Chapter 2

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

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Segnor.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I never unveil in public, Segnor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Marquis de las Cisternas.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lorenzo smiled at the strength of her expressions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He said, and darted out of the Cathedral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Friend! we shall meet above!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who will be here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Agnes, by heaven!” cried Lorenzo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Stranger immediately dropped his Sword.

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

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

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

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

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

“The Condé d’Ossorio?”

“Exactly so, Marquis.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE GYPSY’S SONG

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE GYPSY

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE GYPSY

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

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

THE GYPSY

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

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

THE GYPSY

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

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