The Monk: A Romance, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  Forse se tu gustassi una sol volta La millesima parte delle gioje, Che gusta un cor amato riamando, Diresti ripentita sospirando, Perduto e tutto il tempo Che in amar non si sponde. 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, Hedismissed them with an air of conscious superiority in which Humility'ssemblance combated with the reality of pride.

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

  'Who,' thought He; 'Who but myself has passed the ordeal of Youth, yetsees no single stain upon his conscience? Who else has subdued theviolence of strong passions and an impetuous temperament, and submittedeven from the dawn of life to voluntary retirement? I seek for such aMan in vain. I see no one but myself possessed of such resolution.Religion cannot boast Ambrosio's equal! How powerful an effect did mydiscourse produce upon its Auditors! How they crowded round me! Howthey loaded me with benedictions, and pronounced me the soleuncorrupted 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 Ihave hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold! May I not be temptedfrom those paths which till now I have pursued without one moment'swandering? 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 noblestDames of Madrid continually present themselves at the Abbey, and willuse no other Confessor.

  I must accustom my eyes to Objects of temptation, and expose myself tothe seduction of luxury and desire. Should I meet in that world whichI am constrained to enter some lovely Female, lovely ... as you,Madona....!'

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

  'What Beauty in that countenance!' He continued after a silence ofsome minutes; 'How graceful is the turn of that head! What sweetness,yet what majesty in her divine eyes! How softly her cheek reclinesupon her hand! Can the Rose vie with the blush of that cheek? Can theLily rival the whiteness of that hand? Oh! if such a Creature existed,and existed but for me! Were I permitted to twine round my fingersthose golden ringlets, and press with my lips the treasures of thatsnowy bosom! Gracious God, should I then resist the temptation?Should I not barter for a single embrace the reward of my sufferingsfor 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. Neverwas 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 isproof against temptation. Temptation, did I say? To me it would benone. What charms me, when ideal and considered as a superior Being,would disgust me, become Woman and tainted with all the failings ofMortality. It is not the Woman's beauty that fills me with suchenthusiasm; It is the Painter's skill that I admire, it is the Divinitythat I adore! Are not the passions dead in my bosom? Have I not freedmyself from the frailty of Mankind? Fear not, Ambrosio! Takeconfidence in the strength of your virtue. Enter boldly into a worldto whose failings you are superior; Reflect that you are now exemptedfrom Humanity's defects, and defy all the arts of the Spirits ofDarkness. They shall know you for what you are!'

  Here his Reverie was interrupted by three soft knocks at the door ofhis Cell. With difficulty did the Abbot awake from his delirium. Theknocking 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 smallbasket in his hand.

  Rosario was a young Novice belonging to the Monastery, who in threeMonths intended to make his profession. A sort of mystery envelopedthis Youth which rendered him at once an object of interest andcuriosity. His hatred of society, his profound melancholy, his rigidobservation of the duties of his order, and his voluntary seclusionfrom the world at his age so unusual, attracted the notice of the wholefraternity. He seemed fearful of being recognised, and no one had everseen his face. His head was continually muffled up in his Cowl; Yetsuch of his features as accident discovered, appeared the mostbeautiful and noble. Rosario was the only name by which He was known inthe Monastery.

  No one knew from whence He came, and when questioned in the subject Hepreserved a profound silence. A Stranger, whose rich habit andmagnificent equipage declared him to be of distinguished rank, hadengaged the Monks to receive a Novice, and had deposited the necessarysums. The next day He returned with Rosario, and from that time nomore had been heard of him.

  The Youth had carefully avoided the company of the Monks: He answeredtheir civilities with sweetness, but reserve, and evidently showed thathis inclination led him to solitude. To this general rule the Superiorwas the only exception. To him He looked up with a respect approachingidolatry: He sought his company with the most attentive assiduity, andeagerly seized every means to ingratiate himself in his favour. In theAbbot's society his Heart seemed to be at ease, and an air of gaietypervaded his whole manners and discourse. Ambrosio on his side did notfeel less attracted towards the Youth; With him alone did He lay asidehis habitual severity. When He spoke to him, He insensibly assumed atone milder than was usual to him; and no voice sounded so sweet to himas did Rosario's. He repayed the Youth's attentions by instructing himin 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: Inshort He loved him with all the affection of a Father. He could nothelp sometimes indulging a desire secretly to see the face of hisPupil; But his rule of self-denial extended even to curiosity, andprevented him from communicating his wishes to the Youth.

  'Pardon my intrusion, Father,' said Rosario, while He placed his basketupon the Table; 'I come to you a Suppliant. Hearing that a dear Friendis dangerously ill, I entreat your prayers for his recovery. Ifsupplications can prevail upon heaven to spare him, surely yours mustbe 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 ourthrice-blessed St. Francis deign to listen to my intercession!--Whathave you in your basket, Rosario?'

  'A few of those flowers, reverend Father, which I have observed to bemost acceptable to you. Will you permit my arranging them in yourchamber?'

  'Your attentions charm me, my Son.'

  While Rosario dispersed the contents of his Basket in small Vasesplaced for that purpose in various parts of the room, the Abbot thuscontinued the conversation.

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

  'Yet I was present, Father. I am too grateful for your protection tolose an opportunity of witnessing your Triumph.'

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

  'Contented, say you? Oh! you surpassed yourself! Never did I hearsuch 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 youpresent? I knew you not at that time, Rosario.'

  ''Tis true, Father; and would to God! I had expired, ere I beheld thatday! What sufferings, what sorrows should I have escaped!'

  'Sufferings at your age, Rosario?'

  'Aye, Father; Sufferings, which if known to you, would equally raiseyour anger and compassion! Sufferings, which form at once the tormentand pleasure of my existence! Yet in this retreat my bosom would feeltranquil, were it not for the tortures of apprehension. Oh God! OhGod! how cruel is a life of fear!--Father! I have given up all; I haveabandoned 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 ofmy despair!'

  'You apprehend the loss of my friendship? How has my conduct justifiedthis fear? Know me better, Rosario, and think me worthy of yourconfidence. What are your sufferings? Reveal them to me, and believethat if 'tis in my power to relieve them....'

  'Ah! 'tis in no one's power but yours. Yet I must not let you knowthem. You would hate me for my avowal! You would drive me from yourpresence 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 Ileave you!'

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

  Vespers being over, the Monks retired to their respective Cells. TheAbbot alone remained in the Chapel to receive the Nuns of St. Clare.He had not been long seated in the confessional chair before thePrioress 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 manyexhortations, enjoined penance proportioned to each offence, and forsome 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 wasretiring, unconscious of her loss. Ambrosio supposed it to have beenwritten by some one of her Relations, and picked it up intending torestore it to her.

  'Stay, Daughter,' said He; 'You have let fall....'

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

  'Hold!' said the Friar in a tone of severity; 'Daughter, I must readthis 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 saveherself from sinking upon the floor. In the meanwhile the Abbot readthe following lines.

  'All is ready for your escape, my dearest Agnes. At twelve tomorrownight I shall expect to find you at the Garden door: I have obtainedthe 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 ofpreserving yourself and the innocent Creature whom you nourish in yourbosom. Remember that you had promised to be mine, long ere you engagedyourself to the church; that your situation will soon be evident to theprying eyes of your Companions; and that flight is the only means ofavoiding the effects of their malevolent resentment. Farewell, myAgnes! my dear and destined Wife! Fail not to be at the Garden door attwelve!'

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

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

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

  'Stay! Oh! stay!' She cried in the accents of despair, while She threwherself 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 beemployed in expiating this single fault, and your lenity will bringback a soul to heaven!'

  'Amazing confidence! What! Shall St. Clare's Convent become theretreat of Prostitutes? Shall I suffer the Church of Christ to cherishin its bosom debauchery and shame? Unworthy Wretch! such lenity wouldmake me your accomplice. Mercy would here be criminal. You haveabandoned yourself to a Seducer's lust; You have defiled the sacredhabit by your impurity; and still dare you think yourself deserving mycompassion? 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 withimpurity, nor think that I have erred from the warmth of temperament.Long before I took the veil, Raymond was Master of my heart: Heinspired me with the purest, the most irreproachable passion, and wason the point of becoming my lawful husband. An horrible adventure, andthe treachery of a Relation, separated us from each other: I believedhim for ever lost to me, and threw myself into a Convent from motivesof despair. Accident again united us; I could not refuse myself themelancholy pleasure of mingling my tears with his: We met nightly inthe Gardens of St. Clare, and in an unguarded moment I violated my vowsof Chastity. I shall soon become a Mother: Reverend Ambrosio, takecompassion on me; take compassion on the innocent Being whose existenceis attached to mine. If you discover my imprudence to the Domina, bothof us are lost: The punishment which the laws of St. Clare assign toUnfortunates like myself is most severe and cruel. Worthy, worthyFather! Let not your own untainted conscience render you unfeelingtowards those less able to withstand temptation! Let not mercy be theonly virtue of which your heart is unsusceptible! Pity me, mostreverend! Restore my letter, nor doom me to inevitable destruction!'

  'Your boldness confounds me! Shall I conceal your crime, I whom youhave deceived by your feigned confession? No, Daughter, no! I willrender you a more essential service. I will rescue you from perditionin spite of yourself; Penance and mortification shall expiate youroffence, 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, Isupplicate, 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 herbosom and rending her veil in all the delirium of despair. The Nunsgazed with astonishment upon the scene before them. The Friar nowpresented the fatal paper to the Prioress, informed her of the mannerin which he had found it, and added, that it was her business todecide, what penance the delinquent merited.

  While She perused the letter, the Domina's countenance grew inflamedwith passion. What! Such a crime committed in her Convent, and madeknown to Ambrosio, to the Idol of Madrid, to the Man whom She was mostanxious to impress with the opinion of the strictness and regularity ofher 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 herAttendants.

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

  'What!' She exclaimed suddenly shaking off their hold with distractedgestures; 'Is all hope then lost? Already do you drag me topunishment? Where are you, Raymond? Oh! s
ave 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 couldhave saved me; you could have restored me to happiness and virtue, butwould not! You are the destroyer of my Soul; You are my Murderer, andon you fall the curse of my death and my unborn Infant's! Insolent inyour yet-unshaken virtue, you disdained the prayers of a Penitent; ButGod will show mercy, though you show none. And where is the merit ofyour boasted virtue? What temptations have you vanquished? Coward!you have fled from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of Trialwill arrive! Oh! then when you yield to impetuous passions! when youfeel that Man is weak, and born to err; When shuddering you look backupon your crimes, and solicit with terror the mercy of your God, Oh! inthat fearful moment think upon me! Think upon your Cruelty! Thinkupon Agnes, and despair of pardon!'

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

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

  'The violence of her despair,' said He, 'proves, that at least Vice isnot become familiar to her. Perhaps by treating her with somewhat lessrigour than is generally practised, and mitigating in some degree theaccustomed penance....'

  'Mitigate it, Father?' interrupted the Lady Prioress; 'Not I, believeme. The laws of our order are strict and severe; they have fallen intodisuse of late, But the crime of Agnes shows me the necessity of theirrevival. I go to signify my intention to the Convent, and Agnes shallbe the first to feel the rigour of those laws, which shall be obeyed tothe 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. Todissipate 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. Itwas laid out with the most exquisite taste. The choicest flowersadorned it in the height of luxuriance, and though artfully arranged,seemed only planted by the hand of Nature: Fountains, springing frombasons of white Marble, cooled the air with perpetual showers; and theWalls were entirely covered by Jessamine, vines, and Honeysuckles. Thehour now added to the beauty of the scene. The full Moon, rangingthrough a blue and cloudless sky, shed upon the trees a tremblinglustre, and the waters of the fountains sparkled in the silver beam: Agentle breeze breathed the fragrance of Orange-blossoms along theAlleys; and the Nightingale poured forth her melodious murmur from theshelter of an artificial wilderness. Thither the Abbot bent his steps.

  In the bosom of this little Grove stood a rustic Grotto, formed inimitation of an Hermitage. The walls were constructed of roots oftrees, and the interstices filled up with Moss and Ivy. Seats of Turfwere placed on either side, and a natural Cascade fell from the Rockabove. Buried in himself the Monk approached the spot. The universalcalm had communicated itself to his bosom, and a voluptuoustranquillity spread languor through his soul.

  He reached the Hermitage, and was entering to repose himself, when Hestopped on perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one ofthe 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 insilence, and entered not the Hermitage. After some minutes the Youthraised his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the opposite Wall.

  'Yes!' said He with a deep and plaintive sigh; 'I feel all thehappiness of thy situation, all the misery of my own! Happy were I,could I think like Thee! Could I look like Thee with disgust uponMankind, could bury myself for ever in some impenetrable solitude, andforget 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 theGrotto.

  'You here, reverend Father?' cried the Novice.

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

  'You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy,' said He; 'Whatcan 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 myobservation. The Brightness of the Moonbeams permitted my readingthem; and Oh! how I envy the feelings of the Writer!'

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

  INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE

  Who-e'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 upin himself as to live in absolute seclusion from human nature, andcould yet feel the contented tranquillity which these lines express, Iallow that the situation would be more desirable, than to live in aworld so pregnant with every vice and every folly. But this never canbe the case. This inscription was merely placed here for the ornamentof the Grotto, and the sentiments and the Hermit are equally imaginary.Man was born for society. However little He may be attached to theWorld, He never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten byit. Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of Mankind, the Misanthropeflies from it: He resolves to become an Hermit, and buries himself inthe Cavern of some gloomy Rock. While Hate inflames his bosom,possibly He may feel contented with his situation: But when hispassions begin to cool; when Time has mellowed his sorrows, and healedthose wounds which He bore with him to his solitude, think you thatContent becomes his Companion? Ah! no, Rosario. No longer sustainedby the violence of his passions, He feels all the monotony of his wayof living, and his heart becomes the prey of Ennui and weariness. Helooks round, and finds himself alone in the Universe: The love ofsociety revives in his bosom, and He pants to return to that worldwhich He has abandoned. Nature loses all her charms in his eyes: Noone is near him to point out her beauties, or share in his admirationof her excellence and variety. Propped upon the fragment of some Rock,He gazes upon t
he tumbling waterfall with a vacant eye, He viewswithout emotion the glory of the setting Sun. Slowly He returns to hisCell at Evening, for no one there is anxious for his arrival; He has nocomfort in his solitary unsavoury meal: He throws himself upon hiscouch of Moss despondent and dissatisfied, and wakes only to pass a dayas joyless, as monotonous as the former.'

  'You amaze me, Father! Suppose that circumstances condemned you tosolitude; Would not the duties of Religion and the consciousness of alife well spent communicate to your heart that calm which....'

  'I should deceive myself, did I fancy that they could. I am convincedof the contrary, and that all my fortitude would not prevent me fromyielding to melancholy and disgust. After consuming the day in study,if you knew my pleasure at meeting my Brethren in the Evening! Afterpassing many a long hour in solitude, if I could express to you the joywhich I feel at once more beholding a fellow-Creature! 'Tis in thisparticular that I place the principal merit of a Monastic Institution.It secludes Man from the temptations of Vice; It procures that leisurenecessary for the proper service of the Supreme; It spares him themortification of witnessing the crimes of the worldly, and yet permitshim to enjoy the blessings of society. And do you, Rosario, do YOUenvy an Hermit's life? Can you be thus blind to the happiness of yoursituation? Reflect upon it for a moment. This Abbey is become yourAsylum: Your regularity, your gentleness, your talents have renderedyou the object of universal esteem: You are secluded from the worldwhich you profess to hate; yet you remain in possession of the benefitsof society, and that a society composed of the most estimable ofMankind.'

  'Father! Father! 'tis that which causes my Torment! Happy had it beenfor me, had my life been passed among the vicious and abandoned! Had Inever heard pronounced the name of Virtue! 'Tis my unbounded adorationof religion; 'Tis my soul's exquisite sensibility of the beauty of fairand 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 neverseen these Abbey walls, you never had seen me: Can that really be yourwish?'

  'Had never seen you?' repeated the Novice, starting from the Bank, andgrasping 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 toGod! that I were never to see you more, and could forget that I hadever seen you!'

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

  The Monk looked upon him with compassion, and forbore to interrupt hismeditations. Both observed for some time a profound silence. TheNightingale had now taken her station upon an Orange Tree fronting theHermitage, 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, thatduring the last month of her unhappy life, my Sister used to sitlistening 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 sunkbeneath 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 thoseirresistible, those fatal sentiments, to which her Heart was a prey.Father, She loved unfortunately. A passion for One endowed with everyvirtue, for a Man, Oh! rather let me say, for a divinity, proved thebane of her existence. His noble form, his spotless character, hisvarious talents, his wisdom solid, wonderful, and glorious, might havewarmed the bosom of the most insensible. My Sister saw him, and daredto love though She never dared to hope.'

  'If her love was so well bestowed, what forbad her to hope theobtaining of its object?'

  'Father, before He knew her, Julian had already plighted his vows to aBride most fair, most heavenly! Yet still my Sister loved, and for theHusband's sake She doted upon the Wife. One morning She found means toescape from our Father's House: Arrayed in humble weeds She offeredherself as a Domestic to the Consort of her Beloved, and was accepted.She was now continually in his presence: She strove to ingratiateherself into his favour: She succeeded. Her attentions attractedJulian's notice; The virtuous are ever grateful, and He distinguishedMatilda above the rest of her Companions.'

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

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

  'Unhappy Girl! Surely her fate was too severe, and Julian was toocruel.'

  'Do you think so, Father?' cried the Novice with vivacity; 'Do youthink 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 afaltering voice,--'for my sufferings are still greater. My Sister hada Friend, a real Friend, who pitied the acuteness of her feelings, norreproached her with her inability to repress them. I ...! I have noFriend! The whole wide world cannot furnish an heart that is willingto 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 notconfide in me, and what can you fear? My severity? Have I ever usedit 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 Childmore fondly than I have watched over you. From the moment in which Ifirst beheld you, I perceived sensations in my bosom till then unknownto me; I found a delight in your society which no one's else couldafford; and when I witnessed the extent of your genius and information,I rejoiced as does a Father in the perfections of his Son. Then layaside your fears; Speak to me with openness: Speak to me, Rosario, andsay that you will confide in me. If my aid or my pity can alleviateyour distress....'

  'Yours can! Yours only can! Ah! Father, how willingly would I unveilto you my heart! How willingly would I declare the secret which bowsme 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 myconfidence 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 wouldbe to deprive myself of the greatest pleasure of my life. Then revealto me what afflicts you, and believe me while I solemnly swear....'

  'Hold!' interrupted the Novice; 'Swear, that whatever be my secret, youwill not oblige me to quit the Monastery till my Noviciate shallexpire.'

  'I promise it faithfully, and as I keep my vows to you, may Christ keephis to Mankind. Now then explain this mystery, and rel
y upon myindulgence.'

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

  The Abbot started at this unexpected avowal. Prostrate on the groundlay the feigned Rosario, as if waiting in silence the decision of hisJudge. Astonishment on the one part, apprehension on the other, forsome minutes chained them in the same attitudes, as had they beentouched by the Rod of some Magician. At length recovering from hisconfusion, the Monk quitted the Grotto, and sped with precipitationtowards the Abbey. His action did not escape the Suppliant. Shesprang from the ground; She hastened to follow him, overtook him, threwherself in his passage, and embraced his knees. Ambrosio strove invain to disengage himself from her grasp.

  'Do not fly me!' She cried; 'Leave me not abandoned to the impulse ofdespair! Listen, while I excuse my imprudence; while I acknowledge mySister'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 hersecond it exceeded all bounds. Amazed, embarrassed, and irresolute Hefound himself incapable of pronouncing a syllable, and remained insilence gazing upon Matilda: This gave her opportunity to continue herexplanation 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 fromMatilda's wish to draw you from the paths of virtue. What I feel foryou is love, not licentiousness; I sigh to be possessor of your heart,not lust for the enjoyment of your person. Deign to listen to myvindication: A few moments will convince you that this holy retreat isnot polluted by my presence, and that you may grant me your compassionwithout trespassing against your vows.'--She seated herself: Ambrosio,scarcely conscious of what He did, followed her example, and Sheproceeded in her discourse.

  'I spring from a distinguished family: My Father was Chief of thenoble House of Villanegas. He died while I was still an Infant, andleft me sole Heiress of his immense possessions. Young and wealthy, Iwas sought in marriage by the noblest Youths of Madrid; But no onesucceeded in gaining my affections. I had been brought up under thecare of an Uncle possessed of the most solid judgment and extensiveerudition. He took pleasure in communicating to me some portion of hisknowledge. Under his instructions my understanding acquired morestrength and justness than generally falls to the lot of my sex: Theability of my Preceptor being aided by natural curiosity, I not onlymade a considerable progress in sciences universally studied, but inothers, revealed but to few, and lying under censure from the blindnessof superstition. But while my Guardian laboured to enlarge the sphereof my knowledge, He carefully inculcated every moral precept: Herelieved me from the shackles of vulgar prejudice; He pointed out thebeauty of Religion; He taught me to look with adoration upon the pureand virtuous, and, woe is me! I have obeyed him but too well!

  'With such dispositions, Judge whether I could observe with any othersentiment than disgust the vice, dissipation, and ignorance, whichdisgrace our Spanish Youth. I rejected every offer with disdain. Myheart remained without a Master till chance conducted me to theCathedral of the Capuchins. Oh! surely on that day my Guardian Angelslumbered neglectful of his charge! Then was it that I first beheldyou: You supplied the Superior's place, absent from illness. Youcannot but remember the lively enthusiasm which your discourse created.Oh! how I drank your words! How your eloquence seemed to steal me frommyself! I scarcely dared to breathe, fearing to lose a syllable; andwhile you spoke, Methought a radiant glory beamed round your head, andyour countenance shone with the majesty of a God. I retired from theChurch, glowing with admiration. From that moment you became the idolof my heart, the never-changing object of my Meditations. I enquiredrespecting you. The reports which were made me of your mode of life,of your knowledge, piety, and self-denial riveted the chains imposed onme by your eloquence. I was conscious that there was no longer a voidin my heart; That I had found the Man whom I had sought till then invain. In expectation of hearing you again, every day I visited yourCathedral: You remained secluded within the Abbey walls, and I alwayswithdrew, wretched and disappointed. The Night was more propitious tome, for then you stood before me in my dreams; You vowed to me eternalfriendship; You led me through the paths of virtue, and assisted me tosupport the vexations of life. The Morning dispelled these pleasingvisions; I woke, and found myself separated from you by Barriers whichappeared insurmountable. Time seemed only to increase the strength ofmy passion: I grew melancholy and despondent; I fled from society, andmy health declined daily. At length no longer able to exist in thisstate of torture, I resolved to assume the disguise in which you seeme. My artifice was fortunate: I was received into the Monastery, andsucceeded in gaining your esteem.

  'Now then I should have felt compleatly happy, had not my quiet beendisturbed by the fear of detection. The pleasure which I received fromyour society, was embittered by the idea that perhaps I should soon bedeprived of it: and my heart throbbed so rapturously at obtaining themarks of your friendship, as to convince me that I never should surviveits loss. I resolved, therefore, not to leave the discovery of my sexto chance, to confess the whole to you, and throw myself entirely onyour 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 tosee you, to converse with you, to adore you! Your virtues shall be myexample through life; and when we expire, our bodies shall rest in thesame Grave.'

  She ceased. While She spoke, a thousand opposing sentiments combatedin Ambrosio's bosom. Surprise at the singularity of this adventure,Confusion at her abrupt declaration, Resentment at her boldness inentering the Monastery, and Consciousness of the austerity with whichit behoved him to reply, such were the sentiments of which He wasaware; But there were others also which did not obtain his notice. Heperceived not, that his vanity was flattered by the praises bestowedupon his eloquence and virtue; that He felt a secret pleasure inreflecting that a young and seemingly lovely Woman had for his sakeabandoned the world, and sacrificed every other passion to that whichHe had inspired: Still less did He perceive that his heart throbbedwith desire, while his hand was pressed gently by Matilda's ivoryfingers.

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

  'How, Lady!' said He; 'Can you really hope for my permission to remainamongst us? Even were I to grant your request, what good could youderive 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. Ionly wish for the liberty to be near you, to pass some hours of the dayin 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 myharbouring a Woman in the Abbey; and that too a Woman, who confessesthat She loves me. It must not be. The risque of your beingdiscovered is too great, and I will not expose myself to so dangerous atemptation.'

  'Temptation, say you? Forget that I am a Woman, and it no longerexists: Consider me only as a Friend, as an Unfortunate, whosehappiness, whose life depends upon your protection. Fear not lest Ishould ever call to your remembrance that love the most impetuous, themost unbounded, has induced me to disguise my sex; or that instigatedby desires, offensive to YOUR vows and my own honour, I shouldendeavour to seduce you from the path of rectitude. No, Ambrosio,learn to know me better. I love you for your virtues: Lose them, andwith them you lose my affections. I l
ook upon you as a Saint; Prove tome that you are no more than Man, and I quit you with disgust. Is itthen from me that you fear temptation? From me, in whom the world'sdazzling 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 noblerof yourself. I am incapable of seducing you to error; and surely yourVirtue is established on a basis too firm to be shaken by unwarranteddesires. 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 theimpetuous ebullitions of Youth; After passing thirty years inmortification and penance, I might safely permit your stay, nor fearyour inspiring me with warmer sentiments than pity. But to yourself,remaining in the Abbey can produce none but fatal consequences. Youwill misconstrue my every word and action; You will seize everycircumstance with avidity, which encourages you to hope the return ofyour affection; Insensibly your passions will gain a superiority overyour reason; and far from these being repressed by my presence, everymoment which we pass together, will only serve to irritate and excitethem. Believe me, unhappy Woman! you possess my sincere compassion. Iam convinced that you have hitherto acted upon the purest motives; Butthough you are blind to the imprudence of your conduct, in me it wouldbe culpable not to open your eyes. I feel that Duty obliges mytreating you with harshness: I must reject your prayer, and removeevery shadow of hope which may aid to nourish sentiments so perniciousto 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 thecruelty....'

  'You have heard my decision, and it must be obeyed. The Laws of ourOrder forbid your stay: It would be perjury to conceal that a Woman iswithin these Walls, and my vows will oblige me to declare your story tothe Community. You must from hence!--I pity you, but can do no more!'

  He pronounced these words in a faint and trembling voice: Then risingfrom his seat, He would have hastened towards the Monastery. Utteringa 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 hergarment, 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 plungethis Steel in my heart.'

  'Holy St. Francis! Matilda, have you your senses? Do you know theconsequences 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 handguides 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 remainyour Friend and your Companion, or this poignard drinks my blood!'

  As She uttered these last words, She lifted her arm, and made a motionas if to stab herself. The Friar's eyes followed with dread the courseof the dagger. She had torn open her habit, and her bosom was halfexposed. The weapon's point rested upon her left breast: And Oh! thatwas such a breast! The Moonbeams darting full upon it enabled the Monkto observe its dazzling whiteness. His eye dwelt with insatiableavidity upon the beauteous Orb. A sensation till then unknown filledhis heart with a mixture of anxiety and delight: A raging fire shotthrough every limb; The blood boiled in his veins, and a thousand wildwishes bewildered his imagination.

  'Hold!' He cried in an hurried faultering voice; 'I can resist nolonger! 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, distractedirresolute and confused.

  He found it impossible for some time to arrange his ideas. The scenein which He had been engaged had excited such a variety of sentimentsin his bosom, that He was incapable of deciding which was predominant.He was irresolute what conduct He ought to hold with the disturber ofhis repose. He was conscious that prudence, religion, and proprietynecessitated his obliging her to quit the Abbey: But on the other handsuch powerful reasons authorized her stay that He was but too muchinclined to consent to her remaining. He could not avoid beingflattered by Matilda's declaration, and at reflecting that He hadunconsciously vanquished an heart which had resisted the attacks ofSpain's noblest Cavaliers: The manner in which He had gained heraffections was also the most satisfactory to his vanity: He rememberedthe many happy hours which He had passed in Rosario's society, anddreaded that void in his heart which parting with him would occasion.Besides all this, He considered, that as Matilda was wealthy, herfavour 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 toforget 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 offspringof mere licentiousness, would She so long have concealed it in her ownbosom? Would She not have employed some means to procure itsgratification? She has done quite the contrary: She strove to keep mein ignorance of her sex; and nothing but the fear of detection, and myinstances, would have compelled her to reveal the secret. She hasobserved the duties of religion not less strictly than myself. She hasmade no attempts to rouze my slumbering passions, nor has She everconversed with me till this night on the subject of Love. Had She beendesirous to gain my affections, not my esteem, She would not haveconcealed from me her charms so carefully: At this very moment I havenever seen her face: Yet certainly that face must be lovely, and herperson beautiful, to judge by her ... by what I have seen.'

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

  He awoke, heated and unrefreshed. During his sleep his inflamedimagination had presented him with none but the most voluptuousobjects. Matilda stood before him in his dreams, and his eyes againdwelt upon her naked breast. She repeated her protestations of eternallove, threw her arms round his neck, and loaded him with kisses: Hereturned them; He clasped her passionately to his bosom, and ... thevision was dissolved. Sometimes his dreams presented the image of hisfavourite Madona, and He fancied that He was kneeling before her: AsHe offered up his vows to her, the eyes of the Figure seemed to beam onhim with inexpressible sweetness. He pressed his lips to hers, andfound them warm: The animated form started from the Canvas, embracedhim affectionately, and his senses were unable to support delight soexquisite. Such were the scenes, on which his thoughts were employedwhile sleeping: His unsatisfied Desires placed before him the mostlustful and provoking Images, and he rioted in joys till then unknownto him.

  He started from his Couch, filled with confusion at the remembrance ofhis dreams. Scarcely was He less ashamed, when He reflected on hisreasons of the former night which induced him to authorize Matilda'sstay. The cloud was now dissipated which had obscured his judgment: Heshuddered when He beheld his arguments blazoned in their propercolours, and found that He had been a slave to flattery, to avarice,and self-love. If in one hour's conversation Matilda had produced
achange so remarkable in his sentiments, what had He not to dread fromher remaining in the Abbey? Become sensible of his danger, awakenedfrom his dream of confidence, He resolved to insist on her departingwithout delay. He began to feel that He was not proof againsttemptation; and that however Matilda might restrain herself within thebounds of modesty, He was unable to contend with those passions, fromwhich 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 thembut little attention. His heart and brain were both of them filledwith worldly objects, and He prayed without devotion. The service over,He descended into the Garden. He bent his steps towards the same spotwhere, on the preceding night, He had made this embarrassing discovery.He doubted not but that Matilda would seek him there: He was notdeceived. She soon entered the Hermitage, and approached the Monk witha timid air. After a few minutes during which both were silent, Sheappeared as if on the point of speaking; But the Abbot, who during thistime had been summoning up all his resolution, hastily interrupted her.Though still unconscious how extensive was its influence, He dreadedthe melodious seduction of her voice.

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

  'Ambrosio!' She cried, in a voice at once expressive of surprise andsorrow.

  'Be calm, my Friend! My Rosario! Still let me call you by that nameso dear to me! Our separation is unavoidable; I blush to own, howsensibly it affects me.-- But yet it must be so. I feel myselfincapable of treating you with indifference, and that very convictionobliges me to insist upon your departure. Matilda, you must stay hereno longer.'

  'Oh! where shall I now seek for probity? Disgusted with a perfidiousworld, in what happy region does Truth conceal herself? Father, Ihoped that She resided here; I thought that your bosom had been herfavourite shrine. And you too prove false? Oh God! And you too canbetray me?'

  'Matilda!'

  'Yes, Father, Yes! 'Tis with justice that I reproach you. Oh! whereare your promises? My Noviciate is not expired, and yet will youcompell me to quit the Monastery? Can you have the heart to drive mefrom you? And have I not received your solemn oath to the contrary?'

  'I will not compell you to quit the Monastery: You have received mysolemn oath to the contrary. But yet when I throw myself upon yourgenerosity, when I declare to you the embarrassments in which yourpresence involves me, will you not release me from that oath? Reflectupon the danger of a discovery, upon the opprobrium in which such anevent would plunge me: Reflect that my honour and reputation are atstake, and that my peace of mind depends on your compliance. As yet myheart is free; I shall separate from you with regret, but not withdespair. Stay here, and a few weeks will sacrifice my happiness on thealtar of your charms. You are but too interesting, too amiable! Ishould love you, I should doat on you! My bosom would become the preyof desires which Honour and my profession forbid me to gratify. If Iresisted them, the impetuosity of my wishes unsatisfied would drive meto madness: If I yielded to the temptation, I should sacrifice to onemoment of guilty pleasure my reputation in this world, my salvation inthe next. To you then I fly for defence against myself. Preserve mefrom losing the reward of thirty years of sufferings! Preserve me frombecoming the Victim of Remorse! YOUR heart has already felt theanguish of hopeless love; Oh! then if you really value me, spare minethat anguish! Give me back my promise; Fly from these walls. Go, andyou bear with you my warmest prayers for your happiness, my friendship,my esteem and admiration: Stay, and you become to me the source ofdanger, of sufferings, of despair! Answer me, Matilda; What is yourresolve?'--She was silent--'Will you not speak, Matilda? Will you notname your choice?'

  'Cruel! Cruel!' She exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony; 'You knowtoo well that you offer me no choice! You know too well that I can haveno 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 decreewhich cuts me to the very heart. Take back your promise. I will quitthe Monastery this very day. I have a Relation, Abbess of a Covent inEstramadura: To her will I bend my steps, and shut myself from theworld for ever. Yet tell me, Father, shall I bear your good wisheswith me to my solitude? Will you sometimes abstract your attentionfrom heavenly objects to bestow a thought upon me?'

  'Ah! Matilda, I fear that I shall think on you but too often for myrepose!'

  '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 bearwith 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 theGrotto.) 'I will hide it in my bosom, and when I am dead, the Nunsshall find it withered upon my heart.'

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

  'What is the matter?' She cried; 'Answer me, for God's sake! What hashappened?'

  'I have received my death!' He replied in a faint voice; 'Concealedamong the Roses ... A Serpent....'

  Here the pain of his wound became so exquisite, that Nature was unableto bear it: His senses abandoned him, and He sank inanimate intoMatilda'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 loudcries 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 immediatelyput to bed, and the Monk who officiated as Surgeon to the Fraternityprepared to examine the wound. By this time Ambrosio's hand hadswelled to an extraordinary size; The remedies which had beenadministered to him, 'tis true, restored him to life, but not to hissenses; 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 hisbed.

  Father Pablos, such was the Surgeon's name, hastened to examine thewounded hand. The Monks surrounded the Bed, anxiously waiting for thedecision: Among these the feigned Rosario appeared not the mostinsensible to the Friar's calamity. He gazed upon the Sufferer withinexpressible anguish; and the groans which every moment escaped fromhis bosom sufficiently betrayed the violence of his affliction.

  Father Pablos probed the wound. As He drew out his Lancet, its pointwas tinged with a greenish hue. He shook his head mournfully, andquitted 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 aCientipedoro: The venom which you see upon my Lancet confirms my idea:He cannot live three days.'

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

  'Without extracting the poison, He cannot recover; and how to extractit is to me still a secret. All that I can do is to apply such herbsto the wound as will relieve the anguish: The Patient will be restoredto 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, asHe had promised,
dressed the wound, and then retired, followed by hisCompanions: Rosario alone remained in the Cell, the Abbot at hisurgent entreaty having been committed to his care. Ambrosio's strengthworn out by the violence of his exertions, He had by this time falleninto a profound sleep. So totally was He overcome by weariness, thatHe 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 aprinciple of curiosity than from indulging the hope of discovering anyfavourable symptoms. What was his astonishment at finding, that theinflammation had totally subsided! He probed the hand; His Lancet cameout pure and unsullied; No traces of the venom were perceptible; andhad not the orifice still been visible, Pablos might have doubted thatthere had ever been a wound.

  He communicated this intelligence to his Brethren; their delight wasonly equalled by their surprize. From the latter sentiment, however,they were soon released by explaining the circumstance according totheir own ideas: They were perfectly convinced that their Superior wasa Saint, and thought, that nothing could be more natural than for St.Francis to have operated a miracle in his favour. This opinion wasadopted unanimously: They declared it so loudly, and vociferated,--'Amiracle! a miracle!'--with such fervour, that they soon interruptedAmbrosio's slumbers.

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

  For some minutes Ambrosio regarded his Attendant with a look of mingledpleasure 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 younot satisfied with having so nearly effected my destruction, thatnothing but a miracle could have saved me from the Grave? Ah! surelyHeaven sent that Serpent to punish....'

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

  'Hush! Father, Hush! You must not talk!'

  'He who imposed that order, knew not how interesting are the subjectson which I wish to speak.'

  'But I know it, and yet issue the same positive command. I amappointed 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 throughmy 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 seeminclined 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 foreight and forty hours, I may possibly entertain you, when wearied ofyour 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 treatsof the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle ofRoncevalles?'

  'What you please, Matilda.'

  'Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Rosario, call me your Friend! Thoseare the names, which I love to hear from your lips. Now listen!'

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

  Ambrosio, while He listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and apleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matildachanged the strain: With an hand bold and rapid She struck a few loudmartial chords, and then chaunted the following Ballad to an air atonce 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 avoice more harmonious; and He wondered how such heavenly sounds couldbe produced by any but Angels. But though He indulged the sense ofhearing, a single look convinced him that He must not trust to that ofsight. The Songstress sat at a little distance from his Bed. Theattitude in which She bent over her harp, was easy and graceful: HerCowl had fallen backwarder than usual: Two coral lips were visible,ripe, fresh, and melting, and a Chin in whose dimples seemed to lurk athousand Cupids. Her Habit's long sleeve would have swept along theChords of the Instrument: To prevent this inconvenience She had drawnit above her elbow, and by this means an arm was discovered formed inthe most perfect symmetry, the delicacy of whose skin might havecontended with snow in whiteness. Ambrosio dared to look on her butonce: That glance sufficed to convince him, how dangerous was thepresence of this seducing Object. He closed his eyes, but strove invain to banish her from his thoughts. There She still moved before him,adorned with all those charms which his heated imagination couldsupply: Every beauty which He had seen, appeared embellished, andthose still concealed Fancy represented to him in glowing colours.Still, however, his vows and the necessity of keeping to them werepresent to his memory. He struggled with desire, and shuddered when Hebeheld how
deep was the precipice before him.

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

  'He sleeps!' said She at length in a low voice, but whose accents theAbbot distinguished perfectly; 'Now then I may gaze upon him withoutoffence! 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 seducinghim to the violation of his vows! Oh! the Unjust! Were it my wish toexcite 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 havepast, since I was dear to him! He esteemed me, and my heart wassatisfied! Now!... Oh! now how cruelly is my situation changed! Helooks 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 mybreast! Yet two days, and my heart will be unveiled to you.--Could youknow my feelings, when I beheld your agony! Could you know, how muchyour sufferings have endeared you to me! But the time will come, whenyou will be convinced that my passion is pure and disinterested. Thenyou will pity me, and feel the whole weight of these sorrows!'

  As She said this, her voice was choaked by weeping. While She bent overAmbrosio, 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 aredetermined not to wake. The Friar was in this predicament: He stillseemed buried in a repose, which every succeeding minute rendered himless capable of enjoying. The burning tear had communicated its warmthto his heart.

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

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

  'Happy, happy Image!' Thus did She address the beautiful Madona; ''Tisto you that He offers his prayers! 'Tis on you that He gazes withadmiration! I thought you would have lightened my sorrows; You haveonly served to increase their weight: You have made me feel that had Iknown him ere his vows were pronounced, Ambrosio and happiness mighthave been mine. With what pleasure He views this picture! With whatfervour He addresses his prayers to the insensible Image! Ah! may nothis sentiments be inspired by some kind and secret Genius, Friend to myaffection? May it not be Man's natural instinct which informs him...Be silent, idle hopes! Let me not encourage an idea which takes fromthe brilliance of Ambrosio's virtue. 'Tis Religion, not Beauty whichattracts his admiration; 'Tis not to the Woman, but the Divinity thatHe kneels. Would He but address to me the least tender expressionwhich He pours forth to this Madona! Would He but say that were He notalready affianced to the Church, He would not have despised Matilda!Oh! let me nourish that fond idea! Perhaps He may yet acknowledgethat He feels for me more than pity, and that affection like mine mightwell have deserved a return; Perhaps, He may own thus much when I lyeon my deathbed! He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and theconfession of his regard will soften the pangs of dying. Would I weresure of this! Oh! how earnestly should I sigh for the moment ofdissolution!'

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

  'Matilda!' He said in a troubled voice; 'Oh! my Matilda!'

  She started at the sound, and turned towards him hastily. Thesuddenness of her movement made her Cowl fall back from her head; Herfeatures became visible to the Monk's enquiring eye. What was hisamazement at beholding the exact resemblance of his admired Madona?The same exquisite proportion of features, the same profusion of goldenhair, the same rosy lips, heavenly eyes, and majesty of countenanceadorned Matilda! Uttering an exclamation of surprize, Ambrosio sankback upon his pillow, and doubted whether the Object before him wasmortal or divine.

  Matilda seemed penetrated with confusion. She remained motionless inher place, and supported herself upon her Instrument. Her eyes werebent upon the earth, and her fair cheeks overspread with blushes. Onrecovering herself, her first action was to conceal her features. Shethen in an unsteady and troubled voice ventured to address these wordsto the Friar.

  'Accident has made you Master of a secret, which I never would haverevealed but on the Bed of death. Yes, Ambrosio; In Matilda deVillanegas you see the original of your beloved Madona. Soon after Iconceived my unfortunate passion, I formed the project of conveying toyou my Picture: Crowds of Admirers had persuaded me that I possessedsome beauty, and I was anxious to know what effect it would produceupon you. I caused my Portrait to be drawn by Martin Galuppi, acelebrated Venetian at that time resident in Madrid. The resemblancewas striking: I sent it to the Capuchin Abbey as if for sale, and theJew from whom you bought it was one of my Emissaries. You purchasedit. Judge of my rapture, when informed that you had gazed upon it withdelight, or rather with adoration; that you had suspended it in yourCell, and that you addressed your supplications to no other Saint.Will this discovery make me still more regarded as an object ofsuspicion? Rather should it convince you how pure is my affection, andengage you to suffer me in your society and esteem. I heard you dailyextol the praises of my Portrait: I was an eyewitness of thetransports, which its beauty excited in you: Yet I forbore to useagainst your virtue those arms, with which yourself had furnished me.I concealed those features from your sight, which you lovedunconsciously. I strove not to excite desire by displaying my charms,or to make myself Mistress of your heart through the medium of yoursenses. To attract your notice by studiously attending to religiousduties, to endear myself to you by convincing you that my mind wasvirtuous and my attachment sincere, such was my only aim. I succeeded;I became your companion and your Friend. I concealed my sex from yourknowledge; and had you not pressed me to reveal my secret, had I notbeen tormented by the fear of a discovery, never had you known me forany other than Rosario. And still are you resolved to drive me fromyou? The few hours of life which yet remain for me, may I not passthem in your presence? Oh! speak, Ambrosio, and tell me that I maystay!'

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

  'You declaration has so much astonished me,' said He, 'that I am atpresent 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 quittingthe Abbey immediately.'

  'Matilda, reflect upon your situation; Reflect upon the consequences ofyour 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 yourremaining here a sufficient time to prepare in some measure theBrethren for your departure. Stay yet two days; But on the third,' ...(He sighed involuntarily)--'Remember, that on the third we must partfor ever!'

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

  'On the third?' She exclaimed with an air of wild solemnity; 'You areright, 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 hishand, and then fled with rapidity from the chamber.


  Anxious to authorise the presence of his dangerous Guest, yet consciousthat her stay was infringing the laws of his order, Ambrosio's bosombecame the Theatre of a thousand contending passions. At length hisattachment to the feigned Rosario, aided by the natural warmth of histemperament, seemed likely to obtain the victory: The success wasassured, when that presumption which formed the groundwork of hischaracter came to Matilda's assistance. The Monk reflected that tovanquish temptation was an infinitely greater merit than to avoid it:He thought that He ought rather to rejoice in the opportunity given himof proving the firmness of his virtue. St. Anthony had withstood allseductions to lust; Then why should not He? Besides, St. Anthony wastempted by the Devil, who put every art into practice to excite hispassions: Whereas, Ambrosio's danger proceeded from a mere mortalWoman, fearful and modest, whose apprehensions of his yielding were notless violent than his own.

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

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

  He found himself so perfectly recovered, that when Father Pablosvisited him again at night, He entreated permission to quit his chamberon the day following. His request was granted. Matilda appeared nomore that evening, except in company with the Monks when they came in abody to enquire after the Abbot's health. She seemed fearful ofconversing with him in private, and stayed but a few minutes in hisroom. The Friar slept well; But the dreams of the former night wererepeated, and his sensations of voluptuousness were yet more keen andexquisite. 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 ardentcaresses. He returned them as eagerly, and already was on the point ofsatisfying his desires, when the faithless form disappeared, and lefthim to all the horrors of shame and disappointment.

  The Morning dawned. Fatigued, harassed, and exhausted by his provokingdreams, He was not disposed to quit his Bed. He excused himself fromappearing at Matins: It was the first morning in his life that He hadever missed them. He rose late. During the whole of the day He had noopportunity of speaking to Matilda without witnesses. His Cell wasthronged by the Monks, anxious to express their concern at his illness;And He was still occupied in receiving their compliments on hisrecovery, when the Bell summoned them to the Refectory.

  After dinner the Monks separated, and dispersed themselves in variousparts of the Garden, where the shade of trees or retirement of someGrotto presented the most agreeable means of enjoying the Siesta. TheAbbot bent his steps towards the Hermitage: A glance of his eyeinvited Matilda to accompany him.

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

  Matilda's efforts to appear gay were evidently forced: Her spirits wereoppressed by the weight of anxiety, and when She spoke her voice waslow and feeble. She seemed desirous of finishing a conversation whichembarrassed her; and complaining that She was unwell, She requestedAmbrosio's permission to return to the Abbey. He accompanied her tothe door of her cell; and when arrived there, He stopped her to declarehis consent to her continuing the Partner of his solitude so long asshould 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 thepermission.

  'Alas! Father,' She said, waving her head mournfully; 'Your kindnesscomes too late! My doom is fixed. We must separate for ever. Yetbelieve, that I am grateful for your generosity, for your compassion ofan Unfortunate who is but too little deserving of it!'

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

  'Good God!' He cried; 'You are very ill, Matilda! I shall send FatherPablos 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 shallremember you in heaven!'

  She entered her cell, and closed the door.

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

  He did not find himself inclined to sleep. He opened his casement, andgazed upon the moonbeams as they played upon the small stream whosewaters bathed the walls of the Monastery. The coolness of the nightbreeze and tranquillity of the hour inspired the Friar's mind withsadness. He thought upon Matilda's beauty and affection; Upon thepleasures which He might have shared with her, had He not beenrestrained by monastic fetters. He reflected, that unsustained by hopeher love for him could not long exist; That doubtless She would succeedin extinguishing her passion, and seek for happiness in the arms of Onemore fortunate. He shuddered at the void which her absence would leavein his bosom. He looked with disgust on the monotony of a Convent, andbreathed a sigh towards that world from which He was for everseparated. Such were the reflections which a loud knocking at his doorinterrupted. The Bell of the Church had already struck Two. The Abbothastened to enquire the cause of this disturbance. He opened the doorof his Cell, and a Lay-Brother entered, whose looks declared his hurryand 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! Ifear! I fear!'

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

  'Poisoned? Oh! The Unfortunate! It is then as I suspected! But letme 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 werealready in the chamber. Father Pablos was one of them, and held amedicine in his hand which He was endeavouring to persuade Rosario toswallow. The Others were employed in admiring the Patient's divinecountenance, which They now saw for the first time. She lookedlovelier than ever. She was no longer pale or languid; A bright glowhad spread itself over her cheeks; her eyes sparkled with a serenedelight, and her countenance was expressive of confidence andresignation.

  'Oh! torment me no more!' was She saying to Pablos, when the terrifiedAbbot rushed hastily into the Cell; 'My disease is far beyond the reachof your skill, and I wish not to be cured of it'--Then perceivingAmbrosio,-- 'Ah! 'tis He!' She cried; 'I see him once again, before wepart for ever! Leave me, my Brethren; Much have I to tell this holyMan in private.'

  The Monks retired immediately, and Matilda and the Abbot remainedtogether.

  'What have you done, imprudent Woman!' exclaimed the Latter, as soon asthey were left alone; 'Tell me; Are my suspicions just? Am I indeed tolose 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 poisone
d; But knowthat the poison once circulated in your veins.'

  'Matilda!'

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

  'Almighty God!' exclaimed the Abbot, and sank almost lifeless upon theBed.

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

  'And you have sacrificed yourself for me! You die, and die to preserveAmbrosio! And is there indeed no remedy, Matilda? And is there indeedno hope? Speak to me, Oh! speak to me! Tell me, that you have stillthe means of life!'

  'Be comforted, my only Friend! Yes, I have still the means of life inmy 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 herhand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips.)--'Remember our lateconversations; I now consent to every thing: Remember in what livelycolours you described the union of souls; Be it ours to realize thoseideas. Let us forget the distinctions of sex, despise the world'sprejudices, and only consider each other as Brother and Friend. Livethen, Matilda! Oh! live for me!'

  'Ambrosio, it must not be. When I thought thus, I deceived both youand myself. Either I must die at present, or expire by the lingeringtorments of unsatisfied desire. Oh! since we last conversed together,a dreadful veil has been rent from before my eyes. I love you nolonger with the devotion which is paid to a Saint: I prize you no morefor 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 ofpassions. Away with friendship! 'tis a cold unfeeling word. My bosomburns 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 tocombat my passions, shall seize every opportunity to excite yourdesires, and labour to effect your dishonour and my own. No, no,Ambrosio; I must not live! I am convinced with every moment, that Ihave but one alternative; I feel with every heart-throb, that I mustenjoy 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 Friarto detain him.

  'Oh! do not leave me! Listen to my errors with compassion! In a fewhours I shall be no more; Yet a little, and I am free from thisdisgraceful 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 ininfamy? To become the Agent of Hell? To work the destruction both ofyou and of Myself? Feel this heart, Father!'

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

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

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

  'Ambrosio! Oh! my Ambrosio!' sighed Matilda.

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