L I B R.Y OF THE UNIVERSITY Of ILLINOIS \S59 Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. University of Illinois Library NOV 2 7 13(t0 JUN 2 2 19B8 OCT 2 9 1JI98 MAR 0 1 2006 ? f_ r- 0 N0V20t' n; mR2 6 TO MAR 'APR 8 A r\ p (; 197S 1971 1980 L161 — H41 LONDON: G. PURKESS, COMrXON STiiEPn\ SOHO. WO THE MONK, BY M. G. LEWIS, Esq, DreAms, magic terrors.spalls of mighty power, Witches, ADd ghosts who rove at midnight hour. BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED. LONDON G. PURKESS. COMPTON STREET, SOHO; AND ALL BOOK^ELLEnS. Sf3 PREFACE. IMITATION OF HORACE. 'Ep. 20.--B. 1. Methink?, oh! vain ill judging book, I see thee cast a winhful look, Where reputations won and lost are In famous Row called Paternoster. Incensed to find your precious olio Buried in unexplored portfolio, 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 prophecy : Soon as your novelty is o'er, And you are young and new no more, In some dark dirty corner thrown. Mouldy with damps and cobwebs strowD, Your leaves shall be the book-worm's prey, Or sent to chandler shop away, And doomed to sutler public scandal. Shall line the trunk, or wrap the candle ! IV. But Bhotild yon meet with approbation, And some one find an inclination To ask, bj natural transition, Respecting me and my condition ; That I am one, the inquirer 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 ; Abhoring all whom I dislike, Adoring who my fancy strike ; In forming judgments 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 sera That friendship is a pure chimera : 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 t Dear book, adieu I Haoub, Oct. 28, 1794. M. O.L. THE MONK. A TALE OP THE INQUISITION! CHAPTER I. ■ Lord Angelo is precise ; Stands at a guard with en\7 ; scarce confesses That his blood flows, or that his appetite Is more to bread than ttone. Measure For, Meastoe." Scarcely had the abbey bell tolled for five minutes, and already was tha church of the Capuchins thronged with auditors. Do not encourage the i.dea, 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 Ma drid , 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 shew them- selves, 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 tQ 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, j every seat was occupied. The very statues which ornamented tha long aisles were pressed into the service. Boys suspended themselves upon the v/ings of cherubims ; St. Francis, and St. Mark, bore each a spectator on his shoul- ders ; and St. Agatha found herself under the necessity of carrying double. The consequence was that, in spite of all their huny and exijedition, our j two new-comers, on entering the church, looked round in vain for places. However, the old woman continued to move forwards. In vain were ex- clamations of displeasure vented against her from all sides ; in vain rres she addressed with—" I assure you, Signora, there are no places here." — " I beg, Signora that you will not crowd rae so intolerably." — " Signora, you csnnot 4 THE MONK. pass this way. Bless me ! How can people be so troublesome !" — The old woman wag obstinate, aud on she went. By dint of peiBoverance and two brawny arms she mado a passage through the crowd, and managed to bustle herself into the very body of the church, at no greaf, distance from the pulpit. Her companion had followed 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 inquiry round her ; " Holy Virgin ! what heat ! what a crowd ! 1 wonder what can be the moaning of all this. I believe we must return : there is no euch 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 riglit hand, and were leaning their baclcs against the seventh column from the pulpit. Both were young, and richly habited. Hearing this ap- peal 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 weie 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 suffi- ciently to discover a neck which for symmetry and beauty might have vied with the Mediceau Venus. It was of the most dazzling whiteness, and re- ceived 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, aud 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 diffi- culty, 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 oflF the old woman's attention from her lovely charge. TUK MONK. 5 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 I 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 in- ^ telligible, she made shift to answer — i y *' No, Signer." w Do you intend making a stay of any length ?" ' " Yes, Signer." I "I should esteem myself fortunate, were it in my power to contribute to {] making your ."ibode agreeable. I am well known at Madrid, and my family I has some interest at court. If I can be of any service, you cannot honour I 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 conver- sable ; but whether her silence proceeded from pride, discretion, timidity, or I idiotism. he was still unable to decide. j After a pause of some minutes — " It is certainly from your being a stranger, * j 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 it. I never unveil in public, Signer." " And where is the harm, I pray you Y' interrupted her companion, some- what 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 ; aud surely, if I expose my features to general ob- servation, 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 villanous province. If it is the custom in Madrid, that is all we ought to mind; and therefore I desiro you to takeoff your veil immediately. Obey ine this moment, Autonia, for you know that 1 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 hia admiration ! Yet it was rathw 6 THE MOJVK. bewitching than beautiful ; it was not so lovely from regularity of features, as from sweetne.-s and sensibility of countenance. The several parts of her face, considered separately, many of them were far from handsome ; but when j examined together, the whole was adorable. Her skin, though fair, was not I entirely without freckles ; her eyes were not very large, nor their lawhos par- ticularly long. But then, her lips were of the moat rosy freshness ; her fair and undulating hair, confined by a simple riband, poured itself below hei' waist in a profusion of ringlets ; her neck was full and beautiful in tha ej-' treme; her hand and arm were formed with the most perfect symmetry her mild blue eyes seemed an heaven of sweetness, and the chrystal in which they moved sparkled with all the brilliance of diamonds. She appeared to be scarcely fifteen ; an arched smile playing round her mouth, declared her to be possessed of liveliness, which excess of timidity at present repressed. She looked round with a bashful glance ; and whenever her eyes accidentally met Lorenzo's, she dropped them hasViIy upon her rosary ; her cheek was immediately sutlused 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 thd aunt thought it necessary to apologise for Antonia's mauvaise honte. "'Tis a young creature," said slie, " 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 ne- cessary 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 Chriatoval, with feigned aatonishment, '* How very extraordinary I" " Very true, Signor. Is it not strange? Hovvever^ sneh is tlie fact; and yet, only to see the luck of some people ! A young nobleman, of the very I first quality, took it into his head, that Elvira had some pretensions to beauty. ! As to pretensions, iu truth she had always enough of them ; but as to boaut}'^ ! — if I had only taken half t.ha pains to set myself off which she did! But this is neither here nor there. As I was saying, Signor, a young nobleman fell in love with her, and married her, uukuown to his father. Tlieir 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 in- telligence. Away he posted in ail 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 hira, had joined her husband, and that liiey had embarked together for the Indies ! He swore at us all, as if the evil spirit had po.«sessed him; he threw my father into prison — as honest a pains-taking shoemaker as any iin Cordova ; and when he went away, he had the cruelty to take from us my pister's little boy, then scarcely two years old, and whom, in the abruptneps 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 I months after, we received inteliigence of his death." I " Wliy, this was a most terrible old fellow, Signora." THZ MONK. 7 *• Oh ! shocking ! and a man so totally devoid of taste! Why, would you believe it, Signer? 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 my- self ! 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 ! Signor, you are really too polite. However, I am heartily ^ glad that the conde was of a different way of thinking. A mighty pretty I piece of business, to be sure, Elvira has made of it. After broiling and stew- J ing in the Indies for thirteen long years, her husband dies, and she returns I to Spain, without a 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 faith er- in -law had married agaiu, that he was irreconcileable to the conde, and that htg second wife had produced him a son, who is re- ported 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, ho would assign her a small pension, and she might live in an old castle which she possessed in Murcia. This had been the favourite ha- bitation 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 ac- cepted the proposal ; she retired to Murcia, and has remained there till within the last month." " And what brings her now to Madrid?" inquired Don Lorenzo, whom, admiration of the young Antonia, compelled to take a lively interest in the talkative old woman's narration. Alas I Signor, 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 1 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 wotnen. I advised my sistar to send Antonia with her petition ; but she would not hear of auch a thing. She is so obtitinate I 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, Signora !'' 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 ; X have aa yet preserved my reputation without blemish or reproach, and I always knew how to keep the men at a proper distance." *' Of that, Signora, I have not the least doubt. But permjt me to ask you, have you then any aversion to matrimony ?" " That is a home question. I cannot but confess, that if an amiable cavalier was to present himself — '* 8 THE MONK. Hero ehtj intended to throw a tender and significant look upon Don Chris- toval; but as she 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 inquire," said he, " the name of the marquis 7' I The Marquis de las Cisternas." 1 " I know him intimately well. He is not at present in Madrid, but is cx- j pected here daily. He is one of the best of men ; and if the lovely Antonia t will permit me to be her advocate with him, I doubt not my being able to I make a favourable report of her cause." I Antonia raised her blue eyes, and silently thanked him for the offer by a j smile of inexpressible sweetness. Leonella's satisfaction was much more I loud and audible. Indeed, as her neice was generally silent in her company, ! she thought it incumbent upon her to talk enough for both : this she I managed without difficulty, for she verv seldom fonnd herself deficient in i words. " Oh, Signor !" she cried, " you will lay our whole family nnder the most signal obligations ! I accept your offer with all possible gratitude, and re- turn 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 thanke, either bad, good, or indifferent! — " My dear aunt, I am very sensible that — " Fie, niece! how often have I told yon, that you should never 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 thio girl anything like a person of good breeding. But pray, Signor,' she continued, addressing herself to Don Christoval, " inform me, why j such a crowd i5 assembled to-day in this cathedral, " Can you possibly be ignorant, that Ambrosio, abbot of this monastry, pronounces a sermon in this church every Thursday. All Madrid rings with his praises. As yet he has preached but thrice; bnt all who have heard him are so delighted with his eloquence, that it is as difficult to ob- tain a place at church, as at the first representation of a new comedy. His fame certainly must have reached your ears ?" '* Alas, Signor, 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 navo fascinated the inhabitants ; and not having attended his sermons myself, I am astonished at the enthusiasm which he has excited. The adoration paid him, both by young and old, by man and woman, is unexampled. The grandees load him with presents ; their wives refuse to have any other con- fessor ; and he is known through all the city by the name of ' The Man of Holiness.'" " Undoubtedly, Signor, he is of noble origin." THB MONK. 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 wera vain, and the child himself could give no ac- count of his parents. He was eduoated in the monastry, where he has re- mained ever since. He early shewed a strong inclinatiou 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 shown 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 singula r austerity of his life gives some countenance to the report. He is now thirty i years old, every hour of which period has been passed in study, total seclu- '< sion 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 ou Thursdays, when he delivers a discourse in this cathedral, which all Madrid assembles to hear. His knowledge is said to be the most profound, in 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 re- ported 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 bo a saint." " Does that make a saint ?'* inquired Antonia. " Bless me ! then am I one.'' "Holy St, Barbara !" exclaimed Leonella, " what a question, fie, child, fie ! these are not fit subjects for a young woman to handle. Yotx should not seem to remember that there is such a thing as a man in the world, and you ought to imagine everybody 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 lfa.rge,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 un- wrinkled 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 liery and penetrating. Such was Ambrosio, abbot oi the Capuchins, and surnamed " The Man of Holiness." Antonia, while she gazed upon him eagerly felt a pleasure fluttering iti No. 2. 10 TH^ JVrONK. 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 aad emotion. They who -were insensible to religion's merits, were still enchanted with Ambrosio's oratory. All found their attention irre- sistibly 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 beau- ties 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 punishment 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 Am- brosio, changing his theme, spoke of the excellence of an unsullied conscience, of the glorious prospect which eternity presented to the soul, untainted with ••eproach, 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 hdng 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 pulpic, 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 de- voutly 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 exhort- ation. 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 divided among the spectators. Whoever became possessor of a bead, preserved it as a sacred relic ; and had it been the chaplct of thvice- bleased St. Francis himself, it could not have been disputed with greater vi* vacity. The abbot, smiling at their eagerness, pronounced his benediction, and quitted the church, while humility d\felt upon "every feature. Dwelt she also in his heart '? Antonia's eyes followed hiui with auxiety. Aa the door closed after him, Till': MONK. 11 it seemed to her as though she had had lost some one essential to her hap- piness. A tear stole in silence down her cheek. " He is separated Iroia the world !" said siie to herself; " perhaps I shall never see him more." As she wiped away the tear, Lorenzo observed her action. " Are yoa satisfied with our orator ?" said he; " or do you think that Madrid over- rates his talents ?" Antouia'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 mo- ment 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 j the world, and full of warmth and sensibility, receives its first iuipressions ( with eagerness. Artless yourself, you suspect not others of deceit ; and view- iug the world through the medium of your own truth and innocence, you I fancy all who surround you to deserve your confidence and esteem. What pity, that these gay visions must scon he dissipated ! What pity, that you must soon discover the baseness of mankind, and guard against your fellow- creatures as against your foes !" " Alas, Signer !" replied Antonia, '* the misfortunes of my parents have already placed beforo 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. Auibrosio's character is perfectly without reproach ; and a man who has passed the whole of his life i within the walls of a convent, cannot have found the opportunity to bo guilty, j 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 brilliancy 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 esta- blished 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 olyect. Very few would return victorious from a contest so severe." '* Ah I surely Ambrosio will be one of those few." 1 " 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 char- acter." *■ Signor, you delight me by this assurance! It encourages me to indulge my prepossession in hia favour; and you know not with what pain I should 12 THK MONK. have repressed the Bentiment. Ah! dearest aunt, entreat my mother to choose him for our confessor." " I entreat her," reph'ed 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 seve- rity about him that made me tremble from head to foot. Were he my con- fessor, 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 1 never shall see such another. His description of the devil, God bless us ! almost terrified me out of my wits ; and when he spoke 1 about sinners, he seemed as if he was ready to eat them." " You are right, Signora," answered Don Christoval. " Too great severity is said to be Ambrosio's only fault. Exempted himself from human failings, lie 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 ?" " O Christ, Signor !" 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, Signora— — " "Oh, Signor, 1 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 nie to accept your hand at first sight." " Accept my hand. As I hope to live and breathe——*' " Oh ! dear Signor, press me no further if you love me I I shall consider your obedience as a proof of your affection ; you shall hear from me to-mor- row, and so farewell. But, pray, cavaliers, may I not inquire your names?" " My friend's," replied Lorenzo, " is the Conde d'Ossorio, and mine Lorenzo de Medina." " *Tis suflTicient. Well Don Lorenzo, I shall acquaint my sister with your obliging ofler, and let you know the result with all possible 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. Signor Conde, let me entreat you to moderate the excessive ardour of your passion. However, to prove that 1 am not displeased with you, and prevent your aban- doning 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 sup- posed 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. THE MONK, 13 " So, Lorenzo I" said Don Chriatoval, as soon as they were alone, " you hare procured me an agreeable intrigue ! To favour your designs upon Antonia, I obligingly make a few civil speeches, which moan 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" " I confess, my poor count," replied Lorenzo, " that your service has been attended with danger ; yet am I so far from supposing it to be past all en- duranco, 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 under- stand them ; but what I have seen this evening — " " Well, what have you seen this evening ? Wliy, surely, Don Lorenzo, you cannot be mad enough to think of making a wife out of this grand- daughter of ' as honest a pains- taking shoemaker aa any in Cordova ?' " •* You forgot 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 1 never beheld a woman so interesting as Antonia. " Very possibly ; but you cannot mean to marry her ?" " Why not, my dear Conde ? 1 shall have wealth enough for both of us, nd you know that my uncle thinks liberally upon the subject. From what 1 have seen of Raymond de las Cisternas, I am certain that he will readilv acknowledge Antonia for his niece. Her birth, therefore, will be no ob» jectiou 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 80? 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 ia in this street, and I was going thither when the crowd which I saw throng- ing into this ehurch, excited my curiosity to know what was the matter. I shall now pursue my first intention, and probably pass the evening with my aister at the parlour grate." " Your sister in a convent, say you ? Oh ! very true, I haa torgotten. 14: And how does Donna Agnes ? I am amajjed, don Lorenzo, how you could possibly think of immuring bo charming a girl within the walls of a cloister !" " I think of it ! Don Christoval ? How can you suspect me of such bar- barity ? 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 fruitlessi, and I lost a sister I " " The luckier fellow you ; I think, Lorenzo, yon 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, Conde?" said Lorenzo, in an angry voice ; ** do yousupposeme 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 Etna! 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 exeellent a heart what a 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 ob- Bcurity 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 moon-beams darting into the church through painted windows, tinged the fretted roofs and massy pillars with a thousand various shades of light and colours. Universal silence prevailed around, only interrupted by the occasional closing of doors in the adjoining abbey. The calm of the hour and solitude of the place contributed to nourish 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 influ- ence his slumbers. He still fancied himself to be in the church of the Capuchins ; but it was no lonAUE APPEAUED, FOLLOWED BY A LONG PROCESSION OF NUKS." belong to yoarself and yonr humble servant, thinks proper to biir.g her holy flock to confession in the dusk ; she is to bo 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 hero in a few momenta. There is news for you, you rogue. We shall see some of the prettiest faces in Madrid I" '* 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 No. 3. 18 THE MONK. off their veils, from respect to the eaiut 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 iho vows are addressed of this mysterious stranger." Scarcely had Don Christoval ceased to speak, when the domiua 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 begai to duspair of seeing the mystery cleared up, when, in paying her res'^.ects to St. Francis, one of the nuns happened to drop her rosary. As she stooped to pick it up the light flashed full in 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 pi'ocession. " Ha !" said Chri?toval, in a low voice, " here we have some little intrigue, no doubt." Agues, 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. Ti\e 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 luit over his eyes. " Attempt not to fly me," exclaimed Lorenao ; ** 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 whieh I am now ashamed; but it becomes not you to question me. Either reply circumstantially to my demands, or answer me with your sword." " Tlie latter method will be the shortest," rejoined the otlier, drawing his rapier ; '* oome on Signor Bravo ! I am ready." Burning with rage, Lorenzo hastened to the attack ; the antagonists bad 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 laa 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. THE MONK. 19 *' You here, marquis ! What is the meaning of all this? You engaged in a clandestine corresband'8 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 minor view ; j And each, when many a year is o'er, Shall own tho Gipsey's sayings true. « Dear aimt V' aaid Antonia, when the stranger had fiuidhcd, *' is she not madr THE MONK. 21 ♦'Mad I Not she, child ; she is only wicked. She is a gipsey, a sort of vagabond, whose sole occupation is to run about the country telling lies, 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 gipscy'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 GIPSEY. ** Lady, gentle lady ! know 1 your future fate can show ; Give your hand, and do not fear ; Lady, gentle lady I 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, 1 beseech you." ''Well, well, Antonia, since you are po bent upon the thing — here, good woman, you shall see tho hand 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 gipsey looked at it for a moment, and then made this repiy ; — THE GIPSEY. " Your fortune ! You are now so old, Good dame, that 'tis already told : Yet, for your money, in a tiice 1 will repay you in advice. Astonished at your childish vanity, Your friends all las. 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 fit'ty-one ; And men will rarely take a 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 bestuw, Which now are spent on useless show. Think on your Maker, not a suitor ; Think on your past faults, not on luturc ; And think Time'b scythe will quickly mow The few red hairs which deck your brow." The audience rang with laughter during the gipsey's address ; and— "fifty -one — squinting eyes — red hair, paint and patches," &c., wer« bandied 22 THR MONK. from mouth to mouth. Leonella was almost choked with passion, and loaded her malicious adviser wit'i 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 GIPSEY. " 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, attd heaven'a decree." In imitation of Leonella, Antonia drew off her glove, and presented her white hand to the gipsey, who, having gaaed upon it for some time with a mingled expression of pity and astonishment, pronounced her oracle in the following words: — THE GIPSEY. Jesus ! what a palm is there / Chaste and gentle, young and fair, Perfect mind and form possessing, l''ou 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 e^il ; And from earth by sorrows driven, Soon your soul nm^t speed to heaven. Yet your suflerings lo delay, Well remember what I say. When you one more virtuous see Than belong to man to be. One, whose self no crimes assailing, Pities not his neiglilxmr's failing, Call tile gipsey's words to mind ; Though he seem so good and kind, Fair exteriors oft will hide Hearts that swell with lust at»d priile. Lovelv 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 gipsey again whirled herself round thrice, and then hastened out of the street with frantic gesture. The crowd followed h«,r and Elvira's door being now uneuibarras!*cd, Leonella entered the house, out of humour with the gipsey, with her neice, and with the people ; in short, ^isith everybody but herself and her charming cavalier. The gipsey's pie- dictious hud also considerably atfected Antonia; but the inipression soon wore off, and in a few houra she had forgotten the adventure, as totally as had it never taken place. THE MONK. CHAPTER ir. Ilailst thou but tisted once the thousandth part Of joys, which bless the loved and loving heai t, Your \Yords repeutint and your sighs would prove, Lo^t is the time which is uot pa.>sed iu love." The monks having attended iheir abbot tu tlie door of his cell, he dismissed them with an air ot couscioua fcuperioiity, iu which huuiility'a semblance combated with the reality of pride. Ho was no sooner alone, than he gave free loose to the indulgence of his vanity. Wlien he remembered the enthusiasm which hia discourse had ex- cited, his heart swelled wuh rapture , and hia imagination presented him Viiih splendid visions of aggrandizement. He looked round him with exultation ; and pride told him loudly that he was superior to the rest of"Ris fellow- creatures. " Whc," 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 posaessed 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 brethren, 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. 1 must accustom my eyes to ob- jects of temptation, and expose myself to the seduction of luxury and desire. Should I meet in that world which I am constiaiued to enter, some lovely female — lovely as you, Madona — '* As he said thie, he fixed his eyes upon a picture of the Virgin, which was suspended opposite him : this for two years had been the object of hi.s in- creasing wonder and adoration. He paused, and gazed upon it with delight. " What beauty in that countenance 1" lie 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 white- ness 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 24 THE MONK. resist the temptation ? Should I not baiter, 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, im- pure 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 exiht, 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. I It is not the woman's beauty that fills me with such enthusiasm ; it is the painter's skill that I admire j 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 the 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 knock- ing was repeated, " Who is there?" said Ambrosio, at length. '* It is only Eosario," replied a gentle voice. " Enter, outer, 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, hi? profound melancholy, his rigid observation of the duties of his orders, and his voluntary seclusion from tho world, at his age so un- usual, attracted the notice of the whole fraternity. He seemed fearful of being recognised, and no one had ever seen his face. His head was con- tinually muffled up in his cowl; yet such of his features as accident dis- covered, 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 on the subject he preserved a profound silence. A stranger, whose rich habit and magnificent equipage declared him to be of distinguished rank, had engaged tho monks to receive a novice, and has 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; ho 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 ho 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 dis-^our.^o. Ambrosio,. on his side, did not feel less attracted towards THE MONK. 25 " * HOLD ! ' SAID THE FRIAR, IN A TONE OF SEVERITY j * DAUGHTER, I MUST READ THIS LETTER.' " the youth ; with him alone did he lay aside his habitual severity. When he Bpoke to him, he insensibly assumed a tone milder than was usual to him, and no voice sounded so sweet to him as did Kosario's. He repaid the youth's attentions by instructing him in various sciences ; the novice received his lessons with docility ; Ambrosio was every day more charmed with the vi- vacity 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 the rule of his self-denial extended even to curiosity, and prevented him from communicating his wishes to the vouth. No. 4. 26 THE MONK. "Pardon my iatrusion, 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. lam 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 con- tented 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 pre- sent ? 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 I 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, I tremble at the effects of my despair!" " You apprehend the loss of my friendship, how has my conduct justified this fear ? Know mo 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 THE MONK. 27 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, inquire 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 bless- ing 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 be- longing 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. Clair. 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 the 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 5 " 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 her- self 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 to-morrow night I shall expect to find you at the garden-door; I have obtained the key, and a few hours will suffice to place you in a secure asylum. Let no mistaken scruples induce you to reject the certain means of 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 ; but 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. 28 THE MONK. " 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 re- treat 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 in- spired me with the purest and 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 melan- choly pleasure of mingling my tears with his. We met nightly in the gardens of St. Clare, and in an unguarded moment I violated my vows of chastity. I shall soon become a mother. Reverend Ambrosio, take com- passion on me ; take compassion on the 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 un- fortunates 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 / conceal your crime — / whom you deceived by your feigned confession ? No, daughter, no. I will render you a more essential service. I will rescue you from perdition, in spito of yourself. Penance and mortification shall expiate your offence, and severity force you back to the paths of holiness. What, ho, Mother St. Agatha I" " Father, by all that is sacred, by all that is most dear to you, I sup- plicate, 1 entreat " " Release me, I will not hear you, Where is the domina ? Mother St. Agatha, where are you ?' THE MONK. 29 The door of the vestry opened, and the prioress entered the chapel, fol lowed 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 the 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. Woi 5s were inadequate to express her fury. She was silent, and darted upon the prostrate nun looks of menace and magHgnity. " Away with her to the convent," said she at length to some of her at- tendants. 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 oflf 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 tempta- tions have you vanquished ? Coward, you have fled from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of trial will arrive. Oh I 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 words, her strength was exhausted, and she sunk in- animate 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. 30 THE MONK. The laws of our order are strict and severe ; they have fallen into disuse of late ; but the crime of Agnes shows me the nec essity 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 ex- quisite 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 per- petual showers ; and the walls were entirely covered by jessamine, vines, and honey-suckles. The hour now added to the beauty of the scene. The full moon, ranging through a blue and cloudless sky, shed upon the trees a 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 in- terstices 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 tranquility spread languor through |iis 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 meditation. The monk drew nearer, and recog- nised 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 J 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 beloved. 0 God ! what a blessing would mis- anthaophy be to me," " That ia a singular thought, Rosario," said the abbot, entering the giotto. ' You here, reverend father," cried the novice. At the same time staiting from his place in confusion, he drew his cowl hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated himself upon the bau/c, and obliged the youth to place himself by him. " You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy," said he ; " What THE MONK. 81 can possibly havo made you view, in so desirable a light, mifianthrophy, of all sentiments the most hateful *' The perusal of these verses, father, which till now had escaped my ob- servation. 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 desert drear. That with remorse a conscience bleeding Hath led me here. No thought of guilt my bosom sours : Free- willed I fled from courtly bowers ; For well I saw in halls and towers, That lusts 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 deceived 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, O 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 !* 32 THE MONK. 1 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 haeta cause to sigh at Thy fault, or care; If Ihou hast known false lovc'a vexation, Or hast been exil'd trom thy nation, Or guilt aftVight's thy contemplation, And makes thee pine ; Oh ! how must thou lament thy station, And envy mine I " 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 inscrip- tion 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 a 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, Kosario. Ko 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 water-fall with a vacant eye ; he views with out 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 THE MONK. 33 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 selitude, if I could express to you the joy which I feel No. 5. 34 THE MONK. 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 wordly, 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 sensibiiity of the beauty of fair and good, that loads me with shame — that hurries me to perdition. Oh I that I had never seen these abbey walls." " How, Rosario ? When we hst 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 de- meanour till the moment ot his quitting the grotto, seemed to discounte- nance this conjecture. After a tew moments, 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 night- ingale had now taken her station upon an orange-tree, fronting the hermi- tage, 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 h 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 V" '* You say right, that I Mc?. Alas! I have one no longer. She sunk be- neath the weight of her sorrows in the very spring of life." THE MONK. " What were her Borrows ?" " They will not excite your pity. You know not the power of those ir- resistible, 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 exist- ence. His noble form, his spotless character, his various talents, his wis- dom solid, wonderful, and glorious, might have warmed the boBom of the most iusensible. My sister saw him, and dared to love, though she never dared to hope." ** If her love was so weli bestowed, what forbade her to hope the obtain- ing of its object ?" " Father, before he knew her, Julian had already plighted hia 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 her- self 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 ambi- tioned but a share of his heart. In an unguarded moment she confessed her affection. What was the return? Doting upon his wife, and believing that a look of pity bestowed upon another was a theft from what he owed to her, he drove Matilda from his presence ; he forbade 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 I 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, Eosario 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 a heai t 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 86 THE MONK. bid you consider me as no other than your friend, your father. Well may I assume that liile, for never did parent watch over a child more fondly than I have watched over you. From the moment in which 1 6rst 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 inforn)atioD, 1 rejoiced as doth a father in the per- fection of his son. Tlien lay aside your fears : speak to me with openness : speak to me, Eosario, and say that you will confide in me. If my aid, or my pity can alleviate your distress—" " Your's can ; your'e only can. Ah ! father, how willingly would I unveil to you my heart I 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 1" interrupted the novice. " Swear that, whatever be my secret, you will not oblige me to quit the monastery till my novjciate shall expire." *' I promise it faithfully ; and as I keep my vov/s 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," con- tinued he, throwing himself at the friar's feet, and pressing his hand to his lips with eageinebs, 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 if they had been toucired 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 em- braced his knee?. 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 1 excuse my imprudence ; while I acknowledge my sister'fi story to be my own ! I am Matilda ; you are her beloved *" 1 If Ambrosio's surprise was groat at her first avowal, upon iiearing her second, it exceeded all bounds. Amazed, embarrassed, and irresolute, he found himself incapable of pronouncing a syllable, and remained in silence' THE MONK. 37 gazing npon Matilda. Tiiis gave her an opportunity to continue her expla- I nation, as follows : Think not, Arnbrosio, that I come to rob your bride of your affections. No, believe nie: religion alone deserves you; and far ia it from Matilda's 1 wish to draw you from the paths of virtue, What 1 feel for you is love, not licentiousness. I Agh. to be possesser of yonr heart, not lust for the enjoy- ment of your person. Deign to listen to my vindication: a few moments will convince you that this holy retreat ia not polluted by my presence, and that you may grant me your compassion without trespassing against your vows." She seated herself. Arnbrosio, scarcely conscious of what he did, folowed 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 possessions. Young and wealthy, I was sought in marriage by the noblest youths of Madrid ; but no one succeeded in gaining my aflfections. I had been brought up under the care of an uncle possessed of the most solid judgment and extensive erudition : he took pleasure in commu- nicating to me some portion of his knowledge. Under his instructions my understanding acquired more strength and justness tiaan generally fdll to the lot of my sex; the ability of my preceptor being aided by natural curiosity, I not only made considerable progress in sciences universally studied, but in others revealed but to few, and lying under censure from the blitidness of superstition. Bat while my guardian laboured to enlarge the sphere of ray 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, disbipation, and ignorance which disgrace our Spanish youth. I rejected every otfer 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, neglect- ful 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 drauk 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 idol of my heart — the never changing ob- ject of my meditations. I inquired respectiag 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. 1 was con- scious 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 38 THE MONK. was more propitious to me, for then you stood before me in my dreams, you vowed me eternal hiendehip; you led me through the paths of virtue, and assisted me to support the vexations of life. The morning dispelled these pleasing visions ; 1 awoke, and found myself separated from you by barriers which appeared insurmountable. Time seemed only to increase the strength of my passion : 1 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 completely 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 de- prived 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 in- dulgence. Ah, Anibrosio, 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 ; T 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 sho spoke, a thousand opposing sentiments combated in Ambrosio's bosom. Surprised at the tingularity of this adventure ; con- fusion at her abiupt 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 Avere 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 ike had inspired ; still less did he perceive, that his heart throb- bed with desire while his hand was pressed gently by Matilda's ivory fingers. By degrees he recovered from his confusion ; his ideas became less be- wildered ; 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 de- rive 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 THE MONK. she lores me. It must net be. The risk of your being discovered is too great; and I will not expose myself to so dangerous a teniptatiou." " Teniptatiou, say you? Forget that I am a woman, and it no longer exists: consider me only as a friend— as an uufortunate, whose hHppiness, 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 ofifensive 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 con- tempt! 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 hrm to be shaken by unwar- ranted desires. Ambrosio ! dearest Ambrosio ! drive me not from your presence ; remember your promise, and authorise 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 sen- timents 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 wit i avidity which encourages you to hope the return of your affection ; insensibly, your passions will gain a superiority over your reason ; and, far from being repressed by iny presence, every moment which we pass together will only serve to irritate and excite them. Believe me, unhappy woman, you possess my sinctjre compassion. I am con- vinced that you have hitherto acted upon the purest motives ; but though you are blind to the imprudence of your conduct, iu me it would be culpable not to open your eyes. I feel that duty obliges my treating you with harsh- ness ; 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 to-morrow." " To-morrow I Ambrosio— to-morrow! Oh, surely you cannot mean it, you cannot resolve on driving me to despair — yoxx 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 n)y vows will oblige me to deulare 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 nionagtery. Uttering a loud shriek, Matilda followed and detained him. " Stay yet one moment, Ambrosio! hear me yet sspeak one word." " I dare not listen. Release me i you know my resolution. 40 THE MONK. *' But one word ! one last word, and I have done." f *' Leave me.'f Your entreaties are in vain : you must from hence to- morrow." " Go then, barbarian ! But this resource is still left rae." As she said this, she suddenly drew a poinard. 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! ^[atilda, have you your senses 1 Do you know the consequencefl 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 mo to perdition. Speak to me, Ambrosio I Tell me that ycu will conceal my story ; that 1 shall re- main your friend and your companion, or this poniard 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 moon-beams darting full upon it, enabh d the monk to observe its dazzling whiteness: his eye dwelt with insatiable avidity upon the beautious orb : a scEsation, till then unknown, filled his heart with a mix- ture of anxiety and delight; a raging fire shot through every limb ; the blood boiled in his veins, and a thousand wild wishes bewildered his ima- gination. " Hold !" he cried, in an hurried, faltering 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 gained 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 authorised her stay, that he was but too much inclined to consent to her remaining. He could not avoid being flattered by Matilda's de- claration, 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 ho had passed in Rosario'a •*ociety ; 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 easential benefit to the abbey. " And what do I risk," said he to himself, " by authorising her stay. May I not safely credit her assertions ? Will it not be easy for me to for- get 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 lioen- tiouftnesfl, would she long have concealed it in her own bosom, would she not have employed some means to procure its gratification ? She has done quit© 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 re- No. 6. 42 THE MONK. veal the secret: Bhe has observed the duties of religion not less strictly than myself: she has made no attempt to rouse my slumbering passions, nor has she ever conversed with me till this night on the subject of love. Had she been desirous to gain my affections, not my esteem, she would not have con- cealed 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 beauti- ful, to judge by her — by whom I have seen." As this last idea passed through his imagination, a blush spread itsolf 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 em THE MONK. she rose from her seat, approached the bed softly, and for some minutes gazed apoQ him attentively. "He sleeps!" said she, at length, in a low voice, but whose accents the abbot distinguished perfectly ; "now, then, ! may gaze upon him without oflFence ; I may mix my breath with his ; I may doat upon iiis 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 bat yesterday," she continued ; " but a few short hours have passed since I was dear to him ; he esteemed me, and my heart was satisfied ; now, oh I now, how cruelly is my situation chauged. He looks on me with sus- picion ; he bids me leave him, leave him for ever. Oh ! you, my saint, my idol. You 1 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 en- deared 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 choked 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 aflfectionl what purity 1" 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 pos- ture 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 admira. tion. I thoughtyou 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. Witli 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 I let me not encourage an idea, which takes from the brilliance of Ambrosio's virtue. 'Tia 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 ten* der expression which ho pours forth to this Madona. Would he bat fi»yi that THE MONK. 51 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 ac- knowledge that he feels for me more than pity, and that affection, like mine, might well have deserved a return. Perhaps he may own thus much when I lie on my death-bed. He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and the confession of his regard will soften the 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 inquiring eye. What was his amazement at beholding the exact resemblance of his admired Madona! The same ex- quisite proportion of features, the same profusion of golden hair, the same rosy lips, heavenly eyes, and majesty of countenance adorned Matilda. Ut- tering an exclamation of surprise, Ambrosio sunk 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 biushes. 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 suflFer me in your society and esteem, I heard you daily extol the praises of my portrait. I was an eye-witness 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 yen loved unconsciously. I strove not to excite desire by dis playing my charms, or to make myself mistress of your heart through the medium of ycur 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; 62 THE MOMt. I became your companion and your friend. I concealed luy sex from j our 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 1 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, " Your declaration has so much astonished me," said he, " that I km 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 ray quitting the abbey immediately." *» Matilda, reflect upon your situation ; reflect upon the consequences of your stay ; our separation is indispensable, and we must part." ** But not to-day, father ! Oh, in pity, not to-day." " You press me too hard — but I cannot resist that tone of supplication. Since you insist upon it, I yield to your prayer — I consent to your remaining here a sufficient time to prepare, in some measure, the brethren for your departure ; stay yet two days — but on the third — " (he sighed involuntarily) —"remember, that on the third we must part forever," She caught his hand eagerly, and pressed it to her lips. " On the third 1" 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 dreadfuf expression in her eye as she uttered these words, which penetrated the friar's soul with horror. Again she kissed hia 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, seemod likely to obtain the victory ; the success was assured, when that presumption, which formed the ground-work 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 op- portunity given him of proving the firmness of his virtue. St. Anthony had withstood all seductions to lust, then why should not he ? Besides, St. An- thony was tempted by the devil, who put every art into practice to excite his passions ; whereas Ambrosio's danger proceeded from a mere mortal woman» fearful and modest, whose apprehensions of his yielding were not less violent than his own. " Yes," said he, " the unfortunate shall stay ; I have nothing to fear from her 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 a heart unacquainted with her, vice is ever most dangerous when lurking behind the mask of virtue. TH[2 MONK. He found himself so pci fectly 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 inquire after the abbot's health. She seemed fearful of converaing 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 hia eyeg ; 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 was already 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 hia provok- ing dreams, he was not disposed to quit hia 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 oppor- tunity of speaking to Matilda without witnesses ; his cell was thronged by the monks, anxious to express their concern at his illness ; and he waa still occupied in receiving their compliments on his recovery, when the boU summoned them to the refectory. After dinner the monks separated, and diaperaed 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 embarrass- ment. 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 sub- ject which was most at the hearts of both. Matilda's efforts to appear gay were evidently forced ; her spirits were op- pressed by the weight of anxiety ; and when she spoke, her voice was low and feeble : she seemed desirous of finishing a conversation which embar- rassed 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 kind- ness 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." 54 THE MONK. 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 I" he cried, "you are very ill, Matilda; I shall send Father Pablos to you instantly." " No, do not : I am ill, 'tis true, but he cannot cure my malady. Farewell, father ! Remember me in your prayers to-morrow, while I shall remember you in heaven." She entered her cell, and closed the door. The abbot dispatched to her the physician, without losing a moment, and waited his report impatiently ; but father Pablos soon returned, and de- clared 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 moouobeams 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 mo- nastic 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 monastery, and breathed a sigh to. wards 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 inquire 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 hira. Oh I 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 toward the cell of the novice. Several monks were already in the okamber; father Pablos was one of them, and held a medi- cine 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 hei THE MONK. 55 cheeks ; her eyes sparkled with a serene delight, and her countenance was expressive of confidence and resignation. " Oh, torment me no more I" was she saying to Pablos, when the terrified abbot rushed hastily into the cell ; " my disease is far beyond the reach of your skill, and I wish not to be cured of it." Then, per- ceiving Ambrosio — " Ah, 'tis he !" she cried, I see him once again before we part for 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 forgetten 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 sunk 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 foi 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 it is 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 per- mitted 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 con- versatioBS ; I now consent to everything. 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 " " Ambro»io, it must not be. When I thought thus, I deceived both you 56 THE MOKK. and myself ; either I must die at present, or expire by the lingering tor- ments 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 priz e you no more for the virtues of your soal ; 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 vrord ; my bosom burns with love, with un- utterable love, and love must be its return. Tremble, then, Ambrosio, tremble to succeed in your prayers. If 1 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 op- portunity to excite your desires, and labour to effect your dishonour and my own. No, no, Ambrosio, 1 must not livo ; I am conviuced with every mo- ment that I have but one alternative I I feel with every heart-throb, that I must enjoy you or die." " Amazement, Matilda ! can it be you who speaks 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 I live to plunge myself in jafamy ? 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 I It is yet the seat of honour, truth, and chastity ; if it beats to-morrow, it must fall a prey to the blackest crimes. Oh, let n\e then die to-day ! Let me die while I yet deserve the tears of the virtuous. Thus will I expire I" — (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 U 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 who sought them ; his kisses vied with Matilda's THE MONK. 57 ON HEARING THIP, THE GALLANTRY OF MY NATION WOULD NOT PERMIT ME TO RETAIN THOSE ACCOMMODATIONS OF WUICH A FEMALE WAS IN WAM. I INSTANTLY BIGNIFIBD TO THB WOODMAN, THAT I TRANtFERED MY BIGHT TO THE LADY," in warmth and passion ; he clasped her rapturously in his arms ; he forgot his vows, his sanctity, and his fame ; he remembered notliing but the plea- sure and opportunity. " Ambrosio I Oh, my Ambrosio 1" were the only words sighed forth by Matilda. " Thine, ever thine," murmured the friar, and sunk exhausted upon her bosom. ^ . No. 8. 58 THE MONK. CHAPTER III. These are the villains Whom all the travellers do fear so much. Such as the fury ©f ungovern'd youth Thrust from the company of awful men. •Some ef them are gentlemen, Two Gektlembk of Verona. The marquis and Lorenzo proceeded to the hotel in silence. The forme employed himself in calling every circumstance to his mind, Which related, might give Lorenzo the most favourable idea of his connexion with Agues. 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 forbade his treating him as a friend ; and Antonia's interests being entrusted to his meditation, he saw the impolicy of treating him as a toe. He con- cluded 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 immediiately conducted him to his apartment, and began to express his satisfaction at find- ing him at Madrid, Lorenzo interrupted him. " Excuse me, my lord," said he, with a distant air, " if 1 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 d&lay the promised explanation." " First give me your- word, that you will listen with pdlidhce and indul- heart, makes me very anxious to find 3'ou 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, circum- stances 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 re- turned to Spain, determined upon secluding herself from the world." " Good God ! Lorenzo, you know of her intention, and yet strove not to ' make her change it !" ••^Marquis, you wrong me : the intelligence which I received at Naples gence." THE MONK. 59 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 ; L insisted upon seeing Agnes ; and hesitated not to avow my suspicious, that her being kept from me was against her own inclinations. To free herself from the impu- tation of violence, the prioress brought me a few lines, written in my sister's well-known hand, repeating the message already delivered. All future at- tempts 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 afiecting, 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 tranquility. 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 afflic- tion 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 con- sented to elope with him. However, before the plan could be executed, the cavalier discovered that the estates which he believed Agnes to possess in llispaniola, 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 Agues, in despair at his perfidity and meanness, had re- solved 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 Maiquis de las Cisternas were one and the same person ; the description given me of the first, by no means tal- lied with what I knew of the latter." " In this I easily recognise Donna Rodolpha's perfidious character. Every 60 THE MONK. word of this account is stamped with marlis of her malice, of her falsehood, of her talents for misrepresenting those whom she wishes to injure. Forgive me, Medina, for speaking bo freely of your relation. The mischief which She has done me authorises my resentment ; and when you have heard my tory, 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 ClflTEENAS. *' Long experience, my dear Lorenzo, has convinced me how generous is your nature ; I waited not for your declaration of ignorance respecting your Bister'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 con- cealing 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 Conde 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 ap- probation of those to whom you are presented ; they who would have courted the friendship of the Conde de las Cisternas would 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, jearn to diminish the burthens and augment the comforts of your own. Ac- cording to niy ideas of those advantages which a youth destined to the pos- ession of power and wealth may reap from travel, he should not consider as THE MONK. the least essential, the opportunity of mixing with the classes below liim, and becoming an eye-witness of the sufferings of the people. " Forgive me, Lorenzo, if I seem tedious in my narration ; the close con- nexion which now exists between us, makes me anxious that you should know every particular respecting me ; and iu my fear of omitting the least circani stance 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 quit- ted Spain, calling myself by the assumed title of Don Alphonso d'Alvarada, and attended by a single domestic of approved fidelity. Pai ia 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 refresh- ment, I observed a splendid equipage, attended by four domestics in rich liveries, waiting at the door of the Silver Lion. Soon after, as 1 looked out of the window, I saw a lady of noble presence, followed by two female at- tendants, step into the carriage, which drove off immediately. " 1 inquired 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 iu Germany." *' I resumed my journey, intending to reach Strasbourg that night. My hopes, however, were frustrated by the breaking down of my chaise ; the ac- cident happened in the middle of a thick forest, and I was not a little em- barrassed as to the means of proceeding. It was the depth of winter ; the night was already closing round ua ; and Strasbourg, which was the nearest town, was still distant from ua 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 postilion, 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 risk of losing my baggage. " Luckily, as 1 then thought, an opportunity presented itself of passing the night more agreeably than I expected. On mentioning my design of pro- ceeding by myself to Strasbourg, the postilion shook his head in disapproba- ion." t THE MONK. ** 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 Beason'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, im- patiently interrupting him : " I. have no other resource ; I run still greater risk of perishing with cold by passing the night in the forest." " Oh, by St. Denis ! we are not in quite so bad a plight as that eomes 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 mean time, I can take the saddle-horse, ride to Strasbourg, and be back with proper people to amend 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 exces- sive stupidity !" I "I thought, that perhaps Monsieur would not deign to accept " " Absurd ! Come, come ; say no more, but conduct us without delay to the woodman'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 1 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 condnctor 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 a heartv reception, and then addressed himself to me : "Walk in, Monsieur ; walk in, and welcome. Excuse me for not admit- ting 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 tlie 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 man- ners were as friendly as her's were hareh 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 62 THE MONK. 63 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 havei 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 overspread 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 dissa- tisfied 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 counte- nance 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 sixty ; but he bore his years well, and seemed 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 woodman conversed gaily on different subjects. The po.'-tilion, who had been furnished with a bottle of spirits, was now ready to set out for Strasbourg, and inquired whether I had any further commands? " For Strasbourg !" interrupted Baptiste ; " you are not going thither to- night ?" " I beg your pardon : if I do not fetch workmen to mend the chaise, how is Monsieur to proceed to-morrow ?" " 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 postilion that my reaching Strasbourg the next day an hour or too later, would be perfectly immaterial. He thanked me, and then leaving the cottage with Stephano, put up his horses in the woodman's stable. Baptiste followed them to the door, and looke^j 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 l^ds that ever stepped 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 64: THE MONK. within fifty miles of Strasbourg. Would they were back agaiu I I begiu 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 eons?" 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 crops, 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 some- what 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 woodman 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 grieyances, and Mar- guerite has fallen to mine. Besides, after all, she is only cross, and not ma-^ licious ; 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 iu this manner, when our discourse was interrupted by a loud halloo, which rang through the forest. ^4 " My sons, I hope 1" exclaimed the woodman, 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 inquired how far they were still from Strasbourg? As he addressed himself to me, I answered iu the number of miles which Claude had told me ; upon which a volley of curses were vented against the drivers for having lost their way. The persons in the coach were now in- formed 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 woodman whether ho could furnish them with lodging for the night. He seemed mwch embarrassed and replied in the negative ; adding, that a Spanish gentleman and his servant were already in possession of the only 65 THE B5CAPE OF THE BAKONKSfi FROM THE BANriTTI. i ppare apartments in hia 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 woodman, 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. 1 imme- diately recognised her for the same per.'oa whom I had seen at the inn at Lnneville. I took an opportunity of asking one of her attendants what was her name?' The Baroncis Lindenberg," was the answer. I could not but remark how different a reception our host had given these No. 9- 66 THE MONK. new comers aud myself. His reluctance to admit them was visibly expressed on his countenance ; and he prevailed on himself with difiSculty to tell the lady that she was welcome. I conducted her into the house, and placed her in the arm chair which I had just quitted. She thanked me very graciously, aud made a thousand apologies for putting me to an inconvenience. Sud- denly the woodman'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 her'-s to the two waiting- women ; as for the men-^ervauts, they must con- tent themselves with passing the night in a large barn, which stands a few yards distant 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, aud 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, whilci 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 acquaint- ance. They then threw aside their cloaks in which they were wrapped up, took off a leathern belt to which a large cutlasa 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 even- ing, 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, madam ; for my own part, I have travelled through the wood at all hours, and never met with one of them." Here Marguerite returned. Her step-sons drew her to the other end of the room, and whispered to her for some minutes. By the looks which they cast towards ua at intervals, I conjectured them to be inquiring our business in the cottage. Ill the meanwhile, the baroness expressed her apprehen*.ioEs that her hus- band would be suffering rnucli anxiety upon her account. She had intended bend on one of her servants to inform the baron of her delay ; but tiie THE MONK. 67 account which the young men gave of the forest rendered this plan im- practicable. 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 meet- ing 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 paine ; besides, I have nothing to lose ex- cept 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 Lindenburg, as I found afterwards, had long been accustomed to sacrifice the interests of others to her own, and her wish te 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 the journey ; besides, having eome from some distance, the drivers had lost 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 fol- lowed her up stairs. The cloth was spreading in the chamber where I was, and Marguerite soon gave me to understand that 1 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 1 was to sleep, and where 1 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 him- self 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 la;ying the cloth, and his back was tnrned towards me. Marguerite seized ihe mo- ment when we were unobserved, she caught my liand, and pressed it strongly. *' Look at the sheets," said she, as she passed me, and immediatoly re- sumed her former occupation. 68 THE .MONK. Startled by the abruptuess of her action, I remained as if petrified, llobert'a 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, inquired whether I had any further commands, and, on my replying in the negative, 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 injunc- tion. I took the candle hastily, approached the bed, and turned down the coverture. What was my astonisliraent — my horror — at finding tbe sheets crimsoned with blood. At that moment a thousand confused ideas passed before my imagination. The robbers who infested the wood. Marguerite's explanation respecting her children, the arms and appearance of the two young men, and the various anecdotes which 1 had heard related respecting the secret correspondence wliich frequently exists between banditti and postillions ; all these circum- stances flashed upon my nuud, and inspired me with doubt and appre- hension. 1 ruminated on the most probable means of ascertaining the truth of my conjectures. Suddenly 1 was aware of some one below pacing hastily backwards and forwards. Everything now appeared to me an object of suspicion. With precaution I drew near the window, which, as the roomliad been long shut, up, was left open in epite of the cold. I ventured to look out* The bcains of the moon permitted me to distinguish a man, whom I had no difiiculty to recognise for my host. I watched his movemeutd. He walked swiftly, then stopped and seemed to listen; h« stamped upon the ground, and boat his stomach with his arras, as if to guard himself from the inclemenf^y of the season ; at the least noise, if a voice was heard 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 extreme 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, dcclartd to be no other than my faithful Claude, whom I had sup- posed to ha 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 tbe 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 woodman 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 •VUK MONK. 69 ia truth, as you share equal with us in our priices, your own interest will make you use all possible diligence. 'Twould be a ghame to let such a noble booty escape ue. You say that this Spaniard ia rich ?" " His servant boasted at the inn, that the effects in his chaise were worth above two thousand pistoles." Oh ! how 1 cursed Stephano's iniprudent 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 pietoles would have been shared between us four. Now we must let in the band for a share, and perhaps the whole covsy may escape us. Should our friends have betaken themselves to their different posts before you reach the cavern, all will be lost. The lady*.-* attendants are too numerous for us to overpower them. Unlesa our associates arrive in time, we must needs let these travellers set out to-morrow 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 by, 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 ! 1 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 the 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 by their domestica to produce them in the morning.*' " And suppose either of the travellers should discover your design ?" Then we must poinard those in our power, and take our chance about mastering the rest. However, to avoid running ^uch a risk, hasten to the cavern ; they never loave it before eleven, and if you use diligence ycu may reach it in time so stop them." Tell Robert that I have taken his horse ; my own has broken his bridle and escaped into tire wood. What is the watchword'?" " 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 otlier returned to the house. You may judge what must have been my feeling during this conversation! of which I lost not a single syllable. I dared not trust myself to my reflec- tions, nor did any means present itGelf to e8C?.pe the dangers which threat- 70 THE MONK. ened me. Resistance I knew to be vain ; I was unarmed, and a single man against three. However, 1 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, T hastily re-lighted 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 salad, 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 suUenness, 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 inquired 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 embar- rass 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 aad 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 bo 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 upou Claudo 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. Ho made many apologies for his long absence, but he had been detained by affairs impos- siblo to be delayed." He then entreated permission for his family to sup at the same table with us, without which, respect would not authorise his tak- THE MONK. 71 ing such a liberty. Oh ! how in my heart J 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 hold the dagger to my bosom. The permission which our host dem.anded 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 com- fortable peasant's repast. Our host thought it necessary to apologise for the poorness of the supper ; " he had not been apprised 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 1 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 hor example. My spirits were evi- dently forced, and the constraint which I put upon myself escaped not Baptiste's observation. *' Come, come. Monsieur, cheer up !" said hej "you seem not quite re- covered 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 hia 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 Mar- guerite's movements with inquietude. She was employed in rinsing sonrje 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 unob- served by the banditti, she motioned to me witii her head not to taste the liquor. She then resumed her place. In the meanwhile our host had drawn the cork, and, filling two of the goblets, offered them to the lady and myself. She at first made some ob 72 THE MONK. jectioDB, but the inetances of Baptisto were so urgent, that she was obliged lo 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 champaign ; but some grains of powder floating upon the top convinced me that it was not unadulterated. However, I dared not express my repugnance to drink- ing it ; I lifted it to my lips, and seemed to be swallowing it ; suddenly starting from my chair, I made the beet of my way towards a vase of water at some distance, at wliich Marguerite had been rinsing some goblets. 1 pretended to spit out the wine with disgutt, and took an opportunity, un- perceived, 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 obeerved their confusion. ♦'You have not suited my taste, honefet fiiend," said I, addressing myself to Baptiste ; " I never can drink champaign without its producing a violent illnsss. 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 ho exa- mined whether it was nearly empty. *' He must have drank sufficient," said he to his brotEer, in a low tone of 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. 1 doubt not but the grains which I observed were poisonous, and lamented that it had been impossible for me to warn her of the danger. But a few moments 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 asto- nishment, 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. lu this new dilemma the friendly Marguerite again assisted me. She passed behind the chairs of her step-sons, 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 mc that I ought to imitate the baroness, and pretend that the liquor had taken its full effect upon me. I did so, and \n a few minutes seemed perfectly overcome with slumber. " So r cried Baptiste, as I fell back in my chair, ''at last he sleeps! 1 T71E !\fONK. 73 MAHGUERITE LOWEKIKG HEP. SON FBOM THE WJNDuAV. began to think that he had scented our design, and that we should be forced to dispatch him at all events." "And why not dispatch him at all events?" inquired the ferocious Jacqiifs; '* why leave him the possibility of betraying our secret ? Margue- rite, 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 to-night, a pretty figure we should make when the servants in- quire for him in the morning I 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 No. 10. 74: 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, Bobert, Claude, and myself—why the strangers were but double the number, and 1 warrant you we might have mastered them. However, Claude is gone ; 'tis too late to tbink of it now. We must wait patiently for the arrival of the gang, and if the tra- vellers escape us to-night, we must take care to waylay them to-morrow." " True ! true !" said Baptiste, Marguerite, have you given the sleeping- draught to the waiting-woman." She replied in the aflfirmative. "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 the terrors of impending death. I was by no means re-assured by hearing the compassionate Marguerite exclaim, in the accents of despair, " Almighty God! they are lost." Luckily the woodman and his sons were too much occupied by the arri- val 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." Bobert 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 pre- sence is wanted. Leave mo 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 dis- mount, 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 myeelf 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 THE MONK. 75 was suflaciently 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 forcibly, so as to prevent his uttering a single cry. You may remember, that I was remarkable at Sala- manca 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 on 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 Margue- rite 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 vic- tim to the vengeance of the robbers, 1 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 fol- lowed 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 mur- derers. What I felt at that moment language is unable to describe. Jacques heard the trampling of our horses, as we rushed by the barn. He flew to the door with a burning torch in his hand, and easily recognised the fugitives. " Betrayed ! betrayed ! " he shouted to his companions. " Instantly they left their bloody work, and hastened to regain their horses. We heard no more. I buried my spurs in the sides of my courser, and Marguerite goaded on her's with the poinard which had already ren- dered us such good service.' We flew like lightning, and gained the open plains. Already was Strasbourg's steeple in sight, when we heard the rob- bers pursuing us. Marguerite looked back, and distinguished our followers descending a hill at no great distance. It was in vain that we urged on our horses ; the noise approached nearer with every moment. " We are lost I " she exclaimed, " the villains gain upon us !" " Oa, on,'' replied I ; " I hear the trampling of horses coming from the town." We redoubled our exertions, and we were soon aware of a numerous band of cavaliers, who came towards us at full speed. They were on the point of passing ns. " Stay, stay ! " shrieked Marguerite ; " save us! for God's sake, save us ! " The foremost, who seemed to act as guide, immediately reined in his steed. " ' Tis she ! * tis she! " exclaimed he, springing upon the ground ; "stop, my lord, stop — they are safe— 'tis my mother." THE MONK. At the same moment Marguerite threw herself from her horse, clasped him in her arms, and covered him with kisses. The other cavaliers stopped at the exclamation. "The Baroness Lindenberg !" cried another of the strangert!, eagerly, Where is she ? Is she not with you ? He stopped, on beholding her lying senseless in my arms. Hastily he caught her from me. The profound sleep in which she was plunged, made him at first tremble for her life ; but the beating of her heart, soon re- assured him. " God be thanked," said he, she has escaped unhurt." I interrupted his joy, by pointing out the brigands, who continued to approach. No sooner had I mentioned them, than the greater part of the company, which appeared to be chiefly composed of soldiers, hastened for- ward to meet them. The villains staid not to receive their attack. Per- ceiving their danger, they turned the heads of their hordes, and fled into the wood, whither they were followed by our preservers. In the meanwhile, the stranger, whom I guessed to be the Baron Lindenberg, after thanking me for my care of his lady, proposed our returning with all speed to the town. The baroness, on whom the effects of the opiate had not ceased to operate, was placed before him; Marguerite and her son remounted their horses; the baron's domestics followed, and we soon arrived at the inn where he had taken his apartments. This was at the Austrian Eagle, where my banker, whom, before quitting Paris, I had apprised of my intention to visit Strasbourg, had prepared lodg- ings for me. I rejoiced at this circumstance. It gave me an opportunity of cultivating the baron's acquaintance, which I foresaw would be of use to me in Germany. Immediately upon our arrival, the lady was conveyed to bed. A physician was sent for, who prescribed a medicine likely to counteract the effects of the sleepy potion ; and after it had been poured down her throat> she was committed to the care of the hostess. The baron then addressed himself to me, and intreated me to recount the particulars of this adventure. I complied with his request instantaneously; fjr, in pain respecting Ste- phano's fate, whom I had been compelled to abandon to the cruelty of the banditti, I found it impossible for me to repose till I had some news of him. I received but too soon the intelligence that my trusty servant had perished. The soldiers who had pursued the brigands, returned while I was employed in relating my adventure to the baron. By their account, I found that the robbers had been overtaken. Guilt and true courage are incompatible ; they had thrown themselves at the feet of their pursuers — had surrendered them- selv^es without .striking a blow — had discovered their secret retreat — made known their signals by which the rest of the gang might be seized — and, in short, had betrayed every mark of cowardice and baseness. By this means the whole of the band, consisting of nearly sixty persons, had been made pri- soners, bound, and conducted to Strahbourg. Some of the soldiers hastened to the cottage, one of the banditti serving them as guide. Their first visit was to the fatal barn, where they were fortunate enough to find two of the THE MONK. 77 baron's servaots still alive, though denparately wounded. The rest had expired beneath the swords of the robbers, and of these my unhappy Slephano was one. Alarmed at onr cscap--, the robbtirs, in their hsste to overtake us, had neg- lected to visit, the cottage ; in consequence, the soldiers found the two wait- ing-women unhurt, and buried in the same death-like elumbev which had overpowered their mistress. There was nobody else foujid in the cottage, except a child not above four years old, wliich the soldiers brought away with them. We wero busyi'Jg ourselves with conjectures respecting tho birth of this little unfortunate, when Marguerite rushed into the room with the baby in her arms. She fell at the feet of the oflficer who was making us this report, and blessed him a thousand times for the preservation of her child. When the first burst of maternal tenderness was over, I besought her to de- clare by what means she had been united to a man whose principles seemed so totally discordant with her own. She bent her eyes downwards, and wiped a few tears from her cheek. " Gentlemen,^' said she, after a silence of some minutes, " I would request a favour of you. You have a right to know on whom you confer an obliga- tion; I will not, therefore, stifle a confession which covers me with shame but permit me to comprise it in as few words as possible.*' " I was born in Strasbourg, of respectable parents ; their names I must at present conceal. My father still lives, and deserves not to be involved in my infamy. If you grant my request, you shall be informed of my family name . A villain made himself master of my affections, and to follow him I quitted my father's house. Yet, though my passions overpowered my virtue, I sunk not into that degeneracy of vice but too commonly the lot of women who make the first false step. I loved my seducer — dearly loved him. I was true to his bed ; this baby, and the youth who warned you, my lord baron, of your Udy's danger, are the pledges of our affection. Even at this moment I lament his loss, though 'tis to him that I owe all the miseries of my existence. He was of noble birth, but he had squandered away his paternal inherit- ance. His relations considered him as a disgrace to their name, and utterly discarded him. His excewea drew upon him the indignation of the police. He was obliged to fly from Strasbourg ; and saw no other resouroe from beggary than an union with the banditti who infested [the neighbouring forest, and whose troop was chiefly composed of young men of family in the same predicament with himself. I was determined not to forsake him. j followed him to the cavern of the brigands, and shared with him the misery inseparable from a life of pillage. But though I was aware that our exiBtence was supported by plunder, I knew not all the horrible circumstances attached to my lover's profession ; these he concealed from mo with the utmost care. He was conscious that my sentiments were not sufficiently depraved to look without horror upon assassination. He supposed, and with justice, that I should fly with detestation from the embraces of a murderer. Eight years of possession had not abated his love for me ; and he cautiously removed from my knowledge every circumstance which might lead me to suspect the crimes in which he but too often participated. He succeeded perfectly. It 78 THE MONK. was not till after my seducer's death that I discovered his hands to have been stained with the blood of innocence. ** One fatal night he was brought back to the cavern covered with wounds ; he received them in attacking an English traveller, whom his companions immediately sacrificed to their resentment. He had only time to entreat my pardon for all the sorrows which he had caused me ; he pressed my hand to his lips and expired. My grief was inexpressible. As soon as its violence abated, I resolved to return to Strasbourg, to throw myself, with my two children, at my father's feet, and implore his forgiveness, though I little hoped to obtain it. What was my consternation when informed, that no one in- trusted with the secret of their retreat, was ever permitted to quit the troop of the banditti ; that I must give up all hopes of ever rejoining society, and consent instantly to accept one of their band for my husband. My prayers and remonstrances were vain. They cast lots to decide to whose possession I should fall. I became the property of the infamous Baptiete. A robber, who had once been a monk, pronounced over us a burlesque rather than a religious ceremony ; I and my children were delivered into the hands of my new husband, and he conveyed us immediately to his home. "He assured n.e that he had long entertained for me the most ardent re-- gard ; but that friendship for my deceased lover had obliged him to stifle his desires. He endeavoured to reconcile me to my fate, and for some time treated me with respect and gentleness. At length, finding that my aversion rather increased than diminished, he obtained those favours by violence which I persisted to refuse him. No resource remained for me but to bear my sor- rows with patience ; I was conscious that I deserved them but too well. Flight was forbidden. My children were in the power of Baptiste ; and he had sworn, that if I attempted to escape, their lives should pay for it. I had had too many opportunities of witnessing the barbarity of his nature, to doubt his fulfilling his oath to the very letter. Sad experience had convinced me of the horrors of my situation. My first lover had carefully concealed them from me ; Baptiste rather rejoiced in opening my eyes to the cruelties of his prefession, and strove to familiarise me with blood and slaughter. "My nature was licentious and warm, but not cruel; my conduct had been imprudent, but my heart was not unprincipled. Judge, then, what I must have felt at being a continual witness of crimes the most horrible and revolting— judge how I must have grieved at being united to a man, who received the unsuspecting guest with an air of openness and hospitality, at the very moment that he meditated his destruction. Chagrin and discon- tent preyed upon my constitution ; the few charms bestowed on me by nature withered away, and the dejection of my coutenance denoted the sufferings of my heart. I was tempted a thousand times to put an end to iny exist- ence , but the remembrance of my children held my hand. I trembled to leave my dear boys in my tyrant's power, and trembled yet more for their virtue than their lives. The second was still too yonng to benefit by my instructions— but in the heart of my eldest I laboured unceasingly to plant those principles which might enable him to avoid the crimes of his parents. He listened to me with docility, or rather with eagerness. Even at his early THE MONK, 79 age, he Bhowed that he was not calculated for the society of villains ; and the only comfort which I enjoyed among my sorrows, was to witness the dawning virtue of my Theodore. " Such was my situation when the perfidy of Don Alphonso's postillion conducted him to the cottage. His youth, air, and manners, interested me most forcibly in his behalf. The absence of my husband's fions gave me an opportunity which I had long wished to find, and I resolved to risk every- thing to preserve the stranger. The vigilance of Baptiste prevented me from warning Don Alphonso of his danger. I knew that my betraying the secret would be immediately punished with death ; and however embittered was my life by calamities, I wanted courage to sacrifice it for the sake of pre- serving that of another person. My only hope rested upon procuring succour from Strasbourg. At this I resolved to try ; and should an opportunity offer of warning Don Alphouso of his danger unobserved, I was determined to seize it with avidity. By Baptiste's orders I went up stair3 to make the stranger's bed. I spread upon it sheets in which a traveller had been murdered but a few nights before, and which still were stained with blood. I hoped that these marks would not escape the vigilance of our guest, and that he would collect from them the designs of my perfidious husband. Neither was this the only step which 1 took to preserve the stranger. Theodore was confined to his bed by illness. I stole into his room unobberved by my tyrant, com- municated to him my project, and he entered into it with eagerness. He rose in spite of his malady, aad dressed himself with all speed. I fastened one of the sheets round his arms, and lowered him from the window. He flew to the stable, took Claude's horse, and hastened to Strasbourg. Had he been accosted by the banditti, he was to have declared himself sent upon a message by Baptiste, but fortunately he reached the town without meeting any obstacle. Immediately upon his arrival at Strasbourg, he entreated as- sistance from the magistrate; his story passed from mouth to mouth, and at length came to the knowledge of my lord the baron. Anxious for the safety of his lady, who he knew would be upon the road that evening, it struck him that she might have fallen into the power of the robbers. He accompanied Theodore, who guided the soldiers towards the cottage, and arrived just in time to save us from falling once more into the hands of our enemies." Here I interrupted Marguerite, to inquire why the sleepy potion had been presented to me. She said that, Baptiste supposed me to have arms about me, and wished to incapacitate me from making resistance; it was a precaution which he always took, since, as the travellers had no hopes of escaping, despair would have incited them to sell their lives dearly. The Baron then desired Marguerite to inform him what were her present plans. I joined him in declaring my readiness to show my gratitude to her for the preservation of my life. " Disgusted with a world,'' she replied, " in which I have met with nothing but misfortunes, my only wish is to retire into a convent. But first I. must provide for my children. I find that my mother is no more — pro- bably driven to an untimely grave by my desertion. My father is still living. He is not a hard man. Perhaps, gentlemen, in spite of my ingratitude an^ 80 THE MONK. imprudence, your intercessions may induce him to forgive me, and to take charge of his unfortunate grandsons. If you obtain this boon for me, you will repay my services a thousand fold. Both the baron and myself assured Marguerite, that we would spare no pains to obtain her pardon ; and that, even should her father be inflexible, she need be under no apprehensions respecting the fate of her children. I engaged to provide for Theodore, and the baron promised to take the youngest under his protection. The grateful mother thanked us with tears for what she called generosity, but which in fact was no more than a proper sense of our obligations to her. She then left the room to put her little boy to bed, whom fatigue and sleep had completely overpowered. The baroness, on recovering, and being informed from what danger 1 had rescued her> set no bounds to the expressions of her gratitude. She was joined so warmly by her husband in pressing me to accompany them to their castle in Bavaria, that I found it impossible to resist their entreaties. During a week which we passed at Strasbourg, the interests of Marguerite j were not forgotten. In our application to her father, we succeeded as amply as we could wish. The good old man had lost his wife. He had no children but this unfortunate daughter, of whom he had received no news for almost fourteen years. He was surrounded by distant relations, who were impatient for his decease, in order to get possession of his money. When, therefore, Marguerite appeared again so unexpectedly, he considered her as a gift from heaven. He received her and her children with open arms, and insisted upon their establishing themselves in his house with- out delay. The disappointed cousins were obliged to give place. The old man would not hear of his daughter's retiring into a convent. He said that she w^as too necessary to his happiness, and she was easily per- suaded to relinquish her designs. But no persuasions could induce Tlieo- dore to give up the plan which I had at first marked out for him. He bad attached himself to me most sincerely during my stay at Strasbourg, and when I was on the point of leaving it, he besought me with tears to take him into my service. He set forth all his little talents in the most favourable colours, and tried to convince me that I should find him of infinite use to me upon the road. I was unwilling to charge myself with a lad scarcely turned of thirteen, who I knew could only be a burden to me ; however, I could not resist the entreaties of the affectionate youth, who in fact possessed a thousand estimable qualitie?. With some difficulty he per- suaded his relations to let him follow me ; and that permission once ob- tained, he was dubbed with the title of my page. Having passed a w«iek at Strasbourg, Theodore and myself set out for Bavaria, in company with the baron and his lady. These latter, as well as myself, had foreed Marguerite to accept several presents of value,. On leaving her. I promised liis mother faithfully, that I would lestoro Theodore to her within ihe year. I have related this adventure at length, Lorenzo, that ycu might under- stand the means by wliich " the adventurer Alphonso d^Alvarada got intro- duced into the castle of Lindenbcrsr." Judge from this specimen, how much J faith should be given tc your aunt's assertion. THE MONK. 81 AGNFs's SKETCH OF THE BLEEDING NUN. CHAPTER IV. *' Avaunt ! and quit my sight ! Let the earth hide thee ! Thy bones are marrowless ! thy blood is cold ; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes "Which tl'.ou dost glare withall ! Hence, horrible shado ^ Unreal, mockery, hence !" Mactetp. COUTJNrATION OF THE HlhTOBY OF DON BAYMOKD. Mt journey was uncommonly agreeable. I found the baron a man oi eenee, but little knowledge of the world. He had passed a great part of his life without stirring beyond the precincts of his own domains, and conse- No. 11. 82 THE MO^K.. quently his manners were far from being the most polished ; but he was hearty, good-humoured, and friendly. His attention to me was all that I could wish, and I had every reason to be satisfied with his behaviour. His ruling passion was hunting, which he had brought himself to consider as a serious occupation ; and, when talking over some remarkable chase, li« treated the subject with as much gravity as if it had been a battle on which the fate of two kingdoms was depending. I happened to be a tolerable sportsman : soon after my arrival at Lindenberg, I gave some proofs of my dexterity. The baron immediately marked me down for a man of genius, and vowed to me an eternal friendship. That friendship was become to me by no means indifferent. At the castle of Lindenberg, I beheld for the first time your sister, the lovely Agnes. For rae, whose heart was unoccupied, and who grieved at the void, to see her and to love her were the same. I found in Agnes all that was requisite to secure my affection. She was then scarcely sixteen ; her person light and elegant was already formed ; she possessed several talenls in perfection, particularly those of music and drawing : her character was gay, open, and good-humoured ; and the graceful simplicity of her dicss and manners formed an advantageous contrast to the art and studied coquetry of the Parisian dames, whom I had just quitted. From the moment that I beheld her, I felt the most lively interest in her fate. 1 made many inquiries respecting her of the baroness. "She is my niece," replied that lady; "you are still ignorant, Don Alphonso, that I am your country-woman. I am sister {.o the Duke of Medina Geli. Agnes is the daughter of my second brother, Don Gaston : she has been destined to the convent from her cradle, and will soon make her profession at Madrid." [Here Lorenzo interrupted the marquis by an exclamation of ^urprise.] "Intended for the convent from the cradle!*' said he, by heaven, this is the first word that I ever heard of such a design." *• I believe it, my dear Lorenzo," answered Don Raymond ; " but you must listen to me with patience. You will not be less surprised, when 1 relate some particulars of your family still unknown to you, and which I have learnt from the mouth of Agnes herself.'* He then resumed his narrative as follows : — You cannot but be aware that your parents were unfortunately slaves to th« grossest superstition ; when this foible was called into play, their every other sentiment, their every other passion, yielded to its irresistible strength. While she was big with Agues, your mother was seized by a dangerous illness, and given over by her physicians. In this situation, Donna Inesilla vowe(i that if she recovered from her malady, the child then living in her bosom, if a girl, should be dedicated to St. Clare ; if a boy, to St. Benedict. Her prayers were heard ; she got rid of her complaint ; Agnes entered the world alive, and was immediately destined to the service of St. Clare. Don Gaston readily chimed in with his lady's wishes ; but knowing the sentiments of the duke, his brother, re^ipecting a monastic life, it was de. THE MONK. 83 teruiined that your sister's deetination should be carefully coucealed from him. The better to guard the secret, it was resolved that Agnes should accompany her aunt, Donna Rodolpha, into Germany, whither that lady was on the point of following her newly-married husband, Baron Linden- berg. On her arrival at that estate, the young Agnes was put into a con- vent, situated but a few miles from the castle. The nuns, to whom her education was confided, performed their charge with exactitude; they made her a perfect mistress of many ^iccomplishments, and strove to infuse into her mind a taste for the retirement and tranquil pleasures of a convent. But a seciet instinct made the young recluse sensible that she was not born for solitude ; in all the freedom of youth and gaiety, she scrupled not to treat as ridiculous many ceremonies which the nuns regarded with awe; and she was never more happy than when her lively imagination inspired her with some scheme to plague the stiff lady abbess, or the ugly ill-tem- pered old porteress. She looked with disgust on the prospect before her; however, no alternative was offered to her, and she submitted to the decree of her parents, though not without secret repining. That repugnance she had not art enough to conceal long ; Don Gaston was informed of it. Alarmed, Lorenzo, lest your affection for her should oppose itself to his projects, and lest you should positively object to your sister's misery, he resolved to keep the whole affair from your knowledge as well as the duke's, till the sacrifice should be consummated. The season of her taking the veil was fixed for the time when you should be upon your travels ; in the meanwhile no hint was dropped of Donna Inesilla's fatal vow. Your sister was never permitted to know your direction. All your letters were read before she received them, and those parts effaced which were likely to nourish her inclination for the world ; her answers were dic- tated either by her aunt, or by Dame Cunegonda, her governess. These particulars I learnt partly from Agnes, partly from the baroness herself, I immediately determined upon rescuing this lovely girl from a fate so contrary to her inclinations, and ill-suited to her merit. I endeavoured to ingratiate myself into her favour ; I boasted of my friendship and intimacy with. you. She listened to me with avidity; she seemed to devour my words while I spoke in your praise, and her eyes thanked me for my affection to her brother. My constant and unremitted attention at length gained me her heart, and with difficulty I obliged her to confess that she loved me. When, however, I proposed her quitting the castle of Liudenberg, she re- jected the idea in positive terms. " Be generous, Alphonso/' she said ; "you possess my heart, but use not the gift ignobly. Employ not your ascendency over me in persuading me to take a step at which I should hereafter have to blush. I am young and deseited : my brother, my only friend, is separated from me, and my other relations act with me as my enemies. Take pity on my unprotected situa- tion. Instead of seducing me to an action which would cover me with bhame, strive rather to gaiu the affections of those who govern me. The Baron esteems you. My aunt, to others ever harsh, proud, and contemp- tuous, remembers that you rescued her from the hands of murderers, and 84: THE MONK. wears with you alone the appearance of kindness and benignity. Try, then, your influence over my guardians. If they consent to our union, my hand is yours. From your account of my brother, I cannot doubt your obtaining his approbation ; and when they find the impossibility of executing their design, I trust that my parents will excuse my disobedience, and expiate by some other sacrifioe my mother's fatal vow." From the first moment that I beheld Agnes, I had endeavoured to con- ciliate the favour of her relations. Authorised by the confession of her regard, I redoubled my exertions. My principal battery was directed against the baroness ; it was easy to discover that her word was law iu the castle ; her husband paid her the most absolute submission, and considered her as a superior being. She was about forty ; in her youth she had been a beauty ; but her charms had been on that large scale which can but ill sustain the shock of years ; However, she still possessed some remains of them. Her uuderstanding was strong and excellent, when not obscured by prejudice, which was unluckily seldom the case. Her passions were violent ; she spared no pains to gratify them, and pursued with unremitting vengeance those who opposed themselves to her wishes. The warmest of friends, the most inveterate of enemies — such was the Baroness Lindenberg. I laboured incessantly to please her ; unluckily I succeeded but too well. She seemed gratified by my attention, and tieated me with a distinction accorded by her to no one else. One of my daily occupations was reading to her for several hours ; those hours I should much rather have passed with Agnes ; but as I was conscious that complaisance for her aunt would advance our union, I submitted, with a good grace, to the penance imposed upon me. Donna Rodolpha's library was principally composed of old Spanish romances ; these were her favourite studies, and once a day one of these unmerciful volumes was put regularly i»to my hands. I read the wearisome adventures of " Perceforest," " Tirante the White," " Palmerin of England," and " the Knight of the Sun," till the book was on the point of falling from my hands through ennui. However, the increasing pleasure which the baroness seemed to take in my society, encouraged me to persevere ; and latterly she showed for me a partiality so marked, that Agnes advised me to seize the first opportunity of declaring our mutual passion to her aunt. One evening I was alone with Donna Rodolpha, in her own apartment. As our readings generally treated of love, Agnes was never permitted to assist at them. I was just congratulating myself on having finished " the Loves of Tristan and the Queen Iscult " ** Ah, the unfortunates !" cried the baroness. *' How say you, signer ? Do you think it possible for man to feel an attachment so disinterested and sincere ?" " I cannot doubt it," replied I ; "my own heart furnishes me with the certainty. Ah, Donna Rodolpha, might I but hope for your approbation, of my love ! might I but confess the name of my mistress, without incurring your resentment !" She interrupted me. Suppose I were to spare you that confession ? Suppose I were to ac- THE MONK. 85 kiiowledga that the object of your desires is not unknown to me? Suppose I were to say, that she returns your aflfection, and laments, not leas sincerely than yourself, the unhappy vows which separate her from you?" " Ah, Donna Rodolpha !" I exclaimed, throwing myself upon my knees before her, and pressing her hand to my lips, you have discovered my secret. What is your decision ? Must I despair, or may I reckon upon your favour ?" She withdrew not the hand which I held— but she turned from me, and corered her face with the other. " How can I refuse it you ?" she replied. "Ah! Don Alphonso, I have long perceived to whom your attentions were directed, but till now I perceived not the impression which they made upon my heart. At length, I can no longer hide my weakness either from myself or from you. I yield to the violence of my passion, and own that I adore you. For three long months I stifled my desires ; but, growing stronger by resistance, I submit to their impetuosity. Pride, fear, and honour, respect for myself, and my engage- ments to the baron, all are vanquished. I sacrifice them to my love for you, and it still seems to me that I pay too mean a price for your possession." She paused for an answer. Judge, my Lorenzo, what must have been my confusion at this discovery- I, at once, saw all the magnitude of this ob- stacle, which I had myself raised, to my happiness. The baroness had placed those attentions to her own account, which I had merely paid her for the sake of Agnes ; and the strength of her expressions, the looks which accom- panied them, and my knowledge of her revengeful disposition, made me tremble for myself and my beloved. I was silent for some minutes. I knew not how to reply to her declaration — I could only resolve to clear up the mistake without delay, and, for the present, to conceal from her knowledge the name of my mistress. No sooner had she avowed her passion than the transports, which before were evident in my features, gave place to con- sternation and constraint. I dropped her hand, and rose from my knees. The change in my countenance did not escape her observation. " What means this silence?'' said she, in a trembling voice ; *' Where is that joy which you led me to expect?" " Forgive me, Senora," I answered, " if what necessity forces from me should seem harsh and ungrateful. To encourage you in an error, which, however it may flatter myself, must prove to you the source of disappoint- ment, would make me appear criminal in every eye. Honour obliges me to inform you that you have mistaken for the solicitude of love what was only the attention of friendship. The latter sentiment is that which I wished to excite in your bosom j to entertain a warmer, respect for you forbids me, and gratitude for the baron's generous treatment. Perhaps these reasons would not be suflicient to shield me from your attraction, were it not that my affections are already bestowed upon another. You have charms, senora, which might captivate the most insensible ; no heart unoccupied could resist them. Happy it is for me that mine is no longer in my possession, or 1 should have to reproach myself for ever for having violated the laws of hospitality. Recollect yourself, noble lady ! recollect what is owed by you THE MONK. to honour, by mo to the baron, and replace by esteem and friendship those sentiments which I never can return." The baroness turned pale at this unexpected and positive declaration ; she doubted whether she slept or woke. At length, recovering from her surprise, consternation gave place to rage, and the blood rushed back into her cheeks with violence. " Villain !" she cried ; " monster of deceit ! Thus is the avowal of my love received? Is it thus that but, no, no ! it cannot, it shall not be ! Alphonso, behold me at your feet ! Be witness of my despair ! Look with pity on a woman who loves you with sincere affection ! She who possesses your heart, how has she merited such a treasure ? What sacrifice has she made to you ? What raises her above Rodolpha ? I endeavoured to lift her from her knees. ''For God's sake, senora, restrain these transports; they disgrace your- self and me. Your exclamations may be heard, and your secret divulged to your attendants. I see that my presence only irritates you ; permit me to retire." I prepared to quit the apartment ; the baroness caught me suddenly by the arm. "And who is this happy rival?'* said she, in a menacing tone ; *' I will know her name — SLiid when I know it ! She is some one in my power ; you entreated my favour, my protection ! Lot Dje but find her, let me but know who dares to rob me of your heart, and she shall auff"er every torment which jealousy and disappointment can inflict. Who is she? Answer me this moment. Hope not to conceal her from my vengeance ! Spies shall be set over you ; every step, every look shall be watched ; your eyes will discover my rival ; I shall know her; and when she is found, tremble, Alphonso, for her and for yourself." As she uttered these last words, her fury mounted to such a pitch as to stop her powers of respiration. She panted, groaned, and at length fainted away. As she was falling, I caught her in my arms, and placed her upon a sofa. Then hastening to the door, I summoned her women to her assistance ; I committed her to their care, and seized the opportunity of escaping. Agitated and confused beyond expression, I bent my steps towards the garden. The benignity with which the baroness had listened to me at first, raised my hopes to the highest pitch ; I imagined her to have per- ceived my attachment for her neice, abd to approve of it. Extreme was my disappointment at understanding the true purport of her discourse. I knew not what course to take ; the superstition of the parents of Agnes, aided by her aunt's unfortunate passion, seemed to oppose such obstacles to our union as were almost insurmountable. As I passed by a low parlour, the windows of which looked into the gar- den, through the door wliich stood half open I observed Agnes seated at a table. She was occupied in drawing, and several unfinished sketches were scattered around her. I entered, still undetermined whether I should ac- quaint her with the declaration of the baroness. THE MONK. " Oh, is it only you said she, raising her head ; " you arc no stranger, and I shall continue my occupation without ceremony. Take a chair, and seat yourself by me." I obeyed, and placed myself near the table. Unconscious what I was doing, and totally occupied by the scene which I had just passed. I look up some of the drawings, and cast my eyes over them. One of the subjects struck me from its singularity. It represented the great hall of the castle of Linden- berg. A door, conducting to a narrow staircase, stood half open. In the foreground appeared a group of figures, placed in the most grotesque atti- tudes; terror was expressed upon every countenance. Here was one upon his knees, with his eyes cast up to heaven, and praying most devoutly; there, another was creeping away upon all fours. Some hid their faces in their cloaks, or the laps of their companions ; some had concealed themselves be- neath a table, on which the remnants of a feast were visible ; while others^ with gaping mouths and eyes wide stretched, pointed to a figure supposed to have created this disturbance. It represented a female of more than human stature, clothed in the habit of some religious order. Her face was veiled — on her arm hung a chaplet of beads — her dress was in several places stained with blood which trickled from a wound upon her bosom. In one hand she held a lamp, in the other a large knife, and she seemed advancing towards the iron gates of the hall. " What does this mean, Agnes?" said I ; "is this some invention of your own ?" She cast her eyes upon the drawing. " Oh, no !" she replied, " 'tis the invention of much wiser heads than mine. But can you possibly have lived at Lindenberg for three whole months with- out hearing of the bleeding nun V ** You are the first who ever mentioned the name to me. Pray, who may the lady be?'' " That is more than I can pretend to tell you. All my knowledge of her history comes from an old tradition in this family, which has been handed down from father to son, and is firmly credited throughout the baron's do- mains. Nay, the baron believes it himself— and as for my aunt, who has a natural turn for the marvellous, she would sooner doubt the veracity of the Bible than of the bleeding nun. Shall I fell you this history V I answered, that she would oblige me much by relating it; she resumed her drawing, and then proceeded as follow?, in a tone of burlesqued gravity : — " It is surprising, that in all the chronicles of past times this remarkable personage is never once mentioned. Fain would I recouut to you her life ; but unluckily till after her death she was never known to have existed. Then first did she think it necessary to make some noise in the world, and, with that intention, she made bold to seize upon the castle of Lindenberg. Having a good taste, she took up her abode in the best room of the house ; and once established there, she began to amuse herself by knocking about the tables and chairs in the middle of the night. Perhaps she was a bad sleeper, but *'h is I have never been able to ascertain. According to the tradition, thj^ 88 THE MONK. entertainment commenced about a century ago. It was accompanied with shrieking, howling, groaning, swearing, and many other agreeable noises of the same kind. But though one particular room was more especially honoured with her visits, she did not entirely confine herself to it. She occa- sionally ventured into the old galleries, paced up and down the spacious halls ; or, sometimes stopping at the doors of the chambers, she wept and wailed there, to the universal terror of the inhabitants. In these nocturnal excursions she was seen by different people, who all describe her appearance as you behold it here traced by the hand of her unworthy historian." The singularity of this account insensibly engaged my attention. " Did she never ppeak to those who met her ?" said I. '* Not she. The specimens, indeed, which she gave nightly of her talents for conversation, were by no means inviting. Sometimes the castle rung with oaths and execrations : a moment after she repeated her paternoster : now she howled out the most horrible blasphemies, and then chaunted De profundis as orderly as if still in the choir. In short, she seemed a mighty capricious being : but whether she prayed or cursed, whether she was impious or devout, she always contrived to terrify her auditors out of their senses. The castle became scarcely habitable ; and its lord was so frightened by these midnight revels, that one fine morning he was found dead in his bed. This success seemed to please the nun mightily, for now she made more noise than ever. But the next baron proved too cunning for her. He made his appearance with a celebrated exorciser in his hand, who feared not to shut himself up for a night in the haunted chamber. There it seems that he had a hard battle with the ghost before she would promise to be quiet. She was obstinate, but he was more so: and at length she consented to let the inhabitants of the castle take a good night's rest. For some time after no news was heard of her ; but at the end of five years the exorciser died, and then the nun ventured to peep abroad again. Hewever, she was now grown much more tractable and well behaved. She walked about in silence, and never made her appearance above once in fire years. This custom, if you will believe the baron, she still continues. He is fully pertuadcd, that on the fifth of May of every fifth year, as soon as the clock strikes one, the door of the haunted chamber opens. [Observe, that this room has been shut up for near a century.] Then out walks the ghostly nun with her lamp and dagger ; she descends the staircase of the eastern tower, and crosses the great ball. On that night the porter always leaves the gates of the castle open, out of respect to the apparition : not that this is thought by any means necessary, since she could easily h ip through the key-hole if she chose it; but merely out of politeness, and t. prevent her from making her exit in a way so derogatory to the dignity o i her ghostship." " And whither does she go on quitting the castle ?** *' To heaven, I hope; but if she does, the place is not certainly to he^ taste, for she always returns after an hour's absence. The lady then retires to her chamber, and is quiet for another five years," " And you believe this, Agnes?" Tdon alphonso secreting the duenna. " HoTt can you ask such a question ? No, no, Alphonso ! T have too much reason to lament superstition's influence to be its victim myself. However, I must not avow my incredulity to the baroness : she entertains not a doubt of the truth of this history. As to Dame Cunegonda, my governess, she protests that fifteen years ago she saw the spectre with her own eyes. She related to me one evening, how she and several other domestics had been terrified while at supper by the appearance of the bleeding nun, as the ghost is called in the castle : 'tis from her account that I drew this sketch, and you may be certain that Cunegonda was not omitted. There she is ! I shall never forget what a passion she was in, and how ugly she looked while she scolded me for having made her picture so like herself." No. 12. 90 THE MONK. Here she pointed to a burlesque figure of an old woman in an attitude of terror. In spite of the melancholy which oppressed me, I could not help smiling at the playful imagination of Agnes ; she had perfectly preserved Dame Cunegonda's resemblance, but had so much exaggerated eVery fault, and rendered every feature so irresistibly laugha|)|e, 1 coulher three lay dead by my side. Nobody was near me when they came up, and much time had been lost before they succeeded in recovering me. Uneasy beyond expression respecting the fate of my companion, 1 besought the peasants to disperse themselves in search of her. I described her dress, and promised immense rewards to whoever brought me any intelligence. As for myself, it was impossible for me to join in the puisuit ; 1 had broken two of my ribs in the fall, my arm being dislocated hung useless by my side ; and my left leg was shattered so terribly, that I never expected to recover its use. The peasants complied with my request; all left me except four, who made a litter of boughs, and prepared to convey mo to the neighbouring town. I inquired its name ; it proved to be Katisbon, and I could scarcely persuade myself that I had travelled to such a distance in a single night. I told the countrymen, that at one o'clock that morning' I had passed THE MONK. through the village of Rosenwald. They shook their heads wistfully, and made signs to each other that 1. must certainly be delirioud. I was conveyed to a decent inn, and immediatejy put to bed. A physician was sent for, who set my arm with success : he then examined my other hurts, and told me that I need be under no apprehension of the consequences of any of them, but ordered me to keep myself quiet, and be prepared for a tedious and painful cure. I answered hiiu, that if he hoped to keep nie quiet, he must first endeavour to procure me some news of a lady who had quitted Rosenwald in my company the night before, and had been with me at the moment when the coach broke down. lie smiled, and «n!y replied by advising me to make myself easy, for that all proper care should be taken of me. As he quitted me, the hostess met him at the door of the room. " The gentleman is not quite in his right senses," I heard him siy to her in a low voice; "'tis the natural consequence of his fall, but that will soon be over," One after another the peai?ant8 returned to the inn, and informed me that no traces had been discovered of my unfortunate mistress. Uneasiness now became despair. I entreated them to renew their search in the most urgent terms, doubling the promises which I had already made them. My wild and frantic manner confirmed the bystanders in the idea of my being deli- rious. No signs of the lady having appeared, they believed her to be a creature fabricated by my over-heated brain, and paid no attention to my entreaties. However, the hostess assured mo, that a fresh inqrjry should be made ; but I found afterwards that lier promise was only given to quiet me. No further steps were taken in the business. Though my baggago was left at Munich under the care of my French servant, having prepared myself for a long journey, my purse was amply furnished : besides, my equipage proved me to be of distinction, and in con- sequence all possible attention was paid me at the inn. The day passed away : still no news arrived of Agnes. The anxiety of fear now gave place to despondency. I ceased to rave about her, and was plunged in the depth cf melancholy reflections. Perceiving me to be silent and trauquil, my at- tendants believed my delirium to have abated, and that my malady had taken a favourable turn. According to the physician's order, I swallowed a composing medicine ; and as soon as the night shut in, my attendants with- drew, and left me to repose. That repose I wooed in vain. The agitation of my bosom chased away sleep. Restless in my mind, in spite of the fatigue of my body, 1 continued to toss about from side to side, till the clock in a neighbouring steeple strijck *' one." As I listened to the mournful hollow sound, and heard it die away in the wind, I fVlt a sudden chillness spread itself over my body. I shud- dered without knowing wherefore; cold dews poured down my forehead, and my hair stood bristling with alarm. SadJcnly I heard slow and heavy steps ascending the staircase. By an involuntary movement 1 started up in my bed, and drew back the curtain. A single lushlight glimmered upon the hearth, thed a faint gleam through the apartment, which was hung with THK MONK. 101 tapeitiy. The door w as thrown open with violence. A figure entered, and drew near u>y bed with solemn measured steps. With trembling appre- hension I examined this midnight visiter. God Almighty ! it was the bleeding nun ! It was my lot>t conipauion. Her face was still veiled, but she no longer held her lamp and dagger. She lifted up her veil slowly. What a Siight presented itstlf to m>^Btartled eyee. I beheld before me an animated corse. Her countenance was long and haggard; her cheeks and lips were bloodless ; the paleness of death was spread over her features ; and her eye- balls, fixed steadfastly upon me, were lustreless and hollow. T gazt.d upon the spectre with horror too great to be described. My blood was frozen in my veins. I would have called for aid, but the sound expired ere it could pass my lips. My nerves were bound up in impotence, and I reniftined in the same attitude, inanimate as a statue. The visionary nun looked upon me for some minutes in silence ; there was souiething petrifying in her regard. At length, in a low eep«lchral voice, she pronounced the following words : — " Raymond ! Raymond ! Thou art mine ! Raymond ! Raymond I I am thine I In thy veins while blood shall roll, I am thine ! Tiiou art mine ! Mine tliy body ! Mine thy soul 1" Breathless with fear, I listened whiie she repeated my Gwn expressions. The appaiition seated herself opposite to me at the foot of the bed, and was silent. Her eyes were fixed earnestly upon mine ; they seemed endowed with the property of the rattle-snake's, for I strove in vain to look off her. My eyes were fascinated, and I had not the power of withdrawing them from the spectre's. In this attitude she remained for a whole long hour without speaking or moving ; nor was I able to do either. At length the clock struck two. The apparition rose from her seat, and approached the side of the bed. She grasped with her icy fingers my hand, which hung lifeless upon the cover- ture, and, pressing her cold lips to mine, again repeated Raymond ! Raymond ! Thou art mine ! Raymond ! Raymond ! I am thine !" ;G THE POrE'd BULL. CHAPTER V. •* 0 y ou ! whom Vanity's light bark conveys On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of Prait-e, With what a shifting gale your course you ply, For ever sunk too low, or borne too high ! Who pants for glory finds but short repose ; A breath revives him, and a breath o'ertlirows," Pope. Hebe the marquis concluded his adventures. Loienz ), before he could determine on his reply, passed some moments in reflection. At lerigt'i he broke silence. No. 16. 122 THE MONK. " Raymond," eaid he, taking his hand, ** strict honour would obh'ge me to wash off in your blood the stain thrown upon my family ; but the circum- stances of your case forbid me to consider you as an enemy. The temptation was too great to be resisted. 'Tig the superstition of my relations which has occasioned these misfortunes, and they are more the offenders than yourself and Agnes. What has passed between you cannot be recalled, but may yet be repaired by uniting you to .my sister. You have ever been, you still continue to be, my dearest, and indeed my only friend. I feel for Agnes the truest affection, and there is no one on whom I would bestow her more wil- lingly than on yourself. Pursue, then, your design. I will accompany |you to-morrow night, and conduct h^r myself to the house of the cardinal. My presence will be a sanction for her conduct, and prevent her incurring blame by her flight from the convent." The marquis thanked him in terms by no means ^deficient in gratitude. Lorenzo then informed him, that he had nothing more to apprehend from Donna Rodolpha's enmity. Five months had already elapsed since, in an excess of passion, she broke a blood-vessel, and expired in the course of a few hours. He then proceeded to mention the interests of Autonia. The mar- quis was much surprised at hearing of this new relation. His father had carried his hatred of Elvira to the grave, and had never given the least hint that he knew what was become of his eldest son's widow. Don Raymond assured his friend, that he was not mistaken in supposing him ready to ac- knowledge his sister-in-law and her amiable daughter. The preparations for the elopement would not permit his visiting them the next day ; but, in the meanwhile, he desired Lorenzo to assure them of his friendship, and to sup- ply Elvira, upon his account, with any sums which she might want. This the youth promised to do, as soon as her abode should be know to him. He then took leave of his future brother, and returned to the palace de Medina. The day was already on the point of breaking when the marquis retired to his chamber. Conscious that his narrative would take up some hours, and wishing to secure himself from interruption on returning to the hotel, he ordered his attendants not to sit up for him ; consequently, he was somewhat surprised, on entering his anti-room, to find Theodore established there. The page sat near a table with a pen in his hand, and was so totally occu- pied by his employment, that he perceived not his lord's approach. The marquis stopped to observe him. Theodore wrote a few lines, then paused, and scratched out a part of the writing ; then wrote again, smiled, and seemed highly pleased with what he had been about. At last he threw down his pen, sprang from his chair, and clapped his hands together joy- fully. •* There it is," cried he, aloud ; "now they are charming." His transports were interrupted by a laugh from the marquis, who sus- pected the nature of his employment. " What is so charming, Theodore ?" The youth started, and looked round ; he blushed, ran to the table, seized the paper on which he had been writing, and concealed it in confusion. THE MONK. 123 " Oh ! my lord, I knew not that you were so near me. Can I be of use to you ? Lucas is already gone to bed." " I shall follow his example when I have given my opinion of your verses." i "My verses, my lord?" *' Nay, I am sure that you have been writing some, for nothing else could have kept you awake till this time of the morning. Where are they, Theo- dore? I shall like to see your composition.'^ Theodore's cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson ; he longed to show his poetry, but first chose to be pressed for it. " Indeed, my lord, they are not worthy your attention." " Not these verses, which you just now declared to be so charming ? Come, come, let me see whether our opinions are the same. I promise that you shall find in me an indulgent critic." The boy produced his paper with seeming reluctance ; but the satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes betrayed the vanity of his little bosom. The marquis smiled while he observed the emotions of a heart as yet but little skilled in veiling its sentiment. He seated himself upon a sofa. Theodore, while hope and fear contended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude for his master's decision, while the marquis read the following lines : — LOVE AND AGE. The night was dark ; the wind blew cold ; Anacreon, grown morose and old, Sat by his fire, and fed the cheerful flame ; Sudden the cottage door expands. And, lo ! before him Cupid stands, Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name. " What! is it thou?" the startled sira In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire With crimson flashed his pale and wrinkled cheek ; *' Would'st thou again with amorous rage Inflame my bosom ? Steeled by age, Vain boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak, I " What seek you in this desert drear? No smiles or sports inhabit here ; Ne'er did these valleys witness dalliance sweet ; Eternal winter binds the plains ; Age in my house despotic reigns ; My garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat. " Begone, and seek the blooming bower, Where some ripe virgin courts thy power, Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed : On Damon's amorous breast repose ; Wanton on Chloe's lip of rose. Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head. THE MONK. " Be such thy haunts ! These regions cold Avoid ! Nor thiu'c, grown wise and old, Tliifi hoary liead again thy yoke shall bear; rtemembeiing that my tairest years By thee were marked with sighs and tears, I iliink tliy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare. "I have not yet forgot the pains 1 felt while bound in Julia's chains : The ardent tianie with which my bosom burned ; The nights I passed deprived of rest; The jealous pangs which racked my breast; My disappointed hopes, and passion uureturned. "Then fly, and curse niiuo eyes no more ! Fly from my peaceful cottige door! No day, no hour, no moment shalt thou stay. I know thy falsehood, scorn thy art-, Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts ; Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray !" *' Does age, old man, your wits confound?" Replied t!io offended god, and frowned : [His frown was sweet as is the virgin's smile !] ^ *' Do you to n»e these words address ? To me who do not love you less, Though you my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile! " If one proud fair you chanced to find, A hundred other nymphs were kind, "Whose smiles might well for Julia's frowns atone : But such is man ! his partial hand Unnumbered favours writes on sand, But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone. "Ingrate! Who led thee to the wave, At noon, where Lesbia loved to lave ? Who named tlie bower alone where Daphne lay ? And who, when Celia shrieked for aid, Bade you with kisses hush the maid ? What other waa't than Love, oh ! false Anacreon, say ! ** Then you could call me — * Gentle boy I My only bliss ! my uouree of joy ! ' Then you could prize rae dearer than your soul ! Could kiss, and dance me on \our knees ; And swear, not wine itself would please. Had not the lip of Lovo first touched the flowing bowl ! "Must those sweet days return no more? Must I for aye your loss deplore, Banished your heart, and from your favour driven? Ah ! no ; iny fears that f^milo denies ; That heaving breat-t, those sparkling eyes Declare me ever dear, and all my faults forgiven. THE MOKK. " Again, beloved, esteemed, caressed, Cupid shall in thine arms be pressed, Sport' on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep: My torch thy age-struck heart shall warm ; My hand pale winter's age disarm, And Youth and Spring shall here ouco more their revels keep." A feather now of golden hue He smiling from his pinion drew ; This to the poet's hand the boy commits ; And straight before Anacreon's eyes The fairest dreams of fancy rise, And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits. His besom glows with amorous fire ; Eager he grasps the magic lyre ; Swift o'er the tuneful chords his fingers move: The feather plucked from Cupid's wing Sweeps the too- long neglected string, While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of lovo. Soon as that name was heard, the woods Shook of their snows ; the melting floods Broke their cold chains, and winter fled away. Oace more the earth was decked with flowers ; Mild zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers ; High towered the glorious sun, and poured the blaze of day. Attracted by the harmonious sound, Sylvans and fauns the cot surround, And curious crowd the minstrel to behold : The wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove ; Eager they run ; they list, they love, And, while they hear the strain, forgot the man is old. Cupid, to nothing constant long, Perched on the harp attends the song, Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes : Now on the poet's breast reposes, Now twines his hoary locks with roses, Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats. Then thus Anacreon — ** I no more At other shrines my vows will pour, Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire ; From Phoebus or the blue- eyed maid Now shall my verse request no aid, For love alone shall be the patron of my lyre. " In lofty strain, of earlier days, I spread the king's or hero's praise. And struck the martial cords with epic fire But farewell, hero ! farewell, king ! Your deeds my lips no more shall sing, For love alone shall be the subject of my lyre." The marquis returned the paper with a smile of encouragement. *' Your little poenj pleases me much," said he : " however, you must not count my opinion for anything. I am no judge of verses, and for my own 126 THE MONK. part never composed more than eix lines in my life : those six produced so unlucky an effect, that I am fully resolved never to compose another. But I wander from my subject. I was going to say that you cannot employ your time worse than in making verses. An author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom everybody is previleged to attack ; for though all are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own punishment — contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails upon its author a thousand mortifications ; he finds himself assailed by partial and ill-humoured criti- cisms ; one man finds fault with the plan, another with the style, a third with the precept which it strives to inculcate ; and they who cannot succeed in finding fault with the book, employ themselves in stigmatizing its author. They maliciously rake from obscurity every little circumstance which may throw ridicule upon his private character or conduct, and aim at wounding the man since they cannot hurt the writer. In short to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappointment. Whether you write well or ill, be assured that you will not escape from blame. Indeed this circumstance contains a young author's chief consolation ; he remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjust and envious critics, and he modestly conceives himself to be ex- actly in their predicament. But I am conscious that all these sage observa- tions are thrown away upon you. Authorship is a mania, to conquer which no reasons are sufficiently strong ; and you might as easily persuade ine not to love, as I persuade you not to write. However, if you cannot lielp being occasionally seized with a poetical paroxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating your verses to none but those whose partiality for you secures their approbation." " Then, my lord, you do not think these lines tolerable?'' said Theodore, with a humble and dejected air. " You mistake my meaning. As I said before, they have pleased me much ; but my regard for you makes me partial, and others might judge them le;8 favourably. I must still remark, that even my prejudice in your favour does not blind me so much as to prevent my observing several faults. For instance, you make a terrible confusion of metaphors ; you are too apt to make the strength of your lines consist more in the words than sense ; some of the verses only seem introduced in order to rhyme with others ; and most of the best ideas are borrowed from other poets, though possibly you are unconscious of the theft yourself. These faults may occasionally be excused in a work of length, but a short poem must be correct and perfect." " All this is true, senor ; but you should consider that I only write for pleasure." " Your defects are the less excusable. Their incorrectness may be for- given, who work for money, who are obliged to complete a given task in a given time, and are paid according to the bulk, not value of their produc- tions. But in those who no necessity forces to turn author, who merely THE MONK, 127 write for fame, and have full leisure to polish their compositious, faults are unpardonable, and merit the sharpest arrows of criticism." The marquis rose from the sofa ; the page looked discouraged and me- lancholy ; and this did not escape his master's observation. " However/' added he, smiling, I think that these lines do you no dis- credit. Your versification is tolerably easy, and your ear seems to be just. The perusal of your little poem upon the whole gave me much pleasure ; and if it is not asking too great a favour, I shall be highly obliged to you for a copy," The youth's countenance immediately cleared up. He perceived not the smile, half approving, half ironical, which accompanied the request, and he promised the copy with great readiness. The marquis withdrew to his chamber, much amused by the instantaneous effect produced upon Theo- dore's vanity by the conclusion of his criticism. He threw himself upon his couch, sleep soon stole over him, and his dreams presented him with the most flattering pictures of happiness with Agnes. Oq reaching the hotel de Medina, Lorenzo's first care was to inquire for letters. He found several waiting for him ; but that which he sought was not amongst them ; Leonella had found it impossible to write that evening. However, her impatience to secure Don Christoval's heart, on which she flattered herself with having made no slight impression, permitted her not to pass another day without informing him where she was to be found. On her return from the Capuchin church, she had related to her sister, with exultation, how attentive a handsome cavalier had been to her ; as also how his companion had undertaken to plead Antonia's cause with the Marquis de las Cisternas. Elvira received this intelligence with sensations very dif- ferent from those with which it was communicated. She blamed her sister's imprudence in confiding her history to an absolute stranger, and expressed her fears lest this inconsiderate step should prejudice the marquis against her. The greatest of her apprehensions she concealed in her own breast. She had observed, with inquietude, that at the mention of Lorenzo a deep blush spread itself over her daughter's cheek. The timid Antonia dared not to pronounce his name. Without knowing wherefore, she felt embar- rassed when he was made the subject of discourse, and endeavoured to change the conversation to Ambrosio. Elvira perceived the emotions of this young bosom : inconsequence, she insisted upon Leonella^s breaking her promise to the cavaliers. A sigh which, on hearing this order, escaped from Antonia, confirmed the wary mother in her resolution. Through this resolution Leonella was determined to break : she conceived it to be inspired by envy, and that her sister dreaded her being elevated above her. Without impai ting her design to any one, she took an oppor- tunity of despatching the following note to Lorenzo ; it was delivered to him as soon as he woke : — *«Doubtle8P, Signer Don LortEzo, you have frequently Rccutedme of in- gratitude and forgetfulness ; but, on the word of a virgin, it was out of my power to perform my prcmiee yegterda} . I knew not in what words to in- 128 THE MOKK. r form you, liow strange a reception my sibter gave your kind wiah to vi.sit her. She is an odd woman, with many good points nbout her ; but her jealousy of me frequently makes her conceive notions quite unaccountable. On hearing that your friend had paid some little attention to me, she im- mediately took the alarm : she blamed my conduct, and has absolutely forbidden me to let you know our abode. My strong sense of gratitude for your kind offers of service, and— —shall I confess it? my desire to behold once more the too amiable Don Christoval, will not permit my obeying her injunctions. I have therefore stolen a moment to inform you, that we lodge in the strada di San Jago, four doors from the palace d'Albornos, and nearly opposite to the barber's, Miguel Coello. Inquire for Donna Elvira Dalfa, since, in compliance with her father-in-law's order, my sister continues to bo called by her maiden name. At eight this evening you will be sure of tind- ing us : but let not a word drop which may raise a suspicion of my having written this letter. Should you see the Conde d'Odsorio, tell him 1 blush while I declare it tell him that his presence will be but too accept- able to the sympathetic "LEONELLA.*' The latter sentences were written in red ink, to express the blushes of her cheek while she committed an outrage upon her virgin modesty. Lorenzo had no sooner perused this note than he set out in search of Don Christoval. Not being able to find him in the course of the day, he pro- ceeded to Donna Elvira^s alone, to Leonella's infinite disappointment. The domestic by whom he sent up his name having already declared his lady to be at home, she had no excuse for refusing his visit . yet she consented to receive it with much reluctance. That reluctance was increased by the changes which his approach produced in Antcnia's countenance ; nor was it by any means abated when the youth himself appeared. The symmetry of his person, animation of his features, and natural elegance of his manners and address, convinced Elvira that such a guest must be dangerous for her daughter. She resolved to treat him with distant politeness, to decline his services with gratitude for the tender of them, and to make him feel, with- out offence, that his future visits would be far from acceptable. Oil his entrance he found Elvira, who was indisposed, reclining upon a sofa; Antonia sat by her embroidery frame; and Leonella, in a pastoral dress, held Montemayors Diana.*' In spite of her being the mother of Antonia, Lorenzo could not help expecting to find in Elvira, Leonella's true sister, and the daughter of "as honest a pains taking shoemaker as any in Cordova." A single glance was sufficient to undeceive him. lie beheld a woman whose features, though impaired by time and sorrow, still bore the marks of distinguished beauty : a serious dignity reigned upon her coun- tenance, but was tempered by a grace and sweetness which rendered lier truly enchanting. Lorenzo fancied that Ehe must have resembled her daughter in her youth, and readily excused the impiudence of the late Conde de las Cisternas. She desired him to be seated, and immediately resumed her place upon the sofa. Antonia received him with a simple reverence, and continued lier woik ; her cheeks vere suffused with crimson, and fihe btrovo to conceal her emo- tion by leaning over her enibroidery frame. 11 er aunt also chose to plav oft" lier airs of n)odefcty : the jiffcoted to blush and tremble, and waited with her THE MONK, 129 MATILDA SNTBRING THE OBMETERY. eyes cast down to receive, as she expected, the compliments of Don Chrig- toval. Finding, after some time, that no signs of his approach was given, she rentured to look round the room, and perceived with vexation that Medioa was uuaccompanied. Impatience woald not permit her waiting for an explanation; interrupting Lorenzo, who was delivering Raymond's message, she desired to know what had become of his friend. He, who thought it necessary to maintain himself in her good graces, strove to console her under her disappointment by committing ft little violence upon truth. " Ah I segnora," be replied, in a melancholy voice, " how grieved will he No. 17. 130 THE MONK. ba at losing this opportunity of paying you his respects ! A relation's illaess 'has obliged him to quit Madrid in haste; but, on his return, he will doubt- less seize the first moment with transport to throw himself at your feet.*' As he said this, his eyes met those of Elvira; she punished his falsehood sufficiently by darting at him a look expressive of displeasure and reproach. Neither did the deceit answer his intention. Vexed and disappointed, Leon- ella rose from her seat, and retired in dudgeon to her own aparlnuut* Lorenzo hastened to repair the fault which had injured him in Elvlici's opinion. He related his conversation with the marquis respecting her — he assured her that Raymond was prepared to acknowledge her for his brother's widow — and that, till it was in his power to pay his compliments to her in person, Lorenzo was commissioned to supply his place. This intelligence relieved Elvira from a heavy weight of uneasiness : she had now found a protector for the fatherless Antonia, for whose future fortunes she had suflFered the greatest apprehensions. She was not sparing of her thanks to him, who had interfered so generously in her behalf ; but still fihe gave him no invita- tion to repeat his visit. However, when upon rising to depart, he requested permission to inquire after her health occasionally, the polite earnestness of his manner, gratitude for his services, and respect for his friend, the marquis, would not admit of a refusal. She consented reluctantly to receive him ; he promised not to abuse her goodness, and quitted the house. Antonia was now left alone with her mother : a temporary silence ensued. Both wished to speak upon the same subject, but neither knew how to intro- duce it. The one felt a bashfulnefis whioh sealed up her lips, and for which she could not account : the other feared to find her apprehensions true, or to inspire her daughter with notions to which she might be still a stranger. At length, Elvira began the conveisation. That is a charming young man, Antonia ; I am much pleased with him. Was he long near you yesterday in the cathedral T* " He qiiitted me not for a moment while I staid in the church; he gave me his seat, and vs^as very obliging and attentive." *« Indeed ! Why, then, have you never mentioned his name to me ? Your aunt launched out in praise of his friend, and you vaunted Ambrosio's elo- quence but neither said a word of Don Lorenzo's person and accomplish- ments. Had not Leonella spoken of his readiness to undertake our cause, I should not have known him to be in existence." She paused. Antonia coloured, but was silent. Perhaps you judge him less favourably than I do. In my opinion, his figure is pleasing, his conversation sensible, and manners engaging. Still he may have struck you differently ; you may think him disagreeable, and—" •'Disagreeable? Oh I dear mother, how should I possibly think him so ? I should be very ungrateful were I not sensible of his kindness yesterday, and very blind if his merits had escaped me. His figure is go graceful, so noble. His manners so gentle, yet eo manly. I never yet saw so many accomplish- ments united in one person, and I doubt whether Madrid can produce his equal." THE MONK. 131 "Why, then, were you sosileat in praise of this phoenix of Madrid? Why was it concealed from ms thit his society had afforded you pleasure?" *'In truth, I know not — you ask ma a question which I cannot solve my- self, I- was on the. point of mentioning him a thousand times ; his name was constantly on my lips; but when 1 would have prouounced it, I wanted courage to execute my design. However, if I did not speak of him, it was not that 1 thought of him the less." That I believe. Bu/r shall I tell you why you wanted courage ? It was because, accustomed to confide to me your most secret thoughts, you knew not how to CO loeal. yei feared to acknowledge, that your heart nourished a sentiment which you were conscious I should disapprove. Come hither to me, my child." Antonia quitted her embroidery frame, threw herself upon her knees by the sofa, and hid her face in her mother's lap. '•Fear not, my sweet girl ! Consider me equally as you friend and parent, and apprehend no reproof from me. I have read theemotions of your bosom ; you are yet ill skilled in concealing them, and they could not escape my at- tentive eye. This Lorenzo is dangerous to your repose; htt has already made an impression upon your heart. 'Tis true that I perceive easily that your affection is returned; but what can be the consequence of this attach- ment ? You are poor and friendless, my Antonia: Luienzo is the heir of the Duke of Medina Celi. Even should himself mean honourably, his uncle never will consent to your union ; nor, without that uncle* ej consent, will I. By sad experience I know what sorrow shemuf t ondure, who marries into a family unwilling to receive her. Then struggle with your affection ; what- ever pains it may cost you, strive to conquer it. Your heart is tender and susceptible ; it has already received a strong impression ; but when once con- vinced that you should not encourage such sentiments, I trust that you have sufficient fortitude to drive them from your bosom." Antonia kissed her hand, and promised implicit obedience. Elvira then continued : — ♦* To prevent your passion from growing stronger, it will be needful to pro- hibit Lorenzo's visit. The service which he has rendered me permits not my forbidding them positively J but, unless I judge too favourably of his charactefr, he will discontinue thorn without taking offence, if I confess to him my reasons, and throw myself entirely on his generosity. The next time that I see him, I will honestly avow to him the embarrassment which his presence occasions. How say you, my child? la not this measure ne- cessary ?'* Antonia subscribed to everything without hesitation, though not without regret. Her mother kissed her affectionately, and retired to bed. Antonia followed her example, and vowed so frequently never mote to think of Lo- renzo, that, till sleep closed her eyes, she thought of nothing else. While this was passing at Elvira's, L<)ieiizi> hastened to rejoin the marquis. Everything was ready for the second elopement of Agnes ; and at twelve the two friends, with a coach and four, were at the garden wall of the convent. Don Raymond drew out his key and unlocked the door. They entered, and 182 THK MONK. waited for some time in expectAtion of being joined by Agnei. At length the marqnis grew impatient — beginning to fear that hia second attempt would succeed no better than the first, he proposed to reconnoitre the convent. The friends advanced towards it. Everything was still and dark. The priorets was anxioas to keep the story a secret, fearing leet the crime of one of its members should bring disgrace upon the whole community, or that the in- terposition of powerful relations should deprive her vengeance of its intended ▼ictim. She took care, therefore, to give the lover of Agnes no cause to sup- pose that his design was discovered, and his mistress on the point of suffering the punishment of her fault. The same reason made her reject the idea of arresting the unknown seducer in the garden ; such a proceeding would have created much disturbance, and the disgrace of her convent would have bean noised about Madrid. She contented herself with confining Agnes closely; as to the lover, she left him at liberty to pursue his designs. What she hid expected was the result. The marquis and Lorenzo waited in vain till the break of day; they then retired without noise, alarmed at the failure of their plan, and ignorant of the cause of its ill success. The next morning Lorenzo went to the convent* and requested to see hia eister. The prioress appeared at the grate with a melancholy countenance. She informed him that for several days Agnes had appeared much agitated ; that she had been pressed by the nuns in vain to reveal the cause, and apply to their tenderness for advice and consolation ; that she had obstinately persisted in concealing the cause of her dibtresu ; but that on Thursday evening it had produced so violent an effect upon her constitution, that she had fallen ill, and was actually confined to her bed. Lorenzo did not credit a syllable of this account ; he insisted upon seeing his sister ; if she was un- able to come to tne grate, he desired to be admitted to her cell. The prioress crossed herself, she was shocked at the very idea of a man's pro- fane eye pervading the interior of her holy mansion, and professed herself astonished that Lorenzo could think of such a thing. She told him that his request could not be granted ; but that, if he returned the next day, she hoped that her beloved daughter would then be sufficiently recovered to join him at the parlour grate. With this answer Lorenzo was obliged to re- tire, unsatisfied, and trembling for his sister's safety. He returned the next morning at an early hour. *' Agnes was worse ; the physicians had pronounced her te be in imminent danger ; she was ordered to remain quiet, and it was utterly impossible for her to receive her brother's visit.'* Lorenzo stormed at this answer, but there was no resource. He raved, he entreated, he threatened ; no means were left untried to obtain a sight of Agnes. His endeavours were as fruitless as those of the day before, and he returned in despair to the marquis. On his side, the latter had spared no pains to discover what had occasioned his plot to fail. Don Chris- teval, to whom the aflair was now entrusted, endeavoured to worm out the secret from the old portereas of St. Clare, with whom he had formed a i ac- quaintance ; but she was too much upon her guard, and he gained from her no intelligence. The marquis was almout distracted, and Lorenzo felt scarcely less inouietude. Both were convinced that the purposed elopement must hare THE MONK, 133 b«en discovered; the doubted not but the malady of Agnes was a pra- tenctf, bat they knew not by what meana to rescue her from the hands of the prioress. Regularly every day did Lorenzo visit the convent , as regularly was he informed that hi* sister rather grew worse than better. Certain that her iudiiipusition was feigned, these accounts did not alarm him: but his igno> ranee of her fate, and of the motives which induced the prioress to keep her from him, excited the most serious uneasiness. He was still uncertain vrhat steps he ought to take, when the marquis received a letter from the Cardinal-Duke of Lerma. It inclosed the pope's expected bull, ordering that Agnefc: should be released from her vow.«, and restored to her relations. This essential paper decided at once the proceedings of her friends ; they resolved that Lorenzo should carry it to the dornina without delay, and demand that his sister should be instantly given up to him. Against this mandate illness could not be pleaded : it gave her brother the power of removing her instantly to the palace de Medina, and he determined to use that power on the following day. His mind relieved from inquietude respecting his sister, and his spirits raised by the hope of soon restoring her to freedom, he now had time to give a moment to love and Antonia. At the same hour as on his former visit, he repaired to Donna Elvira's. She had giyen orders for his admis* sion. As soon as he was announced, her daughter retired with Leooella; and when he entered the chaniber, he found the lady of the house alone. She received him with less distance than before, and desired him to place himself near her upon the sofa. She then, without losing time, opened her business, as had been agreed between herself and Antonia. " You must not think me ungrateful, Don Lorenzo, or forgetfiil of the services which you have rendered me with the marquis. I feel the weight of my obligations; nothing under the sun should induce my taking the step to which I am now compelled, but the interest of my child, of my beloved Antonia. My health is declining; God only knows how soon I may be summoned before his throne. My daughter will be left without parents, and, should she lose the protection of the Cisternas family, without friends. She is young and artless, uninstructed in the world's perfidy, and with charms sufficient to render her an object of seduction. Judge, then, how I must tremble at the prospect before her. Judge how anxious I must be to keep her from their society, who may excite the yet dormant passions of her bosom. You are amiable, Don Lorenzo; Antonia has a susceptible, a loving heart, and is grateful for the favour conferred upon us by your interference with the mar- quis. Your presence makes me tremble : I fear lest it should inspire her with sentiments which may embitter the remainder of her life, or en- courage her to cherish hopes in her situation unjustifiable and futile. Pardon me, when I avow my terrors, and let my frankness plead in my excuse. I cannot forbid you my house, for gratitude restrains me ; I can only throw niyself upon .your generosity, and intreat you to spare the feelings of an anxious, of a doting mother. Believe me, when I assure you, that I lament 134: THE MONK. the necessity of rejecting your acquaintance ; but there is no remedy, and Antonia'e interests obliges me to beg you to forbear your visits. By comply- ing with my request, you will increase the esteem which I already feel for yon, and of which everything convinces me that you are truly deserving." **Your frankness charms me," replied Lorenzo: You shall find, that in your favourable opinion of me you were not deceived ; yet I hope that the reasons now in my power to allege, will persuade you to withdraw a re- quest which I cannot obey without infinite reluctance. I love your daughter, love her moat sincerely ; I wish for no greater happiness than to inspire her with the same sentiments, and receive her hand at the altar as her husband. 'Tis true I am not rich myself, my father's death has left m« but little in ray own possession ; but my expectations justify my pretending to the Conde de ias Cisternas' daughter. He was proceeding, but Elvira interrupted him — ''Ah! Don Lorenzo, you forget in that pompous title the nieaness of my origin. You forget that I have now passed fourteen years in Spain, dis- avowed by my husband's family, and existing upon a stipend barely sufficient for the support and education of my daughter. Nay, I have even been neglected by most of my own relations, who, out of envy, affect to doubt the reality of my marriage. My allowance being discontinued at my father-in-law's death, I was reduced to the very brink of want. In this situation I was found by my sister, who, amongst all her foibles, possesses a warm, generous, and affectionate heart. She aided me with the little fortune which my father left her, persuaded me to visit Madrid, and has supported my child and myself since our quilting Murcia. Then, consider not Antonia as descended from the Conde de las Cisternas ; consider her as a poor and unprotected orphan, as the grandchild of the tradesman, Torribio Dalfa, as the needy pensioner of that tradesman's daughter. Reflect upon the difference between such a situation and that of the nephew and heir of the potent Duke of Medina. I believe your intentions to be honourable; but as there are no hopes that your uncle will approve of the union, I foresee that the consequences of your attachment must be fatal to my child's repose." Pardon me, segnora ; you are misinformed if you suppose the Duke of Medina to resemble the generality of men. His sentiments are liberal and disinterested; he loves me well, and I have no reason to dread his forbidding the marriage, when he perceives that my happiness depends upon Antonia. But supposing him to refuse his sanction, what have I still to fear? My parents are no more; my little fortune is in my own possession ; it will be sufficient to support Antonia, and I shall exchange for her hand Medina's dukedom without one sigh of regret," "You are young and eager; it is natural for you to entertain such ideas. But experience has taught me to my cost, that curses accompany an unequal alliance, i married the Conde de las Cisternas in opposition to the will of his relations; many a heart-pang has punished me for the imprudent step. Wherever we bent our course, a father's execration pursued Qonzalvo. Poverty overtook us, and no friend was near to relieve our wants. Still our THE MOKK, 135 mutual affection existed, but, alas! not without interruption. Accustomed to wealth and ease, ill oould my husband support the transition to distress and indigence. He looked bsck with repining to the comforts which he once enjoyed. He regretted the situation which for my sake he had quitted ; and, in moments when de?pair possessed his mind, has reproached me with having made him the companion of want and wretchedness. He has called me his bane! the source of his sorrows, the cause of his destruction! Ah, God! he little knew how much keener were my own heart's reproaches. He was ignorant tha'; I suffered trebly, for myself, for my children, and for him. I Tis true that his anger seldom lasted long ; his sincere affection for me soon revived in his heart, and then his repentance for the tears which he had made me shed, tortured me even more than his reproaches, he would implore my forgiveness in the most frantic terms, and loaded himself with curses for being the murderer of my repose. Taught by experience, that an union con- tracted against the inclinations of families on either side must be unfortu- nate, I will save my daughter from those miseries which I have suffered. Without your uncle's consent, while I live, she never shall be your's. Un- doubtedly he will disapprove of the union ; his power is immense, and Antonia shall not be exposed to his anger and persecution." " His persecution ? How easily may that be avoided ! Let the worst happen, it is but quitting Spain. My wealth may easily be realised. The Indian islands will offer us a secure retreat. I have an estate, though not of value, in Hispaniola; thither will we fly, and I shall consider it to be my native country, if it gives me Antonia's undisturbed possession." " Ah ! youth, this is a fond, romantic vision. Gonzalvo thought the same. He fancied that he couKl leave Spain without regret ; but the moment of parting undeceived him. You know not yet what it is to quit your na- tive land ; to quit it, never to behold it more. You know not what it is to exchange the scenes where you have passed your infancy, for unknown realms and barbarous climates — to be forgotten, utterly, eternally forgotten by the companions of your youth ! — to see your dearest friends, the fondest objects of your affection, perishing with diseases incidental to Indian at- mospheres, and find yourself unable to procure for them necessary assistance! I have felt all this ! My husband and two sweet babes found their graves in Cuba ; nothing would have saved my young Antonia but my sudden re turn to Spain. Ah ! Don Lorenzo, could you conceive what I suffered during my absence ! Could you know how sorely I regretted all that I left behind, and how dear to me was the very name of Spain! I envied the winds which blew towards it ; and when the Spanish sailor chanted some well- known air as he passed my window, tears filled my eyes, while I thought upon my native land. Gonzalvo, too — my husband — '* Elvira paused. Her voice faltered, and she concealed her face with her handkerchief. After a short silence she rose from the sofa, and proceeded — i " Excuse my quitting you for a few moments ; the remembrance of what I suffered has much agitated me, and I need to be alone. Till I return, peruse these lines. After my husband's death I found them among his papers. Had I known sooner that he entertained such sentiments, grief 136 THE MONK. would have killed me. He wrote these rerses on his vojaga to Caba, when his miDd was clouded by sorrow, and he forgot that he had a wife and chiU dren. What we are losing ever seems to us the most precious. Gonzalro was quitting Spain for ever, and therefore was Spain dearer to his eyes than all else which the world contained. Read them, Don Lorenzo, they will give you some idea of the feelings of a banished man." Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo's hand, and retired from the chamber. The youih ex aim ed the co tents, and found them to be as follows THE EXILE. J'areweli, oh native Spain I farewell for ever ! These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more : A mournful presage tells my heart, that never Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore. Hushed are the winds ; while soft the vessel sailing With gentle motion ploughs the unruffled main, I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing. And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain. 1 see it yet ! Beneath yon blue clear heaven Still do the spires, so well beloved, appear. From yonder craggy point the gale of even Still wafts my native accents to mine ear. Propped on some moss-crowned rock, and gaily singing, There in the sun his nets the fisher dries ; Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes. Ah ! happy swain ! he waits the accustomed hour, When twilight gloom obscures the closing sky, 'Xhen gladly seeks his loved paternal bower. And shares the feast his native fields supply. Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him With honest welcome and with smile sincere : No threatening woes of present joys bereave him ! Ko sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear. Ah ! happy swain ! such bliss to me denying* Fortune' thy lot with envy bids me view ; Me, who from home and Spain an exile flying. Bid all I valae all I love« adieu ! No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty Sung by some mountain girl who tends her goats} Some village swain imploring amorous pity, Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes. No more my arms a parent's fond embraces, No more my heart domestic calm must know ; Far from these joys, with sighs which memory traces. To sultry skies and distant climes I go. THE MONK. 137 AMBROSIO WAITING FOR MATILDA's RETURN FROM THE CEMETKRV. "Where Indian suns engender new diseases, Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way, To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases, The yellow plague and madding blaze of day. Bat not to feel slow pang3 consume my liver, To die by piecemeal in the bloom of age, My boiling blood drunk by insatiate fever, And brain delirious with the day-star's rage. Can make me know such grief as thou to sever, With many a bitter eigh, dear land ! from thee ; To feel this heart must doat on thee for ever. And feel that all thy joys are torn from me. Ah me! how oft will fancy's spell?, in slumber, Ueeall my native country to ray mind ! How oft regret will bid me sadly number Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind ! Wild Murcia's vales and loved romantic bowers, The river on whose bank a child I played, My castle's ancient halls, its frowning towers. Each much-regretted wood and well known glade; No. 18. THE MONT Dreams of the land where al mv n is) es c ntre, Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know, Full oft shall memorv trace my soul's tormentor, And turn each pleasure past to present woe. But, lo ! the sun beneath the waves retires : Night speeds apaca her empire to res ore ; Clouds from my sight obscure the village fpi pf, Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more. Oh ! breathe not, winds f Still be the water's motion I Sleep, sleep, my barque, in silence on the main ! So, when to-morrow's light shall gild the ocean, Once more mine eyes shall see the coa^t of Spain. Vain is the wish ! My last petition scorning, Fresh blows the gale, and high the billowt? Bwell : Far shall we be before the break of morning : Oh ! then, for ever, native Spain, farewell ! Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines, when Elvira returned to him ; the giving a free course to her tears had relieved her, and her spirits had regained their usual composure. " I have nothing more to say, my lord,** said she ; " you have heard my apprehensions, and my reasons for begging you not to repeat your visits. I have thrown myself in full confidence upon your honour. I am certain that you will not prove my opinion of you to have been too favourable." "But one question more, segnora, and I leave you. Should the Duke of Medina approve my love, would my addresses be unacceptable to yourself and the fair Antonia ?'' " 1 will be open with you, Don Lorenzo : there being little probability ©f such an union taking place, I fear that it is desired but too ardently by my daughter. You have made an impression upon her young heart which gives me the most serious alarm ; to prevent that impression from growing sttonger, I am obliged to decline your acquaintance. For me, you may be sure that I should rejoice at establishing my child so advantageously. Conscious that my constitution, impaired by grief and illness, forbids me to expect a long continuance in this world, I tremble at the thought of leaving her under the protection of a perfect stranger. The Marquis de las Cisternas is totally un- known to me. He will marry : his lady may look upon Antonia with an eye of displeasure, and deprive her of her only friend. Should the duke, your uncle, give his consent, you need not doubt obtaining mine and my daughterJs ; but, without his, hope not for ours. At all events, whatever steps you may take, whatever may be the duke's deciBion, till you know it, let me beg your forbearing to strengthen, by your presence, Antonia's prepossession. If the sanction of your relations authorises your addressing her as your wife, my doors fly open to you. If that sanction is refused, be satisfied to posse.-s my esteem and gratitude, but remember that we must meet no more." Lorenzo promised reluctantly to conform to this decree ; but he added, that he hoped feoon to obtain that consent, which would give him a claim to the renewal of their acquaintance. He then explained to her why th^j mar- 139 qnis had not called in person ; and made no scruple of confiding to her his sister's history. He concluded by saying, " that he hoped to set Agnes at liberty the next day ; and that, as soon as Don Raymond's fears were quieted upon this subject, he would lose no time in assuring Doana Elvira of his friendship and protection." The lady shook her head. *' I tremble for your sister," said she ; " I have heard many traits of the domina of St. Clare's character from a friend who was educated in the same convent with her ; she reported her to be haughty, inflexible, superstitious, and revengeful. I have since heard, that she is infatuated with the idea of rendering her convent the most regular in Madrid, and never forgave those whose imprudence threw upon it the slightest stain. Though naturally vio- lent and severe when her interests require it, she well knows how to assume an appearance of benignity. She leaves no means untried to persuade young women of rank to become members of her community ; she is implacable when once incensed, and has too much intrepidity to shrink at taking the most rigorous measures for punishing the offender. Doubtless, she will con- sider your sister's quitting the convent as a disgrace thrown upon it: she will use every artifice to avoid obeying the mandate of hia holiness ; and I shudder to think that Donna Agnes is in the hands of this dangerous wo- man." Lorenzo now rose to take leave. Elvira gave him her hand at parting, which he kissed respectfully ; and, telling her that he soon hoped for the permission to salute that of Antonia, he returned to his hotel. The lady was perfectly satisfied with the conversation which had passed between them; she looked forward with satisfaction to the prospect of his becoming her son- in-law ; but prudence bade her conceal from her daughter's knowledge the flattering hopes which herself now ventured to entertain. Scarcely was it day, and already Lorenzo was at the convent of St. Clare, furnished with the necessary mandate. The nuns were at matine. He waited impatiently for the conclusion of the service ; and at length the pri- oress appeared at the parlour grate. Agnes was demanded. The old lady replied with a melancholy air, that the dear child's situation grew hourly more dangerous J that the physicians despaired of her life; but that they had declared the only chance for her recovery to consist in keeping her quiet, and not to permit those to approach her whose presence was likely to agitate her. Not a word of all this was believed by Lorenso, any more than he credited the expressions of grief and affection for Agnes with which this ac- count was interlarded. To end the business, he put the pope's bull into the hands of the domina, and'insisted that, ill or in health, his sister should be delivered to him without delay. The prioress received the paper with an air of humility ; but no sooner had her eye glanced over the contents than her resentment baffled all the efforts of hypocrisy. A deep crimson spread itself over her face, and she darted upon Lorenzo looks of rage and menace. '* This order is positive," said she, in a voice of anger, which she in vain 140 THE MONK. trove to disguise ; " willingly would I obey it, bat, unfortunately, it is out of my power." Lorenzo interrupted her by an exclamation of surprise. " I repeat it, segnor, to obey this order is totally out of my power. From tenderness to a brother's feelings, I would have communicated the sad event to you by degrees, and have prepared you to hear it with fortitude. My mea- sures are broken through ; this order commands me to deliver up to you the sister Agnes without delay ; I am, therefore, obliged to inform you, without circumlocution, that on Friday last she expired." Lorenzo started back with horror, and turned pale. A moment's recol- lection convinced him that this assertion must be false, and it restored him to himself. " You deceive me,*' said he, passionately ; " but five minutes past you as- sured me that, though ill, she was still alive. Produce her this instant. See her I must and will — and every attempt to keep her from me will be una- vailing." > *' You forget yourself, segnor : you owe respect to my age as well as my profession. Your sister is no more. If I at Brst concealed her death, it was from dreading lest an event so unexpected should produce on you too violent an effect. In truth, I am but ill repaid for my attention. And what interest, I pray you, should I have in detaining her? To know her wish of quitting our society is a sufficient reason for me to wish her absence, and think her a disgrace to the sisterhood of St. Clare ; but she has forfeited my affection in a manner yet more culpable. Her crimes were great ; and when you know the cause of her death, you will doubtless rejoice, Don Lorenzo, that such a wretch is no longer in existence. She was taken ill on Thursday last on re- turning from confession in the Capuchin chapel — her malady seemed attended with strange circumstances — but she persisted in concealing its cause. Thanks to the Virgin, we were too ignorant to suspect it. Judge, then, what must have been our consternation, our horror, when she was delivered the next day of a still-born child, whom she immediately followed to the grave. How, segnor ? Is it possible that your countenance expresses no surprise, no in- dignation ? Is it possible that your sister's infamy was known to you, and that still she possessed your affection ? In that case, you have no need of my compassion. I can say nothing more, except repeat my inability of obeying the orders of his holiness. Agnes is no more : and, to convince you that what I say is true, I swear by our blessed Saviour, that three days have passed since she was buried." Here she kissed a small crucifix which hung at her girdle ; she then rose from her chair, and quitted the parlour. As she withdrew, she cast upon Lorenzo a scornful smile. " Farewell, segnor," said she; " I know no remedy for this accident. I fear that even a second bull from the pope will not procure your sister's resur- rection." Lorenzo also retired, penetrated with affiiction ; but Don Raymond's, at the news of this event, amounted to madness: he would not be convinced that Agnes was really dead ; and continued to insist that the walls of St. Clare TUB MONK. Ul •till confiDed her. No argamentg could make hiai abandon his hopes of re- gaining her. Every day some fresh scheme was invented for procuring in- telligence of her, and all of them were attended with the same success. On his part, Medina gave up the idea of ever seeing his sister more ; yet he believed that she had been taken off by unfair means. Under this per- euasion, he encouraged Don Raymond's researches, determined, should he diicorer the least warrant for his suspicions, to take a severe vengeauco upon the unfeeling prioress. The loss of his sijter affected him sincerely ; nor was it the least cause of his distress, that propriety obliged him for sonie time to defer mentioning Antonia to the duke. In the meanwhile, his emissaries constantly surrounded Elvira's door. He had intelligence of all the movements of his mistress. As she never failed every Thursday to at- tend the sermon in the Capuchin cathedral, he was secure of seciag her once a week ; though in compliance with his promise, he carefully shunned her observation. Thus two long months passed away. Still no information was procured of Agnes. All but the marquis credited her death ; and now Lorenzo determined to disclose his sentiments to his uncle : he had already dropped some hints of his intention to marry ; they had been as favourably received as he could expect ; and he harboured no doubt of the success of his application. CHAPTER VI. »• Whil* in each other's arms entranced they lay, They blessed the night, and curbed the coming day.*' Lee. The burst of transport was passed : Ambrosio'a lu8t was satisfied. Pleasure fled, and shame usurped her seat in his bosom. Confused and terrified at his weakness, he drew himself from Matilda's arms : his perjury presented itself before him ; ho reflected on the scene which had ju.st been acted, and trembled at the consequences of a discovery : he looked for- ward with horror ; his heart was despondent, and became the abode of satiety and disgust; he avoided the eyes of his partner in frailty. A me- lancholy silence prevailed, during which both seemed busied with dis- agreeable reflections. Matillda was the first to break it. She took his hand gently, and pressed it to her burning lips. *• Ambrosio 1" she murmured, in a soft and trembling voice. The abbot started at the sound ; he turned his eyes upon Matilda's ; they were filled with tears; her cheeks were covered with blushes, and her supplicating looks eeemed to solicit his compassion. '* Dangerous woman!" said he ; ** into what an abyss of misery have you plunged me! Should your sex be discovered, my honour, nay, my life, must pay for the pleasure of a few moments. Fool that I was, to trust roy- ittlf to your seductions. What can now be done? How can my oflfonce be 142 THR MONK, expiated 7 What atonement can purchase the pardon of my crime? Wretched Matilda, you have destroyed my quiet for ever!*' *' To me these reproaches, Ambrosio ? to me, who have sacrificed for you the world's pleasures, the luxury of wealth, the delicacy of sex, my friends, my fortune, and my fame ? what have you lost which I preserved ? Have /not shared in t/our gmh'i Have you not shared in my pleasure? Guilt, did I say ? In what consists ours, unless in the opinion of an ill-judging world? Let that world be ignorant of them, and our joys become divine and blameless I Unnatural were our vows of celibacy ; man was not created for such a state ; and wero love a crime, God never would have made it 60 sweet, so irresistable ! Then banish those clouds from your brow, my Ambrosio. Indulge in those pleasures freely, without which life is a worth- less gift. Cease to reproach me with having taught you what is bliss, and feel equal transports with the woman who adores you!" As she spoke, her eyes were filled with a delicious langour ; her bosom panted; she twined her arms voluptuously round him, drew him towards her, and glued her lips to his. Ambrosio again raged with desire, the die was thrown, his vows were already broken ; he had already committed the crime, and why should he refrain from enjoying its reward? He clasped her to his breast with redoubled ardour. No longer repressed by the sense of shame, he gave a loose to his intemperate appetites ; while the fair wanton put every invention of lust in practice, every refinement in the art of pleasure, which might lieighten the bliss of her possession, and render her lover's transports still more exquisite. Ambrosio rioted in delights till then unknown to him before. Swift fled the night and morning blushed to behold him still clasped in the embraces of Matilda. Intoxicated with pleasure, the monk rose from the 8yren*8 luxurious couch ; he no longer reflected with shame upon his incontinence, or dreaded the vengeance of offended heaven ; his only fear was lest death should rob him of enjoyments, for which his long fast had only given a keener edge to his appetite. Matilda was still under the influence of poison ; and the volup- tuous monk trembled less for his preserver's life than his concubine's. Deprived of her, he would not easily find another mistress with whom he could indulge his passions so fully, and so safely ; he therefore pressed her with earnestness to use the means of preservation which she had declared to be in ber possession. *' Yes!" replied Matilda ; " since you have made me feel that life is value- able, I will rescue mine at any rate. No dangers shall appal me ; I will look upon the consequences of my action boldly, nor shudder at the horrors which they present ; I will think my sacrifice scarcely worthy to purchase your possession ; and remember, that a moment passed in your arms in this world, overpays an age of punishment in the next. But before I take this step, Ambrosio, give me your solemn oath never to inquire by what means I shall preserve myself." He did so in a manner the most binding. " I thank you, my beloved. This precaution is necessary ; lor, though you know it not, you are under the command of vulgar prejudices. The THE MONK. business on which I must be employed this night might startle yon, from its singularity, and lower me in your opinion. Tell me, are you possepsed of the key of the low door on the western side of the garden?" " The door which opens into the burying ground, common to ua and the sisterhood of St. Clare ? I have not tho key, but can easily procure it.'' " You have only this to do. Adnnt nie into the burying-ground, at mid- night. Watch while I descend into tho vaults of St Clare, lest some prying eye should observe my actions. Leave me there alone for an hour, and that life is safe which I dedicate to your pleasures. To prevent creating suspicion, do not visit me during the day. Remember the key, and that I expect you before twelve. Hark ! I hear steps approaching ! Leave ine j I will pretend to sleep.'' The friar obeyed, and left the cell. As he opened the door, Father Pablos made his appearance. " I come," said the latter, " to inquire after tho health of my young patient." " Hush !" replied Ambrosio, laying his finger upon his lip; -'speak softly, I am just come from him ; he has fallen into a profound slumber, which doubtless will be of service to him. Do not disturb him at present, for he wishes to repose." Father Pablos obeyed, and, hearing the bell ring, accompanied the abbot to matins. Ambrosio felt embarrassed as he entered the chapel, ©uilt was new to him, and he fancied that every eye ceuld read the transactions of the night upon his countenance. He strove to pray : his bosom no longer glowed with devotion ; his thoughts insensibly wandered to Matilda's secret charms. But what he wanted in purity of heart, he supplied by exterior sanctity. The better to cloak his transgression, he redoubled his pretensions to the sem- blance of virtue, and never appeared more devoted to heaven than since he had broken through his engagement?. Thus did he unconsciously add hy- pocrisy to perjury and incontinence : he had fallen into the late erroue from yielding to reduction almost irresistable ; but he was now guilty of a volun- tary fault, by endeavouring to conceal those into which another had betrayed him. The matins concluded, Ambrosio retired to his cell. The pleasures which he had just tasted for the first time were still impressed upon his mind ; his brain was bewildered, and presented a confused chaos of remorse, vo- luptuousness, inquietude, and fear ; he looked back with regret to that peace ef soul, that security of virtue, which till then had been his portion ; he had indulged in excesses whose very idea, but four-and- twenty hours before, he had recoiled at with horror : he shuddered at reflecting that a trifling indiscretion on his part or on Matilda's, would overturn that fabric of reputation which it had cost him thirty years to erect, and render him the abhorrenca of those whom he was then the idol. Conscience painted to him in glaring coloars his perjury and weak- ness; apprehension mngnifled to him the horrors of punishment, and he already fancied himself in the prisons of the Inquisiiion, To these tormenting ideas succeeded Matilda's beauty, and those de- 144 THB MONK. licioufl lessons, which once learnt can never be forgotten. A single glance thrown upon these reconciled him with himself — he considered the pleasnre* of the former night to have been purchased at an easy price by the sacrifioe of innocence and honour. Their very remembrance filled his soul with ec- stacy — he cursed his foolish vanity, which had induced him to waste in ob- scurity the bloom ot life, ignorant of the blessings of love and woman — he determined, at all events, to continue his commerce with Matilda, and called every argument to his aid which might confirm his resolution — he asked himself, provided his irregularity was unknown, in what would his faultcon* sist, and what consequences he had to apprehend ? By adhering strictly to every rule of his order, save chastity, he doubted not to retain the esteem of men, and even the protection of heaven ; he trusted easily to be forgiven lo slight and natural a deviation from his vows ; but forgot that, having pro- nounced those vows, incontinence, in laymen the most venial of errors, be- came in hie person the most heinous of crimes. Onoe decided upon his future conduct, his mind became more easy; he threw himself upon his bed, and strove by sleeping to recruit his 8tr«ngtb, exhausted by his nocturnal excesses. He awoke refreshed, and eager for a repetition of his pleasures. Obedient to Matilda's order, he visited not her cell during the day. Father Pablos mentioned in the refectory, that Rosario had at length been prevailed upon to follow his prescription ; but that the medicine had not produced the slightest effect, and that he believed no mortal skill could rescue him from the grave. With this opinion the abbot agreed, and affected to lament the untimely fate of a youth whoa© talents had appeared so promising. The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure from the porter the key of the low door opening into the cemetery. Furnished with thid, when all was silent in the monastery, he quitted his cell, and hastened to Matilda's She had left her bed, and was dressed before his arrival. " I have been expecting you with impatience," said she, *• my life depends upon these moments. Have you the key ?" *• 1 have.' Away then to the garden. We have no time to lose. Follow me !" She took a small covered basket from the table. Bearing this in one hand, and the lamp, which was flaming on the hearth, in the other, she hastened fron the cell. Ambrosio followed her. Both maintained a pro- found silence. She moved on with quick, but cautious steps, passed through tlie cloisters, and reached the western side of the garden; her eyes flashed with fire and wildness which impressed the monk at onc« with awe and horror. A determined desperate courage reigned upon her brow ; she gave the lamp to Ambrosio, then taking the key, she unlocked the low door, and entered the cemetry. It was a vast and spacious eqnare, planted with yew- trees ; half of it belonged to the abbey, the other half was the property of the sisterhood of St. Clare, and was protected by a roof of stone : the division wa-^ marked by an iron railing, the wicket of which was generally left unlocked. Thither Matilda bent her course; she opened the wicket, and aonght for the door leading to the subterraneons vaults, wliere reposed the monldering TITPJ MONK. 145 THE CONFESSIONAL CHAIR. bodies of the votaries of St. Clare, The night was perfectly dark ; neither moon nor stars were visible. Luckily there was not a breath of wind, and the friar bore his lamp in full security : by the assistance of its beams, the door of the sepulchre was soon discovered. It was sunk within the hollow of a wall, and almost concealed by thick festoons of ivy hanging over it, three steps of rough hewn stones conducted to it, and Matilda was on the point of descending them, when she suddenly started back. There are people in the vaults !" she wispered to the monk ; conceal yourself till they are passed." She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent tomb, erected in honour No. 19. Ii6 THE MONK. of the convent's foundress. Ambrosio followed her example, carefully hiding i his lamp* lest its beams should betray theoi. But a few momenta had I elapsed when the door was pushed open leading to the subterraneous caverns. Rays of light proceeded up the staircase : they enabled the concealed spec- tators to observe two females dressed in religious habits, who seemed engaged in earnest conversation. The abbot had no difficulty to recognise the prioress of St. Clare in the first, and one of the elder nuns in her com- panion. " Everything is prepared," said the prioress : " her fate shall be decided to- morrow ; all her tears and sighs will be unavailing. No ! In the five-and- twenty years that I have been superior of this convent, never did I witness a transaction more infamous!" " You must expect much opposition to your will,'* the other replied, in a milder voice : *• Agnes has many friends in the convent, and in particular the mother St. Ursula will espouse her cause most warmly. In truth, she merits to have friends ; and I wish I could prevail upon you to consider her youth, and her peculiar situation. She seems sensible of her fault ; the excess of her grief proves her penitence, and I am convinced that her tears flow more from contrition than fear of punishment. Reverend mother, would you be persuaded to mitigate the severity of your sentence : would you bat deign to overlook this first transgression ; I ofifer myself as the pledge of her future conduct." " Overlook it, say you ? Mother Camilla, you amaze me I What ? after disgracing me in the presence of Madrid's idol, of the very man on whom I most wished to impress an idea of the strictness of my discipline ? How despicable must I have appeared to the reverend abbot ! No, mother, no I I never can forgive the insult. I cannot better convince Ambrosio that I abhor such crimes, than by punishing that of Agnes with all the rigour of ! which our severe laws admit. Cease then your supplications, they will all j be unavailing. My resolution is taken. To-morrow Agnes shall be made I a terrible example of my justice aud resentment." The mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point, but by this time ! the nuns were out of hearing. The prioress unlocked the door which com- municated with St. Clare's chapel, and having entered with her companion, closed it again after them, Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the prioress was thus incensed, and what connexion she could have with Ambrosio ? Ho related her adventure ; and he added, that since that time his ideas having under- gone a thorough revolution, he now felt much compassion for her unfor- tunate nun. ! " I design/' said he, *' to request an audience of the domina to morrow, and use every meani of obtaining a mitigation of her sentence." "Bewaroof what you do," interrupted Matilda; "your sudden change of sentinjent may naturally create surprise, a ad may give birth to suspicions which it is most to our interest to avoid. .Ttather redouble your outward austerity, and thunder out menaces against the errors of others, the better to conceal your own. Abandon tho nuu to her fate. Your interfering THE MONK, 147 might be dangerous, and her imprudence merits to be punished : Bhe is I unworthy to enjoy love's pleasures, who has not wit enough to conceal them, j But in discussing this trifling subject, 1 waste moments which are precious. I The night flies apace, and much must be done before morning. The nuns are retired, all is safe. Give me the lamp, Ambrosio, I must descend alone into these caverns : wait here, and if any one approaches, warn me by your voice ; but as you value your existence, presume not to follow me, your life would fall a victim to your imprudent curiosity." Thus saying, she advanced towards the sepulchre, still holding her lamp in one hand, and her little basket in the other. She touched the door, it turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and a narrow winding staircase of black marble presented itself to her eyes. She descended it ; Ambrosio remained above, watching the faint beams of the lamp, as they still receded down the stairs. They disappeared, and he found himself in total darkness. Left to himself, he could not reflect without surprise on the sudden change in Matilda's character and sentiments. But a few days had passed, since she appeared the mildest and softest of her sex, devoted to his will, and looking up to him as to a superior being. Now she assumed a sort of courage and manliness in her manners and discourse, but ill calculated to please him. She spoke no longer to insinuate, but command : he found himself unable to cope with her in argument, and was unwillingly obliged to confess the superiority of her judgment. Every moment convinced him of the astonish- ing powers of her mind ; but what she gained in the opinion of the man, she lost with interest in the affection of the lover. He regretted Kosario, the fond, the gentle, and submissive ; he grieved that Matilda preferred the virtues of his sex to those of her own ; and when he thought of herexpres- bions respecting the devoted nun, he could not help blaming them as cruel a-jd uufeininine. Pity is a sentiment so natural, so appropriate to the female character, that it is scarcely a merit for a woman to possess it, but to b© without it is a grievous crime. Ambrosio could not easily forgive his mis- tress for being defiGient in this amiable quality. However, though he blamed her insensibility, he felt the truth of her observations ; and though he pitied sencerely the unfortunate Agnes, he resolved to drop the idea of interposing in her behalf. Nearly an hour had elapsed since Matilda descended into the caverns ; still she returned not. Ambrosio's curiosity was excited. H© drew near the staircase — he listened—aH was silent, except that at intervals he caught the sound of Matilda's voice, as it wound along the subterraneous passages, and was re-echoed by the sepulchre's vaulted roofs. She was at too great a distance for him to distinguish her words, and ere they reached him, they were deadened into a low murmur. He longed to penetrate into this mystery. He resolved to disobey her injunctions, and follow her into th© cavern. He advanced to the staircase ; he had already descended some steps, when his courage failed him. He remembered Matilda's menaces if he infringed her orders, and his bosom was filled with a secret unaccountable awe. He returned up the stairs, resumed his former station in the deep 148 THE MONK. gloom with which he was snrrounded and waited impitiently for the conoia" Bion of this adventure. Suddenly he was sensible of a violent shock. An earthquake rocked the ground, the columns near which he stood, were so strongly shaken, that every moment menaced him with its fall, and impressed him with the ntmost terror, and at the same moment he heard a loud and tremendous burst of thunder ; it ceased, and bis eyes being fixed upon the entrance, he saw a bright column of light flash along the caverns beneath. It was seen but for an instant. No sooner did ic disappear, than all was once more quiet and obscure. Profound darkness again surrounded him, and the silence of night was only broken by the whirring bat as she flitted slowly by him. With every instant Ambrosio's amazement increased. Another hour elapsed^ after which the same light again appeared, and was lost again as suddenly. It was accompanied by a strain of sweet but solemn music, which, as it stole through the vaults below, inspired the monk with mingled delight and terror. It had not long been hushed, when he heard Matilda's steps upon the staircase. She ascended from the cavern ; the most lively joy animated her beautiful features. " Did you see any thing she asked. *' Twice I saw a column of light flash up the staircase.'* " Nothing else ?" " Nothing." " The morning is on the point of breaking, let us retire to the abbey, lest daylight should betray us." "With a light step she hastened from the burying-ground. She regained her cell, and the curious abbot still accompanied her. She closed the door, and disembarrassed herself of her lamp and basket. " I have succeeded!" she cried, throwing herself upon his bosom ; "sue, ceeded beyond my fondest hopes ! I shall live, Ambrosio, shall live for you ; The step, which I shuddered at taking, proves to me a source of joys inex- pressible I Oh I that I dared communicate those joys to you I Oh I that I were permitted to share with you my power, and raise you as high above the level of your sex, as one bold deed has exalted me above mine I" " And what prevents you, Matilda?" interrupted the friar. Why is your business in the cavern made a secret ? Do you think me undeserving of your confidence? Matilda, I must doubt the truth of your affection, while you have joys in which I am forbidden to share.'* *' You reproach me with injustice ; I grieve sincerely that I am obliged to conceal from you my happiness : but I am not to blame ; the fault lies not in me, but in yourself, my Ambrosio. You are still too much the monk, your mind is enslaved by the prejudices of education ; and superstition might make you shudder at the idea of that which experience has taught me to prize and value. At present you are unfit to be trusted with a secret of such importance ; but the strength of your judgment, and the curiosity which I rejoice to see sparkling in your eyes, make me hope that you will one day deserve my confidence. Till that period arrives, restrain your impa* tience. Remember that you have given me your solemn oath never to in- THB MONK. 149 quire into this night's adventures. I insist upon your keeping this oath ; for, though," she added, smiling, while she sealed his lips with a wanton kiss, '« though I forgive your breaking your vows to heaven, I expect you to keep your vows to me." The friar returned the embrace, which had set his blood on fire. The luxurious and unbounded excesses of the former night were renewed, and they separated not till the bell rang for matins. The same pleasures were frequently repeated. The monks rejoiced in the feigned Rosario's unexpected recovery, and none of them suspected his real sex. The abbot possessed his mistress in tranquillity, and, perceiving his frailty unsuspected, abandoned himself to his passions in full security. Shame and remorse no longer tormented him. Frequent repetitions made him familiar with sin, and his bosom became proof against the stings of cou- science. In these sentiments he was encouraged by Matilda ; but she soou was aware that she had satiated her lover by the unbounded freedom of her caresses. Her charms becoming accustomed to him, they ceased t^ excite the same desires which at first they had inspired. The delirium of passion being passed, he had leisure to observe every trifling defect ; where none were to be found, satiety made him fancy them. The monk was glutted with the fullness of pleasure. A week had scarcely elapsed before he was wearied of his paramour : his warm constitution still made him seek in her arms the gratification of his lust. But when the moment of passion was over he quitted her with disgust, and his humour, naturally inconstant, made him sigh impatiently for variety. Possession, which cloys man, only increases the affection of women. Ma- tilda with every succeeding day grew more attached to the friar. SincQ he had obtained her favours, he was become dearer to her than ever, and she felt grateful to him for the pleasures in which they had equally been sharers. Unfortuaately, as her passion grew ardent, Ambrosio's grew cold ; the very marks of her loudness excited his disgust, and its excess served to extinguish the flame which already burnt but feebly in his bosom. Matilda could not but remark that her society seemed to him daily less agreeable ; he was inattentive while she spoke ; her musical talents, which she possessed in perfection, had lost the power of amusing him ; or, if he deigned to praise them, his compliments were evidently forced and cold. He no longer gazed upon her with affection, or applauded her sentiments with a lover's partiality. This Matilda well perceived, and redoubled her efforts to revive those senti- monts which he once had felt. She could not but fail, since he considered as importunities the pains which she took to please him, and was disgusted by the very means which she used to recall the wanderer. Still, however, their illicit commerce continued ; but it was clear that he was led to her arms, not by love, but the cravings of brutal appetite. His constitution made a women necessary to him, Matilda was the only one with whom he could indulge his passions safely. In spite of her beauty, he gazed upon every otner female with more desire ; but, fearing £hat his hypocrisy should be made public, he confined his inclinations to his own breast. It was by no means his nature to be timid: but his education had im- 150 THE MONK. pressed his mind with fear so strongly, that apprehension was now become part of his character. Had his youth been passed in the world, he would have shown himself possessed of many brilliant and manly qualities. He was na. turally enterprising, firm, and fearless : he had a warrior's heart, and he might have shone with splendour at the head of an army. There was no want of generosity in his nature : the wretched never failed to find in him a compassionate auditor: his abilities were quick and shining, and his judg- ment vast, solid, and decisive. With such qualifications he would have been an ornament to his country : that he possessed them, he had given proofs in his earliest infancy ; and his parents had beheld his dawning vir- tues with the fondest delight and admiration. Unfortunately, while yet a child, he was deprived of those parents. He fell into the power of a rela- tion, whose only wish about him was never to hear of him more; for that purpose he gave him in charge to his friend, the former superior of the Capuchins. The abbot, a very monk, used all his endeavours to persuade the boy that happiness existed not without the walls of a convent. He suc- ceeded fully. To deserve admittance into the order of St. Francis was Am- brosio's highest ambition. His instructors carefully repressed those virtues, whose grandeur and disinterestedness were ill suited to the cloister. Instead of universal benevolence, he adopted a selfish partiality for his own particular establishment : he was taught to consider compassion for the errors of others as a crime of the blackest dye : the noble frankness of his temper was exchanged for servile humility ; and, in order to break his natural spirit, the monks terrified his young mind, by placing before him all the horrors with which superstition could furnish them : they painted to him the torments of the damned in colours the most dark, terrible, and fantastic; and threatened him, at the slightest fault, with eternal perdition. No wonder that his imagination, constantly dwelling upon these fearful objects, should have rendered his character timid and apprehensive. Add to this, that his long absence from the great world, total unacquaintance with the common dan- gers of life, made him form of them an idea far more dismal than the reality. While the monks were busied in rooting out his virtues, and narrowing his sentiments, they allowed every vice which had fallen to his share to arrive at full perfection. He was suffered to be proud, vain, ambitious, and disdainful ; he was jealous of his equals, and despised all merit but his own : he was implacable when offended, and cruel in his revenge. Still, in spite of the pains taken to per vert them, his natural good qualities would occasionally break through the gloom cast over them so carefully. At such times the contest for superiority between his real and acquired character was striking and unaccountable to those unacquainted with his original disposition. He pronounced the most severe sentences upon offenders, which, the moment after, compassion induced him to mitigate: he undeitook most daring eater- prizes, which the fear of their consequences soon obliged him to adandon : his inborn genius darted a brilliant light upon subjects the most obscure ; and almost instantaneously his superstition replunged them in darkness more profound than that from which they had just been rescued. His brother monks, regarding him as a superior being, remarked not this contradiction THE MONK, 151 in their idol*8 conduct. They were perfcuaded that what he did must be right, and supposed him to have good reasons for changing his resolutions. The fact was, that the different sentiments with which education and nature had inspired him, were combating in his bosom : it remained for hispassions^ which as yet no opportunity had called into play, to decide the victory. Unfortunately his passions were the very worst judges to whom he could possible have applied. His monastic seclusion had till now been in hia favour since it gave him no room for discovering his bad qualities. The superiority of his talents raised him too far above his companions to permit his being jealous of them ; his exemplary piety, persuasive eloquence, and pleasing manners, had secured him universal esteem, and consequently he had no injuries to revenge : his ambition was justified by his acknowledged merit, and his pride considered as no more than proper confidence. He never saw, much less conversed with the other sex : he was ignorant of the pleasures in woman's power to bestow ; and if he read in the course of his studies " That men were fond, he smiled and wondered how." For a time spare diet, frequent watching, and severe penance, cooled and repressed the natural warmth of his constitution : but no sooner did oppor- tunity present itself, no sooner did he catch a glimpse of joys to which he was still a stranger, than religion's barriers were too feeble to resist the overwhelming torrent of his desires. All impediments yielded before the force of his temperament, warm, sanguine, and voluptuous in the excess. As yet his other passions lay dorment ; but they only needed to be once awakened to display themselves with violence as great and irresistible. He continued to be the admiration of Madrid. The enthusiasm created by his eloquence seemed rather to increase than diminish. Every Thursday which was the only day when he appeared in public, the Capuchin cathedraj was crowded with auditors, and his discourse was always received with the same approbation. He was named confessor to all the chief families in Madrid ; and no one was counted fashionable who was injoined penance by any other than Ambrosio. In his resolution of never stirring out of his convent he still persisted. This circumstance created a still greater opinion of his sanctity and self-denial. Above all, the women sang forth his praises loudly, less influenced by devotion than ny his noble countenance, majestic air, and well-turned graceful figure. The abbey door was thronged with carriages from morning tonight; and the noblest and fairest dames of Madrid confessed to the abbot their secret peccadilloes. The eyes of the luxurious friar devoured their charms. Had his penitents consulted those interpreters, he would have needed no other means of expressing his desires. For his misfortune, they were so strongly persuaded of his continence, that the possibility of hia harbouring indecent thoughts never once entered their imaginations. The climate's heat, 'tis well known, operates with no small influence upon the constitutions of the Spanish ladies : But the raost aban- doned would have thought it an easier task to inspire with passion the marble statue of St. Francis, than the cold and riged heart of the immacu- late Ambrosio. 152 THB ICONK. On his part, the friar was little acquainted with the depravity of the world : he Buspected not that but few of his penitents would have rejected his addresses. Yet had he been better instructed on this head, the danger attending such an attempt would have sealed up his lips in silence. He knew that it would be difficult for a woman to keep a secret so strange and so important as his frailty ; and he even trembled lest Matilda should betray him. Anxious to preserve a reputation which was infinitely dear to him, he saw all the risk of committing it to the power of some vain giddy female ; and as the beauties of Madrid aflfected only his senses without touching his heart, he forgot them as soon as they were out of his eight. The danger of discovery, the fear of being repulsed, the loss of reputation— all these consi- derations counselled him to stifle his desires j and though he now felt for it the most perfect indifference, he was necessitated to confine himself to Matilda's person. One morning, the confluence of penitents was greater than usual. He was detained in the confessional chair till a late hour. At length the crowd was despatched, and he prepared to quit the chapel, when two females entered and drew near him with humility. They threw up their veils, and the youngest entreated him to listen to her for a few moments ; the melody of her voice, of that voice to which no man ever listened without interest, im'* mediately caught Ambroaio's attention. He stopped. The petitioner seemed bowed down with affliction : her cheeks were pale, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her hair fell in disorder over her face and bosom. Still her coun- tenance was 80 sweet, so innocent, so heavenly, as might have charmed a heart less susceptible than that which panted in the abbot's breast. With more than usual softness of manner he desired her to proceed, and heard her speak as follows, with an emotion which increased every moment: *' Reverend father, you see an unfortunate, threatened with the loss of her dearest, of almost her only friend ! My mother, my excellent mother lays upon a bed of sickness. A sudden and dreadful malady seized her last night, and so rapidly has been its progress, that the physician despairs of her life. Human aid fails me : nothing remains for me but to implore the mercy of heaven. Father, all Madrid rings with the report of your piety and virtue. Deign to remember my mother in your prayers: perhaps they may prevail on the Almighty to spare her ; and should that be the case, I engage myself every Thursday, in the next three months, to illuminate the shrine of St. Francis, in his honour." "Sol" thought the monk; "here we have a second Vincentio della Ronda. Rosario's adventure began thus;*' and he wished secretly that this might have the same conclusion. He acceded to the request. The petitioner returned him thanks with every mark of gratitude, and then continued : "I have yet another favour to ask. We are strangers in Madrid: my mother needs a confessor, and knows not to whom she should apply. We understand that you never quit the abbey, and, alas ! my poor mother is unable to come hither 1 If you would have tbe goodness, reverend father, to name a proper person, whose wise and pious consolations may soften the THE MONK. 153 AMBR08I0 DESTOYING MATILDA's PORTRAIT. agonies of my pareut's death bed, you will coufer an everlasting favour upon hearts not ungrateful.'* With this petition also the monk complied. ladeed, what petition would he have refused, if urged in such enchanting accents ? The suppliant was so interesting! Her voice was so sweet, so harmonious ! Her very tears be- came her, and her affliction seemed to add new lustre to her charms. He promised to send to her a confessor that same evening, and begged her to leave her address. The companion presented him with a card on which it was written, and then withdrew with the fair petitioner, who pronounced, be- fore her departure, a thousand benedictions on the abbot's goodness. His No. 20. 154 THE MONK, eyes followed her out of the chapel. It was not till she was out of sight that he examined the card, on which he read the following words " Donna Elvira Dalfa, strada di San lago, four doors from the palace d'Albornos." The suppliant was no other than Antonia, and Leonella was her compa- nion. The latter had not consented, without difficulty, to accompany her niece to the abbey ; Ambrosio had inspired her with such awe, that she trembled at the very sight of hinj. Her fears had conquered even ner natural loquacity, and while in his presence she uttered not a single syllable. The monk retired to his cell, whither he was pursued by Antonia's image. He felt a thousand new emotions springing in his bosom, and he trembled to examine into the cause which gave them birth. They were totally different from those inspired by Matilda, when she first declared her sex and her affection. He felt not the provocation of lust j no voluptuous desires rioted in his bosom ; nor did a burning imagination picture to him the charms which modesty had veiled from his eyes. On the con- trary, what he now felt was a mingled sentiment of tenderness, ad- miration, and respect. A soft and delicious melancholy infused itself into his soul, and he would not have exchanged it for the most lively transports of joy. Society now disgusted him ; he delighted in solitude, which permitted his indulging the visions of fancy : his thoughts were all gentle, sad, and soothing : and the whole wide world presented him with no other object than Antonia. "Happy man!" he exclaimed in his romantic enthusiasm, "happy man' who is destined to possess the heart of that lovely girl ! What delicacy in her features ! what elegance in her form I how enchanting was the timid Innocence of her eyesl and how different from the wanton expression, the wild luxurious fire, which sparkles in Matilda's ! Oh, sweeter must one kisS be, snatched from the rosy lips of the first, than all the full and lustful favours bestowed so freely by the second. Matilda gluts me with enjoyment, even to loathing, forces me to her arms, apes the harlot, and glories in her prostitution. Disgusting I Did she know the inexpressible charm of modesty, how irresistibly it enthrals the heart of man, how it chains him to the throne of beauty, she never would have thrown it off. What would be too dear a price for this lovely girl's affections? What would I refuse to sacri- fice, could I be released from my vows, and permitted to declare my love in the sight of eartli and heaven ? While I strove to inspire her with tenderness, with friendship and esteem, how tranquil and undisturbed would the liou. roll away! Gracious God! to see her blue downcast eyes beam upon mine with timid fondness ! to sit for days, for years, listening to that gentle voice to acquire the right of obliging her, and hear the artless expressions of her gratitude ! to watch the emotions of her spotless heart ! to encourage each dawning virtue \ to share in her joy when happy, to kiss away her tears when distressed, and to see her fly to my arms for comfort and support ! Yes, if there is perfect bliss on earth, 'tis his lot alone who becomes that angel'a husband." THE MONK. While his fancy coined these ideas, ho paced his cell with a disoidered air. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy: his head reclined upon his shoulder : a tear rolled down his cheek, while he reflected that the vision of happiness for him could never be realized. " She is lost to me l" he continued, " by marriage she cannot be mine and to seduce such innocence, to use the confidence reposed in mo to work her ruin Oh I it would be a crLne, blacker than yet the world ever witnessed I Fear not, lovely girl ! your virtue runs no risk from me. Not for Indies would I make that gentle bosom know the tortures of remorse." Again he paced his chamber hastily. Then stopping, his eyes fell upon the picture of his once admired Madona. Ho tore it with indignation from the wall ; he threw it on the ground, and spurned it from him with his foot. The prostitute I" Unfortunate Matilda! her paramour forgot, that for his sake alone sh^ had forfeited her claim to virtue ; and his only reason for despising her was* that she had loved him much too well. He threw himself into a chair, which stood near the taoie. He saw the card with Elvira's address. He took it up, and it brought to his recollection his promise respecting a confessor. He passed a few minutes in doubt : but Antonia's empire over him was already too much decided to permit his making along resietance to the idea which struck him. He resolved to be the confeesor himself. He could leave the abbey unobserved without diffi- culty : by wrapping up his head in his cowl, he hoped to pass through the streets without being recognised ; by taking these precautions, and by re- commending secresy to Elvira's family, he doubted not to keep Madrid in ignorance that he had broken his vow never to see the outside of the abbey walls. Matilda was the only person whose vigilance he dreaded : but by in- forming her at the refractory, that during the whole of that day business would confine him to his cell, he thought himself secure from her wakeful jealousy. Accordingly, at the hour when the Spaniards are generally taking their siesta, he ventured to quit the abbey by a private door, the key of which was in his possession. The cowl of his habit was thrown over his face ; from the heat of the weather the streets were almost totally deserted ; the monk met with few people, found the strada di San lago, and arrived without ac- cident at Donna Elvira's door. He rang ; was admitted, and immediately ushered into an upper apartment. It was here that he ran the greatest risk of a discovery. Had Leonella been at home, she would have recognised him directly. Her communicative disposition would never have permitted her to rest, till all Madrid was in- formed that Ambrosio had ventured out of the abbey, and visited her sister. Fortune here stood the monk's friend. On Leonella's return home, she found a letter instructing her, that a cousin was just dead, who had left what little he possessed between herself and Elvira. To secure this bequest she was obliged to set out for Cordova without losing a moment. Amidec all her foibles, her heart was truly warm and affectionate, and she was unwilling to quit her sister in so dangerous a state. But Elvira insisted upon her taking the journey, conscious that in her daughter's forlorn situation, no increase oi 156 THE MONK. ortune, however trifling, ought to be neglected, Acoovdingly Leonella left Madrid, Bincerely grieved at her sister's illness, and giving some few sighs to the memory of the amiable, bnt inconstant Don Chriatoval. She was fally persuaded, that at first she had made a terrible breach in his heart ; but hearing nothing more of him, she supposed that he had quitted the pursuit, disgusted by the lowness of her origin, and knowing, upon other terms than marriage, he had nothing to hope from such a dragon of virtue as she pro- feesed herself; or else, that being naturally capricious and changeable, the remembrance of her charms had been effaced from the Conde's heart by those of some newer beauty. Whatever was the cause of her losing him, she lamented it sorely. She strove in vain, as she assured everybody who was kind enough to listen to her, to tear his image from her too susceptible heart, Sho affected the airs of a love-sick virgin, and carried them all to the most ridiculous excess. She heaved lamentable sighs, walked with her arms folded, uttered long soliloquies, and her discourse generally turned upon somo for- saken maid, who expired of a broken heart 1 Her firey locks were always ornamented with a garland of willow. Every evening she was seen straying upon the banks of a rivulet by moonlight*; and she declared herself a violent admirer of murmuring streams and nightingales— " Of lonely haunts, and twilight groves, Places which pale passion loves." Such was the state of Leonella's mind when obliged to quit Madrid. El- vira was out of patience at all these follies, and endeavoured at persuading her to act like a reasonable woman. Her advice was thrown away. Leo- nella assured her at parting, that nothing could make her forget the perfidious Don Christoval. In this point she was fortunately mistaken. An honest youth of Cordova, journeyman to an apothecary, found that her fortune would be sufficient to set him up in a genteel shop of his own. In consequence of the reflection, he avowed himself her admirer. Leonella was not inflexible ; the ardour of his sighs melted her heart, and she soon consented to make him the happiest of mankind. She wrote to inform her sister of her marriage ; but, for reasons which will be explained hereafter, Elvira never answered her letter. Ambrosio was conducted into the anti-chamber to that where Elvira was reposing. The female domestic who had admitted him, left him alone, while she announced his arrival to her mistress. Antonia, who had been by her mother's bed-side, immediately came to him. * * Pardon me, father," said she, advancing towards him ; waen recognising his features, she stopped suddenly, and uttered a cry of joy. *' Is it possible?" she continued ; do not my eyes deceive me? Has the worthy Ambrosio broken through his resolution, that he may soften the agonies of the best of women ? What pleasure will this visit give my mother I Let me not delay for a moment the comfort which your piety and wisdom will afiford her." Thus saying, she opened the chamber door, presented to her mother her distinguished visitor, and, having placed an arm-chair by the side of the bed, withdrew into another apartment. 157 Elvira was highly gratified by this visit ; her expectations had been raised high by general report, put she found them far exceeded. Ambrosio, en- dowed by nature with powers of pleasing, exerted them to the utmost, while conversing with Antonia's mother. With persuasive eloquence he calmed every fear, and dissipated every scruple. He bid her reflect on the infinite mercy of her judge, despoiled death of his darts and terrors, and taught her to view, without shrinking the abyss of eternity, on whose brink she then stood. Elvira was absorbed in attention and delight ; while she listened to his exhortations, confidence and comfort stole insensibly into her mind. She xmbosomed to him, without hesitation, her cares and apprehensions. The latter respecting a future life he had already quieted, and he now removed the former, which she felt for the concerns of this. She trembled for An- tonia ; she had none to whose care she could recommend her, save to the Marquis de las Cisternas, and her sister Leonella. The protection of the one was very uncertain ; and as to the other, though fond of her niece, Leonella was so thoughtless and vain, as to make her an improper person to have the sole direction of a girl so young and ignorant of the world. The friar no sooner learned the cause of her alarms, than he begged her to make herself easy upon that head. He doubted not being able to secure for Antonia a safe refuge in the house of one of his penitents, the Marchioness of Villa- Franca : this was a lady of acknowledged virtue, re markable for strict prin- ciples and extensive charity. Should accident deprive her of this resource, he engaged to procure Antonia a reception in some respectable convent, that is to say, in quality of boarder; for Elvira had declared herself no friend to a monastic life, and the monk was either candid or complaisant enough to allow that her disapprobation was not unfounded. The proofs of the interest, which he felt for her, completely won Elvira's heart. In thanking him, she exhausted every expression which gratitude could furnish, and protested, that now she should resign herself with tran- quility to the grave. Ambrosio rose to take leave ; he promised to return the next day at the same hour, but requested that his visits might be kept secret. '* I am unwilling," said he, " that my breaking through a rule imposed by necessity, should bo generally known. Had I not resolved never to quit my convent, except upon circumstances as urgent as that which has conducted me to your door, I should be frequently summoned upon insignificant occa- sions ; that time would be engrossed by the curious, the unoccupied, and the fanciful, which I now pass at the bed-side of the sick, in comforting the ex- piring penitent, and clearing the passage to eternity from thorns." Elvira commended equally his prudence and compassion, promising to con- ceal carefully the honour of his visits. The monk then gave her his bene- diction, and retired from the chamber. In the anti-room he found Antonia ; he could not refuse himself the plea- sure of passing a few moments in her society. He bid her take comfort, for that her mother seemed composed and tranquil, and he hoped that she might yet do well. He inquired who attended her, and engaged to send the phy- sician of his monastery to see her, one of the most skilful In Madrid. He then 168 THE MONK. launched out in Elvira'ts commendation, praised her purity and fortitude of mind, and declared that she had inspired him with the highest esteem and reverence, Antonia's innocent heart swelled with gratitude, joy danced in her eyes, where a tear still sparkled. The hopes which he gave her of her mother's recovery, the lively interest which he seemed to feel for her, and the flattering way in which she was mentianed by him, added to the report of his judgment and virtue, and to the impression made upon her by his elo- quence, confirmed the favourable opinion with which his first appearance had inspired Antonia. She replied with diffidence, but without restraint ; she i feared not to relate to him all her little sorrows, all her little fears and an- I xieties ; and she thanked him for his goodness with all the genuine warmth I which favours kindle in a young and innocent heart. Such alone knows how I to estimate benefits at their full value. They who are conscious of mankind's j perfidy and selfishness, ever receive an obligation with apprehension and dis- trust J they suspect that some secret motive must lurk behind it ; they express their thanks with restraint and caution, and fear to praise a kind action to its full extent, aware that some future day a return may be required. Not BO with Antonia — she thought the world was composed only of those who resembled her ; and that vice existed, was to her still a secret. The monk had been of service to her ; he said that be wished her well ; she was grateful for his kindness, and thought that no terms were strong enough to be the vehicle of her thanks. With what delight did Ambrosio listen to the declaration of her artless gratitude. The natural grace of her manners, the unequalled sweetness of her voice, her modest vivacity, her unstudied ele- gance, her expressive countenance and intelligent eyes, united to inspire him with pleasure and admiration; while the solidity and correctness of her re- marks received additional beauty from the unaffected simplicity of the lan- guage in which they were conveyed. Ambroaio was at length obliged to tear himself from this conversation, which, possessed, for him, but too many charms. He repeated to Antonia his wishes, that his visits should not be made known, which desire she promised to observe. He then quitted the house, while his enchantress hastened to her mother, ignorant of the mischief which her beauty had caused. She was eager to know Elvira's opinion of the man whom she had praised in such enthusiastic terms, and was delighted to find it equally favourable, if not even more so, than her own. « Even before he spoke," said Elvira, "1 was prejudiced in his favour: the fervour of his exhortations, dignity of his manner, and closeness of his reasoning, were very far from inducing me to alter my opinion. His fine and full-toned voice struck me particularly ; but surely, Antonia, I have heard it before. It seemed perfectly familiar to my ear ; either I must have known the abbot in former times, or his voice bears a wonderful resemblance to that of some other, to whom I have often listened. There were certain tones which touched my very heart, and made me feel sensations so singular, that I strive in vain to account for them.*' " My dearest mother, it produced the same effect upon me ; yet, certainly neither ot ob heard bis voice till we came to Madrid. I suspect that what THE MONK. we attribute to his voice, really proceeds from his pleasant manners, whioU forbid our considering him as a stranger. I know not v.hy, but 1 feel ni(/re at my ease while conversing with him, than I usually do with people who are unknown to me; I feared not to repeat to him all my childish thoughts ; and somehow I felt confident that he would hear my folly with indulg«nc-^. Oh ! I was not deceived in him — he listened to me with such an air of kind- ness and attention — he answered me with such gentleness, such condescen- sion — he did not call me an infant, and treat me with contempt, as our cross old confessor at the castle used to do. I verily believe, that if I had lived in Mnrcia a thousand years, I never should have liked that fat old father Do- minic!" " I confess^ that father Dominic had not the most pleasing manners in the world ; but he was honest, friendly, and well meaning.'* "Ah I my dear mother, those qualities are so common — " " God grant, my child, that experience may not teach you to think them rare and precious ; I have found them but too much so. But tell me, Anto- nia, why is it impossible for me to have seen the abbot before V " Because, since the moment when he entered the abbey, he has never been on the outside of its walls. He told me just now, that from hie ignorance of the streets, he had some difficulty to find the strada di San lago, though so near the abbey." " All this is possible, and still I may have seen him before he entered the abbey : in order to come out, it was rather necessary that he should first go in." " Holy virgin I as yon Bay, that is very true. Oh ! but might he not have been born in the abbey ?'* EJlvira smiled. " Why, not very easily." "Stay, stay. Now I recollect how it was. He was put into the abbey quite a child ; the common people say, that he fell from heaven, and was sent as a present to the Capuchins by the Virgin." " That was very kind of her. And so he fell from heaven, Antonia? He must have had a terrible tumble." " Many do not credit this ; and I fancy, my dear mother, that I must number you among the unbelievers. Indeed, as our landlady told my aunt, the general idea is, that his parents being poor, and unable to maintain him, left him just born at the abbey door ; the late superior, from pure charity had him educated in the convent, and he proved to be a model of virtue, and piety, and learning, and I know not what else besides. In consequence, he . was first received as a brother of the order, and not long ago was chosen abbot. However, whether this account or the other is the true one — at least j all agree, that when the monks took him under their care, he could not I speak ; therefore you could not have heard his voice before he entered the i monastery, because at that time he had no voice at all." j «« Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very closely; your conclusions are j infallible. I did not suspect you of being so able a logician.*' I "Ah I you are mocking me; but so :..uch the better. It delights me to 160 THE MONK. see you in spirits ; besides you seem tranquil and easy, and I hope that yon will have no more convalsions. Oh I I was sure the abbot's visit would do you good." *^lt has indeed done me good, my child. He has quieted my mind upon some points which agitated me, and I already feel the effects of his attention. My eyes grow heavy, and I think I can sleep a little. Draw the curtains, my Antonia: but if I should not wake before midnight, do not sit up with me, I charge you." Antonia promised to obey her; and having received her blessing, drew the curtains of the bed. She then seated herself in silence at her em- broidery frame, and beguiled the hours with building castles in the air. Her spirits were enlivened by the evident change for the better in Elvira, and her fancy presented her with visions bright and pleasing. In these dreams Ambrosio r.iade no dispioable figure. She thought of him with joy and gratitude ; fn* every idea which fell to the friar's share, at least two were unconscioubly bestowed upon Lorenzo. Thus passed the time till the bell in the neighbouring steeple of the Capuchin cathedral announced the hour of midnight. Antonia remembered her mother's injunctions, and obeyed them, though with reluctance. She undrew the curtains with caution. Elvira was enjoying a profound and quiot slumber ; her cheek glowed with health's returning colours : a smile declared that her dreams were pleasant, and as Antonia bent over her, she fancied that she heard her name pro- nounced. She kissed her mother's forehead softly, and retired to her chamber ; there she knelt before a statue of St. Rosalia, her patroness ; she recommended herself to the protection of heaven, and, as had been her custom from infancy, concluded her devotions by chanting the following stanzas : MIDNIGHT HYMN. " Now all is hush'd ; the solemn chime No longer swells the nightly gale: Thy awful presence, hour sublime, With spotless heart once more I hail. 'Tis now the moment still and dread, When sorcerers use their baleful power ; When graves give up their burial dead To profit by the sanctioned hour. From guilt and guilty thoughts secure, To duty and devotion true. With bosom light and conscience pure. Repose, thy gentle aid I woo. Good angels ! take my thanks, that still The snares of vice I view with scorn ; Thanks, that to-night as free from ill I sleep as when I woke at morn. Yet may not my unconscious breast llarbour some guilt to mo unknown ? ANTONIA SALUTING HER MOTHER. Some wish impure, which unreprest You blush to see, and I to own ? If such there be, in gentle dream Instruct my feet to shun the snare ; Bid truth upon my errors beam, And deign to make me slill your care. Chase from my peaceful bed away, The witching spell, a foe to rest, The nightly goblin, wanton fay, The ghost in pain, and fiend unblest. . ai. 162 THE MONK. Let not the tempter in mine ear Pour lessons of unhallowed joy ; Let not the nightmare, wandering near My couch, the calm of sleep destroy. Let not some horrid dream affright With strange fantastic forms mine eyes; But rather bid some vision bright < V Display the bliss of yonder skies ; Show me the crystal domes of heaven, The worlds of light where angels lie ; Show me the lot to mortals given, Who guiltless live, who guiltless die. Then show me how a seat to gain Amidst those blissful realms of air ; Teach me to shun each guilty stain, And guide me to the good and fair. So ev'ry morn and night my voice To heaven the grateful strain shall raise ; In you as guardian powers rejoice, Good angels ! and exalt your praise. So will I strive, with zealous fire, Each vice to shun, each fault correct : Will love the lessons you inspire. And praise the virtues you protect. Then when at length, by high commaod, My body seeks the grave's repose, When death draws night with friendly band, My failing pilgrim eyes to close. Pleased that my soul has 'scaped the wreck, Sighless will I my life resign, And yield to God my spirit back, As pure as when it first was mine." Having finished her usual devotions, Antonia retired to bed. Sleep soon stole over her senses ; and for several hours she enjoyed that calm repose which innocence alone can know, and for which many a monarch with pleasure would exchange his crown. THE MONK. 163 CHAPTER VII. Ah ! how dark These long-extended realms and rueful wastes , Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night, Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun Was rolled together, or had tried its beams Athwart the gloom profound ! The sickly taper, By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults, Furred round with mouldy damps and ropy slime, Lets fall a supernumerary horror, And only serves to make thy night more irksome ! BlAlR. Returned undisturbed to the abbey, Ambiosio's mind was filled with the most pleasing images. He was wilfully blind to the danger of exposing him- self to Antonia's charms : he only remembered the pleasure which her society had aflPorded him, and rejoiced in the prospect of that pleasure being repeated. He failed not to profit by Elvira's indisposition to obtain a sight of her daughter every day. At first he bounded his wishes to inspire Antonia with friendship ; but no sooner was he convinced that she felt that sentiment in its fullest extent, than his aim became more decided, and his attentions as- sumed a warmer colour. The innocent familiarity with which she treated him, encouraged his desires. Grown used to her modesty, it no longer commanded the same respect and awe j he still admired it, but it only made him more anajioua to deprive her of that quality which formed her principal charm. Warnth of passion, and natural penetration, of which latter, unfor- tunately both for himself and Antonia, he possessed an ample share, supplied a knowledge of the arts of seduction. He easily distinguished the emotions which were favourable to his designs, and seized every means with avidity of infusing corruption into Antonia's bosom. This he found no easy matter. Extreme simplicity prevented her from perceiving the aim to which the monk's insinuations tended : but the excellent morals which she owed to Elvira's care, the solidity and correctness of her understanding, and a strong sense of what was right, implanted in her heart by nature, made her feel that his precepts must be faulty. By a few simple words she frequently overthrew the whole bulk of his sophistical arguments, and made him conscious how weak they were when opposed to virtue and truth. On such occasions he took refuge in his eloquence : he overpowered her with a torrent of philoso- phical paradoxes, to which, not understanding them, it was impossible for her to reply ; and thus, though he did not convince her that his reasoning was just, he at least prevented her from discovering it to be false. He perceived that her respect for his judgment augmented daily, and doubted not with time to bring her to the point desired. He was not unconscious that his attempts were highly criminal. He saw clearly the baseness of seducing the innocent girl ; but his passion was too violent to permit his abandoning his design. He resolved to pursue it, let the consequences be what they might. He depended upon finding Antonia in some unguarded moment ; and seeing no other man admitted to her 164: THE MONK. Bociety, nor hearing any mentioned either by her or by Elvira, be imagined that her young heart was still unoccupied. While he waited for the oppor- tunity of satisfying his unwarrantable lust, every clay increased his coldness I for Matilda. Not a little was this occasioned by the consciousness of his I faults to her. To hide them from her, he was not sufficiently master of j himself; yet he dreaded lest, in a transport of jealous rage, she should betray I the secret, on which his character and even his life depended. Matilda could j not but remark his indifference; he was conscious that she remarked it, and [ fearing her reproaches, shunned her studiously. Yet, when he could not avoid her, her mildness might have convinced him that he had nothing to dread from her resentment. She had resumed the character of the gentle interesting Rosario; she taxed him not with ingratitude ; but her eyes, filled with involuntary tears, and the soft melancholy of her countenance and voice, uttered complaints far more touching than words could have conveyed. Ambroeio was not unmoved by hei sorrow ; but unable to remove its cause, he forbore to show that it affected him. As her conduct convinced him that he needed not fear her vengeance, he continued to negleet her, and avoided her company with care. Matilda saw that she in vain attempted to regain his affections, yet she stifled the impulse of resentment, and continued to treat her inconstant lover with her former fondness and affection. By degrees Elvira's constitution recovered itself. She was no longer troubled with convulsions, and Antonia ceased to tremble for her mother. Arabrosio beheld this re-establishment with displeasure. He saw that Elvira's knowledge of the world would not be the dupe of his sanctified demeanour, and that she would easily perceive his view upon her daughter. He resolved, therefore, before she quitted her chamber, to try the extent of his influence over the innocent Antonia. One evening, when he had found Elvira almost perfectly restored to health he quitted her earlier than was his uaual custom. Not finding Antonia in the anti-chamber, he ventured to follow her to her own. It was .only separated from her mother's by a closet, in which Flora, the waiting-woman generally slept. Antonia sat upon a sofa with her back towards the door, and read attentively. She heard not his approach till ho had seated himself by her. She started, and welcomed him with a look of pleasure : then rising she would have conducted him to the sitting-room ; but Ambrosio, taking her hand, obliged her by gentle violence to resume her place. She complied without difficulty: she knew not that there was more impropriety in conversing with him in one room than another. She thought herself equally secure of his principles and her own ; and having replaced herself upon the sofa, she began to prattle to him with her usual ease aad vivacity. j^^He examined the book which she had been reading, and had now placed upon the table. It was the Bible. *• How !" said the friar to himself, " Antonia reads the Bible, and is still BO ignorant ? * k But, upon a further inspection, he found that Elvira had made exactly the flame remark. That prudent mother, while she admired the beauties of the sacred writings, was convinced that, unrestricted, no reading more THE MONK. 165 improper conld be permitted a young woman. Many of tho narratives can only tend to excite ideas the worst calculated for a female breast : every thing ia called plaifily and roundly by its name ; and the annals of a brothel would scarcely furnish a greater choice of indecent expressions. Yet this is the book which young women are recommended to study— which k put into the hands of children, able to comprehend little more than those passages of which they had better remain ignorant, and which but too frequently inculcates the rudiments of vice to the still sleeping passions. Of this was Elvira so fully convinced that she would have preferred putting into her daughter's hands " Amadis de Gaul," or *' The Faiiant Champixm, Tiranle the White j" and would eooner have authorised her studying the lewd exploits of Don Galaotf or the lascivious jokes of the Damsel Planer di mi vida. She had in consequence made two resolutions respecting the Bible. The first was, that Antonia should not read it till she was of an age to feel its beauties, and profit by its morality. The sewnd, that it should be copied out with her own hand, and all improper passages either altered or omitted. She had adhered to this determination, and such was the Bible which Antonia was reading : it had been lately delivered to her, and she perused it with an avidity, with a delight that was inexpresfflble. Ambroaio perceived his mistake, and replaced the book on the table. Antonia spoke of her mother's health with all the enthusiastic joy of a youthful heart. " I admire your filial affection," said the abbot ; " it proves the excellence and sensibility of your character ; it promises a treasure to him whom heaven has destined to possess your affections. The breast so capable of fondness for a parent, what will it feel for a lover? Nay, perhaps, what feels it for one even now ? Tell me, my lovely daughter, have you known what it is to love? Answer me with eincerity: forget my habit, and consider me only as a friend." " What it is to love?'' said she, repeating his question. "Oh! yes, un- doubtedly ; 1 have loved many, many people." " That is not what I mean. The love of which I speak can be felt only for one. Have you never seen the man whom you wished to be your husband ?*' «« Oh ! no, indeed !'» This was an untruth, but she was unconscious of ita falsehood : she knew not the nature of her sentiments for Lorenzo: and never having seen him since his first visit to Elvira, with every day his image grew less feebly ira- preesed upon her bosom : besides »he thought of a husband wilh all a vir- gin's terror, and negatived the friar's demand without a moment's hesitation. " And do you not long to see that man, Antonia ? Do you feel no void in your heart, which you fain would have filled up ? Do you heave no sighs for the absence of some one dear to you, but who that some one is, you know not ? Perceive you not that what formerly could please, has charms for you no longer? that a thousand new wishes, new ideas, new sensations, have sprung in your bosom, only to be felt, never to be described ? Or, while you fill every other heart with paesion, is it possible that your own remains 166 THE MONK. insensible and cold ? It cannot be I That melting eye, that blushing cheek, that enchanting voluptuous melancholy which at times overspreads your features — all these marks belie your words : you love, Antonia, and in vain would hide it from me." "Father, you amaze me! What is this love of which you speak? I neither know its nature, nor, if 1 felt it, why I should conceal the sentiment." Have you seen no man, Antonia, whom, though never seen before, you seemed long to have sought ? whose form, though a stranger's, was familiar to your eyes ? the sound of whose voice soothed you, pleased you, pene- trated to your very soul ? in whose presence you rejoiced, for whose absence you lamented ? with whom your heart seemed to expand, and in whose bosom, with confidence unbounded, you reposed the cares of yow own ? Have you not felt all this, Antonia?" " Certainly I have : the first time that 1 saw you, I felt it." Ambrosio started. Scarcely dared he credit his earing. " Me, Antonia?*' he cried, his eyes sparkling with delight and impatience, while he seized her hand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips. Me, Antonia? You felt those sentiments for me ?" " Even with more strength than you have described. The very moment that I beheld you, I felt so pleased, so interested I I waited so eagerly to catch the sound of your voice, and, when I heard it, it seemed so sweet ! it spoke to me a language till then so unknown ! Methought it told me a thousand things which I wished to hear ! It seemed as if I had long known you ; as if I had a right to your friendship, your advice, and your protection; I wept when you departed, and longed for the time which should restore you to my sight." " Antonia I my charming Antonia !" exclaimed the monk, and caught her to his bosom : *' Can I believe my senses! Eepeat it to me my sweet girl, tell me again that you love me, that you love me truly and tenderly!'* '•Indeed, I do: let my mother be excepted, and the world holds no one more dear to me." At this frank avowal Ambrosio no longer possessed himself : wild with desire, he clasped the blushing trembler in his arms. He fastened his lips greedily upon hers, sucked In her pure delicious breath, violated with his bold hand the treasures of her bosom, and wound around him her soft and yielding limbs. Startled, alarmed, aad confused at his action, surprise at fijst deprived her of the power of resistance. At length recovering herself, she strove to escape from his embraee. " Father ! — Ambrosio I" she cried ; ** release me, for God's sake !" But the licentious monk heeded not her prayers : he persisted in his de- sign, and proceeded to take still greater liberties. Antonia prayed, wept, and struggled : terrified to the extreme, though at what she knew not, she exerted all her strength to repulse the friar, and was on the point of shrieking for aseietanoe, when the chamber door was suddenly thrown open. Ambrosio had jast Bufidcient presence of mind to be sensible of his danger. Beluotantly he quitted his prey, and staited hastily from the couch. Antonia uttered an THE MONK. 167 exclamation of joy, flew towards the door, and found herself clasped in the arms of her mother. Alarmed at BOme of the abbot's speeches, which Antonia had innocently repeated, Elvira resolved to ascertain the truth of her suspicions. She had known enough of mankind, not to be imposed upon by the monk's reputed virtue. She reflected on several circumstances, which though trifling, on being put together seemed to authorize her fears. His frequent visits, which, as far as she could see, were confined to her family ; his evident emotion, whenever she spoke of Antonia ; his being in the full prime and heat of manhood; and above all, his pernicious philosophy communicated to her by Antonia, and which accorded but ill with his conversation in her presence ; all these circumstances inspired her with doubts respecting the purity of Ambrosio's friendship. In consequence she resolved, when he should next be alone with Antonia, to endeavour at surprising him. Her plan had succeeded. 'Tis true, that when she entered the room, he had already abandoned his prey ; but the disorder of her daughter's dress, and the shame and confusion stamped upon the friar's countenance, sufficed to prove that her suspicions were but too well founded. However, she was too prudent to make those suspicions known. She judged that to un- mask the impostor would be no easy matter, the public being so much prejudiced in his favour; and having but few friends, she thought it dangerous to make herself so powerful an enemy. She affected therefore not to remark his agitation, seated herself tranquilly upon the sofa, assigned some trifling reason for having quitted her room unexpectedly, and conversed on various subjeots with seeming confidence and ease. Ee.assured by her behaviour, the monk began to recover himself. He strove to answer Elvira without appearing embarrassed : but he was still too great a noyice in dissimulation, and he felt that he must look confused and awkward. He soon broke off the conversation, and rose to depart What was his vexation when, on taking leave, Elvira told him, in polite terms, that being now perfectly re-established, she thought it an injustice to deprive others of his company who might ba more in need of it ! Siie •aisured him of her eternal gratitude, for the benefit which during her ill- ness she had derived from his society and exhortations ; and she lamented that her domestic affairs, as well as the multitude of business which his situation must of necessity impose upon him, would in future deprive her of the pleasure of his visits. Though delivered in the mildest language, this hint was too plain to be mistaken. Still he was preparing to put in a remonstrance, when an expressive look from Elvira stopped him short. He dared not press her to receive him, for her manner convinced him that he was discovered : he submitted without reply, took a hasty leave, and re- tired to the abbey, his heart filled with rage and shame, with bitterness and disappointment. Antonia's mind felt relieved by his departure ; yet she could not help lamenting that she was never to see him more. Elvira also felt a secrco sorrow: she had received too much pleasure from thinking him her friend, not to regret the necessity of changing her opinion ; but her mind was too THE MONK. muoh accustomed to the fallacy of worldly friendships to permit his present disappointment to weigh npon it long. She now endeavoured to make her daughter aware of the risk which she had run : but she was obliged to treat the subject with caution, lest in removing the bandage of ignorance, the veil of innocence should be rent away. She therefore contented herself with warning Antouia to be upon her guard, and ordering her, should the abbot persist in his visits, never to receive them but in company. With this injunction Antonia promised to comply. Ambrosio hastened to his cell. He closed the door after him, and threw himself upon the bed in despair. The impulse of desire, the stings of dis- appointment, the shame of detection, and the fear of being publicly un- masked, rendered his bosom a scene of the most horrible confusion. He knew not what course to pursue. Debarred the presence of Antonia, he had no hopes of satisfying that passion which was now become a part of his ex- istence. He reflected that his secret was in a woman's power : he trembled with apprehension when he thought that, had it not been for Elvira, he should now have possessed tho object of his desires. With the direst im- precations he vowed vengeance against her : he swore that, cost what it would, he still would possess Antonia. Starting from the bed, he paced the chamber with disordered steps, howled with impotent fury, dashed himself violently against the walls, and indulged in all the transports of rage and madness. He was still under the influence of this storm of passions, when he heard a gentle knock at the door of his cell. Conscious that his voice must have been heard he dared not refuse admittance to the importuner. He strove to com- pose himself, and to hide his agitation. Having in some degree succeeded, he drew back the bolt : the door opened and Matilda appeared. At this precise moment there was no one with whose presence ho could better have dispensed. . He had not sufficient command over himself to con- ceal his vexation. He started back and frowned. " I am busy," said he, in a stern and hasty tone ; " leave me." Matilda heeded him not : she again fastened the door, and then advanced towards him with an air gentle and supplicating. *' Forgive me, Ambrosio," said she; ** for your own sake I must not obey you. Fear no complaints from me ; I come not to reproach you with your ingratitude. I pardon you from my heart ; and since your love can no longer be mine, I request the next best gift, your confldence and friendship. We cannot force our inclinations ; the little beauty which you once saw in me has perished with its novelty ; and if it can no longer excite desire, mine is the fault, not youre. But why persist in shunning me ? why such anxiety to fly my presence ? You have sorrows, but will not permit me to share them ; yon have disappointments, but will not accept my comfort ; you have wishes, but forbid my aiding your pursuits. 'Tis of this which I complain, not of your indifference to my person. I have given up the claims of the mistress, but nothing shall prevail on me to give up those of the friend." •* Generous Matilda !" he replied, taking her hand ; " how far do you rifle superior to the foibles of your sex ! Yes, I accept your oiler, I havQ THE MOKK. 169 matilda's unwelcome visit''to ambrosio. need of an adviser, and a confident : in you I find every needful qualify UDited. But to aid my pursuits Ah I Matilda ! it lies not in j'our power!" " It lies in no one's power but mine. Ambrosio, your secret ia known to me : your every step, your every action has been observed by my attentive eye. You love." "Matilda I" " Why conceal it from me? Fear not the little jealousy which tamts the generality of women : my eoul desdains so despicable a passion. You love Ambrosio ; Antonia Dalfa is the object of your tlame. I know every circum" stance respecting your passion. Every conversation has been repeated to No. 22 .-TfttrM-'.-iiitrt f 170 TH& MONK. me. I have been informed of your attempt to enjoy Antonia'a person, yonr disappointment and dismission from Elvira's house. You now despair of possessing your mistress ; but I oome to revive your hopes, and point oat the road to sucoess." "To success? Oh ! impossible." " To those who dare, nothing is impossible. Rely upon me, and you may yet be happy. The time is come, Ambrosio, when regard for your comfort and tranquility compels me to reveal a part of my history, with which you are still unacquainted. Listtm, and do not interrupt me. Should my con- fession disgust you, remember that in making it, my sole aim is to satisfy your wishes, and restore that peace to your heart which at present has abandoned it. I formerly mentioned, that my guardian was a man of un- common knowledge. He took pains to instil that knowledge into my infant mind. Among the various scienoes which curiosity had induced him to explore, he neglected not that which by most is esteemed impious, and by many chimerical : I speak of those arts which relate to the world of spirits. His deep researches into causes and eflfoots, hia unwearied application to the study of natural philosophy, his profound and unlimited knowledge of the properties and virtues of every gem which enriches the deep, of every herb which the earth produces, at length procured him the distinction which he had sought so long, so earnestly. His curiosity was fully slaked, and his ambition gratified. He gave laws to the elements : he could reverse the order of nature : his eye read the mandates of futurity, and the infernal spirits were submissive to his commands. Why shrink you from mo ? I understand that inquiring look. Your suspicions are right, though your terrors are unfounded. My guardian concealed not from me his most pre- cious acquisition. Yet, had I never seen you, I should never have exerted my power. Like you, I shuddered at the thought of magic. Like you, I had formed a terrible Idea of the consequences of raising a demon. To pre- serve that life which your love had taught me to priae, I had recourse to means which I trembled at employing. You remember that night which I passed in St. Clare's sepulchre ? Then was it that, surrounded by moulder- ing bodies, I dared to perform those mystic rites, which summoned to my aid a fallen angel. Judge what must have been my joy at discovering that my terrors were imaginary. I saw the demon obedient to my order: 1 saw him trembling at my frown 4 and found that, instead of selling my soul to a master, my courage had purchased for myself a slave." " Rash Matilda ! What have you done ? You have doomed yourself to endless perdition ; you have bartered for momentary power eternal happi- ness. If on witchcraft depends the fruition of my desires, I renounce your aid most absolutely. The consequences are too horrible. I doto upon Antonia, but am not so blinded by lust, as to sacrifice for her enjoyment my existence both in this world and in the next." " Ridiculous prejudices. Oh, blush, Ambrosio, blush at being subjected to their dominion. Where is the risk of accepting my offers? What should induce my persuading you to this step, except the wish of restoring you to happiness and quiet? If there is danger, it must fall upon nie. It is J who THE MONK. 171 invoke the ministry of the spirits ; mine, therefore, will be the crime, and yourB the profit ; but danger there is none. The enemy of mankind is my slave, not my sovereign. Is there no difference between giving and receiving laws, between serving and commanding? Awake from your idle dreams, Ambrosio ! throw from you these terrors so ill suited to a soul like yours — leave them for common men, and dare to be happy 1 Accompany me this night to St. Clare's sepulchre ; there witness my incantations, and Antonia is your own." " To obtain her by such means, I neither can nor will. Cease, then, to persuade me, for I dare not employ hell's agency." You (iare not? How have you deceived me ! That mind which I es- teemed so great and valiant, proves to be feeble, puerile, and grovelling, a slave to vulgar errors, and weaker than a woman's.'' " What ? Though conscious of the danger, wilfully shall I expose myself to the seducer's arts? Shall 1 renounce for ever my title to salvation? Shall my eyes seek a sight which I know will blast them ? No, no, Matilda, I will not ally myself with God's enemy." " Are you, then, God's friend at present ? Have you not broken your engagements with him, renounced his service, and abandoned yourself to tho impulse of your passions ? Are you not planning the destruction of inno- cence, the ruin of a creature whom he formed in the mould of angels ? If not of demons, whose aid would you invoke to forward this laudable design ? Will the seraphims protect it, conduct Antonia to your arms, and sanction with their ministry your illicit pleasures? Absurd ! But I am not deceived, Ambrosio ! It is not virtue which makes you reject my oflFer ; you vxmld accept it, but you dare not. 'Tis not the crime which holds your hand, but the punishment ; 'tis not respect for God which restrains you, but the terror of his vengeance ! Fain would you offend him in secret, but you tremble to profess yourself his foe. Now shame on the coward soul, which wants the courage either to be a firm friend, or an open enemy." " To look upon guilt with horror, Matilda, is in itself a merit ; in this re- spect I glory to confess myself a coward. Though my passions have made me deviate from her laws, I still feel in my heart an innate love of virtue. But it ill becomes you to tax me with my perjury ; you who first seduced me to violate my vows ; you who first roused my sleeping vices, made me feel the weight of religion's chains, and bade me be convinced that guilt had pleasures. Yet, though my principles have yielded to the force of temperament, I still have suflicient grace to shudder at sorcery, and avoid a crime so monstrous, so unpardonable." '* Unpardonable, say you ? Where, then, is your constant boast of the Almighty's infinite mercy ? Has He of late set bounds to it? Reoeives He no longer a sinner with joy? You injure Him, Ambrosio; you will always have time to repent, and He have goodness to forgive. Afford Him a glorious opportunity to exert that goodness : the greater your crime, the greater His merit in pardoning. Away, then, with these childish scruples ; be persuaded to your good, and follow me to the sepulchre." Oh, cease, Matilda I That scoffing tone, that bold and impious language 172 THE MONK. is horrible in every mouth, but most so in a woman's. Let us drop a con- versation, which excites no other sentiments than horror and disgust. I will not follow you to the sepulchre, or accept the services of your infernal agents. Antonia shall be mine, but mine by human means." Then yours she will never be ! You are banished her presence : her mother has opened her eyes to your designs, and she is now upon her guard against them. Nay, more, she loves another; a youth of distinguished merit possesses her heart ; and unless you interfere, a few days will make her his bride. This intelligence was brought me by my invisible servants, to whom I had recourse on first pereeiving your indifierence. They watched youj. every action, related to me all that passed at Elvira's, and inspired me with the idea of favouring your designs. Their reports have been my only comfort. Though you shunned my presence, all your proceedings were known to me ; nay, I was constantly with you in some degree, thanks to this most precious gift T* With these words she drew from beneath her habit a mirror of polished steel, the borders of which were marked with various strange and unknown characters. " Amidst all my sorrows, amidst all my regrets for your coldness, I was sustained from despair by the virtues of this talisman. On pronouncing cer- tain words, the person appears in it on whom the observer's thoughts are bent : thus, though / was exiled from your sight, you, Ambrosio, were ever present to mine." " The friar's curiosity was strongly excited. " What you relate is incredible I Matilda, are you not amusing yourself with my credulity ?" " Be your own eyes the judge." She put the mirror into his hand. Curiosity induced him to take it, and love, to wish that Antonia might appear. Matilda pronounced the magic words. Immediately a thick smoke rose from the characters traced upon the borders, and spread itself over the surface. It dispersed again gradually ; a confused mixture of colours and images presented themselves to the friar's eyes, which at length arranged themselves in their proper places, he be- held in minature Antonia's lovely form. The scene was a small closet belonging to her apartment. She was un- dressing to bathe herself. The long tresses of her hair were already beund up. The amorous monk had full opportunity to observe the voluptuous contours and admirable symmetry of her person. She threw off her last garment, and, advancing to the bath prepared for her, put her foot into the water. It struck cold, and she drew it back again. Though unconscioua of being observed, an inbred sense of modesty induced her to veil her charms : and she stood hesitating upon the brink, in the attitude of the Venus de Medicis. At this moment a tame linnet flew towards her, nestled its head between her breasts, and nibbled them in wanton play. The smiling Antonia strove in vain to shake ofif the bird, and at length raised her hands to drive it from its delightful harbour. Ambrosio could bear no more. His desires were worked np to phrensy. IIS " I yield!" ho cried, dashing the mirror upon the ground: "Matilda, I follow you ! Do with me what you will !" She waited not to hear his consent repeated. It was already midnight. She flew to her cell, and soon returned with her little basket and the key of the cemetry, which had remained in her possession since her first visit to the vaults. She gave the monk no time for reflection. *' Come !" she said, and took his hand; " follow me and witness the effects of your resolve." This said, she drew him hastily along. They passed into the burying" ground unobserved, opened the door of the sepulchre, and found themselves at the head of the subterraneous staircase. As yet the beams of the full moon had guided their steps, but that recourse now failed them. Matilda had neglected to provide herself with a lamp. Still holding Ambrosio'B hand, she descended the marble steps ; but the profound obscurity with which they were overspread, obliged them to walk slow and cautiously. ' You tremble!" said Matilda to her companion ; " fear not, the destined spot ia near." They reached the foot of the stair-case, and continued to proceed, feeling their way along the walls. On turning a corner, suddenly they described faint gleams of light, which seemed burning at a distance. Thither they bent their steps. The rays proceeded from a small sepulchral lamp which flamed unceasingly before the statue of St. Clare. It tinged with dim and cheerless beams the massy columns which supported the roof, but was too feeble to dissipate the thick gloom in which the vaults above were buried. Matilda took tho lamp. Wait for me!" said she to the friar; "in a few moments I am here again." With these words she hastened into one of the passages which branched in various directions from this spot, and formed a sort of labyrinth. Am- brosio was now left alone. Darkness the most profound surrounded him, and encouraged the doubts which began to revive in his bosom. He had been hurried away by the delirium of the moment. The shame of betray- ing his terrors, while in Matilda's presence, had induced him to repress them ; but now that he was abandoned to himself, they resumed their former ascendency. He trembled at the scene which he was soon to wit- ness. He knew not how far the delusions of magic might operate upon his mind : they possibly might force him to some deed, whose commission would make the breach between himself and heaven irreparable. In this fearful dilemma, he would have implored God's assistance, but was conscious that he had forfeited all claim to such protection. Gladly would he have returned to the abbey ; but as he had passed through innumerable caverns and winding passages, tho attempt of regaining tho stairs was hopeless. His fate was determined ; no possibility of escape presented itself. He therefore combated his apprehensions, and called every argument to his succour, which might enable him to support the trying scene with fortitude. He re- flected, that Antonia would be the reward of hie daring. He inflamed his 174 THE MONK. imagination by enumerating her charms. He persuaded himself, that (as Matilda had observed) he always should have time sufl&cient for repentance ; and that, as he employed assistance, not that of demons, the orime of sorcery could not be laid to his charge. He had read much respecting witch- craft ; he understood that, unless a formal act was signed renouncing his claim to salvation, Satan would have no power over him. He was fully determined not to execute any such act, whatever threats might be used, or advantages held out to him. Such were his meditations while waiting for Matilda. They were inter- rupted by a low murmur, which seemed at no great distance from him. He was startled — he listened. Some minutes passed in silence, after which the murmur was repeated. It appeared to be the groaning of one in pain. In any other situation, this circumstance would only have excited his attention and curiosity. In the present, his predominant sensation was that of terror. His imagination was totally engrossed by the ideas of sorcery and spirits, he fancied that some unquiet ghost was wandering near him ; or else that Matilda had fallen a victim to her presumption, and was perishing under the cruel fangs of the demons. The noise seemed not to approach, but continued to be heard at intervals. Sometimes it became more audible — doubtless, as the sufferings of the person who uttered the groans became more acute and insupportable. Ambrosio now and then thought that he could distinguish accents, and once in particular he was almost convinced that he heard a faint voice exclaim — *' God ! Oh I God I No hope I No succour!'' Yet deeper groans followed these words : they died away gradually, and universal silence again prevailed . " What can this mean ?" thought the bewildered monk. At that moment an idea which flashed into his mind, almost petrified him with horror. He started, and shuddered at himself. " Should it be possible 1" He groaned involuntarily ; ehould it but be possible ; Oh, what a monster am 1 1" He wished to resolve his doubts, and to repair his fault, if it were not too late already. But these generous and compassionate sentiments were soon put to flight by the return of Matilda. He forgot the groaning sufierer, and remembered nothing but the danger and embarrassment of his own situa- tion. The light of the returning lamp gilded the walls, and, in a few mo- ments after, Matilda stood beside him. She had quitted her religious habit ' she was now clothed in a long sable robe, on which was traced in gold em- broidery a variety of unknown characters : it was fastened by a girdle of precious stones, in which was fised a poinard. Her neck and arms were uncovered — in her hand she bore a golden wand— her hair was loose, and flowed wildly upon her shoulders— and her whole demeanour was calculated to inspire the beholder with awe and admiration. 'f Follow me,'* she said to the monk, in a low and solemn voice ; " all is ready." Hie limbs trembled while he obeyed her. She led him through' various narrow passages ; and on^very side, as they passed along, the beams of the THE MONK, 175 lamp displayed none but the most revolting objects ; skulls, bones, graves, and images, whose eyes seemed to glare on them with horror and surprise. At length they reached a spacious cavern, whose lofty roof the eye sought in vain to discover. A profound obscurity hovered through the vtid; damp vapours struck cold to the friar's heart ; and he listened sadly to the blast while it howled along the lonely vaults. Here Matilda stopped. She turned to Ambrosio. His cheeks and lips were pale with apprehension. By a glance of mingled scorn and anger she reproved his pusillanimity, but she spoke not. She placed the lamp upon the ground near the basket. She motioned that Ambrosio should be silent, and began the mysterious rites. She drew a cir- cle round him, another round herself , and then, taking a email phial from the basket, poured a few drops upon the ground before her. She bent over the place, muttered some indistinct sentences, and immediately a pale sul- phurous flame arose from the ground. It increased by degrees, and at length spread its waves over the whole surface, the circles alone excepted in which stood Matilda and the monk. It then ascended the huge columns of unhewn stone, glided along the roof, and formed the cavern into an immense cham- ber, totally covered with blue trembling fire. It emitted no heat : on th0 ' contrary, the extreme chillness of the place seemed to augment with every moment. Matilda continued her incantations ; at intervals she took various articles from the basket, the nature of which he was ignorant, but he dietin- guished, in particular, three human fingers, and an agnm dei^ which she broke in pieces. She threw them all into the flames which burned before her, and they were instantly consumed. The monk beheld her with anxious curiosity. Suddenly she uttered a loud and piercing shriek. She appeared to be seizsed with an excess of delirium ; she tore her hair, beat her bosom, used the most frantic gestures, and, drawing the poniard from her girdle, plunged it into her left arm. The blood gushed out plentifully ; and, as she stood on the brink of the circle, she took care that it should fall on the outside. The flames re- tired from the spot on which the blood was pouring. A volume of dark clouds rose slowly from the ensanguined earth, and ascended till it reached the vault of the cavern. At the same time a clap of thunder was heard, the echo pealed fearfully along the subterraneous passages, and the ground shook beneath the feet of the enchantress. It was now that Ambrosio repented of his rashness. The solemn singu- larity of the charm had prepared him for something strange and horrible.- He waited with fear for the spirit's appearance, whose coming was an- nounced by thunder and earthquakes. He looked wildly around him, ex, peeting that some dreadful apparition would meet hia eyes, the sight o£ which would drive him mad. A cold shivering seized his body, and he sunk upon one knee, unable to support himself. " He comes 1" exclaimed Matilda, in a joyful accent. Ambrosio started, and expected the demon with terror. What was his surprise when, the thunder ceasing to roll , a full strain of melodious music sounded in the air ! at the same time the cloud disappeared, and be beheld a figure more beautiful than fancy's pencil ever drew. It was a youth 176 THE MONK. seemingly scarce eighteeo, the perfection of whose form and face was un- rivalled. He was perfectly naked : a bright star sparkled upon hie forehead, two crimson wings extended themselves from his shoulders, and his silken locks wore confined by a band of many-coloured fires, which played round his head, formed themselves into a variety of figures, and shone with a brilliance far surpassing that of precious stones. Circlets of diamonds were placed round his arms and ankles, and in his right hand he bore a silver branch imitating myrtle. His form shone with dazzling glory; he was surrounded by clouds of rose-coloured light, and at the moment he appeared, a refreshing air breathed perfumes through the cavern. En- chanted at a vision so contrary to his expectations, Ambrosio gazed upon the spirit with delight and wonder : yet, however beautiful the figure, he could not but remark a wildness in the demon's eyes, and a mysterious me- lancholy impressed upon his features, betraying the fallen angel, and inspir- ing the spectators with secret awe. The music ceased. Matilda addressed herself to the spirit : she spoke irfi a language unintelligible to the monk, and was answered in the same. She seemed to insist upon something which the demon was unwilling to grant. He frequently darted upon Ambrosio angry glances, and at such times the friar's heart sank within him. Matilda appeared to grow incensed; she spoke in a loud and commanding tone, and her gestures declared that she was threatening him with her vengeance. Her menaces had the desired effect. The spirit sank upon his knee, and with a submissive air presented to her the branch of myrtle. — No sooner had she received it, than the music was again heard ; a thick cloud spread itself over the apparition ; the blue flames disappeared, and total obscurity reigned through the cave. The abbot moved not from his place : his faculties were all bound up in pleasure, anxiety, and surprise. At length the darkness dispersing, he perceived Matilda standing near him in her religious habit, with the myrtle in her hand. No traces remained of the incantation and the vaults were only il- luminated by the faint rays of the sepulchral lamp. I have succeeded," said Matilda, " though with more diflSculty than I expected. Lucifer, whom I summoned to my assistance, was at first un- willing to obey my commands : to enforce his compliance, I was constrained to have recourse to my strongest charms. They have produced the desired effect, but I have engaged never more to invoke his agency in your favour. Beware, then, how you employ an opportunity that never will return. My magic arts will now be of no use to you : in future you can only hope for supernatural aid, by invoking the demons yourself, and accepting the con- ditions of their service. This you will never do. You want strength oi mind to force them to obedience ; and unless you pay their established price they will not be your voluntary servants. In this one instance they consent to obey you ; I offer you the means of enjoying your mistress, and be care- ful not to lose the opportunity, lleceive this constellated myrtle : while you bear this in your hand every door will fly open to you. It will procuie you access to-morrow night to Antonia's chamber : then breathe upon it thrice, pronounce her name, and place it upon her pillow. A death lika TBE MONK. 177 MATILDA INVOKING THE ePIRIT. slumber will immediately seize upon her, and deprive her of the power of resisting your attempts. Sleep will hold her till break of morning. In this state you may satisfy your desires without danger of being discovered ; since, when daylight shall dispel the effects of the enchantment, Antonia will per- ceive her dishonour, but be ignorant of the ravisher. Be happy, then, my Ambrosio, and let this service convince you that my friendship is disinter- ested and pure. The night must be near expiring : let us return to the abbey, lest our absence should create surprise. The abbot received the talisman with silent gratitude. His ideas were too much bewildered by the adventures of the night, to permit his expressing No. 23. 178 THE MONK. his thanks audibly, or, indeed, as yet to feel the whole value of her present. Matilda took up her lamp and basket, and guided her companion from the mysterious cavern . She restored the lamp to its former place, and continued her route in darkness till she reached the foot of the staircase. The first beams of the rising sun darting down it facilitated the ascent. Ma- i tilda and the abbot hastened out of the sepulchre, closed the door affer them and soon regained the abbey's western cloister. No one met them, and they ' retired unobserved to their respective cells. The confusion of Ambrosio's mind now began to appease. He rejoiced in ' the fortunate issue of his adventure, and, reflecting upon the virtues of the myrtle, looked upon Antonia as already in his power. Imagination retraced to him those secret charms betrayed to him by the enchanted mirror, and he waited with impatience for the approach of midnight. CHAPTER VIII. " The crickets sing, and man's o'er-laboured sense Repairs itself by rest ; our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes, ere he wakened The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed ! Fresh lily ! And whiter than the sheets," Ctmbkuns. All the researches of the Matquis de las Cisternas proved vain. Agnes was lost to him for ever. Despair produced so violent an effect upon his constitution, that the consequence was a long and severe illness. This pre- vented him from visiting Elvira, as he had intended ; and she being ignorant of the cause of his neglect, it gave her no trifling ufteasiness. His sister's death had prevented Lorenzo from communicating to his Uncle his designs respecting Antonia. The injunctions of her mother forbade his presenting himself to her without the duke's consent ; and as she heard no more of him or his proposals, Elvira conjectured that he had either met with a better match, or had been commanded to give up all thoughts of her daughter. Every day made her more uneasy respecting Antouia's fate ; yet, while she retained the abbot's protection, she bore with fortitude the disappointment of her hopes with regard to Lorenzo and the marquis. That resource now failed her. She was convinced that Ambrosio had meditated her daughter's rain ; and when she reflected that her death would leave Antonia friendless and unprotected in a world so base, so perfidious and depraved, her heart swelled with the bitterness of apprehension. At such times she would sit for hours gazing upon the lovely girl, and seeming to listen to her innocent prattle, while in reality her thoughts dwelt upon the sorrows into which a moment would suffice to plunge her. Then she would clasp her in her arms suddenly, lean her head upon her daughter's bosom, and bedew it with her tears. An event was in preparation, which had she known it, would iiave relieved 179 her from her inquietude. Lorenzo now waited only for a favourable oppor- tunity to inform the duke of his intended marriage; however, a circumstance which occurred at this period, obliged him to delay his explanation for a few days longer. Don Raymond's malady seemed to gain ground. Lorenzo was constantly at his bedside, and treated him with a tenderness truly fraternal. Both the cause and eflFects of the disorder were highly aflaicting to the brother of Agnes ; yet Theodore's grief was scarcely less sincere. That amiable boy quitted not his master for a moment, and put every means in practice to eon- sole and alleviate his sufferings. The marquis had conceived so rooted an affection for his deceased mistress, that it was evident to all that he never could survive her loss. Nothing eould have prevented him from sinking un- der his grief, but ihe persuasion of her being still alive, and in need of his assistance. Though convinced of its falsehood, his attendants encouraged him in a belief which formed his only comfort. He was assured daily that fresh perquisitions were making respecting the fate of Agnes ; stories were invented recounting the various attempts made to get admittance into the convent ; and circumstances were related, which, though they did not pro- mise her absolute recovery, at least were sufficient to keep his hopes alive. The marquis constantly fell into the most terrible excess of passion, when informed of the failure of these supposed attempts. Still he would not credit that the succeeding ones would have the same fate, but flattered himself that the next would prove more fortunate, Theodore was the only one who exerted himself to realise his master's chimeras. He was eternally busied in planning schemes for entering the convent, or at least of obtaining from the nuns some intelligence of Agnes. To execute these schemes was the only inducement which could prevail on him to quit Don Raymond. He became the very Proteus ; changing his shape every day ; but all his metamorphoses were to very little purpose. He regularly returned to the Palace de las Cisternas without any intelligence to confirm his master's hopes. One day he took it into his head to disguise himself as a beggar ; he put a patch over his left eye, took his guitar in hand, and posted himself at the gate of the convent. " If Agnes is really confined in the convent," thought he, *' and hears my voice, she will recollect it, and possibly may find means to let me know that she is here. With this idea he mingled with a crowd of beggars who assembled daily at the gate of St. Clare to receive soup, which the nuns were accustomed to distribute at twelve o'clock. All were provided with jugs or bowls to carry it away ; but as Theodore had no utensil of this kind, he begged leave to eat his portion at the convent door. This was granted without difficulty. His Bweet voice, and, in spite of his patched eye, his engaging countenance, won the heart of the good old porteress, who, aided by a lay sister, was busied in berving to each his mess. Theodore was bid to stay till the others should depart, and promised that his request should then be granted. The youth desired no better, since it was not to eat the soup that he presented himself at the convent. He thanked the porteress for her permission, retired from 180 THE MONK.