

"What would you more?" ſhe ſaid with timidity: "Is not my ruin completed? Am I not undone, undone for ever? Is not your cruelty contented, or have I yet more to ſuffer? Let me depart: let me return to [202] my home, and weep unreſtrained my ſhame and my affliction!"

"Return to your home?" repeated the monk, with bitter and contemptuous mock⯑ery; then ſuddenly his eyes flaming with paſſion, "What? That you may denounce me to the world? that you may proclaim me a hypocrite, a raviſher, a betrayer, a monſter of cruelty, luſt, and ingratitude? No, no, no! I know well the whole weight of my offences; well, that your complaints would be too juſt, and my crimes too no⯑torious! You ſhall not from hence to tell Madrid that I am a villain; that my con⯑ſcience is loaded with ſins, which make me deſpair of Heaven's pardon. Wretched girl, you muſt ſtay here with me! Here amidſt theſe lonely tombs, theſe images of death, theſe rotting, loathſome, corrupted bodies! here ſhall you ſtay, and witneſs my ſufferings; witneſs what it is to be in the horrors of deſpondency, and breathe the laſt groan in blaſphemy and curſes!— [203] And whom am I to thank for this? What ſeduced me into crimes, whoſe bare re⯑membrance makes me ſhudder? Fatal witch! was it not thy beauty? Have you not plunged my ſoul into infamy? Have you not made me a perjured hypocrite, a raviſher, an aſſaſſin? Nay, at this moment, does not that angel look bid me deſpair of God's forgiveneſs? Oh! when I ſtand be⯑fore his judgment-throne, that look will ſuffice to damn me! You will tell my judge, that you were happy, till I ſaw you; that you were innocent, till I polluted you! You will come with thoſe tearful eyes, thoſe cheeks pale and ghaſtly, thoſe hands liſted in ſupplication, as when you ſought from me that mercy which I gave not! Then will my perdition be certain! Then will come your mother's ghoſt, and hurl me down into the dwellings of fiends, and flames, and furies, and everlaſting torments! And 'tis you who will accuſe me! 'tis you who will cauſe my eternal anguiſh!—you, wretched girl! you! you!"

[204]As he thundered out theſe words, he vi⯑olently graſped Antonia's arm, and ſpurned the earth with delirious fury.

Suppoſing his brain to be turned, Anto⯑nia ſank in terror upon her knees; ſhe lift⯑ed up her hands, and her voice almoſt died away ere ſhe could give it utterance.

"Spare me! ſpare me!" ſhe murmured with difficulty.

"Silence!" cried the friar madly, and daſhed her upon the ground—

He quitted her, and paced the dungeon with a wild and diſordered air. His eyes rolled fearfully; Antonia trembled whenever ſhe met their gaze. He ſeemed to meditate on ſomething horrible, and ſhe gave up all hopes of eſcaping from the ſepulchre with life. Yet in harbouring this idea ſhe did him injuſtice. Amidſt the horror and diſ⯑guſt to which his ſoul was a prey, pity for his victim ſtill held a place in it. The ſtorm of paſſion once over, he would have given worlds, had he poſſeſſed them, to have re⯑ſtored to her that innocence of which his [205] unbridled luſt had deprived her. Of the deſires which had urged him to the crime, no trace was left in his boſom. The wealth of India would not have tempted him to a ſecond enjoyment of her perſon. His na⯑ture ſeemed to revolt at the very idea, and fain would he have wiped from his memory the ſcene which had juſt paſſed. As his gloomy rage abated, in proportion did his compaſſion augment for Antonia. He ſtopped, and would have ſpoken to her words of comfort; but he knew not from whence to draw them, and remained gazing upon her with mournful wildneſs. Her ſituation ſeemed ſo hopeleſs, ſo woe-begone, as to baffle mortal power to relieve her. What could he do for her? Her peace of mind was loſt, her honour irreparably ruin⯑ed. She was cut off for ever from ſociety, nor dared he give her back to it. He was conſcious that, were ſhe to appear in the world again, his guilt would be revealed, and his puniſhment inevitable. To one ſo laden with crimes, death came armed [206] with double terrors. Yet, ſhould he reſtore Antonia to light, and ſtand the chance of her betraying him, how miſerable a pro⯑ſpect would preſent itſelf before her! She could never hope to be creditably eſtabliſh⯑ed; ſhe would be marked with infamy, and condemned to ſorrow and ſolitude for the remainder of her exiſtence. What was the alternative? A reſolution far more ter⯑rible for Antonia, but which at leaſt would inſure the abbot's ſafety. He determined to leave the world perſuaded of her death, and to retain her a captive in this gloomy priſon. There he propoſed to viſit her every night, to bring her food, to profeſs his penitence, and mingle his tears with hers. The monk felt that this reſolution was unjuſt and cruel; but it was his only means to prevent Antonia from publiſhing his guilt and her own infamy. Should he releaſe her, he could not depend upon her ſilence. His offence was too flagrant to permit his hoping for her forgiveneſs. Be⯑ſides, her re-appearing would excite uni⯑verſal [207] curioſity, and the violence of her af⯑fliction would prevent her from concealing its cauſe. He determined, therefore, that Antonia ſhould remain a priſoner in the dungeon.

He approached her with confuſion paint⯑ed on his countenance. He raiſed her from the ground—her hand trembled as he took it, and he dropped it again as if he had touched a ſerpent. Nature ſeemed to re⯑coil at the touch. He felt himſelf at once repulſed from and attracted towards her, yet could account for neither ſentiment. There was ſomething in her look which pe⯑netrated him with horror; and though his underſtanding was ſtill ignorant of it, con⯑ſcience pointed out to him the whole extent of his crime. In hurried accents, yet the gentleſt he could find, while his eye was averted, and his voice ſcarcely audible, he ſtrove to conſole her under a misfortune which now could not be avoided. He de⯑clared himſelf ſincerely penitent, and that he would gladly ſhed a drop of his blood [208] for every tear which his barbarity had forced from her. Wretched and hopeleſs, Antonia liſtened to him in ſilent grief; but when he announced her confinement in the ſepul⯑chre, that dreadful doom, to which even death ſeemed preferable, rouſed her from her inſenſibility at once. To linger out a life of miſery in a narrow loathſome cell, known to exiſt by no human being ſave her raviſher, ſurrounded by mouldering corſes, breathing the peſtilential air of cor⯑ruption, never more to behold the light, or drink the pure gale of heaven—the idea was more terrible than ſhe could ſupport. It conquered even her abhorrence of the friar. Again ſhe ſank upon her knees; ſhe beſought his compaſſion in terms the moſt pathetic and urgent: ſhe promiſed, would he but reſtore her to liberty, to conceal her injuries from the world; to aſſign any rea⯑ſons for her re-appearance, which he might judge proper; and in order to prevent th [...] leaſt ſuſpicion from falling upon him, ſhe offered to quit Madrid immediately. Her [209] entreaties were ſo urgent as to make a con⯑ſiderable impreſſion upon the monk. He reflected, that as her perſon no longer ex⯑cited his deſires, he had no intereſt in keep⯑ing her concealed as he had at firſt intend⯑ed; that he was adding a freſh injury to thoſe which ſhe had already ſuffered; and that if ſhe adhered to her promiſes, whether ſhe was confined or at liberty, his life and re⯑putation were equally ſecure. On the other hand, he trembled leſt in her affliction An⯑tonia ſhould unintentionally break her en⯑gagement, or that her exceſſive ſimplicity and ignorance of deceit ſhould permit ſome one more artful to ſurpriſe her ſecret. However well-founded were theſe appre⯑henſions, compaſſion, and a ſincere wiſh to repair his fault as much as poſſible, ſolicited his complying with the prayers of his ſup⯑pliant. The difficulty of colouring Anto⯑nia's unexpected return to life, after her ſuppoſed death and public interment, was the only point which kept him irreſolute. He was ſtill pondering on the means of re⯑moving [210] this obſtacle, when he heard the ſound of feet approaching with precipita⯑tion. The door of the vault was thrown open, and Matilda ruſhed in, evidently much confuſed and terrified.

On ſeeing a ſtranger enter, Antonia ut⯑tered a cry of joy; but her hopes of receiv⯑ing ſuccour from him were ſoon diſſipated. The ſuppoſed novice, without expreſſing the leaſt ſurpriſe at finding a woman alone with the monk, in ſo ſtrange a place, and at ſo late an hour, addreſſed him thus with⯑out loſing a moment:

"What is to be done, Ambroſio? We are loſt, unleſs ſome ſpeedy means is found of diſpelling the rioters. Ambroſio, the convent of St. Clare is on fire; the prioreſs is fallen a victim to the fury of the mob. Already is the abbey menaced with a ſimilar fate. Alarmed at the threats of the people, the monks ſeek for you every where. They imagine that your authority alone will ſuffice to calm this diſturbance. No one knows what is become of you, and your [211] abſence creates univerſal aſtoniſhment and deſpair. I profited by the confuſion, and fled hither to warn you of the danger."

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

"Impoſſible!" rejoined Matilda: "The ſepulchre is filled with archers. Lorenzo de Medina, with ſeveral officers of the In⯑quiſition, ſearches through the vaults, and pervades every paſſage. You will be in⯑tercepted in your flight; your reaſons for being at this late hour in the ſepulchre will be examined; Antonia will be found, and then you are undone for ever!"

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

"As yet they do not think of you; but I fear that they will ere long. Your only chance of eſcaping their notice reſts upon the difficulty of exploring this vault. The [212] door is artfully hidden; haply it may not be obſerved, and we may remain concealed till the ſearch is over."

"But Antonia . . . . . Should the inqui⯑ſitors draw near, and her cries be heard . . ."

"Thus I remove that danger!" inter⯑rupted Matilda.

At the ſame time drawing a poniard, ſhe ruſhed upon her devoted prey.

"Hold! hold!" cried Ambroſio, ſeizing her hand, and wreſting from it the already lifted weapon. "What would you do, cruel woman? The unfortunate has already ſuffered but too much, thanks to your per⯑nicious counſels! Would to God that I had never followed them! Would to God that I had never ſeen your face!"

Matilda darted upon him a look of ſcorn.

"Abſurd!" ſhe exclaimed with an air of paſſion and majeſty, which impreſſed the monk with awe. "After robbing her of all that made it dear, can you fear to de⯑prive her of a life ſo miſerable? But 'tis [213] well! Let her live to convince you of your folly. I abandon you to your evil deſtiny! I diſclaim your alliance! Who trembles to commit ſo inſignificant a crime, deſerves not my protection. Hark! hark! Ambro⯑ſio; hear you not the archers? They come, and your deſtruction is inevitable!"

At this moment the abbot heard the ſound of diſtant voices. He flew to cloſe the door, on whoſe concealment his ſafety depended, and which Matilda had neglect⯑ed to faſten. Ere he could reach it, he ſaw Antonia glide ſuddenly by him, ruſh through the door, and fly towards the noiſe with the ſwiftneſs of an arrow. She had liſtened attentively to Matilda: ſhe heard Lorenzo's name mentioned, and reſolved to riſque every thing to throw herſelf under his protection. The door was open. The ſounds convinced her that the archers could be at no great diſtance. She muſtered up her little remaining ſtrength, ruſhed by the monk ere he perceived her deſign, and bent her courſe rapidly towards the voices. As [214] ſoon as he recovered from his firſt ſurpriſe, the abbot failed not to purſue her. In vain did Antonia redouble her ſpeed, and ſtretch every nerve to the utmoſt. Her enemy gained upon her every moment: ſhe heard his ſteps cloſe after her, and felt the heat of his breath glow upon her neck. He over⯑took her; he twiſted his hand in the ringlets of her ſtreaming hair, and attempted to drag her back with him to the dungeon. Antonia reſiſted with all her ſtrength. She folded her arms round a pillar which ſup⯑ported the roof, and ſhrieked loudly for aſ⯑ſiſtance. In vain did the monk ſtrive to threaten her to ſilence.

"Help!" ſhe continued to exclaim; "help! help! for God's ſake!"

Quickened by her cries, the ſound of foot-ſteps was heard approaching. The abbot expected every moment to ſee the inquiſitors arrive. Antonia ſtill reſiſted, and he now enforced her ſilence by means the moſt horrible and inhuman. He ſtill graſped Matilda's dagger: without al⯑lowing [215] himſel a moment's reflection, he raiſed it, and plunged it twice in the boſom of Antonia! She ſhrieked, and ſank upon the ground. The monk endeavoured to bear her away with him, but me ſtill em⯑braced the pillar firmly. At that inſtant the light of approaching torches flaſhed upon the walls. Dreading a diſcovery, Ambroſio was compelled to abandon his victim, and haſtily fled back to the vault, where he had left Matilda.

He fled not unobſerved. Don Ramirez happening to arrive the firſt, perceived a female bleeding upon the ground, and a man flying from the ſpot, whoſe confuſion betrayed him for the murderer. He in⯑ſtantly purſued the fugitive, with ſome part of the archers, while the others remained with Lorenzo to protect the wounded ſtranger. They raiſed her, and ſupported her in their arms. She had fainted from exceſs of pain, but ſoon gave ſigns of re⯑turning life. She opened her eyes; and on lifting up her head, the quantity of fair hair [216] fell back, which till then had obſcured her features.

"God Almighty! it is Antonia!"

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

Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poniard had anſwered but too well the purpoſe of its employer. The wounds were mortal, and Antonia was conſcious that ſhe never could recover. Yet the few moments which remained for her, were moments of happineſs. The concern ex⯑preſſed upon Lorenzo's countenance, the frantic fondneſs of his complaints, and his earneſt enquiries reſpecting her wounds, convinced her beyond a doubt that his af⯑fections were her own. She would not be removed from the vaults, fearing leſt mo⯑tion ſhould only haſten her death; and ſhe was unwilling to loſe thoſe moments which ſhe paſſed in receiving proofs of Lorenzo's love, and aſſuring him of her own. She told him, that had ſhe ſtill been undefiled ſhe [217] might have lamented the loſs of life; but that, deprived of honour and branded with ſhame, death was to her a bleſſing: ſhe could not have been his wife; and that hope being denied her, ſhe reſigned herſelf to the grave without one ſigh of regret. She bade him take courage, conjured him not to abandon himſelf to fruitleſs ſorrow, and declared that ſhe mourned to leave nothing in the whole world but him. While every ſweet accent increaſed rather than lightened Lorenzo's grief, ſhe continued to converſe with him till the moment of diſſolution. Her voice grew faint, and ſcarcely audible; a thick cloud ſpread itſelf over her eyes; her heart beat ſlow and irregular, and every inſtant ſeemed to announce that her fate was near at hand.

She lay, her head reclining upon Loren⯑zo's boſom, and her lips ſtill murmuring to him words of comfort. She was inter⯑rupted by the convent-bell, as, tolling at a diſtance, it ſtruck the hour. Suddenly Antonia's eyes ſparkled with celeſtial bright⯑neſs; [218] her frame ſeemed to have received new ſtrength and animation. She ſtarted from her lover's arms.

"Three o'clock!" ſhe cried. "Mother, I come!"

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

In the mean while, though cloſely pur⯑ſued, Ambroſio ſucceeded in regaining the vault. The door was already faſtened when Don Ramirez arrived, and much time elapſed ere the fugitive's retreat was diſcovered. But nothing can reſiſt perſe⯑verance. Though ſo artfully concealed, the door could not eſcape the vigilance of the archers. They forced it open, and en⯑tered the vault to the infinite diſmay of [219] Ambroſio and his companion. The monk's confuſion, his attempt to hide himſelf, his rapid flight, and the blood ſprinkled upon his clothes, left no room to doubt his being Antonia's murderer. But when he was recognized for the immaculate Ambroſio, "the man of holineſs," the idol of Madrid; the faculties of the ſpectators were chained up in ſurpriſe, and ſcarcely could they per⯑ſuade themſelves that what they ſaw was no viſion. The abbot ſtrove not to vindicate himſelf, but preſerved a ſullen ſilence. He was ſecured and bound. The ſame pre⯑caution was taken with Matilda. Her cowl being removed, the delicacy of her features and profuſion of her golden hair betrayed her ſex; and this incident created freſh amazement. The dagger was alſo found in the tomb, where the monk had thrown it; and the dungeon having undergone a thorough ſearch, the two culprits were con⯑veyed to the priſons of the Inquiſition.

Don Ramirez took care that the popu⯑lace ſhould remain ignorant both of the [220] crimes and profeſſion of the captives. He feared a repetition of the riots, which had followed the apprehending the prioreſs of St. Clare. He contented himſelf with ſtat⯑ing to the Capuchins the guilt of their ſu⯑perior. To avoid the ſhame of a public ac⯑cuſation, and dreading the popular fury, from which they had already ſaved their abbey with much difficulty, the monks rea⯑dily permitted the inquiſitors to ſearch their manſion without noiſe. No freſh diſcove⯑ries were made. The effects found in the abbot's and Matilda's cells were ſeized, and carried to the Inquiſition to be produced in evidence. Every thing elſe remained in its former poſition, and order and tranquillity once more prevailed through Madrid.

St. Clare's convent was completely ruin⯑ed by the united ravages of the mob and conflagration. Nothing remained of it but the principal walls, whoſe thickneſs and ſo⯑lidity had preſerved them from the flames. The nuns who had belonged to it were obliged, in conſequence, to diſperſe them⯑ſelves [221] into other ſocieties: but the prejudice againſt them ran high, and the ſuperiors were very unwilling to admit them. How⯑ever, moſt of them being related to families the moſt diſtinguiſhed for their riches, birth, and power, the ſeveral convents were compelled to receive them, though they did it with a very ill grace. This prejudice was extremely falſe and unjuſtifiable. After a cloſe inveſtigation, it was proved that all in the convent were perſuaded of the death of Agnes, except the four nuns whom St. Urſula had pointed out. Theſe had fallen victims to the popular fury, as had alſo ſe⯑veral who were perfectly innocent and un⯑conſcious of the whole affair. Blinded by reſentment, the mob had ſacrificed every nun who fell into their hands: they who eſcaped were entirely indebted to the duke de Medina's prudence and moderation. Of this they were conſcious, and felt for that nobleman a proper ſenſe of grati⯑tude.

Virginia was not the moſt ſparing of her [222] thanks; ſhe wiſhed equally to make a pro⯑per return for his attentions, and to obtain the good graces of Lorenzo's uncle. In this ſhe eaſily ſucceeded. The duke be⯑held her beauty with wonder and admi⯑ration; and while his eyes were enchanted with her form, the ſweetneſs of her manners, and her tender concern for the ſuffering nun, prepoſſeſſed his heart in her favour. This Virginia had diſcernment enough to perceive, and ſhe redoubled her attention to the invalid. When he parted from her at the door of her father's palace, the duke entreated permiſſion to enquire occaſionally after her health. His requeſt was readily granted; Virginia aſſured him, that the marquis de Villa-Franca would be proud of an opportunity to thank him in perſon for the protection afforded to her. They now ſeparated, he enchanted with her beauty and gentleneſs, and ſhe much pleaſed with him and more with his nephew.

On entering the palace, Virginia's firſt care was to ſummon the family phyſician, [223] and take care of her unknown charge. He mother haſtened to ſhare with her the chari⯑table office. Alarmed by the riots, and trembling for his daughter's ſafety, who was his only child, the marquis had flown to St. Clare's convent, and was ſtill employed in ſeeking her. Meſſengers were now diſ⯑patched on all ſides to inform him, that he would find her ſafe at his hotel, and deſire him to haſten thither immediately. His abſence gave Virginia liberty to beſtow her whole attention upon her patient; and though much diſordered herſelf by the ad⯑ventures of the night, no perſuaſion could induce her to quit the bed-ſide of the ſuf⯑ferer. Her conſtitution being much en⯑feebled by want and ſorrow, it was ſome time before the ſtranger was reſtored to her ſenſes. She found great difficulty in ſwal⯑lowing the medicines preſcribed to her; but this obſtacle being removed, ſhe eaſily conquered her diſeaſe, which proceeded from nothing but weakneſs. The attention which was paid her, the wholeſome food [224] to which ſhe had been long a ſtranger, and her joy at being reſtored to liberty, to ſo⯑ciety, and, as ſhe dared to hope, to love, all this combined to her ſpeedy re-eſtabliſh⯑ment. From the firſt moment of knowing her, her melancholy ſituation, her ſufferings almoſt unparalleled, had engaged the affec⯑tions of her amiable hoſteſs. Virginia felt for her the moſt lively intereſt: but how was ſhe delighted, when, her gueſt being ſufficiently recovered to relate her hiſtory, ſhe recognized in the captive nun the ſiſter of Lorenzo!

This victim of monaſtic cruelty was in⯑deed no other than the unfortunate Agnes. During her abode in the convent, ſhe had been well known to Virginia; but her ema⯑ciated form, her features altered by afflic⯑tion, her death univerſally credited, and her overgrown and matted hair which hung over her face and boſom in diſorder, at firſt had prevented her being recollected. The prioreſs had put every artifice in practice to induce Virginia to take the veil; for the [225] heireſs of Villa-Franca would have been no deſpicable acquiſition. Her ſeeming kind⯑neſs and unremitted attention ſo far ſuc⯑ceeded, that her young relation began to think ſeriouſly upon compliance. Better inſtructed in the diſguſt and ennui of a mo⯑naſtic life, Agnes had penetrated the de⯑ſigns of the domina. She trembled for the innocent girl, and endeavoured to make her ſenſible of her error. She painted in their true colours the numerous incon⯑veniencies attached to a convent, the con⯑tinued reſtraint, the low jealouſies, the pet⯑ty intrigues, the ſervile court and groſs flattery expected by the ſuperior. She then bade Virginia reflect on the brilliant pro⯑ſpect which preſented itſelf before her. The idol of her parents, the admiration of Ma⯑drid, endowed by nature and education with every perfection of perſon and mind, ſhe might look forward to an eſtabliſhment the moſt fortunate. Her riches furniſhed her with the means of exerciſing, in their fulleſt extent, charity and benevolence, [226] thoſe virtues ſo dear to her; and her ſtay in the world would enable her diſcovering objects worthy her protection, which could not be done in the ſecluſion of a convent.

Her perſuaſions induced Virginia to lay aſide all thoughts of the veil: but another argument, not uſed by Agnes, had more weight with her than all the others put to⯑gether. She had ſeen Lorenzo when he viſited his ſiſter at the grate; his perſon pleaſed her, and her converſations with Agnes generally uſed to terminate in ſome queſtion about her brother. She, who doted upon Lorenzo, wiſhed for no better than an opportunity to trumpet out his praiſe. She ſpoke of him in terms of rap⯑ture; and, to convince her auditor how juſt were his ſentiments, how cultivated his mind, and elegant his expreſſions, ſhe ſhewed her at different times the letters which ſhe received from him. She ſoon perceived that from theſe communications the heart of her young friend had imbibed impreſſions which ſhe was far from intend⯑ing [227] to give, but was truly happy to diſco⯑ver. She could not have wiſhed her bro⯑ther a more deſirable union: heireſs of Villa-Franca, virtuous, affectionate, beauti⯑ful, and accompliſhed, Virginia ſeemed calculated to make him happy. She ſound⯑ed her brother upon the ſubject, though without mentioning names or circumſtances. He aſſured her in his anſwers, that his heart and hand were totally diſengaged, and ſhe thought that upon theſe grounds ſhe might proceed without danger. She in conſe⯑quence endeavoured to ſtrengthen the dawning paſſion of her friend. Lorenzo was made the conſtant topic of her diſ⯑courſe; and the avidity with which her au⯑ditor liſtened, the ſighs which frequently eſcaped from her boſom, and the eagerneſs with which upon any digreſſion ſhe brought back the converſation to the ſubject whence it had wandered, ſufficed to convince Ag⯑nes that her brother's addreſſes would be far from diſagreeable. She at length ven⯑tured [228] to mention her wiſhes to the duke. Though a ſtranger to the lady herſelf, he knew enough of her ſituation to think her worthy his nephew's hand. It was agreed between him and his niece, that ſhe ſhould inſinuate the idea to Lorenzo, and ſhe only waited his return to Madrid to propoſe her friend to him as his bride. The unfortu⯑nate events which took place in the interim, prevented her from executing her deſign. Virginia wept her loſs ſincerely, both as a companion, and as the only perſon to whom ſhe could ſpeak of Lorenzo. Her paſſion continued to prey upon her heart in ſecret, and ſhe had almoſt determined to confeſs her ſentiments to her mother, when acci⯑dent once more threw their object in her way. The ſight of him ſo near her, his politeneſs, his compaſſion, his intrepidity, had com⯑bined to give new ardour to her affection. When ſhe now found her friend and advo⯑cate reſtored to her, ſhe looked upon her as a gift from Heaven; ſhe ventured to che⯑riſh [229] the hope of being united to Lorenzo, and reſolved to uſe with him his ſiſter's in⯑fluence.

Suppoſing that before her death Agnes might poſſibly have made the propoſal, the duke had placed all his nephew's hints of marriage to Virginia's account; conſequent⯑ly he gave them the moſt favourable re⯑ception. On returning to his hotel, the re⯑lation given him of Antonia's death, and Lorenzo's behaviour on the occaſion, made evident his miſtake. He lamented the cir⯑cumſtances; but the unhappy girl being effectually out of the way, he truſted that his deſigns would yet be executed. 'Tis true that Lorenzo's ſituation juſt then ill ſuited him for a bridegroom. His hopes diſappointed at the moment when he ex⯑pected to realize them, and the dreadful and ſudden death of his miſtreſs, had affect⯑ed him very ſeverely. The duke found him upon the bed of ſickneſs. His atten⯑dants expreſſed ſerious apprehenſions for his life; but the uncle entertained not the [230] ſame fears. He was of opinion, and not unwiſely, that "men have died, and worms have ate them, but not for love!" He there⯑fore flattered himſelf, that however deep might be the impreſſion made upon his nephew's heart, time and Virginia would be able to efface it. He now haſtened to the afflicted youth, and endeavoured to conſole him: he ſympathiſed in his diſtreſs, but encouraged him to reſiſt the enaroachments of deſpair. He allowed, that he could not but feel ſhocked at an event ſo terrible, nor could he blame his ſenſibility; but he be⯑ſought him not to torment himſelf with vain regrets, and rather to ſtruggle with af⯑fliction, and preſerve his life, if not for his own ſake, at leaſt for the ſake of thoſe who were fondly attached to him. While he laboured thus to make Lorenzo forget An⯑tonia's loſs, the duke paid his court aſſidu⯑ouſly to Virginia, and ſeized every oppor⯑tunity to advance his nephew's intereſt in her heart.

It may eaſily be expected that Agnes [231] was not long without enquiring after Don Raymond. She was ſhocked to hear the wretched ſituation to which grief had re⯑duced him; yet ſhe could not help exult⯑ing ſecretly, when ſhe reflected that his illneſs proved the ſincerity of his love. The duke undertook the office himſelf, of announcing to the invalid the happineſs which awaited him. Though he omitted no precaution to prepare him for ſuch an event, at this ſudden change from deſpair to happineſs, Raymond's tranſports were ſo violent, as nearly to have proved fatal to him. Theſe once paſſed, the tranquillity of his mind, the aſſurance of felicity, and above all, the preſence of Agnes, (who was no ſooner re-eſtabliſhed by the care of Virginia and the marchioneſs, than ſhe haſt⯑ened to attend her lover) ſoon enabled him to overcome the effects of his late dreadful malady. The calm of his ſoul communicated itſelf to his body, and he recovered with ſuch rapidity as to create univerſal ſurpriſe.

[232]Not ſo Lorenzo. Antonia's death, ac⯑companied with ſuch terrible circumſtances, weighed upon his mind heavily. He was worn down to a ſhadow; nothing could give him pleaſure. He was perſuaded with difficulty to ſwallow nouriſhment ſuf⯑ficient for the ſupport of life, and a con⯑ſumption was apprehended. The ſociety of Agnes formed his only comfort. Though accident had never permitted their being much together, he entertained for her a ſin⯑cere friendſhip and attachment. Perceiv⯑ing how neceſſary ſhe was to him, ſhe ſel⯑dom quitted his chamber. She liſtened to his complaints with unwearied attention, and ſoothed him by the gentleneſs of her manners, and by ſympathiſing with his diſ⯑treſs. She ſtill inhabited the palace de Villa-Franca, the poſſeſſors of which treat⯑ed her with marked affection. The duke had intimated to the marquis his wiſhes reſpecting Virginia. The match was un⯑exceptionable; Lorenzo was heir to his uncle's immenſe property, and was diſtin⯑guiſhed [233] in Madrid for his agreeable per⯑ſon, extenſive knowledge, and propriety of conduct. Add to this, that the mar⯑chioneſs had diſcovered how ſtrong was her daughter's prepoſſeſſion in his fa⯑vour.

In conſequence, the duke's propoſal was accepted without heſitation: every precau⯑tion was taken to induce Lorenzo's ſeeing the lady with thoſe ſentiments which ſhe ſo well merited to excite. In her viſits to her brother, Agnes was frequently accom⯑panied by the marchioneſs; and as ſoon as he was able to move into his antichamber, Virginia, under her mother's protection, was ſometimes permitted to expreſs her wiſhes for his recovery. This ſhe did with ſuch delicacy, the manner in which ſhe mentioned Antonia was ſo tender and ſooth⯑ing, and when ſhe lamented her rival's me⯑lancholy fate, her bright eyes ſhone ſo beautiful through her tears, that Lorenzo could not behold or liſten to her without emotion. His relations, as well as the lady, [234] perceived that with every day her ſociety ſeemed to give him freſh pleaſure, and that he ſpoke of her in terms of ſtronger admi⯑ration. However, they prudently kept their obſervations to themſelves. No word was dropped, which might lead him to ſuſ⯑pect their deſigns. They continued their former conduct and attention, and left time to ripen into a warmer ſentiment the friend⯑ſhip which he already felt for Virginia.

In the mean while, her viſits became more frequent; and latterly there was ſcarce a day, of which ſhe did not paſs ſome part by the ſide of Lorenzo's couch. He gra⯑dually regained his ſtrength, but the pro⯑greſs of his recovery was ſlow and doubt⯑ful. One evening he ſeemed to be in bet⯑ter ſpirits than uſual: Agnes and her lover, the duke, Virginia, and her parents were ſitting round him. He now for the firſt time entreated his ſiſter to inform him how ſhe had eſcaped the effects of the poiſon which St. Urſula had ſeen her ſwallow. Fearful of recalling thoſe ſcenes to his mind [235] in which Antonia had periſhed, ſhe had hitherto concealed from him the hiſtory of her ſufferings. As he now ſtarted the ſub⯑ject himſelf, and thinking that perhaps the narrative of her ſorrows might draw him from the contemplation of thoſe on which he dwelt too conſtantly, ſhe immediately complied with his requeſt. The reſt of the company had already heard her ſtory: but the intereſt which all preſent felt for its he⯑roine, made them anxious to hear it re⯑peated. The whole ſociety ſeconding Lo⯑renzo's entreaties, Agnes obeyed. She firſt recounted the diſcovery which had taken place in the abbey chapel, the domina's re⯑ſentment, and the midnight ſcene of which St. Urſula had been a concealed witneſs. Though the nun had already deſcribed this latter event, Agnes now related it more cir⯑cumſtantially, and at large. After which ſhe proceeded in her narrative as follows:

CHAP. XII.

ON the day following Antonia's death, all Madrid was a ſcene of conſternation and amazement. An archer who had wit⯑neſſed the adventure in the ſepulchre, had indiſcreetly related the circumſtances of the murder: he had alſo named the perpetra⯑tor. The confuſion was without example, which this intelligence raiſed among the devotees. Moſt of them diſbelieved it, and went themſelves to the abbey to aſcer⯑tain the fact. Anxious to avoid the ſhame to which their ſuperior's ill conduct expoſed the whole brotherhood, the monks aſſured [273] the viſitors, that Ambroſio was prevented from receiving them as uſual by nothing but illneſs. This attempt was unſucceſsful. The ſame excuſe being repeated day after day, the archer's ſtory gradually obtained confidence. His partiſans abandoned him: no one entertained a doubt of his guilt: and they who before had been the warmeſt in his praiſe, were now the moſt vociferous in his condemnation.

While his innocence or guilt was debated in Madrid with the utmoſt acrimony, Am⯑broſio was a prey to the pangs of conſcious villany, and the terrors of puniſhment impending over him. When he looked back to the eminence on which he had lately ſtood, univerſally honoured and re⯑ſpected, at peace with the world and with himſelf, ſcarcely could he believe that he was indeed the culprit, whoſe crimes and whoſe fate he trembled to conſider. But a few weeks had elapſed, ſince he was pure and virtuous, courted by the wiſeſt and nobleſt in Madrid, and regarded by the [274] people with a reverence that approached idolatry. He now ſaw himſelf ſtained with the moſt loathed and monſtrous ſins, the object of univerſal execration, a priſoner of the Holy Office, and probably doomed to periſh in tortures the moſt ſevere. He could not hope to deceive his judges: the proofs of his guilt were too ſtrong. His being in the ſepulchre at ſo late an hour, his confuſion at the diſcovery, the dagger which in his firſt alarm he owned had been concealed by him, and the blood which had ſpirted upon his habit from Antonia's wound, ſufficiently marked him out for the aſſaſſin. He waited with agony for the day of examination. He had no reſource to comfort him in his diſtreſs. Religion could not inſpire him with fortitude. If he read the books of morality which were put into his hands, he ſaw in them nothing but the enormity of his offences. If he attempted to pray, he recollected that he deſerved not Heaven's protection, and believed his crimes ſo monſtrous as to exceed even God's [275] infinite goodneſs. For every other ſinner he thought there might be hope, but for him there could be none. Shuddering at the paſt, anguiſhed by the preſent, and dreading the future, thus paſſed he the few days preceding that which was marked for his trial.

That day arrived. At nine in the morn⯑ing his priſon-door was unlocked; and his gaoler entering, commanded him to follow him. He obeyed with trembling. He was conducted into a ſpacious hall hung with black cloth. At the table ſat three grave ſtern-looking men, alſo habited in black: one was the Grand Inquiſitor, whom the importance of this cauſe had induced to examine into it himſelf. At a ſmaller table at a little diſtance ſat the ſecretary, provided with all neceſſary implements for writing. Ambroſio was beckoned to ad⯑vance, and take his ſtation at the lower end of the table. As his eye glanced down⯑wards, he perceived various iron inſtru⯑ments lying ſcattered upon the floor. Their [276] forms were unknown to him, but appre⯑henſion immediately gueſſed them to be engines of torture. He turned pale, and with difficulty prevented himſelf from ſink⯑ing upon the ground.

Profound ſilence prevailed, except when the inquiſitors whiſpered a few words among themſelves myſteriouſly. Near an hour paſſed away, and with every ſecond of it Ambroſio's fears grew more poignant. At length a ſmall door, oppoſite to that by which he had entered the hall, grated hea⯑vily upon its hinges. An officer appeared, and was immediately followed by the beau⯑tiful Matilda. Her hair hung about her face wildly: her cheeks were pale, and her eyes ſunk and hollow. She threw a me⯑lancholy look upon Ambroſio: he replied by one of averſion and reproach. She was placed oppoſite to him. A bell then ſounded thrice. It was the ſignal for opening the court; and the inquiſitors entered upon their office.

In theſe trials neither the accuſation is [277] mentioned, nor the name of the accuſer. The priſoners are only aſked, whether they will confeſs. If they reply, that, having no crime, they can make no confeſſion, they are put to the torture without delay. This is re⯑peated at intervals, either till the ſuſpected avow themſelves culpable, or the perſeve⯑rance of the examinants is worn out and exhauſted: but without a direct acknow⯑ledgment of their guilt, the Inquiſition never pronounces the final doom of its pri⯑ſoners. In general much time is ſuffered to elapſe without their being queſtioned; but Ambroſio's trial had been haſtened on account of a ſolemn Auto da Fé which would take place in a few days, and in which the inquiſitors meant this diſtinguiſh⯑ed culprit to perform a part, and give a ſtriking teſtimony of their vigilance.

The abbot was not merely accuſed of rape and murder; the crime of ſorcery was laid to his charge, as well as to Matilda's. She had been ſeized as an accomplice in Antonia's aſſaſſination. On ſearching her [278] cell, various ſuſpicious books and inſtru⯑ments were found, which juſtified the accu⯑ſation brought againſt her. To criminate the monk, the conſtellated mirror was pro⯑duced, which Matilda had accidentally left in his chamber. The ſtrange figures en⯑graved upon it caught the attention of Don Ramirez, while ſearching the abbot's cell; in conſequence, he carried it away with him. It was ſhewn to the Grand In⯑quiſitor, who, having conſidered it for ſome time, took off a ſmall golden croſs which hung at his girdle, and laid it upon the mirror. Inſtantly a loud noiſe was heard, reſembling a clap of thunder, and the ſteel ſhivered into a thouſand pieces. This cir⯑cumſtance confirmed the ſuſpicion of the monk's having dealt in magic. It was even ſuppoſed, that his former influence over the minds of the people was entirely to be aſcribed to witchcraft.

Determined to make him confeſs not only the crimes which he had committed, but thoſe alſo of which he was innocent, [279] the inquiſitors began their examination. Though dreading the tortures as he dread⯑ed death, which would conſign him to eter⯑nal torments, the abbot aſſerted his purity in a voice bold and reſolute. Matilda fol⯑lowed his example, but ſpoke with fear and trembling. Having in vain exhorted him to confeſs, the inquiſitors ordered the monk to be put to the queſtion. The decree was immediately executed. Ambroſio ſuf⯑fered the moſt excruciating pangs that ever were invented by human cruelty. Yet ſo dreadful is death, when guilt accompanies it, that he had ſufficient fortitude to perſiſt in his diſavowal. His agonies were re⯑doubled in conſequence; nor was he re⯑leaſed till, fainting from exceſs of pain, in⯑ſenſibility reſcued him from the hands of his tormentors.

Matilda was next ordered to the torture; but, terrified by the ſight of the friar's ſuf⯑ferings, her courage totally deſerted her. She ſank upon her knees, acknowledged her correſponding with infernal ſpirits, and [280] that ſhe had witneſſed the monk's aſſaſſina⯑tion of Antonia; but as to the crime of ſor⯑cery, ſhe declared herſelf the ſole criminal, and Ambroſio perfectly innocent. The latter aſſertion met with no credit. The abbot had recovered his ſenſes in time to hear the confeſſion of his accomplice: but he was too much enfeebled by what he had already undergone, to be capable at that time of ſuſtaining new torments. He was commanded back to his cell, but firſt informed, that as ſoon as he had gained ſtrength ſufficient he muſt prepare himſelf for a ſecond examination. The inquiſitors hoped that he would then be leſs hardened and obſtinate. To Matilda it was an⯑nounced, that ſhe muſt expiate her crime in fire on the approaching Auto da Fé. All her tears and entreaties could procure no mitigation of her doom, and ſhe was drag⯑ged by force from the hall of trial.

Returned to his dungeon, the ſufferings of Ambroſio's body were far more ſupport⯑able than thoſe of his mind. His diſlo⯑cated [281] limbs, the nails torn from his hands and feet, and his fingers maſhed and broken by the preſſure of ſcrews, were far ſurpaſſed in anguiſh by the agitation of his ſoul, and vehemence of his terrors. He ſaw, that guilty or innocent his judges were bent upon condemning him. The remembrance of what his denial had already coſt him, terrified him at the idea of being again ap⯑plied to the queſtion, and almoſt engaged him to confeſs his crimes. Then again the conſequences of his confeſſion flaſhed before him, and rendered him once more irreſolute. His death would be inevitable, and that a death the moſt dreadful. He had liſtened to Matilda's doom, and doubt⯑ed not that a ſimilar was reſerved for him. He ſhuddered at the approaching Auto da Fé, at the idea of periſhing in flames, and only eſcaping from endurable torments to paſs into others more ſubtile and everlaſt⯑ing! With affright did he bend his mind's eye on the ſpace beyond the grave; nor could hide from himſelf how juſtly he [282] ought to dread Heaven's vengeance. In this labyrinth of terrors, fain would he have taken his refuge in the gloom of atheiſm; fain would he have denied the ſoul's im⯑mortality; have perſuaded himſelf that, when his eyes once cloſed, they would never more open, and that the ſame mo⯑ment would annihilate his ſoul and body. Even this reſource was refuſed to him. To permit his being blind to the fallacy of this belief, his knowledge was too extenſive, his underſtanding too ſolid and juſt. He could not help feeling the exiſtence of a God. Thoſe truths, once his comfort, now preſented themſelves before him in the cleareſt light; but they only ſerved to drive him to diſtraction. They deſtroyed his ill-grounded hopes of eſcaping puniſhment; and, diſpelled by the irreſiſtible brightneſs of truth and conviction, philoſophy's de⯑ceitful vapours faded away like a dream.

In anguiſh almoſt too great for mortal frame to bear, he expected the time when he was again to be examined. He buſied [283] himſelf in planning ineffectual ſchemes for eſcaping both preſent and future puniſh⯑ment. Of the firſt there was no poſſibility; of the ſecond deſpair made him neglect the only means. While Reaſon forced him to acknowledge a God's exiſtence, Conſcience made him doubt the infinity of his good⯑neſs. He diſbelieved that a ſinner like him could find mercy. He had not been deceived into error: ignorance could fur⯑niſh him with no excuſe. He had ſeen vice in her true colours. Before he com⯑mitted his crimes, he had computed every ſcruple of their weight, and yet he had committed them.

"Pardon?" he would cry in an acceſs of phrenſy: "Oh! there can be none for me!"

Perſuaded of this, inſtead of humbling himſelf in penitence, of deploring his guilt, and employing his few remaining hours in deprecating Heaven's wrath, he abandoned himſelf to the tranſports of deſperate rage; he ſorrowed for the puniſhment of his [284] crimes, not their commiſſion; and exhaled his boſom's anguiſh in idle ſighs, in vain lamentations, in blaſphemy and deſpair. As the few beams of day which pierced through the bars of his priſon-window gradually diſappeared, and their place was ſupplied by the pale and glimmering lamp, he felt his terrors redouble, and his ideas be⯑come more gloomy, more ſolemn, more deſpondent. He dreaded the approach of ſleep. No ſooner did his eyes cloſe, wearied with tears and watching, than the dreadful viſions ſeemed to be realiſed on which his mind had dwelt during the day. He found himſelf in ſulphurous realms and burning caverns, ſurrounded by fiends appointed his tormentors, and who drove him through a variety of tortures, each of which was more dreadful than the former. Amidſt theſe diſmal ſcenes wandered the ghoſts of Elvira and her daughter. They reproach⯑ed him with their deaths, recounted his crimes to the daemons, and urged them to inflict torments of cruelty yet more refined. [285] Such were the pictures which floated before his eyes in ſleep: they vaniſhed not till his repoſe was diſturbed by exceſs of agony. Then would he ſtart from the ground on which he had ſtretched himſelf, his brows running down with cold ſweat, his eyes wild and phrenſied; and he only exchanged the terrible certainty for ſurmiſes ſcarcely more ſupportable. He paced his dungeon with diſordered ſteps; he gazed with terror upon the ſurrounding darkneſs, and often did he cry,

"Oh! fearful is night to the guilty!"

The day of his ſecond examination was at hand. He had been compelled to ſwal⯑low cordials, whoſe virtues were calculated to reſtore his bodily ſtrength, and enable him to ſupport the queſtion longer. On the night preceding this dreaded day, his fears for the morrow permitted him not to ſleep. His terrors were ſo violent as nearly to annihilate his mental powers. He ſat like one ſtupefied near the table on which his lamp was burning dimly. Deſpair [286] chained up his faculties in idiotiſm, and he remained for ſome hours unable to ſpeak or move, or indeed to think.

"Look up, Ambroſio!" ſaid a voice in accents well known to him.

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

"You here, Matilda?" he at length ex⯑claimed: "How have you gained entrance? Where are your chains? What means this magnificence, and the joy which ſparkles in your eyes? Have our judges relented? Is there a chance of my eſcaping? Anſwer me [287] for pity, and tell me what I have to hope or fear."

"Ambroſio!" ſhe replied with an air of commanding dignity: "I have baffled the Inquiſition's fury. I am free: a few mo⯑ments will place kingdoms between theſe dungeons and me; yet I purchaſe my li⯑berty at a dear, at a dreadful price! Dare you pay the ſame, Ambroſio? Dare you ſpring without fear over the bounds which ſeparate men from angels?—You are ſilent —You look upon me with eyes of ſuſpi⯑cion and alarm—I read your thoughts, and confeſs their juſtice. Yes, Ambroſio, I have ſacrificed all for life and liberty. I am no longer a candidate for Heaven! I have renounced God's ſervice, and am en⯑liſted beneath the banners of his foes. The deed is paſt recall; yet, were it in my power to go back, I would not. Oh! my friend, to expire in ſuch torments! to die amidſt curſes and execrations! to bear the inſults of an exaſperated mob! to be ex⯑poſed to all the mortifications of ſhame and [288] infamy! who can reflect without horror on ſuch a doom? Let me then exult in my exchange. I have ſold diſtant and uncer⯑tain happineſs for preſent and ſecure. I have preſerved a life, which otherwiſe I had loſt in torture; and I have obtained the power of procuring every bliſs which can make that life delicious! The infernal ſpi⯑rits obey me as their ſovereign; by their aid ſhall my days be paſſed in every re⯑finement of luxury and voluptuouſneſs. I will enjoy unreſtrained the gratification of my ſenſes; every paſſion ſhall be in⯑dulged even to ſatiety; then will I bid my ſervants invent new pleaſures, to revive and ſtimulate my glutted appetites! I go impa⯑tient to exerciſe my newly-gained domi⯑nion. I pant to be at liberty. Nothing ſhould hold me one moment longer in this abhorred abode, but the hope of perſuad⯑ing you to follow my example. Ambroſio, I ſtill love you: our mutual guilt and dan⯑ger have rendered you dearer to me than ever, and I would fain ſave you from im⯑pending [289] deſtruction. Summon then your reſolution to your aid, and renounce for im⯑mediate and certain benefits the hopes of a ſalvation difficult to obtain, and perhaps altogether erroneous. Shake off the preju⯑dice of vulgar ſouls; abandon a God who has abandoned you, and raiſe yourſelf to the level of ſuperior beings!"

She pauſed for the monk's reply: he ſhuddered while he gave it.

"Matilda!" he ſaid, after a long ſilence, in a low and unſteady voice: "What price gave you for liberty?"

She anſwered him firm and dauntleſs.

"Ambroſio, it was my ſoul!"

"Wretched woman, what have you done! Paſs but a few years, and how dread⯑ful will be your ſufferings!"

"Weak man, paſs but this night, and how dreadful will be your own! Do you remember what you have already endured? To-morrow you muſt bear torments doubly exquiſite. Do you remember the horrors [290] of a fiety puniſhment? In two days you muſt be led a victim to the ſtake! What then will become of you? Still dare you hope for pardon? Still are you beguiled with viſions of ſalvation? Think upon your crimes! Think upon your luſt, your per⯑jury, inhumanity, and hypocriſy! Think upon the innocent blood which cries to the throne of God for vengeance! and then hope for mercy! Then dream of heaven, and ſigh for worlds of light, and realms of peace and pleaſure! Abſurd! Open your eyes, Ambroſio, and be prudent. Hell is your lot; you are doomed to eternal perdi⯑tion; nought lies beyond your grave, but a gulph of devouring flames. And will you then ſpeed towards that hell? Will you claſp that perdition in your arms ere 'tis needful? Will you plunge into thoſe flames while you ſtill have the power to ſhun them? 'Tis a madman's action. No, no, Ambroſio, let us for a while fly from divine vengeance. Be adviſed by me, purchaſe [291] by one moment's courage the bliſs of years; enjoy the preſent, and forget that a future lags behind."

"Matilda, your counſels are dangerous; I dare not, I will not follow them. I muſt not give up my claim to ſalvation. Mon⯑ſtrous are my crimes; but God is merciful, and I will not deſpair of pardon."

"Is ſuch your reſolution? I have no more to ſay. I ſpeed to joy and liberty, and abandon you to death and eternal tor⯑ments!'

"Yet ſtay one moment, Matilda! You command the infernal daemons; you can force open theſe priſon doors; you can re⯑leaſe me from theſe chains which weigh me down. Save me, I conjure you, and bear me from theſe fearful abodes!"

"You aſk the only boon beyond my power to beſtow. I am forbidden to aſſiſt a churchman and a partiſan of God. Re⯑nounce thoſe titles, and command me."

"I will not ſell my ſoul to perdition."

"Perſiſt in your obſtinacy till you find [292] yourſelf at the ſtake: then will you repent your error, and ſigh for eſcape when the moment is gone by. I quit you.—Yet ere the hour of death arrives, ſhould wiſ⯑dom enlighten you, liſten to the means of repairing your preſent fault. I leave with you this book. Read the four firſt lines of the 7th page backwards. The ſpirit, whom you have already once beheld, will imme⯑diately appear to you. If you are wiſe, we ſhall meet again; if not, farewell for ever!"

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

[293]He was ſtill in this attitude, when the opening of the priſon door rouſed him from his ſtupor. He was ſummoned to appear before the Grand Inquiſitor. He roſe, and followed his gaoler with painful ſteps. He was led into the ſame hall, placed before the ſame examiners, and was again interrogated whether he would con⯑feſs. He replied as before, that, having no crimes, he could acknowledge none. But when the executioners prepared to put him to the queſtion, when he ſaw the engines of torture, and remembered the pangs which they had already inflicted, his reſolution failed him entirely. Forgetting the conſe⯑quences, and only anxious to eſcape the ter⯑rors of the preſent moment, he made an am⯑ple confeſſion. He diſcloſed every circum⯑ſtance of his guilt, and owned not merely the crimes with which he was charged, but thoſe of which he had never been ſuſpected. Being interrogated as to Matilda's flight, which had created much confuſion; he confeſſed that ſhe had fold herſelf to Satan, [294] and that ſhe was indebted to ſorcery for her eſcape. He ſtill aſſured his judges, that for his own part he had never entered into any compact with the infernal ſpirits; but the threat of being tortured made him de⯑clare himſelf to be a ſorcerer and heretic, and whatever other title the inquiſitors choſe to fix upon him. In conſequence of this avowal, his ſentence was immediately pro⯑nounced. He was ordered to prepare him⯑ſelf to periſh in the Auto da Fé, which was to be ſolemnized at twelve o'clock that night. This hour was choſen, from the idea, that, the horror of the flames being heightened by the gloom of midnight, the execution would have a greater effect upon the mind of the people.

Ambroſio, rather dead than alive, was left alone in his dungeon. The moment in which this terrible decree was pronounced, had nearly proved that of his diſſolution. He looked forward to the morrow with deſpair, and his terrors increaſed with the approach of midnight. Sometimes he was [295] buried in gloomy ſilence; at others, he raved with delirious paſſion, wrung his hands, and curſed the hour when he firſt beheld the light. In one of theſe moments his eye reſted upon Matilda's myſterious gift. His tranſports of rage were inſtantly ſuſpended. He looked earneſtly at the book; he took it up, but immediately threw it from him with horror. He walked ra⯑pidly up and down his dungeon —then ſtop⯑ped, and again fixed his eyes on the ſpot where the book had fallen. He reflected, that here at leaſt was a reſource from the fate which he dreaded. He ſtooped, and took it up a ſecond time. He remained for ſome time trembling and irreſolute; he longed to try the charm, yet feared its con⯑ſequences. The recollection of his ſen⯑tence at length fixed his indeciſion. He opened the volume; but his agitation was ſo great, that he at firſt ſought in vain for the page mentioned by Matilda. Aſhamed of himſelf, he called all his courage to his aid. He turned to the ſeventh leaf: he [296] began to read it aloud; bat his eyes fre⯑quently wandered from the book, while he anxiouſly caſt them round in ſearch of the ſpirit, whom he wiſhed, yet dreaded to be⯑hold. Still he perſiſted in his deſign; and with a voice unaſſured, and frequent inter⯑ruptions, he contrived to finiſh the four firſt lines of the page.

They were in a language whoſe import was totally unknown to him. Scarce had he pronounced the laſt word, when the ef⯑fects of the charm were evident. A loud burſt of thunder was heard, the priſon ſhook to its very foundations, a blaze of lightning flaſhed through the cell, and in the next moment, borne upon ſulphurous whirlwinds, Lucifer ſtood before him a ſe⯑cond time. But he came not as when at Matilda's ſummons he borrowed the ſe⯑raph's form to deceive Ambroſio. He ap⯑peared in all that uglineſs which ſince his fall from heaven had been his portion. His blaſted limbs ſtill bore marks of the Almighty's thunder. A ſwarthy darkneſs [297] ſpread itſelf over his gigantic form: his hands and feet were armed with long ta⯑lons. Fury glared in his eyes, which might have ſtruck the braveſt heart with terror. Over his huge ſhoulders waved two enormous ſable wings: and his hair was ſupplied by living ſnakes, which twined themſelves round his brows with frightful hiſſings. In one hand he held a roll of parchment, and in the other an iron pen. Still the lightning flaſhed around him, and the thunder with repeated burſts ſeemed to announce the diſſolution of Na⯑ture.

Terrified at an apparition ſo different from what he had expected, Ambroſio remained gazing upon the fiend, deprived of the power of utterance. The thunder had ceaſed to roll: univerſal ſilence reigned through the dungeon.

"For what am I ſummoned hither?" ſaid the daemon, in a voice which ſulphurous fogs had damped to hoarſeneſs.

At the ſound Nature ſeemed to tremble. [298] A violent earthquake rocked the ground, accompanied by a freſh burſt of thunder, louder and more appalling than the firſt.

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

"I am condemned to die," he ſaid with a faint voice, his blood running cold while he gazed upon his dreadful viſitor. "Save me! bear me from hence!"

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

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

"It will not. I muſt have your ſoul: muſt have it mine, and mine for ever."

"Inſatiate daemon! I will not doom [299] myſelf to endleſs torments. I will not give up my hopes of being one day pardoned."

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

"Fiend! 'tis falſe. Infinite is the Al⯑mighty's mercy, and the penitent ſhall meet his forgiveneſs. My crimes are mon⯑ſtrous, but I will not deſpair of pardon. Haply, when they have received due chaſ⯑tiſement —"

"Chaſtiſement? Was purgatory meant for guilt like yours? Hope you, that your offences ſhall be bought off by prayers of ſuperſtitious dotards and droning monks? Ambroſio! be wiſe. Mine you muſt be. You are doomed to flames, but may ſhun [300] them for the preſent. Sign this parchment: I will bear you from hence, and you may paſs your remaining years in bliſs and liberty. Enjoy your exiſtence. Indulge in every pleaſure to which appetite may lead you. But from the moment that it quits your body, remember that your ſoul belongs to me, and that I will not be defrauded of my right."

The monk was ſilent: but his looks de⯑clared that the tempter's words were not thrown away. He reflected on the condi⯑tions propoſed with horror. On the other hand, he believed himſelf doomed to per⯑dition, and that, by refuſing the daemon's ſuccour, he only haſtened tortures which he never could eſcape. The fiend ſaw that his reſolution was ſhaken. He renewed his inſtances, and endeavoured to fix the abbot's indeciſion. He deſcribed the ago⯑nies of death in the moſt terrific colours; and he worked ſo powerfully upon Am⯑broſio's deſpair and fears, that he prevailed upon him to receive the parchment. He [301] then ſtruck the iron pen which he held into a vein of the monk's left hand. It pierced deep, and was inſtantly filled with blood: yet Ambroſio felt no pain from the wound. The pen was put into his hand: it trem⯑bled. The wretch placed the parchment on the table before him, and prepared to ſign it. Suddenly he held his hand: he ſtarted away haſtily, and threw the pen upon the table.

"What am I doing?" he cried. Then turning to the fiend with a deſperate air, "Leave me! begone! I will not ſign the parchment."

"Fool!" exclaimed the diſappointed daemon, darting looks ſo furious as pene⯑trated the friar's ſoul with horror. "Thus am I trifled with? Go then! Rave in ago⯑ny, expire in tortures, and then learn the extent of the Eternal's mercy! But beware how you make me again your mock! Call me no more, till reſolved to accept my of⯑fers. Summon me a ſecond time to diſmiſs me thus idly, and theſe talons ſhall rend [302] you into a thouſand pieces. Speak yet again: will you ſign the parchment?"

"I will not. Leave me. Away!"

Inſtantly the thunder was heard to roll horribly: once more the earth trembled with violence: the dungeon reſounded with loud ſhrieks, and the daemon fled with blaſphemy and curſes.

At firſt, the monk rejoiced at having reſiſted the ſeducer's arts, and obtained a triumph over mankind's enemy: but as the hour of puniſhment drew near, his for⯑mer terrors revived in his heart. Their momentary repoſe ſeemed to have given them freſh vigour. The nearer that the time approached, the more did he dread appearing before the throne of God. He ſhuddered to think how ſoon he muſt be plunged into eternity—how ſoon meet the eyes of his Creator, whom he had ſo griev⯑ouſly offended. The bell announced mid⯑night. It was the ſignal for being led to the ſtake. As he liſtened to the firſt ſtroke, the blood ceaſed to circulate in the abbot's [303] veins. He heard death and torture mur⯑mured in each ſucceeding ſound. He ex⯑pected to ſee the archers entering his pri⯑ſon; and as the bell forbore to toll, he ſeized the magic volume in a fit of de⯑ſpair. He opened it, turned haſtily to the ſeventh page, and, as if fearing to allow himſelf a moment's thought, ran over the fatal lines with rapidity. Accompanied by his former terrors, Lucifer again ſtood be⯑fore the trembler.

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

"I muſt—Fate urges me—I accept your conditions."

"Sign the parchment," replied the dae⯑mon in an exulting tone.

The contract and the bloody pen ſtill lay [304] upon the table. Ambroſio drew near it. He prepared to ſign his name. A mo⯑ment's reflection made him heſitate.

"Hark!" cried the tempter: "they come. Be quick. Sign the parchment, and I bear you from hence this moment."

In effect, the archers were heard ap⯑proaching, appointed to lead Ambroſio to the ſtake. The ſound encouraged the monk in his reſolution.

"What is the import of this writing?" ſaid he.

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

"What am I to receive in exchange?"

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

Ambroſio took up the pen. He ſet it to the parchment. Again his courage failed him. He felt a pang of terror at his heart, and once more threw the pen upon the table.

"Weak and puerile!" cried the exaſpe⯑rated [305] fiend. "Away with this folly! Sign the writing this inſtant, or I ſacrifice you to my rage."

At this moment the bolt of the outward door was drawn back. The priſoner heard the rattling of chains: the heavy bar fell: the archers were on the point of entering. Worked up to phrenſy by the urgent dan⯑ger, ſhrinking from the approach of death, terrified by the daemon's threats, and ſeeing no other means to eſcape deſtruction, the wretched monk complied. He ſigned the fatal contract, and gave it haſtily into the evil ſpirit's hands, whoſe eyes, as he re⯑ceived the gift, glared with malicious rap⯑ture.

"Take it!" ſaid the God-abandoned. "Now then ſave me! Snatch me from hence!"

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

"I do! I do!"

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

[306]"For ever!"

"Without reſerve or ſubterfuge? with⯑out future appeal to the divine mercy?"

The laſt chain fell from the door of the priſon. The key was heard turning in the lock. Already the iron door grated heavily upon its ruſty hinges—

"I am yours for ever, and irrevocably!" cried the monk wild with terror: "I aban⯑don all claim to ſalvation. I own no power but yours. Hark! hark! they come! Oh! ſave me! bear me away!"

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

While he ſpoke, the door uncloſed. In⯑ſtantly the daemon graſped one of Ambro⯑ſio's arms, ſpread his broad pinions, and ſprang with him into the air. The roof opened as they ſoared upwards, and cloſed again when they had quitted the dungeon.

In the mean while, the gaoler was thrown into the utmoſt ſurpriſe by the diſappear⯑ance of his priſoner. Though neither he nor the archers were in time to witneſs the [307] monk's eſcape, a ſulphurous ſmell pre⯑vailing through the priſon ſufficiently in⯑formed them by whoſe aid he had been liberated. They haſtened to make their report to the Grand Inquiſitor. The ſtory, how a ſorcerer had been carried away by the Devil, was ſoon noiſed about Madrid; and for ſome days the whole city was em⯑ployed in diſcuſſing the ſubject. Gradu⯑ally it ceaſed to be the topic of converſa⯑tion. Other adventures aroſe whoſe no⯑velty engaged univerſal attention: and Ambroſio was ſoon forgotten as totally as if he never had exiſted. While this was paſſing, the monk, ſupported by his infer⯑nal guide, traverſed the air with the rapi⯑dity of an arrow; and a few moments placed him upon a precipice's brink, the ſteepeſt in Sierra Morena.

Though reſcued from the Inquiſition, Ambroſio as yet was inſenſible of the bleſ⯑ſings of liberty. The damning contract weighed heavy upon his mind; and the ſcenes in which he had been a principal actor, [308] had left behind them ſuch impreſſions as rendered his heart the ſeat of anarchy and confuſion. The objects now before his eyes, and which the full moon ſailing through clouds permitted him to examine, were ill calculated to inſpire that calm, of which he ſtood ſo much in need. The diſorder of his imagination was increaſed by the wildneſs of the ſurrounding ſcenery; by the gloomy caverns and ſteep rocks, riſing above each other, and dividing the paſſing clouds; ſolitary cluſters of trees ſcattered here and there, among whoſe thick-twined branches the wind of night ſighed hoarſely and mournfully; the ſhrill cry of mountain eagles, who had built their neſts among theſe lonely deſerts; the ſtun⯑ning roar of torrents, as ſwelled by late rains they ruſhed violently down tremen⯑dous precipices; and the dark waters of a ſilent ſluggiſh ſtream, which faintly re⯑flected the moon-beams, and bathed the rock's baſe on which Ambroſio ſtood. The abbot caſt round him a look of terror. His [309] internal conductor was ſtill by his ſide, and eyed him with a look of mingled malice, exultation, and contempt.

"Whither have you brought me?" ſaid the monk at length in an hollow trembling voice: "Why am I placed in this melan⯑choly ſcene? Bear me from it quickly! Carry me to Matilda!"

The fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in ſilence. Ambroſio could not ſuſtain his glance; he turned away his eyes, while thus ſpoke the daemon:

"I have him then in my power! This model of piety! this being without re⯑proach! this mortal who placed his puny virtues on a level with thoſe of angels. He is mine! irrevocably, eternally mine! Companions of my ſufferings! denizens of hell! How grateful will be my preſent!"

He pauſed; then addreſſed himſelf to the monk—

"Carry you to Matilda?" he continued, repeating Ambroſio's words: "Wretch! [310] you ſhall ſoon be with her! You well de⯑ſerve a place near her, for hell boaſts no miſcreant more guilty than yourſelf. Hark, Ambroſio, while I unveil your crimes! You have ſhed the blood of two inno⯑cents; Antonia and Elvira periſhed by your hand. That Antonia whom you vi⯑olated, was your ſiſter! that Elvira whom you murdered, gave you birth! Tremble, abandoned hypocrite! inhuman parricide! inceſtuous raviſher! tremble at the extent of your offences! And you it was who thought yourſelf proof againſt temptation, abſolved from human frailties, and free from error and vice! Is pride then a vir⯑tue? Is inhumanity no fault? Know, vain man! that I long have marked you for my prey: I watched the movements of your heart; I ſaw that you were virtuous from vanity, not principle, and I ſeized the fit moment of ſeduction. I obſerved your blind idolatry of the Madona's picture. I bade a ſubordinate but crafty ſpirit aſſume a ſimilar form, and you eagerly yielded to [311] the blandiſhments of Matilda. Your pride was gratified by her flattery; your luſt only needed an opportunity to break forth; you ran into the ſnare blindly, and ſcrupled not to commit a crime, which you blamed in another with unfeeling ſeverity. It was I who threw Matilda in your way; it was I who gave you entrance to Antonia's cham⯑ber; it was I who cauſed the dagger to be given you which pierced your ſiſter's bo⯑ſom; and it was I who warned Elvira in dreams of your deſigns upon her daughter, and thus, by preventing your profiting by her ſleep, compelled you to add rape as well as inceſt to the catalogue of your crimes. Hear, hear, Ambroſio! Had you reſiſted me one minute longer, you had ſaved your body and ſoul. The guards whom you heard at your priſon-door, came to ſignify your pardon. But I had already triumphed: my plots had already ſuc⯑ceeded. Scarcely could I propoſe crimes ſo quick as you performed them. You are mine, and Heaven itſelf cannot reſcue you [312] from my power. Hope not that your pe⯑nitence will make void our contract. Here is your bond ſigned with your blood; you have given up your claim to mercy, and nothing can reſtore to you the rights which you have fooliſhly reſigned. Believe you, that your ſecret thoughts eſcaped me? No, no, I read them all! You truſted that you ſhould ſtill have time for repentance. I ſaw your artifice, knew its falſity, and re⯑joiced in deceiving the deceiver! You are mine beyond reprieve: I burn to poſſeſs my right, and alive you quit not theſe moun⯑tains."

During the daemon's ſpeech, Ambroſio had been ſtupefied by terror and ſurpriſe. This laſt declaration rouſed him.

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

The fiend anſwered by a malicious laugh:

"Our contract? Have I not performed my part? What more did I promiſe than to [313] ſave you from your priſon? Have I not done ſo? Are you not ſafe from the Inqui⯑ſition—ſafe from all but from me? Fool that you were to confide yourſelf to a devil! Why did you not ſtipulate for life, and power, and pleaſure? Then all would have been granted: now, your reflections come too late. Miſcreant, prepare for death; you have not many hours to live!"

On hearing this ſentence, dreadful were the feelings of the devoted wretch! He ſank upon his knees, and raiſed his hands to⯑wards heaven. The fiend read his inten⯑tion, and prevented it—

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

As he ſaid this, darting his talons into the monk's ſhaven crown, he ſprang with him from the rock. The caves and mountains rang with Ambroſio's ſhrieks. The daemon [314] continued to ſoar aloft, till reaching a dreadful height, he releaſed the ſufferer. Headlong fell the monk through the airy waſte; the ſharp point of a rock received him; and he rolled from precipice to pre⯑cipice, till, bruiſed and mangled, he reſted on the river's banks. Life ſtill exiſted in his miſerable frame: he attempted in vain to raiſe himſelf; his broken and diſlocated limbs refuſed to perform their office, nor was he able to quit the ſpot where he had firſt fallen. The ſun now roſe above the horizon; its ſcorching beams darted full upon the head of the expiring ſinner. My⯑riads of infects were called forth by the warmth; they drank the blood which trickled from Ambroſio's wounds; he had no power to drive them from him, and they faſtened upon his ſores, darted their ſtings into his body, covered him with their mul⯑titudes, and inflicted on him tortures the moſt exquiſite and inſupportable. The eagles of the rock tore his fleſh piecemeal, and dug out his eye-balls with their crooked [315] beaks. A burning thirſt tormented him; he heard the river's murmur as it rolled be⯑ſide him, but ſtrove in vain to drag him⯑ſelf towards the ſound. Blind, maimed, helpleſs, and deſpairing, venting his rage in blaſphemy and curſes, execrating his exiſt⯑ence, yet dreading the arrival of death de⯑ſtined to yield him up to greater torments, ſix miſerable days did the villain languiſh. On the ſeventh a violent ſtorm aroſe: the winds in fury rent up rocks and foreſts: the ſky was now black with clouds, now ſheeted with fire: the rain fell in torrents; it ſwelled the ſtream; the waves overflowed their banks; they reached the ſpot where Ambroſio lay, and, when they abated, car⯑ried with them into the river the corſe of the deſpairing monk.