Chapter 3

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

TASSO.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is there?” said Ambrosio at length.

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

“Enter! Enter, my Son!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is your Friend’s name?”

“Vincentio della Ronda.”

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

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

“Your attentions charm me, my Son.”

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

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

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

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

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

Here the Novice heaved an involuntary sigh.

“When was that once?” demanded the Abbot.

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

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

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

“Sufferings at your age, Rosario?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus saying, She hastened out of the Chapel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You had a Sister?”

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

“What were those sorrows?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, my Son?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matilda!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What shall I give you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are in spirits, Matilda!”

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

“What was that pleasure?”

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

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

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

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

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

She soon returned with it.

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

“What you please, Matilda.”

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

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

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

DURANDARTE AND BELERMA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stopped, and was lost in her reflections.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She entered her cell, and closed the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled, and grasped his hand.

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

“Matilda!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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