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The Monk: A Romance

by M. G. Lewis · English · Gutenberg #601 · 806,460 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Monk: A Romance

Author: M. G. Lewis


        
Release date: July 1, 1996 [eBook #601]
                Most recently updated: August 5, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/601

Credits: Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MONK: A ROMANCE ***




The Monk:
A Romance

by M. G. Lewis, Esq. M.P.


Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas,
Nocturnos lemures, portentaque.

HORAT.

Dreams, magic terrors, spells of mighty power,
Witches, and ghosts who rove at midnight hour.


Contents

 PREFACE
 CHAPTER I.
 CHAPTER II.
 CHAPTER III.
 CHAPTER IV.
 CHAPTER V.
 CHAPTER VI.
 CHAPTER VII.
 CHAPTER VIII.
 CHAPTER IX.
 CHAPTER X.
 CHAPTER XI.
 CHAPTER XII.





PREFACE


IMITATION OF HORACE
Ep. 20.—B. 1.

Methinks, Oh! vain ill-judging Book,
I see thee cast a wishful look,
Where reputations won and lost are
In famous row called Paternoster.
Incensed to find your precious olio
Buried in unexplored port-folio,
You scorn the prudent lock and key,
And pant well bound and gilt to see
Your Volume in the window set
Of Stockdale, Hookham, or Debrett.

Go then, and pass that dangerous bourn
Whence never Book can back return:
And when you find, condemned, despised,
Neglected, blamed, and criticised,
Abuse from All who read you fall,
(If haply you be read at all
Sorely will you your folly sigh at,
And wish for me, and home, and quiet.

Assuming now a conjuror’s office, I
Thus on your future Fortune prophesy:—
Soon as your novelty is o’er,
And you are young and new no more,
In some dark dirty corner thrown,
Mouldy with damps, with cobwebs strown,
Your leaves shall be the Book-worm’s prey;
Or sent to Chandler-Shop away,
And doomed to suffer public scandal,
Shall line the trunk, or wrap the candle!

But should you meet with approbation,
And some one find an inclination
To ask, by natural transition
Respecting me and my condition;
That I am one, the enquirer teach,
Nor very poor, nor very rich;
Of passions strong, of hasty nature,
Of graceless form and dwarfish stature;
By few approved, and few approving;
Extreme in hating and in loving;

Abhorring all whom I dislike,
Adoring who my fancy strike;
In forming judgements never long,
And for the most part judging wrong;
In friendship firm, but still believing
Others are treacherous and deceiving,
And thinking in the present aera
That Friendship is a pure chimaera:
More passionate no creature living,
Proud, obstinate, and unforgiving,
But yet for those who kindness show,
Ready through fire and smoke to go.

Again, should it be asked your page,
“Pray, what may be the author’s age?”
Your faults, no doubt, will make it clear,
I scarce have seen my twentieth year,
Which passed, kind Reader, on my word,
While England’s Throne held George the Third.

Now then your venturous course pursue:
Go, my delight! Dear Book, adieu!

M. G. L.

Hague,
Oct. 28, 1794.




ADVERTISEMENT


The first idea of this Romance was suggested by the story of the
_Santon Barsisa_, related in The Guardian.—The _Bleeding Nun_ is a
tradition still credited in many parts of Germany; and I have been told
that the ruins of the Castle of _Lauenstein_, which She is supposed to
haunt, may yet be seen upon the borders of _Thuringia.—The Water-King_,
from the third to the twelfth stanza, is the fragment of an original
Danish Ballad—And _Belerma and Durandarte_ is translated from some
stanzas to be found in a collection of old Spanish poetry, which
contains also the popular song of _Gayferos and Melesindra_, mentioned
in Don Quixote.—I have now made a full avowal of all the plagiarisms of
which I am aware myself; but I doubt not, many more may be found, of
which I am at present totally unconscious.




CHAPTER I.


——Lord Angelo is precise;
Stands at a guard with envy; Scarce confesses
That his blood flows, or that his appetite
Is more to bread than stone.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

Scarcely had the Abbey Bell tolled for five minutes, and already was
the Church of the Capuchins thronged with Auditors. Do not encourage
the idea that the Crowd was assembled either from motives of piety or
thirst of information. But very few were influenced by those reasons;
and in a city where superstition reigns with such despotic sway as in
Madrid, to seek for true devotion would be a fruitless attempt. The
Audience now assembled in the Capuchin Church was collected by various
causes, but all of them were foreign to the ostensible motive. The
Women came to show themselves, the Men to see the Women: Some were
attracted by curiosity to hear an Orator so celebrated; Some came
because they had no better means of employing their time till the play
began; Some, from being assured that it would be impossible to find
places in the Church; and one half of Madrid was brought thither by
expecting to meet the other half. The only persons truly anxious to
hear the Preacher were a few antiquated devotees, and half a dozen
rival Orators, determined to find fault with and ridicule the
discourse. As to the remainder of the Audience, the Sermon might have
been omitted altogether, certainly without their being disappointed,
and very probably without their perceiving the omission.

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

However, the old Woman continued to move forwards. In vain were
exclamations of displeasure vented against her from all sides: In vain
was She addressed with—“I assure you, Segnora, there are no places
here.”—“I beg, Segnora, that you will not crowd me so
intolerably!”—“Segnora, you cannot pass this way. Bless me! How can
people be so troublesome!”—The old Woman was obstinate, and on She
went. By dint of perseverance and two brawny arms She made a passage
through the Crowd, and managed to bustle herself into the very body of
the Church, at no great distance from the Pulpit. Her companion had
followed her with timidity and in silence, profiting by the exertions
of her conductress.

“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed the old Woman in a tone of disappointment,
while She threw a glance of enquiry round her; “Holy Virgin! What heat!
What a Crowd! I wonder what can be the meaning of all this. I believe
we must return: There is no such thing as a seat to be had, and nobody
seems kind enough to accommodate us with theirs.”

This broad hint attracted the notice of two Cavaliers, who occupied
stools on the right hand, and were leaning their backs against the
seventh column from the Pulpit. Both were young, and richly habited.
Hearing this appeal to their politeness pronounced in a female voice,
they interrupted their conversation to look at the speaker. She had
thrown up her veil in order to take a clearer look round the Cathedral.
Her hair was red, and She squinted. The Cavaliers turned round, and
renewed their conversation.

“By all means,” replied the old Woman’s companion; “By all means,
Leonella, let us return home immediately; The heat is excessive, and I
am terrified at such a crowd.”

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

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

The old Lady with many expressions of gratitude, but without much
difficulty, accepted the offer, and seated herself: The young one
followed her example, but made no other compliment than a simple and
graceful reverence. Don Lorenzo (such was the Cavalier’s name, whose
seat She had accepted) placed himself near her; But first He whispered
a few words in his Friend’s ear, who immediately took the hint, and
endeavoured to draw off the old Woman’s attention from her lovely
charge.

“You are doubtless lately arrived at Madrid,” said Lorenzo to his fair
Neighbour; “It is impossible that such charms should have long remained
unobserved; and had not this been your first public appearance, the
envy of the Women and adoration of the Men would have rendered you
already sufficiently remarkable.”

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

“Am I wrong in supposing you to be a Stranger to Madrid?”

The Lady hesitated; and at last, in so low a voice as to be scarcely
intelligible, She made shift to answer,—“No, Segnor.”

“Do you intend making a stay of any length?”

“Yes, Segnor.”

“I should esteem myself fortunate, were it in my power to contribute to
making your abode agreeable. I am well known at Madrid, and my Family
has some interest at Court. If I can be of any service, you cannot
honour or oblige me more than by permitting me to be of use to
you.”—“Surely,” said He to himself, “She cannot answer that by a
monosyllable; now She must say something to me.”

Lorenzo was deceived, for the Lady answered only by a bow.

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

After a pause of some minutes—“It is certainly from your being a
Stranger,” said He, “and as yet unacquainted with our customs, that you
continue to wear your veil. Permit me to remove it.”

At the same time He advanced his hand towards the Gauze: The Lady
raised hers to prevent him.

“I never unveil in public, Segnor.”

“And where is the harm, I pray you?” interrupted her Companion somewhat
sharply; “Do not you see that the other Ladies have all laid their
veils aside, to do honour no doubt to the holy place in which we are? I
have taken off mine already; and surely if I expose my features to
general observation, you have no cause to put yourself in such a
wonderful alarm! Blessed Maria! Here is a fuss and a bustle about a
chit’s face! Come, come, Child! Uncover it; I warrant you that nobody
will run away with it from you—”

“Dear aunt, it is not the custom in Murcia.”

“Murcia, indeed! Holy St. Barbara, what does that signify? You are
always putting me in mind of that villainous Province. If it is the
custom in Madrid, that is all that we ought to mind, and therefore I
desire you to take off your veil immediately. Obey me this moment
Antonia, for you know that I cannot bear contradiction—”

Her niece was silent, but made no further opposition to Don Lorenzo’s
efforts, who, armed with the Aunt’s sanction hastened to remove the
Gauze. What a Seraph’s head presented itself to his admiration! Yet it
was rather bewitching than beautiful; It was not so lovely from
regularity of features as from sweetness and sensibility of
Countenance. The several parts of her face considered separately, many
of them were far from handsome; but when examined together, the whole
was adorable. Her skin though fair was not entirely without freckles;
Her eyes were not very large, nor their lashes particularly long. But
then her lips were of the most rosy freshness; Her fair and undulating
hair, confined by a simple ribband, poured itself below her waist in a
profusion of ringlets; Her throat was full and beautiful in the
extreme; Her hand and arm were formed with the most perfect symmetry;
Her mild blue eyes seemed an heaven of sweetness, and the crystal in
which they moved sparkled with all the brilliance of Diamonds: She
appeared to be scarcely fifteen; An arch smile, playing round her
mouth, declared her to be possessed of liveliness, which excess of
timidity at present represt; She looked round her with a bashful
glance; and whenever her eyes accidentally met Lorenzo’s, She dropt
them hastily upon her Rosary; Her cheek was immediately suffused with
blushes, and She began to tell her beads; though her manner evidently
showed that She knew not what She was about.

Lorenzo gazed upon her with mingled surprise and admiration; but the
Aunt thought it necessary to apologize for Antonia’s mauvaise honte.

“’Tis a young Creature,” said She, “who is totally ignorant of the
world. She has been brought up in an old Castle in Murcia; with no
other Society than her Mother’s, who, God help her! has no more sense,
good Soul, than is necessary to carry her Soup to her mouth. Yet She is
my own Sister, both by Father and Mother.”

“And has so little sense?” said Don Christoval with feigned
astonishment; “How very Extraordinary!”

“Very true, Segnor; Is it not strange? However, such is the fact; and
yet only to see the luck of some people! A young Nobleman, of the very
first quality, took it into his head that Elvira had some pretensions
to Beauty—As to pretensions, in truth, She had always enough of THEM;
But as to Beauty....! If I had only taken half the pains to set myself
off which She did....! But this is neither here nor there. As I was
saying, Segnor, a young Nobleman fell in love with her, and married her
unknown to his Father. Their union remained a secret near three years,
But at last it came to the ears of the old Marquis, who, as you may
well suppose, was not much pleased with the intelligence. Away He
posted in all haste to Cordova, determined to seize Elvira, and send
her away to some place or other, where She would never be heard of
more. Holy St. Paul! How He stormed on finding that She had escaped
him, had joined her Husband, and that they had embarked together for
the Indies. He swore at us all, as if the Evil Spirit had possessed
him; He threw my Father into prison, as honest a painstaking Shoe-maker
as any in Cordova; and when He went away, He had the cruelty to take
from us my Sister’s little Boy, then scarcely two years old, and whom
in the abruptness of her flight, She had been obliged to leave behind
her. I suppose, that the poor little Wretch met with bitter bad
treatment from him, for in a few months after, we received intelligence
of his death.”

“Why, this was a most terrible old Fellow, Segnora!”

“Oh! shocking! and a Man so totally devoid of taste! Why, would you
believe it, Segnor? When I attempted to pacify him, He cursed me for a
Witch, and wished that to punish the Count, my Sister might become as
ugly as myself! Ugly indeed! I like him for that.”

“Ridiculous”, cried Don Christoval; “Doubtless the Count would have
thought himself fortunate, had he been permitted to exchange the one
Sister for the other.”

“Oh! Christ! Segnor, you are really too polite. However, I am heartily
glad that the Condé was of a different way of thinking. A mighty pretty
piece of business, to be sure, Elvira has made of it! After broiling
and stewing in the Indies for thirteen long years, her Husband dies,
and She returns to Spain, without an House to hide her head, or money
to procure her one! This Antonia was then but an Infant, and her only
remaining Child. She found that her Father-in-Law had married again,
that he was irreconcileable to the Condé, and that his second Wife had
produced him a Son, who is reported to be a very fine young Man. The
old Marquis refused to see my Sister or her Child; But sent her word
that on condition of never hearing any more of her, He would assign her
a small pension, and She might live in an old Castle which He possessed
in Murcia; This had been the favourite habitation of his eldest Son;
But since his flight from Spain, the old Marquis could not bear the
place, but let it fall to ruin and confusion—My Sister accepted the
proposal; She retired to Murcia, and has remained there till within the
last Month.”

“And what brings her now to Madrid?” enquired Don Lorenzo, whom
admiration of the young Antonia compelled to take a lively interest in
the talkative old Woman’s narration.

“Alas! Segnor, her Father-in-Law being lately dead, the Steward of his
Murcian Estates has refused to pay her pension any longer.

With the design of supplicating his Son to renew it, She is now come to
Madrid; But I doubt, that She might have saved herself the trouble! You
young Noblemen have always enough to do with your money, and are not
very often disposed to throw it away upon old Women. I advised my
Sister to send Antonia with her petition; But She would not hear of
such a thing. She is so obstinate! Well! She will find herself the
worse for not following my counsels: the Girl has a good pretty face,
and possibly might have done much.”

“Ah! Segnora,” interrupted Don Christoval, counterfeiting a passionate
air; “If a pretty face will do the business, why has not your Sister
recourse to you?”

“Oh! Jesus! my Lord, I swear you quite overpower me with your
gallantry! But I promise you that I am too well aware of the danger of
such Expeditions to trust myself in a young Nobleman’s power! No, no; I
have as yet preserved my reputation without blemish or reproach, and I
always knew how to keep the Men at a proper distance.”

“Of that, Segnora, I have not the least doubt. But permit me to ask
you; Have you then any aversion to Matrimony?”

“That is an home question. I cannot but confess, that if an amiable
Cavalier was to present himself....”

Here She intended to throw a tender and significant look upon Don
Christoval; But, as She unluckily happened to squint most abominably,
the glance fell directly upon his Companion: Lorenzo took the
compliment to himself, and answered it by a profound bow.

“May I enquire,” said He, “the name of the Marquis?”

“The Marquis de las Cisternas.”

“I know him intimately well. He is not at present in Madrid, but is
expected here daily. He is one of the best of Men; and if the lovely
Antonia will permit me to be her Advocate with him, I doubt not my
being able to make a favourable report of her cause.”

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

“Oh! Segnor!” She cried; “You will lay our whole family under the most
signal obligations! I accept your offer with all possible gratitude,
and return you a thousand thanks for the generosity of your proposal.
Antonia, why do not you speak, Child? While the Cavalier says all sorts
of civil things to you, you sit like a Statue, and never utter a
syllable of thanks, either bad, good, or indifferent!”

“My dear Aunt, I am very sensible that....”

“Fye, Niece! How often have I told you, that you never should interrupt
a Person who is speaking!? When did you ever know me do such a thing?
Are these your Murcian manners? Mercy on me! I shall never be able to
make this Girl any thing like a Person of good breeding. But pray,
Segnor,” She continued, addressing herself to Don Christoval, “inform
me, why such a Crowd is assembled today in this Cathedral?”

“Can you possibly be ignorant, that Ambrosio, Abbot of this Monastery,
pronounces a Sermon in this Church every Thursday? All Madrid rings
with his praises. As yet He has preached but thrice; But all who have
heard him are so delighted with his eloquence, that it is as difficult
to obtain a place at Church, as at the first representation of a new
Comedy. His fame certainly must have reached your ears—”

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

“You will find it in every one’s mouth at Madrid. He seems to have
fascinated the Inhabitants; and not having attended his Sermons myself,
I am astonished at the Enthusiasm which He has excited. The adoration
paid him both by Young and Old, by Man and Woman is unexampled. The
Grandees load him with presents; Their Wives refuse to have any other
Confessor, and he is known through all the city by the name of the ‘Man
of Holiness’.”

“Undoubtedly, Segnor, He is of noble origin—”

“That point still remains undecided. The late Superior of the Capuchins
found him while yet an Infant at the Abbey door. All attempts to
discover who had left him there were vain, and the Child himself could
give no account of his Parents. He was educated in the Monastery, where
He has remained ever since. He early showed a strong inclination for
study and retirement, and as soon as He was of a proper age, He
pronounced his vows. No one has ever appeared to claim him, or clear up
the mystery which conceals his birth; and the Monks, who find their
account in the favour which is shewn to their establishment from
respect to him, have not hesitated to publish that He is a present to
them from the Virgin. In truth the singular austerity of his life gives
some countenance to the report. He is now thirty years old, every hour
of which period has been passed in study, total seclusion from the
world, and mortification of the flesh. Till these last three weeks,
when He was chosen superior of the Society to which He belongs, He had
never been on the outside of the Abbey walls: Even now He never quits
them except on Thursdays, when He delivers a discourse in this
Cathedral which all Madrid assembles to hear. His knowledge is said to
be the most profound, his eloquence the most persuasive. In the whole
course of his life He has never been known to transgress a single rule
of his order; The smallest stain is not to be discovered upon his
character; and He is reported to be so strict an observer of Chastity,
that He knows not in what consists the difference of Man and Woman. The
common People therefore esteem him to be a Saint.”

“Does that make a Saint?” enquired Antonia; “Bless me! Then am I one?”

“Holy St. Barbara!” exclaimed Leonella; “What a question! Fye, Child,
Fye! These are not fit subjects for young Women to handle. You should
not seem to remember that there is such a thing as a Man in the world,
and you ought to imagine every body to be of the same sex with
yourself. I should like to see you give people to understand, that you
know that a Man has no breasts, and no hips, and no ...”.

Luckily for Antonia’s ignorance which her Aunt’s lecture would soon
have dispelled, an universal murmur through the Church announced the
Preacher’s arrival. Donna Leonella rose from her seat to take a better
view of him, and Antonia followed her example.

He was a Man of noble port and commanding presence. His stature was
lofty, and his features uncommonly handsome. His Nose was aquiline, his
eyes large black and sparkling, and his dark brows almost joined
together. His complexion was of a deep but clear Brown; Study and
watching had entirely deprived his cheek of colour. Tranquillity
reigned upon his smooth unwrinkled forehead; and Content, expressed
upon every feature, seemed to announce the Man equally unacquainted
with cares and crimes. He bowed himself with humility to the audience:
Still there was a certain severity in his look and manner that inspired
universal awe, and few could sustain the glance of his eye at once
fiery and penetrating. Such was Ambrosio, Abbot of the Capuchins, and
surnamed, “The Man of Holiness”.

Antonia, while She gazed upon him eagerly, felt a pleasure fluttering
in her bosom which till then had been unknown to her, and for which She
in vain endeavoured to account. She waited with impatience till the
Sermon should begin; and when at length the Friar spoke, the sound of
his voice seemed to penetrate into her very soul. Though no other of
the Spectators felt such violent sensations as did the young Antonia,
yet every one listened with interest and emotion. They who were
insensible to Religion’s merits, were still enchanted with Ambrosio’s
oratory. All found their attention irresistibly attracted while He
spoke, and the most profound silence reigned through the crowded
Aisles.

Even Lorenzo could not resist the charm: He forgot that Antonia was
seated near him, and listened to the Preacher with undivided attention.

In language nervous, clear, and simple, the Monk expatiated on the
beauties of Religion. He explained some abstruse parts of the sacred
writings in a style that carried with it universal conviction. His
voice at once distinct and deep was fraught with all the terrors of the
Tempest, while He inveighed against the vices of humanity, and
described the punishments reserved for them in a future state. Every
Hearer looked back upon his past offences, and trembled: The Thunder
seemed to roll, whose bolt was destined to crush him, and the abyss of
eternal destruction to open before his feet. But when Ambrosio,
changing his theme, spoke of the excellence of an unsullied conscience,
of the glorious prospect which Eternity presented to the Soul untainted
with reproach, and of the recompense which awaited it in the regions of
everlasting glory, His Auditors felt their scattered spirits insensibly
return. They threw themselves with confidence upon the mercy of their
Judge; They hung with delight upon the consoling words of the Preacher;
and while his full voice swelled into melody, They were transported to
those happy regions which He painted to their imaginations in colours
so brilliant and glowing.

The discourse was of considerable length; Yet when it concluded, the
Audience grieved that it had not lasted longer. Though the Monk had
ceased to speak, enthusiastic silence still prevailed through the
Church: At length the charm gradually dissolving, the general
admiration was expressed in audible terms. As Ambrosio descended from
the Pulpit, His Auditors crowded round him, loaded him with blessings,
threw themselves at his feet, and kissed the hem of his Garment. He
passed on slowly with his hands crossed devoutly upon his bosom, to the
door opening into the Abbey Chapel, at which his Monks waited to
receive him. He ascended the Steps, and then turning towards his
Followers, addressed to them a few words of gratitude, and exhortation.
While He spoke, his Rosary, composed of large grains of amber, fell
from his hand, and dropped among the surrounding multitude. It was
seized eagerly, and immediately divided amidst the Spectators. Whoever
became possessor of a Bead, preserved it as a sacred relique; and had
it been the Chaplet of thrice-blessed St. Francis himself, it could not
have been disputed with greater vivacity. The Abbot, smiling at their
eagerness, pronounced his benediction, and quitted the Church, while
humility dwelt upon every feature. Dwelt She also in his heart?

Antonia’s eyes followed him with anxiety. As the Door closed after him,
it seemed to her as had she lost some one essential to her happiness. A
tear stole in silence down her cheek.

“He is separated from the world!” said She to herself; “Perhaps, I
shall never see him more!”

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

“Are you satisfied with our Orator?” said He; “Or do you think that
Madrid overrates his talents?”

Antonia’s heart was so filled with admiration for the Monk, that She
eagerly seized the opportunity of speaking of him: Besides, as She now
no longer considered Lorenzo as an absolute Stranger, She was less
embarrassed by her excessive timidity.

“Oh! He far exceeds all my expectations,” answered She; “Till this
moment I had no idea of the powers of eloquence. But when He spoke, his
voice inspired me with such interest, such esteem, I might almost say
such affection for him, that I am myself astonished at the acuteness of
my feelings.”

Lorenzo smiled at the strength of her expressions.

“You are young and just entering into life,” said He; “Your heart, new
to the world and full of warmth and sensibility, receives its first
impressions with eagerness. Artless yourself, you suspect not others of
deceit; and viewing the world through the medium of your own truth and
innocence, you fancy all who surround you to deserve your confidence
and esteem. What pity, that these gay visions must soon be dissipated!
What pity, that you must soon discover the baseness of mankind, and
guard against your fellow-creatures as against your Foes!”

“Alas! Segnor,” replied Antonia; “The misfortunes of my Parents have
already placed before me but too many sad examples of the perfidy of
the world! Yet surely in the present instance the warmth of sympathy
cannot have deceived me.”

“In the present instance, I allow that it has not. Ambrosio’s character
is perfectly without reproach; and a Man who has passed the whole of
his life within the walls of a Convent cannot have found the
opportunity to be guilty, even were He possessed of the inclination.
But now, when, obliged by the duties of his situation, He must enter
occasionally into the world, and be thrown into the way of temptation,
it is now that it behoves him to show the brilliance of his virtue. The
trial is dangerous; He is just at that period of life when the passions
are most vigorous, unbridled, and despotic; His established reputation
will mark him out to Seduction as an illustrious Victim; Novelty will
give additional charms to the allurements of pleasure; and even the
Talents with which Nature has endowed him will contribute to his ruin,
by facilitating the means of obtaining his object. Very few would
return victorious from a contest so severe.”

“Ah! surely Ambrosio will be one of those few.”

“Of that I have myself no doubt: By all accounts He is an exception to
mankind in general, and Envy would seek in vain for a blot upon his
character.”

“Segnor, you delight me by this assurance! It encourages me to indulge
my prepossession in his favour; and you know not with what pain I
should have repressed the sentiment! Ah! dearest Aunt, entreat my
Mother to choose him for our Confessor.”

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

“You are right, Segnora,” answered Don Christoval; “Too great severity
is said to be Ambrosio’s only fault. Exempted himself from human
failings, He is not sufficiently indulgent to those of others; and
though strictly just and disinterested in his decisions, his government
of the Monks has already shown some proofs of his inflexibility. But
the crowd is nearly dissipated: Will you permit us to attend you home?”

“Oh! Christ! Segnor,” exclaimed Leonella affecting to blush; “I would
not suffer such a thing for the Universe! If I came home attended by so
gallant a Cavalier, My Sister is so scrupulous that She would read me
an hour’s lecture, and I should never hear the last of it. Besides, I
rather wish you not to make your proposals just at present.”

“My proposals? I assure you, Segnora....”

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

“Accept my hand? As I hope to live and breathe....”

“Oh! dear Segnor, press me no further, if you love me! I shall consider
your obedience as a proof of your affection; You shall hear from me
tomorrow, and so farewell. But pray, Cavaliers, may I not enquire your
names?”

“My Friend’s,” replied Lorenzo, “is the Condé d’Ossorio, and mine
Lorenzo de Medina.”

“’Tis sufficient. Well, Don Lorenzo, I shall acquaint my Sister with
your obliging offer, and let you know the result with all expedition.
Where may I send to you?”

“I am always to be found at the Medina Palace.”

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

As She said this, She extended a lean and wrinkled hand; which her
supposed Admirer kissed with such sorry grace and constraint so
evident, that Lorenzo with difficulty repressed his inclination to
laugh. Leonella then hastened to quit the Church; The lovely Antonia
followed her in silence; but when She reached the Porch, She turned
involuntarily, and cast back her eyes towards Lorenzo. He bowed to her,
as bidding her farewell; She returned the compliment, and hastily
withdrew.

“So, Lorenzo!” said Don Christoval as soon as they were alone, “You
have procured me an agreeable Intrigue! To favour your designs upon
Antonia, I obligingly make a few civil speeches which mean nothing to
the Aunt, and at the end of an hour I find myself upon the brink of
Matrimony! How will you reward me for having suffered so grievously for
your sake? What can repay me for having kissed the leathern paw of that
confounded old Witch? Diavolo! She has left such a scent upon my lips
that I shall smell of garlick for this month to come! As I pass along
the Prado, I shall be taken for a walking Omelet, or some large Onion
running to seed!”

“I confess, my poor Count,” replied Lorenzo, “that your service has
been attended with danger; Yet am I so far from supposing it be past
all endurance that I shall probably solicit you to carry on your amours
still further.”

“From that petition I conclude that the little Antonia has made some
impression upon you.”

“I cannot express to you how much I am charmed with her. Since my
Father’s death, My Uncle the Duke de Medina, has signified to me his
wishes to see me married; I have till now eluded his hints, and refused
to understand them; But what I have seen this Evening....”

“Well? What have you seen this Evening? Why surely, Don Lorenzo, You
cannot be mad enough to think of making a Wife out of this
Grand-daughter of ‘as honest a painstaking Shoe-maker as any in
Cordova’?”

“You forget, that She is also the Grand-daughter of the late Marquis de
las Cisternas; But without disputing about birth and titles, I must
assure you, that I never beheld a Woman so interesting as Antonia.”

“Very possibly; But you cannot mean to marry her?”

“Why not, my dear Condé? I shall have wealth enough for both of us, and
you know that my Uncle thinks liberally upon the subject.

From what I have seen of Raymond de las Cisternas, I am certain that he
will readily acknowledge Antonia for his Niece. Her birth therefore
will be no objection to my offering her my hand. I should be a Villain
could I think of her on any other terms than marriage; and in truth She
seems possessed of every quality requisite to make me happy in a Wife.
Young, lovely, gentle, sensible....”

“Sensible? Why, She said nothing but ‘Yes,’ and ‘No’.”

“She did not say much more, I must confess—But then She always said
‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ in the right place.”

“Did She so? Oh! your most obedient! That is using a right Lover’s
argument, and I dare dispute no longer with so profound a Casuist.
Suppose we adjourn to the Comedy?”

“It is out of my power. I only arrived last night at Madrid, and have
not yet had an opportunity of seeing my Sister; You know that her
Convent is in this Street, and I was going thither when the Crowd which
I saw thronging into this Church excited my curiosity to know what was
the matter. I shall now pursue my first intention, and probably pass
the Evening with my Sister at the Parlour grate.”

“Your Sister in a Convent, say you? Oh! very true, I had forgotten. And
how does Donna Agnes? I am amazed, Don Lorenzo, how you could possibly
think of immuring so charming a Girl within the walls of a Cloister!”

“I think of it, Don Christoval? How can you suspect me of such
barbarity? You are conscious that She took the veil by her own desire,
and that particular circumstances made her wish for a seclusion from
the World. I used every means in my power to induce her to change her
resolution; The endeavour was fruitless, and I lost a Sister!”

“The luckier fellow you; I think, Lorenzo, you were a considerable
gainer by that loss: If I remember right, Donna Agnes had a portion of
ten thousand pistoles, half of which reverted to your Lordship. By St.
Jago! I wish that I had fifty Sisters in the same predicament. I should
consent to losing them every soul without much heart-burning—”

“How, Condé?” said Lorenzo in an angry voice; “Do you suppose me base
enough to have influenced my Sister’s retirement? Do you suppose that
the despicable wish to make myself Master of her fortune could....”

“Admirable! Courage, Don Lorenzo! Now the Man is all in a blaze. God
grant that Antonia may soften that fiery temper, or we shall certainly
cut each other’s throat before the Month is over! However, to prevent
such a tragical Catastrophe for the present, I shall make a retreat,
and leave you Master of the field. Farewell, my Knight of Mount Aetna!
Moderate that inflammable disposition, and remember that whenever it is
necessary to make love to yonder Harridan, you may reckon upon my
services.”

He said, and darted out of the Cathedral.

“How wild-brained!” said Lorenzo; “With so excellent an heart, what
pity that He possesses so little solidity of judgment!”

The night was now fast advancing. The Lamps were not yet lighted. The
faint beams of the rising Moon scarcely could pierce through the gothic
obscurity of the Church. Lorenzo found himself unable to quit the Spot.
The void left in his bosom by Antonia’s absence, and his Sister’s
sacrifice which Don Christoval had just recalled to his imagination,
created that melancholy of mind which accorded but too well with the
religious gloom surrounding him. He was still leaning against the
seventh column from the Pulpit. A soft and cooling air breathed along
the solitary Aisles: The Moonbeams darting into the Church through
painted windows tinged the fretted roofs and massy pillars with a
thousand various tints of light and colours:

Universal silence prevailed around, only interrupted by the occasional
closing of Doors in the adjoining Abbey.

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

He still fancied himself to be in the Church of the Capuchins; but it
was no longer dark and solitary. Multitudes of silver Lamps shed
splendour from the vaulted Roof; Accompanied by the captivating chaunt
of distant choristers, the Organ’s melody swelled through the Church;
The Altar seemed decorated as for some distinguished feast; It was
surrounded by a brilliant Company; and near it stood Antonia arrayed in
bridal white, and blushing with all the charms of Virgin Modesty.

Half hoping, half fearing, Lorenzo gazed upon the scene before him.
Suddenly the door leading to the Abbey unclosed, and He saw, attended
by a long train of Monks, the Preacher advance to whom He had just
listened with so much admiration. He drew near Antonia.

“And where is the Bridegroom?” said the imaginary Friar.

Antonia seemed to look round the Church with anxiety. Involuntarily the
Youth advanced a few steps from his concealment. She saw him; The blush
of pleasure glowed upon her cheek; With a graceful motion of her hand
She beckoned to him to advance. He disobeyed not the command; He flew
towards her, and threw himself at her feet.

She retreated for a moment; Then gazing upon him with unutterable
delight;—“Yes!” She exclaimed, “My Bridegroom! My destined Bridegroom!”
She said, and hastened to throw herself into his arms; But before He
had time to receive her, an Unknown rushed between them. His form was
gigantic; His complexion was swarthy, His eyes fierce and terrible; his
Mouth breathed out volumes of fire; and on his forehead was written in
legible characters—“Pride! Lust! Inhumanity!”

Antonia shrieked. The Monster clasped her in his arms, and springing
with her upon the Altar, tortured her with his odious caresses. She
endeavoured in vain to escape from his embrace. Lorenzo flew to her
succour, but ere He had time to reach her, a loud burst of thunder was
heard. Instantly the Cathedral seemed crumbling into pieces; The Monks
betook themselves to flight, shrieking fearfully; The Lamps were
extinguished, the Altar sank down, and in its place appeared an abyss
vomiting forth clouds of flame. Uttering a loud and terrible cry the
Monster plunged into the Gulph, and in his fall attempted to drag
Antonia with him. He strove in vain. Animated by supernatural powers
She disengaged herself from his embrace; But her white Robe was left in
his possession. Instantly a wing of brilliant splendour spread itself
from either of Antonia’s arms. She darted upwards, and while ascending
cried to Lorenzo,

“Friend! we shall meet above!”

At the same moment the Roof of the Cathedral opened; Harmonious voices
pealed along the Vaults; and the glory into which Antonia was received
was composed of rays of such dazzling brightness, that Lorenzo was
unable to sustain the gaze. His sight failed, and He sank upon the
ground.

When He woke, He found himself extended upon the pavement of the
Church: It was Illuminated, and the chaunt of Hymns sounded from a
distance. For a while Lorenzo could not persuade himself that what He
had just witnessed had been a dream, so strong an impression had it
made upon his fancy. A little recollection convinced him of its
fallacy: The Lamps had been lighted during his sleep, and the music
which he heard was occasioned by the Monks, who were celebrating their
Vespers in the Abbey Chapel.

Lorenzo rose, and prepared to bend his steps towards his Sister’s
Convent. His mind fully occupied by the singularity of his dream, He
already drew near the Porch, when his attention was attracted by
perceiving a Shadow moving upon the opposite wall. He looked curiously
round, and soon descried a Man wrapped up in his Cloak, who seemed
carefully examining whether his actions were observed. Very few people
are exempt from the influence of curiosity. The Unknown seemed anxious
to conceal his business in the Cathedral, and it was this very
circumstance, which made Lorenzo wish to discover what He was about.

Our Hero was conscious that He had no right to pry into the secrets of
this unknown Cavalier.

“I will go,” said Lorenzo. And Lorenzo stayed, where He was.

The shadow thrown by the Column, effectually concealed him from the
Stranger, who continued to advance with caution. At length He drew a
letter from beneath his cloak, and hastily placed it beneath a Colossal
Statue of St. Francis. Then retiring with precipitation, He concealed
himself in a part of the Church at a considerable distance from that in
which the Image stood.

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

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

“How now, Segnor?” said He; “What mean you by this rudeness?”

“Ha! Is it you, Medina?” replied the Newcomer, whom Lorenzo by his
voice now recognized for Don Christoval; “You are the luckiest Fellow
in the Universe, not to have left the Church before my return. In, in!
my dear Lad! They will be here immediately!”

“Who will be here?”

“The old Hen and all her pretty little Chickens! In, I say, and then
you shall know the whole History.”

Lorenzo followed him into the Cathedral, and they concealed themselves
behind the Statue of St. Francis.

“And now,” said our Hero, “may I take the liberty of asking, what is
the meaning of all this haste and rapture?”

“Oh! Lorenzo, we shall see such a glorious sight! The Prioress of St.
Clare and her whole train of Nuns are coming hither. You are to know,
that the pious Father Ambrosio (The Lord reward him for it!) will upon
no account move out of his own precincts: It being absolutely necessary
for every fashionable Convent to have him for its Confessor, the Nuns
are in consequence obliged to visit him at the Abbey; since when the
Mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must needs go to the
Mountain. Now the Prioress of St. Clare, the better to escape the gaze
of such impure eyes as belong to yourself and your humble Servant,
thinks proper to bring her holy flock to confession in the Dusk: She is
to be admitted into the Abbey Chapel by yon private door. The Porteress
of St. Clare, who is a worthy old Soul and a particular Friend of mine,
has just assured me of their being here in a few moments. There is news
for you, you Rogue! We shall see some of the prettiest faces in
Madrid!”

“In truth, Christoval, we shall do no such thing. The Nuns are always
veiled.”

“No! No! I know better. On entering a place of worship, they ever take
off their veils from respect to the Saint to whom ’tis dedicated. But
Hark! They are coming! Silence, silence! Observe, and be convinced.”

“Good!” said Lorenzo to himself; “I may possibly discover to whom the
vows are addressed of this mysterious Stranger.”

Scarcely had Don Christoval ceased to speak, when the Domina of St.
Clare appeared, followed by a long procession of Nuns. Each upon
entering the Church took off her veil. The Prioress crossed her hands
upon her bosom, and made a profound reverence as She passed the Statue
of St. Francis, the Patron of this Cathedral. The Nuns followed her
example, and several moved onwards without having satisfied Lorenzo’s
curiosity. He almost began to despair of seeing the mystery cleared up,
when in paying her respects to St. Francis, one of the Nuns happened to
drop her Rosary. As She stooped to pick it up, the light flashed full
upon her face. At the same moment She dexterously removed the letter
from beneath the Image, placed it in her bosom, and hastened to resume
her rank in the procession.

“Ha!” said Christoval in a low voice; “Here we have some little
Intrigue, no doubt.”

“Agnes, by heaven!” cried Lorenzo.

“What, your Sister? Diavolo! Then somebody, I suppose, will have to pay
for our peeping.”

“And shall pay for it without delay,” replied the incensed Brother.

The pious procession had now entered the Abbey; The Door was already
closed upon it. The Unknown immediately quitted his concealment and
hastened to leave the Church: Ere He could effect his intention, He
descried Medina stationed in his passage. The Stranger hastily
retreated, and drew his Hat over his eyes.

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

“Of that Letter?” repeated the Unknown. “And by what title do you ask
the question?”

“By a title of which I am now ashamed; But it becomes not you to
question me. Either reply circumstantially to my demands, or answer me
with your Sword.”

“The latter method will be the shortest,” rejoined the Other, drawing
his Rapier; “Come on, Segnor Bravo! I am ready!”

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

“Hold! Hold! Medina!” He exclaimed; “Remember the consequences of
shedding blood on consecrated ground!”

The Stranger immediately dropped his Sword.

“Medina?” He cried; “Great God, is it possible! Lorenzo, have you quite
forgotten Raymond de las Cisternas?”

Lorenzo’s astonishment increased with every succeeding moment. Raymond
advanced towards him, but with a look of suspicion He drew back his
hand, which the Other was preparing to take.

“You here, Marquis? What is the meaning of all this? You engaged in a
clandestine correspondence with my Sister, whose affections....”

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

“One whom I believe you to have seen before,” replied Don Christoval,
“though probably not at Church.”

“The Condé d’Ossorio?”

“Exactly so, Marquis.”

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

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

“As usual, at the Hotel de las Cisternas; But remember, that I am
incognito, and that if you wish to see me, you must ask for Alphonso
d’Alvarada.”

“Good! Good! Farewell, Cavaliers!” said Don Christoval, and instantly
departed.

“You, Marquis,” said Lorenzo in the accent of surprise; “You, Alphonso
d’Alvarada?”

“Even so, Lorenzo: But unless you have already heard my story from your
Sister, I have much to relate that will astonish you. Follow me,
therefore, to my Hotel without delay.”

At this moment the Porter of the Capuchins entered the Cathedral to
lock up the doors for the night. The two Noblemen instantly withdrew,
and hastened with all speed to the Palace de las Cisternas.


“Well, Antonia!” said the Aunt, as soon as She had quitted the Church;
“What think you of our Gallants? Don Lorenzo really seems a very
obliging good sort of young Man: He paid you some attention, and nobody
knows what may come of it. But as to Don Christoval, I protest to you,
He is the very Phoenix of politeness. So gallant! so well-bred! So
sensible, and so pathetic! Well! If ever Man can prevail upon me to
break my vow never to marry, it will be that Don Christoval. You see,
Niece, that every thing turns out exactly as I told you: The very
moment that I produced myself in Madrid, I knew that I should be
surrounded by Admirers. When I took off my veil, did you see, Antonia,
what an effect the action had upon the Condé? And when I presented him
my hand, did you observe the air of passion with which He kissed it? If
ever I witnessed real love, I then saw it impressed upon Don
Christoval’s countenance!”

Now Antonia had observed the air, with which Don Christoval had kissed
this same hand; But as She drew conclusions from it somewhat different
from her Aunt’s, She was wise enough to hold her tongue. As this is the
only instance known of a Woman’s ever having done so, it was judged
worthy to be recorded here.

The old Lady continued her discourse to Antonia in the same strain,
till they gained the Street in which was their Lodging. Here a Crowd
collected before their door permitted them not to approach it; and
placing themselves on the opposite side of the Street, they endeavoured
to make out what had drawn all these people together. After some
minutes the Crowd formed itself into a Circle; And now Antonia
perceived in the midst of it a Woman of extraordinary height, who
whirled herself repeatedly round and round, using all sorts of
extravagant gestures. Her dress was composed of shreds of
various-coloured silks and Linens fantastically arranged, yet not
entirely without taste. Her head was covered with a kind of Turban,
ornamented with vine leaves and wild flowers. She seemed much
sun-burnt, and her complexion was of a deep olive: Her eyes looked
fiery and strange; and in her hand She bore a long black Rod, with
which She at intervals traced a variety of singular figures upon the
ground, round about which She danced in all the eccentric attitudes of
folly and delirium. Suddenly She broke off her dance, whirled herself
round thrice with rapidity, and after a moment’s pause She sang the
following Ballad.

THE GYPSY’S SONG


Come, cross my hand! My art surpasses
    All that did ever Mortal know;
Come, Maidens, come! My magic glasses
    Your future Husband’s form can show:

For ’tis to me the power is given
    Unclosed the book of Fate to see;
To read the fixed resolves of heaven,
    And dive into futurity.

I guide the pale Moon’s silver waggon;
    The winds in magic bonds I hold;
I charm to sleep the crimson Dragon,
    Who loves to watch o’er buried gold:

Fenced round with spells, unhurt I venture
    Their sabbath strange where Witches keep;
Fearless the Sorcerer’s circle enter,
    And woundless tread on snakes asleep.

Lo! Here are charms of mighty power!
    This makes secure an Husband’s truth
And this composed at midnight hour
    Will force to love the coldest Youth:

If any Maid too much has granted,
    Her loss this Philtre will repair;
This blooms a cheek where red is wanted,
    And this will make a brown girl fair!

Then silent hear, while I discover
    What I in Fortune’s mirror view;
And each, when many a year is over,
    Shall own the Gypsy’s sayings true.


“Dear Aunt!” said Antonia when the Stranger had finished, “Is She not
mad?”

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

These words were pronounced so audibly that they reached the Gypsy’s
ears. She immediately pierced through the Crowd and made towards the
Ladies. She saluted them thrice in the Eastern fashion, and then
addressed herself to Antonia.

THE GYPSY


“Lady! gentle Lady! Know,
I your future fate can show;
Give your hand, and do not fear;
Lady! gentle Lady! hear!”


“Dearest Aunt!” said Antonia, “Indulge me this once! Let me have my
fortune told me!”

“Nonsense, Child! She will tell you nothing but falsehoods.”

“No matter; Let me at least hear what She has to say. Do, my dear Aunt!
Oblige me, I beseech you!”

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

As She said this, She drew off her glove, and presented her hand; The
Gypsy looked at it for a moment, and then made this reply.

THE GYPSY


“Your fortune? You are now so old,
Good Dame, that ’tis already told:
Yet for your money, in a trice
I will repay you in advice.
Astonished at your childish vanity,
Your Friends all tax you with insanity,
And grieve to see you use your art
To catch some youthful Lover’s heart.
Believe me, Dame, when all is done,
Your age will still be fifty one;
And Men will rarely take an hint
Of love, from two grey eyes that squint.
Take then my counsels; Lay aside
Your paint and patches, lust and pride,
And on the Poor those sums bestow,
Which now are spent on useless show.
Think on your Maker, not a Suitor;
Think on your past faults, not on future;
And think Time’s Scythe will quickly mow
The few red hairs, which deck your brow.


The audience rang with laughter during the Gypsy’s address; and—“fifty
one,”—“squinting eyes,” “red hair,”—“paint and patches,” &c. were
bandied from mouth to mouth. Leonella was almost choaked with passion,
and loaded her malicious Adviser with the bitterest reproaches. The
swarthy Prophetess for some time listened to her with a contemptuous
smile: at length She made her a short answer, and then turned to
Antonia.

THE GYPSY


“Peace, Lady! What I said was true;
And now, my lovely Maid, to you;
Give me your hand, and let me see
Your future doom, and heaven’s decree.”


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

THE GYPSY


“Jesus! what a palm is there!
Chaste, and gentle, young and fair,
Perfect mind and form possessing,
You would be some good Man’s blessing:
But Alas! This line discovers,
That destruction o’er you hovers;
Lustful Man and crafty Devil
Will combine to work your evil;
And from earth by sorrows driven,
Soon your Soul must speed to heaven.
Yet your sufferings to delay,
Well remember what I say.
When you One more virtuous see
Than belongs to Man to be,
One, whose self no crimes assailing,
Pities not his Neighbour’s Failing,
Call the Gypsy’s words to mind:
Though He seem so good and kind,
Fair Exteriors oft will hide
Hearts, that swell with lust and pride!
Lovely Maid, with tears I leave you!
Let not my prediction grieve you;
Rather with submission bending
Calmly wait distress impending,
And expect eternal bliss
In a better world than this.


Having said this, the Gypsy again whirled herself round thrice, and
then hastened out of the Street with frantic gesture. The Crowd
followed her; and Elvira’s door being now unembarrassed Leonella
entered the House out of humour with the Gypsy, with her Niece, and
with the People; In short with every body, but herself and her charming
Cavalier. The Gypsy’s predictions had also considerably affected
Antonia; But the impression soon wore off, and in a few hours She had
forgotten the adventure as totally as had it never taken place.




CHAPTER II.


Fòrse sé tu gustassi una sòl volta
La millésima parte délle giòje,
Ché gusta un còr amato riamando,
Diresti ripentita sospirando,
Perduto è tutto il tempo
Ché in amar non si spènde.

TASSO.

Hadst Thou but tasted once the thousandth part
Of joys, which bless the loved and loving heart,
Your words repentant and your sighs would prove,
Lost is the time which is not past in love.

The monks having attended their Abbot to the door of his Cell, He
dismissed them with an air of conscious superiority in which Humility’s
semblance combated with the reality of pride.

He was no sooner alone, than He gave free loose to the indulgence of
his vanity. When He remembered the Enthusiasm which his discourse had
excited, his heart swelled with rapture, and his imagination presented
him with splendid visions of aggrandizement. He looked round him with
exultation, and Pride told him loudly that He was superior to the rest
of his fellow-Creatures.

“Who,” thought He; “Who but myself has passed the ordeal of Youth, yet
sees no single stain upon his conscience? Who else has subdued the
violence of strong passions and an impetuous temperament, and submitted
even from the dawn of life to voluntary retirement? I seek for such a
Man in vain. I see no one but myself possessed of such resolution.
Religion cannot boast Ambrosio’s equal! How powerful an effect did my
discourse produce upon its Auditors! How they crowded round me! How
they loaded me with benedictions, and pronounced me the sole
uncorrupted Pillar of the Church! What then now is left for me to do?
Nothing, but to watch as carefully over the conduct of my Brothers as I
have hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold! May I not be tempted from
those paths which till now I have pursued without one moment’s
wandering? Am I not a Man, whose nature is frail, and prone to error? I
must now abandon the solitude of my retreat; The fairest and noblest
Dames of Madrid continually present themselves at the Abbey, and will
use no other Confessor.

I must accustom my eyes to Objects of temptation, and expose myself to
the seduction of luxury and desire. Should I meet in that world which I
am constrained to enter some lovely Female, lovely ... as yon
Madona....!”

As He said this, He fixed his eyes upon a picture of the Virgin, which
was suspended opposite to him: This for two years had been the Object
of his increasing wonder and adoration. He paused, and gazed upon it
with delight.

“What Beauty in that countenance!” He continued after a silence of some
minutes; “How graceful is the turn of that head! What sweetness, yet
what majesty in her divine eyes! How softly her cheek reclines upon her
hand! Can the Rose vie with the blush of that cheek? Can the Lily rival
the whiteness of that hand? Oh! if such a Creature existed, and existed
but for me! Were I permitted to twine round my fingers those golden
ringlets, and press with my lips the treasures of that snowy bosom!
Gracious God, should I then resist the temptation? Should I not barter
for a single embrace the reward of my sufferings for thirty years?
Should I not abandon.... Fool that I am! Whither do I suffer my
admiration of this picture to hurry me? Away, impure ideas! Let me
remember that Woman is for ever lost to me. Never was Mortal formed so
perfect as this picture. But even did such exist, the trial might be
too mighty for a common virtue, but Ambrosio’s is proof against
temptation. Temptation, did I say? To me it would be none. What charms
me, when ideal and considered as a superior Being, would disgust me,
become Woman and tainted with all the failings of Mortality. It is not
the Woman’s beauty that fills me with such enthusiasm; It is the
Painter’s skill that I admire, it is the Divinity that I adore! Are not
the passions dead in my bosom? Have I not freed myself from the frailty
of Mankind? Fear not, Ambrosio! Take confidence in the strength of your
virtue. Enter boldly into a world to whose failings you are superior;
Reflect that you are now exempted from Humanity’s defects, and defy all
the arts of the Spirits of Darkness. They shall know you for what you
are!”

Here his Reverie was interrupted by three soft knocks at the door of
his Cell. With difficulty did the Abbot awake from his delirium. The
knocking was repeated.

“Who is there?” said Ambrosio at length.

“It is only Rosario,” replied a gentle voice.

“Enter! Enter, my Son!”

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

Rosario was a young Novice belonging to the Monastery, who in three
Months intended to make his profession. A sort of mystery enveloped
this Youth which rendered him at once an object of interest and
curiosity. His hatred of society, his profound melancholy, his rigid
observation of the duties of his order, and his voluntary seclusion
from the world at his age so unusual, attracted the notice of the whole
fraternity. He seemed fearful of being recognised, and no one had ever
seen his face. His head was continually muffled up in his Cowl; Yet
such of his features as accident discovered, appeared the most
beautiful and noble. Rosario was the only name by which He was known in
the Monastery.

No one knew from whence He came, and when questioned in the subject He
preserved a profound silence. A Stranger, whose rich habit and
magnificent equipage declared him to be of distinguished rank, had
engaged the Monks to receive a Novice, and had deposited the necessary
sums. The next day He returned with Rosario, and from that time no more
had been heard of him.

The Youth had carefully avoided the company of the Monks: He answered
their civilities with sweetness, but reserve, and evidently showed that
his inclination led him to solitude. To this general rule the Superior
was the only exception. To him He looked up with a respect approaching
idolatry: He sought his company with the most attentive assiduity, and
eagerly seized every means to ingratiate himself in his favour. In the
Abbot’s society his Heart seemed to be at ease, and an air of gaiety
pervaded his whole manners and discourse. Ambrosio on his side did not
feel less attracted towards the Youth; With him alone did He lay aside
his habitual severity. When He spoke to him, He insensibly assumed a
tone milder than was usual to him; and no voice sounded so sweet to him
as did Rosario’s. He repayed the Youth’s attentions by instructing him
in various sciences; The Novice received his lessons with docility;
Ambrosio was every day more charmed with the vivacity of his Genius,
the simplicity of his manners, and the rectitude of his heart: In short
He loved him with all the affection of a Father. He could not help
sometimes indulging a desire secretly to see the face of his Pupil; But
his rule of self-denial extended even to curiosity, and prevented him
from communicating his wishes to the Youth.

“Pardon my intrusion, Father,” said Rosario, while He placed his basket
upon the Table; “I come to you a Suppliant. Hearing that a dear Friend
is dangerously ill, I entreat your prayers for his recovery. If
supplications can prevail upon heaven to spare him, surely yours must
be efficacious.”

“Whatever depends upon me, my Son, you know that you may command.

What is your Friend’s name?”

“Vincentio della Ronda.”

“’Tis sufficient. I will not forget him in my prayers, and may our
thrice-blessed St. Francis deign to listen to my intercession!—What
have you in your basket, Rosario?”

“A few of those flowers, reverend Father, which I have observed to be
most acceptable to you. Will you permit my arranging them in your
chamber?”

“Your attentions charm me, my Son.”

While Rosario dispersed the contents of his Basket in small Vases
placed for that purpose in various parts of the room, the Abbot thus
continued the conversation.

“I saw you not in the Church this evening, Rosario.”

“Yet I was present, Father. I am too grateful for your protection to
lose an opportunity of witnessing your Triumph.”

“Alas! Rosario, I have but little cause to triumph: The Saint spoke by
my mouth; To him belongs all the merit. It seems then you were
contented with my discourse?”

“Contented, say you? Oh! you surpassed yourself! Never did I hear such
eloquence ... save once!”

Here the Novice heaved an involuntary sigh.

“When was that once?” demanded the Abbot.

“When you preached upon the sudden indisposition of our late Superior.”

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

“’Tis true, Father; and would to God! I had expired, ere I beheld that
day! What sufferings, what sorrows should I have escaped!”

“Sufferings at your age, Rosario?”

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

“You apprehend the loss of my friendship? How has my conduct justified
this fear? Know me better, Rosario, and think me worthy of your
confidence. What are your sufferings? Reveal them to me, and believe
that if ’tis in my power to relieve them....”

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

“My Son, I conjure you! I entreat you!”

“For pity’s sake, enquire no further! I must not ... I dare not...
Hark! The Bell rings for Vespers! Father, your benediction, and I leave
you!”

As He said this, He threw himself upon his knees and received the
blessing which He demanded. Then pressing the Abbot’s hand to his lips,
He started from the ground and hastily quitted the apartment. Soon
after Ambrosio descended to Vespers (which were celebrated in a small
chapel belonging to the Abbey), filled with surprise at the singularity
of the Youth’s behaviour.

Vespers being over, the Monks retired to their respective Cells. The
Abbot alone remained in the Chapel to receive the Nuns of St. Clare. He
had not been long seated in the confessional chair before the Prioress
made her appearance. Each of the Nuns was heard in her turn, while the
Others waited with the Domina in the adjoining Vestry. Ambrosio
listened to the confessions with attention, made many exhortations,
enjoined penance proportioned to each offence, and for some time every
thing went on as usual: till at last one of the Nuns, conspicuous from
the nobleness of her air and elegance of her figure, carelessly
permitted a letter to fall from her bosom. She was retiring,
unconscious of her loss. Ambrosio supposed it to have been written by
some one of her Relations, and picked it up intending to restore it to
her.

“Stay, Daughter,” said He; “You have let fall....”

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

“Hold!” said the Friar in a tone of severity; “Daughter, I must read
this letter.”

“Then I am lost!” She exclaimed clasping her hands together wildly.

All colour instantly faded from her face; she trembled with agitation,
and was obliged to fold her arms round a Pillar of the Chapel to save
herself from sinking upon the floor. In the meanwhile the Abbot read
the following lines:

“All is ready for your escape, my dearest Agnes. At twelve tomorrow
night I shall expect to find you at the Garden door: I have obtained
the Key, and a few hours will suffice to place you in a secure asylum.
Let no mistaken scruples induce you to reject the certain means of
preserving yourself and the innocent Creature whom you nourish in your
bosom. Remember that you had promised to be mine, long ere you engaged
yourself to the church; that your situation will soon be evident to the
prying eyes of your Companions; and that flight is the only means of
avoiding the effects of their malevolent resentment. Farewell, my
Agnes! my dear and destined Wife! Fail not to be at the Garden door at
twelve!”


As soon as He had finished, Ambrosio bent an eye stern and angry upon
the imprudent Nun.

“This letter must to the Prioress!” said He, and passed her.

His words sounded like thunder to her ears: She awoke from her
torpidity only to be sensible of the dangers of her situation. She
followed him hastily, and detained him by his garment.

“Stay! Oh! stay!” She cried in the accents of despair, while She threw
herself at the Friar’s feet, and bathed them with her tears. “Father,
compassionate my youth! Look with indulgence on a Woman’s weakness, and
deign to conceal my frailty! The remainder of my life shall be employed
in expiating this single fault, and your lenity will bring back a soul
to heaven!”

“Amazing confidence! What! Shall St. Clare’s Convent become the retreat
of Prostitutes? Shall I suffer the Church of Christ to cherish in its
bosom debauchery and shame? Unworthy Wretch! such lenity would make me
your accomplice. Mercy would here be criminal. You have abandoned
yourself to a Seducer’s lust; You have defiled the sacred habit by your
impurity; and still dare you think yourself deserving my compassion?
Hence, nor detain me longer! Where is the Lady Prioress?” He added,
raising his voice.

“Hold! Father, Hold! Hear me but for one moment! Tax me not with
impurity, nor think that I have erred from the warmth of temperament.
Long before I took the veil, Raymond was Master of my heart: He
inspired me with the purest, the most irreproachable passion, and was
on the point of becoming my lawful husband. An horrible adventure, and
the treachery of a Relation, separated us from each other: I believed
him for ever lost to me, and threw myself into a Convent from motives
of despair. Accident again united us; I could not refuse myself the
melancholy pleasure of mingling my tears with his: We met nightly in
the Gardens of St. Clare, and in an unguarded moment I violated my vows
of Chastity. I shall soon become a Mother: Reverend Ambrosio, take
compassion on me; take compassion on the innocent Being whose existence
is attached to mine. If you discover my imprudence to the Domina, both
of us are lost: The punishment which the laws of St. Clare assign to
Unfortunates like myself is most severe and cruel. Worthy, worthy
Father! Let not your own untainted conscience render you unfeeling
towards those less able to withstand temptation! Let not mercy be the
only virtue of which your heart is unsusceptible! Pity me, most
reverend! Restore my letter, nor doom me to inevitable destruction!”

“Your boldness confounds me! Shall _I_ conceal your crime, _I_ whom you
have deceived by your feigned confession? No, Daughter, no! I will
render you a more essential service. I will rescue you from perdition
in spite of yourself; Penance and mortification shall expiate your
offence, and Severity force you back to the paths of holiness. What;
Ho! Mother St. Agatha!”

“Father! By all that is sacred, by all that is most dear to you, I
supplicate, I entreat....”

“Release me! I will not hear you. Where is the Domina? Mother St.
Agatha, where are you?”

The door of the Vestry opened, and the Prioress entered the Chapel,
followed by her Nuns.

“Cruel! Cruel!” exclaimed Agnes, relinquishing her hold.

Wild and desperate, She threw herself upon the ground, beating her
bosom and rending her veil in all the delirium of despair. The Nuns
gazed with astonishment upon the scene before them. The Friar now
presented the fatal paper to the Prioress, informed her of the manner
in which he had found it, and added, that it was her business to
decide, what penance the delinquent merited.

While She perused the letter, the Domina’s countenance grew inflamed
with passion. What! Such a crime committed in her Convent, and made
known to Ambrosio, to the Idol of Madrid, to the Man whom She was most
anxious to impress with the opinion of the strictness and regularity of
her House! Words were inadequate to express her fury. She was silent,
and darted upon the prostrate Nun looks of menace and malignity.

“Away with her to the Convent!” said She at length to some of her
Attendants.

Two of the oldest Nuns now approaching Agnes, raised her forcibly from
the ground, and prepared to conduct her from the Chapel.

“What!” She exclaimed suddenly shaking off their hold with distracted
gestures; “Is all hope then lost? Already do you drag me to punishment?
Where are you, Raymond? Oh! save me! save me!”

Then casting upon the Abbot a frantic look, “Hear me!” She continued;
“Man of an hard heart! Hear me, Proud, Stern, and Cruel! You could have
saved me; you could have restored me to happiness and virtue, but would
not! You are the destroyer of my Soul; You are my Murderer, and on you
fall the curse of my death and my unborn Infant’s! Insolent in your
yet-unshaken virtue, you disdained the prayers of a Penitent; But God
will show mercy, though you show none. And where is the merit of your
boasted virtue? What temptations have you vanquished? Coward! you have
fled from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of Trial will arrive!
Oh! then when you yield to impetuous passions! when you feel that Man
is weak, and born to err; When shuddering you look back upon your
crimes, and solicit with terror the mercy of your God, Oh! in that
fearful moment think upon me! Think upon your Cruelty! Think upon
Agnes, and despair of pardon!”

As She uttered these last words, her strength was exhausted, and She
sank inanimate upon the bosom of a Nun who stood near her. She was
immediately conveyed from the Chapel, and her Companions followed her.

Ambrosio had not listened to her reproaches without emotion. A secret
pang at his heart made him feel, that He had treated this Unfortunate
with too great severity. He therefore detained the Prioress and
ventured to pronounce some words in favour of the Delinquent.

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

“Mitigate it, Father?” interrupted the Lady Prioress; “Not I, believe
me. The laws of our order are strict and severe; they have fallen into
disuse of late, But the crime of Agnes shows me the necessity of their
revival. I go to signify my intention to the Convent, and Agnes shall
be the first to feel the rigour of those laws, which shall be obeyed to
the very letter. Father, Farewell.”

Thus saying, She hastened out of the Chapel.

“I have done my duty,” said Ambrosio to himself.

Still did He not feel perfectly satisfied by this reflection. To
dissipate the unpleasant ideas which this scene had excited in him,
upon quitting the Chapel He descended into the Abbey Garden.

In all Madrid there was no spot more beautiful or better regulated. It
was laid out with the most exquisite taste. The choicest flowers
adorned it in the height of luxuriance, and though artfully arranged,
seemed only planted by the hand of Nature: Fountains, springing from
basons of white Marble, cooled the air with perpetual showers; and the
Walls were entirely covered by Jessamine, vines, and Honeysuckles. The
hour now added to the beauty of the scene. The full Moon, ranging
through a blue and cloudless sky, shed upon the trees a trembling
lustre, and the waters of the fountains sparkled in the silver beam: A
gentle breeze breathed the fragrance of Orange-blossoms along the
Alleys; and the Nightingale poured forth her melodious murmur from the
shelter of an artificial wilderness. Thither the Abbot bent his steps.

In the bosom of this little Grove stood a rustic Grotto, formed in
imitation of an Hermitage. The walls were constructed of roots of
trees, and the interstices filled up with Moss and Ivy. Seats of Turf
were placed on either side, and a natural Cascade fell from the Rock
above. Buried in himself the Monk approached the spot. The universal
calm had communicated itself to his bosom, and a voluptuous
tranquillity spread languor through his soul.

He reached the Hermitage, and was entering to repose himself, when He
stopped on perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one of
the Banks lay a man in a melancholy posture.

His head was supported upon his arm, and He seemed lost in mediation.
The Monk drew nearer, and recognised Rosario: He watched him in
silence, and entered not the Hermitage. After some minutes the Youth
raised his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the opposite Wall.

“Yes!” said He with a deep and plaintive sigh; “I feel all the
happiness of thy situation, all the misery of my own! Happy were I,
could I think like Thee! Could I look like Thee with disgust upon
Mankind, could bury myself for ever in some impenetrable solitude, and
forget that the world holds Beings deserving to be loved! Oh God! What
a blessing would Misanthropy be to me!”

“That is a singular thought, Rosario,” said the Abbot, entering the
Grotto.

“You here, reverend Father?” cried the Novice.

At the same time starting from his place in confusion, He drew his Cowl
hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated himself upon the Bank, and
obliged the Youth to place himself by him.

“You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy,” said He; “What
can possibly have made you view in so desirable a light, Misanthropy,
of all sentiments the most hateful?”

“The perusal of these Verses, Father, which till now had escaped my
observation. The Brightness of the Moonbeams permitted my reading them;
and Oh! how I envy the feelings of the Writer!”

As He said this, He pointed to a marble Tablet fixed against the
opposite Wall: On it were engraved the following lines.

INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE


Whoe’er Thou art these lines now reading,
Think not, though from the world receding
I joy my lonely days to lead in
        This Desart drear,
That with remorse a conscience bleeding
        Hath led me here.

No thought of guilt my bosom sowrs:
Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;
For well I saw in Halls and Towers
        That Lust and Pride,
The Arch-Fiend’s dearest darkest Powers,
        In state preside.

I saw Mankind with vice incrusted;
I saw that Honour’s sword was rusted;
That few for aught but folly lusted;
That He was still deceiv’d, who trusted
        In Love or Friend;
And hither came with Men disgusted
        My life to end.

In this lone Cave, in garments lowly,
Alike a Foe to noisy folly,
And brow-bent gloomy melancholy
        I wear away
My life, and in my office holy
        Consume the day.

Content and comfort bless me more in
This Grot, than e’er I felt before in
A Palace, and with thoughts still soaring
        To God on high,
Each night and morn with voice imploring
        This wish I sigh.

“Let me, Oh! Lord! from life retire,
Unknown each guilty worldly fire,
Remorseful throb, or loose desire;
        And when I die,
Let me in this belief expire,
        ‘To God I fly’!”

Stranger, if full of youth and riot
As yet no grief has marred thy quiet,
Thou haply throw’st a scornful eye at
        The Hermit’s prayer:
But if Thou hast a cause to sigh at
        Thy fault, or care;

If Thou hast known false Love’s vexation,
Or hast been exil’d from thy Nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,
        And makes thee pine,
Oh! how must Thou lament thy station,
        And envy mine!


“Were it possible” said the Friar, “for Man to be so totally wrapped up
in himself as to live in absolute seclusion from human nature, and
could yet feel the contented tranquillity which these lines express, I
allow that the situation would be more desirable, than to live in a
world so pregnant with every vice and every folly. But this never can
be the case. This inscription was merely placed here for the ornament
of the Grotto, and the sentiments and the Hermit are equally imaginary.
Man was born for society. However little He may be attached to the
World, He never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by
it. Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of Mankind, the Misanthrope
flies from it: He resolves to become an Hermit, and buries himself in
the Cavern of some gloomy Rock. While Hate inflames his bosom, possibly
He may feel contented with his situation: But when his passions begin
to cool; when Time has mellowed his sorrows, and healed those wounds
which He bore with him to his solitude, think you that Content becomes
his Companion? Ah! no, Rosario. No longer sustained by the violence of
his passions, He feels all the monotony of his way of living, and his
heart becomes the prey of Ennui and weariness. He looks round, and
finds himself alone in the Universe: The love of society revives in his
bosom, and He pants to return to that world which He has abandoned.
Nature loses all her charms in his eyes: No one is near him to point
out her beauties, or share in his admiration of her excellence and
variety. Propped upon the fragment of some Rock, He gazes upon the
tumbling waterfall with a vacant eye, He views without emotion the
glory of the setting Sun. Slowly He returns to his Cell at Evening, for
no one there is anxious for his arrival; He has no comfort in his
solitary unsavoury meal: He throws himself upon his couch of Moss
despondent and dissatisfied, and wakes only to pass a day as joyless,
as monotonous as the former.”

“You amaze me, Father! Suppose that circumstances condemned you to
solitude; Would not the duties of Religion and the consciousness of a
life well spent communicate to your heart that calm which....”

“I should deceive myself, did I fancy that they could. I am convinced
of the contrary, and that all my fortitude would not prevent me from
yielding to melancholy and disgust. After consuming the day in study,
if you knew my pleasure at meeting my Brethren in the Evening! After
passing many a long hour in solitude, if I could express to you the joy
which I feel at once more beholding a fellow-Creature! ’Tis in this
particular that I place the principal merit of a Monastic Institution.
It secludes Man from the temptations of Vice; It procures that leisure
necessary for the proper service of the Supreme; It spares him the
mortification of witnessing the crimes of the worldly, and yet permits
him to enjoy the blessings of society. And do you, Rosario, do _you_
envy an Hermit’s life? Can you be thus blind to the happiness of your
situation? Reflect upon it for a moment. This Abbey is become your
Asylum: Your regularity, your gentleness, your talents have rendered
you the object of universal esteem: You are secluded from the world
which you profess to hate; yet you remain in possession of the benefits
of society, and that a society composed of the most estimable of
Mankind.”

“Father! Father! ’tis that which causes my Torment! Happy had it been
for me, had my life been passed among the vicious and abandoned! Had I
never heard pronounced the name of Virtue! ’Tis my unbounded adoration
of religion; ’Tis my soul’s exquisite sensibility of the beauty of fair
and good, that loads me with shame! that hurries me to perdition! Oh!
that I had never seen these Abbey walls!”

“How, Rosario? When we last conversed, you spoke in a different tone.
Is my friendship then become of such little consequence? Had you never
seen these Abbey walls, you never had seen me: Can that really be your
wish?”

“Had never seen you?” repeated the Novice, starting from the Bank, and
grasping the Friar’s hand with a frantic air; “You? You? Would to God,
that lightning had blasted them, before you ever met my eyes! Would to
God! that I were never to see you more, and could forget that I had
ever seen you!”

With these words He flew hastily from the Grotto. Ambrosio remained in
his former attitude, reflecting on the Youth’s unaccountable behaviour.
He was inclined to suspect the derangement of his senses: yet the
general tenor of his conduct, the connexion of his ideas, and calmness
of his demeanour till the moment of his quitting the Grotto, seemed to
discountenance this conjecture. After a few minutes Rosario returned.
He again seated himself upon the Bank: He reclined his cheek upon one
hand, and with the other wiped away the tears which trickled from his
eyes at intervals.

The Monk looked upon him with compassion, and forbore to interrupt his
meditations. Both observed for some time a profound silence. The
Nightingale had now taken her station upon an Orange Tree fronting the
Hermitage, and poured forth a strain the most melancholy and melodious.
Rosario raised his head, and listened to her with attention.

“It was thus,” said He, with a deep-drawn sigh; “It was thus, that
during the last month of her unhappy life, my Sister used to sit
listening to the Nightingale. Poor Matilda! She sleeps in the Grave,
and her broken heart throbs no more with passion.”

“You had a Sister?”

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

“What were those sorrows?”

“They will not excite _your_ pity: _you_ know not the power of those
irresistible, those fatal sentiments, to which her Heart was a prey.
Father, She loved unfortunately. A passion for One endowed with every
virtue, for a Man, Oh! rather let me say, for a divinity, proved the
bane of her existence. His noble form, his spotless character, his
various talents, his wisdom solid, wonderful, and glorious, might have
warmed the bosom of the most insensible. My Sister saw him, and dared
to love though She never dared to hope.”

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

“Father, before He knew her, Julian had already plighted his vows to a
Bride most fair, most heavenly! Yet still my Sister loved, and for the
Husband’s sake She doted upon the Wife. One morning She found means to
escape from our Father’s House: Arrayed in humble weeds She offered
herself as a Domestic to the Consort of her Beloved, and was accepted.
She was now continually in his presence: She strove to ingratiate
herself into his favour: She succeeded. Her attentions attracted
Julian’s notice; The virtuous are ever grateful, and He distinguished
Matilda above the rest of her Companions.”

“And did not your Parents seek for her? Did they submit tamely to their
loss, nor attempt to recover their wandering Daughter?”

“Ere they could find her, She discovered herself. Her love grew too
violent for concealment; Yet She wished not for Julian’s person, She
ambitioned but a share of his heart. In an unguarded moment She
confessed her affection. What was the return? Doating upon his Wife,
and believing that a look of pity bestowed upon another was a theft
from what He owed to her, He drove Matilda from his presence. He forbad
her ever again appearing before him. His severity broke her heart: She
returned to her Father’s, and in a few Months after was carried to her
Grave.”

“Unhappy Girl! Surely her fate was too severe, and Julian was too
cruel.”

“Do you think so, Father?” cried the Novice with vivacity; “Do you
think that He was cruel?”

“Doubtless I do, and pity her most sincerely.”

“You pity her? You pity her? Oh! Father! Father! Then pity me!”

The Friar started; when after a moment’s pause Rosario added with a
faltering voice,—“for my sufferings are still greater. My Sister had a
Friend, a real Friend, who pitied the acuteness of her feelings, nor
reproached her with her inability to repress them. I ...! I have no
Friend! The whole wide world cannot furnish an heart that is willing to
participate in the sorrows of mine!”

As He uttered these words, He sobbed audibly. The Friar was affected.
He took Rosario’s hand, and pressed it with tenderness.

“You have no Friend, say you? What then am I? Why will you not confide
in me, and what can you fear? My severity? Have I ever used it with
you? The dignity of my habit? Rosario, I lay aside the Monk, and bid
you consider me as no other than your Friend, your Father. Well may I
assume that title, for never did Parent watch over a Child more fondly
than I have watched over you. From the moment in which I first beheld
you, I perceived sensations in my bosom till then unknown to me; I
found a delight in your society which no one’s else could afford; and
when I witnessed the extent of your genius and information, I rejoiced
as does a Father in the perfections of his Son. Then lay aside your
fears; Speak to me with openness: Speak to me, Rosario, and say that
you will confide in me. If my aid or my pity can alleviate your
distress....”

“Yours can! Yours only can! Ah! Father, how willingly would I unveil to
you my heart! How willingly would I declare the secret which bows me
down with its weight! But Oh! I fear! I fear!”

“What, my Son?”

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

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

“Hold!” interrupted the Novice; “Swear, that whatever be my secret, you
will not oblige me to quit the Monastery till my Noviciate shall
expire.”

“I promise it faithfully, and as I keep my vows to you, may Christ keep
his to Mankind. Now then explain this mystery, and rely upon my
indulgence.”

“I obey you. Know then.... Oh! how I tremble to name the word! Listen
to me with pity, revered Ambrosio! Call up every latent spark of human
weakness that may teach you compassion for mine! Father!” continued He
throwing himself at the Friar’s feet, and pressing his hand to his lips
with eagerness, while agitation for a moment choaked his voice;
“Father!” continued He in faltering accents, “I am a Woman!”

The Abbot started at this unexpected avowal. Prostrate on the ground
lay the feigned Rosario, as if waiting in silence the decision of his
Judge. Astonishment on the one part, apprehension on the other, for
some minutes chained them in the same attitudes, as had they been
touched by the Rod of some Magician. At length recovering from his
confusion, the Monk quitted the Grotto, and sped with precipitation
towards the Abbey. His action did not escape the Suppliant. She sprang
from the ground; She hastened to follow him, overtook him, threw
herself in his passage, and embraced his knees. Ambrosio strove in vain
to disengage himself from her grasp.

“Do not fly me!” She cried; “Leave me not abandoned to the impulse of
despair! Listen, while I excuse my imprudence; while I acknowledge my
Sister’s story to be my own! I am Matilda; You are her Beloved.”

If Ambrosio’s surprise was great at her first avowal, upon hearing her
second it exceeded all bounds. Amazed, embarrassed, and irresolute He
found himself incapable of pronouncing a syllable, and remained in
silence gazing upon Matilda: This gave her opportunity to continue her
explanation as follows.

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

“I spring from a distinguished family: My Father was Chief of the noble
House of Villanegas. He died while I was still an Infant, and left me
sole Heiress of his immense possessions. Young and wealthy, I was
sought in marriage by the noblest Youths of Madrid; But no one
succeeded in gaining my affections. I had been brought up under the
care of an Uncle possessed of the most solid judgment and extensive
erudition. He took pleasure in communicating to me some portion of his
knowledge. Under his instructions my understanding acquired more
strength and justness than generally falls to the lot of my sex: The
ability of my Preceptor being aided by natural curiosity, I not only
made a considerable progress in sciences universally studied, but in
others, revealed but to few, and lying under censure from the blindness
of superstition. But while my Guardian laboured to enlarge the sphere
of my knowledge, He carefully inculcated every moral precept: He
relieved me from the shackles of vulgar prejudice; He pointed out the
beauty of Religion; He taught me to look with adoration upon the pure
and virtuous, and, woe is me! I have obeyed him but too well!

“With such dispositions, Judge whether I could observe with any other
sentiment than disgust the vice, dissipation, and ignorance, which
disgrace our Spanish Youth. I rejected every offer with disdain. My
heart remained without a Master till chance conducted me to the
Cathedral of the Capuchins. Oh! surely on that day my Guardian Angel
slumbered neglectful of his charge! Then was it that I first beheld
you: You supplied the Superior’s place, absent from illness. You cannot
but remember the lively enthusiasm which your discourse created. Oh!
how I drank your words! How your eloquence seemed to steal me from
myself! I scarcely dared to breathe, fearing to lose a syllable; and
while you spoke, Methought a radiant glory beamed round your head, and
your countenance shone with the majesty of a God. I retired from the
Church, glowing with admiration. From that moment you became the idol
of my heart, the never-changing object of my Meditations. I enquired
respecting you. The reports which were made me of your mode of life, of
your knowledge, piety, and self-denial riveted the chains imposed on me
by your eloquence. I was conscious that there was no longer a void in
my heart; That I had found the Man whom I had sought till then in vain.
In expectation of hearing you again, every day I visited your
Cathedral: You remained secluded within the Abbey walls, and I always
withdrew, wretched and disappointed. The Night was more propitious to
me, for then you stood before me in my dreams; You vowed to me eternal
friendship; You led me through the paths of virtue, and assisted me to
support the vexations of life. The Morning dispelled these pleasing
visions; I woke, and found myself separated from you by Barriers which
appeared insurmountable. Time seemed only to increase the strength of
my passion: I grew melancholy and despondent; I fled from society, and
my health declined daily. At length no longer able to exist in this
state of torture, I resolved to assume the disguise in which you see
me. My artifice was fortunate: I was received into the Monastery, and
succeeded in gaining your esteem.

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

She ceased. While She spoke, a thousand opposing sentiments combated in
Ambrosio’s bosom. Surprise at the singularity of this adventure,
Confusion at her abrupt declaration, Resentment at her boldness in
entering the Monastery, and Consciousness of the austerity with which
it behoved him to reply, such were the sentiments of which He was
aware; But there were others also which did not obtain his notice. He
perceived not, that his vanity was flattered by the praises bestowed
upon his eloquence and virtue; that He felt a secret pleasure in
reflecting that a young and seemingly lovely Woman had for his sake
abandoned the world, and sacrificed every other passion to that which
He had inspired: Still less did He perceive that his heart throbbed
with desire, while his hand was pressed gently by Matilda’s ivory
fingers.

By degrees He recovered from his confusion. His ideas became less
bewildered: He was immediately sensible of the extreme impropriety,
should Matilda be permitted to remain in the Abbey after this avowal of
her sex. He assumed an air of severity, and drew away his hand.

“How, Lady!” said He; “Can you really hope for my permission to remain
amongst us? Even were I to grant your request, what good could you
derive from it? Think you that I ever can reply to an affection,
which...”

“No, Father, No! I expect not to inspire you with a love like mine. I
only wish for the liberty to be near you, to pass some hours of the day
in your society; to obtain your compassion, your friendship and esteem.
Surely my request is not unreasonable.”

“But reflect, Lady! Reflect only for a moment on the impropriety of my
harbouring a Woman in the Abbey; and that too a Woman, who confesses
that She loves me. It must not be. The risque of your being discovered
is too great, and I will not expose myself to so dangerous a
temptation.”

“Temptation, say you? Forget that I am a Woman, and it no longer
exists: Consider me only as a Friend, as an Unfortunate, whose
happiness, whose life depends upon your protection. Fear not lest I
should ever call to your remembrance that love the most impetuous, the
most unbounded, has induced me to disguise my sex; or that instigated
by desires, offensive to _your_ vows and my own honour, I should
endeavour to seduce you from the path of rectitude. No, Ambrosio, learn
to know me better. I love you for your virtues: Lose them, and with
them you lose my affections. I look upon you as a Saint; Prove to me
that you are no more than Man, and I quit you with disgust. Is it then
from me that you fear temptation? From me, in whom the world’s dazzling
pleasures created no other sentiment than contempt? From me, whose
attachment is grounded on your exemption from human frailty? Oh!
dismiss such injurious apprehensions! Think nobler of me, think nobler
of yourself. I am incapable of seducing you to error; and surely your
Virtue is established on a basis too firm to be shaken by unwarranted
desires. Ambrosio, dearest Ambrosio! drive me not from your presence;
Remember your promise, and authorize my stay!”

“Impossible, Matilda; _your_ interest commands me to refuse your
prayer, since I tremble for you, not for myself. After vanquishing the
impetuous ebullitions of Youth; After passing thirty years in
mortification and penance, I might safely permit your stay, nor fear
your inspiring me with warmer sentiments than pity. But to yourself,
remaining in the Abbey can produce none but fatal consequences. You
will misconstrue my every word and action; You will seize every
circumstance with avidity, which encourages you to hope the return of
your affection; Insensibly your passions will gain a superiority over
your reason; and far from these being repressed by my presence, every
moment which we pass together, will only serve to irritate and excite
them. Believe me, unhappy Woman! you possess my sincere compassion. I
am convinced that you have hitherto acted upon the purest motives; But
though you are blind to the imprudence of your conduct, in me it would
be culpable not to open your eyes. I feel that Duty obliges my treating
you with harshness: I must reject your prayer, and remove every shadow
of hope which may aid to nourish sentiments so pernicious to your
repose. Matilda, you must from hence tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, Ambrosio? Tomorrow? Oh! surely you cannot mean it!

You cannot resolve on driving me to despair! You cannot have the
cruelty....”

“You have heard my decision, and it must be obeyed. The Laws of our
Order forbid your stay: It would be perjury to conceal that a Woman is
within these Walls, and my vows will oblige me to declare your story to
the Community. You must from hence!—I pity you, but can do no more!”

He pronounced these words in a faint and trembling voice: Then rising
from his seat, He would have hastened towards the Monastery. Uttering a
loud shriek, Matilda followed, and detained him.

“Stay yet one moment, Ambrosio! Hear me yet speak one word!”

“I dare not listen! Release me! You know my resolution!”

“But one word! But one last word, and I have done!”

“Leave me! Your entreaties are in vain! You must from hence tomorrow!”

“Go then, Barbarian! But this resource is still left me.”

As She said this, She suddenly drew a poignard: She rent open her
garment, and placed the weapon’s point against her bosom.

“Father, I will never quit these Walls alive!”

“Hold! Hold, Matilda! What would you do?”

“You are determined, so am I: The Moment that you leave me, I plunge
this Steel in my heart.”

“Holy St. Francis! Matilda, have you your senses? Do you know the
consequences of your action? That Suicide is the greatest of crimes?
That you destroy your Soul? That you lose your claim to salvation? That
you prepare for yourself everlasting torments?”

“I care not! I care not!” She replied passionately; “Either your hand
guides me to Paradise, or my own dooms me to perdition! Speak to me,
Ambrosio! Tell me that you will conceal my story, that I shall remain
your Friend and your Companion, or this poignard drinks my blood!”

As She uttered these last words, She lifted her arm, and made a motion
as if to stab herself. The Friar’s eyes followed with dread the course
of the dagger. She had torn open her habit, and her bosom was half
exposed. The weapon’s point rested upon her left breast: And Oh! that
was such a breast! The Moonbeams darting full upon it enabled the Monk
to observe its dazzling whiteness. His eye dwelt with insatiable
avidity upon the beauteous Orb. A sensation till then unknown filled
his heart with a mixture of anxiety and delight: A raging fire shot
through every limb; The blood boiled in his veins, and a thousand wild
wishes bewildered his imagination.

“Hold!” He cried in an hurried faultering voice; “I can resist no
longer! Stay, then, Enchantress; Stay for my destruction!”

He said, and rushing from the place, hastened towards the Monastery: He
regained his Cell and threw himself upon his Couch, distracted
irresolute and confused.

He found it impossible for some time to arrange his ideas. The scene in
which He had been engaged had excited such a variety of sentiments in
his bosom, that He was incapable of deciding which was predominant. He
was irresolute what conduct He ought to hold with the disturber of his
repose. He was conscious that prudence, religion, and propriety
necessitated his obliging her to quit the Abbey: But on the other hand
such powerful reasons authorized her stay that He was but too much
inclined to consent to her remaining. He could not avoid being
flattered by Matilda’s declaration, and at reflecting that He had
unconsciously vanquished an heart which had resisted the attacks of
Spain’s noblest Cavaliers: The manner in which He had gained her
affections was also the most satisfactory to his vanity: He remembered
the many happy hours which He had passed in Rosario’s society, and
dreaded that void in his heart which parting with him would occasion.
Besides all this, He considered, that as Matilda was wealthy, her
favour might be of essential benefit to the Abbey.

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

As this last idea passed through his imagination, a blush spread itself
over his cheek. Alarmed at the sentiments which He was indulging, He
betook himself to prayer; He started from his Couch, knelt before the
beautiful Madona, and entreated her assistance in stifling such
culpable emotions. He then returned to his Bed, and resigned himself to
slumber.

He awoke, heated and unrefreshed. During his sleep his inflamed
imagination had presented him with none but the most voluptuous
objects. Matilda stood before him in his dreams, and his eyes again
dwelt upon her naked breast. She repeated her protestations of eternal
love, threw her arms round his neck, and loaded him with kisses: He
returned them; He clasped her passionately to his bosom, and ... the
vision was dissolved. Sometimes his dreams presented the image of his
favourite Madona, and He fancied that He was kneeling before her: As He
offered up his vows to her, the eyes of the Figure seemed to beam on
him with inexpressible sweetness. He pressed his lips to hers, and
found them warm: The animated form started from the Canvas, embraced
him affectionately, and his senses were unable to support delight so
exquisite. Such were the scenes, on which his thoughts were employed
while sleeping: His unsatisfied Desires placed before him the most
lustful and provoking Images, and he rioted in joys till then unknown
to him.

He started from his Couch, filled with confusion at the remembrance of
his dreams. Scarcely was He less ashamed, when He reflected on his
reasons of the former night which induced him to authorize Matilda’s
stay. The cloud was now dissipated which had obscured his judgment: He
shuddered when He beheld his arguments blazoned in their proper
colours, and found that He had been a slave to flattery, to avarice,
and self-love. If in one hour’s conversation Matilda had produced a
change so remarkable in his sentiments, what had He not to dread from
her remaining in the Abbey? Become sensible of his danger, awakened
from his dream of confidence, He resolved to insist on her departing
without delay. He began to feel that He was not proof against
temptation; and that however Matilda might restrain herself within the
bounds of modesty, He was unable to contend with those passions, from
which He falsely thought himself exempted.

“Agnes! Agnes!” He exclaimed, while reflecting on his embarrassments,
“I already feel thy curse!”

He quitted his Cell, determined upon dismissing the feigned Rosario. He
appeared at Matins; But his thoughts were absent, and He paid them but
little attention. His heart and brain were both of them filled with
worldly objects, and He prayed without devotion. The service over, He
descended into the Garden. He bent his steps towards the same spot
where, on the preceding night, He had made this embarrassing discovery.
He doubted not but that Matilda would seek him there: He was not
deceived. She soon entered the Hermitage, and approached the Monk with
a timid air. After a few minutes during which both were silent, She
appeared as if on the point of speaking; But the Abbot, who during this
time had been summoning up all his resolution, hastily interrupted her.
Though still unconscious how extensive was its influence, He dreaded
the melodious seduction of her voice.

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

“Ambrosio!” She cried, in a voice at once expressive of surprise and
sorrow.

“Be calm, my Friend! My Rosario! Still let me call you by that name so
dear to me! Our separation is unavoidable; I blush to own, how sensibly
it affects me.— But yet it must be so. I feel myself incapable of
treating you with indifference, and that very conviction obliges me to
insist upon your departure. Matilda, you must stay here no longer.”

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

“Matilda!”

“Yes, Father, Yes! ’Tis with justice that I reproach you. Oh! where are
your promises? My Noviciate is not expired, and yet will you compell me
to quit the Monastery? Can you have the heart to drive me from you? And
have I not received your solemn oath to the contrary?”

“I will not compell you to quit the Monastery: You have received my
solemn oath to the contrary. But yet when I throw myself upon your
generosity, when I declare to you the embarrassments in which your
presence involves me, will you not release me from that oath? Reflect
upon the danger of a discovery, upon the opprobrium in which such an
event would plunge me: Reflect that my honour and reputation are at
stake, and that my peace of mind depends on your compliance. As yet my
heart is free; I shall separate from you with regret, but not with
despair. Stay here, and a few weeks will sacrifice my happiness on the
altar of your charms. You are but too interesting, too amiable! I
should love you, I should doat on you! My bosom would become the prey
of desires which Honour and my profession forbid me to gratify. If I
resisted them, the impetuosity of my wishes unsatisfied would drive me
to madness: If I yielded to the temptation, I should sacrifice to one
moment of guilty pleasure my reputation in this world, my salvation in
the next. To you then I fly for defence against myself. Preserve me
from losing the reward of thirty years of sufferings! Preserve me from
becoming the Victim of Remorse! _your_ heart has already felt the
anguish of hopeless love; Oh! then if you really value me, spare mine
that anguish! Give me back my promise; Fly from these walls. Go, and
you bear with you my warmest prayers for your happiness, my friendship,
my esteem and admiration: Stay, and you become to me the source of
danger, of sufferings, of despair! Answer me, Matilda; What is your
resolve?”—She was silent—“Will you not speak, Matilda? Will you not
name your choice?”

“Cruel! Cruel!” She exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony; “You know
too well that you offer me no choice! You know too well that I can have
no will but yours!”

“I was not then deceived! Matilda’s generosity equals my expectations.”

“Yes; I will prove the truth of my affection by submitting to a decree
which cuts me to the very heart. Take back your promise. I will quit
the Monastery this very day. I have a Relation, Abbess of a Covent in
Estramadura: To her will I bend my steps, and shut myself from the
world for ever. Yet tell me, Father, shall I bear your good wishes with
me to my solitude? Will you sometimes abstract your attention from
heavenly objects to bestow a thought upon me?”

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

“Then I have nothing more to wish for, save that we may meet in heaven.
Farewell, my Friend! my Ambrosio!— And yet methinks, I would fain bear
with me some token of your regard!”

“What shall I give you?”

“Something.—Any thing.—One of those flowers will be sufficient.” (Here
She pointed to a bush of Roses, planted at the door of the Grotto.) “I
will hide it in my bosom, and when I am dead, the Nuns shall find it
withered upon my heart.”

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

“What is the matter?” She cried; “Answer me, for God’s sake! What has
happened?”

“I have received my death!” He replied in a faint voice; “Concealed
among the Roses ... A Serpent....”

Here the pain of his wound became so exquisite, that Nature was unable
to bear it: His senses abandoned him, and He sank inanimate into
Matilda’s arms.

Her distress was beyond the power of description. She rent her hair,
beat her bosom, and not daring to quit Ambrosio, endeavoured by loud
cries to summon the Monks to her assistance. She at length succeeded.
Alarmed by her shrieks, Several of the Brothers hastened to the spot,
and the Superior was conveyed back to the Abbey. He was immediately put
to bed, and the Monk who officiated as Surgeon to the Fraternity
prepared to examine the wound. By this time Ambrosio’s hand had swelled
to an extraordinary size; The remedies which had been administered to
him, ’tis true, restored him to life, but not to his senses; He raved
in all the horrors of delirium, foamed at the mouth, and four of the
strongest Monks were scarcely able to hold him in his bed.

Father Pablos, such was the Surgeon’s name, hastened to examine the
wounded hand. The Monks surrounded the Bed, anxiously waiting for the
decision: Among these the feigned Rosario appeared not the most
insensible to the Friar’s calamity. He gazed upon the Sufferer with
inexpressible anguish; and the groans which every moment escaped from
his bosom sufficiently betrayed the violence of his affliction.

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

“’Tis as I feared!” said He; “There is no hope.”

“No hope?” exclaimed the Monks with one voice; “Say you, no hope?”

“From the sudden effects, I suspected that the Abbot was stung by a
cientipedoro:[1] The venom which you see upon my Lancet confirms my
idea: He cannot live three days.”

    [1] The cientipedoro is supposed to be a native of Cuba, and to
    have been brought into Spain from that island in the vessel of
    Columbus.

“And can no possible remedy be found?” enquired Rosario.

“Without extracting the poison, He cannot recover; and how to extract
it is to me still a secret. All that I can do is to apply such herbs to
the wound as will relieve the anguish: The Patient will be restored to
his senses; But the venom will corrupt the whole mass of his blood, and
in three days He will exist no longer.”

Excessive was the universal grief at hearing this decision. Pablos, as
He had promised, dressed the wound, and then retired, followed by his
Companions: Rosario alone remained in the Cell, the Abbot at his urgent
entreaty having been committed to his care. Ambrosio’s strength worn
out by the violence of his exertions, He had by this time fallen into a
profound sleep. So totally was He overcome by weariness, that He
scarcely gave any signs of life; He was still in this situation, when
the Monks returned to enquire whether any change had taken place.
Pablos loosened the bandage which concealed the wound, more from a
principle of curiosity than from indulging the hope of discovering any
favourable symptoms. What was his astonishment at finding, that the
inflammation had totally subsided! He probed the hand; His Lancet came
out pure and unsullied; No traces of the venom were perceptible; and
had not the orifice still been visible, Pablos might have doubted that
there had ever been a wound.

He communicated this intelligence to his Brethren; their delight was
only equalled by their surprize. From the latter sentiment, however,
they were soon released by explaining the circumstance according to
their own ideas: They were perfectly convinced that their Superior was
a Saint, and thought, that nothing could be more natural than for St.
Francis to have operated a miracle in his favour. This opinion was
adopted unanimously: They declared it so loudly, and vociferated,—“A
miracle! a miracle!”—with such fervour, that they soon interrupted
Ambrosio’s slumbers.

The Monks immediately crowded round his Bed, and expressed their
satisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was perfectly in his senses,
and free from every complaint except feeling weak and languid. Pablos
gave him a strengthening medicine, and advised his keeping his bed for
the two succeeding days: He then retired, having desired his Patient
not to exhaust himself by conversation, but rather to endeavour at
taking some repose. The other Monks followed his example, and the Abbot
and Rosario were left without Observers.

For some minutes Ambrosio regarded his Attendant with a look of mingled
pleasure and apprehension. She was seated upon the side of the Bed, her
head bending down, and as usual enveloped in the Cowl of her Habit.

“And you are still here, Matilda?” said the Friar at length. “Are you
not satisfied with having so nearly effected my destruction, that
nothing but a miracle could have saved me from the Grave? Ah! surely
Heaven sent that Serpent to punish....”

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

“Hush! Father, Hush! You must not talk!”

“He who imposed that order, knew not how interesting are the subjects
on which I wish to speak.”

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

“You are in spirits, Matilda!”

“Well may I be so: I have just received a pleasure unexampled through
my whole life.”

“What was that pleasure?”

“What I must conceal from all, but most from you.”

“But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda....”

“Hush, Father! Hush! You must not talk. But as you do not seem inclined
to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse you with my Harp?”

“How? I knew not that you understood Music.”

“Oh! I am a sorry Performer! Yet as silence is prescribed you for eight
and forty hours, I may possibly entertain you, when wearied of your own
reflections. I go to fetch my Harp.”

She soon returned with it.

“Now, Father; What shall I sing? Will you hear the Ballad which treats
of the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of
Roncevalles?”

“What you please, Matilda.”

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

She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for some moments with
such exquisite taste as to prove her a perfect Mistress of the
Instrument. The air which She played was soft and plaintive:

Ambrosio, while He listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a
pleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matilda
changed the strain: With an hand bold and rapid She struck a few loud
martial chords, and then chaunted the following Ballad to an air at
once simple and melodious.

DURANDARTE AND BELERMA


Sad and fearful is the story
Of the Roncevalles fight;
On those fatal plains of glory
Perished many a gallant Knight.

There fell Durandarte; Never
Verse a nobler Chieftain named:
He, before his lips for ever
Closed in silence thus exclaimed.

“Oh! Belerma! Oh! my dear-one!
For my pain and pleasure born!
Seven long years I served thee, fair-one,
Seven long years my fee was scorn:

“And when now thy heart replying
To my wishes, burns like mine,
Cruel Fate my bliss denying
Bids me every hope resign.

“Ah! Though young I fall, believe me,
Death would never claim a sigh;
’Tis to lose thee, ’tis to leave thee,
Makes me think it hard to die!

“Oh! my Cousin Montesinos,
By that friendship firm and dear
Which from Youth has lived between us,
Now my last petition hear!

“When my Soul these limbs forsaking
Eager seeks a purer air,
From my breast the cold heart taking,
Give it to Belerma’s care.

Say, I of my lands Possessor
Named her with my dying breath:
Say, my lips I op’d to bless her,
Ere they closed for aye in death:

“Twice a week too how sincerely
I adored her, Cousin, say;
Twice a week for one who dearly
Loved her, Cousin, bid her pray.

“Montesinos, now the hour
Marked by fate is near at hand:
Lo! my arm has lost its power!
Lo! I drop my trusty brand!

“Eyes, which forth beheld me going,
Homewards ne’er shall see me hie!
Cousin, stop those tears o’er-flowing,
Let me on thy bosom die!

“Thy kind hand my eyelids closing,
Yet one favour I implore:
Pray Thou for my Soul’s reposing,
When my heart shall throb no more;

“So shall Jesus, still attending
Gracious to a Christian’s vow,
Pleased accept my Ghost ascending,
And a seat in heaven allow.”

Thus spoke gallant Durandarte;
Soon his brave heart broke in twain.
Greatly joyed the Moorish party,
That the gallant Knight was slain.

Bitter weeping Montesinos
Took from him his helm and glaive;
Bitter weeping Montesinos
Dug his gallant Cousin’s grave.

To perform his promise made, He
Cut the heart from out the breast,
That Belerma, wretched Lady!
Might receive the last bequest.

Sad was Montesinos’ heart, He
Felt distress his bosom rend.
“Oh! my Cousin Durandarte,
Woe is me to view thy end!

“Sweet in manners, fair in favour,
Mild in temper, fierce in fight,
Warrior, nobler, gentler, braver,
Never shall behold the light!

“Cousin, Lo! my tears bedew thee!
How shall I thy loss survive!
Durandarte, He who slew thee,
Wherefore left He me alive!”


While She sung, Ambrosio listened with delight: Never had He heard a
voice more harmonious; and He wondered how such heavenly sounds could
be produced by any but Angels. But though He indulged the sense of
hearing, a single look convinced him that He must not trust to that of
sight. The Songstress sat at a little distance from his Bed. The
attitude in which She bent over her harp, was easy and graceful: Her
Cowl had fallen backwarder than usual: Two coral lips were visible,
ripe, fresh, and melting, and a Chin in whose dimples seemed to lurk a
thousand Cupids. Her Habit’s long sleeve would have swept along the
Chords of the Instrument: To prevent this inconvenience She had drawn
it above her elbow, and by this means an arm was discovered formed in
the most perfect symmetry, the delicacy of whose skin might have
contended with snow in whiteness. Ambrosio dared to look on her but
once: That glance sufficed to convince him, how dangerous was the
presence of this seducing Object. He closed his eyes, but strove in
vain to banish her from his thoughts. There She still moved before him,
adorned with all those charms which his heated imagination could
supply: Every beauty which He had seen, appeared embellished, and those
still concealed Fancy represented to him in glowing colours. Still,
however, his vows and the necessity of keeping to them were present to
his memory. He struggled with desire, and shuddered when He beheld how
deep was the precipice before him.

Matilda ceased to sing. Dreading the influence of her charms, Ambrosio
remained with his eyes closed, and offered up his prayers to St.
Francis to assist him in this dangerous trial! Matilda believed that He
was sleeping. She rose from her seat, approached the Bed softly, and
for some minutes gazed upon him attentively.

“He sleeps!” said She at length in a low voice, but whose accents the
Abbot distinguished perfectly; “Now then I may gaze upon him without
offence! I may mix my breath with his; I may doat upon his features,
and He cannot suspect me of impurity and deceit!—He fears my seducing
him to the violation of his vows! Oh! the Unjust! Were it my wish to
excite desire, should I conceal my features from him so carefully?
Those features, of which I daily hear him....”

She stopped, and was lost in her reflections.

“It was but yesterday!” She continued; “But a few short hours have
past, since I was dear to him! He esteemed me, and my heart was
satisfied! Now!... Oh! now how cruelly is my situation changed! He
looks on me with suspicion! He bids me leave him, leave him for ever!
Oh! You, my Saint! my Idol! You, holding the next place to God in my
breast! Yet two days, and my heart will be unveiled to you.—Could you
know my feelings, when I beheld your agony! Could you know, how much
your sufferings have endeared you to me! But the time will come, when
you will be convinced that my passion is pure and disinterested. Then
you will pity me, and feel the whole weight of these sorrows!”

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

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

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

“What affection! What purity!” said He internally; “Ah! since my bosom
is thus sensible of pity, what would it be if agitated by love?”

Matilda again quitted her seat, and retired to some distance from the
Bed. Ambrosio ventured to open his eyes, and to cast them upon her
fearfully. Her face was turned from him. She rested her head in a
melancholy posture upon her Harp, and gazed on the picture which hung
opposite to the Bed.

“Happy, happy Image!” Thus did She address the beautiful Madona; “’Tis
to you that He offers his prayers! ’Tis on you that He gazes with
admiration! I thought you would have lightened my sorrows; You have
only served to increase their weight: You have made me feel that had I
known him ere his vows were pronounced, Ambrosio and happiness might
have been mine. With what pleasure He views this picture! With what
fervour He addresses his prayers to the insensible Image! Ah! may not
his sentiments be inspired by some kind and secret Genius, Friend to my
affection? May it not be Man’s natural instinct which informs him... Be
silent, idle hopes! Let me not encourage an idea which takes from the
brilliance of Ambrosio’s virtue. ’Tis Religion, not Beauty which
attracts his admiration; ’Tis not to the Woman, but the Divinity that
He kneels. Would He but address to me the least tender expression which
He pours forth to this Madona! Would He but say that were He not
already affianced to the Church, He would not have despised Matilda!
Oh! let me nourish that fond idea! Perhaps He may yet acknowledge that
He feels for me more than pity, and that affection like mine might well
have deserved a return; Perhaps, He may own thus much when I lye on my
deathbed! He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and the
confession of his regard will soften the pangs of dying. Would I were
sure of this! Oh! how earnestly should I sigh for the moment of
dissolution!”

Of this discourse the Abbot lost not a syllable; and the tone in which
She pronounced these last words pierced to his heart. Involuntarily He
raised himself from his pillow.

“Matilda!” He said in a troubled voice; “Oh! my Matilda!”

She started at the sound, and turned towards him hastily. The
suddenness of her movement made her Cowl fall back from her head; Her
features became visible to the Monk’s enquiring eye. What was his
amazement at beholding the exact resemblance of his admired Madona? The
same exquisite proportion of features, the same profusion of golden
hair, the same rosy lips, heavenly eyes, and majesty of countenance
adorned Matilda! Uttering an exclamation of surprize, Ambrosio sank
back upon his pillow, and doubted whether the Object before him was
mortal or divine.

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

“Accident has made you Master of a secret, which I never would have
revealed but on the Bed of death. Yes, Ambrosio; In Matilda de
Villanegas you see the original of your beloved Madona. Soon after I
conceived my unfortunate passion, I formed the project of conveying to
you my Picture: Crowds of Admirers had persuaded me that I possessed
some beauty, and I was anxious to know what effect it would produce
upon you. I caused my Portrait to be drawn by Martin Galuppi, a
celebrated Venetian at that time resident in Madrid. The resemblance
was striking: I sent it to the Capuchin Abbey as if for sale, and the
Jew from whom you bought it was one of my Emissaries. You purchased it.
Judge of my rapture, when informed that you had gazed upon it with
delight, or rather with adoration; that you had suspended it in your
Cell, and that you addressed your supplications to no other Saint. Will
this discovery make me still more regarded as an object of suspicion?
Rather should it convince you how pure is my affection, and engage you
to suffer me in your society and esteem. I heard you daily extol the
praises of my Portrait: I was an eyewitness of the transports, which
its beauty excited in you: Yet I forbore to use against your virtue
those arms, with which yourself had furnished me. I concealed those
features from your sight, which you loved unconsciously. I strove not
to excite desire by displaying my charms, or to make myself Mistress of
your heart through the medium of your senses. To attract your notice by
studiously attending to religious duties, to endear myself to you by
convincing you that my mind was virtuous and my attachment sincere,
such was my only aim. I succeeded; I became your companion and your
Friend. I concealed my sex from your knowledge; and had you not pressed
me to reveal my secret, had I not been tormented by the fear of a
discovery, never had you known me for any other than Rosario. And still
are you resolved to drive me from you? The few hours of life which yet
remain for me, may I not pass them in your presence? Oh! speak,
Ambrosio, and tell me that I may stay!”

This speech gave the Abbot an opportunity of recollecting himself. He
was conscious that in the present disposition of his mind, avoiding her
society was his only refuge from the power of this enchanting Woman.

“You declaration has so much astonished me,” said He, “that I am at
present incapable of answering you. Do not insist upon a reply,
Matilda; Leave me to myself; I have need to be alone.”

“I obey you—But before I go, promise not to insist upon my quitting the
Abbey immediately.”

“Matilda, reflect upon your situation; Reflect upon the consequences of
your stay. Our separation is indispensable, and we must part.”

“But not to-day, Father! Oh! in pity not today!”

“You press me too hard, but I cannot resist that tone of supplication.
Since you insist upon it, I yield to your prayer: I consent to your
remaining here a sufficient time to prepare in some measure the
Brethren for your departure. Stay yet two days; But on the third,” ...
(He sighed involuntarily)—“Remember, that on the third we must part for
ever!”

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

“On the third?” She exclaimed with an air of wild solemnity; “You are
right, Father! You are right! On the third we must part for ever!”

There was a dreadful expression in her eye as She uttered these words,
which penetrated the Friar’s soul with horror: Again She kissed his
hand, and then fled with rapidity from the chamber.

Anxious to authorise the presence of his dangerous Guest, yet conscious
that her stay was infringing the laws of his order, Ambrosio’s bosom
became the Theatre of a thousand contending passions. At length his
attachment to the feigned Rosario, aided by the natural warmth of his
temperament, seemed likely to obtain the victory: The success was
assured, when that presumption which formed the groundwork of his
character came to Matilda’s assistance. The Monk reflected that to
vanquish temptation was an infinitely greater merit than to avoid it:
He thought that He ought rather to rejoice in the opportunity given him
of proving the firmness of his virtue. St. Anthony had withstood all
seductions to lust; Then why should not He? Besides, St. Anthony was
tempted by the Devil, who put every art into practice to excite his
passions: Whereas, Ambrosio’s danger proceeded from a mere mortal
Woman, fearful and modest, whose apprehensions of his yielding were not
less violent than his own.

“Yes,” said He; “The Unfortunate shall stay; I have nothing to fear
from her presence. Even should my own prove too weak to resist the
temptation, I am secured from danger by the innocence of Matilda.”

Ambrosio was yet to learn, that to an heart unacquainted with her, Vice
is ever most dangerous when lurking behind the Mask of Virtue.

He found himself so perfectly recovered, that when Father Pablos
visited him again at night, He entreated permission to quit his chamber
on the day following. His request was granted. Matilda appeared no more
that evening, except in company with the Monks when they came in a body
to enquire after the Abbot’s health. She seemed fearful of conversing
with him in private, and stayed but a few minutes in his room. The
Friar slept well; But the dreams of the former night were repeated, and
his sensations of voluptuousness were yet more keen and exquisite. The
same lust-exciting visions floated before his eyes: Matilda, in all the
pomp of beauty, warm, tender, and luxurious, clasped him to her bosom,
and lavished upon him the most ardent caresses. He returned them as
eagerly, and already was on the point of satisfying his desires, when
the faithless form disappeared, and left him to all the horrors of
shame and disappointment.

The Morning dawned. Fatigued, harassed, and exhausted by his provoking
dreams, He was not disposed to quit his Bed. He excused himself from
appearing at Matins: It was the first morning in his life that He had
ever missed them. He rose late. During the whole of the day He had no
opportunity of speaking to Matilda without witnesses. His Cell was
thronged by the Monks, anxious to express their concern at his illness;
And He was still occupied in receiving their compliments on his
recovery, when the Bell summoned them to the Refectory.

After dinner the Monks separated, and dispersed themselves in various
parts of the Garden, where the shade of trees or retirement of some
Grotto presented the most agreeable means of enjoying the Siesta. The
Abbot bent his steps towards the Hermitage: A glance of his eye invited
Matilda to accompany him.

She obeyed, and followed him thither in silence. They entered the
Grotto, and seated themselves. Both seemed unwilling to begin the
conversation, and to labour under the influence of mutual
embarrassment. At length the Abbot spoke: He conversed only on
indifferent topics, and Matilda answered him in the same tone. She
seemed anxious to make him forget that the Person who sat by him was
any other than Rosario. Neither of them dared, or indeed wished to make
an allusion, to the subject which was most at the hearts of both.

Matilda’s efforts to appear gay were evidently forced: Her spirits were
oppressed by the weight of anxiety, and when She spoke her voice was
low and feeble. She seemed desirous of finishing a conversation which
embarrassed her; and complaining that She was unwell, She requested
Ambrosio’s permission to return to the Abbey. He accompanied her to the
door of her cell; and when arrived there, He stopped her to declare his
consent to her continuing the Partner of his solitude so long as should
be agreeable to herself.

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

“Alas! Father,” She said, waving her head mournfully; “Your kindness
comes too late! My doom is fixed. We must separate for ever. Yet
believe, that I am grateful for your generosity, for your compassion of
an Unfortunate who is but too little deserving of it!”

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

“Good God!” He cried; “You are very ill, Matilda! I shall send Father
Pablos to you instantly.”

“No; Do not. I am ill, ’tis true; But He cannot cure my malady.
Farewell, Father! Remember me in your prayers tomorrow, while I shall
remember you in heaven!”

She entered her cell, and closed the door.

The Abbot dispatched to her the Physician without losing a moment, and
waited his report impatiently. But Father Pablos soon returned, and
declared that his errand had been fruitless. Rosario refused to admit
him, and had positively rejected his offers of assistance. The
uneasiness which this account gave Ambrosio was not trifling: Yet He
determined that Matilda should have her own way for that night: But
that if her situation did not mend by the morning, he would insist upon
her taking the advice of Father Pablos.

He did not find himself inclined to sleep. He opened his casement, and
gazed upon the moonbeams as they played upon the small stream whose
waters bathed the walls of the Monastery. The coolness of the night
breeze and tranquillity of the hour inspired the Friar’s mind with
sadness. He thought upon Matilda’s beauty and affection; Upon the
pleasures which He might have shared with her, had He not been
restrained by monastic fetters. He reflected, that unsustained by hope
her love for him could not long exist; That doubtless She would succeed
in extinguishing her passion, and seek for happiness in the arms of One
more fortunate. He shuddered at the void which her absence would leave
in his bosom. He looked with disgust on the monotony of a Convent, and
breathed a sigh towards that world from which He was for ever
separated. Such were the reflections which a loud knocking at his door
interrupted. The Bell of the Church had already struck Two. The Abbot
hastened to enquire the cause of this disturbance. He opened the door
of his Cell, and a Lay-Brother entered, whose looks declared his hurry
and confusion.

“Hasten, reverend Father!” said He; “Hasten to the young Rosario.

He earnestly requests to see you; He lies at the point of death.”

“Gracious God! Where is Father Pablos? Why is He not with him? Oh! I
fear! I fear!”

“Father Pablos has seen him, but his art can do nothing. He says that
He suspects the Youth to be poisoned.”

“Poisoned? Oh! The Unfortunate! It is then as I suspected! But let me
not lose a moment; Perhaps it may yet be time to save her!”

He said, and flew towards the Cell of the Novice. Several Monks were
already in the chamber. Father Pablos was one of them, and held a
medicine in his hand which He was endeavouring to persuade Rosario to
swallow. The Others were employed in admiring the Patient’s divine
countenance, which They now saw for the first time. She looked lovelier
than ever. She was no longer pale or languid; A bright glow had spread
itself over her cheeks; her eyes sparkled with a serene delight, and
her countenance was expressive of confidence and resignation.

“Oh! torment me no more!” was She saying to Pablos, when the terrified
Abbot rushed hastily into the Cell; “My disease is far beyond the reach
of your skill, and I wish not to be cured of it”—Then perceiving
Ambrosio,— “Ah! ’tis He!” She cried; “I see him once again, before we
part for ever! Leave me, my Brethren; Much have I to tell this holy Man
in private.”

The Monks retired immediately, and Matilda and the Abbot remained
together.

“What have you done, imprudent Woman!” exclaimed the Latter, as soon as
they were left alone; “Tell me; Are my suspicions just? Am I indeed to
lose you? Has your own hand been the instrument of your destruction?”

She smiled, and grasped his hand.

“In what have I been imprudent, Father? I have sacrificed a pebble, and
saved a diamond: My death preserves a life valuable to the world, and
more dear to me than my own. Yes, Father; I am poisoned; But know that
the poison once circulated in your veins.”

“Matilda!”

“What I tell you I resolved never to discover to you but on the bed of
death: That moment is now arrived. You cannot have forgotten the day
already, when your life was endangered by the bite of a Cientipedoro.
The Physician gave you over, declaring himself ignorant how to extract
the venom: I knew but of one means, and hesitated not a moment to
employ it. I was left alone with you: You slept; I loosened the bandage
from your hand; I kissed the wound, and drew out the poison with my
lips. The effect has been more sudden than I expected. I feel death at
my heart; Yet an hour, and I shall be in a better world.”

“Almighty God!” exclaimed the Abbot, and sank almost lifeless upon the
Bed.

After a few minutes He again raised himself up suddenly, and gazed upon
Matilda with all the wildness of despair.

“And you have sacrificed yourself for me! You die, and die to preserve
Ambrosio! And is there indeed no remedy, Matilda? And is there indeed
no hope? Speak to me, Oh! speak to me! Tell me, that you have still the
means of life!”

“Be comforted, my only Friend! Yes, I have still the means of life in
my power: But ’tis a means which I dare not employ. It is dangerous! It
is dreadful! Life would be purchased at too dear a rate, ... unless it
were permitted me to live for you.”

“Then live for me, Matilda, for me and gratitude!”— (He caught her
hand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips.)—“Remember our late
conversations; I now consent to every thing: Remember in what lively
colours you described the union of souls; Be it ours to realize those
ideas. Let us forget the distinctions of sex, despise the world’s
prejudices, and only consider each other as Brother and Friend. Live
then, Matilda! Oh! live for me!”

“Ambrosio, it must not be. When I thought thus, I deceived both you and
myself. Either I must die at present, or expire by the lingering
torments of unsatisfied desire. Oh! since we last conversed together, a
dreadful veil has been rent from before my eyes. I love you no longer
with the devotion which is paid to a Saint: I prize you no more for the
virtues of your soul; I lust for the enjoyment of your person. The
Woman reigns in my bosom, and I am become a prey to the wildest of
passions. Away with friendship! ’tis a cold unfeeling word. My bosom
burns with love, with unutterable love, and love must be its return.
Tremble then, Ambrosio, tremble to succeed in your prayers. If I live,
your truth, your reputation, your reward of a life past in sufferings,
all that you value is irretrievably lost. I shall no longer be able to
combat my passions, shall seize every opportunity to excite your
desires, and labour to effect your dishonour and my own. No, no,
Ambrosio; I must not live! I am convinced with every moment, that I
have but one alternative; I feel with every heart-throb, that I must
enjoy you, or die.”

“Amazement!—Matilda! Can it be you who speak to me?”

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

“Oh! do not leave me! Listen to my errors with compassion! In a few
hours I shall be no more; Yet a little, and I am free from this
disgraceful passion.”

“Wretched Woman, what can I say to you! I cannot ... I must not ... But
live, Matilda! Oh! live!”

“You do not reflect on what you ask. What? Live to plunge myself in
infamy? To become the Agent of Hell? To work the destruction both of
you and of Myself? Feel this heart, Father!”

She took his hand: Confused, embarrassed, and fascinated, He withdrew
it not, and felt her heart throb under it.

“Feel this heart, Father! It is yet the seat of honour, truth, and
chastity: If it beats tomorrow, it must fall a prey to the blackest
crimes. Oh! let me then die today! Let me die, while I yet deserve the
tears of the virtuous! Thus will expire!”—(She reclined her head upon
his shoulder; Her golden Hair poured itself over his Chest.)— “Folded
in your arms, I shall sink to sleep; Your hand shall close my eyes for
ever, and your lips receive my dying breath. And will you not sometimes
think of me? Will you not sometimes shed a tear upon my Tomb? Oh! Yes!
Yes! Yes! That kiss is my assurance!”

The hour was night. All was silence around. The faint beams of a
solitary Lamp darted upon Matilda’s figure, and shed through the
chamber a dim mysterious light. No prying eye, or curious ear was near
the Lovers: Nothing was heard but Matilda’s melodious accents. Ambrosio
was in the full vigour of Manhood. He saw before him a young and
beautiful Woman, the preserver of his life, the Adorer of his person,
and whom affection for him had reduced to the brink of the Grave. He
sat upon her Bed; His hand rested upon her bosom; Her head reclined
voluptuously upon his breast. Who then can wonder, if He yielded to the
temptation? Drunk with desire, He pressed his lips to those which
sought them: His kisses vied with Matilda’s in warmth and passion. He
clasped her rapturously in his arms; He forgot his vows, his sanctity,
and his fame: He remembered nothing but the pleasure and opportunity.

“Ambrosio! Oh! my Ambrosio!” sighed Matilda.

“Thine, ever thine!” murmured the Friar, and sank upon her bosom.




CHAPTER III


——These are the Villains
Whom all the Travellers do fear so much.
————Some of them are Gentlemen
Such as the fury of ungoverned Youth
Thrust from the company of awful Men.

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

The Marquis and Lorenzo proceeded to the Hotel in silence. The Former
employed himself in calling every circumstance to his mind, which
related might give Lorenzo’s the most favourable idea of his connexion
with Agnes. The Latter, justly alarmed for the honour of his family,
felt embarrassed by the presence of the Marquis: The adventure which He
had just witnessed forbad his treating him as a Friend; and Antonia’s
interests being entrusted to his mediation, He saw the impolicy of
treating him as a Foe. He concluded from these reflections, that
profound silence would be the wisest plan, and waited with impatience
for Don Raymond’s explanation.

They arrived at the Hotel de las Cisternas. The Marquis immediately
conducted him to his apartment, and began to express his satisfaction
at finding him at Madrid. Lorenzo interrupted him.

“Excuse me, my Lord,” said He with a distant air, “if I reply somewhat
coldly to your expressions of regard. A Sister’s honour is involved in
this affair: Till that is established, and the purport of your
correspondence with Agnes cleared up, I cannot consider you as my
Friend. I am anxious to hear the meaning of your conduct, and hope that
you will not delay the promised explanation.”

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

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

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

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

“Probably, you have already heard your Sister mention the name of
Alphonso d’Alvarada?”

“Never. Though I feel for Agnes an affection truly fraternal,
circumstances have prevented us from being much together. While yet a
Child She was consigned to the care of her Aunt, who had married a
German Nobleman. At his Castle She remained till two years since, when
She returned to Spain, determined upon secluding herself from the
world.”

“Good God! Lorenzo, you knew of her intention, and yet strove not to
make her change it?”

“Marquis, you wrong me. The intelligence, which I received at Naples,
shocked me extremely, and I hastened my return to Madrid for the
express purpose of preventing the sacrifice. The moment that I arrived,
I flew to the Convent of St. Clare, in which Agnes had chosen to
perform her Noviciate. I requested to see my Sister. Conceive my
surprise when She sent me a refusal; She declared positively, that
apprehending my influence over her mind, She would not trust herself in
my society till the day before that on which She was to receive the
Veil. I supplicated the Nuns; I insisted upon seeing Agnes, and
hesitated not to avow my suspicions that her being kept from me was
against her own inclinations. To free herself from the imputation of
violence, the Prioress brought me a few lines written in my Sister’s
well-known hand, repeating the message already delivered. All future
attempts to obtain a moment’s conversation with her were as fruitless
as the first. She was inflexible, and I was not permitted to see her
till the day preceding that on which She entered the Cloister never to
quit it more. This interview took place in the presence of our
principal Relations. It was for the first time since her childhood that
I saw her, and the scene was most affecting. She threw herself upon my
bosom, kissed me, and wept bitterly. By every possible argument, by
tears, by prayers, by kneeling, I strove to make her abandon her
intention. I represented to her all the hardships of a religious life;
I painted to her imagination all the pleasures which She was going to
quit, and besought her to disclose to me, what occasioned her disgust
to the world. At this last question She turned pale, and her tears
flowed yet faster. She entreated me not to press her on that subject;
That it sufficed me to know that her resolution was taken, and that a
Convent was the only place where She could now hope for tranquillity.
She persevered in her design, and made her profession. I visited her
frequently at the Grate, and every moment that I passed with her, made
me feel more affliction at her loss. I was shortly after obliged to
quit Madrid; I returned but yesterday evening, and since then have not
had time to call at St. Clare’s Convent.”

“Then till I mentioned it, you never heard the name of Alphonso
d’Alvarada?”

“Pardon me: my Aunt wrote me word that an Adventurer so called had
found means to get introduced into the Castle of Lindenberg; That He
had insinuated himself into my Sister’s good graces, and that She had
even consented to elope with him. However, before the plan could be
executed, the Cavalier discovered that the estates which He believed
Agnes to possess in Hispaniola, in reality belonged to me. This
intelligence made him change his intention; He disappeared on the day
that the elopement was to have taken place, and Agnes, in despair at
his perfidy and meanness, had resolved upon seclusion in a Convent. She
added, that as this adventurer had given himself out to be a Friend of
mine, She wished to know whether I had any knowledge of him. I replied
in the negative. I had then very little idea, that Alphonso d’Alvarada
and the Marquis de las Cisternas were one and the same person: The
description given me of the first by no means tallied with what I knew
of the latter.”

“In this I easily recognize Donna Rodolpha’s perfidious character.
Every word of this account is stamped with marks of her malice, of her
falsehood, of her talents for misrepresenting those whom She wishes to
injure. Forgive me, Medina, for speaking so freely of your Relation.
The mischief which She has done me authorises my resentment, and when
you have heard my story, you will be convinced that my expressions have
not been too severe.”

He then began his narrative in the following manner:—

HISTORY OF DON RAYMOND,
MARQUIS DE LAS CISTERNAS

Long experience, my dear Lorenzo, has convinced me how generous is your
nature: I waited not for your declaration of ignorance respecting your
Sister’s adventures to suppose that they had been purposely concealed
from you. Had they reached your knowledge, from what misfortunes should
both Agnes and myself have escaped! Fate had ordained it otherwise! You
were on your Travels when I first became acquainted with your Sister;
and as our Enemies took care to conceal from her your direction, it was
impossible for her to implore by letter your protection and advice.

On leaving Salamanca, at which University as I have since heard, you
remained a year after I quitted it, I immediately set out upon my
Travels. My Father supplied me liberally with money; But He insisted
upon my concealing my rank, and presenting myself as no more than a
private Gentleman. This command was issued by the counsels of his
Friend, the Duke of Villa Hermosa, a Nobleman for whose abilities and
knowledge of the world I have ever entertained the most profound
veneration.

“Believe me,” said He, “my dear Raymond, you will hereafter feel the
benefits of this temporary degradation. ’Tis true, that as the Condé de
las Cisternas you would have been received with open arms; and your
youthful vanity might have felt gratified by the attentions showered
upon you from all sides. At present, much will depend upon yourself:
You have excellent recommendations, but it must be your own business to
make them of use to you. You must lay yourself out to please; You must
labour to gain the approbation of those, to whom you are presented:
They who would have courted the friendship of the Condé de las
Cisternas will have no interest in finding out the merits, or bearing
patiently with the faults, of Alphonso d’Alvarada. Consequently, when
you find yourself really liked, you may safely ascribe it to your good
qualities, not your rank, and the distinction shown you will be
infinitely more flattering. Besides, your exalted birth would not
permit your mixing with the lower classes of society, which will now be
in your power, and from which, in my opinion, you will derive
considerable benefit. Do not confine yourself to the Illustrious of
those Countries through which you pass. Examine the manners and customs
of the multitude: Enter into the Cottages; and by observing how the
Vassals of Foreigners are treated, learn to diminish the burthens and
augment the comforts of your own. According to my ideas, of those
advantages which a Youth destined to the possession of power and wealth
may reap from travel, He should not consider as the least essential,
the opportunity of mixing with the classes below him, and becoming an
eyewitness of the sufferings of the People.”

Forgive me, Lorenzo, if I seem tedious in my narration. The close
connexion which now exists between us, makes me anxious that you should
know every particular respecting me; and in my fear of omitting the
least circumstance which may induce you to think favourably of your
Sister and myself, I may possibly relate many which you may think
uninteresting.

I followed the Duke’s advice; I was soon convinced of its wisdom.

I quitted Spain, calling myself by the assumed title of Don Alphonso
d’Alvarada, and attended by a single Domestic of approved fidelity.
Paris was my first station. For some time I was enchanted with it, as
indeed must be every Man who is young, rich, and fond of pleasure. Yet
among all its gaieties, I felt that something was wanting to my heart.
I grew sick of dissipation: I discovered, that the People among whom I
lived, and whose exterior was so polished and seducing, were at bottom
frivolous, unfeeling and insincere. I turned from the Inhabitants of
Paris with disgust, and quitted that Theatre of Luxury without heaving
one sigh of regret.

I now bent my course towards Germany, intending to visit most of the
principal courts: Prior to this expedition, I meant to make some little
stay at Strasbourg. On quitting my Chaise at Luneville to take some
refreshment, I observed a splendid Equipage, attended by four Domestics
in rich liveries, waiting at the door of the Silver Lion. Soon after as
I looked out of the window, I saw a Lady of noble presence, followed by
two female Attendants, step into the Carriage, which drove off
immediately.

I enquired of the Host, who the Lady was, that had just departed.

“A German Baroness, Monsieur, of great rank and fortune. She has been
upon a visit to the Duchess of Longueville, as her Servants informed
me; She is going to Strasbourg, where She will find her Husband, and
then both return to their Castle in Germany.”

I resumed my journey, intending to reach Strasbourg that night. My
hopes, however were frustrated by the breaking down of my Chaise. The
accident happened in the middle of a thick Forest, and I was not a
little embarrassed as to the means of proceeding.

It was the depth of winter: The night was already closing round us; and
Strasbourg, which was the nearest Town, was still distant from us
several leagues. It seemed to me that my only alternative to passing
the night in the Forest, was to take my Servant’s Horse and ride on to
Strasbourg, an undertaking at that season very far from agreeable.
However, seeing no other resource, I was obliged to make up my mind to
it. Accordingly I communicated my design to the Postillion, telling him
that I would send People to assist him as soon as I reached Strasbourg.
I had not much confidence in his honesty; But Stephano being
well-armed, and the Driver to all appearance considerably advanced in
years, I believed I ran no danger of losing my Baggage.

Luckily, as I then thought, an opportunity presented itself of passing
the night more agreeably than I expected. On mentioning my design of
proceeding by myself to Strasbourg, the Postillion shook his head in
disapprobation.

“It is a long way,” said He; “You will find it a difficult matter to
arrive there without a Guide. Besides, Monsieur seems unaccustomed to
the season’s severity, and ’tis possible that unable to sustain the
excessive cold....”

“What use is there to present me with all these objections?” said I,
impatiently interrupting him; “I have no other resource: I run still
greater risque of perishing with cold by passing the night in the
Forest.”

“Passing the night in the Forest?” He replied; “Oh! by St. Denis! We
are not in quite so bad a plight as that comes to yet. If I am not
mistaken, we are scarcely five minutes walk from the Cottage of my old
Friend, Baptiste. He is a Wood-cutter, and a very honest Fellow. I
doubt not but He will shelter you for the night with pleasure. In the
meantime I can take the saddle-Horse, ride to Strasbourg, and be back
with proper people to mend your Carriage by break of day.”

“And in the name of God,” said I, “How could you leave me so long in
suspense? Why did you not tell me of this Cottage sooner? What
excessive stupidity!”

“I thought that perhaps Monsieur would not deign to accept....”

“Absurd! Come, come! Say no more, but conduct us without delay to the
Wood-man’s Cottage.”

He obeyed, and we moved onwards: The Horses contrived with some
difficulty to drag the shattered vehicle after us. My Servant was
become almost speechless, and I began to feel the effects of the cold
myself, before we reached the wished-for Cottage. It was a small but
neat Building: As we drew near it, I rejoiced at observing through the
window the blaze of a comfortable fire. Our Conductor knocked at the
door: It was some time before any one answered; The People within
seemed in doubt whether we should be admitted.

“Come! Come, Friend Baptiste!” cried the Driver with impatience; “What
are you about? Are you asleep? Or will you refuse a night’s lodging to
a Gentleman, whose Chaise has just broken down in the Forest?”

“Ah! is it you, honest Claude?” replied a Man’s voice from within;
“Wait a moment, and the door shall be opened.”

Soon after the bolts were drawn back. The door was unclosed, and a Man
presented himself to us with a Lamp in his hand. He gave the Guide an
hearty reception, and then addressed himself to me.

“Walk in, Monsieur; Walk in, and welcome! Excuse me for not admitting
you at first: But there are so many Rogues about this place, that
saving your presence, I suspected you to be one.”

Thus saying, He ushered me into the room, where I had observed the
fire: I was immediately placed in an Easy Chair, which stood close to
the Hearth. A Female, whom I supposed to be the Wife of my Host, rose
from her seat upon my entrance, and received me with a slight and
distant reverence. She made no answer to my compliment, but immediately
re-seating herself, continued the work on which She had been employed.
Her Husband’s manners were as friendly as hers were harsh and
repulsive.

“I wish, I could lodge you more conveniently, Monsieur,” said He; “But
we cannot boast of much spare room in this hovel. However, a chamber
for yourself, and another for your Servant, I think, we can make shift
to supply. You must content yourself with sorry fare; But to what we
have, believe me, you are heartily welcome.” ——Then turning to his
wife—“Why, how you sit there, Marguerite, with as much tranquillity as
if you had nothing better to do! Stir about, Dame! Stir about! Get some
supper; Look out some sheets; Here, here; throw some logs upon the
fire, for the Gentleman seems perished with cold.”

The wife threw her work hastily upon the Table, and proceeded to
execute his commands with every mark of unwillingness. Her countenance
had displeased me on the first moment of my examining it. Yet upon the
whole her features were handsome unquestionably; But her skin was
sallow, and her person thin and meagre; A louring gloom over-spread her
countenance; and it bore such visible marks of rancour and ill-will, as
could not escape being noticed by the most inattentive Observer. Her
every look and action expressed discontent and impatience, and the
answers which She gave Baptiste, when He reproached her good-humouredly
for her dissatisfied air, were tart, short, and cutting. In fine, I
conceived at first sight equal disgust for her, and prepossession in
favour of her Husband, whose appearance was calculated to inspire
esteem and confidence. His countenance was open, sincere, and friendly;
his manners had all the Peasant’s honesty unaccompanied by his
rudeness; His cheeks were broad, full, and ruddy; and in the solidity
of his person He seemed to offer an ample apology for the leanness of
his Wife’s. From the wrinkles on his brow I judged him to be turned of
sixty; But He bore his years well, and seemed still hearty and strong:
The Wife could not be more than thirty, but in spirits and vivacity She
was infinitely older than the Husband.

However, in spite of her unwillingness, Marguerite began to prepare the
supper, while the Wood-man conversed gaily on different subjects. The
Postillion, who had been furnished with a bottle of spirits, was now
ready to set out for Strasbourg, and enquired, whether I had any
further commands.

“For Strasbourg?” interrupted Baptiste; “You are not going thither
tonight?”

“I beg your pardon: If I do not fetch Workmen to mend the Chaise, How
is Monsieur to proceed tomorrow?”

“That is true, as you say; I had forgotten the Chaise. Well, but
Claude; You may at least eat your supper here? That can make you lose
very little time, and Monsieur looks too kind-hearted to send you out
with an empty stomach on such a bitter cold night as this is.”

To this I readily assented, telling the Postillion that my reaching
Strasbourg the next day an hour or two later would be perfectly
immaterial. He thanked me, and then leaving the Cottage with Stephano,
put up his Horses in the Wood-man’s Stable. Baptiste followed them to
the door, and looked out with anxiety.

“’Tis a sharp biting wind!” said He; “I wonder, what detains my Boys so
long! Monsieur, I shall show you two of the finest Lads, that ever
stept in shoe of leather. The eldest is three and twenty, the second a
year younger: Their Equals for sense, courage, and activity, are not to
be found within fifty miles of Strasbourg. Would They were back again!
I begin to feel uneasy about them.”

Marguerite was at this time employed in laying the cloth.

“And are you equally anxious for the return of your Sons?” said I to
her.

“Not I!” She replied peevishly; “They are no children of mine.”

“Come! Come, Marguerite!” said the Husband; “Do not be out of humour
with the Gentleman for asking a simple question. Had you not looked so
cross, He would never have thought you old enough to have a Son of
three and twenty: But you see how many years ill-temper adds to
you!—Excuse my Wife’s rudeness, Monsieur. A little thing puts her out,
and She is somewhat displeased at your not thinking her to be under
thirty. That is the truth, is it not, Marguerite? You know, Monsieur,
that Age is always a ticklish subject with a Woman. Come! come!
Marguerite, clear up a little. If you have not Sons as old, you will
some twenty years hence, and I hope, that we shall live to see them
just such Lads as Jacques and Robert.”

Marguerite clasped her hands together passionately.

“God forbid!” said She; “God forbid! If I thought it, I would strangle
them with my own hands!”

She quitted the room hastily, and went up stairs.

I could not help expressing to the Wood-man how much I pitied him for
being chained for life to a Partner of such ill-humour.

“Ah! Lord! Monsieur, Every one has his share of grievances, and
Marguerite has fallen to mine. Besides, after all She is only cross,
and not malicious. The worst is, that her affection for two children by
a former Husband makes her play the Step-mother with my two Sons. She
cannot bear the sight of them, and by her good-will they would never
set a foot within my door. But on this point I always stand firm, and
never will consent to abandon the poor Lads to the world’s mercy, as
She has often solicited me to do. In every thing else I let her have
her own way; and truly She manages a family rarely, that I must say for
her.”

We were conversing in this manner, when our discourse was interrupted
by a loud halloo, which rang through the Forest.

“My Sons, I hope!” exclaimed the Wood-man, and ran to open the door.

The halloo was repeated: We now distinguished the trampling of Horses,
and soon after a Carriage, attended by several Cavaliers stopped at the
Cottage door. One of the Horsemen enquired how far they were still from
Strasbourg. As He addressed himself to me, I answered in the number of
miles which Claude had told me; Upon which a volley of curses was
vented against the Drivers for having lost their way. The Persons in
the Coach were now informed of the distance of Strasbourg, and also
that the Horses were so fatigued as to be incapable of proceeding
further. A Lady, who appeared to be the principal, expressed much
chagrin at this intelligence; But as there was no remedy, one of the
Attendants asked the Wood-man, whether He could furnish them with
lodging for the night.

He seemed much embarrassed, and replied in the negative; Adding that a
Spanish Gentleman and his Servant were already in possession of the
only spare apartments in his House. On hearing this, the gallantry of
my nation would not permit me to retain those accommodations, of which
a Female was in want. I instantly signified to the Wood-man, that I
transferred my right to the Lady; He made some objections; But I
overruled them, and hastening to the Carriage, opened the door, and
assisted the Lady to descend. I immediately recognized her for the same
person whom I had seen at the Inn at Luneville. I took an opportunity
of asking one of her Attendants, what was her name?

“The Baroness Lindenberg,” was the answer.

I could not but remark how different a reception our Host had given
these newcomers and myself. His reluctance to admit them was visibly
expressed on his countenance, and He prevailed on himself with
difficulty to tell the Lady that She was welcome. I conducted her into
the House, and placed her in the armed-chair, which I had just quitted.
She thanked me very graciously; and made a thousand apologies for
putting me to an inconvenience. Suddenly the Wood-man’s countenance
cleared up.

“At last I have arranged it!” said He, interrupting her excuses; “I can
lodge you and your suite, Madam, and you will not be under the
necessity of making this Gentleman suffer for his politeness.

We have two spare chambers, one for the Lady, the other, Monsieur, for
you: My Wife shall give up hers to the two Waiting-women; As for the
Men-servants, they must content themselves with passing the night in a
large Barn, which stands at a few yards distance from the House. There
they shall have a blazing fire, and as good a supper as we can make
shift to give them.”

After several expressions of gratitude on the Lady’s part, and
opposition on mine to Marguerite’s giving up her bed, this arrangement
was agreed to. As the Room was small, the Baroness immediately
dismissed her Male Domestics: Baptiste was on the point of conducting
them to the Barn which He had mentioned when two young Men appeared at
the door of the Cottage.

“Hell and Furies!” exclaimed the first starting back; “Robert, the
House is filled with Strangers!”

“Ha! There are my Sons!” cried our Host. “Why, Jacques! Robert! whither
are you running, Boys? There is room enough still for you.”

Upon this assurance the Youths returned. The Father presented them to
the Baroness and myself: After which He withdrew with our Domestics,
while at the request of the two Waiting-women, Marguerite conducted
them to the room designed for their Mistress.

The two new-comers were tall, stout, well-made young Men,
hard-featured, and very much sun-burnt. They paid their compliments to
us in few words, and acknowledged Claude, who now entered the room, as
an old acquaintance. They then threw aside their cloaks in which they
were wrapped up, took off a leathern belt to which a large Cutlass was
suspended, and each drawing a brace of pistols from his girdle laid
them upon a shelf.

“You travel well-armed,” said I.

“True, Monsieur;” replied Robert. “We left Strasbourg late this
Evening, and ’tis necessary to take precautions at passing through this
Forest after dark. It does not bear a good repute, I promise you.”

“How?” said the Baroness; “Are there Robbers hereabout?”

“So it is said, Madame; For my own part, I have travelled through the
wood at all hours, and never met with one of them.”

Here Marguerite returned. Her Stepsons drew her to the other end of the
room, and whispered her for some minutes. By the looks which they cast
towards us at intervals, I conjectured them to be enquiring our
business in the Cottage.

In the meanwhile the Baroness expressed her apprehensions, that her
Husband would be suffering much anxiety upon her account. She had
intended to send on one of her Servants to inform the Baron of her
delay; But the account which the young Men gave of the Forest rendered
this plan impracticable. Claude relieved her from her embarrassment. He
informed her that He was under the necessity of reaching Strasbourg
that night, and that would She trust him with a letter, She might
depend upon its being safely delivered.

“And how comes it,” said I, “that you are under no apprehension of
meeting these Robbers?”

“Alas! Monsieur, a poor Man with a large family must not lose certain
profit because ’tis attended with a little danger, and perhaps my Lord
the Baron may give me a trifle for my pains. Besides, I have nothing to
lose except my life, and that will not be worth the Robbers taking.”

I thought his arguments bad, and advised his waiting till the Morning;
But as the Baroness did not second me, I was obliged to give up the
point. The Baroness Lindenberg, as I found afterwards, had long been
accustomed to sacrifice the interests of others to her own, and her
wish to send Claude to Strasbourg blinded her to the danger of the
undertaking. Accordingly, it was resolved that He should set out
without delay. The Baroness wrote her letter to her Husband, and I sent
a few lines to my Banker, apprising him that I should not be at
Strasbourg till the next day. Claude took our letters, and left the
Cottage.

The Lady declared herself much fatigued by her journey: Besides having
come from some distance, the Drivers had contrived to lose their way in
the Forest. She now addressed herself to Marguerite, desiring to be
shown to her chamber, and permitted to take half an hour’s repose. One
of the Waiting-women was immediately summoned; She appeared with a
light, and the Baroness followed her up stairs. The cloth was spreading
in the chamber where I was, and Marguerite soon gave me to understand
that I was in her way. Her hints were too broad to be easily mistaken;
I therefore desired one of the young Men to conduct me to the chamber
where I was to sleep, and where I could remain till supper was ready.

“Which chamber is it, Mother?” said Robert.

“The One with green hangings,” She replied; “I have just been at the
trouble of getting it ready, and have put fresh sheets upon the Bed; If
the Gentleman chooses to lollop and lounge upon it, He may make it
again himself for me.”

“You are out of humour, Mother, but that is no novelty. Have the
goodness to follow me, Monsieur.”

He opened the door, and advanced towards a narrow staircase.

“You have got no light!” said Marguerite; “Is it your own neck or the
Gentleman’s that you have a mind to break?”

She crossed by me, and put a candle into Robert’s hand, having received
which, He began to ascend the staircase. Jacques was employed in laying
the cloth, and his back was turned towards me.

Marguerite seized the moment, when we were unobserved. She caught my
hand, and pressed it strongly.

“Look at the Sheets!” said She as She passed me, and immediately
resumed her former occupation.

Startled by the abruptness of her action, I remained as if petrified.
Robert’s voice, desiring me to follow him, recalled me to myself. I
ascended the staircase. My conductor ushered me into a chamber, where
an excellent wood-fire was blazing upon the hearth. He placed the light
upon the Table, enquired whether I had any further commands, and on my
replying in the negative, He left me to myself. You may be certain that
the moment when I found myself alone was that on which I complied with
Marguerite’s injunction. I took the candle, hastily approached the Bed,
and turned down the Coverture. What was my astonishment, my horror, at
finding the sheets crimsoned with blood!

At that moment a thousand confused ideas passed before my imagination.
The Robbers who infested the Wood, Marguerite’s exclamation respecting
her Children, the arms and appearance of the two young Men, and the
various Anecdotes which I had heard related, respecting the secret
correspondence which frequently exists between Banditti and
Postillions, all these circumstances flashed upon my mind, and inspired
me with doubt and apprehension. I ruminated on the most probable means
of ascertaining the truth of my conjectures. Suddenly I was aware of
Someone below pacing hastily backwards and forwards. Every thing now
appeared to me an object of suspicion. With precaution I drew near the
window, which, as the room had been long shut up, was left open in
spite of the cold. I ventured to look out. The beams of the Moon
permitted me to distinguish a Man, whom I had no difficulty to
recognize for my Host. I watched his movements.

He walked swiftly, then stopped, and seemed to listen: He stamped upon
the ground, and beat his stomach with his arms as if to guard himself
from the inclemency of the season. At the least noise, if a voice was
heard in the lower part of the House, if a Bat flitted past him, or the
wind rattled amidst the leafless boughs, He started, and looked round
with anxiety.

“Plague take him!” said He at length with impatience; “What can He be
about!”

He spoke in a low voice; but as He was just below my window, I had no
difficulty to distinguish his words.

I now heard the steps of one approaching. Baptiste went towards the
sound; He joined a man, whom his low stature and the Horn suspended
from his neck, declared to be no other than my faithful Claude, whom I
had supposed to be already on his way to Strasbourg. Expecting their
discourse to throw some light upon my situation, I hastened to put
myself in a condition to hear it with safety. For this purpose I
extinguished the candle, which stood upon a table near the Bed: The
flame of the fire was not strong enough to betray me, and I immediately
resumed my place at the window.

The objects of my curiosity had stationed themselves directly under it.
I suppose that during my momentary absence the Wood-man had been
blaming Claude for tardiness, since when I returned to the window, the
latter was endeavouring to excuse his fault.

“However,” added He, “my diligence at present shall make up for my past
delay.”

“On that condition,” answered Baptiste, “I shall readily forgive you.
But in truth as you share equally with us in our prizes, your own
interest will make you use all possible diligence. ’Twould be a shame
to let such a noble booty escape us! You say, that this Spaniard is
rich?”

“His Servant boasted at the Inn, that the effects in his Chaise were
worth above two thousand Pistoles.”

Oh! how I cursed Stephano’s imprudent vanity!

“And I have been told,” continued the Postillion, “that this Baroness
carries about her a casket of jewels of immense value.”

“May be so, but I had rather She had stayed away. The Spaniard was a
secure prey. The Boys and myself could easily have mastered him and his
Servant, and then the two thousand Pistoles would have been shared
between us four. Now we must let in the Band for a share, and perhaps
the whole Covey may escape us. Should our Friends have betaken
themselves to their different posts before you reach the Cavern, all
will be lost. The Lady’s Attendants are too numerous for us to
overpower them: Unless our Associates arrive in time, we must needs let
these Travellers set out tomorrow without damage or hurt.”

“’Tis plaguy unlucky that my Comrades who drove the Coach should be
those unacquainted with our Confederacy! But never fear, Friend
Baptiste. An hour will bring me to the Cavern; It is now but ten
o’clock, and by twelve you may expect the arrival of the Band. By the
bye, take care of your Wife: You know how strong is her repugnance to
our mode of life, and She may find means to give information to the
Lady’s Servants of our design.”

“Oh! I am secure of her silence; She is too much afraid of me, and fond
of her children, to dare to betray my secret. Besides, Jacques and
Robert keep a strict eye over her, and She is not permitted to set a
foot out of the Cottage. The Servants are safely lodged in the Barn; I
shall endeavour to keep all quiet till the arrival of our Friends. Were
I assured of your finding them, the Strangers should be dispatched this
instant; But as it is possible for you to miss the Banditti, I am
fearful of being summoned to produce them by their Domestics in the
Morning.”

“And suppose either of the Travellers should discover your design?”

“Then we must poignard those in our power, and take our chance about
mastering the rest. However, to avoid running such a risque, hasten to
the Cavern: The Banditti never leave it before eleven, and if you use
diligence, you may reach it in time to stop them.”

“Tell Robert that I have taken his Horse: My own has broken his bridle,
and escaped into the Wood. What is the watch-word?”

“The reward of Courage.”

“’Tis sufficient. I hasten to the Cavern.”

“And I to rejoin my Guests, lest my absence should create suspicion.
Farewell, and be diligent.”

These worthy Associates now separated: The One bent his course towards
the Stable, while the Other returned to the House.

You may judge, what must have been my feelings during this
conversation, of which I lost not a single syllable. I dared not trust
myself to my reflections, nor did any means present itself to escape
the dangers which threatened me. Resistance, I knew to be vain; I was
unarmed, and a single Man against Three: However, I resolved at least
to sell my life as dearly as I could. Dreading lest Baptiste should
perceive my absence, and suspect me to have overheard the message with
which Claude was dispatched, I hastily relighted my candle and quitted
the chamber. On descending, I found the Table spread for six Persons.
The Baroness sat by the fireside: Marguerite was employed in dressing a
sallad, and her Step-sons were whispering together at the further end
of the room. Baptiste having the round of the Garden to make, ere He
could reach the Cottage door, was not yet arrived. I seated myself
quietly opposite to the Baroness.

A glance upon Marguerite told her that her hint had not been thrown
away upon me. How different did She now appear to me! What before
seemed gloom and sullenness, I now found to be disgust at her
Associates, and compassion for my danger. I looked up to her as to my
only resource; Yet knowing her to be watched by her Husband with a
suspicious eye, I could place but little reliance on the exertions of
her good-will.

In spite of all my endeavours to conceal it, my agitation was but too
visibly expressed upon my countenance. I was pale, and both my words
and actions were disordered and embarrassed. The young Men observed
this, and enquired the cause. I attributed it to excess of fatigue, and
the violent effect produced on me by the severity of the season.
Whether they believed me or not, I will not pretend to say: They at
least ceased to embarrass me with their questions. I strove to divert
my attention from the perils which surrounded me, by conversing on
different subjects with the Baroness. I talked of Germany, declaring my
intention of visiting it immediately: God knows, that I little thought
at that moment of ever seeing it! She replied to me with great ease and
politeness, professed that the pleasure of making my acquaintance amply
compensated for the delay in her journey, and gave me a pressing
invitation to make some stay at the Castle of Lindenberg. As She spoke
thus, the Youths exchanged a malicious smile, which declared that She
would be fortunate if She ever reached that Castle herself. This action
did not escape me; But I concealed the emotion which it excited in my
breast. I continued to converse with the Lady; But my discourse was so
frequently incoherent, that as She has since informed me, She began to
doubt whether I was in my right senses. The fact was, that while my
conversation turned upon one subject, my thoughts were entirely
occupied by another. I meditated upon the means of quitting the
Cottage, finding my way to the Barn, and giving the Domestics
information of our Host’s designs. I was soon convinced, how
impracticable was the attempt. Jacques and Robert watched my every
movement with an attentive eye, and I was obliged to abandon the idea.
All my hopes now rested upon Claude’s not finding the Banditti: In that
case, according to what I had overheard, we should be permitted to
depart unhurt.

I shuddered involuntarily as Baptiste entered the room. He made many
apologies for his long absence, but “He had been detained by affairs
impossible to be delayed.” He then entreated permission for his family
to sup at the same table with us, without which, respect would not
authorize his taking such a liberty. Oh! how in my heart I cursed the
Hypocrite! How I loathed his presence, who was on the point of
depriving me of an existence, at that time infinitely dear! I had every
reason to be satisfied with life; I had youth, wealth, rank, and
education; and the fairest prospects presented themselves before me. I
saw those prospects on the point of closing in the most horrible
manner: Yet was I obliged to dissimulate, and to receive with a
semblance of gratitude the false civilities of him who held the dagger
to my bosom.

The permission which our Host demanded, was easily obtained. We seated
ourselves at the Table. The Baroness and myself occupied one side: The
Sons were opposite to us with their backs to the door. Baptiste took
his seat by the Baroness at the upper end, and the place next to him
was left for his Wife. She soon entered the room, and placed before us
a plain but comfortable Peasant’s repast. Our Host thought it necessary
to apologize for the poorness of the supper: “He had not been apprized
of our coming; He could only offer us such fare as had been intended
for his own family:”

“But,” added He, “should any accident detain my noble Guests longer
than they at present intend, I hope to give them a better treatment.”

The Villain! I well knew the accident to which He alluded; I shuddered
at the treatment which He taught us to expect!

My Companion in danger seemed entirely to have got rid of her chagrin
at being delayed. She laughed, and conversed with the family with
infinite gaiety. I strove but in vain to follow her example. My spirits
were evidently forced, and the constraint which I put upon myself
escaped not Baptiste’s observation.

“Come, come, Monsieur, cheer up!” said He; “You seem not quite
recovered from your fatigue. To raise your spirits, what say you to a
glass of excellent old wine which was left me by my Father? God rest
his soul, He is in a better world! I seldom produce this wine; But as I
am not honoured with such Guests every day, this is an occasion which
deserves a Bottle.”

He then gave his Wife a Key, and instructed her where to find the wine
of which He spoke. She seemed by no means pleased with the commission;
She took the Key with an embarrassed air, and hesitated to quit the
Table.

“Did you hear me?” said Baptiste in an angry tone.

Marguerite darted upon him a look of mingled anger and fear, and left
the chamber. His eyes followed her suspiciously, till She had closed
the door.

She soon returned with a bottle sealed with yellow wax. She placed it
upon the table, and gave the Key back to her Husband. I suspected that
this liquor was not presented to us without design, and I watched
Marguerite’s movements with inquietude. She was employed in rinsing
some small horn Goblets. As She placed them before Baptiste, She saw
that my eye was fixed upon her; and at the moment when She thought
herself unobserved by the Banditti, She motioned to me with her head
not to taste the liquor, She then resumed her place.

In the mean while our Host had drawn the Cork, and filling two of the
Goblets, offered them to the Lady and myself. She at first made some
objections, but the instances of Baptiste were so urgent, that She was
obliged to comply. Fearing to excite suspicion, I hesitated not to take
the Goblet presented to me. By its smell and colour I guessed it to be
Champagne; But some grains of powder floating upon the top convinced me
that it was not unadulterated. However, I dared not to express my
repugnance to drinking it; I lifted it to my lips, and seemed to be
swallowing it: Suddenly starting from my chair, I made the best of my
way towards a Vase of water at some distance, in which Marguerite had
been rinsing the Goblets. I pretended to spit out the wine with
disgust, and took an opportunity unperceived of emptying the liquor
into the Vase.

The Banditti seemed alarmed at my action. Jacques half rose from his
chair, put his hand into his bosom, and I discovered the haft of a
dagger. I returned to my seat with tranquillity, and affected not to
have observed their confusion.

“You have not suited my taste, honest Friend,” said I, addressing
myself to Baptiste. “I never can drink Champagne without its producing
a violent illness. I swallowed a few mouthfuls ere I was aware of its
quality, and fear that I shall suffer for my imprudence.”

Baptiste and Jacques exchanged looks of distrust.

“Perhaps,” said Robert, “the smell may be disagreeable to you.”

He quitted his chair, and removed the Goblet. I observed, that He
examined, whether it was nearly empty.

“He must have drank sufficient,” said He to his Brother in a low voice,
while He reseated himself.

Marguerite looked apprehensive, that I had tasted the liquor: A glance
from my eye reassured her.

I waited with anxiety for the effects which the Beverage would produce
upon the Lady. I doubted not but the grains which I had observed were
poisonous, and lamented that it had been impossible for me to warn her
of the danger. But a few minutes had elapsed before I perceived her
eyes grow heavy; Her head sank upon her shoulder, and She fell into a
deep sleep. I affected not to attend to this circumstance, and
continued my conversation with Baptiste, with all the outward gaiety in
my power to assume. But He no longer answered me without constraint. He
eyed me with distrust and astonishment, and I saw that the Banditti
were frequently whispering among themselves. My situation became every
moment more painful; I sustained the character of confidence with a
worse grace than ever. Equally afraid of the arrival of their
Accomplices and of their suspecting my knowledge of their designs, I
knew not how to dissipate the distrust which the Banditti evidently
entertained for me. In this new dilemma the friendly Marguerite again
assisted me. She passed behind the Chairs of her Stepsons, stopped for
a moment opposite to me, closed her eyes, and reclined her head upon
her shoulder. This hint immediately dispelled my incertitude. It told
me, that I ought to imitate the Baroness, and pretend that the liquor
had taken its full effect upon me. I did so, and in a few minutes
seemed perfectly overcome with slumber.

“So!” cried Baptiste, as I fell back in my chair; “At last He sleeps! I
began to think that He had scented our design, and that we should have
been forced to dispatch him at all events.”

“And why not dispatch him at all events?” enquired the ferocious
Jacques. “Why leave him the possibility of betraying our secret?
Marguerite, give me one of my Pistols: A single touch of the trigger
will finish him at once.”

“And supposing,” rejoined the Father, “Supposing that our Friends
should not arrive tonight, a pretty figure we should make when the
Servants enquire for him in the Morning! No, no, Jacques; We must wait
for our Associates. If they join us, we are strong enough to dispatch
the Domestics as well as their Masters, and the booty is our own; If
Claude does not find the Troop, we must take patience, and suffer the
prey to slip through our fingers. Ah! Boys, Boys, had you arrived but
five minutes sooner, the Spaniard would have been done for, and two
thousand Pistoles our own. But you are always out of the way when you
are most wanted.

You are the most unlucky Rogues!”

“Well, well, Father!” answered Jacques; “Had you been of my mind, all
would have been over by this time. You, Robert, Claude, and myself, why
the Strangers were but double the number, and I warrant you we might
have mastered them. However, Claude is gone; ’Tis too late to think of
it now. We must wait patiently for the arrival of the Gang; and if the
Travellers escape us tonight, we must take care to waylay them
tomorrow.”

“True! True!” said Baptiste; “Marguerite, have you given the
sleeping-draught to the Waiting-women?”

She replied in the affirmative.

“All then is safe. Come, come, Boys; Whatever falls out, we have no
reason to complain of this adventure. We run no danger, may gain much,
and can lose nothing.”

At this moment I heard a trampling of Horses. Oh! how dreadful was the
sound to my ears. A cold sweat flowed down my forehead, and I felt all
the terrors of impending death. I was by no means reassured by hearing
the compassionate Marguerite exclaim in the accents of despair,

“Almighty God! They are lost!”

Luckily the Wood-man and his Sons were too much occupied by the arrival
of their Associates to attend to me, or the violence of my agitation
would have convinced them that my sleep was feigned.

“Open! Open!” exclaimed several voices on the outside of the Cottage.

“Yes! Yes!” cried Baptiste joyfully; “They are our Friends sure enough!
Now then our booty is certain. Away! Lads, Away! Lead them to the Barn;
You know what is to be done there.”

Robert hastened to open the door of the Cottage.

“But first,” said Jacques, taking up his arms; “first let me dispatch
these Sleepers.”

“No, no, no!” replied his Father; “Go you to the Barn, where your
presence is wanted. Leave me to take care of these and the Women
above.”

Jacques obeyed, and followed his Brother. They seemed to converse with
the New-Comers for a few minutes: After which I heard the Robbers
dismount, and as I conjectured, bend their course towards the Barn.

“So! That is wisely done!” muttered Baptiste; “They have quitted their
Horses, that They may fall upon the Strangers by surprise. Good! Good!
and now to business.”

I heard him approach a small Cupboard which was fixed up in a distant
part of the room, and unlock it. At this moment I felt myself shaken
gently.

“Now! Now!” whispered Marguerite.

I opened my eyes. Baptiste stood with his back towards me. No one else
was in the room save Marguerite and the sleeping Lady. The Villain had
taken a dagger from the Cupboard and seemed examining whether it was
sufficiently sharp. I had neglected to furnish myself with arms; But I
perceived this to be my only chance of escaping, and resolved not to
lose the opportunity. I sprang from my seat, darted suddenly upon
Baptiste, and clasping my hands round his throat, pressed it so
forcibly as to prevent his uttering a single cry. You may remember that
I was remarkable at Salamanca for the power of my arm: It now rendered
me an essential service. Surprised, terrified, and breathless, the
Villain was by no means an equal Antagonist. I threw him upon the
ground; I grasped him still tighter; and while I fixed him without
motion upon the floor, Marguerite, wresting the dagger from his hand,
plunged it repeatedly in his heart till He expired.

No sooner was this horrible but necessary act perpetrated than
Marguerite called on me to follow her.

“Flight is our only refuge!” said She; “Quick! Quick! Away!”

I hesitated not to obey her: but unwilling to leave the Baroness a
victim to the vengeance of the Robbers, I raised her in my arms still
sleeping, and hastened after Marguerite. The Horses of the Banditti
were fastened near the door: My Conductress sprang upon one of them. I
followed her example, placed the Baroness before me, and spurred on my
Horse. Our only hope was to reach Strasbourg, which was much nearer
than the perfidious Claude had assured me. Marguerite was well
acquainted with the road, and galloped on before me. We were obliged to
pass by the Barn, where the Robbers were slaughtering our Domestics.
The door was open: We distinguished the shrieks of the dying and
imprecations of the Murderers! What I felt at that moment languag

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