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THE MONK

LIBRARY OF EARLY NOVELISTS.

6s. net.
Large crown 8vo, strongly bound in buckram gilt, gilt top.

Life of John Buncle. Amory.
Adventures of Don Sylvio. Wieland.
Heptameron ; translated by Machen.
Decameron; boccaccio ; translated by Rigg.
Mrs. Behn's Novels.
Gesta Bomanorum ; translated by Swan.
Fool of Quality. Brooke.

Gulliver's Travels (ist edn.), and other writings

of Swift.
The Monk. M. G, Lewis.
Moll Flanders and Roxana. Defoe.
Early English Prose Romances. W. J. Thoms.
Arcadia. Sir P. Sidney.
Chrysal ; or, The Adventures of a Guinea.

THE MONK

A ROMANCE

BY

M. G. LEWIS

EDITED BY

E. A. BAKER, M. A.

Somnia, terrores magicos, mira&ula, sagas,
Noctwnos lemures, porUntaque.-H.ox..

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

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, Limited

New Yobk: E. P. DUTTON & Co.
1907

vn

INTRODUCTION

The request of the publishers of the present volume for a preface
raises the question : What reason is there to justify a new edition
of Lewis's Monk, a book that has been reprinted very rarely
since the time of its first appearance, and even so only in the
form of abridged, or more or less surreptitious, editions ? It may
be admitted at once that this erst belauded romance has little
claim to perpetuation on its own merits. Only disappointment
awaits anyone who has taken too seriously the praise bestowed
by his contemporaries on Lewis's genius and supposed gifts of
powerful and unearthly imagination, and has been deceived by
the story of his sudden leap into fame, and of his literary friend-
ship with Byron and Shelley, into fancying The Monk in any way
a great book. But the most notorious exemplar of the ' Gothic '
school of romance, the novel that summarized most concisely the
idiosyncrasies of its kind, and gave so forcible a stimulus to the
manufacture of tales of terror, has historical importance enough
to be saved from the oblivion that waits upon very scarce books.
Those, again, who pay any attention to the course of popular
taste in reading, no unimportant factor in the literary history
of a nation, will find The Monk worth examining at first hand.
There is food for thought in the case of a man of mere average
ability who, on the strength of one crude production written
in his teens, was able to find publishers and a market for a
miscellaneous series of works that would daunt the hardihood
of the most indefatigable researcher to read now, and who not
only won with ease the success of such a writer as the late Guy
Boothby, but was widely regarded as among the leading men of
letters of his day. Perhaps, after all, it is reason enough for a
reprint that the book is one everybody knows by name, yet few
indeed have read.

A life of Matthew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818) is extant in two
volumes octavo ; but to the fatuous indulgence of the anonymous
biographer most readers will prefer the brief notice in the
Dictionary of National Biography, which easily takes in all that
has any interest in a very ordinary career. (Born rich, he
never had to face adversity in any shape, /unless we except
the differences between his father and mother, in which he
took his mother's part, and had his pocket money reduced in
consequence. He never had to write a line for profit, though
his gains from this source must have been considerable. He

viii INTRODUCTION

enjoyed his life, his letters leave no doubt on that point, but ifc
was not a life worthy of commemoration in two volumes octavo.
Prefixed to the two volumes there is a portrait, which might
have served all the purposes of a memoir. It is the face of a
good-natured, insignificant young man, 'who never made an
enemy ; a man who shone in private life, was kind to his slaves,
and never had a brilliant idea in his life. His only qualification
for writing books was an insatiable ambition, the cacoethes scribendi
in its most vulgar form, combined with an indomitable industry
that, by the grace of Providence, is not often allied to it. But
there was no conceit, no egotism of any kind, in Monk Lewis :
he looked upon his gift for enthralling his readers by making
their flesh creep as an unaccountable endowment of Nature, and
his letters show how conscious he was of his lack of any personal
impressiveness to support the dignity of his reputation. This
amiable modesty of his must have been the trait that pleased
Shelley and Byron, who were, no doubt, very much amused at
the spectacle of this little man overwhelmed by the greatness
thrust upon him by his friends.

Lewis wrote The Monk in 1795, just before he was twenty; he
devoted ten weeks to the performance, rather more than, accord-
ing to the best accounts, had been given by another wealthy
scribbler to the composition of Vatheh, some ten years before, a
tale of the same kin as The Monk, but far more original, and
unquestionably a work of imagination. Lewis's book had a
successful sale, and made a great sensation — two things that
are not always mutually dependent. Worse books of the same
character as The Monk would, at the present date, command a
lucrative sale, but would create no sensation — we are too well
acquainted with the species. But although Lewis avowedly
made no attempt to be original, borrowing his effects from
sources candidly pointed out in his preface; and although he
made no secret that he was incited to write The Monk by his
perusal of The Mysteries of Udolpha, which he considered ' one of
the most interesting books that has (sic) ever been published ' ;
in spite of all thk his book was a new thing, at least to the
reading public of his own time and country. It was new in that
instead of the mild titillation of the nerves produced by Mrs.
Eadcliffe's timid trifling with the world of phantoms and name-
less terrors, it threw away all restraint. There is nothing-
supernatural in Mrs. Eadcliffe's novels; her ghosts are all
make-believe, and the reader's alarm is carefully soothed before
it exceeds the point of pleasant excitation. There is no mistake
on the contrary, about Lewis's ghosts ; they are the most blood-
curdling creations that a crude fancy can depict. And, if you
do not believe in ghosts, he has yet more efficacious means of

INTRODUCTION ix

shaking your nerves at his disposal, in the more palpable shape
of charnel-house horrors, the most repulsive incidents of disease
and mortality, loathsome crimes and diabolical men. He outdid
Mrs. Radcliffe, and in the same way he outdid every writer from
whom he borrowed. One of the most superlative gifts of the
literary mind is the faculty of reticence, the instinct that tells
what to omit. Lewis's peculiar gift was the negation of reticence;
he is most forcible and emphatic where other men are silent. To
write in complete defiance of the literary canons requires clever-
ness of a sort ; and this is how The Monk is such a curiosity in
the literary annals of that period.

An excellent example of Lewis's contrarious reading of the
rules of good writing is a certain ' monodrama ' called The
Captive, in which he pursued his own methods so thoroughly,
that he put to fright an audience met together with the most
kindly expectations of applauding him. This piece of unmiti-
gated realism was in the form of a monologue, with scenery,
and two or three additional actors, who come in, and in dumb
show perform just those revolting parts of the action which
the wise feeling of the Greeks and most modern playwrights
carried out behind the scenes. Mrs. Litchfield recited it at
Covent Garden to a large and fashionable assembly. It re-
presents the mental torments of a miserable woman, imprisoned
as a lunatic by her inhuman husband, and, before the very eyes
of the audience, driven by terror and agony into actual madness.
No wonder that it 'threw a portion of the audience — whose
nerves were unable to withstand the dreadful truth of the
language and the scene — into hysterics, and the whole theatre
into confusion and horror. . . . Never did Covent Garden
present such a picture of agitation and dismay. Ladies bathed
in tears — others fainting — and some shrieking with terror —
while such of the audience as were able to avoid demonstration
like these, sat aghast, with pale horror painted on their
countenance. It is said that the very box-keepers took
fright ..."

Praise and denunciation greeted the appearance of The Monk,
and reading between the lines one can see that Lewis was not
displeased with either. He was, indeed, so much affected by
the attacks on the immorality of the book that, when a new
edition was demanded, he brought it out in an expurgated form,
or what he called expurgated. But he was never really ashamed
of The Monk. His father took him to task, and there is a
contrite letter to be seen in the two volumes octavo, acknow-
ledging his error and promising amendment. But his repentance
was very half-hearted. He always prided himself on the cogno-
men of ' Monk,' with which he had been immediately dubbed,

x INTRODUCTION

and cultivated it by dropping the second initial of his signature,
' M. G-. Lewis,' and not correcting those who ignorantly addressed
their letters to ' Monk Lewis, Esq.'

Of his later works, poems, plays, tales, translations and other
effusions, very little need be said. One of his ' Wardour Street
dramas,' ' Alfonso, King of Castile,' was the subject of an amusing
review by Sydney Smith, in the Edinburgh Review, in 1803.
The best even Lewis's admiring biographer can say for his
poetry is that: 'Our author's muse seldom soared to a very
high flight, and was therefore the less liable to those sudden
" sinkings " which Johnson pronounces to be bathos.' How
many who are familiar with the sweetly sentimental melody of
'The Banks of Allan Water' are aware that the words were
composed by the notorious Monk Lewis ? Many of these works,
little known as they are, have long been easier to obtain than
the more famous Monk, which has been out of print, except in
an abridgment, since the earlier half of the last century.

In the preface to Frankenstein, Mrs. Shelley, after describing
the ghastly nightmare that gave her the idea of that gloomy
romance, exclaims : ' Oh ! if I could only contrive one (story)
which would frighten my reader as I myself had been frightened
that night ! ' This might be taken for their general motto by
manufacturers of the novel of terror, or, as it was loosely called
from Horace Walpole's time onwards, ' The Gothic story.' But
to contrive a series of incidents is not enough to frighten us,
the writer has to see that they make a strong impression on our
mind. There are two chief ways of doing this, the realistic
method and the poetic. The writer tries to produce a semblance,
of fact, either by apparent truth of description or by the pretence
of logical reasoning ; or else he aims, not at convincing us, but'
merely at poetic faith, defined by Coleridge as the wilting
suspension of disbelief for the moment; that is, he stimulates
the imagination of the reader by means of the suggestive powers
of language. Edgar Poe's Descent into the Maelstrom or The Case
of M. Valdemar is a good instance of the first method, and his
Fall of the House of Usher, or Silence, a Fable, of the other.
Whichever method is adopted, the writer may reinforce his
effects to a vast extent by agitating the feelings skilfully and
powerfully; and the portrayal of mental states, emotions
especially, not only enlarges the field to be exploited, but
is an invaluable aid to both realist and poet, helping to make
more credible by awakening sympathy, and adding depth and
harmony to the narrative. One useful auxiliary overlooked by
Lewis, although Mrs. Radcliffe had wielded it with masterly
skill, is suggestion instead of description, the employment of
vague hints in lieu of plain statements. Monk Lewis had no

INTRODUCTION xi

sense of the unnerving power of the terror that stalks unseen:
to him a corpse, or, at any rate, a skeleton, was as efficient a
bogey as a ghost.

The first ' G-othic ' romance in English is usually said to be
Walpole's Castle of Otranto (1764), although there is no reason
why Smollett's Ferdinand, Comt Fathom, published in 1753,
should not have the credit. Walpole's story, at any rate, made
the thing fashionable. It is, on the 'Gothic' side, a crude
accumulation of terror-striking incidents ; apart from this, it is
a tale of love and intrigue with a complicated plot. The horrors
of the story ; the colossal helm, the animated statues and pictures,
the nose dropping blood ; show a certain fertility of invention,
but of imagination not a trace. Walpole's inability to realize
imaginatively any of the situations he devises deprives him
of the power of giving a modern reader even the mildest thrill.
It is quite absurd to watch the inmates of the haunted castle
peacefully conducting their love affairs, and the mercenary baron
carrying on his nefarious intrigues in the most business-like
fashion, calmly oblivious of the frightful omens and apparitions
besetting them at every step. The Baron of Otranto looks on
the ancestral ghosts as a nuisance, and a sad detraction from the
comforts of his residence ; but what chiefly annoys him is their
uncalled-for interference with his private affairs. There is none
of the atmosphere of eeriness and indefinable terror which forms
the most potent ingredient in a really effective ghost story.

Miss Clara Reeve, author of The Old English Baron (1777), had
prudish objections to Walpole's free use of the supernatural.
She resolved, accordingly, to write a tale of terror without
.ghosts. One mysterious incident alone would she permit herself,
a horrible groan, heard on the spot where the rightful heir to
the property had been foully slain. But even this moderate
demand on our faith is, of course, a draft upon the supernatural.
A groan may be a prodigy as unaccountable as the gigantic
apparitions of her predecessor. Mrs. Radcliffe, whose five
romances began with The Castles of Athlyn and Dunblayne, in
1789, and ended with The Italian, in 1797, had the same
scruples; she would have no supernaturalism. Her peculiar
-expedient was the postponed explanation. She excites feelings
of wonder and apprehension, only to disappoint the reader by
explaining everything as the result of perfectly commonplace
events. It is useless to urge that our interest in the ingenuity
of her explanations, and the genuineness of our feelings of awe
afid terror while they last, atone for this disagreeable shock.
(There is a most inartistic contrast between the sublimity of the
imaginary incidents and the triteness of the actuality. Never-
theless, Mrs. Radcliffe discovered one thing of unique importance,

xii INTRODUCTION

the value of atmosphere : landscapes, ruins, characters, costumes,
light and shade, are subdued by delicate touches to the right key
of emotion ; everything lulls the reader into the state of mind
most harmonious with the incidents to be enacted. Her novels
were of the nature of complex symphonies, with the feelings of
awe and fear among the dominant motives ; and if they are too
long-winded for our taste, they certainly abound in passages of
real beauty, which leave an indelible impression on the mind,
and have not been without their influence on later literature.

Lewis, unfortunately, when in The Monk he opened a new
chapter in the history of the 'Gothic' romance, showed no
appreciation of what was best in Mrs. Radcliffe. Atmosphere
was a thing much too supersensual for his blunt perceptions.
Violent blows upon the reader's nerves seemed to him the most
straightforward way to secure his effects ; he made no attempt
to rationalize his ghostly phenomena ; his only idea of the wizard
atmosphere was to prepare our minds with a whifF from the
churchyard. He found that horror is an easy thing to produce ;
he never learned that terror requires more skill and subtlety.
This mistake was not repeated by his direct successor, Maturin,
author of The Fatal Revenge, or, The Family of Montorio (1807), of
Melmoth the Wanderer (1820), of Bertram, a Tragedy, and other
lurid pieces. In rejecting any scruple as to the free employment
of supernaturalism, he followed Lewis, but he left him far behind
in the force and skill of his attacks upon the reader's nerves.
Maturin's theory of the end and aim of art would probably
commend itself to few in our day ; but it is impossible to deny
the art and delicacy with which he calculated his thrills, and the
adroitness with which he utilized the devices of reticence and
suggestion. Maturin was a connoisseur of sensations, a scientific
investigator of the theory of terror, who analyzed his effects
with the precision of a psychologist ; consequently his were the
most admirably-constructed ' shockers ' produced in his time.

Mrs. Shelley's Frankenstein (18lfe>) has many passages still
capable of making a profound impression on sensitive minds,
and these are the passages where she has not been content
merely with terrifying incident, but fully depicts the mental
and emotional states of her principal actors. She was not the
inventor of the scientific romance, but she was the first to adapt
its methods to the peculiar purposes of the novel of terror.
Lovers of this species of fiction have been spoiled now by the
accurate knowledge and the powers of methodical exposition
devoted thereto by Jules Verne and Mr. H. G-. Wells. But if one
can overlook the blemishes due merely to her lack of scientific
attainments, and throw oneself into the situation of Mrs. Shelley's
still less scientific public, it must be acknowledged that she was

INTRODUCTION xiii

not far from attaining the nightmare effect she aimed at.
Another book that was widely read in translation about this
time was Schiller's Ghost-seer ■• it received extravagant praise from
many critics, who simply bear witness to the strength of the
craze for graveyard romance. ' Schiller proceeds upon Mrs. Ead-
cliffe's plan of piling up a succession of mysterious occurrences,
seemingly the acts of infernal ministers, and then explaining all
at the end as the result of natural, though not very probable,
events. But his novel is of a totally different complexion from
hers. A foreign prince sojourning at Venice is the object of a
secret conspiracy, of which the principal agent is a mysterious
Armenian, who seems possessed of superhuman attributes, dis-
appearing and reappearing in inexplicable ways, and performing
unheard-of miracles by means, apparently, of his authority in the
spirit world. The plot is a complicated tissue of which it would
take many pages to give the reader even a faint idea; its
intricacies require a closer attention than few would care to
devote; and when the end is reached, and the bewildering
entanglement unravelled, it will be a very meritorious reader
who can keep clear, in his own mind, all the threads of the plot,
and enjoy in retrospect the final solution of his perplexities.
Evidence is forthcoming that contemporary readers thought this
one of the most stupendous books ever written ; the figure of
the Armenian gave the nervous spasms of fright ; they believed
the art of thrilling could go no further. But there was still a
future for the tale of terror ; in England masterpieces in the art
were to be composed on very different lines by such antagonistic
types of intellect as George Macdonald, Stevenson, and Eudyard
Kipling, not to mention the notable attempts of Bulwer Lytton,
in The Haunted and the Haunters, Zanoni, and A Strange Story ;
whilst American writers were to achieve still higher things;
Hawthorne with his soul-shaking embodiments of moral dread ;
Poe with his Defoe-like excursions into the world of preternatural
wonders, and his finer realizations of the mysticism and sinister
beauty that underlie the darker movements of our thought ; and
lastly, Mr. Henry James, many of whose short stories, subtile and
recondite as they are, yet in their capacity to sway the feelings
are far more potent than the raw sensations of Monk Lewis and
Maturin. The author of The Turn of the Screw makes consummate
use of his scientific insight into the hidden springs of fear. His
science helps him in more ways than one, enabling him to give a
sufficiently rational account of the phenomena represented, and
to trick the mind into belief in their objectivity, and telling him
how to thrill the reader as if by a light touch on the nerve. Mr.
James is the latest American experimenter in the fiction of
terror j the earliest was a contemporary of Monk Lewis, and it

xiv INTRODUCTION

is interesting to observe how original, and how strikingly
successful, transatlantic authors have always been in this byway
of letters. Charles Brockden Brown was the first American
novelist, and like Lewis began to write under the influence of
Mrs. Eadcliffe. He was an intelligent imitator, and while he
copied her better features, he adapted them with success to a
totally new class of subject, and developed them according to his
own conceptions. He, too, aimed at the effects of supernaturalism
without the reality., But, instead of seeking to explain incredible
incidents by means of an extraordinary concatenation of ordinary
events, he based the whole structure on the durable foundation
of certain strange, but not impossible circumstances ; the erratic
behaviour of a somnambulist, as in Edgar Rvmily (1799-1801), a
case of suspended animation and the mysterious conduct of a
concealed criminal, as in Arthur Mervyn (1798-1800), or the
utterances of a ventriloquist as in Wielwnd. Although things of
this kind are in themselves exceptional and contrary to ordinary
experience, Brown managed to keep them in the background so
as not to offend the reader's sense of probability too much.
They were inconspicuous, though essential parts of the machinery.
It was in conjunction with less abnormal circumstances that they
had their full effect. One may forget the actual incidents of the
novel Edgar Huntly; but the sense of abject and incompre-
hensible fear that pervades the book, the formless dread with
which we accompany the adventurer into the panther-haunted
caves of the Alleghanies, and flee with him through the mid-
night woods infested with murdering Indian braves, will remain
as an indestructible impression of the book. Brown excelled in
evoking the nightmare atmosphere, in making the reader's hair
stand on end for no definable reason whatever. He was also
peculiarly skilful in giving, by means of a few touches, the idea
of a fearful personality, of a human being more to be dreaded
than a fiend from the pit. Welbeck, in Arthur Mervyn, the
scoundrel who exercises such a deadly fascination over the hero,
is a striking example of this terrible glamour; and there is
another figure in the same book, who does not even appear on
the scene, and is merely alluded to by the hero in his fevered
cogitations, yet gives one the same mental shock as Arthur
Mervyn felt when he thought he heard his menacing footstep at
his chamber-door. The secret is, of course, that Brown does not
relate incidents, but records impressions, sets down the thoughts
and feelings of the actors directly, and so arouses in us thoughts
and feelings only a little less powerful.

These early writers are all alike in the painful insipidity of
their style. The arts of language play an unusually important
part in narratives of the wonderful ; a careful examination of any

INTRODUCTION xv

one of Poe's incomparable stories is enough to prove this. But
the ponderous emptiness of Brown's prose is like the ponderous-
ness of Calibm's Guide to Letters ; nothing more stilted was ever
penned ; it caricatures itself. And if anybody believes that the
felicities of expression hight ' journalese ' are one of the latest
products of evolution, let him turn to The Monk There, in
Lewis's glib diction, he will recognize all the graces usually
considered the special property of the halfpenny paper. Here is
a piece of dialogue, the culminating passage in one of the most
impassioned, most delirious love-scenes in the story, the scene
where the supposed novice reveals her sex and her uncontrollable
affection for Ambrosio : —

" This speech gave the abbot an opportunity of recollecting him-
self. He was conscious that, in the present disposition of his
mind, avoiding her society was his only refuge from the power
of this enchanting woman.

' Your declaration has so much astonished me,' said he, ' that I
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 con-
sequences of your stay ; our separation is indispensable, and we
must part.'

* But not to-day, father ! Oh ! in pity, not to-day ! '

'You press me too hard; but I cannot resist that tone of
supplication. Since you insist upon it, I yield to your prayer ;
I consent to your remaining here a sufficient time to prepare in
some measure the brethren for your departure : stay yet two
days; but on the third' (he sighed involuntarily) 'remember,
that on the third we must part 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 authorize 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."

. Are these the accents of ungovernable passion? The same
continued : —

" » No, rather, no ! I expect not to inspire you with a love like

xvi INTRODUCTION

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 impro-
priety of my harbouring a woman in the abbey, and that too a
woman who confesses that she loves me. It must not be. The
risk of your being discovered is too great ; and I will not expose
myself to so dangerous a temptation.' "

And this is how the abbot surrenders to her importunate
blandishments : —

"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."

A crowd does not scatter or disperse in Lewis's prose, it
becomes 'nearly dissipated.' The abbot never preaches; he
either ' delivers a discourse ' or * pronounces a sermon.' Instead
of taking a nap after dinner, the monks • separate and disperse
themselves in various parts of the garden, where the shade of
trees or retirement of some grotto present the most agreeable
means of enjoying the siesta.' A young lady tells a gentleman :

' 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 ! '

In fact, Lewis's Monk scarcely wants a single one of the vicious
attractions that have in all ages secured literary fame among
the unliterary, and a popularity whose magnitude is always,
providentially, in exactly inverse ratio to its duration. But let
one thing be remembered, the works of Monk Lewis and his
like, which would never have flourished and multiplied as they
did without the negative merits that'^aae them so popular, were
after all the raw material of the romanticism that culminated in
the Ancient Mariner, La Belle Dame sans Merci, and The Fall of
the House of Usher. That their crude romanticism is amply
represented among the fiction securing widest and most lucrative
circulation at the present time, in the cheap illustrated magazine,
or in the decent vesture of the six-shilling novel, it is hardly
necessary to mention.

E. A. B.

August, 1906.

PREFACE

IMITATION OF HORACE, EPODES, I., XX.

Methinks, oh, vain ill-judging book,
I see thee cast a wishful look,
Where reputations won and lost are
In famous row called Paternoster.
Incensed to find your precious olio
Buried in unexplored portfolio,
You scorn the prudent lock and key ;
And pant, well bound and gilt, to see
Your volume in the window set
Of Stockdale, Hookham, or Debrett.
Go, then, and pass that dangerous bourn
Whence never book can back return ;
And, when you find — condemned, despised,
Neglected, blamed, and criticized —
■ Abuse from all who read you fall,
(fiTiaply you be read at all)
Sorely will you your folly sigh at,
And wish for me, and home, and quiet.

Assuming now a conjuror's office, I

Thus on your future fortune prophesy :
xvii

xviii PREFACE

Soon as your novelty is o'er,
And you are young and new no more,
In some dark dirty corner thrown,
Mouldy with damps, with cobwebs strown,
Your leaves shall be the bookworm's prey ;
Or sent to chandler-shop away,
And doomed to suffer public scandal,
Shall line the trunk or wrap the candle !

But, should you meet with approbation,
And some one find an inclination
To ask, by natural transition,
Eespecting me and my condition,
That I am one, th' inquirer teach,
Nor very poor, nor very rich ;
Of passions strong, of hasty nature,
Of graceless form and dwarfish stature ;
By few approved, and few approving ;
Extreme in hating and in loving ;
Abhorring all whom I dislike,
Adoring who my fancy strike :
In forming judgments never long,
And for the most part judging wrong ;
In friendship firm, but still believing
Others are treacherous and deceiving ;
And thinking, in the present era,
That friendship is a pure chimera ;
More passionate no creature living,
Proud, obstinate, and unforgiving,

PREFACE xix

But yet, for those who kindness show,
Ready through fire and smoke to go.

Again, should it be asked your page,
' Pray, what may be the author's age 1 '
Your faults, no doubt, will make it clear,
I scarce have seen my twentieth_year,
Which passed, kind reader, on my word,
While England's throne held George the Third.

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

M. G. L.
Haqtje, Oct. 28, 1794.

ADVERTISEMENT

The first idea of this Romance was suggested by the
story of the Santon Barsisa, related in The Guardian. —
Tlie Bleeding Nun is a tradition still credited in many
parts of Germany ; and I have been told that the ruins
of the castle of Lauenstein, which she is supposed to
haunt, may yet be seen upon the borders of Thuringia.
The Water-King, from the third to the twelfth stanza,
is the fragment of an original Danish ballad ; and
Belerma and Durandarte is translated from some stanzas
to be found in a collection of old Spanish poetry
which contains also the popular song of Gayferos and
Melesindra, mentioned in Don Quixote. — I have now
made a full avowal of all the plagiarisms of which I
am aware myself, but I doubt not many more may be
found of which I am at present totally unconscious.

xxi

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

PAGE

1

it

II

27

»»

in

73

»»

IV

101

>»

v . ...

152

»i

VI

177

>■>

VII

204

»>

VIII ....

224

I)

IX

244

»»

X

275

i»

XI

302

»»

XII . .

338

XXlll

THE MONK

CHAPTER I

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

— Measure for Measure

ScAKCELY 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 infor-
mation. 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
I Capuchin church had never witnessed a more numerous
\assembly. Every corner was filled, every seat was occu-

2 THE MONK j

I
pied. 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 1
found herself under the necessity of carrying double. J
The consequence was that, in spite of all their hurry and
expedition, our two new comers, 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 com-
panion 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 inquiry 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 inter-
rupted 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 ;

CHAPTER I 3

but 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 re-
ceived additional charms from being shaded by the tresses
of her long fair hair, which descended in ringlets to her
waist. Her figure was rather below than above the middle
size : it was light and airy as that of an Hamadryad. Her
bosom was carefully veiled. Her dress was white ; it was
fastened by a blue sash, 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 her-
self ; the young one followed her example, and 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

4 THE MONK

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 conversable ; 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..',.,

*"Ahd 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 &'
fuss and a bustle about a chit's face ! Come, come, child !
uncover it ! I warrant you that nobody will run away with
it from you — '

' Dear aunt, it is not the custom in Murcia — '

' Murcia, indeed ! Holy St. Barbara, what does that
signify? You are always putting me in mind of that
villanous province. If it is the custom in Madrid, that is
all that we ought to mind ; and therefore I desire you to
take off your veil immediately. Obey me this moment,,
Antonia, for you know I cannot bear contradiction.'
Tier niece was silent, but made no further opposition to
Don Lorenzo's efforts, who, armed with the aunt's sanction,!

CHAPTER I 5

hastened to remove the gauze. What a seraph's head pre-
sented itself to his admiration ! Yet it was rather bewitch-
ing 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 neck 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 repressed. She looked
round her with a bashful glance ; and, whenever her eyes
accidently met Lorenzo's, she dropped 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 apologise
for Antonia's mauvaise honte.

' 'Tis a young creature ', said she, ' who is totally ignorant

of the world. She has bepn Vimim-M nr> in nx\ oJdjaailgJri,

^Muxcia^wjtfi no other society,, than .her mother's^ who, God

"Tielp her, has ho more sense, goodsoul. than is necessary ib

•carry heF'soup to her mouth ; yet she is my own sister,

both by father and mother.'

' And has so little sense ? ' said Don Chrjgjbpval, 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

6 THE MONK

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 intelli-
gence. 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 shoemaker 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, Segne*a ! '

' 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. How-
ever, I am heartily glad that the Conde* 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 a house to hide her head or
money to procure her one ! This Antonia was then but an
infant, and her only remaining child. She found that her
father-in-law had married again, that he was irreconcileable
to the Conde*, 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

CHAPTER I 7

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 ? ' inquired Don
Lorenzo, whom admiration of the young Antonia compelled
him 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 a 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-^rook the compliment to himself, and
answered it by a profound bow.

' May I inquire ', said he, ' the name of the Marquis ? '

' The Marquis de las Cisternas.'

' I know him intimately well. He is not at present in

8 THE MONK

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 erred, ' 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 you not 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 — '

' Fie, 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
Ohristoval, ' inform me, why such a crowd is assembled
to-day 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

CHAPTER I 9

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 olhis 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 shown to their establish-
ment 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 ? ' inquired Antonia. ' Bless
me, then am I one.'

' Holy St. Barbara!' exclaimed Leonella, 'what a question !
Fie, child, fie ! these are not fit subjects for 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

xo THE MONK

imagine everybody to be of the same sex with yourself. I
should like to see you give people to understand that you
know that a man has no breasts, and no hips, and no. .... .

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

He was a man of noble port and commanding presence.
His stature was lofty, and his features uncommonly hand-
some. 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 sensa-
tions 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 Antonio 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,,.

CHAPTER I ii

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, changiDg
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 eager-
ness, pronounced his benediction and quitted the church,
while humility dwelt upon every feature. D welt she, also,
in his hea rt ? """

Antonias eyes followed him with anxiety : as the door
closed after him, it seemed t« her as if she had lost some.

12 THE MONK

one esaantkL to her happioess-j-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 over-rates 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 ;
1 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

CHAPTER I 13

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 J 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 con-
fessor, I should never have the courage to avow one half
of my peccadilloes; and then I should be in a rare
condition ? I never saw such a stern-looking mortal, and
hope that 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 feelings, 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 ? '

'0 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.'

14 THE MONK

' 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 to-morrow, and so farewell. But
pray, cavaliers, may I not inquire your names ? '

' My friend's', replied Lorenzo, * is the Oonde 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 Conde", let me entreat you to moderate
the excessive ardour of your passion. However, to prove
thatlam not displeased with you, and prevent your abandon-
ing 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
garlic 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 ! '

CHAPTER I 15

" I confess, my poor Count ', replied Lorenzo, ' that your
service has been attended with danger ; yet am I so far
from supposing it to be past all endurance that I shall
probably solicit you to carry on your amour 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 granddaughter of " as honest a
painstaking shoemaker as any in Cordova ? " '

' You forget that she is also the granddaughter 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 Conde' ? 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 acknow-
ledge 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,

16 THE MONK

and probably pass the evening with my sister at the
parlour-grate.'

' Your sister in a convent, say you ? Ob, 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 circum-
stances 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, Cond^ ? ' 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 ablaze. 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 iEtna ! 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

CHAPTER I 17

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 shades of light and
colours. Universal silence prevailed around, only inter-
rupted by the occasional closing of doors in the adjoining
abbey.

The calm of the hour and solitude of the place con-
tributed 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. Ho
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 roofs; accompanied by the captivating chant
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.

18 THE MONK

She retreated for a moment; then gazing upon him
with unutterable delight : 'Yes', she exclaimed, ' my bride-
groom ! 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 fier/e ^dierri^le ; -his_TBWitk breathed
-t>ut~volume& -of finv<and on his forehead was written in
legible characters '\Pride ! .'Lust! //inhumanity !/

Antonia shrieked. xTh^^hohstej' ojasped her)n his arms,
and, springing with her upon the alW,jb,artared her with
his odious caresses. — Sbe 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 sunk
down, and in its place appeared an abyss vomiting forth
clouds of flame. Uttering a loud and terrible cry, the
monster plunged into the gulf, and in his fall attempted
to drag Antonia with him. He strove in vain. Animated
by supernatural powers she disengaged herself from his
embraces ; 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 awoke, he found himself extended upon the
pavement of the church : it was illuminated, and the chant
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

CHAPTER I 19

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' saidLorenzo. AndLorenzo 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 foolisn
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 with-
out 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 over-
turned 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 new comer ; whom
Lorenzo, by his voice, now recognised 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.'

20 THE MONK

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 dis-
cover 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
respect to St Francis, one of the nuns happened to drop
her rosary. As she stooped to pick it up, the light flashed
full in her face. At the same moment she dexterously
removed the letter from beneath the image, placed it in her

CHAPTER I 21

bosom, and hastened to resume her rank in the pro-
cession.

' Ha ! ' said Christoval in a low voice, ' here we have
some little intrigue, no doubt.'

1 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 — '

22 THE MONK

' 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 everything. Who is that with you ? '

' One whom I believe you to have seen before ', replied
Don Christoval, ' though probably not at church.'

'The Condi* 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 not come of it. But as to Don
Christoval, I protest to you he is the very phcenix 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 everything 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 Conde" ? And when I presented him

CHAPTER I 23

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 Ahtonia had observed the air with which Don
Christoval had kissed the 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_knosraL-al. a woman's ever h&vip<f7f™ia so^it..
waj3 judged^wortby 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 them-
selves 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 sunburnt, 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 GIPSY'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.

24 THE MONK

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 1 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 gipsy'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
gipsy, a sort of vagabond, whose sole occupation is to run
about the country telling lies and pilfering from those who
come by their money honestly. • Out upon such vermin !
If I were king of Spain, every one of them should be
burnt alive who was found in my dominions after the
• next three weeks.'

These words were pronounced so audibly that they
reached the gipsy's ears. She immediately pierced through
the crowd and made towards the lady. She saluted them
thrice in the eastern fashion, and then addressed herself
to Antonia.

* 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,'

CHAPTER I 25

' 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 gipsy looked at it for a moment, and then
made this reply :

' 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 gray 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 gipsy's
address; and ' fifty-one ', ' squinting eyes', ' red hair', ' paint
and patches', etc., were bandied from mouth to mouth.
Leonella was almost choked 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 :

4 Peace, lady I 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 gipsy, who, having

26 THE MONK

gazed upon it for some time with a mingled expression of
pity and astonishment, pronounced her oracle in the
following words :

* 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 gipsy'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 gipsy 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 gipsy, with her niece, and with the
people, in short, with every body but herself and her
charming cavalier The gipsy's predictions had also
considerably affected Antonia ; but the impression soon
wore off, and in a few hours she had forgotten the
adventure as totally as had it never taken place.

CHAPTER II

F&rse b6 tu gustassi una s61 volta
La millennia parte civile gibje,
Chd gusta un cbr amato riamando,
Diresti ripentita soapirando,
Perduto e tutto il tempo
Che 1 in amar non si spende.

— 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.vanityj When he remembered the en-
thusiasm which his discourse had excited, his heart swelled
with rapture and his imagination presented him with
splendid visions of aggrandisement. 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 re-
tirement ? 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 brethren as I
have hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold ! May I

27

28 THE MONK

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 Madonna — ! '

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 per-
mitted 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 the world, to whose failings you are superior ; reflect
that you are now exempted from humanity's defects, and

CHAPTER II 29

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^Tn^ilSSeEShvhis rigid observance of
the duties 01 his orOTN^^andhis^oluntary seclusion from
the world, at his age so unusualTattracted the notice of the
whole fraternity. He seemed fearful of being recognized,
and no one had ever seen his face. His head was con-
tinually muffled up in his cowl; yet such of his features
as accident 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 on the subject, he preserved
a profound silence. A stranger, whose rich habit and
magnificent equipage declared him to be of distinguished
rank, had engaged 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
mosTTCttenfive '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

30 THE MONK

was usual to him ; and no voice sounded so sweet to him
as did Rosario's. He repaid the youth's attentions by
instructing him in various sciences; the novice received
his lessons with docility ; Ambrosio was every day more
charmed with the 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
hot 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 ? '

' Contended, 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.'

CHAPTER II 31

' 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, inquire no further ! I must not — I
dare not ! Hark ! The bell rings for vespers ! Father,
your benediction, and I leave you.'

As he said this, he threw himself upon his knees, and
received the 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

32 THE MONK

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.

AH 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 to-morrow
night I shall expect to find you at the garden-door : I have obtained
the key, and a few hours will suffice to place you in a secure asylum.
Let no mistaken scruples induce you to reject the certain means tl
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 bv
his garment. '

CHAPTER II 33

' 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 con-
ceal my frailty ! The remainder of my life shall be
employed in expiating this simple 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. A 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 un-
guarded moment I violated my vows of chastity. I shall
soon become a mother. Reverend Ambrosio, take com-
passion on me; take compassion on the innocent being
whose existence is attached to mine. If you discover my
imprudence to the domina, both of us are lost. The punish-
ment 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 — /, whom you have deceived by your feigned con-

c

34 THE MONK

fession ? 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 com-
mitted 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 sb.e, 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
vfrantic 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 all the curse of my
death and my unborn infant's ! Insolent in your yet
unshaken virtue, you disdained the prayers of a penitent ;

CHAPTER II 35

but God will show mercy, though you show none. And
where is the merit of your boasted virtue ? What tempta-
tions have you vanquished ? Coward ! You have fled
from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of trial will
arrive. Oh ! 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 ex-
hausted, 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 he 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

36 THE MONK

jesamine, 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 the little grove stood a rustic grotto,
formed in imitation of a hermitage. The walls were con-
structed 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 meditation. 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 ! O 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 viewTTri so
desirable a light, misanthropy — of all sentiments the most
hateful ? ' "- ■ "■

CHAPTER II 37

' The perusal of these verses, father, which till now had
escaped my observation. The brightness of the moon-
beams permitted my reading them ; and, oh, how I envy
the feelings of the writer ! '

As he said this, he pointed to a marble tablet fixed
against the opposite wall : on it were engraved the
following lines:

INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE

Whoe'er thou art these lines now reading,
Think not, though from the world receding,
I joy my lonely days to lead in

This desert drear —
That with remorse a conscience bleeding

Hath led me here.

No thought of guilt my bosom sours :
Free-will'd, 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 mcrusted ;

I saw that honour's sword was rusted —

That few for aught but folly lusted —

That he was still deceived, who trusted

In love or friend ;

And hither came, with men disgusted,

My life to end.
i

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.

This rock my shield when storms are blowing J
The limpid streamlet yonder flying
Supplying drink ; the earth bestowing

My simple food ;
But few enjoy the calm I know in

This desert rude.

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 :

38 THE MONK

'Let me, 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 exiled 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__Manjwas_ bOTn_for_society : however little he
-TSSy~^d~^aJeaed to the world, he never can wholly forget
Mt or bear to be wholly forgotten by it. Disgusted at the
guilt or absurdity of mankind, the misanthrope flies from
it ; he resolves to become a hermit, and buries himself in
the cavern of some gloomy rock. While hate inflames his
bosom, possibly he may feel contented with his situation ;
but when his passions begin to cool; when time has
mellowed his sorrows, and healed those wounds which he
bore with him to his solitude ; think you that content
becomes his companion ? Ah, no, 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

CHAPTER II 39

share in his admiration of her excellence and variety.
Propped upon the fragment of some rock, 'he gazes upon
the tumbling water-fall with a vacant eye ; he views with-
out emotion the glory of the setting sun ; slowly he returns
to his cell at evening, for no one there is anxious for his
arrival : he has no comfort in his solitary, unsavoury meal ;
he throws himself upon his couch of moss, despondent and
dissatisfied ; and wakes only to pass a day as joyless, as
monotonous as the former.'

'You amaze me, father! Suppose that circumstances
condemned you to solitude, would not the duties of religion
and the consciousness of a life well spent communicate to
your heart that calm which — '

' I should deceive myself did I fancy that they could. I
am convinced of the contrary, and that all my fortitude
would not prevent me from 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 a hermit's life 1
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!'

40 THE MONK

' 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 abbe3 T -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 fore-
bore 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 melod-
ious. 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 sank 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

CHAPTER II 41

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 forbade 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 Julran's person ; she ambitioned but a share of his
heart, }ln an unguarded moment she confessed her
affectidn. What was the return ? Doting upon his wife,
and believing that a look of pity bestowed upon another
was a theft from what he owed to her, he drove Matilda
from his presence : he forbade her ever again appearing
before him. His severity broke her heart : she returned
to her father's, and in a few months after was carried to
her grave.'

, ' Unhappy girl ! -Surely her fate was too severe, and
(Julian was too cruel.O

' 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

42 THE MONK

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 ? Kosario, 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

CHAPTER II 43

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
choked his voice; 'jather !', continued he in f altering^
accents, 'I am a woman..!.' "

The abbot started at this unexpected avowal. Prostrate
on the ground lay the feigned Eosario, 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 they had 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 gre13nit'^§rHiriarTEvWaX
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

44 THE MONK

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 instrnc-
tion my understanding acquir ed more strength and lUstnesF
"tT5S'''giarm^y-fe»lfeh4fr-fch» lot ol my sex ; the ability of"
my preceptor being aided by natural curiosity, X,npt,_only
made a considerable progress in sciences univer sally_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 care-
fully 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, dissipa-
tion, and ignorance, which disgrace our Spanish youth. I
rejected every offer with disdain : my heart remained with-
out 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 enthu-
siasm 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 inquired respecting you. The reports
which were made me of your mode of life, of your know-
ledge, 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 :

CHAPTER II 45

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 awoke, and found myself separated
from you by barriers which appeared insurmountable.
Time seenrtid'UiJihjiiJto mcceas«=±it^~sirength of my passion :
I grew^iiaelancholvlax

grew v 4iafilan^olvla%d ^despondentri fled from society,
and my heallh declined daily. At length, no longer able
to exist in this state of torture, I resolved to assume the
disguise in which you see me. My artifice was fortunate :
I was received into the monastery, and succeeded in gaining
your esteem.

' Now, then, I should have felt completely happy, had
not my quiet been disturbed by the fear of detection. The
pleasure which I received from your society was embittered
by the idea that perhaps I should soon be 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 indul-
gence. 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 ^gcad seemingly lovely woman had for his sake
abandoned the world, and sacrificed every other passion

46 THE MONK

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 can ever 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 risk 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 remem-
brance 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 :(l 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

CHAPTER II 47

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 my-
self. After vanquishing the impetuous ebullitions of youth,
after passing thiry 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 conse-
quences. 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 being repressed by my presence,
every moment which we passed 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 to-morrow.'

' To-morrow, Ambrosio ? To-morrow ? 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 to-morrow.'

48 THE MONK

' Go then, barbarian ! But this resource is still left me.'
As she said this, she suddenly drew a poniard. 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
I 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 poniard drinks my blood.'

As she uttered these last words, she lifted her arm, and
made a motion as if to stab herself. The friar's eyes
followed with dread the course of the dagger. She had,
torn open her habit, and her bosom was half-exposed. The
weapon's point rested upon her le/ f V-"?at — -, -> -i — rbU. -thftt-^-
was such a breast ! — the^moon-bfiams darting full_jjpon it
enabled the monk to obser ve it s dazzlin g whiteness. His
"eyeTdwelt with "insatiable"avidity_u£onJthe— beaufceous^rb : .
7£jj|nsation_tili . then im'-nmw- ^44<m3— bjg hfiatt^with a
mixture~qF anxiety and delight ; a ragi ng fire shoFth rouffh.
weryhmbT the blood boiled in h^_veuTS i and a thousand

wtldwTsKes bewildered his imagination. ~ — > —

.' ' Hold ! ' he cried, in an hurriebVFaltering voice ; ' I can
resist no longer ! Stay then, enchantress ! Stay for my
destruction ! '

He said ; and, rushing from the place, he 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

CHAPTER II 49

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 nattered 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 j
would occasion. Besides all this he considered that as
Matilda was wealthy, her favour might b e of essential *
benofMi. t o the abbey. "^ ~ "— - —

' And what do 1 risk ', 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 attempt to rouse my slumbering
passions, nor has she ever conversed with me till this night
on the subject of love. Had she been desirous to gain my
affections, not my esteem, she would not have 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 J
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 Madonna,
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 vnln pfrioiia obj ects. Matilda stood before him in

50 THE MONK

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 Madonna, 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
Crom 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 J n...
joys till then unknown to him.

—He' starMdTTrSBT 'ffis'TblfCnTfilled 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 se ff-loy e. If in "one hour's con-
versation 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, how-
ever 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 ! Agne s ! ' he exclaimed, while reflecting on his

nts; ' I already feel thy cu rse ! '
He quitted his ceu, determined upon dismissing the

feigned Rosario. He appeared at matins ; but his thoughts
were absent, and he paid them but little attention ; his
head 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

CHAPTER II 51

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 botk
of surprise and of sorrow.

' Be calm, my friend, my Rosario ! — still let me call you
by that name so dear "to me : our separation is unavoid-
able ; 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.'

' Ob, 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 1 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 compel 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 compel 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

\

52 THE MONK

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 dote 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 suffering! 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 friend-
ship, 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 sub-
mitting 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 convent 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 too often
for my repose ! '

'Then I have nothing more to wish for save that we may

CHAPTER II 53

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 — anything — 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 sball 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 enormous
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 his groans, which every

54 THE MONK

moment escaped from his bosom, sufficiently betrayed the
violence of his affliction.

Father Pablos probed the wound. As he drew out his
instrument, 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 : : the venom which you see
upon my instrument confirms my idea. He cannot live
three days.'

'And can no possible remedy be found?' inquired
Eosario.

' 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 inquire whether any change had taken place.
Pablos loosened the bandage which concealed the wound,
more from a principal 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 instrument
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 surprise. From the

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.

CHAPTER II 55

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 ex-
pressed 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.

1 But I know it, and yet issue the same positive com-
mand. 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 — '

56 THE MONK

' 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 pre-
scribed 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 turned 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 chanted 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
Perish'd 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.

CHAPTER II 5;

Ah, though young I fall, believe me,
Death would never claim a sigh ;
'Tia 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 oped to bless her,
Ere they clos'd 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'erflowing,
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.

58 THE MONK

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 1
Never shall behold the light.

' Cousin, lo, my tears bedew thee 1
How shall I thy loss survive !
Durandarte, he who slew thee,
Wherefore left he me alive ? '

While she sang, 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 dimple3 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 banisn ner irom his thought. 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 con-
cealed 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.

CHAPTER II 59

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 dote 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 passed 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 choked by weeping.
While she bent over Ambrosio, a tear fell upon his
cheek.

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

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

' What affection, what purity 1 ' said he internally. ' Ah,
since my bosom is thus sensible of pity, what would it be
if agitated by love ? '

60 THE MONK

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. H>r faea
turned from him. She rested her head in £ melancholy!
posture upon her harp, and gazed on the pre
hung opposite to the bed.

' Happy, happy image ! ' Thus did she address the
beautiful Madonna ; ' '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 increased 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 senti-
ments 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 Madonna !
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 acknow-
ledge that he feels for me more than pity, and that
affection like mine might well have deserved a return.
Perhaps he may own thus much when I lie on my death-
bed. He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and the
confession of his regard will soften the pangs of dying.
Would I were sure of this ! Oh, how earnestly should I
sigh for the moment of dissolution ! '

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

'Matilda!' he said in a troubled voice: 'Oh. mv
Matilda!' '

She started at the sound, and turned towards him hastily.
The suddenness of her movement made her cowl fall back
from her head ; her features became visible to the monk's
inquiring eye. What was his amazement at beholding the

CHAPTER II 6t

exact resemblance of his admired Madonna J^ The same
exip^ffie"^dporWh oT features, "the same profusion of
golden hair, the same rosy lips, heavenly eyes, and majesty
of countenance, adorned Matilda ! Uttering an exclama-
tion of surprise, 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
Madonna. 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 adora-
tion ; 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 eye-witness of the transports which its
beauty excited in you ; yet I forbore to use against your
virtue those arms with which yourself had furnished me ;
I concealed those features from your sight which 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

62 THE MONK

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.

' Your declaration has so much astonished me ', said he,
1 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 to-day ! '

' You press me too hard ; but I cannot resist that tone of
supplication. Since you insist upon it, I yield to your
prayer ; I consent to your remaining here a sufficient
time to prepare in some measure the brethren for your
departure : stay yet two days ; but on the third ' (he
sighed involuntarily) ' remember, that on the third we
must part 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 authorize the presence of his dangerous guest,
yet conscious that her stay was infringing the laws of his
order, Arabrosio'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

CHAPTER III 63

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 assist-
ance. 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 a 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 inquire 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 f».ifKlftj = [ fj fnrm disappeared, and le ft, him to. all the
horrors ^shamejtndj^esep^^^ntr^ <3 ?f**S»^ £<r«

The mfmfvTTrHrm'n^i-- Fitti^tiprij HrrfrrH. 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 ;

64 THE MONK

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 them-
selves 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, nor indeed wished, to
make an allusion to the subject which was most at the
heart 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 accom-
panied 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
Bend father Pablos to you instantly.'

CHAPTER II 65

' No, do not : I am ill, 'tis true, but he cannot cure my
malady. Farewell, father ! Remember me in your prayers
to-morrow, while I shall remember you in heaven.'

She entered her cell, and closed the door.

The abbot despatched 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 when a loud
knocking at his door interrupted. The bell of the church
had already struck two. The abbot hastened to inquire
the cause of this disturbance. He opened the door of his
cell, and a lay-brother entered, whose looks declared his
hurry and confusion.

' Hasten, reverend father ! ' said he, ' hasten to the young
Rosario : he earnestly requests to see you ; he lies at the
point of death.'

' Gracious God, where is father Pablos ? Why is he not
with 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

66 THE MONK

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.'

CHAPTER II 67

' 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 it is a means which I dare
not employ ; it is dangerous ; it is dreadful ! Life would
be purchased at too dear a rate — unless it were 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. V I love you no
lo nger with the devotion which is paid to a saint ; 1 prize
y 6u no more tor the virtues, of vour soul ; I lust for t he
enjoymen t of your person .) The woman reigns in my
busuui, and 1 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 passed 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 alter-
native ; I feel with every heart-throb, that I must enjoy
you or die.'

68 THE MONK

'Amazement, Matilda! — Can it be you who sgeak 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 com-
passion : in a few hours I shall be no more : yet a little,
and I am free from this disgraceful passion.'

' Wretched women, 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 to-morrow, it must fall a
prey to the blackest crimes. Oh, let me, then, die to-day !
Let me die while I yet deserve the tears of the virtuous.
Thus will I 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 inclined voluptuously
upon his breast. ^Who .then can wonder if he yielded to
the temptation ? "Drunk with desire,~he pressee HrftTlipT tq"
"those "which sought them fUs .ki^es._yied witli_ Matilda's
1n~warmtn and passion : he clasped her rapturouslyTn his

CHAPTER II 69

arffiSj. _he„forgpt his vows, his sanctity, anA his fame ; he
remembered nothing but the pleasure and opportunity.

r ASbrosio !— Ohj my Ambrosio ! ' sighed Matilda.

' Thine, ever CETne ' murmured the friar, and sank upon
her bosom.

CHAPTER III

These are the villains

Whom all the travellers do fear so much.

Some of them are gentlemen,

Such as the fury of ungoverned youth

Thrust from the company of awful men.

Two Gentlemen of Verona

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

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

' Excuse me, my lord ', said he with a distant air, ' if I
reply somewhat coldly to your expressions of regard. A
sister's honour is involved in this affair ; till that is
established, and the purport of your correspondence with
Agnes cleared up, I cannot consider you as my friend. I
am anxious to hear the meaning of your conduct, and hope
that you will not delay the promised explanation.'

'First give me your word that you will listen with
patience and indulgence.'

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

70

CHAPTER III 71

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

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

' Probably you have already heard your sister mention
the name of Alphonso d'Alvarada ? '

'Never. Though I feel for Agnes an affection truly
fraternal, circumstances have prevented us from being
much together. While yet a child she was consigned to
the care of her aunt, who had married a German noble-
man. At his castle she remained till two years since, when
she returned to Spain, determined upon secluding herself
from the world.'

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

' Marquis, you wrong me : the intelligence, which I
received at Naples, shocked me extremely, and I hastened
my return to Madrid for the express purpose of preventing
the sacrifice. The moment that I arrived I flew to the
convent of St. Clare, in which Agnes had chosen to perform
her noviciate. I requested to see my sister. Conceive my
surprise when she sent me a refusal : she declared positively
that, apprehending my influence over her mind, she would
not trust herself in my society till the day before that on
which she was to receive the veil. I supplicated the nuns ;
I insisted upon seeing Agnes, and hesitated not to avow
my suspicions, that her being kept from me was against
her own inclinations. To free herself from the imputation
of violence, the prioress brought me a few lines, written in
my sister's well-known hand, repeating the message already
delivered. All future attempts to obtain a moment's con-
versation with her were as fruitless as the first. She was
inflexible, and 1 was not permitted to see her till the day
preceding that on which she entered the cloister, never to
quit it more. This interview took place in the presence of
our principal relations. It was for the first time since her
childhood that I saw her, and the scene was most affecting :
she threw herself upon my bosom, kissed me, and wept
bitterly. By every possible argument, by tears, by prayers,
by kneeling, I strove to make her abandon her intention.
I represented to her all the hardships of a religious life ;

72 THE MONK

painted to her imagination all the pleasures which she was
going to quit ; and besought her to disclose to me what
occasioned her disgust to the world. At this last question
she turned pale, and her tears flowed yet faster. She
entreated me not to press her on that subject; that it
sufficed me to know that her resolution was taken, and
that a convent was the only place where she could now
hope for tranquillity. She persevered in her design, and
made her profession. I visited her frequently at the grate ;
and every moment that I passed with her made me feel
more affliction at her loss. I was shortly after obliged to
quit Madrid ; I returned but yesterday evening, and since
then have not had time to call at St. Clare's convent.'

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

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

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

He then began his narrative in the following manner :

CHAPTER III 73

THE HISTORY OF DON RAYMOND

MARQUIS DE LAS CISTERNAS

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

' On leaving Salamanca, at which university, as I have
since heard, you remained a year after I quitted it, I
immediately set out upon my travels. My father supplied
me liberally with money ; but he insisted upon my con-
cealing my rank and presenting myself as no more than a
private gentleman. This command was issued by the
counsels of his friend the Duke of Villa Hermosa, a noble-
man for whose abilities and knowledge of the world I have
ever entertained the most profound veneration.

"'Believe me", said he, "my dear Raymond, you. will
hereafter feel the benefits of this temporary degradation.
'Tis true that, as the Conde de las Cisternas you would
have been received with open arms, and your youthful
vanity might have felt gratified by the attentions showered
upon you from all sides. At present much will depend
upon yourself: you have excellent recommendations, but
it must be your own business to make them of use to you :
you must lay yourself out to please ; you must labour to
gain the approbation of those to whom you are presented ;
they who would have courted the friendship of the Conde^
de las Cisternas will have no interest in finding out the
merits, or bearing patiently with the faults, of Alphonso
d'Alvarada : consequently, when you find yourself really
liked, you may safely ascribe it to your good qualities, not
your rank ; and the distinction shown you will be infinitely
more flattering. Besides, your exalted birth would not
permit your mixing with the lower classes of society,

74 THE MONK

which will now be in your power and from which, in my

opinion, you will derive considerable benefit. Do not

i confine yourself ie-the illustrious of those countries through

which you pas^ Examine the manners and customs of

the multitude ; enter into the cottages ; and, by observing
how the vassals of foreigners are treated, learn to diminish-
the burthens and augment the comforts of your own^
( According to my ideas of those advantages which a youth
destined to the possession of power and wealth may reap
from travel, he should not consider as the least essential
( the opportunity of mixing with the classes below him, and
becoming an eye-witness of the sufferings of the people."

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

' I followed the Duke's advice : I was soon convinced of
its wisdom. I quitted Spain, calling myself by the
assumed title of Don Alphonso d'Alvatada and attended by
a single domestic of approved fidelity. Paris was my first
station. For some time I was enchanted with it, as indeed
must be every man who is young, rich, and fond of
pleasure. Yet, among all its gaieties, I felt that something
was wanting to my heart : I grew sick of dissipation ; I
discovered that the people among whom I lived, and whose
exterior was so polished and seducing, were at bottom
frivolous, unfeeling, and insincere. I turned from the
inhabitants of Paris with disgust, and quitted the theatre
of luxury without heaving one sigh of regret.

' I now bent my course towards Germany, intending to
visit most of the principal courts. Prior to this expedition,
I meant to make some little stay at Strasburcr. On
quitting my chaise at Luneville to take some refreshment,
I observed a splendid equipage, attended by four domestics
in rich liveries, waiting at the door of the Silver Lion.
Soon after, as I looked out of the window, I saw a lady of
noble presence, followed by two female attendants, step
into the carriage, which drove off immediately.

' I inquired of the host who the lady was that had just
departed.

CHAPTER III 75

' " A German Baroness, Monsieur, of great rank and
fortune; she has been upon a visit to the Duchess of
Longueville, as her servants informed me. She is going
to Strasburg, where she will find her husband, and then
both return to their castle in Germany."

'I resumed my journey, intending to reach Strasburg
that night. My hopes, however, were frustrated by the
breaking down of my chaise ; the accident happened in the
middle of a thick forest, and I was not a little embarrassed
as to the means of proceeding. It was the depth of winter ;
the night was already closing round us; and Strasburg,
which was the nearest town, was still distant from us
several leagues. It seemed to me that my only alternative
to passing the night in the forest was to take my servant's
horse and ride on to Strasburg, an undertaking at that
season very far from agreeable. However, seeing no other
resource, I was obliged to make up my mind to it ; accord-
ingly I communicated my design to the postillion, telling
him that I would send people to assist him, as soon as I
reached Strasburg. I had not much confidence in his
honesty ; but, Stephano being well armed and the driver
to all appearance considerably advanced in years, I believed
I ran no risk of losing my baggage.

'Luckily, as I then thought, an opportunity presented
itself of passing the night more agreeably than I expected.
On mentioning my design of proceeding by myself to
Strasburg, the postillion shook his head in disappro-
bation.

' " It is a long way ", said he ; " you will find it a difficult
matter to arrive there without a guide : besides, Monsieur
seems unaccustomed to the season's severity ; and 'tis
possible that, unable to sustain the excessive cold — "

'"What use is there to present me with all these
objections ? " said I, impatiently interrupting him ; " I
have no other resource ; I run still greater risk of perishing
with cold by passing the night in the forest."

' " Passing the night in the forest ? " he replied ; " oh, by
St. Denis, we are not in so bad a plight as that comes to
yet ! If I am not mistaken, we are scarcely five minutes
walk from the cottage of my old friend Baptiste : he is a /
wood-cutter, and a very honest fellow. I doubt not but [^
he will shelter you for the night with pleasure. In the
meantime I can take the saddle-horse, ride to Strasburg,

76 THE MONK

and be back with proper people to mend your carriage by
break of day."

'"And, in the name of God", said I, "how could you
leave me so long in suspense ? Why did you not tell me
of this cottage sooner ? What excessive stupidity ! "

' " I thought, that perhaps Monsieur would not deign to
accept — "

' " Absurd ! Come, come ; say no more, but conduct us
without delay to the woodman's cottage."

'He obeyed, and we moved onwards; the horses con-
trived with some difficulty to drag the shattered vehicle
after us. My servant was become almost speechless, and I
began to feel the effects of the cold myself before we
reached the wished-for cottage. It was a small but neat
building; as we drew near it, I rejoiced at observing
through the window the blaze of a comfortable fire. Our
conductor knocked at the door; it was some time before
anyone answered; the people within seemed in doubt
whether we should be admitted.

' " Come, come, friend Baptiste ! " cried the driver with
impatience ; " what are you about ? Are you asleep ? Or
will you refuse a night's lodging to a gentleman whose
chaise has just broken down in the forest ? "

' " Ah, is it you, honest Claude ? " replied a man's voice
from within; "wait a moment, and the door shall be
opened."

' Soon after the bolts were drawn back ; the door was
unclosed, and a man presented himself to us with a lamp
in his hand ; he gave the guide a hearty reception, and
then addressed himself to me : ' " Walk in, Monsieur ; walk
in, and welcome. Excuse me for not admitting you at
first ; but there are so many rogues about this place that,
saving your presence, I suspected you to be one."

' Thus saying, he ushered me into the room where I had
observed the fire. I was immediately placed in an easy-
chair, which stood close to the hearth. A female, whom I
supposed to be the wife of my host, rose from her seat
upon my entrance, and received me with a slight and
distant reverence. She made no answer to my compliment,
but, immediately re-seating herself, continued the work on
which she had been employed. Her husband's manners
were as friendly as hers were harsh and repulsive.

' " I wish I could lodge you more conveniently, Monsieur ",

CHAPTER III 77

said he, " but we cannot boast of much spare room in this
hovel. However, a chamber for yourself and another for
your servant I think we can make shift to supply. You
must content yourself with sorry fare ; but to what we
have, believe me, you are heartily welcome." Then, turning
to his wife : " Why, how you sit there, Marguerite, with as
much tranquillity as if you had nothing better to do ! Stir
about, dame! Stir about! Get some supper; look out
some sheets. Here, here ! — throw some logs upon the fire,
for the gentleman seems perished with cold."

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

'However, in spite of her unwillingness, Marguerite
began to prepare the supper, while the woodman conversed
gaily on different subjects. The postillion, who had been
furnished with a bottle of spirits, was now ready to set
out for Strasburg, and inquired whether I had any further
commands.

' " For Strasburg ? " interrupted Baptiste ; " you are not
going thither to-night ? "

I beg your pardon ; if I do not fetch workmen to

< K

78 THE MONK

mend the chaise, how is Monsieur to proceed to-
morrow ? "

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

' To this I readily assented, telling the postillion that
my reaching Strasburg the next day an hour or two later
would be perfectly immaterial. He thanked me, and, then
leaving the cottage with Stephano, put up his horses in
the woodman's stable. Baptiste followed them to the
door, and looked out with anxiety. ' " 'Tis a sharp, biting
wind,' said he : "I wonder what detains my boys so long !
Monsieur, I shall show you two of the finest lads that ever
stepped in shoe of leather ; the eldest is three-and-twenty,
the second a year younger : their equals for sense, courage,
and activity are not to be found within fifty miles of
Strasburg. Would they were back again! I begin to
feel uneasy about them."

'Marguerite was at this time employed in laying the
cloth. ' And are you equally anxious for the return of
your sons ? ' said I to her.

' " Not I," she replied peevishly ; " they are no children
of mine."

' " Come, come, Marguerite ! " said the husband ; " do not
be out of humour with the gentleman for asking a simple
question ; had you not looked so cross, he would never
have thought you old enough to have a son of three-and-
twenty ; but you see how many years ill-temper adds to
you ! Excuse my wife's rudeness, Monsieur; a little thing
puts her out ; and she is somewhat displeased at your not
thinking her to be under thirty. That is the truth, is it
not, Marguerite ? You know Monsieur, that age is always
a ticklish subject with a woman. Come, come, Marguerite!
Clear up a little. If you have not sons as old, you will
some twenty years hence ; and I hope that we shall live to
see.them just such lads as Jacques and Robert."

" Marguerite clasped her hands together passionately.
' " God forbid ! " said she, " God forbid ! If I thought it,
I would strangle them with my own hands."

'She quitted the room hastily, and went upstairs. I
could not help expressing to the woodman how much I

CHAPTER III 79

pitied him for being chained for life to a partner of such
ill-humour.

' " Ah, Lord ! Monsieur, everyone has his share of
grievances, and Marguerite has fallen to mine. Besides,
after all, she is only cross, and not malicious ; the, worst is
that Jher affection for two children by a former husband
makes her play the step-mother 'with my two sons; she
cannot bear the sight of them ; and, by her good will, they
would never set a foot within my door. But on this point
I always stand firm, and never will consent to abandon
the poor lads to the world's mercy, as she has often
solicited me to do. In everything else, I let her have her
own way ; and truly she manages a family rarely, that I
must say for her."

' We were conversing in this manner, when our discourse
was interrupted by a loud halloo which rang through the
forest. " My sons, I hope ! " exclaimed the woodman, and
ran to open the door.

'The halloo was repeated. We now distinguished the
trampling of horses; and soon after a carriage attended
by several cavaliers stopped at the carriage door. One of
the horsemen inquired how far they were still from
Strasburg. As he addressed himself to me, I answered in
the number of miles which Claude had told me, upon
which a volley of curses was vented against the drivers
for having lost their way. The persons in the coach were
now informed of the distance of Strasburg, and also that
the horses were so fatigued as to be incapable of proceeding
further. A lady who appeared to be the principal
expressed much chagrin at this intelligence ; but, as there
was no remedy, one of the attendants asked the woodman
whether he should furnish them with lodging for the night.

'He seemed much embarrassed, and replied in the
negative, adding that a Spanish gentleman and his servant
were already in possession of the only spare apartments in
his house. On hearing this, the gallantry of my nation
would not permit me to retain those accommodations of
which a female was in want. I instantly signified to the
woodman that I transferred my right to the lady ; he made
some objections, but I overruled them ; and, hastening to
the carriage, opened the door and assisted the lady to
ascend. I immediately recognised her for. the same person
whom I had seen at the inn at Luneville. I took an

80 THE MONK

opportunity of asking one of her attendants what was her
name ?

' " The Baroness Lindenberg " was the answer.

* I could not but remark how different a reception our
host had given these new-comers and myself. His
reluctance to admit them was visibly expressed on his
countenance; and he prevailed on himself with difficulty
to tell the lady that she was welcome. I conducted her
into the house, and placed her in the arm-chair which I
had just quitted. She thanked me very graciously, and
made a thousand apologies for putting me to an incon-
venience. Suddenly the woodman's countenance cleared up.

' " At last I have arranged it ! " said he, interrupting her
excuses. "I can lodge you and your suite, Madam, and
you will not be under the necessity of making this
gentleman suffer for his politeness. We have two spare
chambers, one for the lady, the other, Monsieur, for you ;
my wife shall give up hers to the two waiting- women ;
as for the men-servants, they must content themselves
with passing the night in a large barn which stands at a
few yards distance from the house ; there they shall have
a blazing fire, and as good a supper as we can make shift
to give them."

' After several expressions of gratitude on the lady's
part, and opposition on mine to Marguerite's giving up her
bed, this arrangement was agreed to. As the room was
small, the Baroness immediately dismissed her male
domestics. Baptiste was on the point of conducting them
to the barn which he had mentioned, when two young
men appeared at the door of the cottage.

' " Hell and furies ! " exclaimed the first, starting back,
" Robert, the house is filled with strangers ! "

"'Ha, there are my sons!" cried our host. "Why,
Jacques! Robert! Whither are you running, boys? There
is room enough still for you."

' Upon this assurance the youths returned. The father
presented them to the Baroness and myself, after which
he withdrew with our domestics, while, at the request of
the two waiting-women, Marguerite conducted them to
the room designed for their mistress.

' The two new-comers were tall, stout, well-made young
men, hard-featured, and very much sunburnt. They paid
their compliments to us in few words, and acknowledged

CHAPTER III 81

Claude, who now entered the room, as an old acquaintance.
They then threw aside their cloaks in which they were
wrapped up, took off a leathern belt to which a large
cutlass was suspended, and, each drawiDg a brace of pistols
from his girdle, laid them upon a shelf.

' " You travel well armed " said I.

' " True, Monsieur ", replied Robert. " We left Strasburg
late this evening, and 'tis necessary to take precautions at
passing through this forest after dark ; it does not bear a
good repute, I promise you."

' " How ? " said the Baroness ; " are there robbers
hereabout ? "

' " So it is said, Madam ; for my own part, I have
travelled through the wood at all hours, and never met
with one of them."

' Here Marguerite returned. Her step-sons drew her to
the other end of the room, and whispered to her for some
minutes. By the looks which they cast towards us at
intervals I conjectured them to be inquiring our business
in the cottage.

' In the meanwhile, the Baroness expressed her appre-
hension that her husband would be suffering much anxiety
upon her account. She had intended to send on one of
her servants to inform the baron of her delay; but the
account which the young men gave of the forest rendered
this plan impracticable. Claude relieved her from her
embarrassment ; he informed her that he was under the
necessity of reaching Strasburg that night, and that, would
she trust him with a letter, she might depend upon its
being safely delivered.

' " And how comes it ", said I, " that you are under no
apprehension of meeting these robbers ? "

' " Alas ! Monsieur, a poor man with a large family
must not lose certain profit because 'tis attended with a
little danger, and perhaps my lord the Baron may give me
a trifle for my pains ; besides, I have nothing to lose
except my life, and that will not be worth the robbers'
taking."

' I thought his arguments bad, and advised his waiting
till the morning ; but, as the Baroness did not second me,
I was obliged to give up the point. The Baroness
Lindenberg, as I found afterwards, had long been
accustomed to sacrifice the interests of others to her own,

82 THE MONK

and her wish to send Claude to Strashurg blinded her
to the danger of the undertaking. Accordingly, it was
resolved that he should set out without delay. The
Baroness wrote her letter to her husband, and I sent a few
lines to my banker, apprising him that I should not be at
Strasburg till the next day. Claude took our letters, and
left the cottage.

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

' " Which chamber is it, mother ? " said Robert.

' " The one with green hangings " she replied. " I have
just been at the trouble of getting it ready, and have put
fresh sheets upon the bed; if the gentleman chooses to
lollop and lounge upon it, he may make it again himself,
for me."

' " You are out of humour, mother ; but that is no
novelty. Have the goodness to follow me, Monsieur.''

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

' " You have got no light " said Marguerite ; " is it your
own neck or the gentleman's that you have a mind to
break ? "

' She crossed by me, and put a candle into Robert's hand,
having received which, he began to ascend the staircase.
Jacques was employed in laying the cloth, and his back
was turned towards me. Marguerite seized the moment
when we were unobserved ; she caught my hand, and
pressed it strongly.

' " Look at the sheets ! " said she as she passed me, and
immediately resumed her former occupation.

'Startled by the abruptness of her action, I remained
as if petrified. Robert's voice desiring me to follow him

CHAPTER III 83

recalled me to myself. I ascended the staircase. My
conductor ushered me into a chamber where an excellent
wood fire was blazing upon the hearth. He placed the
light upon the table, inquired whether I had any further
commands, and, on my replying in the negative, left me to
myself. You may be certain that the moment when I
found myself alone was that on which I complied with
Marguerite's injunction. I took the candle hastily,
approached the bed, and turned down the coverture.
W hat was my astonishment, my horror, at finding the
sfieets crimsoned with blood. ""'

' ac tnat moment a thousand confused ideas passed
before my imagination. The robbers who infested the
wood, Marguerite's exclamation respecting her children, the
arms and appearance of the two young men, and the various
anecdotes which I had heard related respecting the secret
correspondence which frequently exists between banditti
and postillions — all these circumstances flashed upon my
mind, and inspired me with doubt and apprehension. I
ruminated on the most probable means of ascertaining the
truth of my conjectures. Suddenly I was aware of
someone below pacing hastily backwards and forwards.
Everything now appeared to me an object of suspicion.
With precaution I drew near the window, which, as the
room had been long shut up, was left open in spite of the
cold. I ventured to look out. The beams of the moon
permitted me to distinguish a man, whom I had no
difficulty to recognize for my host. I watched his move-
ments. He walked swiftly, then stopped and seemed to
listen ; he stamped upon the ground, and beat his stomach
with his arms, as if to guard himself from the inclemency
of the season ; at the least noise, if a voice was heard in
the lower part of the house, if a bat flitted past him, or
the wind rattled amidst the leafless boughs, he started, and
looked round with anxiety.

' " Plague take him ! " said he at length with extreme
impatience ; " what can he be about ? "

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

'I now heard the steps of one approaching. Baptiste
went towards the sound ; he joined a man whom his low
stature and the horn suspended from his neck declared to
be no other than my faithful Claude, whom I had supposed

84 THE MONK

to be already on his way to Strasburg. Expecting tbeir
discourse to throw some light upon my situation, I
hastened to put myself in a condition to hear it with
safety. For this purpose I extinguished the candle, which
stood upon a table near the bed ; the flame of the fire was
not strong enough to betray me, and I immediately resumed
my place at the window.

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

' " However ", added he, " my diligence at present shall
make up for my past delay."

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

' " His servant boasted at the inn that the effects in his
chaise were worth about two thousand pistoles."

' Oh, how I cursed Stephano's imprudent vanity !

' " And I have been told ", continued the postillion, " that
this Baroness carries about her a casket of jewels of
immense value."

' " Maybe so, but I had rather she had stayed away.
The Spaniard was a secure prey ; the boys and myself
could easily have mastered him and his servant, and then
the two thousand pistoles would have been shared between
us four. Now we must let in the band for a share, and
perhaps the whole covey may escape us. Should our
friends have betaken themselves to their different posts
before you reach the cavern, all will be lost. The lady's
attendants are too numerous for us to overpower them.
Unless our associates arrive in time, we must needs let
these travellers set out to-morrow without damage or
hurt."

' " 'Tis plaguy unlucky that my comrades who drove the
coach should be those unacquainted with our confederacy !
But never fear, friend Baptiste ; an hour will bring me to
the cavern ; it is now but ten o'clock, and by twelve you
may expect the arrival of the band. By -the ^"oy; take
care of your wife ; you know how strong is her

CHAPTER III 85

repugnance to our mode of life, and she may find means
to give information to the lady's servants of our design."

' "Oh ! I am secure of her silence ; she is too much
afraid of me and fond of her children to dare to betray
my secret. Besides, Jacques and Robert keep a strict eye
over her, and she is not permitted to set a foot out of the
cottage. The servants are safely lodged in the barn. I
shall endeavour to keep all quiet till the arrival of our
friends. Were I assured of your finding them, the
strangers should be despatched this instant ; but, as it is
possible for you to miss the banditti, I am fearful of being
summoned by their domestics to produce them in the
morning."

' " And suppose either of the travellers should discover
your design ? "

' " Then we must poniard those in our power, and take
our chance about mastering the rest. However, to avoid
running such a risk, hasten to the cavern ; the banditti
never leave it before eleven ; and, if you use diligence, you
may reach it in time to stop them."

' " Tell Robert that I have taken his horse ; my own has
broken his bridle, and escaped into the wood. What is
the watchword ? "

' " The reward of courage."

' " 'Tis sufficient. I hasten to the cavern."

'"And I to rejoin my guests, lest my absence should
create suspicion. Farewell, and be diligent."

' These worthy associates now separated ; the one bent
his course towards the stable, while the other returned to
the house.

'You may judge what must have been my feelings
during the conversation, of which I lost not a single syllable.
I dared not trust myself to my reflections, nor did any
means present itself to escape the dangers which threatened
me. Resistance I knew to be in vain : I was unarmed and
a single man against three. However, I resolved at least
to sell my life as dearly as I could. Dreading lest
Baptiste should perceive my absence and suspect me to
have overhead the message with which Claude was
despatched, I hastily relighted my candle and quitted the
chamber. On descending, I found the table spread for six
persons. The Baroness sat by the fireside ; Marguerite
was employed in dressing a salad, and her step-sons were

86 THE MONK

whispering together at the further end of the room.
Baptiste, having the round of the garden to make ere he
could reach the cottage door, was not yet arrived. I seated
myself quietly opposite to the Baroness.

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

' In spite of all my endeavours to conceal it, my agitation
was but too visibly expressed upon my countenance. I
was pale, and both my words and actions were disordered
and embarrassed. The young men observed this, and
inquired the cause. I attributed it to excess of fatigue and
the violent effect produced on me by the severity of the
season. Whether they believed me or not, I will not
pretend to say ; they at least ceased to embarrass me with
their questions. I strove to divert my attention from the
perils which surrounded me by conversing on different
subjects with the Baroness. I talked of Germany,
declaring my intention of visiting it immediately ; God
knows, that I little thought at that moment of ever seeing
it ! She replied to me with great ease and politeness ; pro-
fessed that the pleasure of making my acquaintance amply
compensated for delay in her journey ; and gave me a
pressing invitation to make some stay at the castle of
Lindenberg. As she spoke thus, the youths exchanged a
malicious smile, which declared that she would be fortunate
if she ever reached that castle herself. This action did not
escape me ; but I concealed the emotion which it excited
in my breast. I continued to converse with the lady ; but
my discourse was so frequently incoherent that, as she has
since informed me, she began to doubt whether I was in
my right senses. The fact was that, while my conversation
turned upon one subject, my thoughts were entirely
occupied by another. I meditated upon the means of
quitting the cottage, finding my way to the barn, and
giving the domestics information of our host's designs. I
was soon convinced how impracticable was the attempt.
Jacques and Robert watched my every movement with an

CHAPTER III 87

attentive eye, and I was obliged to abandon the idea. All
my hopes_ now rested upon Claude's not finding the
banditti ; in that case, according to what I had overheard,
we should be permitted to depart unhurt.

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

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

* " But ", added he, " should any accident detain my noble
guests longer than they at present intend, I hope to give
them a better treatment."

' The villain ! I well knew the accident to which he
alluded. I shuddered at the treatment which he taught us
to expect.

' My companion in danger seemed entirely to have got
rid of her chagrin at being delayed. She laughed, and
conversed with the family with in6nite gaiety. I strove,
but in vain, to follow her example. My spirits were
evidently forced, and the constraint which I put upon
myself escaped not Baptiste's observation.

'"Come, come, Monsieur, cheer up!" said he; "you

88 THE MONK

seem not quite recovered from your fatigue. To raise
your spirits, what say you to a glass of excellent old wine,
which was left me by my father ? God rest his soul, he is
in a better world ! I seldom produce this wine ; but, as I
am not honoured with such guests every day, this is an
occasion which deserves a bottle."

' He then gave his wife a key, and instructed her where
to find the wine of which he spoke. She seemed by no
means pleased with the commission ; she took the key
with an embarrassed air, and hesitated to quit the table.

' " Did you hear me ? " said Baptiste, in an angry tone.

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

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

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

'The banditti seemed alarmed at my action. Jacques
half rose from his chair, put his hand into his bosom, and

CHAPTER III 89

I discovered the haft of a dagger. I returned to my seat
with tranquillity, and affected not to have observed their
confusion.

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

' Baptiste and Jacques exchanged looks of distrust.

' " Perhaps ", said Robert, " the smell may be disagreeable
to you ? "

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

'"He must have drunk sufficient" said he to his brother
in a low voice, while he re-seated himself.

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

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

90 THE MONK

' " So ! " cried Baptiste, as I fell back in my chair, " at
last he sleeps ! I began to think that he had scented our
design, and that we should have been forced to despatch
him at all events."

' " And why not despatch him at all events ? " inquired
the ferocious Jacques. " Why leave him the possibility of
betraying our secret ? Marguerite, give me one of my
pistols ; a single touch of the trigger will finish him at
once."

'"And supposing" rejoined the father, "supposing that
our friends should not arrive to-night, a pretty figure we
should make when the servants inquire for him in the
morning ! No, no, Jacques ; we must wait for our
associates; if they join us, we are strong enough to
despatch the domestics as well as their masters, and the
booty is our own. If Claude does not find the troop, we
must take patience, and suffer the prey to slip through our
fingers. Ah, boys 1 boys, had you arrived but five minutes
sooner, the Spaniard would have been done for, and two
thousand pistoles our own. But you are always out of
the way when you are most wanted. You are the most
unlucky rogues — "

' " Well, well, father ! " answered Jacques ; " had you
been of my mind, all would have been over by this time.
You, Robert, Claude, and myself — why the strangers were
but double the number; and, I warrant you, we might
have mastered them. However, Claude is gone ; 'tis too
late to think of it now. We must wait patiently for the
arrival of the gang; and, if the travellers escape us
to-night, we must take care to waylay them to-morrow."

' " True ! true ! " said Baptiste ; " Marguerite, have you
given the sleeping draught to the waiting-women ? "

' She replied in the affirmative.

'"All then is safe. Come, come, boys; whatever falls
out, we have no reason to complain of this adventure. We
run no danger, may gain much, and can lose nothing."

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

« "Almighty God, they are lost ! "

CHAPTER III 91

'Luckily the woodman and his sons were too much
occupied oy the arrival of their associates to attend to me,
or the violence of my agitation would have convinced them
that my sleep was feigned.

' " Open, open ! " exclaimed several voices on the outside
of the cottage.

' " Yes, yes ! " cried Baptiste, joyfully ; " they are our
friends, sure enough. Now, then, our booty is certain.
Away, lads, away ! Lead them to the barn ; you know
what is to be done there."

' Robert hastened to open the door of the cottage.

' " But first ", said Jacques, taking up his arms, " first let
me djsepatch these sleepers."

'"No, no, no!" replied his father: "Go you to the
barn, where your presence is wanted. Leave me to take
care of these and the women above."

'Jacques obeyed, and followed his brother. They
seemed to converse with the new-comers for a few
minutes, after which I heard the robbers, dismount, and,
as I conjectured, bend their course towards the barn.

' " So ! That is wisely done ! " muttered Baptiste ;
" they have quitted their horses that they may fall upon
the strangers by surprise. Good, good ! and now to
business."

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

' " Now ! now ! " whispered Marguerite. — I opened my
eyes. Baptiste stood with his back towards me. No one
else was in the room, save Marguerite and the sleeping
lady. The villain had taken a dagger from the cupboard,
and seemed examining whether it was sufficiently sharp.
I had neglected to furnish myself with arms, but I
perceived this to be my only chance of escaping, and
resolved not to lose the opportunity. I sprang from my
seat, darted suddenly upon Baptiste, and, clasping my
hands round his throat, pressed it so forcibly as to prevent
his uttering a single cry. You may remember that I was
remarkable at Salamanca for the power of my arm. It
now rendered me an essential service. Surprised, terrified,
and breathless, the villain was by no means an equal
antagonist. I threw him upon the ground ; I grasped him
still tighter ; and, while I fixed him without motion upon

92 THE MONK

the floor, Marguerite, wresting the dagger from his hand,
plunged it repeatedly in his heart till he expired.

' No sooner was this horrible but necessary act perpet-
rated than Marguerite called on me to follow her.

' " Flight is our only refuge ", said she ; " quick, quick !
Away!"

' I hesitated not to obey her ; but, unwilling to leave the
Baroness a victim to the vengeance of the robbers, I raised
her in my arms still sleeping, and hastened after
Marguerite. The horses of the banditti were fastened
near the door. My conductress sprang upon one of them.
I followed her example, placed the Baroness before me, and
spurred on my horse. Our only hope -was to reach
Strasburg, which was much nearer than the perfidious
Claude had assured me. Marguerite was well acquainted
with the road, and galloped on before me. We were
obliged to pass by the barn, where the robbers were
slaughtering our domestics. The door was open ; we
distinguished the shrieks of the dying, and imprecations
of the murderers. What I felt at that moment, language
is unable to describe.

' Jacques heard the trampling of our horses, as we
rushed by the barn. He flew to the door with a burning
torch in his hand, and easily recognized the fugitives.

' " Betrayed ! Betrayed ! " he shouted to his companions.

' Instantly they left their bloody work, and hastened to
regain their horses. We heard no more. I buried my
spurs in the sides of my courser, and Marguerite goaded on
hers with the poniard which had already rendered us such
good service. We flew like lightning, and gained the
open plains. Already was Strasburg steeple in sight when
we heard the robbers pursuing us. Marguerite looked
back, and distinguished our followers descending a small
hill at no great distance. It was in vain that we urged
on our horses ; the noise approached nearer with every
moment.

' " We are lost ! " she exclaimed ; " the villains gain
upon us ! "

' " On, on ! " replied I ; " I hear the trampling of horses
coming from the town."

' We redoubled our exertions, and were soon aware of a
numerous band of cavaliers, who came towards us at full
speed. They were on the point of passing us.

CHAPTER III 93

* " Stay ! stay ! " shrieked Marguerite ; " save us ! — for
God's sake, save us ! "

' The foremost, who seemed to act as guide, immediately
reined-in his steed.

' " 'Tis she, 'tis she ! " exclaimed he, springing upon the
ground ; " stop, my lord, stop ! They are safe ! 'Tis my
mother ! "

'At the same moment, Marguerite threw herself from
her horse, clasped him in her arms, and covered him with
kisses. The other cavaliers stopped at the exclamation.

' " The Baroness Lindenberg ! " cried another of the
strangers eagerly, " where is she ? Is she not with you ? "

'He stopped, on beholding her lying senseless in my
arms. Hastily he caught her from me. The profound
sleep in which she was plunged made him at first tremble
for her life ; but the beating of her heart soon reassured
him.

' " God be thanked ! " said he ; " she has escaped
unhurt."

' I interrupted his joy by pointing out the brigands, who
continued to approach. No sooner had I mentioned them
than the greatest part of the company, which appeared to
be chiefly composed of soldiers, hastened forward to meet
them. The villains stayed not to receive their attack.
Perceiving their danger, they turned the heads of their
horses and fled into the wood, whither they were followed
by our preservers. In the meanwhile the stranger, whom
I guessed to be the Baron Lindenberg, after thanking me
for my care of his lady, proposed our returning with all
speed to the town. The Baroness, on whom the effects of
the opiate had not ceased to operate, was placed before
him ; Marguerite and her son remounted their horses ; the
Baron's domestics followed ; and we soon arrived at the
inn where he had taken his apartments.

' This was at " The Austrian Eagle " , where my banker,
whom before my quitting Paris I had apprised of my
intention to visit Strasburg, had prepared lodgings for me.
I rejoiced at this circumstance. It gave me an opportunity
of cultivating the Baron's acquaintance, which I foresaw
would be of use to me in Germany. Immediately upon
our arrival the lady was conveyed to bed. A physician
was sent for, who prescribed a medicine likely to counteract
the effects of the sleepy potion ; and, after it had been

94 THE MONK

poured down her throat, she was committed to the care of
the hostess. The Baron then addressed himself to me, and
entreated me to recount the particulars of this adventure.
I complied with his request instantaneously ; for, in pain
respecting Stephano's fate, whom I had been compelled
to abandon to the cruelty of the banditti, I found it
impossible for me to repose till I had some news of him. I
received but too soon the intelligence that my trusty
servant had perished. The soldiers who had pursued the
brigands returned while I was employed in relating my
adventure to the Baron. By their account I found that
the robbers had been overtaken. Guilt and true courage
are incompatible ; they had thrown themselves at the feet
of their pursuers, had surrendered themselves without
striking a blow, had discovered their secret retreat, made
known their signals by which the rest of the gang might be
seized, and, in short, had betrayed every mark of cowardice
and baseness. By this means the whole of the band,
consisting of near sixty persons, had been made prisoners,
bound, and conducted to Strasburg. Some of the soldiers
hastened to the cottage, one of the banditti serving them
as guide. Their first visit was to the fatal barn, where
they were fortunate enough to find two of the Baron's
servants still alive, though desperately wounded. The rest
had expired beneath the swords of the robbers, and of
these my unhappy Stephano was one.

'Alarmed at our escape, the robbers, in their haste to
overtake us, had neglected to visit the cottage ; in
consequence, the soldiers found the two waiting-women
unhurt and buried in the same death-like slumber which
had overpowered their mistress. There was nobody else
in the cottage, except a child not above four years old,
which the soldiers brought away with them. We were
busying ourselves with conjectures respecting the birth of
this little unfortunate, when Marguerite rushed into the
room with the baby in her arms. She fell at the feet of
the officer who was making us this report, and blessed him
a thousand times for the preservation of her child.

'When the first burst of maternal tenderness was over,
I besought her to declare by what means she had been
united to a man whose principles seemed so totally
discordant with her own. She bent her eyes downwards,
and wiped a few tears from her cheek.

CHAPTER III 95

' " Gentlemen ", said she, after a silence of some minutes,
" I would request a favour of you. You have a right to
know on whom you confer an obligation ; I will not,
therefore, stifle a confession which covers me with shame ;
but permit me to comprise it in as few words as possible.

' " I was born in Strasburg, of respectable parents ; their
names I must at present conceal. My father still lives,
and deserves not to be involved in my infamy. If you
grant my request, you shall be informed of my family
name. A villain made himself master of my affections,
and to follow him I quitted my father's house. Yet
though my passions overpowered my virtue, I sank not
into that degeneracy of vice but too commonly the lot of
women who make the first false step. I loved my seducer,
dearly loved him ! I was true to his bed : this baby, and
the youth who warned you, my lord Baron, of your lady's
danger, are the pledges of our affection. Even at this
moment I lament his loss ; though 'tis to him that I owe
all the miseries of my existence.

' " He was of noble birth, but he had squandered away
his paternal inheritance. His relations considered him as
a disgrace to their name, and utterly discarded him. His
excesses drew upon him the indignation of the police. He
was obliged to fly from Strasburg, and saw no other
resource from beggary than an union with the banditti
who infested the neighbouring forest, and whose troop was
chiefly composed of young men of family in the same
predicament with himself. I was determined not to
forsake him. I followed him to the cavern of the
brigands, and shared with him the misery inseparable
from a life of pillage. But, though I was aware that our
existence was supported by plunder, I knew not all the
horrible circumstances attached to my lover's profession ;
these he concealed from me with the utmost care. He
was conscious that my sentiments were not sufficiently
depraved to look without horror upon assassination. He
supposed, and with justice, that I should fly with
detestation from the embraces of a murderer. Eight years
of possession had not abated his love for me ; and he
cautiously removed from my knowledge every circum-
stance which might lead me to suspect the crimes in
which he but too often participated. He succeeded per-
fectly. It was not till after my seducer's death that I

9 6 THE MONK

discovered his hands to have been stained with the blood
of innocence.

' " One fatal night he was brought back to the
cavern, covered with wounds; he received them in
attacking an English traveller, whom his companions
immediately sacrificed to their resentment. He had only
time to entreat my pardon for all the sorrows which he
had caused me ; he pressed my hand to his lips, and
expired. My grief was inexpressible. As soon as its
violence abated, I resolved to return to Strasburg, to throw
myself with my two children at my father's feet, and
implore his forgiveness, though I little hoped to obtain it.
What was my consternation when informed that no one
entrusted with the secret of their retreat was ever
permitted to quit the troop of the banditti ; that I must
give up all hopes of ever rejoining society, and consent
instantly to accept one of their band for my husband ?
My prayers and remonstrances were vain. They cast lots
to decide to w hose p ossession I should fall. I became the
property ofytfTe" "Infamous Baptiste. A robber who had
once been^T monk pronounced over us a burlesque rather
than a religious Ceremony : I and my children were
deliveredVigito.tlre hands of my new husband, and he
conveyed us immediately to his home.

' " He assured me that he had long entertained for me the
most ardent regard ; but that friendship for my deceased
lover had obliged him to stifle his desires. He endeavoured
to reconcile me to my fate, and for some time treated me
with respect and gentleness. At length, finding that my
aversion rather increased than diminished, he obtained
those favours by violence which I persisted to refuse him.
No resource remained for me but to bear my sorrows with
patience; I was conscious that I deserved them but too
well. Flight was forbidden. My children were in the
power of Baptiste ; and he had sworn that, if I attempted
to escape, their lives should pay for it. I had had too
many opportunities of witnessing the barbarity of his
nature to doubt his fulfilling his oath to the very letter.
Sad experienee had convinced me of the horrors of my
situation. My first lover had carefully concealed them
from me ; Baptiste rather rejoiced in opening my eyes to
the cruelties of his profession, and strove to familiarize me
with blood and slaughter.

CHAPTER III 97

'"Mv nature was l icentious and warm, but not cruel ;
my conduct had been Imprudent," ^t rr-y hpflTf^wfiTTiftfr.
unprincipled^ Judge, then, what I must have felt at being
a continual witness of crimes the most horrible and
revolting ! Judge how I must have grieved at being
united to a man who received the unsuspecting guest with
an air of openness and hospitality at the very moment
that he meditated his destruction ! Chagrin and discontent
preyed upon my constitution ; the few charms bestowed
on me by nature withered away, and the dejection of my
countenance denoted the sufferings of my heart. I was
tempted a thousand times to put an end to my existence ;
but the remembrance of my children held my hand. I
trembled to leave my dear boys in my tyrant's power, and
trembled yet more for their virtue than their lives. The
second was still too young to benefit by my instructions ;
but in the heart of my eldest I laboured unceasingly to
plant those principles which might enable him to avoid
the crimes of his parents. He listened to me with docility,
or rather with eagerness. Even at his early age he showed
that he was not calculated for the society of villains ; and
the only comfort which I enjoyed among my sorrows was
to witness the dawning virtues of my Theodore.

' " Such was my situation when the perfidy of Don
Alphonso's postillion conducted him to the cottage. His
youth, air, and manners interested me most forcibly in his
behalf. The absence of my husband's sons gave me an
opportunity which I had long wished to find ; and I
resolved to risk everything to preserve the stranger. The
vigilance of Baptiste prevented me from warning Don
Alphonso of his danger. I knew that my betraying the
secret would be immediately punished with death ; and,
however embittered was my life by calamities, I wanted
courage to sacrifice it for the sake of preserving that of
another person. My own hope rested upon procuring
succour from Strasburg. At this I resolved to try ; and,
should an opportunity offer of warning Don Alphonso of
his danger unobserved, I was determined to seize it with
avidity. By Baptiste's orders I went upstairs to make the
stranger's bed ; I spread upon it sheets in which a traveller
had been murdered but a few nights before, and which still
were stained with blood. I hoped that these marks would
not escape the vigilance of our guest, and that he would

G

98 THE MONK

collect from them the designs of my perfidious husband.
Neither was this the only step which I took to preserve
the stranger ; Theodore was confined to his bed by illness.
I stole into his room unobserved by my tyrant, communi-
cated to him my project, and he entered into it with
eagerness. He rose in spite of his malady, and dressed
himself with all speed. I fastened one of the sheets round
his arms, and lowered him from the window. He flew to
the stable, took Claude's horse, and hastened to Strasburg.
Had he been accosted by the banditti, he was to have
declared himself sent upon a message by Baptiste, but
fortunately he reached the town without meeting any
obstacle. Immediately upon his arrival at Strasburg, he
entreated assistance from the magistrate ; his story passed
from mouth to mouth, and at length came to the knowledge
of my lord the Baron. Anxious for the safety of his lady,
who he knew would be upon the road that evening, it
struck him that she might have fallen into the power of
the robbers. He accompanied Theodore, who guided the
soldiers towards the cottage, and arrived just in time to
save us from falling once more into the hands of our
enemies."

' Here I interrupted Marguerite to inquire why the
sleepy potion had been presented to me. She said that
Baptiste supposed me to have arms about me, and wished
to incapacitate me from making resistance ; it was a pre-
caution which he always took, since, as the travellers had
no hopes of escaping, despair would have incited them to
sell their lives dearly.

' The Baron then desired Marguerite to inform him what
were her present plans. I joined him in declaring my
readiness to show my gratitude to her for the preservation
of my life.

' " Disgusted with a world ", she replied, " in which I
have met with nothing but misfortunes, my only wish is
to retire into a convent. But first I must -provide for my
children. I find thatTmy mother is no more — probably
driven to an untimely grave by my desertion. My father
is still living. He is not an hard man. Perhaps, gentle-
men, in spite of my ingratitude and imprudence, your
intercessions may induce him to forgive me, and to take
charge of his unfortunate grandsons. If you obtain this
boon for me, you will repay my services a thousand-fold."

CHAPTER III 99

' Both the Baron and myself assured Marguerite that we
would spare no pains to obtain her pardon ; and that, even
should her father be inflexible, she need be under no
apprehensions respecting the fate of her children. I
engaged myself to provide for Theodore, and the Baron
promised to take the youngest under his protection. The
grateful mother thanked us with tears for what she called
generosity, but which in fact was no more than a proper
sense of our obligations to her ; she then left the room, to
put her little boy to bed, whom fatigue and sleep had
completely overpowered.

' The Baroness, on recovering and being informed from
what dangers I had rescued her, set no bounds to the
expressions of her gratitude ; she was joined so warmly by
her husband in pressing me to accompany them to their
castle in Bavaria that I found it impossible to resist their
entreaties. During a week which we passed at Strasburg
the interests of Marguerite were not forgotten. In our
application to her father we succeeded as amply as we
could wish. The good old man had lost his wife. He had
no children but this unfortunate daughter, of whom he had
received no news for almost fourteen years. He was
surrounded by distant relations, who waited with impatience
for his decease in order to get possession of his money.
When therefore Marguerite appeared again so unexpectedly,
he considered her as a gift from Heaven ; he received her
and her children with open arms, and insisted upon their
establishing themselves in his house without delay. The
disappointed cousins were obliged to give place. The old
man would not hear of his daughter's retiring into a con-
vent : he said that she was too necessary to his happiness,
and she was easily persuaded to relinquish her designs.
But no persuasions could induce Theodore to give up the
plan which I had at first marked out for him. He had
attached himself to me most sincerely during my stay at
Strasburg ; and, when I was on the point of leaving it, he
besought me with tears to take him into my service. He
set forth all his little talents in the most favourable colours,
and tried to convince me that I should find him of infinite
use to me upon the road. I was unwilling to charge myself
with a lad scarcely turned of thirteen, who I knew could
only be a burthen to me ;' however I could not resist the
entreaties of this affectionate youth, who in fact possessed

ioo THE MONK

a thousand estimable qualities. With some difficulty he
persuaded his relations to let him follow me ; and, that per-
mission once obtained, he was dubbed with the title of my
page. Having passed a week at Strasburg, Theodore and
myself set out for Bavaria in company with the Baron and
his lady. These latter, as well as myself, had forced
Marguerite to accept several presents of value, both for
herself and her youngest son. On leaving her, I promised
his mother faithfully that I would restore Theodore to her
within the year.

' I have related this adventure at length, Lorenzo, that
you might understand the means by which " the adventurer
Alphonso d'Alvarada got introduced into the castle of
Lindenberg." Judge from this specimen, how much faith
should be given to your aunt's assertions.'

CHAPTER I\

Avaunt ! and quit my sight !— let the earth hide thee !
Thy bones are marrowless ; thy blood is cold ;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with ! — Hence, horrible shadow !
Unreal mockery, hence 1

— Macbeth

CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF DON RAYMOND

' My journey was uncommonly agreeable. I found the
Baron a man of some sense, but little knowledge of the
world. He had passed a great part of his life without
stirring beyond the precincts of his own domains, and
consequently his manners were far from being the most
polished ; but he was hearty, good-humoured, and friendly.
His attention to me was all that I could wish, and I had
every reason to be satisfied with his behaviour. His ruling
passion was hunting, which he had brought himself to
consider as a serious occupation ; and, when talking over
some remarkable chase, he treated the subject with as
much gravity as if it had been a battle on which the fate
of two kingdoms was depending. I happened to be a
tolerable sportsman ; soon after my arrival at Lindenberg,
I gave some proofs of my dexterity ; the Baron immedi-
ately marked me down for a man of genius, and vowed to
me an eternal friendship.

'That friendship was become to me by no means
indifferent. At the castle of Lindenberg I beheld for
the first time your sister, the lovely Agnes. For me,
whose heart was unoccupied and who grieved at the void,
to see her and to love her were the same. I found in
Agnes all that was requisite to secure my affection. She
was then scarcely sixteen ; her person, light and elegant,
was already formed ; she possessed several talents in pre-
fection, particularly those of music and drawing : her
character was gay, open, and good-humoured ; and the
graceful simplicity of her dress and manners formed an

IOI

102 THE MONK

advantageous contrast to the art and studied coquetry of
the Parisian dames whom I had just quitted. From the
moment that I beheld her I felt the most lively interest
in her fate. I made many inquiries respecting her of the
Baroness.

' " She is my niece ", replied that lady. " You are still
ignorant, Don Alphonso, that I am your country-woman.
I am sister to the duke of Medina Celi. Agnes is the
daughter of my second brother, Don Gaston : she has been
destined to the convent from her cradle, and will soon make
her profession at Madrid." '

Here Lorenzo interrupted the Marquis by an exclama-
tion of surprise. ' Intended for the convent from her
cradle ! ' said he ; 'by heaven ! this is the first word that
I ever heard of such a design.'

' I believe it, my dear Lorenzo ' answered Don Raymond ;
' but you must listen to me with patience. You will not
be less surprised when I relate some particulars of your
family still unknown to you, which I have learned from
the mouth of Agnes herself.'

He then resumed his narrative as follows : ' You cannot
but be aware that your parents were unfortunately slaves
to the grossest superstition ; when this foible was called
into play, their every other sentiment, their every other
passion, yielded to its irresistible strength. While she was
big with Agnes, your mother was seized by a dangerous
illness and given over by her physicians. In this situation
Donna Inesilla vowed that, if she recovered from her
malady, the child then living in her bosom, if a girl, should
be dedicated to St. Clare, if a boy, to St Benedict. Her
prayers were heard ; she got rid of her complaint ; Agnes
entered the world alive, and was immediately destined to
the service of St. Clare.

' Don Gaston readily chimed in with his lady's wishes ;
but, knowing the sentiments of the duke, his brother,
respecting a monastic life, it was determined that your
sister's destination should be carefully concealed from him.
The better to guard the secret, it was resolved that Agnes
should accompany her aunt, Donna Rodolpha, into Germany,
whither that lady was on the point of following her new-
married husband, Baron Lindenberg. On her arrival at
that estate the young Agnes was put into a convent,
situated but a few miles from the castle. The nuns to

CHAPTER IV 103

whom her education was confided performed their charge
with exactitude ; they made her a perfect mistress of
many accomplishments, and strove to infuse into her mind
a taste for the retirement and tranquil pleasures of a con-
vent. But a secret instinct made the young recluse sensible
that she was not born for solitude ; in all the freedom of
youth and gaiety, she scrupled not to treat as ridiculous
many ceremonies which the nuns regarded with awe ; and
she was never more happy than when her lively imagina-
tion inspired her with some scheme to plague the stiff lady
abbess or the ugly, ill-tempered, old porteress. She looked
with disgust upon the prospect before her; however, no
alternative was offered to her, and she submitted to the
decree of her parents, though not without secret repining.

'That repugnance she had not art enough to conceal
long ; Don Gaston was informed of it. Alarmed, Lorenzo,
lest your affection for her should oppose itself to his
projects, and lest you should positively object to your
sister's misery, he resolved to keep the whole affair from
your knowledge as well as the duke's till the sacrifice
should be consummated. The season of her taking the veil
was fixed for the time when you should be upon your
travels ; in the meanwhile no hint was dropped of Donna
Inesilla's fatal vow. Your sister was never permitted to
know your direction. All your letters were read before
she received them, and those parts effaced which were likely
to nourish her inclination for the world ; her answers were
dictated either by her aunt or by dame Cunegonda, her
governess. These particulars I learned partly from Agnes,
partly from the Baroness herself.

'I immediately determined upon rescuing this lovely
girl from a fate so contrary to her inclinations and ill-suited
to her merit. I endeavoured to ingratiate myself into her
favour ; I boasted of my friendship and intimacy with you.
She listened to me with avidity ; she seemed to devour my
words while I spoke in your praise ; and her eyes thanked
me for my affection to her brother. My constant and
unremitted attention at length gained me her heart, and
with difficulty I obliged her to confess that she loved me ;
when, however, I proposed her quitting the castle of
Lindenberg, she rejected the idea in positive terms.

' " Be generous, Alphonso " she said ; " you possess my
heart, but use not the gift ignobly ; employ not your

ro4 THE MONK

ascendancy over me in persuading me to take a step at
which I should hereafter have to blush. I am young and
deserted; my brother, my only friend, is separated from
me, and my other relations act with me as my enemies.
Take pity on my unprotected situation: instead of seducing
me to an action which would cover me with shame, strive
rather to gain the affections of those who govern me. The
Baron esteems you. My aunt, to others ever harsh, proud,
and contemptuous, remembers that you rescued her from
the hands of murderers, and wears with you alone the
appearance of kindness and benignity. Try then your
influence over my guardians. If they consent to our union,
my hand is yours. From your account of my brother I
cannot doubt your obtaining his approbation ; and, when
they find the impossibility of executing their design, I trust
that my parents will excuse my disobedience and expiate
by some other sacrifice my mother's fatal vow."

'From the first moment that I beheld Agnes I had
endeavoured to conciliate the favour of her relations.
Authorized by the confession of her regard I redoubled my
exertions. My principal battery was directed against the
Baroness ; it was easy to discover that her word was law
in the castle: her husband paid her the most absolute
submission, and considered her as a superior being. She
was about forty ; in her youth she had been a beauty, but
her charms had been upon that large scale which can but
ill sustain the shock of years ; however, she still possessed
some remains of them. Her understanding was strong and
excellent when not obscured by prejudice, which unluckily
was but seldom the case. Her passions were violent ; she
spared no pains to gratify them, and pursued with un-
remitting vengeance those who opposed themselves to her
wishes : the warmest of friends, the most inveterate of
enemies — such was the Baroness Lindenberg.

' I laboured incessantly to please her ; unluckily I
succeeded but too well. She seemed gratified by my
attention, and treated me with a distinction accorded by
her to no one else. One of my daily occupations was
reading to her for several hours; those hours I should
much rather have passed with Agnes, but, as I was conscious
that complaisance for her aunt would advance our union, I
submitted with a good grace to the penance imposed upon
me. Donna Rodolpha's library was principally composed

CHAPTER IV .105

of old Spanish romances ; these were her favourite studies,
and once a day one of these unmerciful volumes was put
regularly into my hands. I read the wearisome adventures
of Perce Forest, Tirante the White, Palmerin of England,
and The Knight of the Sun, till the book was on the point
of falling from my hands through ennui. However, the
increasing pleasure which the Baroness seemed to take in
my society encouraged me to persevere ; and latterly she
showed for me a partiality so marked that Agnes advised
me to seize the first opportunity of declaring our mutual
passion to our aunt.

' One evening I was alone with Donna Rodolpha, in her
own apartment. As our readings generally treated of love,
Agnes was never permitted to assist at them. I was just
congratulating myself on having finished The Loves of
Tristan and the Queen Iseult —

' " Ah ! the unfortunates ! " cried the Baroness : " How
say you, Segnor ? Do you think it possible for man to feel
an attachment so disinterested and sincere ? "

' " I cannot doubt it ", replied I; " my own heart furnishes
me with the certainty. Ah ! Donna Rodolpha, might I
but hope for your approbation of my love ! might I but
confess the name of my mistress without incurring your
resentment ! "

' She interrupted me —

' " Suppose I were to spare you that confession ?
Suppose I were to acknowledge that the object of
your desires is not unknown to me ? Suppose I were
to say that she returns your affection and laments
not less sincerely than yourself the unhappy vows which
separate her from you ? "

' "Ah ! Donna Rodolpha ! " I exclaimed, throwing myself
upon my knees before her and pressing her hand to my
lips. " You have discovered my secret ! What is your
decision ? Must I despair, or may I reckon upon your
favour?"

' She withdrew not the hand which I held ; but she
turned from me and covered her face with the other.

' " How can I refuse it you ? " she replied. " Ah ! Don
Alphonso, I have long perceived to whom your attentions
were directed ; but till now I perceived not the impression
which they had made upon my heart. At length I can no
longer hide my weakness either from myself or from you ;

106 THE MONK

I yield to the violence of my passion, and own that I adore
you ! For three long months I stifled my desires ; but,
growing stronger by resistance, I submit to their im-
petuosity. Pride, fear, and honour, respect for myself, and
my engagements to the Baron, all are vanquished. I
sacrifice them to my love for you ; and it still seems to me
that I pay too mean a price for your possession."

' She paused for an answer. Judge, Lorenzo, what must
have been my confusion at this discovery ! I at once saw
all the magnitude of this obstacle which I had myself
raised to my happiness. The Baroness had placed those
attentions to her own account which I had merely paid
her for the sake of Agnes ; and the strength of her
expressions, the looks which accompanied them, and my
knowledge of her revengeful disposition, made me tremble
for myself and my beloved. I was silent for some minutes.
I knew not how to reply to her declaration ; I could only
resolve to clear up the mistake without delay, and for the
present to conceal from her knowledge the name of my
mistress. No sooner had she avowed her passion than the
transports which before were evident in my features gave
place to consternation and constraint. I dropped her hand,
and rose from my knees. The change in my countenance
did not escape her observation.

' " What means this silence ? " said she, in a trembling
voice ; " where is that joy which you led me to expect ? "

"'Forgive me, Segnora.I answered, if what necessity forces
from me should seem harsh and ungrateful. To encourage
you in an error, which, however it may flatter myself,
must prove to you the source of disappointment, would
make me appear criminal in every eye. Honour obliges
me to inform you that you have mistaken for the solicitude
of love what was only the attention of friendship. The
latter sentiment is that which I wished to excite in your
bosom ! — to entertain a warmer, respect for you forbids
me, and gratitude for the Baron's generous treatment.
Perhaps these reasons would not be sufficient to shield me
from your attractions, were it not that my affections are
already bestowed upon another. You have charms, Segnora,
which might captivate the most insensible; no heart
unoccupied could resist them. Happy is it for me that
mine is no longer in my possession, or I should have to
reproach myself for ever with having violated ths lawg

CHAPTER IV 10;

of hospitality. Recollect yourself, noble lady; recollect
what is owed by you to honour, by me to the Baron, and
replace by esteem and friendship those sentiments which
I never can return."

'The Baroness turned pale at this unexpected and
positive declaration; she doubted whether she slept or
woke. At length recovering from her surprise, con-
sternation gave place to rage, and the blood rushed back
into her cheeks with violence.

' " Villain ! " she cried ; " Monster of deceit ! Thus is
the avowal of my love received ? It is thus that . . . but,
no, no ! It cannot, it shall not be ! Alphonso, behold me
at your feet ! Be witness of my despair ! Look with pity
on a woman who loves you with sincere affection ! She
who possesses your heart, how has she merited such a
treasure ? What sacrifice has she made to you ? What
raises her above Rodolpha ? "

' I endeavoured to lift her from her knees.

' "For God's sake, Segnora, restrain these transports; they
disgrace yourself and me. Your exclamations may be
heard, and your secret divulged to your attendants. I see
that my presence only irritates you ; permit me to retire."

' I prepared to quit the apartment ; the Baroness caught
me suddenly by the arm.

' " And who is this happy rival ? " said she, in a menacing
tone ; " I will know her name, and when I know it. . . !
She is someone in my power ; you entreated my favour,
my protection ! Let me but find her, let me but know
who dares to rob me of your heart, and she shall suffer
every torment which jealousy and disappointment can inflict.
Who is she? Answer me this moment. Hope not to
conceal her from my vengeance ! Spies shall be set over
you ; every step, every look shall be watched ; your eyes
will discover my rival ; I shall know her ; and when she
is found, tremble, Alphonso, for her and for yourself."

'As she uttered these last words, her fury mounted to
such a pitch as to stop her powers of respiration. She
panted, groaned, and at length fainted away. As she was
falling, I caught her in my arms, and placed her upon a
sofa. Then, hastening to the door, I summoned her women
to her assistance ; I committed her to their care, and seized
the opportunity of escaping.

'Agitated and confused beyond expression, I bent my

108 THE MONK

steps towards the garden. The benignity with which the
Baroness had listened to me at first raised my hopes to the
highest pitch ; I imagined her to have perceived my attach-
ment for her niece, and to approve of it. Extreme was my
disappointment at understanding the true purport of her
discourse. I knew not what course to take; the super-
stition of the parents of Agnes, aided by her aunt's
unfortunate passion, seemed to oppose such obstacles to
our union as were almost insurmountable.

' As I passed by a low parlour, whose windows looked
into the garden, through the door which stood half open I
observed Agnes seated at a table. She was occupied in
drawing, and several unfinished sketches were scattered
round her. I entered, still undetermined whether I should
acquaint her with the declaration of the Baroness.

' " Oh ! is it only you ? " said she, raising her head : " You
are no stranger, and I shall continue my occupation without
ceremony. Take a chair, and seat yourself by me."

' I obeyed, and placed myself near the table. Unconscious
what I was doing, and totally occupied by the scene which
had just passed, I took up some of the drawings, and cast
my eyes over them. One of the subjects struck me from
its singularity. It represented the great hall of the castle
of Lindenberg. A door conducting to a narrow staircase
stood half open. In the foreground appeared a group of
figures, placed in the most grotesque attitudes ; terror was
expressed upon every countenance. Here was one upon
his knees, with his eyes cast up to heaven, and praying
most devoutly ; there, another was creeping away upon all
fours. Some hid their faces in their cloaks or the laps of
their companions ; some had concealed themselves beneath
a table, on which the remnants of a feast were visible ;
while others, with gaping mouths and eyes wide-stretched,
pointed to a figure supposed to have created this disturbance.
It represented a female of more than human stature, clothed
in the habit of some religious order. Her face was veiled ;
on her arm hung a chaplet of beads; her dress was in
several places stained with the blood which trickled from
a wound upon her bosom. In one hand she held a lamp,
in the other a large knife, and she seemed advancing towards
the iron gates of the hall.

'" What does this mean, Agnes ? " said I. " Is this some
invention of your own?"

CHAPTER IV 109

1 She cast her eyes upon the drawing.

'" Oh ! no " she replied ; " 'tis the invention of much
wiser heads than mine. But can you possibly have lived
at Lindenberg for three whole months without hearing of
the Blading Nun.?"

""• " You are the first who ever mentioned the name to me.
Pray, who may the lady be ? "

' " That is more than I can pretend to tell you. All my
knowledge of her history comes from an old tradition in
this family, which has been handed down from father to
eon, and is firmly credited throughout the Baron's
domains. Nay, the Baron believes it himself; and as
for my aunt, who has a natural turn for the
marvellous, she would sooner doubt the veracity of
the Bible than of the Bleeding Nun. Shall I tell you
this history?"

' I answered that she would oblige me much by relating
it ; she resumed her drawing, and then proceeded as follows,
in a tone of burlesqued gravity :

'"It is surprising that in all the chronicles of past times
this remarkable personage is never once mentioned. Fain
would I recount to you her life ; but unluckily till after
her death she was never known to have existed. Then
first did she think it necessary to make some noise in the
world ; and with that intention she made bold to seize upon
the castle of Lindenberg. Having a good taste, she took
up her abode in the best room of the house; and, once
established there, she began to amuse herself by knocking
about the tables and chairs in the middle of the night.
Perhaps she was a bad sleeper, but this I have never been
able to ascertain. According to the tradition, this enter-
tainment commenced about a century ago. It was accom-
panied with shrieking, howling, groaning, swearing, and
many other agreeable noises of the same kind. But, though
one particular room was more especially honoured with
her visits, she did not entirely confine herself to it. She
occasionally ventured into the old galleries, paced up and
down the spacious halls, or sometimes, stopping at the
doors of the chambers, she wept and wailed there, to the
universal terror of the inhabitants. In these nocturnal
excursions she was seen by different people, who all
describe her appearance as you behold it here traced by
the hand of her unworthy historian."

no THE MONK

' The singularity of this account insensibly engaged my
attention.

' " Did she never speak to those who met her ? " said I.

' " Not she. The specimens indeed which she gave
nightly of her talents for conversation, were by no means
inviting. Sometimes the castle Tung with oaths and
execrations; a moment after she repeated her 'pater-
noster ; now she howled out the most horrible blasphemies,
and then chanted Be profundis, as orderly as if still in
the choir : in short, she seemed a mighty capricious being ;
but, whether she prayed or cursed, whether she was
impious or devout, she always contrived to terrify her
auditors out of their senses. The castle became scarcely
habitable, and its lord was so frightened by these mid-
night revels that one fine morning he was found dead in
his bed. This success seemed to please the nun mightily,
for now she made more noise than ever. But the next
Baron proved too cunning for her. He made his appear-
ance with a celebrated exorcizer in his hand, who feared
not to shut himself up for a night in the haunted chamber.
There it seems that he had a hard battle with the ghost
before she would promise to be quiet. She was obstinate,
but he was more so ; and at length she consented to let the
inhabitants of the castle take a good night's rest. For
some time after no news was heard of her ; but at the end
of five years the exorcizer died, and then the nun ventured
to peep abroad again. However, she was now grown much
more tractable and well-behaved. She walked about in
silence, and never made her appearance above once in five
years. This custom, if you will believe the Baron, she still
continues. He is fully persuaded that on the fifth of May
of every fifth year, as soon as the clock strikes one, the
door of the haunted chamber opens. (Observe that this
room has been shut up for near a century.) Then out
walks the ghostly nun with her lamp and dagger; she
descends the staircase of the eastern tower, and crosses
the great hall. On that night the porter always leaves
the gates of the castle open, out of respect to the appari-
tion; not that this is thought by any means necessary,
since she could easily whip through the key-hole if she
chose it ; but merely out of politeness, and to prevent her
from making her exit in a way so derogatory to the dignity
of her ghostship."

CHAPTER IV in

' " And whither does she go, on quitting the castle ? "

"'To heaven, I hope ; but, if she does, the place certainly
is not to her taste, for she always returns after an hour's
absence. The lady then retires to her chamber, and is quiet
for another five years."

'"And you believe this, Agnes ? "

' " How can you ask such a question ? No, no, Alphonso !
I have too much reason to lament superstition's influence
to be its victim myself. However, I must not avow my
incredulity to the Baroness ; she entertains not a doubt of
the truth of this history. As to dame Ounegonda, my
governess, she protests that fifteen years ago she saw the
spectre with her own eyes. She related to me one evening
how she and several other domestics had been terrified
while at supper by the appearance of the Bleeding Nun,
as the ghost is called in the castle ; 'tis from her account
that I drew this sketch, and you may be certain that Oune-
gonda was not omitted. There she is ! I shall never forget
what a passion she was in, and how ugly she looked while
she scolded me for having made her picture so like
herself ! "

' Here she pointed to a burlesque figure of an old woman
in an attitude of terror.

' In spite of the melancholy which oppressed me, I could
not help smiling at the playful imagination of Agnes ; she
had perfectly preserved dame Cunegonda's resemblance,
but had so much exaggerated every fault, and rendered
every feature so irresistibly laughable, that I could easily
conceive the duenna's anger.

' " The figure is admirable, my dear Agnes ! I knew not
that you possessed such talents for the ridiculous."

'"Stay a moment" she replied; "I will show you a
figure still more ridiculous than dame Cunegonda's. If
it pleases you, you may dispose of it as seems best to
yourself."

' She rose, and went to a cabinet at some little distance ;
unlocking a drawer, she took out a small case, which she
opened and presented to me.

'"Do you know the resemblance ? " said she, smiling.

' It was her own.

' Transported at the gift, I pressed the portrait to my
lips with passion ; I threw myself at her feet, and declared
my gratitude in the warmest and most affectionate terms.

U2 THE MONK

She listened to me with complaisance, and assured me that
she shared my sentiments; when suddenly she uttered a
loud shriek, disengaged the hand which I held, and flew
from the room by a door which opened to the garden.
Amazed at this abrupt departure, I rose hastily from my
knees. I beheld with confusion the Baroness standing
near me, glowing with jealousy and almost choked with
rage. On recovering from her swoon, she had tortured
her imagination to discover her concealed rival. No one
appeared to deserve her suspicions more than Agnes. She
immediately hastened to find her niece, tax her with
encouraging my addresses, and assure herself whether her con-
jectures were well-grounded. Unfortunately, she had already
seen enough to need no other confirmation ; she arrived
at the door of the room, at the precise moment when Agnes
gave me her portrait ; she heard me profess an everlasting
attachment to her rival, and saw ma kneeling at her
feet. She advanced to separate us; we were too much
occupied by each other to perceive her approach, and
were not aware of it till Agnes beheld her standing by
my side.

' Rage on the part of Donna Rodolpha, embarrassment
on mine, for some time kept us both silent. The lady
recovered herself first :

' " My suspicions then were just " said she ; " the coquetry
of my niece has triumphed, and 'tis to her that I am
sacrificed. In one respect, however, I am fortunate ; I shall
not be the only one who laments a disappointed passion ;
you, too, shall know what it is to love without hope ! I
daily expect orders for restoring Agnes to her parents.
Immediately upon her arrival in Spain she will take the
veil, and place an insuperable barrier to your union. Yon
may spare your supplications." — She continued, perceiving
me on the point of speaking : " my resolution is fixed and
immovable. Your mistress shall remain a close prisoner in
her chamber till she exchanges this castle for the cloister.
Solitude will perhaps recall her to a sense of her duty :
but to prevent your opposing that wished event, I must
inform you, Don Alphonso, that your presence here is no
longer agreeable either to the Baron or myself. It was
not to talk nonsense to ray niece, that your relations sent
you to Germany ; your business was to travel, and I should
be sorry to impede any longer so excellent a design. Fare-

CHAPTER IV 113

well, Segnor ; remember, that to-morrow morning we meet
for the last time."

' Having said this, she darted upon me a look of pride,
contempt, and malice, and quitted the apartment. I also
retired to mine, and consumed the night in planning the
means of rescuing Agnes from the power of her tyrannical
aunt.

' After the positive declaration of its mistress, it was
impossible for me to make a longer stay at the castle of
Lindenberg ; accordingly, I, the next day announced my im-
mediate departure. The Baron declared that it gave him
sincere pain; and he expressed himself in my favour so
warmly that I endeavoured to win him over to my interest.
Scarcely had I mentioned the name of Agnes, when he
stopped me short, and said that it was totally out of his power
to interfere in the business. I saw that it was in vain to
argue ; the Baroness governed her husband with despotic
sway, and I easily perceived that she had prejudiced him
against the match. Agnes did not appear ; I entreated
permission to take leave of her, but my prayer was
rejected. I was obliged to depart without seeing her.

* At quitting him, the Baron shook my hand affectionately,
and assured me that as soon as his niece was gone I might
consider his house as my own.

' " Farewell, Don Alphonso ! " said the Baroness, and
stretched out her hand to me.

' I took it, and offered to carry it to my lips. She
prevented me. Her husband was at the other end of the
room, and out of hearing.

' " Take care of yourself " she continued ; " my love is
become hatred, and my wounded pride shall not be
unatoned. Go where you will, my vengeance shall follow
you ! "

' She accompanied these words with a look sufficient to
make me tremble. I answered not, but hastened to quit
the castle.

' As my chaise drove out of the court, I looked up to the
windows of your sister's chamber ; nobody was to be seen
there. I threw myself back despondent in my carriage. I
was attended by no other servants than a Frenchman
whom I had hired at Sfcrasburg in Stephano's room, and
my little page, whom I before mentioned to you. The
fidelity, intelligence, and good temper of Theodore

H

U4 THE MONK

had already made him dear to me ; but he now prepared
to lay an obligation on me which made me look upon him
as a guardian genius. Scarcely had we proceeded half a
mile from the castle when he rode up to the chaise door.

' " Take courage, Segnor ! " said he in Spanish, which he
had already learned to speak with fluency and correctness.
" While you were with the Baron, I watched the moment
when dame Cunegonda was below-stairs, and mounted
into the chamber over that of Donna Agnes. I sang as
loud as I could a little German air well known to her,
hoping that she would recollect my voice. I was not dis-
appointed, for I soon heard her window open. I hastened
to let down a string with which I had provided myself.
Upon hearing the casement closed again, I drew up the
string, and, fastened to it, I found this scrap of paper."

' He then presented me with a small note, addressed
to me. I opened it with impatience. It contained the
following words, written in pencil :

Conceal yourself for the next fortnight in some neighbouring village.
My aunt will believe you to have quited Lindenberg, and I shall be
restored to liberty. I will be in the west pavilion at twelve on the
night of the thirtieth. Fail not to be there, and we shall have an
opportunity of concerting our future plans. Adieu.

AGNES.

'At perusing these lines my transports exceeded all
bounds; neither did I set any to the expressions of
gratitude which I heaped upon Theodore. In fact, his
address and attention merited my warmest praise. You
will readily believe that I had not entrusted him with my
passion for Agnes ; but the arch youth had too much dis-
cernment not to discover my secret, and too much discretion
not to conceal his knowledge of it. He observed in silence
what was going on, nor strove to make himself an agent
in the business till my interests required his interference.
I equally admired his judgment, his penetration, his address,
and his fidelity. This was not the first occasion in which
I had found him of infinite use, and I was every day more
convinced of his quickness and capacity. During my short
stay at Strasburg, he had applied himself diligently to
learning the rudiments of Spanish. He continued to study
it, and with so much success that he spoke it with the same
facility as his native language. He passed the greatest
part of his time in reading. He had acquired much

CHAPTER IV iiS

information for his age, and united the advantages of a
lively countenance and prepossessing figure to an excellent
understanding and the very best of hearts. He is now
fifteen ; he is still in my service ; and, when you see him,
I am sure that he will please you.— But excuse this
digression ; I return to the subject which I quitted. I
obeyed the instructions of Agnes. I proceeded to Munich ;
there I left my chaise under the care of Lucas, my French
servant, and then returned on horseback to a small village
about four miles distant from the castle of Lindenberg.
Upon arriving there, a story was related to the host at
whose inn I alighted which prevented his wondering at
my making so long a stay in his house. The old man,
fortunately, was credulous and incurious ; he believed all I
said, and sought to know no more than what I thought
proper to tell him. Nobody was with me but Theodore ;
both were disguised ; and, as we kept ourselves close, we
were not suspected to be other than what we seemed. In
this manner the fortnight passed away. During that time
I had the pleasing conviction that Agnes was once more
at liberty. She passed through the village with dame
Cunegonda; she seemed in good health and spirits, and
talked to her companion without any appearance of
constraint.

* Who are those ladies ? said I to my host, as the carriage
pasied.

' " Baron Lindenberg's niece, with her governess," he
replied ; " she goes regularly every Friday to the convent
of St. Catharine, in which she was brought up, and which
is situated about a mile from hence."

' You may be certain that I waited with impatience for
the ensuing Friday. I again beheld my lovely mistress.
She cast her eyes upon me as she passed the inn door. A
blush which overspread her cheek told me that in spite of
my disguise I had been recognized. I bowed profoundly.
She returned the compliment by a slight inclination of the
head, as if made to one inferior, and looked another way
till the carriage was out of sight.

'The long-expected, long-wished-for, night arrived. It
was calm, and the moon was at the full. As soon as the
clock struck eleven I hastened to my appointment,
determined not to be too late. Theodore had provided
a ladder; I ascended the garden wall without difficulty.

n6 THE MONK

The page followed me, and drew the ladder after us. 1
posted myself in the west pavilion, and waited impatiently
for the approach of Agnes. Every breeze that whispered,
every leaf that fell, I believed to be her footstep, and
hastened to meet her. Thus was I obliged to pass a
full hour, every minute of which appeared to me an age.
The castle bell at length tolled twelve, and scarcely could
I believe the night to be no farther advanced. Another
quarter of an hour elapsed, and I heard the light
foot of my mistress approaching the pavilion with pre-
caution. I new to receive her, and conducted her to a
seat ; I threw myself at her feet, and was expressing my
joy at seeing her, when she thus interrupted me :

' " We have no time to lose, Alphonso ; the moments are
precious ; for, though no more a prisoner, Cunegonda
watches my every step. An express is arrived from my
father; I must depart immediately for Madrid, and 'tis
with difficulty that I have obtained a week's delay. The
superstition of my parents, supported by the representations
of my cruel aunt, leaves me no hope of softening them to
compassion. In this dilemma I have resolved to commit
myself to your honour. God grant that you may never
give me cause to repent my resolution ! Flight is my only
resource from the horrors of a convent ; and my imprudence
must be excused by the urgency of the danger. Now listen
to the plan by which I hope to effect my escape.

' " We are now at the thirtieth of April. On the fifth
day from this the visionary nun is expected to appear. In
my last visit to the convent I provided myself with a dress
proper for the character. A friend whom I have left there,
and to whom I made no scruple to confide my secret,
readily consented to supply me with a religious habit.
Provide a carriage, and be with it at a little distance from
the great gate from the castle. As soon as the clock strikes
' one ' I shall quit my chamber, dressed in the same apparel
as the ghost is supposed to wear. Whoever meets me will
be too much terrified to oppose my escape ; I shall easily
reach the door, and throw myself under your protection.
Thus far success is certain ; but, oh ! Alphonso, should you
deceive me ; should you despise my imprudence, and
reward it with ingratitude, the world will not hold a being
more wretched than myself! I feel all the dangers to
which I shall be exposed. I feel that I am giving you a

CHAPTER IV 117

right to treat me with levity ; but I rely upon your love,
upon your honour ! The step which I am on the point of
taking will incense my relations against me. Should you
desert, should you betray the trust reposed in you, I shall
have no friend to punish your insult or support my cause.
On yourself alone rests all my hope; and, if your own
heart does not plead in my behalf, I am undone for ever ! "

' The tone in which she pronounced these words was so
touching that, in spite of my joy at receiving her promise
to follow me, I could not help being affected. I also
repined in secret at not having taken the precaution to
provide a carriage at the village ; in which case I might
have carried off Agnes that very night. Such an attempt
was now impracticable; neither carriage nor horses were
to be procured nearer Munich, which was distant from
Lindenberg two good days' journey. I was therefore
obliged to chime in with her plan, which in truth seemed
well arranged. Her disguise would secure her from being
stopped in quitting the castle, and would enable her to
step into the carriage at the very gate without difficulty
or losing time.

'Agnes reclined her head mournfully upon my shoulder,
and by the light of the moon I saw tears flowing down her
cheek. I strove to dissipate her melancholy, and encouraged
her to look forward to the prospect of happiness. I pro-
tested in the most solemn terms that her virtue and
innocence would be safe in my keeping ; and that, till the
church had made her my lawful wife, her honour should
be held by me as sacred as a sister's. I told her that my
first care should be to find you out, Lorenzo, and reconcile
you to our union ; and I was continuing to speak in the
same strain when a noise without alarmed me. Suddenly
the door of the pavilion was thrown open, and Cunegonda
stood before us. She had heard Agnes steal out of her
chamber, followed her into the garden, and perceived her
entering the pavilion.

'Favoured by the trees which shaded it and unper-
ceived by Theodore, who waited at a little distance, she
had approached in silence and overheard our whole
conversation.

' " Admirable ! " cried Cunegonda, in a voice shrill with
passion, while Agnes uttered a loud shriek. " By St.
Barbara, young lady, you have an excellant invention!

n8 THE MONK

You must personate the Bleeding Nun, truly ? What
impiety ! — what incredulity ! Marry, I have a good
mind to let you pursue your plan. When the real
ghost met you I warrant you would be in a pretty
condition ! Don Alphortto, you ought to be ashamed of
yourself for seducing a young ignorant creature to leave
her family and friends ; however, for this time, at least,
I shall mar your wicked designs ; the noble lady shall be
informed of the whole affair, and Agnes must defer playing
the spectre till a better opportunity. Farewell, Segnor. —
Donna Agnes, let me have the honour of conducting your
ghostship back to your apartment."

' She approached the sofa on which her trembling pupil
was seated, took her by the hand, and prepared to lead her
from the pavilion.

'I detained her, and strove by entreaties, soothing
promises, and flattery, to win her to my party; but,
finding all that I could say of no avail, I abandoned the
vain attempt.

' Your obstinacy must be its own punishment, said I ;
but one resource remains to save Agnes and myself, and I
shall not hesitate to employ it.

' Terrified at this menace, she again endeavoured to quit
the pavilion ; but I seized her by the wrist, and detained
her forcibly. At the same moment Theodore, who had
followed her into the room, closed the door, and prevented
her escape. I took the veil of Agnes ; I threw it round
the duenna's head, who uttered such piercing shrieks that,
in spite of our distance from the castle, I dreaded their
being heard. At length I succeeded in gagging her so
completely that she could not produce a single sound.
Theodore and myself with some difficulty next contrived
to bind her hands and feet with our handkerchiefs ; and I
advised Agnes to regain her chamber with all diligence. I
promised that no harm should happen to Ounegonda ; bade
her remember that on the fifth of May I should be in
waiting at the great gate of the castle, and took of her an
affectionate farewell. Trembling and uneasy, she had
scarce power enough to signify her consent to my plans,
and fled back to her apartment in disorder and confusion.

' In the meanwhile Theodore assisted me in carrying off
my antiquated prize. She was hoisted over the wall,
placed before me upon my horse like a portmanteau, and

CHAPTER IV 119

I galloped away with her from the castle of Lindenberg.
The unlucky duenna never had made a more disagreeable
journey in her life. She was jolted and shaken till she
was become little more than an animated mummy, not to
mention her fright when we war 1 3d through a small river
through which it was necessary to pass in order to regain
the village. Before we reached the inn I had already
determined how to dispose of the troublesome Cunegonda.
We entered the street in which the inn stood ; and, while
the page knocked, I waited at a little distance. The
landlord opened the door with a lamp in his hand.

' " Give me the light ", said Theodore " my master is
coming."

' He snatched the lamp hastily, and purposely let it fall
upon the ground. The landlord returned to the kitchen
to re-light the lamp, leaving the door open. I profited by
the obscurity, sprang from my horse with Cunegonda in
my arms, darted upstairs, reached my chamber unper-
ceived, and, unlocking the door of a spacious closet, stowed
her within it, and then turned the key. The landlord and
Theodore soon after appeared with lights ; the former
expressed himself surprised at my returning so late, but
asked no impertiment questions. He soon quitted the
room, and left me to exult in the success of my
undertaking.

' I immediately paid a visit to my prisoner. I strove to
persuade her submitting with patience to her temporary
confinement. My attempt was unsuccessful. Unable to
speak or move, she expressed her fury by her looks ; and,
except at meals, I never dared to unbind her or release her
from the gag. At such times I stood over her with a
drawn sword, and protested that, if she uttered a single
cry, I would plunge it in her bosom. As soon as she had
done eating, the gag was replaced. I was conscious that
this proceeding was cruel and could only be justified by
the urgency of circumstances. As to Theodore, he had no
scruples upon the subject, Cunegonda's captivity enter-
tained him beyond measure. During his abode in the
castle a continual warfare had been carried on between
him and the duenna ; and, now that he found his enemy
so absolutely in his power, he triumphed without mercy ;
he seemed to think of nothing but how to find out new
means of plaguing her. Sometimes he affected to pity her

120 THE MONK

misfortune ; then laughed at, abused, and mimicked her ;
he played her a thousand tricks, each more provoking
than the other; and amused himself by telling her that
her elopement must have occasioned much surprise at the
Baron's. This was in fact the case. No one except Agnes
could imagine what was become of dame Cunegonda.
Every hole and corner was searched for her, the ponds
were dragged, and the woods underwent a thorough
examination: still no dame Cunegonda made her appear-
ance ; Agnes kept the secret, and I kept the duenna : the
Baroness, therefore, remained in total ignorance respecting
the old woman's fate, but suspected her to have perished
by suicide. Thus passed away five days, during which I
had prepared everything necessary for my enterprise. On
quitting Agnes I had made it my first business to dispatch
a peasant with a letter to Lucas at Munich, ordering him
to take care that a coach and four should arrive about ten
o'clock on the fifth of May at the village of Rosenwald.
He obeyed my instructions punctually; the equipage
arrived at the time appointed.

'As the period of her lady's elopement drew nearer,
Cunegonda's rage increased. I verily believe that spite
and passion would have killed her, had I not luckily
discovered her prepossession in favour of cherry-brandy.
With this favourite liquor she was plentifully supplied;
and, Theodore always remaining to guard her, the gag
was occasionally removed. The liquor seemed to have a
wonderful effect in softening the acrimony of her nature ;
and, her confinement not admitting of any other amuse-
ment, she got drunk regularly once a day, just by way of
passing the time.

' The fifth of May arrived — a period by me never to be
forgotten ! Before the clock struck twelve I betook
myself to the scene of action. Theodore followed me on
horseback. I concealed the carriage in a spacious cavern
of the hill on whose hrow the castle was situated. This
cavern was of considerable depth, and among the peasants
was known by the name of Lindenberg Hole. The night
was calm and beautiful ; the moonbeams fell upon the
ancient towers of the castle, and shed upon their summits
a silver light. All was still around me ; nothing was to be
heard except the night-breeze sighing among the leaves,
the distant barking of village dogs, or the owl who had

CHAPTER IV 121

established herself in a nook of the deserted eastern
turret. I heard her melancholy shriek, and looked
upwards; she sat upon the ridge of a window, which I
recognized to be that of the of the haunted room. This
brought to my remembrance the story of the Bleeding
Nun, and I signed while I reflected on the influence of
superstition and weakness of human reason. Suddenly I
heard a faint chorus steal upon the silence of the night.

' What can occasion that noise, Theodore ?

' " A stranger of distinction", replied he, " passed through
the village to-day in his way to the castle ; he is reported
to be the father of Donna Agnes ; doubtless the Baron has
given an entertainment to celebrate his arrival."

' The castle-bell announced the hour of midnight. This
was the usual signal for the family to retire to bed. Soon
after I perceived lights in the castle moving backwards
and forwards in different directions. I conjectured the
company to be separated. I could hear the heavy
doors grate as they opened with difficulty, and as
they closed again the rotten casements rattled in their
frames. The chamber of Agnes was on the other side of
the castle. I trembled lest she should have failed in
obtaining the key of the haunted room. Through this it
was necessary for her to pass in order to reach the narrow
staircase by which the ghost was supposed to descend into
the great hall. Agitated by this apprehension, I kept my
eyes constantly fixed upon the window, where I hoped to
perceive the friendly glare of a lamp borne by Agnes. I
now heard the massy gates unbarred. By the candle in
his hand I distinguished old Conrad, the porter. He set
the portal doors wide open, and retired. The lights in the
castle gradually disappeared, and at length the whole
building was wrapt in darkness.

' While I sat upon a broken rjjJge*of'lllm4*iiL the stillness
of the scene inspired me < Eith melanchol y ideas not
altogether unpleasing. The caslle, wnich stood full in my
sight, formed an object e qually awful and picturesqu e. Its
ponderous walls, tinged Dy she moon with solemn brightness;
its old and partly ruined towers, lifting themselves into
the clouds, and seeming to frown on the plains around
them; its lofty battlements, overgrown with ivy, and
folding gates, expanding in honour of the visionary
inhabitant; made me sensible of a sad and reverential

122 THE MONK

horror. Yet did not these sensations occupy me so fully
as to prevent me from witnessing with impatience the
slow progress of time. I approached the castle, and
ventured to walk round it. A few rays of light still
glimmered in the chamber of Agnes. I observed them
with joy. I was still gazing upon them when I perceived
a figure draw near the window, and the curtain was
carefully closed to conceal the lamp which burned there.
Convinced by this observation that Agnes had not
abandoned our plan, I returned with a light heart to my
former station.

' The half-hour struck ! — the three-quarters struck ! My
bosom beat high with hope and expectation. At length,
the wished -for sound was heard. The bell tolled 'one',
and the mansion echoed with the noise loud and solemn. —
I looked up to the casement of the haunted chamber.
Scarcely had five minutes elapsed when the expected
light appeared. I was now close to the tower. The
window was not so far from the ground, but that I fancied
I perceived a female figure with a lamp in her hand
moving slowly along the apartment. The light soon faded
away, and all was again dark and gloomy.

' Occasional gleams of brightness darted from the stair-
case windows as the lovely ghost passed by them. I traced
the light through the hall; it reached the portal, and at
length I beheld Agnes pass through the folding gates. She
was habited exactly as she had described the spectre. A
chaplet of beads hung upon her arm ; her head was
enveloped in a long white veil ; her nun's dress was
stained with blood ; and she had taken care to provide
herself with a lamp and dagger. She advanced towards
the spot where I stood. I flew to meet her, and clasped
her in my arms.

' Agnes ! said I, while I pressed her to my bosom :

Agnes ! Agnes ! thou art mine !

Agnea ! Agnes ! I am thine !

In my veins while blood shall roll,

Thou art mine !

I am thine ! —
"Thine my body ! thine my soul I

' Terrified and breathless, she was unable to speak. She
dropped her lamp and dagger, and sank upon my bosom in

CHAPTER IV 123

silence. I raised her in my arms, and conveyed her to the
carriage. Theodore remained behind in order to release
dame Cunegonda. I also charged him with a letter to the
Baroness, explaining the whole affair, and entreating her
good offices in reconciling Don Gaston to my union with
his daughter. I discovered to her my real name. I proved
to her that my birth and expectations justified my pretend-
ing to her niece ; and assured her, though it was out of my
power to return her love, that I would strive unceasingly
to obtain her esteem and friendship.

' I stepped into the carriage, where Agnes was already
seated. Theodore closed the door, and the postillions drove
away. At first, I was delighted with the rapidity of our
progress ; but as soon as we were in no danger of pursuit
I called to the drivers, and bade them moderate their pace.
They strove in vain to obey me; the horses refused to
answer the rein, and continued to rush on with astonishing
swiftness. The postillions redoubled their efforts to stop
them ; but, by kicking and plunging, the beasts soon
released themselves from this restraint. Uttering a loud
shriek, the drivers were hurled upon the ground. Immedi-
ately thick clouds obscured the sky; the winds howled
around us, the lightning flashed, and the thunder roared
tremendously. Never did I behold so frightful a tempest !
Terrified by the jar of contending elements, the horses
seemed every moment to increase their speed. Nothing
could interrupt their career; they dragged the carriage
through hedges and ditches, dashed down the most
dangerous precipices, and seemed to vie in swiftness with
the rapidity of the winds.

' All this while my companion lay motionless in my arms.
Truly alarmed by the magnitude of the danger, I was in
vain attempting to recall her to her senses when a loud
crash announced that a stop was put to our progress in the
most disagreeable manner. The carriage was shattered to
pieces. In falling I struck my temple against a flint. The
pain of the wound, the violence of' the shock, and appre-
hension for the safety of Agnes, combined to overpower
me so completely that my senses forsook me, and I lay
without animation on the ground.

'I probably remained for some time in this situation,
since, when I opened my eyes, it was broad daylight.
Several peasants were standing round me, and seemed

124 THE MONK

disputing whether my recovery was possible. I spoke
German tolerably well. As soon as I could utter an
articulate sound, I inquired after Agnes. What was my
surprise and distress when assured by the peasants that
nobody had been seen answering the description which I
gave of her ! They told me, that, in going to their daily
labour, they had been alarmed by observing the fragments
of my carriage and by hearing the groans of a horse, the
only one of the four which remained alive ; the other three
lay dead by my side. Nobody was near me when they
came up, and much time had been lost before they succeeded
in recovering me. Uneasy beyond expression respecting
the fate of my companion, I besought the peasants to
disperse themselves in search of her. I described her dress,
and promised immense rewards to whoever brought me any
intelligence. As for myself, it was impossible for me to
join in the pursuit ; I had broken two of my ribs in the
fall ; my arm, being dislocated, hung useless by my side ;
and my left leg was shattered so terribly that I never
expected to recover its use.

'The peasants complied with my request; all left me
except four, who made a litter of boughs, and prepared to
convey me to the neighbouring town. I inquired its name ;
it proved to be Ratisbon, and I could scarcely persuade,
myself that I had travelled to such a distance in a single
night. I told the countrymen that at one o'clock that
morning I had passed through the village of Rosenwald.
They shook their heads wistfully, and made signs to each
other that I must certainly be delirious. I was conveyed
to a decent inn, and immediately put to bed. A physician
was sent for, who set my arm with success; he then
examined my other hurts, and told me that I need be under
no apprehension of the consequences of any of them, but
ordered me to keep myself quiet and be prepared for a
tedious and painful cure. I answered him that, if he hoped
to keep me quiet, he must first endeavour to procure me
some news of a lady who had quitted Rosenwald in my
company the night before, and had been with me at the
moment when the coach broke down. He smiled, and
only replied by advising me to make myself easy, for that
all proper care should be taken of me. As he quitted me,
the hostess met him at the door of the room.

< " The gentleman is not quite in his right senses ", I

CHAPTER IV 125

heard him say to her in a low voice ; " 'tis the natural
consequence of his fall, but that will soon be over."

' One after another the peasants returned to the inn and
informed me that no traces had been discovered of my
unfortunate mistress. Uneasiness now became despair. I
entreated them to renew their search in the most urgent
terms, doubling the promises which I had already made
them. My wild and frantic manner confirmed the by-
standers in the idea of my being delirious. No signs of
the lady having appeared, they believed her to be a
creature fabricated by my overheated brain, and paid no
attention to my entreaties. However, the hostess assured
me that a fresh inquiry should be made; but I found
afterwards that her promise was only given to quiet me ;
no further steps were taken in the business.

' Though my baggage was left at Munich under the care
of my French servant, having prepared myself for a long
journey, my purse was amply furnished ; besides, my
equipage proved me to be of distinction, and in con-
sequence all possible attention was paid me at the inn.
The day passed away; still no news arrived of Agnes.
The anxiety of fear now gave place to despondency. I
ceased to rave about her, and was plunged in the depth of
melancholy reflections. Perceiving me to be silent and
tranquil, my attendants believed my delirium to have
abated, and that my malady had taken a favourable
turn. According to the physician's order, I swallowed a
composing medicine ; and as soon as the night shut in my
attendants withdrew and left me to repose.

' That repose I wooed in vain. The agitation of my
bosom chased away sleep. Restless in my mind, in spite
of the fatigue of my body I continued to toss about from
side to side till the clock in a neighbouring steeple struck
' one '. As I listened to the mournful hollow sound, and
heard it die away in the wind, I felt a sudden chillness
spread itself over my body. I shuddered without
knowing wherefore ; cold dews poured down my forehead,
and my hair stood bristling with alarm. Suddenly I heard
slow and heavy steps ascending the staircase By an
involuntary movement I started up in my bed, and drew
back the curtain. A single rush-light, which glimmered
upon the hearth, shed a faint gleam through the apartment,
which was hung with tapestry. The door was thrown

126 THE MONK

open with violence. A figure entered, and drew near my
bed with solemn measured steps. With trembling
apprehension I examined this midnight visitor. God
Almighty ! — It was the Bleeding Nun ! — it was my lost
companion ! Her face was still veiled, but she no longer
held her lamp and dagger. She lifted up her veil slowly.
What a sight presented itself to my startled eyes ! I
beheld before me an animated corpse. Her countenance
was long and haggard ; her cheeks and lips were bloodless ;
the paleness of death was spread over her features ; and
her eye-balls, fixed steadfastly upon me, were lustreless and
hollow.

I gazed upon the spectre with horror too great to be
described. My blood was frozen in my veins. I would
have called for aid, but the sound expired ere it could pass
my lips. My nerves were bound up in impotence, and I
remained in the same attitude inanimate as a statue.

' The visionary nun looked upon me for some minutes in
silence ; there was something petrifying in her regard.
At length, in a low sepulchral voice, she pronounced the
following words :

Raymond ! Raymond ! Thou art mine !
Raymond ! Raymond ! I am thine !
In thy veins while blood shall roll,

I am thine !

Thou art mine ! —
Mine thy body, mine thy soul !

' Breathless with fear, I listened while she repeated my
own expression. The apparition seated herself opposite to
me at the foot of the bed, and was silent. Her eyes were
fixed earnestly upon mine; they seemed endowed with
the property of the rattlesnake's, for I strove in vain to
look off her. My eyes were fascinated, and I had not the
power of withdrawing them from the spectre's.

'In this attitude she remained for a whole long hour,
without speaking or moving ; nor was I able to do either.
At length the clock struck two. The apparition rose
from her seat, and approached the side of the bed. She
grasped with her icy fingers my hand, which hung lifeless
upon the coverture, and, pressing her cold lips to mine,
again repeated :

Raymond ! Raymond I Thou art mine !
Raymond ! Raymond t I am thine t etc.

CHAPTER IV 127

'She then dropped my hand, quitted the chamber with
slow steps, and the door closed after her. Till that
moment the faculties of my body had been all suspended ;
those of my mind had alone been waking. The charm
now ceased to operate ; the blood which had been frozen
in my veins rushed back to my heart with violence; I
uttered a deep groan, and sank lifeless upon my pillow.

' The adjoining room was only separated from mine by
a thin partition ; it was occupied by the host and his wife ;
the former was roused by my groan, and immediately
hastened to my chamber ; the hostess soon followed him.
With some difficulty they succeeded in restoring me to my
senses, and immediately sent for the physician, who arrived
in all diligence. He declared my fever to be very much
increased, and that, if I continued to suffer such violent
agitation, he would not take upon him to ensure my life.
Some medicines which he gave me, in some degree
tranquillized my spirits: 1 fell into a sort of slumber
towards daybreak, but fearful dreams prevented me from
deriving any benefit from my repose. Agnes and the
Bleeding Nun presented themselves by turns to my fancy,
and combined to harass and torment me. I awoke fatigued
and unrefreshed. My fever seemed rather augmented
than diminished ; the agitation of my mind impeded my
fractured bones from knitting: I had frequent fainting
fits, and during the whole day the physician judged it
expedient not to quit me for two hours together.

' The singularity of my adventure made me determine
to conceal it from every one, since I could not expect
that a circumstance so strange should gain credit. I was
very uneasy about Agnes. I knew not what she would
think at not finding me at the rendezvous, and dreaded
her entertaining suspicions of my fidelity ; however, I
depended upon Theodore's discretion, and trusted that my
letter to the Baroness would convince her of the rectitude
of my intentions. These considerations somewhat
lightened my inquietude upon her account ; but the
impression left upon my mind by my nocturnal visitor
grew stronger with every succeeding moment. The night
drew near ; I dreaded its arrival ; yet I strove to persuade
myself that the ghost would appear no more, and at all
events I desired that a servant might sit up in my chamber.

The fatigue of my body, from not having slept on the

128 THE MONK

former night, co-operating with the strong opiates
administered to me in profusion, at length procured me
that repose of which I was so much in need. I sank into
a profound and tranquil slumber, and had already slept
for some hours when the neighbouring clock roused me
by striking 'one'. Its sound brought with it to my
memory all the horrors of the night before. The same
cold shivering seized me. I started up in my bed, and
perceived the servant fast asleep in an armchair near
me. I called him by his name : he made no answer. I
shook him forcibly by the arm, and strove in vain to
wake him : he was perfectly insensible to my efforts. I
now heard the heavy steps ascending the staircase; the
door was thrown open ; and again the Bleeding Nun
stood before me. Once more my limbs were chained in
second infancy; once more I heard those fatal words
repeated :

Raymond ! Raymond ! Thou art mine !
Raymond ! Raymond ! I am thine ! etc.

'The scene which had shocked me so sensibly on the
former night was again presented. The spectre again
pressed her lips to mine, again touched me with her
rotting fingers, and, as on her first appearance, quitted
the chamber as soon as the clock told 'two'.

'Every night was this repeated. Far from growing
accustomed to the ghost, every succeeding visit inspired
me with greater horror. Her idea pursued me contin-
ually, and I became the prey of habitual melancholy. The
constant agitation of my mind naturally retarded the
re-establishment of my health. Several months elapsed
before I was able to quit my bed ; and, when at length
I was moved to a sofa, I was so faint, spiritless, and
emaciated that I could not cross the room without
assistance. The looks of my attendants sufficiently
denoted the little hope which they entertained of my
recovery. The profound sadness which oppressed me
without remission made the physician consider me to be
an Ivypochondriac. The cause of my distress I carefully
concealed in my own bosom, for I knew that no one could
give me relief. The ghost was not even visible to any
eye but mine. I had frequently caused attendants to

CHAPTER IV 129

sit up in my room ; but the moment that the clock struck
'one' irresistible slumber seized them, nor left them till
the departure of the ghost.

' You may be surprised that during this time I made
no inquiries after your sister. Theodore, who with
difficulty had discovered my abode, had quieted my
apprehensions for her safety ; at the same time he con-
vinced me that all attempts to release her from captivity
must be fruitless, till I should be in a condition to return
to Spain. The particulars of her adventure, which I
shall now relate to you, were partly communicated to
me by Theodore, and partly by Agnes herself.

'On the fatal night when her elopement was to have
taken place, accident had not permitted her to quit her
chamber at the appointed time. At length she ventured
into the haunted room, descended the staircase leading
into the hall, found the gates open as she expected, and
left the castle unobserved. What was her surprise at not
finding me ready to receive her ! She examined the
cavern, ranged through every alley of the neighbouring
wood, and passed two full hours in this fruitless inquiry.
She could discover no traces either of me or of the carriage.
Alarmed and disappointed, her only resource was to return
to the castle before the Baroness missed her ; but here she
found herself in a fresh embarrassment. The bell had
already tolled ' two ', the ghostly hour was passed, and the
careful porter had locked the folding gates. After much
irresolution, she ventured to knock softly. Luckily for
her, Conrad was still awake ; he heard the noise, and rose,
murmuring at being called up a second time. No sooner
had he opened one of the doors and beheld the supposed
apparition waiting there for admittance than he uttered a
loud cry, and sank upon his knees. Agnes profited by his
terror ; she glided by him, flew to her own apartment, and,
having thrown off her spectre's trappings, retired to bed,
endeavouring in vain to account for my disappearing.

'In the meanwhile Theodore, having seen my carriage
drive off with the false Agnes, returned joyfully to the
village. The next morning he released Cunegonda from
ber confinement, and accompanied her to the castle. There
he found the Baron, his lady, and Don Gaston, disputing
together upon the porter's relation. All of them agreed
in believing the existence of spectres; but the latter

130 THE MONK

contended that for a ghost to knock for admittance was
a proceeding till then unwitnessed and totally incompatible
with the immaterial nature of a spirit. They were still
discussing the subject when the page appeared with
Cunegonda, and cleared up the mystery. On hearing
his deposition it was agreed unanimously that the Agnes
whom Theodore had seen step into my carriage must have
been the Bleeding Nun, and that the ghost who had
terrified Conrad was no other than Don Gaston's daughter.

'The first surprise which this discovery occasioned being
over, the Baroness resolved to make it of use in persuading
her niece to take the veil. Fearing lest so advantageous
an establishment for his daughter should induce Don
Gaston to renounce his resolution, she suppressed my
letter, and continued to represent me as a needy unknown
adventurer. A childish vanity had led me to conceal my
real name even from my mistress ; I wished to be loved
for myself, not for being the son and heir of the Marquis
de las Cisternas. The consequence was that my rank was
known to no one in the castle except the Baroness, and
she took good care to confine the knowledge to her own
breast. Don Gaston having approved his sister's design,
Agnes was summoned to appear before them. She was
taxed with having meditated an elopement, obliged to
make a full confession, and was amazed at the gentleness
with which it was received ; but what was her affliction
when informed that the failure of her project must be
attributed to me! Cunegonda, tutored by the Baroness,
told her, that, when I released her, I had desired her to
inform her lady that our connexion was at an end ; that
the whole affair was occasioned by a false report; and that
it by no means suited my circumstances to marry a woman
without fortune or expectations.

' To this account my sudden disappearing gave but too
great an air of probability. Theodore, who could have
contradicted the story, by Donna Eodolpha's order was
kept out of her sight. What proved a still greater con-
firmation of my being an impostor was the arrival of a
letter from yourself, declaring that you had no sort of
acquaintance with Alphonso d'Alavrada. These seeming
proofs of my perfidy, aided by the artful insinuations of
her aunt, by Cunegonda's flattery and her father's threats
and anger, entirely conquered your sister's repugnance to

CHAPTER IV 131

a convent. Incensed at my behaviour and disgusted with
the world in general, she consented to receive the veil.
She passed another month at the castle of Lindenberg,
during which my non-appearance confirmed her in her
resolution ; and then accompanied Don Gaston into Spain.
Theodore was now set at liberty. He hastened to Munich,
where I had promised to let him hear from me; but,
finding from Lucas that I never arrived there, he pursued
his search with indefatigable perseverance, and at length
succeeded in rejoining me at Ratisbon.

'So much was I altered that scarcely could he recollect
my features; the distress visible upon his, sufficiently
testified how lively was the interest which he felt for me.
The society of this amiable boy, whom I had always con-
sidered rather as a companion than a servant, was now my
only comfort. His conversation was gay, yet sensible, and
his observations shrewd and entertaining. He had picked
up much more knowledge than is usual at his age ; but
what rendered him most agreeable to me was his having
a delightful voice and no mean skill in music. He had
also acquired some taste in poetry, and even ventured
occasionally to write verses himself. He frequently com-
posed little ballads in Spanish. His compositions were but
indifferent, I must confess, yet they were pleasing to me
from their novelty; and hearing him sing them to his
guitar was the only amusement which I was capable of
receiving. Theodore perceived well enough that something
preyed upon my mind; but, as I concealed the cause of
my grief even from him, respect would not permit him to
pry into my secrets.

'One evening I was lying upon my sofa, plunged in
reflections very far from agreeable ; Theodore amused
himself by observing from the window a battle between
two postillions, who were quarrelling in the inn-yard.

' " Ha ! ha ! " cried he suddenly ; " yonder is the Great
Mogul."

'"Who?" said I.

"'Only a man who made me a strange speech at
Munich."

' " What was the purport of it ? "

' " Now you put me in mind of it, Segnor, it was a kind
of message to you, but truly it was not worth delivering.
I believe the fellow to be mad, for my part. When I

132 THE MONK

came to Munich in search of you, I found him living at
' The King of the Romans ', and the host gave me an odd
account of him. By his accent he is supposed to be a
foreigner, but of what country nobody can tell. He
seemed to have no acquaintance in the town, spoke very
seldom, and never was seen to smile. He had neither
servants nor baggage, but his purse seemed well furnished,
and he did much good in the town. Some supposed him
to be an Arabian astrologer, others to be a travelling
mountebank, and many declared that he was Doctor
Faustus, whom the devil had sent back to Germany. The
landlord, however, told me, that he had the best reasons
to believe him to be the Great Mogul incognito."

' " But the strange speech, Theodore — "

' " True, I had almost forgotten the speech ; indeed, for
that matter, it would not have been a great loss if I had
forgotten it altogether. You are to know, Segnor, that,
while I was inquiring about you of the landlord, this
stranger passed by. He stopped, and looked at me
earnestly.

'"Youth", said he, in a solemn voice, "he whom you
seek has found that which he would fain lose. My hand
alone can dry up the blood. Bid your master wish for
me when the clock strikes ' one ' ".

'" How ? " cried I, starting from my sofa ; the words which
Theodore had repeated seemed to imply the stranger's
knowledge of my secret : Fly to him, my boy ! Entreat
him to grant me one moment's conversation.

' Theodore was surprised at the vivacity of my manner ;
however, he asked no questions, but hastened to obey me.
I waited his return impatiently. But a short space of
time had elapsed when he again appeared and ushered
the expected guest into my chamber. He was a man
of majestic presence ; his countenance was strongly
marked, and his eyes were large, black, and sparkling;
yet there was a something in his look which, the moment
that I saw him, inspired me with a secret awe, not to say
horror. He was dressed plainly, his hair hung wildly
upon his brow, and a band of black velvet which encircled
his forehead spread over his features an additional gloom.
His countenance wore the marks of profound melancholy,
his step was slow, and his manner grave, stately, and
solemn.

CHAPTER IV 133

' He saluted me with politeness ; and, having replied to
the usual compliments of introduction, he motioned to
Theodore to quit the chamber. The page instantly
withdrew.

'"I know your business " said he, without giving me
time to speak. " I have the power of releasing you from
your nightly visitor; but this cannot be done before
Sunday. On the hour when the sabbath morning breaks
spirits of darkness have least influence over mortals.
After Saturday the nun shall visit you no more."

' " May I not inquire ", said I, " by what means you are
in possession of a secret which I have carefully concealed
from the knowledge of every one ? "

' " How can I be ignorant of your distresses, when their
cause at this moment stands beside you ? "

' I started. The stranger continued.

' " Though to you only visible for one hour in the
twenty-four, neither day or night does she ever quit you ;
nor will she ever quit you till you have granted her
request."

' " And what is that request ? "

' " That she must herself explain : it lies not in my
knowledge. Wait with patience for the night of
Saturday ; all shall be then cleared up."

' I dared not press him further. He soon after changed
the conversation, and talked of various matters. He
named people who had ceased to exist for many centuries
and yet with whom he appeared to have been personally
acquainted. I could not mention a country, however
distant, which he had not visited, nor could I sufficiently
admire the extent and variety of his information. 1
remarked to him that having travelled, seen, and known
so much must have given him infinite pleasure. He shook
his head mournfully.

'"No one", he replied, "is adequate to comprehending
the misery of my lot;vFate obliges me to be constantly in"
movement; 1 am not permitted to pass more than a
fortnight in the same place. I have no friend in the
world, and, from the restlessness of my destiny, I never
can acquire one. Fain would I lay down my miserable
life, for I envy those who enjoy the quiet of the grave ;
but death eludes me, and flies from my embrace. In vain
do I throw myself in the way of danger. I plunge into

134 THE MONK

the ocean ; the waves throw me back with abhorrence
upon the shore : I rush into fire ; the flames recoil at
my approach : I oppose myself to the fury of banditti ;
their swords become blunted and break against my breast.
The hungry tiger shudders at my approach, and the
alligator flies from a monster more horrible than itself.
God has set his seal upon me, and all his creatures respect
this fatal mark."

' He put his hand to the velvet which was bound round
his forehead. There was in his eyes an expression of fury,
despair, and malevolence that struck horror to my very
soul. An involuntary convulsion made me shudder. The
stranger perceived it.

' " Such is the curse imposed on me " he continued ; " I
am doomed to inspire all who look on me with terror and
detestation. You already feel the influence of the charm,
and with every succeeding moment will feel it more. I
will not add to your sufferings by my presence. Farewell
till Saturday ! As soon as the clock strikes twelve expect
me at your chamber-door."

' Having said this, he departed, leaving me in astonish-
ment at the mysterious turn of his manner and conversation.
His assurances that I should soon be relieved from the
apparition's visit produced a good effect upon my constitu-
tion. Theodore, whom I rather treated as an adopted
child than a domestic, was surprised at his return to
observe the amendment in my looks. He congratulated
me on this symptom of returning health, and declared
himself delighted at my having received so much benefit
from my conference with the Great Mogul. Upon inquiry
I found that the stranger had already passed eight days
in Ratisbon: according to his own account, therefore, he
was only to remain there six days longer ; Saturday was
still at the distance of three. Oh, with what impatience
did I expect its arrival ! In the interim the Bleeding Nun
continued her nocturnal visits ; but, hoping soon to be
released from them altogether, the effects which they
produced on me became less violent than before.

' The wished-for night arrived. To avoid creating
suspicion I retired to bed at my usual hour. But, as soon
as my attendants had left me, I dressed myself again,
and prepared for the stranger's reception. He entered my
room upon the turn of midnight. A small chest was ia

CHAPTER IV 135

bis hand, which he placed near the stove. He saluted me
without speaking ; I returned the compliment, observing
an equal silence. He then opened his chest.

' The first thing which he produced was a small wooden
crucifix ; he sank upon his knees, gazed upon it mournfully,
and cast his eyes towards heaven. He seemed to be
praying devoutly. At length he bowed his head respect-
fully, kissed the crucifix thrice, and quitted his kneeling
posture. He next drew from the chest a covered goblet ;
with the liquor which it contained, and which appeared to
be blood, he sprinkled the floor ; and then, dipping it in
one end of the crucifix, he described a circle in the middle
of the room. Round about this he placed various reliques,
sculls, thigh-bones, etc. I observed then he disposed them
all in the forms of crosses. Lastly, he took out a large
Bible, and beckoned me to follow him into the circle. I
obeyed.

' " Be cautious not to utter a syllable ! " whispered the
stranger ; " step not out of the circle ; and, as you love
yourself, dare not to look upon my face ! "

'Holding the crucifix in one hand, the Bible in the
other, he seemed to read with profound attention. The
clock struck ' one ' ! As usual, I heard the spectre's steps
upon the staircase, but I was not seized with the accustomed
shivering. I waited her approach with confidence. She
entered the room, drew near the circle, and stopped. The
stranger muttered some words, to me unintelligible. Then
raising his head from the book, and extending the crucifix
towards the ghost, he pronounced, in a voice distinct and
solemn :

' " Beatrice ! Beatrice ! Beatrice ! "

' " What wouldst thou ? " replied the apparition, in a
hollow faltering tone.

' " What disturbs thy sleep ? Why dost thou afflict and
torture this youth ? How can rest be restored to thy
unquiet spirit?"

' " I dare not tell ! I must not tell ! Fain would I
repose in my grave, but stern commands force me to
prolong my punishment ! '

' " Knowest thou this blood ? Knowest thou in whose
veins it flowed ? Beatrice ! Beatrice ! In his name, I
charge thee to answer me."

( " I dare not disobey my taskers,"

136 THE MONK

'- " Darest thou disobey me?"

' He spoke in a commanding tone, and drew the sable
band from. his forehead. In spite of his injunctions to the
contrary, curiosity would not suffer me to keep my eyes off
his face ; I raised them, and beheld a burning cross im-
pressed upon his brow. For the horror with which this
object inspired me I cannot count, but I never felt its
equal. My senses left me for some moments ; a mysterious
dread overcame my courage ; and, had not the exorcizer
caught my hand, I should have fallen out of the circle.

' When I recovered myself, I perceived that the burning
cross had produced an effect no less violent upon the spectre.
Her countenance expressed reverence and horror, and her
visionary limbs were shaken by fear.

' " Yes ! " she said at length ; " I tremble at that mark !
I respect it ! I obey you ! Know then, that my bones lie
still unburied ; they rot in the obscurity of Lindenberg
Hole. None but this youth has the right of consigning
them to the grave. His own lips have made over to me
his body and his soul ; never will I give back his promise,
never shall he know a night devoid of terror, unless he
engages to collect my mouldering bones, and deposit them
in the family vault of his Andalusian castle. Then let
thirty masses be said for the repose of my spirit ; and I
trouble this world no more. Now let me depart. Those
flames are scorching ! "

' He let the hand drop slowly which held the
crucifix and which till then he had pointed towards her.
The apparition bowed her head, and her form melted into
air. The exorcizer led me out of the circle. He replaced
the Bible etc. in the chest ; and then addressed himself to
me, who stood near him speechless from astonishment.

' " Don Raymond, you have heard the conditions on which
repose is promised you : be it your business to fulfil them
to the letter. For me nothing more remains than to clear
up the darkness still spread over the spectre's history, and
inform you that, when living Beatrice, bore the name of
las Cisternas. She was the great aunt of your grand-
father. In quality of your relation, her ashes demand
respect from you, though the enormity of her crimes must
excite your abhorrence. The nature of those crimes no
one is more capable of explaining to you than myself. I
was personally acquainted with the holy man who

CHAPTER IV 137

proscribed her nocturnal riots in the castle of LindenbeFg,
and I hold this narrative from his own lips. .,>_., ■, .... "

'"^Beatrice de las Cisternas took the veil at an early
age ;""b.of by her own choice, but at the express, command
*of"hefi;paEents — 'She was then too young to regret the
pleasures of which her profession deprived her ; but no
sooner did her warm and voluptuous character begin to be
developed than she abandoned berself freely to the impulse
of her passions, and seized the first opportunity to procure
their gratification. This opportunity was at length
presented, after many obstacles which only added new
force to her desires. She contrived to elope from the
convent, and fled to Germany with the Baron Lindenberg.
She lived at his castle several months as his avowed
concubine. All Bavaria was scandalized by her impudent
and abandoned conduct. Her feasts vied in luxury with
Cleopatra's, and Lindenberg became the theatre of the
most unbridled debauchery. Not satisfied with displaying
the incontinence of a prostitute, she professed herself an
atheist ; she took every opportunity to scoff at her
monastic vows, and loaded with ridicule the most sacred
ceremonies of religion.

'"Possessed of a character so depraved, she did not long
confine her affections to one object. Soon after her arrival
at the castle the Baron's younger brother attracted her
notice by his strong-marked features, gigantic stature, and
herculean limbs. She was not of an humour to keep her
inclination long unknown ; but she found in Otto von
Lindenberg her equal in depravity. He returned her
passion just sufficiently to increase it ; and, when he had
worked it up to the desired pitch, he fixed the price of his
love at his brother's murder. The wretch consented to
this horrible agreement. A night was pitched upon for
perpetrating the deed. Otto, who resided on a small
estate a few miles distant from the castle, promised that
at one in the morning he would be waiting for her at
Lindenberg Hole ; that he would bring with him a party
of chosen friends, by whose aid he doubted not being able
to make himself master of the castle ; and that his next
step should be the uniting her hand to his. It was this
last promise which overruled every scruple of Beatrice ;
since, in spite of his affection for her, the Baron had
declared positively that he never would make her his wife.

138 THE MONK

' " The fatal night arrived. The Baron slept in the
arms of his perfidious mistress, when the castle bell struck
' one '. Immediately Beatrice drew a dagger from under-
neath her pillow, and plunged it in her paramour's heart.
The Baron uttered a single dreadful groan, and expired.
The murderess quitted her bed hastily, took a lamp in one
hand, in the other the bloody dagger, and bent her course
towards the cavern. The porter dared not to refuse
opening the gates to one more dreaded in the castle than
its master. Beatrice reached Lindenberg Hole unopposed,
where, according to promise, she found Otto waiting for
her. He received, and listened to her narrative with
transport ; but, ere she had time to ask why he came
unaccompanied, he convinced her that he wished for no
witnesses to their interview. Anxious to conceal his
share in the murder, and to free himself from a woman
whose violent and atrocious character made him tremble
with reason for his own safety, he had resolved on the
destruction of his wretched agent. Rushing upon her
suddenly, he wrested the dagger from her hand. He
plunged it still reeking with his brother's blood in her
bosom, and put an end to her existence by repeated blows.

'"Otto now succeeded to the barony of Lindenberg.
The murder was attributed solely to the fugitive nun, and
no one suspected him to have persuaded her to the action.
But, though his crime was unpunished by man, God's
justice permitted him not to enjoy in peace his blood-
stained honours. Her bones lying still unburied in the
cave, the restless soul of Beatrice continued to inhabit the
castle. Dressed in her religious habit, in memory of her
vows broken to heaven, furnished with the dagger which
had drank the blood of her paramour, and holding the
lamp which had guided her flying steps, every night did
she stand before the bed of Otto. The most dreadful
confusion reigned through the castle.- The vaulted
chambers resounded with shrieks and groans ; .and the
spectre, as she ranged along the antique galleries, uttered
an incoherent mixture of prayers and blasphemies. Otto
was unable to withstand the shock which he felt at this
fearful vision ; its horrors increased with every succeeding
appearance. His alarm at length became so insupportable
that his heart burst ; and one morning he was found in
his bed totally deprived of warmth and animation. His

CHAPTER IV 139

deffth did not put an end to the nocturnal riots. The
bones of Beatrice continued to lie unburied, and her ghost
continued to haunt the castle.

'"The domains of Lindenberg now fell to a distant
relation. But, terrified by the accounts given him of the
Bleeding Nun (so was the spectre called by the multitude),
the new Baron called to his assistance a celebrated exorcizer.
This holy man succeeded in obliging her to temporary
repose ; but, though she discovered to him her history, he
was not permitted to reveal it to others, or cause her
skeleton to be removed to hallowed ground. That office
was reserved for you ; and till your coming her ghost was
doomed to wander about the castle and lament the crime
which she had there committed. However, the exorcizer
obliged her to silence during his lifetime. So long as he
existed, the haunted chamber was shut up and the spectre
was invisible. At his death, which happened in five years
after, she again appeared, but only once on every fifth
year, on the same day and at the same hour when she
plunged her knife in the heart of her sleeping lover ; she
then visited the cavern which held her mouldering skeleton,
returned to the castle as soon as the clock struck two, and
was seen no more till the next five years had elapsed.

'"She was doomed to suffer during the space of a
century. That period is past. Nothing now remains, but
to consign to the grave the ashes of Beatrice. I have been
the means of releasing you from your visionary tormentor ;
and, amidst all the sorrows which oppress me, to think
that I have been of use to you, is some consolation. Youth,
farewell ! May the ghost of your relation enjoy that rest
in the tomb which tto AJmighty's .vengeance has denied to--
.- me ^g r_£asjvT"*~
" 'Here the stranger prepared to quit the apartment.

' Stay yet one moment ! said I ; you have satisfied my
curiosity with regard to the spectre, but you leave me a
prey to yet greater respecting yourself. Deign to inform
me to whom I am under such real obligations. You
mention circumstances long past, and people long dead:
you were personally acquainted with the exorcizer, who,
by your own account, has been deceased near a century.
How am I to account for this ? What means that burning
cross upon your forehead, and why did the sight of it
strike such horror to my soul ?

140 THE MONK

' On these points he for some time refused to satisfy me.
At length, overcome by my entreaties, he consented to clear
up the whole on condition that I would defer his explana-
tion till the next day. With this request I was obliged to
comply, and he left me. In the morning, my first care was
to inquire after the mysterious stranger. Conceive my
disappointment when informed that he had quitted
Ratishon. I despatched messengers in pursuit of him, but
in vain. No traces of the fugitive were discovered. Since
that moment I never have heard any more of him, and 'tis
most probable that I never shall.'

Lorenzo here interrupted his friend's narrative : ' How ! '
said he ; ' you have never discovered who he was, or even
formed a guess ? '

' Pardon me,' replied the Marquis ; ' when I related this
adventure to my uncle, the Cardinal-duke, he told me, that
he had no doubt of this singular man's being the celebrated
character known universally by the name of The Wander-
ing Jew. His not being permitted to pass more than
fourteen days on the same spot, the burning cross impressed
upon his forehead, the effect which it produced upon the
beholders, and many other circumstances, gave this sup-
position the colour of truth. The Cardinal is fully
persuaded of it; and, for my own part, I am inclined
to adopt the only solution which offers itself to this
riddle. — I return to the narrative from which I have
digressed.

' From this period I recovered my health so rapidly as
to astonish my physicians. The Bleeding Nun appeared
no more, and I was soon able to set out for Lindenberg.
The Baron received me with open arms. I confided to him
the sequel of my adventure ; and he was not a little pleased
to find that his mansion would be no longer troubled with
the phantom's quinquennial visits. I was sorry to perceive
that absence had not weakened Donna Rodolpha's imprudent
passion. In a private conversation which I had with, her
during my short stay at the castle she renewed her attempts
to persuade me to return her affection. Regarding her as
the primary cause of all my sufferings, I entertained for
her no other sentiment than disgust. The skeleton of
Beatrice was found in the place which she had mentioned.
This being all that I sought at Lindenberg, I hastened to
quit the Baron's domains, equally anxious to perform the

CHAPTER IV 141

obsequies of the murdered nun and escape the importunity
of a woman whom I detested. I departed, followed by
Donna Rodolpha's menaces that my contempt should not
be long unpunished.

I now bent my course towards Spain with all diligence,
Lucas, with my baggage had joined me during my abode
at Lindenberg. I arrived in my native country without
any accident, and immediately proceeded to my father's
castle in Andalusia. The remains of Beatrice were
deposited in the family vault, all due ceremonies performed,
and the number of masses said which she had required.
Nothing now hindered me from employing all my
endeavours to discover the retreat of Agnes. The Baroness
had assured me that her niece had already taken the veil ;
this intelligence I suspected to have been forged by
jealousy, and hoped to find my mistress still at liberty to
accept my hand. I inquired after her family ; I found
that before her daughter could reach Madrid, Donna
Inesilla was no more : you, my dear Lorenzo, were said to
be abroad, but where I could not discover ; your father
was in a distant province on a visit to the Duke de Medina;
and, as to Agnes, no one could or would inform me what
was become of her. Theodore, according to promise, had
returned to Strasburg, where he found his grandfather
dead and Marguerite in possession of his fortune. All her
persuasions to remain with her were fruitless ; he quitted
her a second time, and followed me to Madrid. He exerted
himself to the utmost in forwarding my search ; but our
united endeavours were unattended by success. The
retreat which concealed Agnes remained an impenetrable
mystery, and I began to abandon all hopes of recovering
her.

' About eight months ago I was returning to my hotel in
a melancholy humour, having passed the evening at the
play-house. The night was dark, and I was unaccompanied.
Plunged in reflections which were far from being agreeable,
I perceived not that three men had followed me from the
theatre, till, on turning into an unfrequented street, they
all attacked me at the same time with the utmost fury. I
sprang back a few paces, drew my sword, and threw my
cloak over my left arm. The obscurity of the night was
in my favour. For the most part the blows of the assassins,
being aimed at random, failed to touch me. I at length

i 4 2 THE MONK

was fortunate enough to lay one of my adversaries at my
feet ; but before this I had already received so many
wounds and was so warmly pressed that my destruction
would have been inevitable, had not the clashing of swords
called a cavalier to my assistance. He ran towards me
with his sword drawn ; several domestics followed him
with torches. His arrival made the combat equal ; yet
would not the bravoes abandon their design till the servants
were on the point of joining us. They then fled away, and
we lost them in the obscurity.

' The stranger now addressed himself to me with polite-
ness, and inquired whether I was wounded. Faint with
the loss of blood, I could scarcely thank him for his
seasonable aid and entreat him to let some of his servants
convey me to the hotel de las Cisterhas. I no sooner
mentioned the name than he professed himself an acquaint-
ance of my father's, and declared that he would not permit
my being transported to such a distance before my wounds
had been examined. He added that his house was hard
by, and begged me to accompany him thither. His manner
was so earnest that I could not reject his offer; and,
leaning upon his arm, a few minutes brought me to the
porch of a magnificent hotel. /

' On entering the house an old grey-headed domestic
came to welcome my conductor ; he inquired when the
duke, his master, meant to quit the country, and was
answered that he would remain there yet some months.
My deliverer then desired the family surgeon to be
summoned without delay ; his orders were obeyed. I was
seated upon a sofa in a noble apartment ; and, my wounds
being examined, they were declared to be very slight. The
surgeon, however, advised me not to expose myself to the
night-air ; and the stranger pressed me so earnestly to
take a bed in his house that I consented to remain where I
was for the present.

' Being now left alone with my deliverer, I took the
opportunity of thanking him in more express terms than I
had done hitherto ; but he begged me to be silent upon the
subject.

' " I esteem myself happy ", said he, " in having had it in
my power to render you this little service ; and I shall
think myself eternally obliged to my daughter for detain-
ing me so late at the convent of St. Clare. The high

CHAPTER IV 143

esteem in which 1 have ever held the Marquis de las
Cisternas, though accident has not permitted our being so
intimate as I could wish, makes me rejoice in the oppor-
tunity of making his son's acquaintance. I am certain
that my brother, in whose house you now are, will lament
his not being at Madrid to receive you himself ; but, in the
duke's absence, I am master of the family, and may assure
you in his name that everything in the hotel de Medina is
perfectly at your disposal."

' Conceive my surprise, Lorenzo, at discovering in the
person of my preserver Don Gaston de Medina. It was
only to be equalled by my secret satisfaction at the
assurance that Agnes inhabited the convent of St. Clare.
This latter sensation was not a little weakened, when, in
answer to my seemingly indifferent questions, he told me
that his daughter had really taken the veil. I suffered not
my grief at this circumstance to take root in my mind ; I
nattered myself with the idea that my uncle's credit at the
court of Rome would remove this obstacle ; and that
without difficulty I should obtain for my mistress a
dispensation from her vows. Buoyed up with this hope, I
calmed the uneasiness of my bosom, and I redoubled my
endeavours to appear grateful for the attention, and pleased
with the society, of Don Gaston.

'A domestic now entered the room, and informed me
that the bravo whom I had wounded, discovered some
signs of life. I desired that he might be carried to my
father's hotel, and said that, as soon as he recovered his
voice, I would examine him respecting his reasons for
attempting my life. I was answered, that he was already
able to speak, though with difficulty. Don Gaston's
curiosity made him press me to interrogate the assassin in
his presence ; but this curiosity I was by no means inclined
to gratify. One reason was that, doubting from whence
the blow came, I was unwilling to place before Don Gaston's
eyes the guilt of a sister. Another was that I feared to be
recognised for Alphonso d'Alvarada, and precautions taken
in consequence to keep me from the sight of Agnes. To
avow my passion for his daughter, and endeavour to make
him enter into my schemes, what I knew of Don Gaston's
character convinced me would be an imprudent step ; and,
considering it to be essential that he should know me for
no other than the Conde" de las Cisternas, I was determined

144 THE MONK

not to let him hear the bravo's confession. I insinuated to
him that, as I suspected a lady to be concerned in the
business whose name might accidentally escape from the
assassin, it was necessary for me to examine the man in
private. Don Gaston's delicacy would not permit his
urging the point any longer, and in consequence the bravo
was conveyed to my hotel.

'The next morning I took leave of my host, who was to
return to the duke on the same day. My wounds had
been so trifling that, except being obliged to wear my arm
in a sling for a short time, I felt no inconvenience from the
night's adventure. The surgeon who examined the bravo's
wound declared it to be mortal ; he had just time to confess
that he had been instigated to murder me by the revengeful
Donna Eodolpha ; and expired in a few minutes after.

'All my thoughts were now bent upon getting to the
speech of my lovely nun. Theodore set himself to work,
and, for this time, with better success. He attacked the
gardener of St. Clare so forcibly with bribes and promises,
that the -old man was entirely gained over to my interest;
and it was settled that I should be introduced into the
convent in the character of his assistant. The plan was
put into execution without delay. Disguised in a common
habit, and a black patch covering one of my eyes, I was
presented to the lady prioress, who condescended to approve
of the gardener's choice. I immediately entered upon my
employment. Botany having been a favourite study with
me, I was by no means at a loss in my new station. For
some days I continued to work in the convent garden,
without meeting the object of my disguise ; on the fourth
morning I was more successful. I heard the voice of
Agnes, and was speeding towards the sound, when the
sight of the domina stopped me. I drew back with
caution, and concealed myself behind a thick clump of
trees.

' The prioress advanced, and seated herself with Agnes
on a bench at no great distance. I heard her, in an angry
tone, blame her companion's continual melancholy. She
told her that to weep the loss of any lover, in her situation,
was a crime ; but that to weep the loss of a faithless one
was folly and absurdity in the extreme. Agnes replied in
so low a voice that I could not distinguish her words,
but I perceived that she used terms of gentleness and

CHAPTER IV 145

submission. The conversation was interrupted by the arrival
of a young pensioner who informed the domina that she
was waited for in the parlour. The old lady rose, kissed
the cheek of Agnes, and retired. The new-comer remained.
Agnes spoke much to her in praise of somebody whom I
could not make out; but her auditor seemed highly
delighted and interested by the conversation. The nun
showed her several letters ; the other perused them with
evident pleasure, obtained permission to copy them, and
withdrew for that purpose, to my great satisfaction.

'No sooner was she out of sight than I quitted my
concealment. Fearing to alarm my lovely mistress, I
drew near her gently intending to discover myself by
degrees. But who for a moment can deceive the eyes of
love ? She raised her head at my approach, and recognized
me, in spite of my disguise, at a single glance. She rose
hastily from her seat with an exclamation of surprise, and
attempted to retire ; but I followed her, detained her, and
entreated to be heard. Persuaded of my falsehood, she ,
refused to listen to me, and ordered me positively to quit
the garden. It was now my turn to refuse. I protested
that, however dangerous might be the consequences, I
would not leave her till she had heard my justification. I
assured her that she had been deceived by the artifices of
her relations ; that I could convince her, beyond the power
of doubt, that my passion had been pure and disinterested ;
and I asked her what should induce me to seek her in the
convent, were I influenced by the selfish motives which my
enemies had ascribed to me.

' My prayers, my arguments, and vows not to quit her
till she had promised to listen to me, united to her fears
lest the nuns should see me with her to her natural
curiosity and to the affection which she still felt for me,
in spite of my supposed desertion, at length prevailed.
She told me that to grant my request at that moment
was impossible ; but she engaged to be in the same spot at
eleven that night, and to converse with me for the last
time. Having obtained this promise, I released her hand,
and she fled back with rapidity towards the convent.

'I communicated my success to my ally, the old
gardener ; he pointed out an hiding-place, where I might
shelter myself till night without fear of a discovery.
Thither I betook myself at the hour when I ought to have

146 THE MONK

retired with my supposed master, and waited impatiently
for the appointed time. The chillness of the night was in
my favour, since it kept the other nuns confined to their
cells. Agnes alone was insensible of the inclemency of the
air, and before eleven joined me at the spot which had
witnessed our former interview. Secure from interruption,
I related to her the true cause of my disappearing on the
fatal fifth of May; she was evidently much affected by
my narrative : when it was concluded, she confessed the
injustice of her suspicions, and blamed herself for having
taken the veil through despair at my ingratitude.

' " But now it is too late to repine ! " she added ; " the
die is thrown : I have pronounced my vows and dedicated
myself to the service of heaven. I am sensible how ill I
am calculated for a convent. My disgust at a monastic
life increases daily ; ennui and discontent are my constant
companions, and I will not conceal from you that the
passion which I formerly felt for one so near being my
husband is not yet extinquished in my bosom ; but we
must part! Insuperable barriers divide us from each
other, and on this side the grave we must never meet
again ! "

' I now exerted myself to prove that our union was not
so impossible as she seemed to think it. I vaunted to her
the Oardinal-duke of Lerma's influence at the court of
Rome. I assured her that I could easily obtain a dis-
pensation from her vows; and I doubted not but Don
Gaston would coincide with my views, when informed of
my real name and long attachment. Agnes replied that,
since I encouraged such a hope, I could know but little of
her father. Liberal and kind in every other respectsjjpefa
sliUon_for med the only stam jipop^his character.. TJpon
this head,~Tie was inflexible; he sacrtficecThis dearest
interests to his scruples, and would consider it an insult to
suppose him capable of authorising his daughter to break
her vows to heaven.

' But suppose, said I, interrupting her — suppose that he
should disapprove of our union : let him remain ignorant
of my proceedings till I have rescued you from the prison
in which you are now confined. Once my wife, you are
free from his authority. I need from him no pecuniary
assistance ; and, when he sees his resentment to be
unavailing, he will doubtless restore you to his favour.

CHAPTER IV 14;

But, let the worst happen ; should Don Gaston be irrecon-
cilable, my relations will vie with each other in making
you forget his loss, and you will find in my father a
substitute for the parent of whom I shall deprive you.

' " Don Raymond ", replied Agnes, in a firm and resolute
voice, "I love my father; he has treated me harshly in
this one instance ; but I have received from him, in every
other, so many proofs of love, that his affection is become
necessary to my existence. Were I to quit the convent, he
never would forgive me ; nor can I think that, on his
death-bed, he would leave me his curse, without shuddering
at the very idea. Besides, I am conscious myself, that my
vows are binding. Wilfully did I contract my engagement
with heaven : I cannot break it without a crime. Then
banish from your mind the idea of our being ever united.
I am devoted to religion ; and however I may grieve at
our separation, I would oppose obstacles myself to what I
feel would render me guilty."

' I strove to overrule these ill-grounded scruples. We
we were still disputing upon the subject, when the convent
bell summoned the nuns to matins. Agnes was obliged to
attend them ; but she left me not till I had compelled her
to promise, that on the following night she would be at the
same place at the same hour. These meetings continued
for several weeks uninterrupted ; and 'tis now, Lorenzo,
that I must implore your indulgence. Reflect upon our
situation, our youth, our long attachment. Weigh all the
circumstances which attended our assignations, and you
will confess the temptation to have been irresistible ; you
will even pardon me when I acknowledge that in an
un guarded m oment the honour of Agnes was sacrificed to
"Tny passion?™™ T ", , , ; ""

Lorenzo s-^yes^ sparkled with fury; a deep crimson
spread itself over his face : he started from his seat, and
attempted to draw his sword. The Marquis was aware
of his movement, and caught his hand : he pressed it
affectionately :

' My friend ! my brother ! — hear me to the conclusion !
Till then restrain your passion ; and be at least convinced
that if what I have related is criminal, the blame must fall
upon me, and not upon your sister.'

Lorenzo suffered himself to be prevailed upon by Don
Raymond's entreaties ; he resumed his place r and listened

148 THE MONK

to the rest of the narrative with a gloomy and impatient
countenance. The Marquis thus continued :

' Scarcely was the first burst of passion past, when Agnes,
recovering herself, started from my arms with horror.
She called me infamous seducer, loaded me with the
bitterest reproaches, and beat her bosom in all the wildness
of delirium. Ashamed of my imprudence, I with difficulty
found words to excuse myself. I endeavoured to console
her ; I threw myself at her feet, and entreated her forgive-
ness. She forced her hand from me, which I had taken
and would have pressed to my lips.

' " Touch me not ! " she cried, with a violence which
terrified me. " Monster of perfidy and ingratitude, how
have I been deceived in you ! I looked upon you as my
friend, my protector : I trusted myself in your hands with
confidence, and relying upon your honour, thought that
mine ran no risk ; and 'tis by you, whom I adored, that I
am covered with infamy ! — 'tis by you that I have been
seduced into breaking my vows to God, that I am reduced
to a level with the basest of my sex ! Shame upon you,
villain ! you shall never see me more ! "

' She started from the bank on which she was seated. I
endeavoured to detain her; but she disengaged herself
from me with violence, and took refuge in the convent.

' I retired, filled with confusion and inquietude. The
next morning I failed not, as usual, to appear in the garden;
but Agnes was nowhere to be seen. At night I waited for
her at the place where we generally met. I found no
better success. Several days and nights passed away in
the same manner. At length I saw my offended mistress
cross the walk, on whose borders I was working ; she was
accompanied by the same young pensioner, on whose arm
she seemed, from weakness, obliged to support herself. She
looked upon me for a moment, but instantly turned her
head away. I waited her return ; but she passed on to
the convent without paying any attention to me, or the
penitent looks with which I implored her forgiveness.

'As soon as the nuns were retired, the old gardener
joined me with a sorrowful air.

' " Segnor ", said he, " it grieves me to say, that I can be
no longer of use to you ; the lady whom you used to meet
has just assured me that, if I admitted you again into the
garden, she would discover the whole business to the lady

CHAPTER IV 149

prioress. She bade me tell you also that your presence
was an insult, and that, if you still possess the least respect
for her, you will never attempt to see her more. Excuse
me then for informing you that I can favour your disguise
no longer. Should the prioress be acquainted with my
conduct, she might not be contented with dismissing me
her service ; out of revenge, she might accuse me of having
profaned the convent, and cause me to be thrown into the
prisons of the Inquisition."

' Fruitless were my attempts to conquer his resolution.
He denied me all future entrance into the garden, and
Agnes persevered in neither letting me see or hear from
her. In about a fortnight after a violent illness which
had seized my father obliged me to set out for Andalusia.
I hastened thither, and, as I imagined, found the Marquis
at the point of death. Though on its first appearance his
complaint was declared mortal, he lingered out several
months, during which my attendance upon him in his
malady, and the occupation of settling his affairs after his
decease, permitted not my quitting Andalusia. Within
these four days I returned to Madrid, and, on arriving at my -
hotel, I there found this letter waiting for me.'

Here the Marquis unlocked a drawer of a cabinet ; he
took out a folded paper, which he presented to his auditor.
Lorenzo opened it, and recognized his sister's hand. The
contents were as follows:

Into what an abyss of misery have you plunged me ! Eaymond,
you force me to become as criminal as yourself. I had resolved never
to see you more ; if possible, to forget you ; if not, only to remember
you with hate. A being for whom I already feel a mother's tender-
ness solicits me to pardon my seducer, and apply to his love for the
means of preservation. Ray mondj. your child lives, in my bosom.
I tremble at the vengeance bTEhe"prioress. I tremble much for myself,
ye.t more for the innocent creature whose existence depends upon mine.
Both of us are lost, should my situation be discovered. Advise me,
then, what steps to take, but seek not to see me. The gardener, who
undertakes to deliver this, is dismissed, and we have nothing to hope
from that quarter. The man engaged in his place is of incorruptible
fidelity. The best means of conveying to me your answer is by con-
cealing it under the great statue of St. Francis, which stands in the
Capuchin cathedral ; thither I go every Thursday to confession, and
shall easily have an opportunity of securing your letter. I hear that
you are now absent from Madrid. Need I entreat you to write the
very moment of your return ? I will not think it. Ah! Raymond, mine
is a cruel situation ! Deceived by my nearest relations, compelled to
embrace a profession the duties of which I am ill calculated to perform,

150 THE MONK

conscious of the sanctity of those duties, and seduced into violating
them by one whom I least suspected of perfidy, I am now obliged by
circumstances to choose between death and perjury. Woman's
timidity, and maternal affection, permit me not to balance in the
choice. I feel all the guilt into which I plunge myself, when I yield
to the plan which you before proposed to me. My poor father's
death, which has taken place since we met, has removed one obstacle.
He sleeps in his grave, and I no longer dread his anger. But from the
anger of God — on, Raymond ! who shall shield me ? Who can protect
me against my conscience, against myself? I dare not dwell upon
these thoughts; they will drive me mad. I have taken my resolution.
Procure a dispensation from my vows. I am ready to fly with you.
Write to me, my husband ! Tell me that absence has not abated
your love ! Tell me that you will rescue from death your unborn
child, and its unhappy mother. I live in all the agonies of terror.
Every eye which is fixed upon me, seems to read my secret and my
shame. And you are the cause of those agonies ! Oh ! when my
heart first loved you, how little did it suspect you of making it feel
such pangs !

Agnes.

Having perused the letter, Lorenzo restored it in silence.
The Marquis replaced it in the cabinet, and then proceeded :

' Excessive was my joy at reading this intelligence, so
earnestly desired, so little expected. My plan was soon
arranged. When Don Gaston discovered to me his
daughter's retreat, I entertained no doubt of her readiness
to quit the convent: I had, therefore, entrusted the
Cardinal - duke of Lerma with the whole affair, who
immediately busied himself in obtaining the necessary
bull. Fortunately, I had afterwards neglected to stop his
proceedings. Not long since I received a letter from him,
stating that he expected daily to receive the order from
the court of Rome. Upon this I would willingly have
relied ; but the cardinal wrote me word, that I must find
some means of conveying Agnes out of the convent, un-
known to the prioress. He doubted not but this latter
would be much incensed, by losing a person of such high
rank from her society, and consider the renunciation of
Agnes as an insult to her house. He represented her as a
woman of a violent and revengeful character, capable of
proceeding to the greatest extremities. It was therefore
to be feared lest, by confining Agnes in the convent, she
should frustrate my hopes, and render the Pope's mandate
unavailing. Influenced by this consideration, I resolved to
carry off my mistress, and conceal her till the arrival of
the expected bull in the Cardinal - duke's estate. He

CHAPTER IV 151

approved of my design, and professed myself ready to give
a shelter to the fugitive. I next caused the new gardener
of St. Clare to be seized privately and confined in my hotel.
By this means I became master of the key to the garden-
door, and I had now nothing more to do than prepare
Agnes for the elopement. This was done by the letter
which you saw me deliver this evening. I told her in it
that I should be ready to receive her at twelve to-morrow
night ; that I had secured the key of the garden, and that
she might depend upon a speedy release.

' You have now, Lorenzo, heard the whole of my long
narrative. I have nothing to say in my excuse, save that
my intentions towards your sister have been ever the most
honourable ; that it has always been, and still is, my design
to make her my wife ; and that I trust, when you consider
these circumstances, our youth, and our attachment, you
will not only forgive our momentary lapse from virtue, but
will aid me in repairing my faults to Agnes, and securing
a lawful title to her person and her heart.'

CHAPTER V

Oh you whom Vanity's light bark conveys
On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise I
With what a shifting gale your course you ply —
For ever sunk too low, or borne too high !
Who pants for glory finds but short repose :
A breath revives him, and a breath o'erthrows.

Pope.

Here the Marquis concluded his adventures. Lorenzo,
before he could determine on his reply, passed some
moments in reflection. At length he broke silence.

' Raymond ', said he, taking his hand, ' strict honour
would oblige me to wash off in your blood the stain
thrown upon my family ; but the circumstances of your
case forbid me to consider you as an enemy. The_tempta-
tion was too great to be resisted. 'Tis the superstition of
my relations which has occasioned these misfortunes, and
they are more the offenders than yourself and Agnesy
What has passed between you cannot be recalled, but may
yet be repaired by uniting you to my sister. You have
ever been, you still continue to be, my dearest, and indeed
my only, friend. I feel for Agnes the truest affection ; and
there is no one on whom I would bestow her more willingly
than on yourself. Pursue, then, your design. I will
accompany you to-morrow night, and conduct her myself
to the house of the cardinal. My presence will be a
sanction for her conduct, and prevent her incurring blame
by her flight from the convent.'

The Marquis thanked him in terms by no means deficient
in gratitude. Lorenzo then informed him that he had
nothing more to apprehend from Donna Rodolpha's enmity.
Five months had already elapsed since, in an excess of
passion, she broke a blood-vessel, and expired in the course
of a few hours. He then proceeded to mention the interest
of Antonio* The Marquis was much surprised at hearing
of his new relation. His father had carried his hatred of
Elvira to the grave, and never given the least hint that he

152

CHAPTER V 153

knew what was become of his eldest son's widow. Don
Raymond assured his friend that he was not mistaken in
supposing him ready to acknowledge his sister-in-law and
her amiable daughter. The preparations for the elopement
would not permit his visiting them the next day, but in
the meanwhile he desired Lorenzo to assure them of his
friendship, and to supply Elvira upon his account with any
sums which he might want. This the youth promised to
do, as soon as her abode should be known to him. He
then took leave of his future brother, and returned to the
Palace de Medina.

The day was already on the point of breaking when
the Marquis retired to his chamber. Conscious that his
narrative would take up some hours, and wishing to
secure himself from interruption on returning to the
hotel, he ordered his attendants not to sit up for him ;
consequently he was somewhat surprised on entering his
anti-room to find Theodore established there. The page
sat near a table with a pen in his hand, and was so
totally occupied by his employment that he perceived
not his lord's approach. The Marquis stopped to observe
him. Theodore wrote a few lines, then paused, and
scratched out a part of the writing ; then wrote again,
smiled, and seemed highly pleased with what he had
been about. At last he threw down his pen, sprang from
his chair, and clapped his hands together joyfully.

' There it is ! ' cried he aloud ; ' now they are charming ! '

His transports were interrupted by a laugh from the
Marquis, who suspected the nature of his employment.

' What is so charming, Theodore ? '

The youth started, and looked round: he blushed, ran
to the table, seized the paper on which he had been
writing, and concealed it in confusion.

'Oh, my lord, I knew not that you were so near me.
Can I be of use to you ? Lucas is already gone to bed.'

' I shall follow his example, when I have given my
opinion of your verses.'

' My verses, my lord ! '

'Nay, I am sure that you have been writing some ; for
nothing else could have kept you awake till this time of
the morning. Where are they, Theodore ? I shall like
to see your composition.'

Theodore's cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson : he

154 THE MONK

longed to show his poetry, but first chose to be pressed
for it.

' Indeed, my lord, they are not worthy your attention.'
' Not these verses which you just now declared to be so
charming ? Come, come, let me see whether our opinions
are the same. I promise that you shall find in me an
indulgent critic'

The Jboy produced his paper with seeming reluctance ;
but the satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive
eyes betrayed the vanity of his little bosom. The Marquis
smiled, while he observed the emotions of an heart as yet
but little skilled in veiling its sentiments. He seated
himself upon a sofa. Theodore, while hope and fear con-
tended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude
for his master's decision, while the Marquis read the
following lines:

LOVE AND AGE

The night waa dark ; the wind blew cold j
Anacreon, grown morose and old,
Sat by his fire, and fed the cheerful flame :
Sudden the cottage door expands,
And, lo ! before him Cupid stands,
Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name.

' What ! is it thou 1 ' the startled sire
In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire
With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek :
' Wouldst thou again with amorous rage
Inflame my bosom ! — steeled by age,
Vain boy ! to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak.

' What seek you in this desert drear ?
No smiles or sports inhabit here !
Ne'er did these vallies witness dalliance sweet :
Eternal winter binds the plains ;
Age in my house despotic reigns ;
My garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat

' Begone, and seek the blooming bower,
Where some ripe virgin courts thy power,
Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed ;
On Damon's amorous breast repose ;
Wanton on Chloe's lip of rose,
Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head.

CHAPTER V 155

' Be such thy haunts ! These regions cold
Avoid ! Nor think, grown wise and old,
This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear :
Remembering that my fairest years
By thee were marked with sighs and tears,
I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare.

' I have not yet forgot the pains
I felt while bound in Julia's chains :
The ardent flames with which my bosom burned ;
The nights I pass'd, deprived of rest ;
The jealous pangs which rack'd my breast ;
My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned.

' Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more !
Fly from my peaceful cottage door !
No day, no hour, no moment shalt thou stay !
I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts,
Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts :
Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray ! '

' Does age, old man, your wits confound ? '
Replied th' offended god, and frown'd :
(His frown was sweet as is the virgin's smile !)
' Do you to me these words address 1
To me who do not love you less,
Though you my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile ?

' If one proud fair you chanced to find,
An hundred other nymphs were kind,
Whose smiles might well for Julia's frowns atone :
But such is man ! His partial hand
Unnumber'd favours writes on sand,
But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.

* Ingrate ! Who led you to the wave,
At noon, where Lesbia loved to lave ?
Who nam'd the bower alone where Daphne lay ?
And who, when Celia shrieked for aid,
Bade you with kisses hush the maid 1
What other was't than Love, oh, false Anacreon, say ?

' Then you could call me " Gentle boy !
My only bliss, my source of joy ! "
Then you could prize me dearer than your soul !
Could kiss, and dance me on your knee ;
And swear, not wine itself would please,
Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl I

' Must those sweet days return no more ?
Must I for aye your loss deplore,
Banished your heart, and from your favour driven ?
Ah no ! my fears that smile denies ;
That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes
Declare me ever dear, and all my faults forgiven.

156 THE MONK

' Again belov'd, esteemed, caressed,
Cupid shall in thine arms be pressed,
Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep :
My torch thine age-struck heart shall warm ;
My hand pale Winter's rage disarm,
And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep,

A feather now of golden hue
He smiling from his pinion drew :
This to the poet's hand the boy commits ;
And straight before Anacreon's eyes
Thejiairest dreams of fancy rise
And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits.

His bosom glows with amorous fire ;
Eager he grasps the magic lyre ;
Swift o'er the tuneful chords his fingers move :
The feather pluck'd from Cupid's wing
Sweeps the too-long neglecfJed string,
While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of Love.

Soon as that name was heard, the woods
Shook off their snows, the melting floods
Broke their cold chains, and Winter fled away :
Once more the earth was decked with flowers ;
Mild zephyrs breathed through glooming bowers ;
High towered the glorious sun, and poured the blaze of day.

Attracted by th' harmonious sound,
Sylvans and fauns the cot surround,
And curious crowd the minstrel to behold :
The wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove ;
Eager they run ; they list, they love,
And, while they hear the strain, forget the man is old.

Cupid, to nothing constant long,
Perch'd on the harp, attends the song,
Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes :
Now tin the poet's breast reposes,
Now twines his hoary locks with roses,
Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.

Then thus Anacreon : ' I no more
At other shrjnes my vows will pour,
Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire :
Fiom Phoebus or 1 the blue-ey^d maid
Now shall my verse request no aid,
For Love alone shall be the patron of my lyre.

' In lofty strain, of earlier days,
I spread the king's or hero's praise,
And struck the martial chords with epio fire :
But farewell, hero ! Farewell king !
Your deed my lips no more shall sing,
For Love alone shall be the subject of my lyre.'

CHAPTER V 157

The Marquis returned the paper with a smile of
encouragement.

' Your little poem pleases me much ' said he ; ' however,
you must not count my opinion for anything — I am no
judge of verses ; and, for my own part, never composed
more than sis lines in my life: those six produced so
unlucky an effect, that I am fully resolved never to compose
another. But I wander from my subject. I was going to
say, that y.ou cannot employ your time worse than in
making verses. An author, whether good or bad, or
between both, is an animal whom everybody is privileged
to attack ; for though all are not able to write books, all
conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composi-
tion carries with it its own punishment — contempt and
ridicule; a good one excites envy, and entaijs upon its
author a thousand mortifications : he finds himself assailed
by partial and ill-humoured criticism ; one man finds fault
with the plan, another with the style, a third with the
precept which it strives to inculcate ; and they who cannot
succeed in finding fault with the book, employ themselves
in stigmatizing its author : they maliciously rake out from
obscurity every little circumstance which may throw
ridicule upon his private oharacter or conduct, and aim at
wounding the man, since they cannot hurt the writer. In
short, to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose
yourself to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and
disappointnient?\ Whether you write well or ill, be assured
that you will not escape from blame. Indeed, this circum-
stance contains a young author's chief consolation : he
remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjust
and envious critics, and he modestly conceives himself to
be exactly in their predicament. But I am conscious that
all these sage observations are thrown away upon you.
Authorship is a mania , to conquer which no reasons are
"sufficiently strong ; and youmight as easily persuade me
-Vmfcjn )r )y e, in I p a r-ma ri A von not to write. _ However, if
you cannot help being occasionally seized with a poetical
paroxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating
your verses to none but those whose partiality for you
secures their approbation.'

' Then, my lord, you do not think these lines tolerable ? '
said Theodore, with an humble and dejected air.

* You mistake my meaning. As I said before, they have

158 THE MONK

pleased me much ; but my regard for you makes me partial,
and others might judge them less favourably. I must still
remark, that even my prejudice in your favour does not
blind me so much as to prevent my observing several
faults. For instance, you make a terrible confusion of
metaphors ; you are too apt to make the strength of your
lines consist more in the words than sense ; some of the
verses seem introduced only in order to rhyme with others;
and most of the best ideas are borrowed from other poets,
though possibly you are unconscious of the theft yourself.
These faults may occasionally be excused in a work of
length, but a short poem must be correct and perfect.'

' All this is true, Segnor ; but you should consider that I
only write for pleasure.'

' Your defects are the less excusable. Their incorrect-
ness may be forgiven who work for money, who are
obliged to complete a given task in a given time, and
are paid according to the bulk, not value, of their pro-
ductions. But in those whom no necessity forces to turn
author, who merely write for fame, and have full leisure
to polish their compositions, faults are unpardonable, and
merit the sharpest arrows of criticism.'

The Marquis rose from the sofa ; the page looked dis-
couraged and melancholy; and this did not escape his
master's observation.

' However ', added he, smiling, ' I think that these lines
do you no discredit. Your versification is tolerably easy,
and your ear seems to be just. The perusal of your little
poem, upon the whole, gave me much pleasure ; and if it is
not asking too great a favour, I shall be highly obliged to
you for a copy.'

The youth's countenance immediately cleared up. He
perceived not the smile, half approving, half ironical, which
accompanied the request, and he promised the copy with
great readiness. The marquis withdrew to his chamber,
much amused by the instantaneous effect produced upon
Theodore's vanity by the conclusion of his criticism. He
threw himself upon his couch, sleep soon stole over him,
and his dreams presented him with the most flattering
pictures of happiness with Agnes.

On reaching the hotel de Medina, Lorenzo's first care
was to inquire for letters. He found several waiting for
him, but that which he sought was not amongst them.

CHAPTER V 159

Leonella had found it impossible to write that evening:
however, her impatience to secure Don Christoval's heart,
on which she flattered herself with having made no slight
impression, permitted her not to pass another day without
informing him where she was to be found. On her return
from the Capuchin church, she had related to her sister,
with exultation, how attentive an handsome cavalier had
been to her, as also how his companion had undertaken to
plead Antonia's cause with the Marquis de las Cisternas.
Elvira received this intelligence with sensations very
different from those with which it was communicated.
She blamed her sister's imprudence, in confiding her
history to an absolute stranger, and expressed her fears
lest this inconsiderate step should prejudice the Marquis
against her. The greatest of her apprehensions she con-
cealed in her own breast. She had observed, with in-
quietude, that, at the mention of Lorenzo, a deep blush
spread itself over her daughter's cheek. The timid
Antonia dared not to pronounce his name : without
knowing wherefore, she felt embarrassed when he was
made the subject of discourse, and endeavoured to change
the conversation to Ambrosio. Elvira perceived the
emotions of this young bosom ; in consequence, she
insisted upon Leonella's breaking her promise to the
cavaliers. A sigh, which on hearing this order, escaped
from Antonia, confirmed the wary mother in her
resolution.

Through this resolution Leonella was determined to
break : she conceived it to be inspired by envy, and that
her sister dreaded her being elevated above her. — Without
imparting her design to any one, she took an opportunity
of despatching the following note to Lorenzo : it was
delivered to him as soon as he woke :

Doubtless, Segnor don Lorenzo, you have frequently accused me of
ingratitude and forgetf ulness ; but on the word of a virgin, it was out
of my power to perform my promise yesterday. I know not in what
words to inform you, how strange a reception my sister gave your
kind wish to visit her. She is an odd woman, with many good points
about her ; but her jealousy of me frequently makes her conceive
notions quite unaccountable. On hearing that your friend had paid
some little attention to me, she immediately took the alarm : she
blamed my conduct, and has absolutely forbidden me to let you know
our abode. My strong sense of gratitude for your kind offers of
service, and — shall I confess it ? — my desire to behold once more the

160 THE MONK

too amiable Don Christoval, will not permit my obeying her injunc-
tions. I have, therefore, stolen a moment, to inform you that we
lodge in the Strada di San Jago, four doors from the Palace d'Albornos,
and nearly opposite to the barber's Miguel Coello. Inquire for Donna
Elvira Dalfa, since, in compliance with her father-in-law's order, my
sister continues to be called by her maiden name. At eight this
evening you will be sure of finding us : but let not a word drop which
may raise a suspicion of my having written this letter. Should you
see the Conde' d'Ossorio, tell him (I blush while I declare it) tell him
that his presence will be but too acceptable to the sympathetic

Leoneiaa.

The latter sentences were written in red ink, to express
the blushes of her cheek while she committed an outrage
upon her virgin modesty.

Lorenzo had no sooner perused this note than he set out
in search of Don Christoval. Not being able to find him
in the course of the day, he proceeded to Donna Elvira's
alone, to Leonella's infinite disappointment. The domestic
by whom he sent up his name having already declared his
lady to be at home, she had no excuse for refusing his
visit ; yet she consented to receive it with much reluctance.
That reluctance was increased by the changes which his
approach produced in Antonia's countenance ; nor was it
by any means abated when the youth himself appeared.
The symmetry of his person, animation of his features,
and natural elegance of his manners and address, convinced
Elvira that such a guest must be dangerous for her
daughter. She resolved to treat him with distant polite-
ness ; to decline his services with gratitude for the tender
of them ; and to make him feel, without offence, that his
future visits would be far from acceptable.

On his entrance he found Elvira, who was indisposed,
reclining upon a sofa ; Antonia sat by her embroidery
frame ; and Leonella, in a pastoral dress, held Monte-mayor's
Diana. In spite of her being the mother of Antonia,
Lorenzo could not help expecting to find in Elvira
Leonella's true sister, and the daughter of ' as honest a
painstaking shoemaker as any in Cordova ' ; a single glance
was sufficient to undeceive him : he beheld a woman whose
features, though impaired by time and sorrow, still bore
the marks of distinguished beauty ; a serious dignity
reigned upon her countenance, but was tempered by a
grace and sweetness which rendered her truly enchanting.
Lorenzo fancied that she must have resembled her daughter

CHAPTER V 161

in her youth, and readily excused the imprudence of the
late Conde de las Cisternas. She desired him to be seated,
and immediately resumed her place upon the sofa.

Antonia received him with a simple reverence, and
continued her work ; her cheeks were suffused with
crimson, and she strove to conceal her emotion by leaning
over her embroidery frame : her aunt, also, chose to play
off her airs of modesty ; she affected to blush and tremble,
and waited with her eyes cast down to receive, as she
expected, the compliments of Don Christoval. Finding,
after some time, that no sign of his approach was given,
she ventured to look round the room, and perceived with
vexation that Medina was unaccompanied. Impatience
would not permit her waiting for an explanation;
interrupting Lorenzo, who was delivering Raymond's
message, she desired to know what was become of his
friend.

He, who thought it necessary to maintain himself in her
good graces, strove to console her under her disappointment,
by committing a little violence upon truth.

'Ah, Segnora ! ' he replied, in a melancholy voice, ' how
grieved, will he be at losing this opportunity of paying you
his respects ! A relation's illness has obliged him to quit
Madrid in haste : but on his return he will doubtless seize
the first moment with transport to throw himself at your
feet ! '

As he said this, his eyes met those of Elvira : she
punished his falsehood sufficiently, by darting at him a
look expressive of displeasure and reproach. Neither did
the deceit answer his intention : vexed and disappointed,
Leonella rose from her seat, and retired in dudgeon to her
own apartment.

Lorenzo hastened to repair the fault which had injured
him in Elvira's opinion : he related his conversation with
the Marquis respecting her ; he assured her that Raymond
was prepared to acknowledge her for his brother's widow ;
and that, till it was in his power to pay his compliments
to her in person, Lorenzo was commissioned to supply his
place. This intelligence relieved Elvira from a heavy
weight of uneasiness : she had now found a protector for
the fatherless Antonia, for whose future fortunes she had
suffered the greatest apprehensions. She was not sparing
of her thanks to him who had interfered so generously in

L

162 THE MONK

her behalf ; but still she gave bim no invitation to repeat
his visit. However, when upon rising to depart he
requested permission to inquire after her health occasionally,
the polite earnestness of his manner, gratitude for his
services, and respect for his friend the Marquis, would not
admit of a refusal. She consented reluctantly to receive
him ; he promised not to abuse her goodness, and quitted
the house.

Antonia was now left alone with her mother : a
temporary silence ensued ; both wished to speak upon the
same subject, but neither knew how to introduce it: the
one felt a bashfulness which sealed up her lips, and for
which she could not account ; the other feared to find her
apprehensions true, or to inspire her daughter with notions
to which she might be still a stranger. At length Elvira
began the conversation.

' That is a charming young man, Antonia ; I am much
pleased with him. Was he long near you yesterday in the
cathedral ? '

'He quitted me not for a moment while I staid in the
church ; he gave me his seat, and was very obliging and
attentive.'

'Indeed! Why then have you never mentioned his
name to me ? Your aunt launched out in praise of his
friend, and you vaunted Ambrosio's eloquence ; but neither
said a word of Don Lorenzo's person and accomplishments :
had not Leonella spoken of his readiness to undertake our
cause, I should not have known him to be in existence.'

She paused. Antonia coloured, but was silent.

' Perhaps you judge him less favourably thari I do. In
my opinion his figure is pleasing, his conversation sensible,
and mannere engaging: still he may have struck you
differently: you may think him disagreeable, and — '

' Disagreeable ! Oh ! dear mother, how should I possibly
think him so ? I should be very ungrateful were I not
sensible of his kindness yesterday, and very blind if his
merits had escaped me : his figure is so graceful, so noble !
his manners so gentle, yet so manly ! I never yet saw so
many accomplishments united in one person, and I doubt
whether Madrid can produce his equal.'

' Why then were you so silent in praise of this phoenix
of Madrid ? Why was it concealed from me that bis society
had afforded you pleasure ? '

CHAPTER V 163

' In truth I know not : you ask me a question which I
cannot resolve myself. I was on the point of mentioning
him a thousand times: his name was constantly on my
lips ; but when I would have pronounced it, I wanted
courage to execute my design : however, if I did not speak
of him, it was not that I thought of him the less.'

' That I believe : but shall I tell you why you wanted
courage ? — it was because, accustomed to confide to me
your most secret thoughts, you knew not how to conceal,
yet feared to acknowledge, that your heart nourished a
sentiment which you were conscious I should disapprove.
Come hither to me, my child.'

Antonia quitted her embroidery frame, threw herself
upon her knees by the sofa, and hid her face in her
mother's lap.

' Fear not, my sweet girl ! Consider me equally as your
friend and parent, and apprehend no reproof from me. I
have read the emotions of your bosom ; you are yet ill-
skilled in concealing them, and they could not escape my
attentive eye. This Lorenzo is dangerous to your repose ;
he has already made an impression upon your heart. 'Tis
true that I perceive easily that your affection is returned :
but what can be the consequences of this attachment?
You are poor and friendless, my Antonia ; Lorenzo is the
heir of the Duke of Medina Celi. Even should himself
mean honourably, his uncle never will consent to your
union; nor without that uncle's consent will I. By sad
experience I know what sorrow she must endure who
marries into a family unwilling to receive her. Then
struggle with your affection ; whatever pains it may cost
you, strive to conquer it. Your heart is tender and
susceptible ; it has already received a strong impression :
but when once convinced that you should not encourage
such sentiments, I trust that you have sufficient fortitude
to drive them from your bosom.'

Antonia kissed her hand, and promised implicit obedience,
Elvira then continued :

' To prevent your passion from growing stronger, it will
be needful to prohibit Lorenzo's visits. The service which
he has rendered me permits not my forbidding them posi-
tively ; but unless I judge too favourably of his character,
he will discontinue them without taking offence, if I con-
fess to him my reasons, and throw myself entirely on his

164 THE MONK

generosity : the next time that I see him, I will honestly
avow to him the embarrassment which his presence
occasions. How say you, my child ? — is not this measure
necessary ? '

Antonia subscribed to everything without hesitation,
though not without regret. Her mother kissed her
affectionately, and retired to bed. Antonia followed her
example, and vowed so frequently never more to think of
Lorenzo, that till sleep closed her eyes she thought of
nothing else.

While this was passing at Elvira's, Lorenzo hastened to
rejoin the Marquis. — Everything was ready for the second
elopement of Agnes ; and at twelve the two friends, with
a coach and four, were at the garden-wall of the convent.
Don Raymond drew out his key, and unlocked the door.
They entered, and waited for some time in expectation of
being joined by Agnes. At length the Marquis grew im-
patient : beginning to fear that his second attempt would
succeed no better than the first, he proposed to reconnoitre
the convent. The friends advanced towards it. Every-
thing was still and dark. The prioress was anxious to
keep the story a secret, fearing lest the crime of one of its
members should bring disgrace upon the whole community,
or that the interposition of powerful relations should
deprive her vengeance of its intended victim. She took
care, therefore, to give the lover of Agnes no cause to
suppose that his design was discovered, and his mistress on
the point of suffering the punishment of her fault. The
same reason made her reject the idea of arresting the
unknown seducer in the garden : such a proceeding would
have created much disturbance, and the disgrace of her
convent would have noised about Madrid. She contented
herself with confining Agnes closely : as to the lover, she
left him at liberty to pursue his designs. What she had
expected was the result: the Marquis and Lorenzo waited
in vain till the break of day ; they then retired without
noise, alarmed at the failure of their plan, and ignorant of
the cause of its ill success.

The next morning Lorenzo went to the convent, and
requested to see his sister. The prioress appeared at the
gate with a melancholy countenance. She informed him
that for several days Agnes had appeared much agitated ;
that she had been pressed by the nuns in vain to reveal the

CHAPTER V 165

cause, and apply to their tenderness for advice and consola-
tion ; that she had obstinately persisted in concealing the
cause of her distress ; but that on Thursday evening it had
produced so violent an effect upon her constitution, that
she had fallen ill, and was actually confined to her bed.
Lorenzo did not credit a syllable of this account: he
insisted upon seeing his sister ; if she was unable to come
to the grate, he desired to be admitted to her cell. The
prioress crossed herself! She was shocked at the very idea
of a man's profane eye pervading the interior of her holy
mansion, and professed herself astonished that Lorenzo
could think of such a thing. She told him that his request
could not be granted ; but that if he returned the next
day, she hoped that her beloved daughter would then be
sufficiently recovered to join him at the parlour grate.
With this answer Lorenzo was obliged to retire, unsatisfied,
and trembling for his sister's safety.

He returned the next morning at an early hour. ' Agnes
was worse; the physician had pronounced her to be in
imminent danger ; she was ordered to remain quiet ; and it
was utterly impossible for her to receive her brother's visit.'
Lorenzo stormed at this answer, but there was no resource.
He raved, he entreated, he threatened : no means were left
untried to obtain a sight of Agnes. His endeavours were
as fruitless as those of the day before, and he returned in
despair to the Marquis. On his side the latter had spared
no pains to discover what had occasioned his plot to fail.
Don Christoval, to whom the affair was now entrusted,
endeavoured to worm out the secret from the old porteress
of St. Clare, with whom he had formed an acquaintance ;
but she was too much upon her guard, and he gained from
her no intelligence. The Marquis was almost distracted,
and Lorenzo felt scarcely less inquietude. Both were
convinced that the purposed elopement must have been
discovered : they doubted not but the malady of Agnes
was a pretence, but they knew not by what means to
rescue her from the hands of the prioress.

Regularly every day did Lorenzo visit the convent : as
regularly was he informed that his sister rather grew worse
than better. Certain that her indisposition was feigned,
these accounts did not alarm him : but his ignorance of her
fate, and of the motives which induced the prioress to keep
her from him, excited the most serious uneasiness. He was

166 THE MONK

still uncertain what steps he ought to take, when the
Marquis received a letter from the Cardinal-duke of Lerma.
It inclosed the Pope's expected bull, ordering that Agnes
should be released from her vows, and restored to her
relations. This essential paper decided at once the pro-
ceedings of her friends ; they resolved that Lorenzo should
carry it to the domina without delay, and demand that his
sister should be instantly given up to him. Against this
mandate, illness could not be pleaded : it gave her brother
the power of removing her instantly to the Palace de
Medina, and he determined to use that power on the
following day.

His mind relieved from inquietude respecting his sister,
and his spirits raised by the hope of soon restoring her to
freedom, he now had time to give a few moments to love
and to Antonia. At the same hour as on his former visit,
he repaired to Donna Elvira's. She had given orders for
his admission. As soon as he was announced, her daughter
retired with Leonella ; and when he entered the chamber
he found the lady of the house alone. She received him
with less distance than before, and desired him to place
himself near her upon the sofa. She then, without losing
time, opened her business, as had been agreed between
herself and Antonia.

' You must not think me ungrateful, Don Lorenzo, or
forgetful how essential are the services which you have
rendered me with the Marquis. I feel the weight of my
obligations; nothing under the sun should induce my
taking the step to which I am now compelled, but the
interest of my child, of my beloved Antonia. My health
is declining ; God only knows how soon I may be summoned
before his throne. My daughter will be left without
parents, and should she lose the protection of the Cisternas
family, without friends: She is young and artless,
uninstructed in the world's perfidy, and with charms
sufficient to render her an object of seduction. Judge,
then, how I must tremble at the prospect before her ! —
judge how anxious I must be to keep her from their
society, who may excite the yet dormant passions of her
bosom. You are amiable, Don Lorenzo ; Antonia has a
susceptible, a loving heart, and is grateful for the favours
conferred upon us by your interference with the Marquis.
Your presence makes me tremble; I fear lest it should

CHAPTER V 16;

inspire her with sentiments which may embitter the
remainder of her life, or encourage her to cherish hopes
in her situation unjustifiable and futile. Pardon me when
I avow my terrors, and let my frankness plead in my
excuse. I cannot forbid you my house, for gratitude
restrains me ; I can only throw myself upon your generosity,
and entreat you to spare the feelings of an anxious, of a
doting mother. Believe me when I assure you, that I
lament the necessity of rejecting your acquaintance : but
there is no remedy, and Antonia's interest obliges me to
beg you to forbear your visits. By complying with my
request, you will increase the esteem which I already feel
for you, and of which everything convinces me that you
are truly deserving.'

'Your frankness charms me', replied Lorenzo; 'you
shall find, that in your favourable opinion of me you were
not deceived ; yet I hope that the reasons now in my
power to allege will persuade you to withdraw a request
which I cannot obey without infinite reluctance. I love
your daughter, love her most sincerely ; I wish for no
greater happiness than to inspire her with the same
sentiments, and receive her hand at the altar as her
husband. 'Tis true, I am not rich myself; my father's
death has left me but little in my own possession ; but my
expectations justify my pretending to the Conde - de las
Cisternas's daughter.'

He was proceeding, but Elvira interrupted him. 'Ah,
Don Lorenzo ! You forget, in that pompous title, the
meanness of my origin. You forget that I have now
passed fourteen years in Spain, disavowed by my husband's
family, and existing upon a stipend barely sufficient for
the support and education of my daughter. Nay, I have
even been neglected by most of my own relations, who out
of envy affect to doubt the reality of my marriage. My
allowance being discontinued at my father-in-law's death,
I was reduced to the very brink of want. In this situation
I was found by my sister, who, amongst all her foibles,
possesses a warm, generous, and affectionate heart. She
aided me with the little fortune which my father left
her, persuaded me to visit Madrid, and has supported my
child and myself since our quitting Murcia. Then consider
not Antonio, as descended from the Conde de las Cisternas ;
consider her as a poor and unprotected orphan, as the

168 THE MONK

grandchild of the tradesman Torribio Dalfa, as the needy
pensioner of that tradesman's daughter. Reflect upon the
difference between such a situation and that of the nephew
and heir of the potent Duke of Medina. I believe your
intentions to be honourable; but, as there are no hopes
that your uncle will approve of the union, I foresee that
the consequences of your attachment must be fatal to my
child's repose.'

' Pardon me, Segnora ; you are misinformed if you
suppose the Duke of Medina to resemble the generality of
men. His sentiments are liberal and disinterested ; he
loves me well, and I have no reason to dread his forbidding
the marriage when he perceives that my happiness depends
upon Antonia. But supposing him to refuse his sanction
what have I still to fear ? My parents are no more ; my
little fortune is in my own possession ; it will be sufficient
to support Antonia, and I shall exchange for her hand
Medina's dukedom without one sign of regret.'

' You are young and eager ; it is natural for you to
entertain such ideas. But experience has taught me to my
cost, that curses accompany an unequal alliance. I married
the Conde - de las Cisternas in opposition to the will of his
relations ; many a heart-pang has punished me for the im-
prudent step. Wherever we bent our course, a father's
execration pursued Gonzalvo. Poverty overtook us, and
no friend was near to relieve our wants. Still our mutual
affection existed, but, alas ! not without interruption.
Accustomed to wealth and ease,- s ill could my husband
support the transition to distress and indigence. He
looked back with repining to the comforts which he once
enjoyed. He regretted the situation which for my sake he
had quitted ; and, in moments when despair possessed his
mind, has reproached me with having made him the
companion of want and wretchedness. He has called me
his bane, the source of his sorrows, the cause of his destruc-
tion ! Ah, God ! he little knew how much keener were my
own heart's reproaches ! He was ignorant that I suffered
trebly ; for myself, for my children, and for him ! Tis
true that his anger seldom lasted long: his sincere affection
for me soon revived in hia heart ; and then his repentance
for the tears which he had made me shed tortured me
even more than his reproaches. He would throw himself
on the ground, implore my forgiveness in the most frantic

CHAPTER V 169

terms, and loaded himself with curses for being the
murderer of my repose. Taught by experience, that a
union contracted against the inclinations of families on
either side must be unfortunate, I will save my daughter
from those miseries which I have suffered. Without your
uuclek -consent, while I live, she shall never be yours.
Undoubtedly he will disapprove of the union : his power
is immense, and Antonia shall not be exposed to his anger
and persecution.'

' His persecution'! How easily may that be avoided !
Let the worst happen, it is but quitting Spain. My wealth
may easily be realized. The Indian islands will offer us a
secure retreat. I have an estate, though not of value, in
Hispaniola ; thither will we fly ; and I shall consider it to
be my native country, if it gives me Antonia's undisturbed
possession.'

' Ah, youth ! This is a fond, romantic vision. Gonzalvo
thought the same. He fancied that he could leave Spain
without regret ; but the moment of parting undeceived
him. You know not yet what it is to quit your
native land ; to quit it never to behold it more !
You know not what it is to exchange the scenes
where you have passed your infancy, for unknown realms
and barbarous climates — to be forgotten, utterly, eternally
forgotton by the companions of your youth — to see your
dearest friends, the fondest objects of your affection, perish-
ing with diseases incidental to Indian atmospheres, and
find yourself unable to procure for them necessary assist-
ance ! I have felt all this ! My husband and two sweet
babes found their graves in Cuba : nothing would have
saved my young Antonia but my sudden return to Spain.
Ah, Don Lorenzo ! could you conceive what I suffered
during my absence — could you know how sorely I regretted
all that I left behind, and how dear to me was the
very name of Spain ! I envied the winds which blew
towards it: and when the Spanish sailor chanted some
well-known air as he passed my window, tears filled my
eyes while I thought upon my native land. Gonzalvo too
— my husband — '

Elvira paused. Her voice faltered, and she concealed her
face with her handkerchief. After a short silence she rose
from the sofa, and proceeded :

' Excuse my quitting you for a few moments ; the remem-

170 THE MONK

brance of what I have suffered has much agitated me, and
I need to be alone. Till I return, peruse these lines. After
my husband's death I found them among his papers. Had
I known sooner that he entertained such sentiments, grief
would have killed me. He wrote these verses on his
voyage to Cuba, when his mind was clouded by sorrow,
and he forgot that he had a wife and children. What we
are losing ever seems to us the most precious. Gonzalvo
was quitting Spain for ever ; and therefore was Spain
dearer to his eyes than all else which the world contained.
Read them, Don Lorenzo ; they will give you some idea of
the feelings of a banished man.'

Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo's hand, and retired from
the chamber. The youth examined the contents, and
found them to be as follows :

THE EXILE

Farewell, oh, native Spain ! Farewell for ever !

These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more !
A mournful presage tells my heart that never

Gonzalvo'B steps again shall press thy shore.

Hush'd are the winds ; while soft the vessel, sailing
With gentle motion, ploughs th' unruffled main,

I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing,
And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.

I see it yet ! Beneath yon blue clear heaven
Still do the spires, so well-belov'd, appear :

From yonder craggy point, the gale of even
Still wafts my native accent to mine ear.

Propp'd on some moss-crown'd rock, and gaily singing,
There in the sun his nets the fisher dries ;

Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing
Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

Ah, happy swain ! He waits th' accustomed hour,
When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky ;

Then gladly seeks his lov'd paternal bower,
And shares the feast his native fields supply.

Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him
With honest welcome and with smile sincere :

No threatening woes of present joys bereave him ;
No sigh his bosom owns — his cheek no tear.

Ah, happy swain ! Such bliss to me denying,

Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view ;
Me, who, from home and Spain an exile flying,

Bid all I value, all I love, adieu !

CHAPTER V 171

No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty
Sung by some mountain-girl, who tends her goats —

Some village-swain imploring amorous pity,
Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes

No more my arms a parent's fond embraces —
No more my heart domestic calm must know !

Far from these joys, which sighs which memory traces,
To sultry skies and distant climes I go —

Where Indian suns engender new diseases,
Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way ;

To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases,
The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day.

But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver

To die by piecemeal in the bloom of age,
My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever,

And brain delirious with the day-star's rage,

Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever,
With many a bitter sigh, dear land ! from thee ;

To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever,
And feel that all ijtiy joys are torn from me !

Ah, me ! How oft will fancy's spells, in slumber,

Recall my native country to my mind !
How oft regret will bid me sadly number

Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind !

Wild Murcia's vales and loved romantic bowers,

The river on whose banks a child I play'd,
My castle's ancient halls, its frowning towers,

Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade ;

Dream3 of the land where all my wishes centre,
Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know.

Full oft shall memory trace, my soul's tormentor,
And turn each pleasure past to present woe !

But, lo ! The sun beneath the waves retires ;

Night speeds apace her empire to restore ;
Clouds from my sight obscure the village spires,

Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.

Oh ! breathe not, winds ! Still be the water's motion !

Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main !
So when to-morrow's light shall gild the ocean,

Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.

Vain is the wish ! My last petition scorning,
Fresh blows the gale, and high the billows swell :

Far shall we be before the break of morning ;
Oh then, for ever, native Spain, farewell !

172 THE MONK

Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines when
Elvira returned to him: the giving a free course to her
tears had relieved her, and her spirits had regained their
usual composure.

' I have nothing more to say, my lord ', said she ; ' you
have heard my apprehensions, and my reasons for begging
you not to repeat your visits. I have thrown myself in
full confidence upon your honour : I am certain that you
will not prove my opinion of you to have been too
favourable.'

'But one question more, Segnora, and I leave you.
Should the Duke of Medina approve my love, would my
addresses be unacceptable to yourself and the fair
Antonia ? '

' I will be open with you, Don Lorenzo : there being
little probability of such a union taking place, I fear that
it is desired but too ardently by my daughter. You have
made an impression upon her young heart, which gives
me the most serious alarm: to prevent that impression
from growing stronger, I am obliged to decline your
acquaintance. For me, you may be sure that I should
rejoice at establishing my child so advantageously.
Conscious that my constitution, impaired by grief and
illness, forbids me to expect a long continuance in this
world, I tremble at the thought of leaving her under the
protection of a perfect stranger. The Marquis de las
Cisternas is totally unknown to me. He will marry : his
lady may look upon Antonia with an eye of displeasure,
and deprive her of her only friend. Should the duke, your
uncle, give his consent, you need not doubt obtaining mine
and my daughter's ; but, without his, hope not for ours.
At all events, whatever steps you may take, whatever may
be the duke's decision, till you know it, let me beg your
forbearing to strengthen, by your presence, Antonia's
prepossession. ( If the sanction of your relations authorizes
your addressing her as your wife, my doors fly open to
you : if that sanction is refused, be satisfied to possess my
esteem and gratitude, but remember that we must meet
no moreo

Lorenzo promised reluctantly to conform to this decree :
but he added, that he hoped soon to obtain that consent,
which would give him a claim to the renewal of their
acquaintance. He then explained to her why the Marquis

CHAPTER V 173

had not called in person ; and made no scruple of confiding
to her his sister's history. He concluded by saying, ' that
he hoped to set Agnes at liberty the next day ; and that,
as soon as Don Raymond's fears were quieted upon tbis
subject, he would lose no time in assuring Donna Elvira of
his friendship and protection.'

The lady shook her head. ' I tremble for your sister ',
said she. ' I have heard many traits of the domina of St.
Clare's character, for a friend who was educated in the
same convent with her : she reported her to be haughty,
inflexible, superstitious, and revengeful. I have since
heard that she is infatuated with the idea of rendering her
convent the most regular in Madrid, and never forgave
those whose imprudence threw upon it the slightest stain.
Though naturally violent and severe, when her interests
require it, she well knows how to assume an appearance of
benignity. She leaves no means untried to persuade young
women of rank to become members of her community :
she is implacable when once incensed, and has too much
intrepidity to shrink at taking the most rigorous measures
for punishing the offender. Doubtless, she will consider
your sister's quitting the convent as a disgrace thrown
upon it ; she will use every artifice to avoid obeying the
mandate of his holiness ; and I shudder to think that
Donna Agnes is in the hands of this dangerous woman.'

Lorenzo now rose to take leave. Elvira gave him her
hand at parting, which he kissed respectfully ; and telling
her that he soon hoped for the permission to salute that of
Antonia, he returned to his hotel. The lady was perfectly
satisfied with the conversation which had passed between
them : she looked forward with satisfaction to the prospect
of his becoming her son-in-law ; but prudence bade her
conceal from her daughter's knowledge the flattering hopes
which herself now ventured to entertain.

Scarcely was it day, and already Lorenzo was at the
convent of St. Clare, furnished with the necessary mandate.
The nuns were at matins. He waited impatiently for the
conclusion of the service ; and at length the prioress
appeared at the parlour - grate. Agnes was demanded.
The old lady replied with a melancholy air, that the dear
child's situation grew hourly more dangerous ; that the
physicians despaired of her life : but that they had declared
the only chance for her recovery to consist in keeping her

i 74 THE MONK

quiet, and not to permit those to approach her whose
presence was likely to agitate her. Not a word of all
this was believed by Lorenzo, any more than he credited
the expressions of grief and affection for Agnes with which
this account was interlarded. To end the business, he put
the Pope's bull into the hands of the domina, and insisted
that, ill or in health, his sister should be delivered to him
without delay.

The prioress received the paper with an air of humility ;
but no sooner had her eye glanced over the contents, than
her resentment baffled all the efforts of hypocrisy. A deep
crimson spread itself over her face, and she darted upon
Lorenzo looks of rage and menace.

' This order is positive ', said she, in a voice of anger,
which she in vain strove to disguise ; ' willingly would I
obey it, but unfortunately it is out of my power.'
Lorenzo interrupted her by an exclamation of surprise.
' I repeat it, Segnor, to obey this order is totally out of
my power. From tenderness to a brother's feelings, I
would have communicated the sad event to you by
degrees, and have prepared you to hear it with fortitude.
My measures are broken through : this order commands me
to deliver up to you the sister Agnes without delay ; I am,
therefore, obliged to inform you, without circumlocution,
that on Friday last she expired.'

Lorenzo started back with horror, and turned pale. A
moment's recollection convinced him that this assertion
must be false, and it restored him to himself.

' You deceive me ! ' said he, passionately ; ' but five
minutes past you assured me that, though ill, she was
still alive. Produce her this instant ! See her I must and
will ; and every attempt to keep her from me will be
unavailing,'

' You forget yourself, Segnor ; you owe respect to my
age, as well as my profession. Your sister is no more. If
I at first concealed her death, it was from dreading lest an
event so unexpected should produce on you too violent an
effect. In truth, I am but ill repaid for my attention.
And what interest, I pray you, should I have in detaining
her ? To know her wish of quitting our society is a suffi-
cient reason for me to wish her absence, and think her a
disgrace to the sisterhood of St. Clare : but she has for-
feited my affection in a manner yet more culpable. Her

CHAPTER V 175

crimes were great ; and when you know the cause of her
death, you will doubtless rejoice, Don Lorenzo, that such a
wretch is no longer in existence. She was taken ill on
Thursday last, on returning from confession in the Capuchin
chapel : her malady seemed attended with strange circum-
stances ; but she persisted in concealing its cause. Thanks
to the Virgin, we were too ignorant to suspect it ! Judge
then what must have been our consternation, our horror,
when she was delivered the next day of a still-born child,
whom she immediately followed to the grave. How,
Segnor? — is it possible that your countenance expresses
no surprise, no indignation ? Is it possible that your
sister's infamy was known to you, and that still she
possessed your affection ? In that case you have no need
of my compassion. I can say nothing more, except repeat
my inability of obeying the orders of his holiness. Agnes
is no more ; and, to convince you that what I say is true,
I swear by our blessed Saviour that three days have passed
since she was buried.'

Here she kissed a small crucifix which hung at her
girdle : she then rose from her chair and quitted the
parlour. As she withdrew, she cast upon Lorenzo a
scornful smile. ' Farewell, Segnor ', said she ; ' I know
no remedy for this accident : I fear that even a second
bull from the Pope will not procure your sister's
resurrection.'

Lorenzo also retired, penetrated with affliction ; but
Don Raymond's, at the news of this evpnt, amounted to
madness : he would not be convinced that Agnes was
really dead ; and continued to insist that the walls of
St. Clare still confined her. No arguments could make
him abandon his hopes of regaining her. Every day some
fresh scheme was invented for procuring intelligence of
her, and all of them were attended with the same success.

On his part, Medina gave up the idea of ever seeing his
sister more ; yet he believed that she had been taken off
by unfair means. Under this persuasion he encouraged
Don Raymond's researches, determined, should he discover
the least warrant for his suspicions, to take a severe
vengeance upon the unfeeling prioress. The loss of his
sister affected him sincerely ; nor was it the least cause
of his distress that propriety obliged him for some time
to defer mentioning Antonia to the duke. In the mean-

176 THE MONK

while his emissaries constantly surrounded Elvira's door.
He had intelligence of all the movements of his mistress.
As she never failed every Thursday to attend the sermon
in the Capuchin cathedral, he was secure of seeing her
once a week; though, in compliance with his promise,
he carefully shunned her observation. Thus two long
months passed away. Still no information was procured
of Agnes. fAll but the Marquis credited her death i)and
now Lorenzo determined to disclose his sentiments to
his uncle : he had already dropped some hints of his
intention to marry ; they had been as favourably received
as he could expect, and he harboured no doubt of the
success of his application.

CHAPTER VI

While in each other's arms entrano'd they lay,
They blessed the night, and curs'd the coming day.

— Lee

The burst of transport was passed : Ambrosio's lust was
satisfied. Pleasure fled, and shame usurped her seat in
his bosom. Confused and terrified at his weakness, he
drew himself from Matilda's arms ; his perjury presented
itself before him ; he reflected on the scene which had
just been acted, and trembled at the consequences of a
discovery ; he looked forward with horror ; his heart was
despondent, and became the abode of satiety and disgust :
he avoided the eyes of his partner in frailty. A melan-
choly silence prevailed, during which both seemed busied
with disagreeable reflections.

Matilda was the first to break it. She took his hand
gently, and pressed it to her burning lips.

' Ambrosio ! ' she murmured, in a soft and trembling
voice.

The abbot started at the sound: he turned his eyes upon
Matilda's ; they were filled with tears ; her cheeks were
covered with blushes, and her supplicating looks seemed
to solicit his compassion.

'Dangerous woman!' said he; 'into what an abyss of
misery have you plunged me ! Should your sex be
discovered, my honour, nay, my life, must pay for the
pleasure of a few moments. Fool that I was, to trust
myself to your seductions ! What can now be done ?
How can my offence be expiated ? What atonement can
purchase the pardon of my crime ? Wretched Matilda !
you have destroyed my quiet for ever ! '

' To me these reproaches, Ambrosio ! — to me, who have
sacrificed for you the world's pleasures, the luxury of
wealth, the delicacy of sex, my friends, my fortune, and
my fame ! What have you lost which I preserved ?
Have / not shared in your guilt ? Have you not shared

177 M

j;8 THE MONK

in my pleasure ? Guilt, did I say ? In what consists ours,
unless in the opinion of an ill-judging world ? Let that
world be ignorant of them, and our joys become divine
and blameless ! — Unnatural were your vows of celibacy ;
man was not created for such a state : and were love a
crime, God never would have made it so sweet, so irre-
sistible ! Then banish those clouds from your brow, my
Ambrosio. Indulge in those pleasures freely, without
which live is a worthless gift. Cease to reproach me
with having taught you what is bliss, and feel equal
transports with the woman who adores you ! '

As she spoke, her eyes were filled with a delicious
languor : her bosom panted : she twined her arms volup-
tuously round him, drew him towards her, and glued her
lips to his. Ambrosio again raged with desire : the die
was thrown ; his vows were already broken ; he had
already committed the crime, and why should he refrain
from enjoying its reward ? He clasped her to his breast
with redoubled ardour. No longer repressed by the sense
of shame, he gave a loose to his intemperate appetites;
while the fair wanton put every invention of lust in
practice, every refinement in the art of pleasure, which
might heighten the bliss of her possession and render her
lover's transports still more exquisite. Ambrosio rioted
in delights till then unknown to him. Swift fled the
night, and the morning blushed to behold him still
clasped in the embraces of Matilda.

Intoxicated with pleasure, the monk rose from the siren's
luxurious couch : he no longer reflected with shame upon
his incontinence or dreaded the vengeance of offended
Heaven : his only fear was lest death should rob him of
enjoyments, for which his long fast had only given a
keener edge to his appetite. Matilda was still under the
influence of poison ; and the voluptuous monk ^trembled
less for his preserver's life than his concubine's. ^Deprived
of her, he would not easily find another mistress with
whom he could indulge his passions so fully and so safe~lyj>
he therefore pressed her with earnestness to use the means"""
of preservation which she had declared to be in her
possession.

' Yes ! ' replied Matilda ; ' since you have made me feel
that life is valuable, I will rescue mine at any rate. No
dangers shall appal me ; I will look upon the consequences

CHAPTER VI 179

of my action boldly, nor shudder at the horrors which they
present; I will think my sacrifice scarcely worthy to
purchase your possession ; and remember, that a moment
passed in your arms in this world o'erpays an age of
punishment in the next. But before I take this step,
Ambrosio, give me your solemn oath never to inquire by
what means I shall preserve myself.'

He did so, in a manner the most binding.

' I thank you, my beloved. This precaution is necessary ;
for, though you know it not, you are under the command
of vulgar prejudices. The business on which I must be
employed this night might startle you from its singularity,
and lower me in your opinion. Tell me, are you possessed
of the key of the low door on the western side of the
garden? '

' The door which opens into the burying-ground common
to us and the sisterhood of St. Clare ? I have not the key,
but can easily procure it.'

' You have only this to do. Admit me into the burying-
ground at midnight. Watch while I descend into the
vaults of St. Clare, lest some prying eye should observe my
actions. Leave me there alone for an hour, and thatiifeJs
safe which I dedicate to your pleasures..... To prevent
' creating" "su^picfon; " do riioTi visit me during the day.
Remember the key, and that I expect you before twelve.
Hark ! I hear steps approaching ! Leave me ; I will
pretend to sleep.'

The friar obeyed, and left the cell. As he opened the
door, Father Pablos made his appearance.

" I come ', said the latter, ' to inquire after the health of
my young patient.'

' Hush ! ' replied Ambrosio, laying his finger upon his
lip ; ' speak softly ; I am just come from him : he has
fallen into a profound slumber, which doubtless will be of
service to him. Do not disturb him at present, for he
wis"hes to repose.'

Father Pablos obeyed, and, hearing the bell ring,
accompanied the abbot to matins. Ambrosio felt em-
barrassed as he entered the chapel. Guilt was new to
him, and he fancied that every eye could read the trans-
actions of the night upon his countenance. He strove to
pray : his bosom no longer glowed with devotion ; his
thoughts insensibly wandered to Matilda's secret charms.

180 THE MONK

Butcvsthat he wanted in purity of heart, he supplied by
exterior sanctity. The better to cloke his transgression,""
he redoubled his 'pretensions to the semblance of virtue,
and never appeared more devoted to Heaven than since he
had broken through his engagements. Thus did he
unconsciously add hypocrisy to perjury and incontinence :
he had fallen into the latter errors from yielding to
seduction almost irresistible ; but he was now guilty of a
voluntary -fault, by endeavouring to conceal those into
which another had betrayed him.

The matins concluded, Ambrosio retired to his cell. The
pleasures which he had just tasted for the first time were
still impressed upon his mind : his brain was bewildered,
and presented a confused chaos of remorse, voluptuousness,
inquietude, and fear ; he looked back with regret to that
peace of soul, that security of virtue, which till then had
been his portion : he had indulged in excesses whose very
idea but four-and-twenty hours before he had recoiled at
with horror; he shuddered at reflecting that a trifling
indiscretion on his part or on Matilda's would overturn
that fabric of reputation which it had cost him thirty
years to erect, and render him the abhorrence of that
people of whom he was then the idol. Conscience painted
to him in glaring colours his perjury and weakness ;
apprehension magnified to him the horrors of punishment ;
and he already fancied himself in the prisons of the
Inquisition. To these tormenting ideas succeeded Matilda's
beauty, and those delicious lessons, which once learned can
never be forgotten. A single glance thrown upon these
reconciled him with himself: he considered the pleasures
of the former night to have been purchased at an easy
price by the sacrifice of innocence and honour. Their very
remembrance filled his soul with ecstasy : he cursed his
foolish vanity, which had induced him to waste in obscurity
the bloom of life, ignorant of the blessings of love and
woman: he determined, at all events, to continue his
commerce with Matilda, and called every argument to his
aid which might confirm his resolution. He asked himself,
provided his irregularity was unknown, in what would his
fault consist, and what consequences he had to apprehend ?
By adhering strictly to every rule of his order save chastity,
he doubted not to retain the esteem of men, and even the
protection of Heaven ; he trusted easily to be forgiven so

CHAPTER VI 181

slight and natural a deviation from his vows ; but he
forgot that, having pronounced those vows, incontinence,
in laymen the most venial of errors, became in his person
the most heinous of crimes.

Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind became
more easy : he threw himself upon his bed, and strove by
sleeping to recruit his strength, exhausted by his nocturnal
excesses. He awoke refreshed, and eager for a repetition
of his pleasures. Obedient to Matilda's order, he visited
not her cell during the day. Father Pablos mentioned in
the refectory, that Eosario had at length been prevailed
upon to follow his prescription, but that the medicine had
not produced the slightest effect, and that he believed no
mortal skill could rescue him from the grave. With this
opinion the abbot agreed, and affected to lament the
untimely fate of a youth, whose talents had appeared
so promising.

The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure
from the porter the key of the low door opening into the
cemetery. Furnished with this, when all was silent in the
monastery, he quitted his cell, and hastened to Matilda's.
She had left her bed, and was dressed before his arrival.

' I have been expecting you with impatience,' said she ;
' my life depends upon these moments. Have you the
key?'

' I have.'

'Away then to the garden — we have no time to lose.
Follow me ! '

She took a small covered basket from the table. Bearing
this in one hand, and the lamp, which was flaming upon
the hearth, in the other, she hastened from the cell.
Ambrosio followed her. Both maintained a profound
silence. She moved on with quick but cautious steps,
passed through the cloisters, and reached the western
side of the garden : her eyes flashed with a fire and
wildness which impressed the monk at once with awe
and horror. A determined desperate courage reigned upon
her brow : she gave the lamp to Ambrosio ; then taking
from him the key, she unlocked the low door, and entered
the cemetery. It was a vast and spacious square, planted
with yew trees ; half of it belonged to the abbey, the other
half was the property of the sisterhood of St. Clare, and
was protected by a roof of stone!) the division was marked

182 THE MONK

by an iron railing, the wicket of which was generally left
unlocked.

Thither Matilda bent her course : she opened the wicket,
and sought for the door leading to the subterraneous vaults
where reposed the mouldering bodies of the votaries of St.
Clare. The night was perfectly dark ; neither moon nor
stars were visible. Luckily there was not a breath of
wind, and the friar bore his lamp in full security : by the
assistance of its beams, the door of the sepulchre was soon
discovered. It was sunk within the hollow of a wall, and
almost concealed by thick festoons of ivy hanging over it.
Three steps of rough - hewn stone conducted to it, and
Matilda was on the point of descending them when she
suddenly started back.

' There are people in the vaults ! ' she whispered to the
monk ; ' conceal yourself till they are passed.'

She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent tomb,
erected in honour of the convent's foundress. Ambrosio
followed her example, carefully hiding his lamp, lest its
beams should betray them. But a few moments had
elapsed, when the door was pushed open leading to the
subterraneous caverns. Kays of light proceeded up the
staircase : they enabled the concealed spectators to observe
two females, dressed in religious habits, who seemed engaged
in earnest conversation. The abbot had no difficulty to
recognize the prioress of St. Clare in the first, and one of
the elder nuns in her companion.

' Everything is prepared ', said the prioress ;' her fate
shall be decided to-morrow ; all her tears and sighs will be
unavailing. No ! — in five-and-twenty years that I have
been superior of this convent, never did I witness a
transaction more infamous ! '

'You must expect much opposition to your will', the
other replied, in a milder voice ; ' Agnes has many friends
in the convent ; and in particular the Mother St. Ursula
will espouse her cause most warmly. In truth, she merits
to have friends ; and I wish I could prevail upon you to
consider her youth, and her peculiar situation. She seems
sensible of her fault ; the excess of her grief proves her
penitence ; and I am convinced that her tears flow more
from contrition than fear of punishment. Reverend
mother, would you be persuaded to mitigate the severity
of your sentence — would you but deign to overlook this

CHAPTER VI 183

first transgression, I offer myself as the pledge of her
future conduct.'

' Overlook it, say you, Mother Camilla ? You amaze me !
What ! after disgracing me in the presence of Madrid's
idol, of the very man on whom I most wished to impress
an idea of the strictness of my discipline ? How despicable
must I have appeared to the reverend abbot ! No, mother,
no ! I never can forgive the insult. I cannot better con-
vince Ambrosio that I abhor such crimes, than by punishing
that of Agnes with all the rigour of which our severe laws
admit. Cease then your supplications ; they will all be
unavailing. My resolution is taken. To-morrow Agnes
shall be made a terrible example of my justice and
resentment.'

The Mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point,
but by this time the nuns were out of hearing. The
prioress unlocked the door which communicated with St.
Clare's chapel, and having entered with her companion,
closed it again after them.

Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the
prioress was thus incensed, and what connexion she could
have with Ambrosio. He related her adventure ; and he
added, that since that time his ideas having undergone a
thorough revolution, he now felt much compassion for the
unfortunate nun.

' I design ', said he, ' to request an audience of the
domina to-morrow, and use every means of obtaining a
mitigation of her sentence.'

' Beware of what you do ! ' interrupted Matilda ; ' your
sudden change of sentiment may naturally create surprise,
and may give birtb to suspicions which it is most our
interest to avoid. fEather redouble your outward austerity,
and thunder out menaces, against the errors of others, the
better to conceal your own. Abandon the nun to her fate,.
Your interfering might be dangerous, and her imprudence
merits to be punished :' she is unworthy to enjoy love's
pleasur§s v who has not wit enough to conceal them. But
in discussing this trifling subject, I waste moments which
are precious. The night flies apace, and much must be
done before morning. The nuns are retired; all is safe.
Give me the lamp, Ambrosio. I must descend alone into
these caverns : wait here, and if anyone approaches, warn
me by your voice ; but as you value your existence,

1 84 THE MONK

presume not to follow me : your life would fall a victim to
your imprudent curiosity.'

Thus saying, she advanced towards the sepulchre, still
holding her lamp in one hand, and her little basket in the
other. She touched the door : it turned slowly upon its
grating hinges, and a narrow winding staircase of black
marble presented itself to her eyes. She descended it;
Ambrosio remained above, watching the faint beams of
the lamp, as they still receded down the stairs. They
disappeared, and he found himself in total darkness.

Left to himself, he could not reflect without surprise on
the sudden change in Matilda's character and sentiments.
But a few days had passed since she appeared the mildest
and softest of her sex, devoted to his will, and looking up
to him as to a superior being. Now she assumed a sort of
courage and manliness in her manners and^discours.e.Jmt
ill-calculated to please him.* She spoke no longer to
insinuate, but cominand : he found himself unable to cope
with her in argument, and was unwillingly obliged to
confess the superiority of her judgment. Every moment
convinced him of the astonishing powers of her mind ; but
what she gained in the opinion of the man, she lost with
interest in the affection of the lover. He regretted Rosario,
the fond, the gentle, and submissive; he grieved that
Matilda preferred the virtues of his sex to those of her
own ; and when he thought of her expressions respecting
the devoted nun, he 'could not help blaming them as cruel
and unfeminine. '/Pity is a sentiment so natural, so
appropriate ~to the^emale character, that it is scarcely a
merit for a woman to possess it ; but to be without it is a
grievous crime. Ambrosio could not easily forgive his.
mistress for being deficient in this amiable qualitO
however, though he blamed her insensibility, he felt Title*
truth of her observations ; and though he pitied sincerely
the unfortunate Agnes, he resolved to drop the idea of
interposing in her behalf.

Near an hour had elapsed since Matilda descended into
the caverns ; still she returned not. Ambrosio's curiosity
was excited. He drew near the staircase — he listened — all
was silent, except that at intervals he caught the sound
of Matilda's voice, as it wound along the subterraneous
passages, and was re-echoed by the sepulchre's vaulted
roofs. She was at too great a distance for him to

CHAPTER VI 1S5

distinguish her words, and ere they reached him, they were
deadened in a low murmur. He longed to penetrate into
this mystery. He resolved to disobey her injunctions, and
follow her into the cavern. He advanced to the staircase ;
he had already descended some steps, when his courage
failed him. He remembered Matilda's menaces, if he
infringed her orders; and his bosom was filled with a
secret unaccountable awe. He returned up the stairs,
resumed his former station, and waited impatiently for the
conclusion of this adventure.

Suddenly he was sensible of a violent shock. An earth-
quake rocked the ground, the columns which supported
the roof under which he stood were so strongly shaken,
that every moment menaced him with its fall, and at the
same moment he heard a loud and tremendous burst of
thunder : it ceased, and his eyes being fixed upon the
staircase, he saw a bright column of light flash along the
caverns beneath. It was seen but for an instant. No
sooner did it disappear, than all was once more quiet and
obscure. Profound darkness again surrounded him, and
the silence of night was only broken by the whirring bat,
as she flitted slowly by him.

With every instant Ambrosio's amazement increased.
Another hour elapsed, after which the same light again
appeared, and was lost again as suddenly. It was ac-
companied by a strain of sweet but solemn music, which,
as it stole through the vaults below, inspired the monk
with mingled delight and terror. It had not long been
hushed, when he heard Matilda's steps upon the staircase.
She ascended from the cavern ; the most lively joy
animated her beautiful features.

' Did you see anything ? ' she asked.

' Twice I saw a column of light Hash up the staircase.'

'Nothing else?'

* Nothing.'

' The morning is on the point of breaking : let us retire
to the abbey, lest daylight should betray us.'

With a light step she hastened from the burying-ground.
She regained her cell, and the curious abbot still accom-
panied her. She closed the door, and disembarrassed
herself of lamp and basket.

' I have succeeded ! ' she cried, throwing herself upon
his bosom ; ' succeeded beyond my fondest hopes ! I shall

186 THE MONK

live, Ambrosio, shall live for you ! The step which I
shuddered at taking proves to me a source of joys inex-
pressible ! Oh that I dared communicate those joys to
you ! Oh that I were permitted to share with you my
power, and raise you as high above the level of your sex,
as one bold deed has exalted me above mine ! '

' And what prevents you, Matilda ? ' interrupted the
friar. ' Why is you business in the cavern made a secret ?
Do you think me undeserving of your confidence ?
Matilda, I must doubt the truth of your affection, while
you have joys in which I am forbidden to share.'

' You reproach me with injustice : I grieve sincerely that
I am obliged to conceal from you my happiness : but I am
not to blame ; the fault lies not in me, but in yourself, my
Ambrosio. You are still too much the monk : your mind
is enslaved by the prejudices of education ; and superstition
might make you shudder at the idea of that which ex-
perience has taught me to prize and value. At present,
you are unfit to be trusted with a secret of such
importance ; but the strength of your judgment, and the
curiosity which I rejoice to see sparkling in your eyes,
make me hope that you will one day deserve my confidence.
Till that period arrives, restrain your impatience.
Remember that you have given me your solemn oath,
never to inquire into this night's adventures. I insist
upon your keeping this oath ; for though ', she added,
smiling, while she sealed his lips with a wanton kiss,
' though I forgive your breaking your vows to Heaven, I
expect you to keep your vows to me.'

The friar returned the embrace, which had set his blood
on fire. The luxurious and unbounded excesses of the
former night were renewed, and they separated not till the
bell rang for matins.

The same pleasures were frequently repeated. The
monks rejoiced in the feigned Kosario's unexpected
recovery, and none of them suspected his real sex. The
abbot possessed his mistress in tranquillity, and perceiving
his frailty unsuspected, abandoned himself to his passions
in full security. Shame and remorse no longer tormented
him : frequent repetitions made him familiar with sin, and
his bosom became proof against the stings of conscience.
In these sentiments he was encouraged. by Matilda; but
she soon was aware that she had satiated her lover by the

CHAPTER VI 18;

unbounded freedom of her caresses. Her charms becoming
accustomed to him, they ceased to excite the same desires
which at first they had inspired. The delirium of passion
being past, he had leisure to observe every trifling defect ; j
where none were to be found, satiety made him fancy
them. The monk was glutted with the fulness of pleasure,
t A week had scarcely elapsed before he - was wearied of his
paramour: his warm constitution still made him seek in
her arms the gratification of his lust; but, when the
moment of passion was over, he quitted her with disgust ;
and his humour, naturally inconstant, made him sigh
impatiently for variety.]

CPossession, which cloys man, only increases the affection
of women."] Matilda with every succeeding day grew more
attached to the friar. Since he had obtained her favours,
he was become dearer to her than ever, and she felt
grateful to him for the pleasures in which they had
equally been sharers. Unfortunately, as her passion grew
ardent, Ambrosio's grew cold ; the very marks of her
fondness excited his disgust, and its excess served to
extinguish the flame which already burned but feebly in
his bosom. Matilda could not but remark that her society
seemed to him daily less agreeable ; he was inattentive
while she spoke ; her musical talents, which she possessed
in perfection, had lost the power of amusing him ; or, if
he deigned to praise them, his compliments were evidently
forced and cold. He no longer gazed upon her with
affection, or applauded her sentiments with a lover's
partiality. This Matilda well perceived, and redoubled
her efforts to revive those sentiments which he once had
felt. She could not but fail, since he considered as
importunities the pains which she took to please him, and
was disgusted by the very means which she used to recall
the wanderer. Still, however, their illicit commerce con-
tinued ; but it was clear that he was led to her arms not by
love but the cravings of brutal appetite. His constitution
made a woman necessary to him, and Matilda was the only
one with whom he could indulge his passions safely. In
spite of her beauty, he gazed upon every other female
with more desire ; but, fearing that his hypocrisy should
be made public, he confined his inclinations to his own
breast.

It was by no means his nature to be timid: but his

188 THE MONK

education had impressed his mind with fear so strongly,
that apprehension was now become part of his character.
Had his youth been passed in the world, he would have
shown himself possessed of many brilliant and manly
qualities. He was naturally enterprising, firm, and fearless;
he had a warrior's heart, and he might have shone^with
splendour at the head of an army. There was no want of
generosity in his nature : the wretched never failed to find
in him a compassionate auditor: his abilities were quick
and shining, and his judgment vast, solid, and decisive.
With such qualifications, he- would have been an ornament
to his country : that he possessed them, he had given proof
in his earliest infancy, and his parents had ) beheld his
dawning virtues with the fondest delight and admiration.
Unfortunately, while yet a child, he was deprived of those
parents. He fell into the power of a relation, whose only
wish about him was never to hear of him more : for that
purpose, he gave him in charge to his friend, the former
superior of the Capuchins. The abbot, a very monk, used
all his endeavours to persuade the boy that happiness
existed not without the walls of a convent. He suc-
ceeded fully. To deserve admittance into the order of
St. Francis was Ambrosio's highest ambition. His in-
structors carefully repressed those virtues, whose grandeur
and disinterestedness were ill suited to the cloister.
Instead of universal benevolence, he adopted a selfish par-
tiality for his own particular establishment : he was taught
to consider compassion for the errors of others as a crime
of the blackest dye ; the noble frankness of his temper
was exchanged for servile humility ; and in order to
break his natural spirit, the monks terrified his young mind,
by placing before him all the horrors with which super-
stition could furnish them ; they painted to him the
torments of the damned in colours the most dark, terrible,
and fantastic, and threatened him at the slightest fault
with eternal perdition. No wonder that his imagination,
constantly dwelling upon these fearful objects, should have
rendered his character timid and apprehensive. Add to
this, that his long absence from the great world, and total
unacquaintance with the common clangers of life, made
him form of them an idea far more dismal than the reality.
While the monks were busied in rooting out his virtues
and narrowing his sentiments, they allowed every vice

CHAPTER VI 189

which had fallen to his share to arrive at full perfection.
He was suffered to be proud, vain, ambitious, and disdainful :
he was jealous of his equals, and despised all merit but his
own : he was implacable when offended, and cruel in his
revenge. Still, in spite of the pains taken to pervert them,
his natural good qualities would occasionally break through
the gloom cast over them so carefully. /At such times the
contest for superiority between his real and acquired
'character was striking and unaccountable to those un-
acquainted with his original disposition. He pronounced
the most severe sentences upon offenders, which, the
monjent after, compassion induced him to mitigate : he
undertook the most daring enterprizes, which the fear of
their consequences soon obliged him to abandon : his inborn
genius darted a brilliant light upon subjects the most
obscure, and almost instantaneously his superstition
replunged them in darkness more profound than that
from which they had just been rescued. His brother
monks, regarding him as a superior being, remarked not
this contradiction in their idol's conduct: they were per-
suaded that what he did must be right, and supposed him
to have good reasons for changing his resolutions. The
fact was, that the different sentiments with which educa-
tion and nature had inspired him were combating in his
bosom : it remained for his passions, which as yet no
opportunity had called into play, to decide the victory.
Unfortunately his passions were the very worst judges
to whom he could possibly have applied : his monastic
seclusion had till now been in his favour, since it gave him
no room for discovering his bad qualities. The superiority
of his talents raised him too far above his companions to
permit his being jealous of them : his exemplary piety,
persuasive eloquence, and pleasing manners, had secured
him universal esteem, and consequently he had no injuries
to revenge : his ambition was justified by his acknowledged
merit, and his pride considered as no more than proper
confidence. He never saw, much less conversed with the
other sex ; he was ignorant of the pleasures in women's
power to bestow ; and if he read, in the course of his
studies :

That men were fond, he smiled, and wondered how.

For a time, spare diet, frequent watching, and severe

i go THE MONK

penance, cooled and repressed the natural warmth of his
constitution : but no sooDer did opportunity present itself,
no sooner did he catch a glimpse of joys to which he was
still a stranger, than religion's barriers were too feeble
to resist the overwhelming torrent of his desires. All
impediments yielded before the force of his temperament,
warm, sanguine, and voluptuous in the excess. As yet his
other passions lay dormant ; but they only needed to be
once awakened, to display themselves with violence as
great and irresistible.

He continued to be the admiration of Madrid. The
enthusiasm created by bis eloquence seemed rather to
increase than diminish. Every Thursday, which was the
only day when he appeared in public, the Capuchin
cathedral was crowded with auditors, and his discourse
was always received with the same approbation. He was
named confessor to all the chief families in Madrid ; and
no one was counted fashionable who was enjoined penance
by any other than Ambrosio. In his resolution of never
stirring out of his convent he still persisted. This circum-
stance created a still greater opinion of his sanctity and
self-denial. Above all, the women sang forth his praises
loudly, less influenced by devotion than by his noble
countenance, majestic air, and well-turned graceful figure.
The abbey-door was thronged with carriages from morniDg
to night; and the noblest and fairest dames of Madrid
confessed to the abbot their secret peccadilloes. The eyes
of the luxurious friar devoured their charms. Had his
penitents consulted these interpreters, he would have
needed no other means of expressing his desires. For his
misfortune, they were so strongly persuaded of his
continence, that the possibility of his harbouring indecent
thoughts never once entered their imaginations. The
climate's heat, 'tis well known, operates with no small
influence upon the constitutions of the Spanish ladies : but
the most abandoned would have thought it an easier task
to inspire with passion the marble statue of St. Francis,
than the cold and rigid heart of the immaculate Ambrosio.

On his part, the friar was little acquainted with the
depravity of the world : he suspected not that but few of
his penitents would have rejected his addresses. Yet had
he been better instructed on this head, the danger attending
such an attempt would have sealed up his lips in 6ilence.

CHAPTER VI 191

He knew that it would be difficult for a woman to keep a
secret so strange and so important as his frailty ; and he
even trembled lest Matilda should betray him. Anxious to
preserve a reputation which was infinitely dear to him,
he saw all the risk of committing it to the power of some
vain giddy female ; and as the beauties of Madrid affected
only his senses without touching his heart, he forgot them
as soon as they were out of his sight. The danger of
discovery, the fear of being repulsed, the loss of reputation
— all these considerations counselled him to stifle his
desires ; and though he now felt for it the most perfect
indifference, he was necessitated to confine himself to
Matilda's person.

One morning, the confluence of penitents was greater
than usual. He was detained in the confessional chair till
a late hour. At length the crowd was despatched, and he
prepared to quit the chapel, when two females entered, and
drew near him with humility. They threw up their veils,
and the youngest entreated him to listen to her for a few
moments. The melody of her voice, of that voice to which
no man ever listened without interest, immediately caught
Ambrosio's attention. He stopped. The petitioner seemed
bowed down with affliction : her cheeks were pale, her eyes
dimmed with tears, and her hair fell in disorder over her
face and bosom. Still her countenance was so sweet, so
innocent, so heavenly, as might have charmed a heart less
susceptible than that which panted in the abbot's breast.
With more than usual softness of manner he desired her
to proceed, and heard her speak as follows, with an
emotion which increased every moment:

' Revered father, you see an unfortunate threatened with
the loss of her dearest, of almost her only friend ! My
mother, my excellent mother, lies upon the bed of sick-
ness. A sudden and dreadful malady seized her last night,
and so rapid has been its progress, that the physicians
despair of her life. Human aid fails me ; nothing remains
for me but to implore the mercy of Heaven. Father, all
Madrid rings with the report of your piety and virtue.
Deign to remember my mother in your prayers : perhaps
they may prevail on the Almighty to spare her: and
should that be the case, I engage myself every Thursday
in the next three months to illuminate the shrine of St.
Francis in his honour.'

192 THE MONK

' So ! ' thought the monk ; ' here we have a second
Vincentio della Ronda. Rosario's adventure began thus ' ;
and he wished secretly that this might have the same
conclusion.

He acceded to the request. The petitioner returned him
thanks with every mark of gratitude, and then continued :

' I have yet another favour to ask. We are strangers in
Madrid : my mother needs a confessor, and knows not to
whom she should apply. We understand that you never
quit the abbey, and, alas! my poor mother is unable to
come hither ! If you would have the goodness, reverend
father, to name a proper person, whose wise and pious
consolations may soften the agonies of my parent's death-
bed, you will confer an everlasting favour upon hearts not
ungrateful.'

With this petition also the monk complied. Indeed,
what petition would he have refused, if urged in such
enchanting accents ? The suppliant was so interesting —
her voice was so sweet, so harmonious! her very tears
became her, and her affliction seemed to add new lustre to
her charms. He promised to send to her a confessor that
same evening, and begged her to leave her address. The
companion presented him with a card on which it was
written, and then withdrew with the fair petitioner, who
pronounced before her departure a thousand benedictions
on the abbot's goodness. His eyes followed her out of the
chapel. It was not till she was out of sight that he
examined the card, on which he read the following words :
* Donna Elvira Dalfa, Strada di San Iago, four doors from
the Palace d'Albornos.'

The suppliant was no other than Antonia, and Leonella
was her companion. The latter had not consented without
difficulty to accompany her niece to the abbey : Ambrosio
had inspired her with such awe, that she trembled at the
very sight of him. Her fears had conquered even her
natural loquacity, and while in his presence she uttered
not a single syllable.

The monk retired to his cell, whither he was pursued
by Antoniois image. He felt a thousand new emotions
springing in his bosom, and he trembled to examine into
the cause which gave them birth. They were totally
different from those inspired by Matilda, when she first
declared her sex and her affection. He felt not the

CHAPTER VI 193

provocation of lust; no voluptuous desires rioted in his bosom,
nor did a burning imagination picture to him the charms
which modesty had veiled from his eyes : on the contrary,
what he now felt was a mingled sentiment of tenderness,
admiration, and respect. A soft and delicious melancholy
infused itself into his soul, and he would not have
exchanged it for the most lively transports of joy.
Society now disgusted him : he delighted in solitude,
which permitted his indulging in visions of fancy : his
thoughts were all gentle, sad, and soothing ; and the whole
wide world presented him with no other object than
Antonia.

'Happy man !' he exclaimed, in his romantic enthusiasm,
' happy man, who is destined to possess the heart of that
lovely girl ! What delicacy in her features ! what elegance
in her form ! how enchanting was the timid innocence of
her eyes ! and how different from the wanton expression, "")
the wild luxurious fire, which sparkles in Matilda's ! Oh,
sweeter must one kiss be, snatched from the rosy lips of
the first, than all the full and lustful favours bestowed so
freely by the second. Matilda gluts me with enjoyment
even to loathing, forces me to her arms, apes the harlot,
and glories in her prostitution. Disgusting ! Did she
know the inexpressible charm of modesty, how irresistibly
it enthrals the heart of man, how firmly it chains him to
the throne of beauty, she never would have thrown it off.
What would be too dear a price for this lovely girl's
affections ? What would I refuse to sacrifice, could I be
released from my vows, and permitted to declare my love
in the sight of earth and heaven? While I strove to
inspire her with tenderness, with friendship and esteem,
how tranquil and undisturbed would the hours roll away !
Gracious God ! to see her blue downcast eyes beam upon
mine with timid fondness ! to sit for days, for years,
listening to that gentle voice ! to acquire the right of
obliging her, and hear the artless expressions of her
gratitude ! to watch the emotions of her spotless heart !
to encourage each dawning virtue ! to share in her joy
when happy, to kiss away her tears when distressed, and
to see her fly to my arms for comfort and support ! Yes ;
if there is perfect bliss on earth, 'tis his lot alone who
becomes that angel's husband.'

While his fancy coined these ideas, he paced his cell

N

tg4 THE MONtf

with a disordered air. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy ;
his head reclined upon his shoulder ; a tear rolled down
his cheek, while he reflected that the vision of happiness
for him Could never be realized.

' She is lost to me ' he continued ; ' by marriage she
cannot be mine ; and to seduce such innocence, to use the
confidence reposed in me to work her ruin — oh ! it would
be a crime, blacker than yet the world ever witnessed !
Fear not, lovely girl ! your virtue runs no risk from me.
Not for Indies would I make that gentle bosom know the
tortures of remorse.'

Again he paced his chamber hastily ; then stopping, his
eye fell upon the picture of his once-admired Madonna : he
tore it with indignation from the wall ; he threw it on the
ground, and spurned it from him with his foot: 'The
prostitute ! '

Unfortunate Matilda ! Her paramour forgot that for
his sake alone she had forfeited her claim to virtue ; and
his only reason for despising her was that she had loved
him much too well.

He threw himself into a chair, which stood near the
table. He saw the card with Elvira's address. He took it
up, and it brought to his recollection his promise respecting
a confessor. He passed a few minutes in doubt ; but
Antonia's empire over him was already too much decided
to permit his making a long resistance to the idea which
struck him. He resolved to be the confessor himself. He
could leave the abbey unobserved without difficulty : by
wrapping up his head in his cowl, he hoped to pass through
the streets without being recognized : by taking these
precautions and by recommending secrecy to Elvira's
family, he doubted not to keep Madrid in ignorance that
he had broken his vow never to see the outside of the
abbey- walls. Matilda was the only person whose vigilance
he dreaded ; but by informing her at the refectory, that
during the whole of that day business would confine him
to his cell, he thought himself secure from her wakeful
jealousy. Accordingly, at the hours when the Spaniards
are generally taking their siesta, he ventured to quit the
abbey by a private door, the key of which was in his
possession. The cowl of his habit was thrown over his
face : from the heat of the weather the streets were almost
totally deserted : the monk met with few people, found

CHAPTER VI 195

the Strada di San Iago, and arrived without accident at
Donna Elvira's door. He rang, was admitted, and
immediately ushered into an upper apartment.

It was here that he ran the greatest risk of a discovery.
Had Leonella been at home, she would have recognized
him directly. Her communicative disposition would never
have permitted her to rest, till all Madrid was informed
that Ambrosio had ventured out of the abbey, and visited
her sister. Fortune here stood the monk's friend. On
Leonella's return home, she found a letter instructing her
that a cousin was just dead, who had left what little he
possessed between herself and Elvira. To secure this
bequest, she was obliged to set out for Cordova without
losing a moment. Amidst all her foibles, her heart was
truly warm and affectionate, and she was unwilling to quit
her sister in so dangerous a state. But Elvira insisted
upon her taking the journey, conscious that, in her
daughter's forlorn situation, no increase of fortune, however
trifling, ought to be neglected. Accordingly Leonella left
Madrid, sincerely grieved at her sister's illness, and giving
some few sighs to the memory of the amiable but inconstant
Don Chrisfcoval. She was fully persuaded that at first she
had made a terrible breach in his heart ; but hearing
nothing more of him, she supposed that he had quitted the
pursuit, disgusted by the lowness of her origin, and know-
ing upon other terms than marriage he had nothing to
hope from such a dragon of virtue as she professed herself ;
or else, that being naturally capricious and changeable, the
remembrance of her charms had been effaced from the
Condi's heart by those of some newer beauty. Whatever
was the cause of her losing him, she lamented it sorely.
She strove in vain, as she assured everybody who was kind
enough to listen to her, to tear his image from her too
susceptible heart. She affected the airs of a love-sick
virgin, and carried them all to the most ridiculous excess.
She heaved lamentable sighs, walked with her arms folded,
uttered long soliloquies, and her discourse generally turned
upon some forsaken maid, who expired of a broken heart !
Her fiery locks were always ornamented with a garland of
willow. Every evening she was seen straying upon the
banks of a rivulet by moonlight ; and she declared herself
a violent admirer of murmuring streams and nightingales :

196 THE MONK

Of lonely haunts, and twilight groves,
Places which pale passion loves !

Such was the state of Leonella's mind, when ohliged to
quit Madrid. Elvira was out of patience at all these
follies, and endeavoured at persuading her to act like a
reasonable woman. Her advice was thrown away :
Leonella assured her at parting, that nothing could make
her forget the perfidious Don Christoval. In this point
she was fortunately mistaken. An honest youth of
Cordova, journeyman to an apothecary, found that her
fortune would be sufficient to set him up in a genteel shop
of his own. In consequence of this reflection, he avowed
himself her admirer. Leonella was not inflexible ; the
ardour of his sighs melted her heart, and she soon consented
to make him the happiest of mankind. She wrote to
inform her sister of her marriage ; but, for reasons which
will be explained hereafter, Elvira never answered her
letter.

Ambrosio was conducted into the anti-chamber to that
where Elvira was reposing. The female domestic who
had admitted him left him alone, whilst she announced his
arrival to her mistress. Antonia, who had been by her
mother's bedside, immediately came to him.

' Pardon me, father ', said she, advancing towards him ;
when recognizing his features, she stopped suddenly, and
uttered a cry of joy. 'Is it possible ?' she continued ; ' do
not my eyes deceive me ? Has the worthy Ambrosio
broken through his resolution, that he may soften the
agonies of the best of women ? What pleasure will this
visit give my mother! Let me not delay for a moment
the comfort which your piety and wisdom will afford her.'

Thus saying, she opened the chamber door, presented to
her mother her distinguished visitor, and, having placed
an armchair by the side of the bed, withdrew into another
apartment.

Elvira was highly gratified by this visit : her expectations
had been raised high by general report, but she found them
far exceeded. Ambrosio, endowed by Nature with powers
of pleasing, exerted them to the utmost, while conversing
with Antonia's mother. With persuasive evidence he
calmed every fear, and dissipated every scruple. He bade
her reflect on the infinite mercy of her Judge, despoiled
death of his darts and terrors, and taught her to view

CHAPTER VI 19;

without shrinking the abyss of eternity, on whose brink she
then stood. Elvira was absorbed in attention and delight ;
while she listened to his exhortations, conBdence and com-
fort stole insensibly into her mind. She unbosomed to
him without hesitation her cares and apprehensions. The
latter respecting a future life he had already quieted ; and
he now removed the former, which she felt for the concerns
of this. She trembled for Antonia ; she had none to whose
care she could recommend her, save to the Marquis de las
Cisternas, and her sister Leonella. The protection of the
one was very uncertain ; and as to the other, though fond
of her niece, Leonella was so thoughtless and vain, as to
make her an improper person to have the sole direction of
a girl so young and ignorant of the world. The friar no
sooner learned the cause of her alarms, than he begged her
to make herself easy upon that head. He doubted not
being able to secure for Antonia a safe refuge in the house
of one of his penitents, the Marchioness of Villa Franca :
this was a lady of acknowledged virtue, remarkable for
strict principles and extensive charity. Should accident
deprive her of this resource, he engaged to procure Antonia
a reception in some respectable convent, that is to say, in
quality of boarder ; for Elvira had declared herself no friend
to a monastic life, and the monk was either candid or
complaisant enough to allow that her disapprobation was
not unfounded.

These proofs of the interest which he felt for her
completely won Elvira's heart. In thanking him, she
exhausted every expression which gratitude could furnish,
and protested, that now she should resign herself with
tranquillity to the grave. Ambrosio rose to take leave ;
he promised to return the next day at the same hour, but
requested that his visits might be kept secret.

' I am unwilling ', said he, ' that my breaking through
a rule imposed by necessity should be generally known.
Had I not resolved never to quit my convent, except upon
circumstances as urgent as that which has conducted me
to your door, I should be frequently summoned upon in-
significant occasions ; that time would be engrossed by the
curious, the unoccupied, and the fanciful, which I now
pass at the bedside of the sick, in comforting the expiring
penitent, and clearing the passage to eternity from thorns.'

Elvira commended equally his prudence and compassion,

198 THE MONK

promising to conceal carefully the honour of his visits.
The monk then gave her his benediction, and retired from
the chamber.

In the anti-room he found Antonia ; he could not refuse
himself the pleasure of passing a few moments in her
society. He bade her take comfort, for that her mother
seemed composed and tranquil, and he hoped that she
might yet do well. He inquired who attended her, and
engaged to send the physician of his convent to see her,
one of the most skilful in Madrid. He then launched out
in Elvira's commendation, praised her purity and fortitude
of mind, and declared that she had inspired him with the
highest esteem and reverence. Antonia's innocent heart
swelled with gratitude, joy danced in her eyes, where a
tear still sparkled. The hopes which he gave her of her
mother's recovery, the lively interest which he seemed to
feel for her, and the flattering way in which she was
mentioned by him, added to the report of his judgment
and virtue, and to the impression made upon her by his
eloquence, confirmed the favourable opinion with which
his first appearance had inspired Antonia. She replied
with diffidence, but without restraint : she feared not to
relate to him all her little sorrows, all her little fears and
anxieties ; and she thanked him for his goodness with all
the genuine warmth which favours kindle in a young and
innocent heart. Such alone knows how to estimate benefits
•at their full value. They who are conscious of mankind's
perfidy and selfishness ever receive an obligation with
apprehension and disgust: they suspect that some secret
motive must lurk behind it ; they express their thanks
with restraint and caution, and fear to praise a kind action
to its full extent, aware that on some future day a return
may be required. Not so Antonia — she thought the world
was composed only of those who resembled her ; and that
vice existed was to her still a secret. The monk had been
of service to her ; he said that he wished her well : she was
grateful for his kindness, and thought that no terms were
strong enough to be the vehicle of her thanks. With what
delight did Ambrosio listen to the declaration of her artless
gratitude ! The natural grace of her manners, the un-
equalled sweetness of her voice, her modest vivacity, her
unstudied elegance, her expressive countenance and intelli-
gent eyes, united to inspire him with pleasure and

CHAPTER VI 199

admiration, while the solidity and correctness of her
remarks received additional beauty from the unaffected
simplicity of the language in which they were conveyed.

Ambrosio was at length obliged to tear himself from thia
conversation, which possessed for bim but too many charms.
He repeated to Antonia his wishes, that his visits should
not be made known, which desire she promised to observe.
He then quitted the house, while his enchantress hastened
to her mother, ignorant of the mischief which her beauty
had caused. She was eager to know Elvira's opinion of
the man whom she had praised in such enthusiastic terms,
and was delighted to find it equally favourable, if not even
more so than her own.

' Even before he spoke ', said Elvira, ' I was prejudiced
in his favour ; the fervour of his exhortations, dignity of his
manner, and closeness of his reasoning, were very far from
inducing me to alter my opinion. His fine and full-toned
voice struck me particularly : but surely, Antonia, I have
heard it before - r it seemed— pediectly-fainiliar to my ear :
either I must have known the abbot in former times, or his
voice bears a wonderful resemblance to that of some other
to whom I have often listened. There were certain tones
which touched my very heart, and made me feel sensations
so singular, that I strive in vain to account for them.'

' My dearest mother, it produced the same effect upon
me ; yet certainly neither of us ever heard his voice till
we came to Madrid. I suspect that what we attribute to
his voice really proceeds from his pleasant manners, which
forbid our considering him as a stranger. J know not why,
but I feel more at my .ease while conversing with him,w^
than I usually do. with people who "are" unknown to me.
I feared not to repeat to him all~my childish "thoughts ;
and somehow I felt confident that he would hear my folly
with indulgence. Oh I I was not deceived in him : he
listened to me with such an air of kindness and attention ;
he answered me with such gentleness, such condescension ;
he did not call me an infant, and treat me with contempt,
as our cross old confessor at the castle used to do. I verily
believe, that if I had lived in Murcia a thousand years, I
never should have liked that fat old Father Dominic.'

' I confess that Father Dominic had not the most pleasing
manners in the world ; but he was honest, friendly, and
well-meaning.'

200 THE MONK

' Ah ! my dear mother, those qualities are so common — '

' God grant, my child, that experience may not teach you
to think them rare and precious ! I have found them but
too much so. But tell me, Antonia, why is it impossible
for me to have seen the abbot before ? '

' Because, since the moment when he entered the abbey
he has never been on the outside of its walls. He told me
just now, that, from his ignorance of the streets, he had
some difficulty to find the Strada di San Iago, though so
near the abbey.'

' All this is possible, and still I may have seen him before
he entered the abbey : in order to come out, it was rather
necessary that he should first go in.'

' Holy Virgin ! as you say, that is very true. Oh ! but
might he not have been born in the abbey ? '

Elvira smiled. ' Why, not very easily.'

' Stay, stay ! Now I recollect how it was. He was put
into the abbey quite a child : the common people say that
he fell from heavenjand was sent as a present to the •<
Capuchins^Ta. v Tne"Vir^ ?n.' >, &5

' That was very kind of her. And soT he— folL_fj»ga ^ \
heasear Allium* ? — he must have had a terrible tumble?) V 1

' Many do not credit this, and I fancy, my dear mother,
that I must number you among the unbelievers. Indeed,
as our landlady told my aunt, the general idea is, that his
parents, being poor, and unable to maintain him, left him
just born at the abbey-door : the late superior, from pure
charity, had him educated in the convent, and he proved
to be a model of virtue, and piety, and learning, and I
know not what else besides. In consequence, he was
first received as a brother of the order, and not long
ago was chosen abbot. However, whether this account
or the other is the true one, at least all agree that when
the monks took him under their care he could not speak ;
therefore you could not have heard his voice before he
entered the monastery, because at that time he had no
voice at all.'

' Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very closely ; your
conclusions are infallible. I did not suspect you of being
so able a logician.'

" Ah ! you are mocking me : but so much the better — it
delights me to see you in spirits ; besides, you seem
tranquil and easy, and I hope that you will have no

CHAPTER VI 201

more convulsions. Oh, I was sure the abbot's visit would
do you good ! '

' It has indeed done me good, my child. He has quieted
my mind upon some points which agitated me, and I
already feel the effects of his attention. My eyes grow
heavy, and I think I can sleep a little. Draw the curtains,
my Antonia : but if I should not wake before midnight, do
not sit up with me, I charge you.'

Antonia promised to obey her, and having received her
blessing, drew the curtains of the bed. She then seated
herself in silence at her embroidery frame, and beguiled
the hours with building castles in the air. Her spirits
were enlivened by the evident change for the better in
Elvira, and her fancy presented her with visions bright
and pleasing. In these dreams Ambrosio made no
despicable figure ; she thought of him with joy and
gratitude : but for every idea which fell to the friar's
share, at least two were unconsciously bestowed upon
Lorenzo. Thus passed the time, till the bell in the
neighbouring steeple of the Capuchin cathedral announced
the hour of midnight. Antonia remembered her mother's
injunctions, and obeyed them, though with reluctance.
She undrew the curtains with caution. Elvira was
enjoying a profound and quiet slumber: her cheek
glowed with health's returning colours : a smile declared
that her dreams were pleasant; and as Antonia bent
over her, she fancied that she heard her name pronounced.
She kissed her mother's forehead softly, and retired to her
chamber : there she knelt before a statue of St. Rosalia,
her patroness ; she recommended herself to the protection
of Heaven, and, as had been her custom from infancy,
concluded her devotions by chanting the following
stanzas :

MIDNIGHT HYMN

Now all is hushed ; the solemn chime

No longer swells the nightly gale :
Thy awful presence, hour sublime !

With spotless heart once more I hail.

'Tis now the moment, still and dread,
When sorcerers use their baleful power ;

When graves give up their buried dead
To profit by the sanctioned hour.

202 THE MONK

From guilt and guilty thoughts secure,

To duty and devotion true,
With bosom light and conscience pure,

Repose ! — thy gentle aid I woo.

Good angels, take my thanks, that still
The snares of vice I view with scorn ;

Thanks, that to-night as free from ill
I sleep, as when I woke at morn.

Yet may not my unconscious breast
Harbour some guilt, to me unknown ?

Some wish impure, which unreprest
You blush to see, and I to own ?

If such there be, in gentle dream
Instruct my feet to shun the snare ;

Bid truth upon my errors beam,

And deign to make me still your care.

Chase from my peaceful bed away
The witching spell, a foe to rest,

The nightly goblin, wanton fay,

The ghost in pain, and fiend unblest.

Let not the tempter in mine ear
Pour lessons of unhallowed joy ;

Let not the nightmare, wandering near
My couch, the calm of sleep destroy ;

Let not some horrid dream affright

With strange fantastic forms mine eyes ;

But rather bid some vision bright
Display the bliss of yonder skies.

Show me the crystal domes of heaven,
The worlds of light where angels lie ;

Show me the lot to mortals given,
Who guiltless live, who guiltless die.

Then show me how a seat to gain
Amidst those blissful realms of air ;

Teach me to shun each guilty stain,
And guide me to the good and fair.

So every morn and night, my voice
To heaven the grateful strain shall raise ;

In you as guardian powers rejoice,
Good angels ! and exalt your praise.

So will I strive, with zealous fire,
Each vice to shun, each fault correct ;

Will love the lessons you inspire,
And prize the virtues you protect.

CHAPTER VI 203

Then when, at length, by high command,

My body seeks the grave's repose —
When death draws nigh with friendly hand,

My failing pilgrim-eyes to close —

Pleased that my soul escapes the wreck,

Sighless will I my life resign,
And yield to God my spirit back,

As pure as when it first was mine.

Having finished ber usual devotions, Antonia retired to
bed. Sleep soon stole over her senses ; and for several
hours she enjoyed that calm repose which innocence alone
can know, and for which many a monarch with pleasure
would exchange his crown.

CHAPTER VII

Ah ! how dark
These long-extending realms and rueful wastes,
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,
Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun
Was rolled together, or had tried its beams
Athwart the gloom profound ! The sickly taper,
By glimm'ring through thy low-brow'd misty vaults,
Furr'd round with mouldy damps and ropy slime,
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make thy night more irksome !

— Blair

Returned undiscovered to the abbey, Ambrosio's mind
w-as^ filled with the most pleasing images. He was\witi
fully blind to the danger of exposing himself to Antonta's
charms : he only remembered the pleasure which her
society had afforded him, and rejoiced in the prospect of
that pleasure being repeated. He failed not to profit by
Elvira's indisposition to obtain a sight of her daughter
every day. At first, he bounded his wishes to inspire
Antonia with friendship ; but no sooner was he convinced
that she felt that sentiment in its fullest extent, than his
aim became more decided, and his attentions assumed a
warmer colour. The innocent familiarity with which she
treated him encouraged his desires. Grown used to her
modesty, it no longer commanded the same respect and
awe ; he still admired it, but it only made him more
anxious to deprive her of that quality which formed her
principal charm. Warmth of passion, and natural pene-
tration, of which latter, unfortunately both for himself and
Antonia, he possessed an ample share, supplied a knowledge
of the arts of seduction. Ho easily distinguished the
emotions which were favourable to his designs, and seized
every means with avidity of infusing corruption into
Antonia's bosom. This he found no easy matter. Ex-
treme simplicity prevented her from perceiving the aim
to which the monk's insinuations tended ; but the ex-
cellent morals which she owed to Elvira's care, the solidity

204

CHAPTER VII 205

and correctness of her understanding, and a strong sense
of what was right, implanted in her heart by nature, made
her feel that his precepts must be faulty. By a few simple
words she frequently overthrew the whole bulk of his
sophistical arguments, and made him conscious how weak
they were when opposed to virtue and truth. On such
occasions he took refuge in his eloquence ; he overpowered"^
her with a torrent of philosophical paradoxes, to which,
not understanding them, it was impossible for her to
reply ; and thus, though he did not convince her that
his reasoning was just, he at least prevented her from
discovering it to be false. He perceived that her respect
for his judgment augmented daily, and doubted not with
time to bring her to the point desired.

He was not unconscious that his attempts were highly .,
criminal. He saw clearly the baseness of seducing the
innocent girl ; but his passion was too violent to permit
his abandoning his design. He resolved to pursue it, let
the consequences be what they might. He depended upon
finding Antonia in some unguarded moment ; and seeing
no other man admitted into her society, nor hearing*. any
mentioned, either by her or by Elvira, he imagined that
her young heart was still unoccupied. While he waited
for the opportunity of satisfying his unwarrantable lust,
every day increased his coldness for Matilda. Not a little
was this occasioned by the consciousness of his faults to
her. To hide them from her, he was not sufficiently
master of himself ; yet he dreaded lest, in a transport of
jealous rage, she should betray the secret on which his
character and even his life depended. Matilda could not
but remark his indifference : he was conscious that she
remarked it, and fearing her reproaches, shunned her
studiously. Yet, when he could not avoid her, her mild-
ness might have convinced him that he had nothing to
dread from her resentment. She had resumed the character
of the gentle interesting Rosario : she taxed him not with
ingratitude, but her eyes filled with involuntary tears, and
the soft melancholy of her countenance and voice uttered
complaints far more touching than words could have con-
veyed. Ambrosio was not unmoved by her sorrow, but,
unable to remove its cause, he forbore to show that it
affected him. As her conduct convinced him that he
needed not fear her vengeance, he continued to neglect

206 THE MONK

her, and avoided her company with care. Matilda saw
that she in vain attempted to regain his affections, yet
she stifled the impulse of resentment, and continued to
treaLJier inconstant lover with her former fondness and
affection.

By degrees Elvira's constitution recovered itself. She
was no longer troubled with convulsions, and Antonia
ceased to tremble for her mother. Ambrosio beheld this
re-establishment with displeasure : he saw that Elvira's
knowledge of the world would not be the dupe of his
sanctified demeanour, and that she would easily perceive
his views upon her daughter. He resolved, therefore,
before she quitted her chamber, to try the extent of his ■
influence over the innocent Antonia.

One evening, when he had found Elvira almost perfectly
restored to health, he quitted her earlier than was his usual
custom. Not finding Antonia in the anti-chamber, he
ventured to follow her to her own. It was only separated
from her mother's by a closet, in which Flora, the waiting-
woman, generally slept. Antonia sat upon a sofa with her
back towards the door, and read attentively. She heard
not his approach, till he had seated himself by her. She
started, and welcomed him with a look of pleasure ; then
rising, she would have conducted him to the sitting-room ;
but Ambrosio, taking her hand, obliged her by gentle
violence to resume her place. She complied without
difficulty : she knew not that there was more impro-
priety in conversing with him in one room than another.
She thought herself equally secure of his principles and
her own, and having replaced herself upon the sofa, she
began to prattle to him with her usual ease and vivacity.
He examined the book which she had been reading, and
had now placed upon the table. I t_was th e Bihlfi. ' TTr»w I '
said the frjpr to himself 'Antonia reads the Bible, and is

~ st ill so ignorant ? '

Jbut, upon a turther inspection, he found that Elvira had
made exactly the same remark. That prudent mother,
while she admired the beauties of the sacred writings, was
convinced tha t, unrestricted, no readin g more improper
could be permTEEea a young wom an: Haliy Of the

'narratives can only tend to excite ideas the worst calculated
for a female breast : everything is called plainly and
roundly by its name, and the annals of a brothel would

r M „„,«i.

jpf ^ CHAPTER VII 207

"scarcely furnish a greater choice of indecent expressions.
Yet this is the book whic h y"" n g wr.mon q, r p. reco mmended
'T o study, which is put into the han ds of children, able £0"
cbmprehena little more than those" passages of 'which they
had better remain ignorant, and which bdt Cod treqiMfitly
ihc aicul ates 1 thu livk i , h.1h i m l .n 1:1m ! jlill-ijlee | jiijir i jaaijiOh s.
Of"this was Jiivira so fully convinced, that she would'have-"
preferred putting into her daughter's hands Amadis de Gaul,
or The Valiant Champion, Tirante the White, and would <
sooner have authorized her studying the lewd exploits of
Don Oalaor, or the lascivious jokes of the Damsel Plazer di
mi vida. She had in consequence made two resolutions
respecting the Bible. The first was, that Antonia should
not read it till she was of an age to feel its beauties and
profit by its morality. The second, that it should be copied
out with her own hand, and\all improper passages either
altered or omittectjN^She had adhered to this determination,
and such was the Bible which Antonia was reading ; it
had been lately delivered to her, and she perused it with
an avidity, with a delight that was inexpressible. Ambrosio
perceived his mistake, and replaced the book upon the
table.

Antonia spoke of her mother's health with all the
enthusiastic joy of a youthful heart. ' I admire your filial
affection,' said the abbot ; ' it proves the excellence and
sensibility of your character : it promises a treasure to him
whom Heaven has destined to possess your affections.
The breast so capable of fondness for a parent, what will
it feel for a lover ? — nay, perhaps what feels it for
one even now ? Tell me, my lovely daughter, have you
known what it is to love ? Answer me with sincerity :
forget my habit, and consider me only as a friend.'

' What it is to love ? ' said she, repeating his question.
' Oh, yes ! undoubtedly ; I have loved many, many people.'

' That is not what I mean. The love of which I speak
can be felt only for one. Have you never seen the man
whom you'wished to be your husband ? '

' Oh, no, indeed ! '

This was an untruth, but she was unconscious of its
falsehood : she knew not the nature of her sentiments for
Lorenzo ; and never having seen him since his first visit
to Elvira, with every day his image grew less feebly im-
pressed upon her bosom ; besides, she thought of a husband

208 THE MONK

with all a virgin's terror, and negatived the friar's demand
without a moment's hesitation.

' And do you not long to see that man, Antonia ? Do
you feel no void in your heart which you fain would have
filled up ? Do you heave no sighs for the absence of some-
one dear to you, but who that someone is you know not ?
Perceive you not that what formerly could please has
charms for you no longer ? that a thousand new wishes,
new ideas, new sensations, have sprung in your bosom,
only to be felt, never to be described ? Or, while you fill
every other heart with passion, is it possible that your
own remains insensible and cold ? It cannot be ! That
melting eye, that blushing cheek, that enchanting volup-
tuous melancholy which at times overspreads your features
— all these marks belie your words : you love, Antonia,
and in vain would hide it from me.'

' Father, you amaze me ! What is this love of which
you speak ? I neither know its nature, nor, if I felt it,
why I should conceal the sentiment.'

' Have you seen no man, Antonia, whom, though never
seen before, you seemed long to have sought, whose form,
though a stranger's, was familiar to your eyes, the sound
of whose voice soothed you, pleased you, penetrated to
your very soul, in whose presence you rejoiced, for whose
absence you lamented, with whom your heart seemed to
expand, and in whose bosom, with confidence unbounded,
you reposed the cares of your own ? Have you not felt
all this, Antonia ? '

' Certainly I have : the first time that I saw you, I
felt it.'

< Ambrosio started. Scarcely dared he credit his hearing.
' Me, Antonia ? ' he cried, his eyes sparkling with delight
and impatience, while he seized her hand, and pressed it
rapturously to his lips. ' Me, Antonia ? You felt these
sentiments for me ? '

' Even with more strength than you have described.
The very moment that I beheld you, I felt so pleased, so
interested ! I waited so eagerly to catch the sound of your
voice ; and, when I heard it, it seemed so sweet ! — it
spoke to me a language till then so unknown ! Methought
it told me a thousand things which I wished to hear ! It
seemed as if I had long known you ; as if I had a right to
your friendship, your advice, and your protection. I wept

CHAPTER VII 209

when you departed, and longed for the time which should
restore you to my sight.'

' Antonia, my charming Antonia ! ' exclaimed the
monk, and caught her to his bosom ; ' can I believe my
senses ? Repeat it to me, my sweet girl ! Tell me again
that you love me, that you love me truly and tenderly ! '

' Indeed I do ; let my mother be excepted, and the
world holds no one more dear to me.'

At this frank avowal, Ambrosio no longer possessed
himself ; wild with desire, he clasped the blushing trembler
in his arms. He fastened his lips greedily upon her's,
sucked in her pure delicious breath, violated with his bold
hand the treasures of her bosom, and wound around him
her soft and yielding limbs. Startled, alarmed, and con-
fused at his action, surprise at first deprived her of the
power of resistance. At length recovering herself, she
strove to escape from his embrace.

' Father ! — Ambrosio ! ' she cried, ' release me, for God's
sake ! '

But the licentious monk heeded not her prayers : he
persisted in his design, and proceeded to take still greater
liberties. Antonia prayed, wept, and struggled: terrified
to the extreme, though at what she knew not, she exerted
all her strength to repulse the friar, and was on the point
of shrieking for assistance, when the chamber door was
suddenly thrown open. Ambrosio had just sufficient
presence of mind to be sensible of his danger. Reluctantly
he quitted his prey, and started hastily from the couch.
Antonia uttered an exclamation of joy, flew towards the
door, and found herself clasped in the arms of her mother.

Alarmed at some of the abbot's speeches, which Antonia
had innocently repeated, Elvira resolved to ascertain the
truth of her suspicions. She had known enough of man-^
kind not to be imposed upon by the monk's reputed virtue.
She reflected on several circumstances, which, though
trifling, on being put together seemed to authorize her
fears. His frequent visits, which, as far as she could see,
were confined to her family ; his evident emotion, whenever
she spoke of Antonia ; his being in the full prime and heat
of manhood ; and, above all, his pernicious philosophy,
communicated to her by Antonia, and which accorded but
ill with his conversation in her presence ; all these circum-
stances inspired her with doubts respecting the purity of

210 THE MONK

Ambrosio's friendship. In consequence she resolved, when
he should next be alone with Antonia, to endeavour at
surprising him. Her plan had succeeded. 'Tis true, that
when she entered the room, he had already abandoned his
prey ; but the disorder- of her daughter's dress, and the
friar's countenance, sufficed to prove that her suspicions
were but too well founded. However, she was too prudent
to make those suspicions known. She judged, that to
unmask the impostor would be no easy matter, the public
being so much prejudiced in his favour : and having but
few friends, she thought it dangerous to make herself so
powerful an enemy. She affected, therefore, not to remark
his agitation, seated herself tranquilly upon the sofa,
assigned some trifling reason for having quitted her room
unexpectedly, and conversed on various subjects with
seeming confidence and ease.

Reassured by her behaviour, the monk began to recover
himself. He strove to answer Elvira without appearing
embarrassed ; but he was still too great a novice in
dissimulation, and he felt that he must look confused and
awkward. He soon broke off the conversation, and rose
to depart. What was his vexation when, on taking leave,
Elvira told him, in polite terms, that being now perfectly
re-established, she thought it an injustice to deprive others
of his company who might be more in need of it ! She
assured him of her eternal gratitude, for the benefit which
during her illness she had derived from his society and
exhortations ; and she lamented that her domestic affairs,
as well as the multitude of business which his situation
must of necessity impose upon him, would in future deprive
her of the pleasure of his visits. Though delivered in the
mildest language, this hint was too plain to be mistaken.
Still he was preparing to put in a remonstrance, when an
expressive look from Elvira stopped him short. He dared
not press her to receive him, for her manner convinced him
that he was discovered ; he submitted without reply, took
a hasty leave, and retired to the abbey, his heart filled
with rage and shame, with bitterness and disappointment.

Antonia's mind felt relieved by his departure ; yet she
could not help lamenting that she was never to see him
more. Elvira also felt a secret sorrow : she had received
too much pleasure from thinking him her friend not to
regret the necessity of changing her opinion; but her

CHAPTER VII 211

mind was too much accustomed to the fallacy of worldly
friendships to permit her present disappointment to weigh
upon it long. She now endeavoured to make her daughter
aware of the risk which she had run ; but she was obliged
to treat the subject with caution, lest, in removing the
bandage of ip-noranne the vail nf innocence should be rent
away*. — She therefore contented herself with warning
Antonia to be upon her guard, and ordering her, should
the abbot persist in his visits, never to receive them but in
company. With this injunction Antonia promised to comply.

Ambrosio hastened to his cell. He closed the door after
him, and threw himself upon the bed in despair. The
impulse of desire, the stings of disappointment, the shame
of detection, and the fear of being publicly unmasked,
rendered his bosom a scene of the most horrible oonfusion.
He knew not what course to pursue.. Debarred the
presence of Antonia, he had no hopes of satisfying that
passion which was now become a part of his existence.
He reflected that his secret was in a woman's power ; he
trembled with apprehension when he beheld the precipice
before him, and with rage when he thought that, had it
not been for Elvira, he should now have possessed the
object of his desires. With/the direst imprecations he
vowed vengeance agaiHbL llUt jAa swore th at, cost what it
w ould, he still wouia possess Anronia. \ Stat'tlU^ fium the-
bed, he paced the V h_amber_ saty disoigaered steps, howled
with impotent fury, dashed himsel"
walls, and indulged all the transports of rage a<p! madness.

He was Still Under the inflkanc fl nf-^ »m!£ » rtnrm - frf
passions, when he heard a gentle knock at the door of
his cell. Conscious that his voice must have been heard,
he dared not refuse admittance to the importuner. He
strove to compose himself, and to hide his agitation.
Having in some degree succeeded, he drew back the bolt ;
the door opened, and Matilda appeared.

At this precise moment there was no one with whose
presence he could better have dispensed : he had not
sufficient command over himself to conceal his vexation.
He started back, and frowned. ' I am busy ' said he, in a
stern and hasty tone ; ' leave me.'

Matilda heeded him not : she again fastened the door,
and then advanced towards him with an air gentle and
supplicating.

212 THE MONK

* Forgive me, Ambrosio ' said she ; ' for your own sake I
must not obey you. Fear no complaints from me ; I come
not to reproach you with your ingratitude. I pardon you
from my heart ; and since your love can no longer be mine,
I request the next best gift, your confidence and friendship.
We cannot force our inclinations : the little beauty which
you once saw in me has perished with its novelty ; and if
it can no longer excite desire, mine is the fault, not yours.
But why persist in shunning me ? Why such anxiety to
fly my presence ? You have sorrows, but will not permit
me to share them ; you have disappointments, but will not
accept my comfort ; you have wishes, but forbid my aiding
your pursuits. 'Tis of this which I complain, not of your
indifference to my person. I have given up the claims of
the mistress, but nothing shall prevail on me to give up
those of the friend.'

'Generous Matilda', he replied, taking her hand, 'how
far do you rise superior to the foibles of your sex ! Yes,
I accept your offer. I have need of an adviser, and a
confident: in you I find every needful quality united.
But to aid my pursuits — ah, Matilda ! it lies not in your
power ! '

' It lies in no one's power but mine, Ambrosio : your
secret is none to me ; your every step, your every action,
has been observed by my attentive eye. You love.'

' Matilda ! '

' Why conceal it from me ? Fear not the little jealousy
which taints the generality of women — my soul disdains
so despicable a passion. You love, Ambrosio; Antonia
Dalfa is the object of your flame. I know every circum-
stance respecting your passion. Every conversation has
been repeated to me. I have been informed of your
attempt to enjoy Antonia's person, your disappointment,
and dismission from Elvira's house. You now despair of
possessing your mistress ; but I come to revive your hopes,
and point out the road to success.'

• To success ! — Oh, impossible ! '

' To those who dare, nothing is impossible. Rely upon
me, and you may yet be happy. The time is come,
Ambrosio, when regard for your comfort and tranquillity
compels me to reveal a part of my history, with which you
are still unacquainted. Listen, and do not interrupt me.
Should my confession disgust you, remember that, in

CHAPTER VII 213

making it, my sole aim is to satisfy your wishes, and
restore that peace to your heart which at present has
abandoned it. I formerly mentioned that my guardian
was a man of uncommon knowledge. He took pains to
instil that knowledge into my infant mind. Among the
various sciences which curiosity had induced him to
explore, he neglected notj- h nt -JBttfaich by most is esteemed
impious, and by manj^eWmerican ^ speak of those arts

Which relate to the WaritL ftf ppiriiaK Hia iHwp wcpan-tioa

into causes and effects, his unwearied application to the
study of natural philosophy, his profound and unlimited
knowledge of the properties and virtues of every gem
which enriches the deep, of every herb which the earth
produces, at length procured him the distinction which he
had sought so long, so earnestly. His curiosity was fully
slaked, his ambition amply gratified. He gave laws to the
elements: he could reverse the order of Nature: his eye
read the mandates of futurity; and the infernal spirits^
were submissive to his commands. Why shrink you from
me ? I understand that inquiring look. Your suspicions .
are right, though your terrors are unfounded. My
guardian concealed not from me his most precious
acquisition. Yet, had I never seen you, I should never
have exerted my power. Like you, I shuddered at the
thoughts of magic ; like you, I had formed a terrible idea
of the consequences of raising a demon. To preserve that
life which your love had taught me to prize, I had recourse
to means which I trembled at employing. You remember
that night which I passed in St. Clare's sepulchre. Then
was it that, surrounded by mouldering bodies, I dared to
jnystic rites, which summoned to my aid a
"fallen angel. )Judge what must have been my joy at
discoverm^-tBat my terrors were imaginary. I saw him
Ting at my frown ; and found that, instead of selling my
soul'to a master , my courage had purchased for myself a slave.'
' Rash Matilna ! Wnat have you done ? You have
doomed yourself to endless perdition ; you have bartered
for momentary power eternal happiness ! If on witch-
craft depends the fruition of my desires, I renounce your
aid most absolutely. The consequences are too horrible.
I dote upon Antonia, but am not so blinded by lust as to
sacrifice for her enjoyment my existence both in this world
and in the next.'

214 THE MONK

' Ridiculous prejudices ! Oh, blush, Ambrosio, blush at
being subjected totheir dominion. Where is the risk of
accepting my offers ? What should induce my persuading
you to this step, except the wish of restoring you to
happiness and quiet ? If there is danger, it must fall upon
me. It is I who invoke the ministry of the spirits ; mine
therefore will be the crime, and yours the profit: but
danger there is none ; the enemy of mankind is my slave,
not my sovereign. Is there no difference between giving
and receiving laws, between serving and commanding?
Awake from your idle dreams, Ambrosio ! throw from you
these terrors, so ill suited to a soul like yours ; leave them
for common men, and dare to be happy ! Accompany me
this night to St. Clare's sepulchre ; there witness my
incantations, and Antonia is your own.'

' To obtain her by such means, I neither can nor will.
Cease then to persuade me.forldar&not employ hell'sagency.'

' You da/re not ? How have you Ta£CErvett~me ! 'i'ha"t
mind, which I esteemed so great and valiant, proves to be
feeble, puerile, and grovelling — a slave to vulgar errors,
and weaker than a woman's.'

' What, though conscious of the dagger, wilfully shall I
expose myself to the seducer's arts ? Vihall I renounce for
ever my title to salvation ? Shall my eyes seek a sight
which I know will blast them ? <«No, no, Matilda ; I will
not ally myself with God's enemy/?

' Are you then God's friend atTpresent ? Have you not
broken your engagements with him, renounced his service,
and abandoned yourself to the impulse of your passions ?
Are you not planning the destruction of innocence, the
ruin of a creature whom he formed in the mould of angels?
If not of demons, whose aid would you invoke to forward
this laudable design ? Will the seraphims protect it,
' conduct Antonia to your arms, and sanction with their
ministry your illicit pleasures ? Absurd ! But I am not
deceived, Ambrosio ! It is not virtue which makes you
reject my offer ; you would accept it, but you dare not.
'Tis not the crime which holds your hand, but the punish-
ment ; 'tis not respect for God which restrains you, but
the terror of his vengeance ! Fain would you offend him
in secret, but you tremble to profess yourself his foe. Now
shame on the coward soul, which wants the courage neither
to be a firm friend, or an open enemy ! '

CHAPTER VII 215

' To look upon guilt with horror, Matilda, is in itself a
merit : in this respect I glory to confess myself a coward.
Though my passions have made me deviate from her laws,
I stili feel in my heart an innate love of virtue. But it ill
becomes you to tax me with my perjury — you who first
seduced me to violate my vows, you who first roused my
sleeping vices, made me feel the weight of religion's chains,
and bade me be convinced that guilt had pleasures. Yet
though my principles have yielded to the force of tempera-
ment, I still have sufficient grace to shudder at sorcery,
and avoid a crime so monstrous, so unpardonable ! '

' Unpardonable, say you ? Where then is your constant
boast of the Almighty's infinite mercy ? Has he of late
set bounds to it ? Receives he no longer a sinner with joy?
You injure him, Ambrosio ; you will always have time to
repent, and he have goodness to forgive. Afford him a
glorious opportunity to exert that goodness: the greater
your crime, the greater his merit in pardoning. Away then
with these childish scruples ! be persuaded to your good,
and follow me to the sepulchre.'

' Oh, cease, Matilda ! That scoffing tone, that bold and
impious language, is horrible in every mouth, but most so
in a woman's. Let us drop a conversation which excites
no other sentiments than horror and disgust. I will not follow
you to the sepulchre, or accept the services of your infernal
agents. Antonia shall be mine, but mine by human means.'

' Then yours she will never be ! You are banished her
presence ; her mother has opened her eyes to your designs,
and she is now upon her guard against them. Nay, more,
she loves another ; a youth of distinguished merit possesses
Tier froa.rf. ; flnf) unless you interfere, a few days will make
Sr h is bride. T his intelligence was brought me by my
'invisible servahT9?sj<o whom I had recourse on first per-
siving your indifference. They watched your every
actre*Lrelated to me/ all that passed at Elvira's, and
inspirea~Uie w ith"*"tne idea of favouring your designs.
Their reports have been my only comfort. Though you
shunned my presence, all your proceedings were known to
me ; nay, I was constantly with you in some degree,
thanks to this most precious gift ! '

With these words she drew from beneath her habit a
mirror of polished steel, the borders of which were marked
with various strange and unknown characters.

216 THE MONK

' Amidst all my sorrows, amidst all my regrets for your
coldness, I was sustained from despair by the virtues of
this talisman. On pronouncing certain words, the person
appears in it on whom the observer's thoughts are bent :
thus, though I was exiled from your sight, you, Ambrosio,
were ever present to mine.'

The friar's curiosity was strongly excited. ' What you
relate is incredible ! Matilda, are you not amusing yourself
with my credulity ? '

' Be your own eyes the judge.'

She put the mirror into his hand. Curiosity induced
him to take it, and love, to wish that Antonia might
appear. Matilda pronounced the magic words. Immedi-
ately a thick smoke rose from the characters traced upon
the borders, and spread itself over the surface. It dispersed
again gradually ; a confused mixture of colours and images
presented themselves to the friar's eyes, which at length
arranging^ themselves in their proper places, he beheld in
miniature Antonia's lovely form.

The scene was a small closet belonging to her apartment.
She was undressing to bathe herself. The long tresses of
her hair were already bound up. The amorous monk had
full opportunity to observe the voluptuous contours and
admirable symmetry of her person. She threw off her
last garment, and, advancing to the bath prepared for her,
put her foot into the water. It struck cold, and she drew
it back again. Though unconscious of being observed, an
inbred sense of modesty induced her to veil her charms ;
and she stood hesitating upon the brink, in the attitude of
the Venus de Medicis. At this moment a tame linnet flew
towards her, nestled its head between her breasts, and
nibbled them in wanton play. The smiling Antonia strove
in vain to shake off the bird, and at length raised her
hands to drive it from its delightful harbour. Ambrosio
could bear no more. His desires were worked up to
phrenzy.

' I yield ! ' he cried, dashing the mirror upon the ground ;
' Matilda, I follow you ! Do with me what you will ! '

She waited not to hear his consent repeated. It was
already midnight. She flew to her cell, and soon returned
with her little basket and the key of the cemetery, which
had remained in her possession since her first visit to the
vaults. She gave the monk no time for reflection.

CHAPTER VII 217

'Come', she paid, and took his hand; 'follow me. and
witness the effects of your resolve.'

This said, she drew him hastily along. They passed into
the burying - ground unobserved, opened the door of the
sepulchre, and found themselves at the head of the sub-
terraneous staircase. As yet the beams of the full moon
had guided their steps, but that resource now failed them.
Matilda had neglected to provide herself with a lamp.
Still holding Ambrosio's hand, she descended the marble
steps ; but the profound obscurity with which they were
overspread obliged them to walk slow and cautiously.

' You tremble ', said Matilda to her companion ; ' fear not
— the destined spot is near.'

They reached the foot of the staircase, and continued to
proceed, feeling their way along the walls. On turning a
corner, suddenly they descried faint gleams of light, which
seemed burning at a distance. Thither they bent their
steps. The rays proceeded from a small sepulchral lamp
which flamed unceasingly before the statue of St. Clare.
It tinged with dim and cheerless beams the massy columns
which supported the roof, but was too feeble to dissipate
the thick gloom in which the vaults above were buried.

Matilda took the lamp. ' Wait for me ' said she to the
friar ; ' in a few moments I am here again.'

With these words she hastened into one of the passages
which branched in various directions from the spot, and
formed a sort of labyrinth. Ambrosio was now left alone.
Darkness the most profound surrounded him, and en-
couraged the doubts which began to revive in his bosom.
He had been hurried away by the delirium of the moment.
(The shame of betraying his terrors while in Matilda's
presence had induced him to repress them ; but, now that c .
he was abandoned to himself, they resumed their former
ascendancy^ He trembled at the scene which he was soon
to witness; He knew not how far the delusions of
magic might operate upon his mind : they possibly
might force him to some deed, whose commission would
make the breach between himself and Heaven irreparable.
In this fearful dilemma, he would have implored God's
assistance, but was conscious that he had forfeited all claim
to such protection. Gladly would he have returned to the
abbey ; but as he had passed through innumerable caverns
and winding passages, the attempt of regaining the stairs

2i8 THE MONK

was hopeless. His fate was determined ; no possibility of
escape presented itself. He therefore combated his appre-
hensions, and called every argument to his succour which
might enable him to support the trying scene with fortitude.
He reflected that Antonia would be the reward of his
daring. He inflamed his imagination by enumerating her
charms. /He persuaded himself, thak«»as Matilda had
observed, Nje always should have CbTO 'Sufficient for
repentance jjand that, as he employed her assistance, not
that of denrons, the crime of sorcery c foflcL irot be laid to
his charge. He had read much respecting witchcraft ; he
understood that unless a formal act was signed, renouncing
his claim to salvation, Satan would have no power over
him. He was fully determined not to execute any such
act, whatever threats might be used, or advantages held
out to him.

Such were his meditations while waiting for Matilda.
They were interrupted by a low murmur, which seemed at
no great distance from him. He was startled — he listened.
Some minutes passed in silence, after which the murmur
was repeated. It appeared to be the groaning of one in
pain. In any other situation, the circumstance would only
have excited his attention and curiosity: in the present,
his predominant sensation was that of terror. His imagina-
tion totally engrossed by the ideas of sorcery and spirits,
he fancied that some unquiet ghost was wandering near
him ; or else that Matilda had fallen a victim to her pre-
sumption, and was perishing under the cruel fangs of the
demons. The noise seemed not to approach, but continued
to be heard at intervals. Sometimes it became more
audible — doubtless, as the sufferings of the person who
uttered the groans became more acute and insupportable.
Ambrosio now and then thought that he could distinguish
accents, and once in particular he was almost convinced
that he heard a faint voice exclaim : ' God, oh God ! No
hope ! No succour ! '

Yet deeper groans followed these words : they died away
gradually, and universal silence prevailed.

' What can this mean ? ' thought the bewildered monk.

At that moment an idea, which flashed into his mind,
almost petrified him with horror : he started, and shuddered
at himself. ' Should it be possible ! ' he groaned involun-
tarily; ' should it but be possible ! Oh.whatamonsteraml !'

CHAPTER VII 219

He wished to resolve his doubts, and to repair his fault,
if it were not too late already. But these generous and
compassionate sentiments were soon put to flight by the
return of Matilda. He forgot the groaning sufferer,
and remembered nothing but the danger and embarrass-
ment of his own situation. The light of the returning
lamp gilded the walls, and in a few moments after Matilda
stood beside him. She had quitted her religious habit:
she was now clothed in a long sable robe, on which was
traced in gold embroidery a variety of unknown characters ;,
it was fastened by a girdle of precious stones, in which was
fixed a poinard. Her neck and arms were uncovered ; in
her hand she bore a golden wand ; her hair was loose, and
flowed wildly upon her shoulders ; her eyes sparkled with
terrific expression ; and her whole demeanour was calculated
to inspire the beholder with awe and admiration.

' Follow me ! ' she said to the monk, in a low and solemn
voice ; ' all is ready.'

His limbs trembled while he obeyed her. She led him
through various narrow passages ; and on every side, as
they passed along, the beams of the lamp displayed none
but the most revolting objects ; sculls, bones, graves, and
images whose eyes seemed to glare on them with horror
and surprise. At length they reached a spacious cavern,
whose lofty roof the eye sought in vain to discover. A
profound obscurity hovered through the void ; damp
vapours struck cold to the friar's heart, and he listened
sadly to the blast while it howled along the lonely vaults.
Here Matilda stopped. She turned to Ambrosio. His
cheeks and lips were pale with apprehension. By a glance
of mingled scorn and anger, she reproved his pusillanimity,
but she spoke not. She placed the lamp upon the ground
near the basket. She motioned that Ambrosio should be
silent, and began the mysterious rites. She drew a circle
round him, another round herself ; and then, taking a small
phial from the basket, poured a few drops upon the ground
before her. She bent over the place, muttered some
indistinct sentences, and immediately a pale sulphurous
flame arose from the ground. It increased by degrees, and
at length spread its waves over the whole surface, the:
circles alone excepted in which stood Matilda and the
monk. It then ascended the huge columns of unhewn
stone, glided along the roof, and formed the cavern into

220 THE MONK

an immense chamber, totally covered with blue trembling
fire. It emitted no heat: on the contrary, the extreme
dullness of the place seemed to augment with every
moment. Matilda continued her incantations ; at intervals
she took various articles from the basket, the nature and
name of most of which were unknown the friar: but
among the few which he distinguished, he particularly
observed three human fingers, and an Agnus Dei, which
she broke in pieces. She threw them all into the flames
which burned before her, and they were instantly
consumed.

The monk beheld her with anxious curiosity. Suddenly
she uttered a loud and piercing shriek. She appeared to
be seized with an excess of delirium ; she tore her hair,
beat her bosom, used the most frantic gestures, and, draw-
ing the poinard from her girdle, plunged it into her left
arm. The blood gushed out plentifully ; and as she stood
on the brink of the circle, she took care that it should fall
on the outside. The flames retired from the spot on which
the blood was pouring. A volume of dark clouds rose
slowly from the ensanguined earth, and ascended gradually
till it reached the vault of the cavern. At the same time
a clap of thunder was heard ; the echo pealed fearfully
along the subterraneous passages, and the ground shook
beneath the feet of the enchantress.

It was now that Ambrosio repented of his rashness. The
solemn singularity of the charm had prepared him for
something strange and horrible. He waited with fear for
the spirit's appearance, whose coming was announced by
thunder and earthquakes. He looked wildly around him,
expecting that some dreadful apparition would meet his
eyes, the sight of which would drive him mad. A cold
shivering seized his body, and he sunk upon one knee,
unable to support himself.

'He comes!' exclaimed Matilda, in a joyful accent.

Ambrosio started, and expected the demon with terror.
What was his surprise when, the thunder ceasing to roll, a
full strain of melodious music sounded in the air ! At the
same time the cloud disappeared, and he beheld a figure
more beautiful than fancy's pencil ever drew. It was a
youth, seemingly scarce eighteen, the perfection of whose
form and face was unrivalled. He was perfectly naked :
a bright star sparkled upon his forehead, two crimson

CHAPTER VII 221

wings extended themselves from his shoulders, and his
silken locks were confined by a band of many-coloured
jfires, which played round his head, formed themselves into
a variety of figures, and shone with a brilliance far
surpassing that of precious stones. Circlets of diamonds
were fastened round his arms and ankles, and in his right
hand he bore a silver branch, imitating myrtle. His form
shone with dazzling glory : he was surrounded by clouds
of rose-coloured light ; and at the moment that he
appeared, a refreshing air breathed perfumes through the
cavern. Enchanted at a vision so contrary to his
expectations, Ambrosio gazed upon the spirit with delight
and wonder; yet, however. beautiful the figure, he could
not but remark a wildness 'in the demon's eyes, and a
mysterious melancholy impressed upon his features,?
betraying the fallen angel, and inspiring the spectators
with secret awe.

The music ceased. Matilda addressed herself to the
spirit ; she spoke in a language unintelligible to the monk,
and was answered in the same. She seemed to insist upon
something which the demon was unwilling to grant. He
frequently darted upon Ambrosio angry glances, and at
such times the friar's heart sank within him. Matilda
appeared to grow incensed ; she spoke in a loud and
commanding tone, and her gestures declared that she was
threatening him with her vengeance. Her menaces had
the desired effect. The spirit sank upon his knee, and
with a submissive air presented to her the branch of
myrtle. No sooner had she received it, than the music '
was again heard; a thick cloud spread itself over the
apparition, the blue flames disappeared, and total obscurity
reigned through the cave. The abbot moved not from his
place : his faculties were all bound up in pleasure, anxiety,
and surprise. At length, the darkness dispersing, he
perceived Matilda standing near him in her religious habit,
with the myrtle in her hand. No traces remained of the
incantation, and the vaults were only illuminated by the ,
faint rays of the sepulchral lamp.

'I have succeeded', said Matilda, 'though with morev
difficulty than I expected. T.i™iFp.r wlnni T summoned,
to my assistance, was at first unwilling to obey my
commands! t& enforce his compliance, I was constrained
to have recourse to my strongest charms. They have

222 THE MONK

produced the desired effect, but I have engaged never
more to invoke his agency in your favour. Beware then
bow you employ an opportunity which never will return.
My magic arts will now be of no use to you : in future you
:an only hope for supernatural aid by invoking the demons
yourself, and accepting the conditions of their service.
This you will never do. You want strength of mind to
force them to obedience; and unless you pay their
sstablished price, they will not be your voluntary servants.
[n this one instance they consent to obey ; I offer you the
means of enjoying your mistress, and be careful not to lose
the opportunity. Receive this constellated myrtle : while
you bear this in your hand, every door will fly open to
you. It will procure j'ou access to-morrow night to
Antonia'a chamber: then breathe upon it thrice, pro-
nounce her name, and place it upon her pillow. A
deathlike slumber will immediately seize upon her, and
deprive her of the power of resisting your attempts.
Sleep will hold her till break of morning. In this state,
you may satisfy your desires without danger of being
discovered ; since, when daylight shall dispel the effects of
the enchantment, Antonia will perceive her dishonour but
be ignorant of the ravisher. Be happy then, my Ambrosio,
and let this service convince you that my friendship is
disinterested and pure. The night must be near expiring :
let us return to the abbey, lest our absence should create
surprise.'

The abbot received the talisman with silent gratitude.
His ideas were too much bewildered by the adventures of
the night to permit him to express his thanks audibly, or
indeed, as yet, to feel the whole value of her present.
Matilda took up her lamp and basket, and guided her
companion from the mysterious cavern. She restored
the lamp to its former place, and continued her route
in darkness, till she reached the foot of the staircase.
The first beams of the rising sun darting down it facili-
tated the ascent. Matilda and the abbot hastened
out of the sepulchre, closed the door after them, and
soon regained the abbey's western cloister. No one met
them, and they retired unobserved to their respective
cells.

The confusion of Ambrosio's mind now began to appease.
He rejoiced in the fortunate issue of his adventure, and,

CHAPTER VII 223

reflecting upon the virtues of the myrtle, looked upon
Antonia as already in his power. Imagination retraced
to him those secret charms betrayed to him by the
enchanted mirror, and he waited with impatience for
the approach of midnight.

CHAPTER VIII

The crickets sing, and man's o'erlaboured sense

Repairs itself by rest : our Tarquin thus

Did softly press the rushes, ere he wakened

The chastity he wounded. Cytherea,

How bravely thou becom'st thy bed ! Fresh lily !

And whiter than the sheets 1

— Cymbeline

All the researches of the Marquis de las Cisternas proved
vain : Agnes was lost to him for ever. Despair produced
so violent an effect upon his constitution, that the conse-
quence was a long and severe illness. This prevented him
from visiting Elvira, as he had intended ; and she heing
ignorant of the cause of his neglect, it gave her no trifling
uneasiness. His sister's death had prevented Lorenzo from
communicating to his uncle his designs respecting Antonia.
The injunctions of her mother forbade his presenting him-
self to her without the duke's consent ; and as she heard
no more of him or his proposals, Elvira conjectured that he
had either met with a better match, or had been commanded
to give up all thoughts of her daughter. Every day made
her more uneasy respecting Antonia's fate ; yet, while she
retained the abbot's protection, she bore with fortitude the
disappointment of her hopes with regard to Lorenzo and
the Marquis. That resource now failed her. She was
convinced that Ambrosio had meditated her daughter's
ruin ; and when she reflected that her death would leave
Antonia friendless and unprotected, in a world so base, so
perfidious, and depraved, her heart swelled with the bitter-
ness of apprehension. At such times, she would sit for
hours gazing upon the lovely girl, and seeming to listen to
her innocent prattle, while in reality her thoughts dwelt
upon the sorrows into which a moment would suffice to
plunge her. Then she would clasp her in her arms
suddenly, lean her head upon her daughter's bosom, and
bedew it with her tears.
An event was in preparation, which, had she known it,

224

CHAPTER VIII 22$

would have relieved her from her inquietude. Lorenzo
now waited only for a favourable opportunity to inform
the duke of his intended marriage : however, a circum-
stance, which occurred at this period, obliged him to delay
Ids explanation for a few days longer.

Don. Raymond's malady seemed to gain ground. Lorenzo
was constantly at his bedside, and treated him with a
tenderness truly fraternal. Both the cause and effects of
the disorder were highly afflicting to the brother of Agnes ;
yet Theodore's grief was scarcely less sincere. That
amiable boy quitted not his master for a moment, and
put every means in practice to console and alleviate his
sufferings. ,The Marquis had conceived so rooted an affec-
tion for his deceased mistress, that it was evident to all
that he never could survive her loss. Nothing could have
prevented him from sinking under his grief, but the per-
suasion of her being still alive, and in need of his assistance.
Though convinced of its falsehood, his attendants en-
couraged him in a belief which formed his only comfort.
He was assured daily, that fresh perquisitions were making
respecting the fate of Agnes ; stories were invented re-
counting the various attempts made to get admittance
into the convent ; and circumstances were related, which,
though they did not promise her absolute recovery, at
least were sufficient to keep his hopes alive. The Marquis
constantly fell into the most terrible excess of passion,
when informed of the failure of these supposed attempts.
Still he would not credit that the succeeding ones would
have the same fate, but flattered himself that the next
would prove more fortunate.

Theodore was the only one who exerted himself to
realize his master's chimeras. He was eternally busied
in planning schemes for entering the convent, or at least
of obtaining from the nuns some intelligence of Agnes.
To execute these schemes was the only inducement which
could prevail on him to quit Don Raymond. He became
a very Proteus, changing hte shape every day ; but all his
metamorphoses were to very little purpose. He regularly
returned to the Palace de las Cisternas, without any intelli-
gence to confirm his master's hopes. One day, he took it
into his head to disguise himself as a beggar ; he put a
patch over his left eye, took his guitar in hand, and posted
himself at the gate of the convent.

p

_" 226 THE MONK

' fi

' If Agnes is really confined in the convent ', thought he,
" and hears my voice, she will recollect it, and possibly may
find means to let me know that she is here.'

With this idea he mingled with a crowd of beggars who
assembled daily at the gate of St. Clare to receive soup,
which the nuns were accustomed to distribute at twelve
o'clock. -All were provided with jugs or bowls to carry it
away ; but as Theodore had no utensil of this kind, he
begged leave to eat his portion at the convent door. This
was granted without difficulty. His sweet voice, and, in
spite of his patched eye, his engaging countenance, won
the heart of the good old porteress, who, aided by a lay-
sister, was busied in serving to each his mess. Theodore
was bid to stay till the others should depart, and promised
that his request should then be granted. The youth desired
no better, since it was not to eat soup that he presented
himself at the convent. He thanked the porteress for her
permission, retired from the door, and, seating himself upon
a large stone, amused himself in tuning his guitar while
the beggars were served.

As soon as the crowd was gone, Theodore was beckoned
to the gate, and desired to come in. He obeyed with
infinite readiness, but affected great respect at passing
the hallowed threshold, and to be much daunted by the
presence of the reverend ladies. His feigned timidity
flatt ered the vanity of the nuns t _w ho endeavoured to
reassure bim. ine porteress took mm into her own little
parlour: in the meanwhile, the lay-sister went to the
kitchen, and soon returned with a double portion of soup,
of better quality than what was given to the beggars. His
hostess added some fruits and confections from her own
private store, and both encouraged the youth to dine
heartily. To all these attentions he replied with much
seeming gratitude, and abundance of blessings upon his
benefactresses. While he ate, the nuns admired the delicacy
of his features, the beauty of his hair, and the sweetness
and grace which accompanied all his actions. They
lamented to each other in whispers, that so charming a
youth should be exposed to the seductions of the
world, and agreed that he would be a worthy pillar
of the catholic church. They conqluded their conference
by resolving, that heaven would be rendered a real
service, if they entreated the priorese to intercede

CHAPTER VIII 227

with Ambrosio for the beggar's admission into the order
of capuchins.

This being determined, the porteress, who was a person
of great influence in the convent, posted away in all haste
to the domina's cell. Here she made so flaming a narrative
of Theodore's merits, that the old lady grew curious to see
him ; accordingly the porteress was commissioned to convey
him to the parlour-grate. In the interim, the supposed
beggar was sifting the lay-sister with respect to the fate
of Agnes: her evidence only corroborated the domina's
assertions. She said that Agnes had been taken ill on
returning from confession, had never quitted her bed from
that moment, and that she had herself been present at the
funeral. She even attested having seen her dead body,
and assisted with her own hands in adjusting it upon the
bier. This account discouraged Theodore ; yet, as he had
pushed the adventure so far, he resolved to witness its
conclusion.

The porteress now returned, and ordered him to follow
her. He obeyed, and was conducted into the parlour,
where the lady prioress was already posted at the grate.
The nuns surrounded her, who all flocked with eagerness
to a scene which promised some diversion. Theodore
saluted them with profound respect, and his presence had
the power to smooth for a moment even the stern brow of
the superior. She asked several questions respecting his
parents, his religion, and what had reduced him to a state
of beggary. To these demands, his answers were perfectly
satisfactory and perfectly false. He was then asked his
opinion of a monastic life. He replied in terms of high
estimation and respect for it. Upon this the prioress told
him, that his obtaining an entrance into a religious order
was not impossible; that her recommendation would not
permit his poverty to be an obstacle ; and that, if she
found him deserving it, he might depend in future upon
her protection. Theodore assured her, that to merit her
favour would be his highest ambition ; and having ordered
him to return next day, when she would talk with him
further, the domina quitted the parlour.

The nuns, whom respect for the superior had till then
kept silent, now crowded all together to the grate, and
assailed the youth with a multitude of questions. He had
already examined each with attention. Alas ! Agnes waa

228 THE MONK

not amongst them. The nuns heaped, question upon
question so thickly, that it was scarcely possible for him
to reply. One asked where he was born, since his accent
declared him to be a foreigner : another wanted to know
why he wore a patch upon his left eye : Sister Helena
inquired whether he had not a sister like him, because she
■should like such a companion : and Sister Rachael was fully
persuaded that the brother would be the pleasanter com-
panion of the two. Theodore amused himself with relating
to the credulous nuns, for truths, all the strange stories
which his imagination could invent. He related to them
his supposed adventures, and penetrated every auditor with
astonishment, while he talked of giants, savages, shipwrecks,
and islands inhabited

By Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders ;

with many other circumstances to the full as remarkable.
He said that he was born in Terra Incognita, was educated
at an Hottentot university, and had passed two years
among the Americans of Silesia.

' For what regards the loss of my eye ', said he, ' it was
a just punishment upon me, for disrespect to the Virgin,
when I made my second pilgrimage to Loretto. I stood
near the altar in the miraculous chapel: the monks were
proceeding to array the statue in her best apparel. The
pilgrims were ordered to close their eyes during the
ceremony; but, though by nature extremely religious,
curiosity was too powerful. At the moment — I shall
penetrate you with horror, reverend ladies, when I reveal
my crime ! — at the moment that the monks were changing
her shift, I ventured to open my left eye, and gave a little
peep towards the statue. That look was my last! The
glory which surrounded the Virgin was too great to be
supported. I hastily shut my sacrilegious eye, and never
have been able to unclose it since.'

At the relation of this miracle, the nuns all crossed them-
selves, and promised to intercede with the blessed Virgin
for the recovery of his sight. They expressed their wonder
at the extent of his travels, and at the strange adventures
which he had met with at so early an age. They now
remarked his guitar, and inquired whether he was an

CHAPTER VIII 229

adept in music. He replied with modesty, that it was not
for him to decide upon his talents, but requested permission
to appeal to them as judges. This was granted without
difficulty.

' But at least ', said the old porteress, ' take care not to
sing anything profane.'

' You may depend upon my discretion ' replied Theodore ;
' you shall hear how dangerous it is for young women to
abandon themselves to their passions, illustrated by the
adventure of a damsel, who fell suddenly in love with an
unknown knight.'

' But is the adventure true ? ' inquired the porteress.

' Every word of it. It happened in Denmark ; and the
heroine was thought so beautiful, that she was known by
no other name than that of " the lovely maid." '
• ' In Denmark, say you ? ' mumbled an old nun. ' Are not
the people all blacks in Denmark ? '

' By no means, reverend" lady ; they are of a delicate
pea-green, with flame-coloured hair and whiskers.'

' Mother of God ! Pea-green ? ' exclaimed Sister Helena :
* oh ! 'tis impossible ! '

' Impossible ! ' said the porteress, with a look of con-
tempt and exultation : ' not at all ; when I was a young
woman, I remember seeing several of them myself.'

Theodore now put his instrument in proper order/' He
had read the story of a king of England whose prison was
discovered by a minstrelTpand he hoped that the same
scheme would enable him to discover Agnes, should she be
in the convent. He chose a ballad, which she had taught
him herself in the castle of Lindenberg : she might possibly
catch the sound, and he hoped to hear her reply to some of
the stanzas. His guitar was now in tune, and he prepared
to strike it.

' But before I begin ', said he, ' it is necessary to inform
you, ladies, that this same Denmark is terribly invested by
sorcerers, witches, and evil spirits. Every element possesses
its appropriate demons. The woods are haunted by a
malignant power, called " The Erl, or Oak-King " : he it is
who blights the trees, spoils the harvest, and commands
the imps and goblins. He appears in the form of an old
man of majestic figure, with a golden crown, and long
white beard. His principal amusement is to entice young
children from their parents ; and as soon as he gets them

230 THE MONK

into his cave, he tears them into a thousand pieces. The
fivers are governed by another fiend, called "The Water- 1
King " : his province is to agitate the deep, occasion ship- ^
wrecks, and drag the drowning sailors beneath the waves.
Be wears the appearance of a warrior, and employs himself
in luring young virgins into his snare : what he does with
them, when he catches them in the water, reverend ladies,
I leave for you to imagine. " The Fire-King " seems to be
ei man all formed of flames: he raises the meteors and
wandering lights, which beguile travellers into ponds and
marshes ; and he directs the lightning where it may do
most mischief. The last of these elementary demons is
called " The Cloud-King" : his figure is that of a beautiful
youth, and he is distinguished by two large sable wings :
though his outside is so enchanting, he is not a bit better
disposed than the others. He is continually employed ir?
raising storms, tearing up forests by the roots, and blowing
castles and convents about the ears of their inhabitants.
The first has a daughter, who is queen of the elves and
fairies: the second has a mother, who is a powerful
enchantress. Neither of these ladies are worth more than
the gentlemen. I do not remember to have heard any
family assigned to the two other demons ; but at present
I have no business with any of them except the fiend of
the waters. He is the hero of my ballad ; but I thought
it necessary, before I began, to give you some account of
his proceedings.'

Theodore then played a short symphony, after which,
stretching his voice to its utmost extent, to facilitate
its reaching the ear of Agnes, he sung the following
stanzas :

THE WATER-KING

A DANISH BALLAD

With gentle murmur flowed the tide,
While, by the fragrant flowery side,
The lovely maid, with carols gay,
To Mary's church pursued her way.

The water-fiend's malignant eye
Along the banks beheld her hie ;
Straight to his mother-witch he sped,
And thus in suppliant accents said ;

CHAPTER VIII 231

' Oh, mother, mother ! Now advise
How I may yonder maid surprise ? —
Oh, mother, mother ! Now explain
How I may yonder maid obtain 1 '

The witch, she gave him armour white ,
She formed him like a gallant knight ;
Of water clear next made her hand
A steed, whose housings were of sand.

The water-king then swift he went ;

To Mary's church his steps he bent :

He bound his courser to the door,

And paced the churchyard three times four.

His courser to the door bound he,
And paced the churchyard four times three ;
Then hastened up the aisle, where all
TOie people flocked, both great and small.

The priest said, as the knight drew near :
' And wherefore comes the white chief here 1 •
The lovely maid, she smiled aside :
' Oh, would I were the white chief's bride 1 '

He stepped o'er benches one and two :
' Oh, lovely maid, I die for you ! '
He stepped o'er benches two and three :
' Oh, lovely maiden, go with me ! '

Then sweet she smiled, the lovely maid ;
And, while she gave her hand, she said :
' Betide me joy, betide me woe,
O'er hill, o'er dale, with thee I do.'

The priest their hands together joins :
They dance, while clear the moonbeam shines ;
And little thinks the maiden bright,
Her partner is the water-spright.

Oh, had some spirit deigned to sing,
' Tour bridegroom is the water-king ! '
The maid had fear and hate confessed,
And cursed the hand which then she pressed.

But nothing giving cause to think
How near she strayed to danger's brink,
Still on she went, and hand in hand
The lovers reached the yellow sand —

' Ascend this steed with me, my dear !
We needs must cross the streamlet here :
Ride boldly in — it is not deep :
fhe winds are hushed, the billows sleep.'

232 THE MONK

Thus spoke the water-king. The maid
Her traitor-bridegroom's wish obeyed :
And soon she saw the courser lave
Delighted in his parent wave.

' Stop, stop, my love ! The waters blue
E'en now my shrinking foot bedew.'
' Oh, lay aside your fears, sweet heart !
We now have reached the deepest part.'

' Stop, stop, my love !— for now I see
The waters rise above my knee.'
' Oh, lay aside your fears, sweet heart !
We now have reached the deepest part.'

' Stop, stop ! For God's sake, stop ! — for, oh 1
The waters o'er my bosom flow ! ' —
Scarce was the word pronounced, when knight
And courser vanished from her sight.

She shrieks, but shrieks in vain ; for high
The wild winds rising dull the cry ;
The fiend exults ; the billows dash,
And o'er their hapless victim wash.

Three times, while struggling with the stream,
The lovely maid was heard to scream ;
But when the tempest's rage was o'er,
The lovely maid was seen no more.

Warned by this tale, ye damsels fair,
To whom you give your love beware !
Believe uot every handsome knight,
And dance not with the water-spright.

The youth ceased to sing. The nuns were delighted
with the sweetness of his voice, and masterly manner of
touching the instrument : but however acceptable this
applause would have been at any other time, at present
it was insipid to Theodore. His artifice had not succeeded.
He paused in vain between the stanzas ; no voice replied
to his, and he abandoned the hope of equalling Blondel.

The convent-bell now warned the nuns that it was time
to assemble in the refectory. They were obliged to quit
the grate : they thanked the youth for the entertainment
which his music had afforded them, and charged him to
return the next day. This he promised. The nuns, to
give him the greater inclination to, keep his word, told
him that he might always depend upon the convent for
his meals, and each of them made him some little present.
One gave him a box of sweetmeats ; another, an Agnus

CHAPTER VIII 233

dei ; some brought reliques of saints, waxen images, and
consecrated crosses ; and others presented him with pieces
of those works in which the religious excel, such as
embroidery, artificial flowers, lace, and needlework. All
these he was advised to sell, in order to put himself in
better case ; and he was assured that it would be easy to
dispose of them, since the Spaniards hold the performances
of the nuns in high estimation. Having received these
gifts with seeming respect and gratitude, he remarked,
that, having no basket, he knew not how to convey them
away. Several of the nuns were hastening in search of
one, when they were stopped by the return of an elderly
woman, whom Theodore had not till then observed. Her
mild countenance and respectable air prejudiced him
immediately in her favour.

' Ha ! ' said the porteress, ' here comes the mother St.
Ursula with a basket.'

The nun approached the grate, and presented the basket
to Theodore : it was of willow lined with blue satin, and
upon the four sides were painted scenes from the legend
of St. Genevieve.

' Here is my gift ' said she, as she gave it into his hand.
' Good youth, despise it not ; though its value seems
insignificant, it has many hidden virtues.'

She accompanied these words with an expressive look.
It was not lost upon Theodore. In receiving the present,
he drew as near the grate as possible.

' Agnes ! ' she whispered, in a voice scarcely intelligible.

Theodore, however, caught the sound. He concluded
that some mystery was concealed in the basket, and his
heart beat with impatience and joy. At this moment the
domina returned. Her air was gloomy and frowning, and
she looked if possible more stern than ever.

' Mother St. Ursula, I would speak with you in private.

The nun changed colour, and was evidently disconcerted.
' With me ? ' she replied, in a faltering voice.

The domina motioned that she must follow her, and
retired. The Mother St. Ursula obeyed her. Soon after,
the refectory bell ringing a second time, the nuns quitted
the grate, and Theodore was left at liberty to carry off his
prize. Delighted that at length he had obtained some
intelligence for the Marquis, he flew rather than ran, till
he reached the Hotel de las Cisternas. In a few minutes

234 THE MONK

he stood by his master's bed with the basket in his hand.
Lorenzo was in the chamber, endeavouring to reconcile
his friend to a misfortune which he felt himself but too
severely. Theodore related his adventure, and the hopes
which had been created by the Mother St. Ursula's gift.
The Marquis started from his pillow. That fire which
since the death of Agnes had been extinguished, now
revived in his bosom, and his eyes sparkled with the
eagerness of expectation. The emotions which Lorenzo's
countenance betrayed were scarcely weaker, and he waited
with inexpressible impatience for the solution of this
mystery. Raymond caught the basket from the hands
of his page : he emptied the contents upon the bed, and
examined them with minute attention. He hoped that a
letter would be found at the bottom. Nothing of the
kind appeared. The search was resumed, and still with
no better success. At length, Don Raymond observed,
that one corner of the blue satin lining was unripped :
he tore it open hastily, and drew forth a small scrap of
paper, neither folded nor sealed. It was addressed to the
Marquis de las Cisternas, and the contents were as follows :

Having recognised your page, I venture to send these few lines.
Procure an order from the Cardinal-duke for seizing my person, and
that of the domina ; but let it not be executed till Friday at midnight.
It is the festival of St. Clare ; there will be a procession of nuns by
torch-light, and I shall be among them. Beware not to let your
intention be known. Should a syllable be dropped to excite the
domina's suspicions, you will never hear of me more. Be cautious,
^ if you prize the memory of Agnes, and wish to punish her assassins.
v I have that to tell will freeze your blood with horror.

St. Ursula.

No sooner had the Marquis read the note, than he fell
back upon his pillow, deprived of sense or motion. The
hope failed him which till now had supported his existence;
and these lines convinced him but too positively that Agnes
was indeed no more. Lorenzo felt this circumstance less
forcibly, since it had always been his idea that his sister
had perished by unfair means. When he found by the
Mother St. Ursula's letter how true were his suspicions, the
confirmation excited no other sentiment in his bosom than
a wish to punish the murderers as they deserved. It was
no easy task to recall the Marquis to himself. As soon as
be recovered his speech, he broke ov^t into execrations.

CHAPTER VIII 235

against the assassins of his beloved, and vowed to take
upon them a signal vengeance. He continued to rave and
torment himself with impotent passion, till his constitution,
enfeebled by grief and illness, could support itself no
longer, and relapsed into insensibility. His melancholy
situation sincerely affected Lorenzo, who would willingly
have remained in the apartment of his friend ; but other
cares now demanded his presence. It was necessary to
procure the order for seizing the prioress of St. Clare. For
this purpose, having committed Raymond to the care of
the best physicians in Madrid, he quitted the Hotel de las
Cisternas, and bent his course towards the palace of the
Cardinal-duke.

His disappointment was excessive, when he found that
affairs of state had obliged the cardinal to set out for a
distant province. It wanted but five days to Friday ; yet,
by travelling day and night, he hoped to return in time
for the pilgrimage of St. Clare. In this he succeeded. He
found the Cardinal-duke, and represented to him the
supposed culpability of the prioress, as also the violent
effects which it had produced upon Don Raymond. He
could have used no argument so forcible as this last. Of
all his nephews, the Marquis was the only one to whom
the Cardinal-duke was sincerely attached : he perfectly
doted upon him ; and the prioress could have committed
no greater crime in his eyes, than to have endangered the
life of the Marquis. Consequently, he granted the order of
arrest without difficulty. He also -gave Lorenzo a letter to
a principal officer of the Kquisjijj&n, desiring him to see
his mandate executed. Furnished with these papers,
Medina hastened back to Madrid, which he reached on the
Friday, a few hours before dark. He found the Marquis
somewhat easier, but so weak and exhausted, that without
great exertion he could neither speak nor move. Having
passed an hour by his bedside, Lorenzo left him to com-
municate his design to his uncle, as also to give Don
Ramirez de Mello the cardinal's letter. The first was
petrified with horror, when he learned the fate of his
unhappy niece. He encouraged Lorenzo to punish her
assassins, and engaged to accompany him at night to St.
Clare's convent. Don Ramirez promised his firmest
support, and selected a band of trusty archers to prevent
opposition on the part of the populace,

\

236 THE MONK

But while Lorenzo was anxious to unmask one religious
hypocrite, he was unconscious of tha sorrows prepared for
him by another. Aided by Matilda's infernal agents,
Ambrosio had resolved upon the innocent Antonia's ruin.
The moment destined to be so fatal to her arrived. She
had taken leave of her mother for the night. As she kissed
her, she felt an unusual despondency infuse itself into her
bosom. She left her, and returned to her instantly, threw
herself into her maternal arms, and bathed her cheek with
tears. She felt uneasy at quitting her, and a secret
presentiment assured her that never must they meet again.
Elvira observed, and tried to laugh her out of this childish
prejudice. She chid her mildly for encouraging such
ungrounded sadness, and warned her how dangerous it was
to give way to such ideas.

To all her remonstrances she received no other answer,
than —

' Mother, dear mother ! Oh, would to God it were
morning ! '

Elvira, whose inquietude respecting her daughter was a
great obstacle to her perfect re-establishment, was still
labouring under the effects of her late severe illness. She
was this evening more than usually indisposed, and retired
to bed before her accustomed hour. Antonia withdrew
from her mother's chamber with regret, and, till the door
closed, kept her eyes fixed upon her with melancholy
expression. She retired to her own apartment : her heart
was filled with bitterness. It seemed to her that all her
prospects were blasted, and the world contained nothing
for which it was worth existing. She sank into a chair,
reclined her head upon her arm, and gazed upon the floor
with a vacant stare, while the most gloomy images floated
before her fancy. She was still in this state of insensibility,
when she was disturbed by hearing a strain of soft music
breathed beneath her window. She rose, drew near the
casement, and opened it to hear it more distinctly. Having
thrown her veil over her face, she ventured to look out.
By the light of the moon, she perceived several men below
with guitars and lutes in their hands; and, at a little
distance from them, stood another wrapped in his cloak,
whose stature and appearance bore a strong resemblance to
Lorenzo's. She was not deceived in this conjecture : it
was indeed Lorenzo himself, who, bound by his word not

CHAPTER VIII 237

to present himself to Antonia without his uncle's consent,
endeavoured, by occasional serenades, to convince his
mistress that his attachment still existed. His stratagem
had not the desired effect. Antonia was far from supposing
that this nightly music was intended as a compliment to
her. She was too modest to think herself worthy such
attentions ; and, concluding them to be addressed to some
neighbouring lady, she grieved to find that they were
offered by Lorenzo.

The air which was played was plaintive and melodious.
It accorded with the state of Antonia's mind, and she
listened with pleasure. After a symphony of some length,
it was succeeded by the sound of voices, and Antonia
distinguished the following words :

SERENADE

Chorus

Oh, breathe in gentle strain, my lyre !

'Tis here that beauty loves to rest :
Describe the pangs of fond desire,

Which rend a faithful lover's breast.

Song

In every heart to find a slave ;

In every soul to fix his reign ;
In bonds to lead the wise and brave ;

And make the captive kiss his chin :
Such is the power of Love ! — and oh !
I grieve, so well Love's power to know 1

In sighs to pass the live-long day ;

To taste a short and broken sleep ;
For one dear object far away,

All others scorned to watch and weep ;
Such are the pains of Love ! — and oh !
I grieve, so well Love's pains to know !

To read consent in virgin eyes ;

To press the lip ne'er press'd till then ;
To hear the Bigh of transport rise,

And kiss, and kiss, and kiss again :
Such are thy pleasures, Love ! — but oh !
When shall my heart thy pleasures know ?

Chorus
Now hush, my lyre ! My voice be still !

Sleep, gentle maid ! May fond desire
With amorous thoughts thy visions fill,

Though still my voice, and hushed my lyre I

238 THE MONK

The music ceased ; the performers dispersed, and silence
prevailed through the street Antonia quitted the window
with regret. She, as usual, recommended herself to the
protection of Saint Rosalia, said her accustomed prayers,
and retired to bed. Sleep was not long absent, and his
presence relieved her from her terrors and inquietude.

It was almost two o'clock before the lustful monk
ventured to bend his steps towards Antonia's dwelling.
It has been already mentioned, that the abbey was at
no great distance from the Strada di San Iago. He
reached the house unobserved. Here he stopped, and
hesitated for a moment. He reflected on the enormity of
the crime, the consequences of a discovery, and the proba-
bility, after what had passed, of Elvira's suspecting him to
be her daughter's ravish er. On the other hand, it was
suggested that she could dojjo more than suspect; that
no proofs of his guilt co«f6Ftre*V)roduced ; that it would
seem impossible for the/rape Jto have been committed,
without Antonia's knowlgg^wnen, where, or by whom ;
and finally, he believed that his fame was too firmly
established to be shaken by the unsupported accusations
of two unknown women. This latter argument was per-
fectly false. He knew not how uncertain is the air of
popular applause, and that a moment suffices to make him
to-day the detestation of the world, who yesterday was its
idol. The result of the monk's deliberations was, that he
should proceed in his enterprize. He ascended the steps
leading to the house. No sooner did he touch the door
with the silver myrtle, than it flew open, and presented
him with a free passage. He entered, and the door closed
after him of its own accord. .

Guided by the moonbeams, he proceeded up the' stair-
case with slow and cautious steps. He looked round him
every moment with apprehension and anxiety. He saw a
spy in every shadow, and heard a voice in every murmur
of the night-breeze. Consciousness of the guilty business
on which he was employed appalled his heart, and rendered
it more timid than a woman's. Yet still he proceeded.
He reached the door of Antonia's chamber. He stopped,
and listened. All was hushed within. The total silence
persuaded him that his intended victim was retired to
rest, and he ventured to lift up the latch. The door was
fastened, and resisted his efforts. But no sooner was it

CHAPTER VII 239

touched by the talisman than the bolt flew back. The
ravisher stepped on, and found himself in the chamber,
where slept the innocent girl, unconscious how dangerous
a visitor was drawing near her couch. The door closed
after him, and the bolt shot again into its fastening.

Ambrosio advanced with precaution. He took care that
not a board should creak under his foot, and held in his
breath as he approached the bed. His first attention was
to perform the magic ceremony, as Matilda had charged
him : he breathed thrice upon the silver myrtle, pro-
nounced over it Antonia's name, and laid it upon her
pillow. The effects which it had already produced per-
mitted not his doubting its success in prolonging the
slumbers of his devoted mistress. No sooner was the
enchantment performed than he considered her to be
absolutely in hi3 power, and his eyes flashed with lust
and impatience. He now ventured to cast a glance upon
the sleeping beauty. A single lamp, burning before the
statue of Saint Rosalia, shed a faint light through the
room, and permitted him to examine all the charms of the
lovely object before him. The heat of the weather had
obliged her to throw off a part of the bed-clothes : those
which still covered her Ambrosio's insolent hand hastened
to remove. She lay with her cheek reclining upon an
ivory arm ; the other rested on the side of the bed with
graceful indolence. A few tresses of her hair had escaped
from beneath the muslin which confined the rest, and fell
carelessly over her bosom, as it heaved with slow and
regular suspiration. The warm air had spread her cheek
with higher colour than usual. A smile inexpressibly
sweet played round her ripe and coral lips, from which,
every now and then, escaped a gentle sigh or an half-
pronounced sentence. An air of enchanting innocence and
candour pervaded her whole form, and there was a sort of
modesty in her very nakedness, which added fresh stings
to the desires of the lustful monk.

He remained, for some moments, devouring those charms
with his eyes, which soon were to be subjected to his ill-
regulated passions. Her mouth, half opened, seemed to
solicit a kiss : he bent over her : he joined his lips to
hers, and drew in the fragrance of her breath with
rapture. This momentary pleasure increased his longing
for still greater. His desires were raised to that frantic

240 THE MONK

height by which brutes are agitated. He resolved not to
delay for one instant longer the accomplishment of his
wishes, and hastily proceeded to tear off those garments
which impeded the gratification of his lust.

' Gracious God ! ' exclaimed a voice behind him. ' Am I
not deceived ? Is not this an illusion ? '

Terror, confusion, and disappointment accompanied
these words, as they struck Ambrosio's hearing. He
started, and turned towards it. Elvira stood at the door
of the chamber, and regarded the monk with looks of
surprise and detestation.

A frightfid_dream--h^d represented to her Antonia on
the verge of a precipice. She saw her trembling on the
brink : every moment seemed to threaten her fall, and
she heard her exclaim with shrieks : ' Save me, mother,
save me ! Yet a moment, and it will be too late.' Elvira
woke in terror. The vision had made too strong an
impression upon her mind to permit her resting till assured
of her daughter's safety. She hastily started from her
bed, threw on a loose night-gown, and, passing through
the closet in which slept the waiting - woman, reached
Antonia's chamber just in time to rescue her from the
grasp of the ravisher.

His shame and her amazement seemed to have petrified
into statues both Elvira and the monk : they remained
gazing upon each other in silence. The lady was the first
to recover herself : ' It is no dream ', she cried ; ' it is
really Ambrosio, who stands before me ; it is the man
whom Madrid esteems a saint, that I find at this late
hour near the couch of my unhappy child. Monster of
hypocrisy ! I already suspected your designs, but forbore
your accusation in pity to human frailty. Silence would
now be criminal. The whole city shall be informed of
your incontinence. I will unmask you, villain, and
convince the Church what a viper she cherishes in her
bosom.'

Pale and confused, the baffled culprit stood trembling
before her. He would fain have extenuated his offence,
but could find no apology for his conduct. He could
produce nothing but broken sentences, and excuses which
contradicted each other. Elvira was too justly incensed
to grant the pardon which he requested. She protested
that she would raise the neighbourhood, and make him an

CHAPTER VIII 241

example to all future hypocrites. Then hastening to the
bed, she called to Antonia to wake ; and finding that her
voice had no effect, she took her arm and raised her
forcibly from the pillow. The charm operated too
powerfully : Antonia remained insensible ; and, on being
released by her mother, sank back upon the pillow.

' This slumber cannot be natural ', cried the amazed
Elvira, whose indignation increased with every moment ;
' some mystery is concealed in it. But tremble, hypocrite !
All your villainy shall soon be unravelled. Help ! help ! '
she exclaimed aloud. ' Within there ! Flora ! Flora ! '

' Hear me for one moment, lady ! ' cried the monk,
restored to himself by the urgency of the danger ; ' by all
that is sacred and holy, I swear that your daughter's
honour is still unviolated. Forgive my transgression !
Spare me the shame of discovery, and permit me to regain
the abbey undisturbed. Grant me this request in mercy !
I promise not only that Antonia shall be secure from
me in future, but that the rest of my life shall prove — '

Elvira interrupted him abruptly. • Antonia secure from
you ! I will secure her. You shall betray no longer the
confidence of parents. Your iniquity shall be unveiled to
the public eye. All Madrid shall shudder at your perfidy,
your hypocrisy, and incontinence. What ho ! there !
Flora! Flora! I say.'

While she spoke thus, the remembrance of Agnes struck
upon his mind. Thus had she sued to him for mercy, and
thus had he refused her prayer ! It was now his turn to
suffer, and he could not but acknowledge that his punish-
ment was just. In the meanwhile Elvira continued to call
Flora to her assistance ; but her voice was so choked with
passion, and the servant, who was buried in profound
slumber, was insensible to all her cries : Elvira dared not
go towards the closet in which Flora slept, lest the monk
should take that opportunity to escape. Such indeed was
his intention : he trusted that, could he reach the abbey
unobserved by any other than Elvira, her single testimony
would not suffice to ruin a reputation so well established
as his was in Madrid. With this idea he gathered up such
garments as he had already thrown off, and hastened
towards the door. Elvira was aware of his design ; she
followed him, and ere he could draw back the bolt seized
him by the arm, and detained him.

Q

242 THE MONK

' Attempt not to fly ! ' said she ; ' you quit not this room
without witnesses of your guilt.'

Ambrosio struggled in vain to disengage himself. Elvira
quitted Dot her hold, but redoubled her cries for succour.
The friar's danger grew more urgent; he expected every
moment to hear people assembling at her voice ; and,
worked up to madness by the approach of ruin, he adopted
a resolution equally desperate and savage. Turning round
suddenly, with one hand he grasped Elvira's throat so as
to prevent her continuing her clamour, and with the other
dashing her violently upon the ground, he dragged her
towards the bed. Confused by this unexpected attack, she
scarcely had power to strive at forcing herself from his
grasp ; while the monk, snatching the pillow from beneath
her daughter's head, covering with it Elvira's face, and
pressing his knee upon her stomach with all his strength,
endeavoured to put an end to her existence. He succeeded
but too well. Her natural strength increased by the
excess of anguish, long did the sufferer struggle to dis-
engage herself ; but in vain. The monk continued to
kneel upon her breast, witnessed without mercy the con-
vulsive trembling of her limbs beneath him, and sustained
with inhuman firmness the spectacle of her agonies, when
soul and body were on the point of separating. Those
agonies at length were over. She ceased to struggle for
life. The monk took off the pillow, and gazed upon her.
Her face was covered with a frightful blackness ; her limbs
moved no more ; the blood was chilled in her veins ; her
heart had forgotten to beat ; and her hands were stiff and
frozen. Ambrosio beheld before him that once noble*'and
majestic form, now become a corse — cold, senseless, and
disgusting.

This horrible act was no sooner perpetrated, than the
friar beheld the enormity of his crime. A cold dew flowed
over his limbs : his eyes closed ; he staggered to a chair,
and sank into it almost as lifeless as the unfortunate who
lay extended at his feet. From this state he was roused
by the necessity of flight, and the danger of being found
in Antonia's apartment. He had no desire to profit by the
execution of his cj;ime. Antonia now appeared to him an
object of disgust. A deadly cold had usurped the place
of that warmth which glowed in his bosom. No ideas
offered themselves to his mind but those of death and guilt,

CHAPTER VIII 243

of present shame and future punishment. Agitated by
remorse and fear, he prepared for flight ; yet his terrors did
not s*o completely master his recollection, as to prevent his
taking the precaution necessary for his safety. He replaced
the pillow upon the bed, gathered up his garments, and,
with the fatal talisman in his hand, bent his unsteady
steps towards the door. Bewildered by fear, he fancied
that his flight was opposed by legions of phantoms. Where-
ever he turned, the disfigured corse seemed to lie in his
passage, and it was long before he succeeded in reaching
the door. The enchanted myrtle produced its former
effect : the door opened, and he hastened down the stair-
case. He entered the abbey unobserved ; and having shut
himself into his, cell, he abandoned his soul to the tortures
of unavailing remorse and terrors of impending detection.

CHAPTER IX

Tell us, ye dead, will none of you, in pity

To those you left behind, disclose the secret ?

Oh, that some courteous ghost would blab it out,

What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be !

I've heard, that souls departed have sometimes

Forewarn'd men of their deaths ; 'twas kindly done,

To knock, and give th' alarum. — Blair

Ambrosio shuddered at himself,- when he reflected on his
rapid advances in iniquity. The enormous crime which he
had just committed filled him with real horror. The
murdered Elvira was continually before his eyes, and his
guilt was already punished by the agonies of his conscience.
Time, however, considerably weakened these impressions :
one day passed away ; another followed it, and still not
the least suspicion was thrown upon him. Impunity
reconciled him to his guilt. He began to resume his
spirits; and as his fears of detection died- away, paid less
attention to the reproaches of remorse. Matilda exerted
herself to quiet his alarms. At the first intelligence of
Elvira's death, she seemed greatly affected, and joined the
monk in deploring the unhappy catastrophe of his
adventure : but when she found his agitation to be some-
what calmed, and himself better disposed to listen to her
arguments, she proceeded to mention his offence in milder
terms, and convince him that he was not so highly culpable
as he appeared to consider himself. She represented, that
he had only availed himself of the rights which Nature
allows to everyone, those of self-preservation : that either
Elvira or himself must have perished ; and that her in-
flexibility and resolution to ruin him had deservedly
marked her out for the victim. She next stated, that as
he had before rendered himself suspected to Elvira, it was
a fortunate event for him that her lips were closed by
death ; since, without this last adventure, her suspicions, if
made public, might have produced very disagreeable con-
sequences. He had, therefore, freed himself from an

244

CHAPTER IX 245

enemy, to whom the errors of his conduct were sufficiently
known to make her dangerous, and who was the greatest
obstacle of his designs upon Antonia. Those designs she
encouraged him not to abandon. She assured him that, no
longer protected by her mother's watchful eye, the daughter
would fall an easy conquest ; and by praising and enumerat-
ing Antonia's charms, she strove to rekindle the desires of
the monk. In this endeavour she succeeded but too well.

As if the crimes into which his passion had seduced him
had only increased its violence, he longed more eagerly
than ever to enjoy Antonia. The same success in con-
cealing his present guilt, he trusted, would attend his
future. He was deaf to the murmurs of conscience, and
resolved to satisfy his desires at any price. He waited
only for an opportunity of repeating his former enterprize ;
but to produce that opportunity by the same means was
now impracticable. In the first transports of despair, he
liad dashed the enchanted myrtle into a thousand pieces.
CMatilda told him plainly, that he must expect no further
assistance from the infernal powers, unless he was willing
to subscribe to their established conditions.^ This Ambrosio
was determined not to do. He persuaded himself, that,
however great might be his iniquity, so long as he pre-
served his claim to salvation, he need not despair of pardon.
He therefore resolutely refused to enter into any bond or
compact with the fiends ; and Matilda, finding him obsti-
nate upon this point, forbore to press him further. She
exerted her invention to discover some means of putting
Antonia into the abbot's power : nor was it long before
that means presented itself.

While her ruin was thus meditating, the unhappy girl
herself suffered severely from the loss of her mother.
Every morning on waking, it was her first care to hasten
to Elvira's chamber. On that which followed Ambrosio's
fatal visit, she woke later than was her usual custom : of
this she was convinced by the abbey chimes. She started
from her bed, threw on a few loose garments hastily, and
was speeding to inquire how her mother had passed the
night, when her foot struck against something which lay
in her passage. She looked down. What was her horror
at recognizing Elvira's livid corse ! She uttered a loud
shriek, and threw herself upon the floor. She clasped
the inanimate form to her bosom, felt that it was dead-

246 THE MONK

cold, and with a movement of disgust, of which she was
not the mistress, let it fall again from her arms. The cry
had alarmed Flora, who hastened to her assistance. The
sight which she beheld penetrated her with horror ; but
her alarm was more audible than Antonia's. She made
the house ring with her lamentations, while her mistress,
almost suffocated with grief, could only mark her distress
by sobs and groans. Flora's shrieks soon reached the ears
of the hostess, whose terror and surprise were excessive,
on learning the cause of this disturbance. A physician
was immediately sent for ; but, on the first moment of
beholding the corse, he declared that Elvira's recovery was
beyond the power of art. He proceeded, therefore, to give
his assistance to Antonia, who, by this time, was truly in
need of it. She was conveyed to bed, while the landlady
busied herself in giving orders for Elvira's burial. Dame
Jacintha was a plain good kind of woman, charitable,
generous, and devout ; but her intellects were weak, and
she was a miserable slave to fear and superstition. She
shuddered at the idea of passing the night in the same
house with a dead body. She was persuaded that Elvira's
ghost would appear to her, and no less certain that such a
visit would kill her with fright. From this persuasion, she
resolved to pass the night at a neighbour's, and insisted
that the funeral should take place the next day. St.
Clare's cemetery being the nearest, it was determined that
Elvira should be buried there. Dame Jacintha engaged to
defray every expence attending the burial. She knew not
in what circumstances Antonia was left; but from the
sparing manner in which the family had lived, she con-
cluded them to be indifferent : consequently she entertained
very little hope of ever being recompensed. But this con-
sideration prevented her not from taking care that the
interment was performed with decency, and from showing
the unfortunate Antonia all possible respect.

Nobody dies of mere grief ; of this Antonia was an
instance. Aided by her youth and healthy constitution,
she shook off the malady which her mother's death had
occasioned ; but it was not so easy to remove the disease
of her mind. Her eyes were constantly filled with tears ;
every trifle affected her, and she evidently nourished in
her bosom a profound and rooted melancholy. The
slightest mention of Elvira, the most trivial circumstance

CHAPTER IX 247

recalling that beloved parent to her memory, was
sufficient to throw her into serious agitation. How much
would her grief have been increased, had she known the
agonies which terminated her mother's existence ! But of
this no one entertained the least suspicion. Elvira was
subject to strong convulsions : it was supposed that, aware
of their approach, she had dragged herself to her daughter's
chamber, in hopes of assistance ; that a sudden access of
her fits had seized her, too violent to be resisted by her
already enfeebled state of health; and that she had
expired ere she had time to reach the medicine which
generally relieved her, and which stood upon a shelf in
Antonia's room. This idea was firmly credited by the few
people who interested themselves about Elvira. Her
death was esteemed a natural event, and soon forgotten
by all, save by her who had but too much reason to
deplore her loss.

In truth, Antonia's situation was sufficiently embarrassing
and unpleasant. She was alone, in the midst of a dissipated
and expensive city ; she was ill provided with money, and
worse with friends. Her aunt Leonella was still at
Cordova, and she knew not her direction. Of the Marquis
de las Cisternas she heard no news. As to Lorenzo, she
had long given up the idea of possessing any interest in
his bosom. She knew not to whom she could address
herself, in her present dilemma. She wished to consult
Ambrosio, but she remembered her mother's injunctions to
shun him as much as possible ; and the last conversation
which Elvira had held with her upon the subject had given
her sufficient lights respecting his designs, to put her upon
her guard against him in future. Still all her mother's
warnings could not make her change her good opinion of
the friar. She continued to feel that his friendship and
society were requisite to her happiness ; she looked upon
his failings with a partial eye, and could not persuade
herself that he really had intended her ruin. However
Elvira had positively commanded her to drop his
acquaintance, and she had too much respect for her
orders to disobey them.

At length she resolved to address herself for advice and
protection to the Marquis de las Cisternas, as being her
nearest relation. She wrote to him, briefly stating her
desolate situation ; she besought him to compassionate his

248 THE MONK

brother's child, to continue to her Elvira's pension, and to
authorize her retiring to his old castle in Murcia, which till
just now had been her retreat. Having sealed her letter,
she gave it to the trusty Flora, who immediately set out
to execute her commission. But Antonia was born under
an unlucky star. Had she made her application to the
Marquis but one day sooner — received as his niece, and
placed at the head of his family, she would have escaped
all the misfortunes with which she was now threatened.
Raymond had always intended to execute this plan : but
first, his hopes of making the proposal to Elvira through
the lips of Agnes, and afterwards his disappointment at
losing his intended bride, as well as the severe illness
which for some time had confined him to his bed, made
him defer from day to day the giving an asylum in his
house to his brother's widow. He had commissioned
Lorenzo to supply her liberally with money ; but Elvira,
unwilling to receive obligations from that nobleman, had
assured him that she needed no immediate pecuniary
assistance. Consequently, the Marquis did not imagine
that a trifling delay on his part would create any
embarrassment; and the distress and agitation of his
mind might well excuse his negligence.

Had he been informed that Elvira's death had left her
daughter friendless and unprotected, he would doubtless
have taken such measures as would have insured her from
every danger. But Antonia was not destined to be so
fortunate. The day on which she sent her letter to the
Palace de las Cisternas was that following Lorenzo's
departure from Madrid. The Marquis was in the first
paroxysms of despair, at the conviction that Agnes was
indeed no more : he was delirious ; and his life being in
danger, no one was suffered to approach him. Flora was
informed that he was incapable of attending to letters, and
that probably a few hours would decide bis fate. With
this unsatisfactory answer she was obliged to return to her
mistress, who now found herself plunged into greater
difficulties than ever.

Flora and Dame Jacintha exerted themselves to console
her. The latter begged her to make herself easy, for that
as long as she chose to stay with her she would treat her
like her own child. Antonia finding that the good woman
had taken a real affection for her, was somewhat comforted

CHAPTER IX 249

by thinking that she had at least one friend in the world.
A letter was now brought to her, directed to Elvira. She
recognized Leonella's writing, and opening it with joy,
found a detailed account of her aunt's adventures at
Cordova. She informed her sister that ske had recovered
her legacy, had lost her heart, and had received in exchange
that of the most amiable of apothecaries, past, present, and
to come. She added, that she should be at Madrid on the
Tuesday night, and meant to have the pleasure of present-
ing her caro sposo in form. Though her nuptials were far
from pleasing Antonia, Leonella's speedy return gave her
niece much delight. She rejoiced in thinking that she
should .once imore be under a relation's care. She could
not but judge it to be highly improper for a young woman
to be, living among absolute strangers, with no one to
regulate her conduct, or protect her from the insults to
which, in her defenceless situation, she was exposed : she
therefore looked forward wuh impatience to the Tuesday
night.

It arrived. Antonia listened anxiously to the carriages
as they rolled along the street. None of them stopped,
and it grew late without Leonella's appearing. Still
Antonia resolved to sit up till her aunt's arrival ; and, in
spite of all her remonstrances, Dame Jacintha and Flora
insisted upon doing the same. The hours passed on slow
and tediously. Lorenzo's departure from Madrid had put
a stop to the nightly serenades : she hoped in vain to hear
the usual sound of guitars beneath her window. She took
up her own, and struck a few chords; but music that
evening had lost its charms for her, and she soon replaced
the instrument in its case. She seated herself at her
embroidery frame ; but nothing went right : the silks were
missing, the thread snapped every moment, and the needles
were so expert at falling that they seemed to be animated.
At length, a flake of wax fell from the taper which stood
near her upon a favourite wreath of violets ; this com-
pletely discomposed her ; she threw down her needle, and
quitted the frame. It was decreed that for that night
nothing should have the power of amusing her. She was
the prey of ennui, and employed herself in making fruitless
wishes for the arrival of her aunt.

As she walked with a listless air up and down the
chamber, the door caught her eye conducting to that

2SO THE MONK

which had been her mother's. She remembered that
Elvira's little library was arranged there, and thought
that she might possibly find in it some book to amuse
her till Leonella should arrive. Accordingly she took her
taper from the table, passed through the little closet, and
entered the adjoining apartment. As she looked around
her, the sight of this room brought to her recollection a
thousand painful ideas. It was the first time of her
entering it since her mother's death. The total silence
prevailing through the chamber, the bed despoiled of its
furniture, the cheerless hearth where stood an extinguished
lamp, and a few dying plants in the window, which since
Elvira's loss had been neglected, inspired Antonia with a
melancholy awe. The gloom of night gave strength to
this sensation. She placed her light upon the table, and
sunk into a large chair, in which she had seen her mother
seated a thousand and a thousand times. She was never
to see her seated there again ! Tears unbidden streamed
down her cheek, and she abandoned herself to the sadness
which grew deeper with every moment.

Ashamed of her weakness, she at length rose from her
seat ; she proceeded to seek for what had brought her to
this melancholy scene. The small collection of books was
arranged upon several shelves in order. Antonia examined
them without finding anything likely to interest her, till
she put her hand upon a volume of old Spanish ballads.
She read a few stanzas of one of them. They excited her
curiosity. She took down the book, and seated herself
to peruse it with ease. She trimmed the taper, which
now drew towards its end, and then read the following
ballad :

ALONZO THE BRAVE, AND FAIR IMOGINE

A warrior so bold and a virgin so bright

Convers'd, as they sat on the green ;
They gaz'd on each other with tender delight :
Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight,

The maid's was the Fair Imogine.

' And oh ', said the youth, ' since to-morrow I go

To fight in a far distant land,
Your tears for my absence soon leaving to flow,
Some other will court you, and you will bestow

On a wealthier suitor your hand.'

CHAPTER IX 251

' Oh, hush these suspicions ! ' Fair Imogine said,

' Offensive to love and to me I
For, if you be living or if you be dead,
1 swear by the Virgin, that none in your stead

Shall husband of Imogine be !

' If e'er I, by lust or by wealth led aside,

Forget my Alonzo the Brave,
God grant, that, to punish my falsehood and pride,
Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side,
May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride,

And bear me away to the grave ! '

To Palestine hastened the hero so bold ;

His love she lamented him sore :
But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when behold,
A baron all covered with jewels and gold

Arrived at Fair Imogine 's door.

His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain,

Soon made her untrue to her vows :
He dazzled her eyes ; he bewildered her brain ;
He caught her affections so light and so vain,

And carried her home as his spouse.

And now had the marriage been blest by the priest ;

The revelry now was begun :
The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast ;
Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased,

When the bell of the castle told — ' one ! '

Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found

That a stranger was placed at her side :
His air was terrific ; he uttered no sound ;
He spoke not, he moved not, he looked not around,

But earnestly gazed on the bride.

His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height ;

His armour was sable to view :
All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight ;
The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in affright ;

The lights in the chamber burned blue 1

His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay ;

The guests sat in silence and fear.
At length spoke the bride, while she trembled : ' I pray,
Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay,

And deign to partake of our cheer.'

The lady is silent : the stranger complies :

His vizor he slowly unclosed :
Oh God ! — what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes !
What words can express her dismay and surprise,

When a skeleton's head was exposed !

252 THE MONK

All present then uttered a terrified shout,

All turned with disgust from the scene :
The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out,
And sported his «yes and his temples about,

While the spectre addressed Imogine :

'Behold me, thou false one ! Behold me ! ' he cried ;

Remember Alonzo the Brave !
God grant that, to punish thy falsehood and pride,
My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side,
Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride,

And bear thee away to the grave ! '

Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound,

While loudly she shrieked in dismay ;
Then sank with his prey through the wide-yawning ground :
Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found,

Or the spectre who bore her away.

Not long lived the baron ; and none, since that time,

To inhabit the castle presume ;
For chronicles tell that, by order sublime,
There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime,

And mourns her deplorable doom.

At midnight four times in each year does her spright,

When mortals in slumber are bound,
Array'd in her bridal apparel of white,
Appear in the hall with the Skeleton-Knight,

And shriek as he whirls her around.

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave,

Dancing round them the spectres are seen :
Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave
They howl : ' To the health of Alonzo the Brave,
And his consort, the False Imogine ! '

The perusal of this story was ill-calculated to dispel
Antonia's melancholy. \ She liad naturally a strong
inclination to the marvellous^ and her nurse, who
believed firmly in apparitions, had related to her, when
an infant, so many horrible adventures of this kind, that
all Elvira's attempts had failed to eradicate their
impressions from her daughter's mind. A-ntonia still
nourished a supHrstitious~prejudie8---in.^hfir_..bosom : she
was often susceptible of terrors, which, when she dis-
covered their natural and insignificant cause, made her
blush at her own weakness. With such a turn of mind,
the adventure which she had just been reading sufficed
to give her apprehensions the alarm. The hour and the

CHAPTER IX 253

scene combined to authorize them. It was the dead of
night ; she was alone, and in the chamber once occupied
by her deceased mother. The weather was comfortless
and stormy ; the wind howled around the house, the doors
rattled in their frames, and the heavy rain pattered
against the windows. No other sound was heard. The
taper, now burned down to the socket, sometimes flaring
upwards, shot a gloom of light through the room ;
then sinking again, seemed upon the point of expiring.
Antonia's heart throbbed with agitation ; her eyes
wandered fearfully over the objects around her, as the
trembling flame illuminated them at intervals. She
attempted to rise from her seat, but her limbs trembled
so violently that she was unable to proceed. She then
called Flora, who was in a room at no great distance ; but
agitation choked her voice, and her cries died away in
hollow murmurs.

She passed some minutes in this situation, after which
her terrors began to diminish. She strove to recover
herself, and acquire strength enough to quit the room.
Suddenly she fancied that she heard a low sigh drawn
near her. This idea brought back her former weakness.
She had already raised herself from her seat, and was on
the point of taking the lamp from the table. The
imaginary noise stopped her; she drew back her hand,
and supported herself upon the back of a chair. Sho
listened anxiously, but nothing more was heard.

' Gracious God ! ' she said to herself, ' what could be that
sound ? Was I deceived, or did I really hear it ? '

Her reflections were interrupted by a voice at the door
scarcely audible ; it seemed as if somebody was whispering.
Antonia's alarm increased ; yet the bolt she knew to be
fastened, and this idea in some degree reassured her.
Presently the latch was lifted up softly, and the door
moved with caution backwards and forwards. Excess of
terror now supplied Antonia with that strength of which
she had till then been deprived. She started from her
place, and made towards the closet door, whence she might
soon have reached the chamber where she expected to find
Flora and Dame Jacintha. Scarcely had she reached the
middle of the room, when the latch was lifted up a second
time. An involuntary movement obliged her to turn her
head. Slowly and gradually the door turned upon its

254 THE MONK

hinges, and standing upon the threshold, she beheld a tall
thin figure, wrapped in a white shroud which covered it
from head to foot.

This vision arrested her feet ; she remained as if petri-
fied in the middle of the apartment. The stranger with
measured and solemn steps drew near the table. The
dying taper darted a blue- and melancholy flame, as the
figure advanced towards it. Over the table was fixed a
small clock ; the hand of it was upon the stroke of three.
The figure stopped opposite to the clock ; it raised its right
arm, and pointed to the hour, at the same time looking
earnestly upon Antonia, who waited for the conclusion of
this scene, motionless and silent.

The figure remained in this posture for some moments.
The clock struck. When the sound had ceased, the stranger
advanced yet a few steps nearer Antonia.

'Yet three days', said a voice, faint, hollow, and
sepulchral ; ' yet three days, and we meet again ! '

Antonia shuddered at the words. ' We meet again ? ' she
pronounced at length with difficulty. 'Where shall we
meet ? Whom shall I meet ? '

The figure pointed to the ground with one hand, and
with the other raised the linen which covered its face.

' Almighty Gpd ! — my mother ! '

Antonia shrieked and fell lifeless upon the floor.

Dame Jacinth a, who was at work in a neighbouring
chamber, was alarmed by the cry: Flora was just gone
downstairs to fetch fresh oil for the lamp by which they
had been sitting. Jacintha therefore hastened alone to
Antonia's assistance, and great was her amazement to find
her extended upon the floor. She raised her in her arms,
conveyed her to her apartment, and placed her upon the
bed, still senseless. She then proceeded to bathe her
temples, chafe her hands, and use all possible means of
bringing her to herself. With some difficulty she
succeeded. Antonia opened her eyes, and looked round
her wildly.

' Where is she ? ' she cried, in a trembling voice. ' Is she
gone ? Am I safe ? Speak to me ! Comfort me ! Oh,
speak to me, for God's sake!'

' Safe ! — from whom, my child ? ' replied the astonished
Jacintha. ' What alarms you ? Of whom are you afraid V

' In three days ! She told me that we should meet in

CHAPTER IX 25s

three days ; I heard her say it ! I saw her, Jacintha,
I saw her but this moment ! '

She threw herself upon Jacintha's bosom.

' You saw her ! — Saw whom ? '

' My mother's ghost I '

' Christ Jesus ! ' cried Jacintha ; and starting from the
bed, let fall Antonia upon the pillow, and fled in
consternation out of the room.

As she hastened downstairs, she met Flora ascending
them. ' Go to your mistress, Flora ' said she. ' Here are
rare doings ! Oh, I am the most unfortunate woman alive !
My house is filled with ghosts and dead bodies, and the
Lord knows what besides ; yet I am sure nobody likes
such company less than I do. But go your way to Donna
Antonia, Flora, and let me go mine.'

Thus saying, she continued her course to the street
door, which she opened ; and without allowing herself
time to throw on her veil, she made the best of her way
to the Capuchin Abbey. In the meanwhile, Flora hastened
to her lady's chamber, equally surprised and alarmed at
Jacintha's consternation. She found Antonia lying upon
the bed, insensible. She used the same means for her
recovery that Jacintha had already employed ; but rinding
that her mistress only recovered from one fit into another,
she sent in all haste for a physician. While expecting his
arrival, she undressed Antonia, and conveyed her to bed.

Heedless of the storm, terrified almost out of her senses,
Jacintha ran through the streets, and stopped not till she
reached the gate of the abbey. She rang loudly at the
bell ; and as soon as the porter appeared, she desired
permission to speak to the superior. Ambrosio was then
conferring with Matilda upon the means of procuring
access to Antonia. The cause of Elvira's death remaining
unknown, he was convinced that crimes were not so
swiftly followed by punishment as his instructors the
monks had taught him, and as till then he had himself
believed. This persuasion made him resolve upon Antonia's
ruin, for the enjoyment of whose person dangers and diffi-
culties only seemed to have increased his passion. The
monk had already made one attempt to gain admission to
her pretence ; but Flora had refused him in such a manner
as to convince him that all future endeavours must be
vain. Elvira had confided her suspicions to that trusty

256 THE MONK

servant: she had desired her never to leave Ambrosio
alone with her daughter, and, if possible, to prevent their
meeting altogether. Flora promised to obey her, and had
executed her orders to the very letter. Ambrosio's visits
had been rejected that morning, though Antonia was
ignorant of it. He saw that to obtain a sight of his
mistress by open means was out of the question ; and both
himself and -Matilda had consumed the night, in en-
deavouring to invent some plan, whose event might be
more successful. Such was their employment, when a
lay-brother entered the abbot's cell, and informed him that
a woman, calling herself Jacintha Zuniga, requested
audience for a few minutes.

Ambrosio was by no means disposed to grant the
petition of his visitor. He refused it positively, and bade
the lay-brother tell the stranger to return the next day.
Matilda interrupted him : ' See this woman,' said she in
a low voice ; I have my reasons.'

The abbot obeyed her, and signified that he would go to
the parlour immediately. With this answer the lay-brother
withdrew. As soon as they were alone, Ambrosio inquired
why Matilda wished him to see this Jacintha.

' She is Antonia's hostess ', replied Matilda ; * she may
possibly be of use to you ; but let us examine her, and
learn what brings her hither.'

They proceeded together to the parlour, where Jacintha
was already waiting for the abbot. She had conceived a
great opinion of his piety and virtue ; and supposing him
to have much influence over the Devil, thought that it
must be an easy matter for him to lay Elvira's ghost in
the Red Sea. Filled with this persuasion, she had hastened
to the abbey. As soon as she saw the monk enter the
parlour, she dropped upon her knees, and began her story
as follow :

' Oh, reverend father ! — such an accident ! — such an
adventure ! I know not what course to take ; and unless
you can help me, I shall certainly go distracted. Well, to
be sure, never was woman so unfortunate as myself ! All
in my power to keep clear of such abomination have I
done, and yet that all is too little. What signifies my
telling my beads four times a day, and observing every,
fast prescribed by the calendar ? What signifies my
having made three pilgrimages to St. James of Compostella,

CHAPTER IX 257

and purchased as many pardons from the pope as would
buy off Cain's punishment ? Nothing prospers with me !
all goes wrong, and God only knows whether anything
will ever go right again ! Why now, be your holiness the
judge — My lodger dies in convulsions : out of pure kind-
ness, I bury her at my own expense — not that she is any
relation of mine, or that I shall be benefited a single pistole
by her death : I got nothing by it, and therefore you
know, reverend father, that her living or dying was just
the same to me. But that is nothing to the purpose : to
return to what I was saying — I took care of her funeral,
had everything performed decently and properly, and put
myself to expense enough, God knows ! And how do you
think the lady repays me for my kindness ? Why, truly,
by refusing to sleep quietly in her comfortable deal coffin,
as a peaceable well-disposed spirit ought, to do ; and
coming to plague me, who never wish to set eyes on her
again. Forsooth, it well becomes her to go racketing
about my house at midnight, popping into her daughter's
room through the keyhole, and frightening the poor child
out of her wits ! Though she be a ghost, she might be
more civil than to bolt into a person's house who likes her
company so little. But as for mo, reverend father, the
plain state of the case is this : if she walks into my house
I must walk out of it, for I cannot abide such visitors —
not I. Thus you see, your sanctity, that without your
assistance I am ruined and undone for ever. I shall be
obliged to quit my house : nobody will take it when 'tis
known that she haunts it ; and then I shall find myself in
a fine situation. Miserable woman that I am ! What
shall I do ? What will become of me ? '

Here she wept bitterly, wrung her hands, and begged to
know the abbot's opinion of her case.

' In truth, good woman' , replied he, ' it will be difficult
for me to relieve you, without knowing what is the matter
with you. You have forgotten to tell me what has
happened, and what it is you want.'

' Let me die' , cried Jacintha, ' but your sanctity is in
the right. This then is the fact, stated briefly : A lodger of
mine is lately dead ; a very good sort of woman, that I
must needs say for her, as far as my knowledge of her
went, though that was not a great way. She kept me too
much at a distance ; for indeed she was given to be upon

R

258 THE MONK

the high ropes, and whenever I ventured to speak to her,
she had a look with her which always made me feel a
little queerish — God forgive me for saying so ! However,
though she was more stately than needful, and affected to
A look down upon me (though, if I am well informed, I come
' of as good parents as she could do for her ears, for her father
was a shoemaker at Cordova, and mine was a hatter at
Madrid — aye, and a very creditable hatter too, let me tell
you) ; yet, for all her pride, she was a quiet, well-behaved
body, and I never wish to have a better lodger. This
makes me wonder the more at her not sleeping quietly in
her grave ; but there was no trusting to people in this
world. For my part, I never saw her do amiss, except on
the Friday before her death. To be sure, I was then much
scandalized by seeing her eat the wing of a chicken.
" How, Madonna Flora ! " quoth I (Flora, may it please your
reverence, is the name of thewaiting-maid) — "how, Madonna
Flora!" quoth I, "does your mistress eat flesh upon Fridays?
Well ! well ! See the event, and then remember that Dame
Jacintha warned you of it!" These were my very
words ; but, alas ! I might as well have held my tongue.
Nobody minded me ; and Flora, who is somewhat pert and
snappish (more is the pity, say I), told me, that there was
no more harm in eating a chicken than the egg from which
it came — nay, she even declared, that if her lady added a
slice of bacon, she would not be an inch nearer damnation.
God protect us ! a poor, ignorant, sinful soul ! I protest
to your holiness, I trembled to hear such blasphemies, and
expected every moment to see the ground open and swallow
herup, chickenand all; for you must know, worshipful father,
that while she talked thus, she held the plate in her hand
on which lay the identical roast fowl: and a fine bird it
was, that I must say for it — done to a turn, for I super-
intended the cooking of it myself. It was a little Gallician
of my own raising, may it please your holiness, and the
flesh was as white as an eggshell, as indeed Donna Elvira
told me herself. "Dame Jacintha", said she, very good-
humouredly, though to say the truth she was always very
polite to me — '

Here Ambrosio's patience failed him. Eager to know
Jacintha's business, in which Antonia seemed to be con-
cerned, he was almost distracted while listening to the
rambling of this prosing old woman. He interrupted her,

CHAPTER IX 259

and protested that if she did not immediately tell her story
and have done with it, he should quit the parlour, and
leave her to get out of her difficulties by herself. This
had the desired effect. Jacintha related her business in as
few words as she could manage ; but her account was so
prolix, that Ambrosio had need of his patience to bear him
to the conclusion.

' And so, your reverence' , said she, after relating Elvira's
death and burial, with all their circumstances — 'and so,
your reverence, upon hearing the shriek, I put away my
work, and away posted I to Donna Antonia's chamber.
Finding nobody there, I passed on to the next : but I must
own I was a little timorous at going in, for this was the very
room where Donna Elvira used to sleep. . However, in I
went, there lay the young lady at full length upon the
floor, as cold as a stone, and as white as a sheet. I was
surprised at this, as your holiness may well suppose : but,
oh me ! how I shook, when I saw a great tall figure at my
elbow, whose head touched the ceiling! The face was
Donna Elvira's, I must confess ; but out of its mouth came
clouds of fire ; its arms were loaded with heavy chains,
which it rattled piteously, and every hair on its head was
a serpent as big as my arm. At this I was frightened
enough, and began to say my Ave-Maria ; but the ghost,
interrupting me, uttered three loud groans, and roared out
in a terrible voice : " Oh, that chicken's wing ! my poor
soul suffers for it." As soon as she had said this, the ground
opened, the spectre sank down ; I heard a clap of thunder,
and the room was filled with a smell of brimstone. When
I recovered from my fright, and had brought Donna
Antonia to herself, who told me that she had cried out
upon seeing her mother's ghost (and well might she cry, poor
soul ! had I been in her place, I should have cried ten times
louder), it directly came into my head, that if anyone had
power to quiet this spectre, it must be your reverence. So
hither I came in all diligence, to beg that you will sprinkle
my house with holy water, and lay the apparition in the
Red Sea.'

Ambrosio stared at this strange story, which he could
not credit. ' Did Donna Antonia also see the ghost ? ' said
he.

' As plain as I see you, reverend father.'

Ambrosio paused for a moment. Here was an oppor-

260 THE MONK

tunity offered him of gaining access to Anfconia, but he
hesitated to employ it. sOie reputation which he enjoyed
in Madrid was still dear to him ; and a inp.fi b e had Inst, the
reality of v irtue , it appeared-an i f . itn n nmfolanrm wan h nnn ma
more valuable . >He was conscious that publicly to break
tKrough the rule never to quit the abbey precincts would
derogate much from his supposed austerity: in visiting
Elvira, he had always taken care to keep his features
concealed from the domestics; except by the lady, her
daughter, and the faithful Flora, he was known in the
family by no other name than that of Father Jerome.
Should he comply with Jacintha's request, and accompany
her to her house, he knew that the violation of his rule
could not be kept a secret. However, his eagerness to see
Antonia obtained the victory ; he even hoped that the
singularity of this adventure would justify him in the
eyes of Madrid : but whatever might be the consequences,
he resolved to profit by the opportunity which chance
had presented to him. An expressive look from Matilda
confirmed him in this resolution.

' Good woman ', said he to Jacintha, ' what you tell me
is so extraordinary, that I can scarcely credit your
assertions: however, I will comply with your request.
To-morrow, after matins, you may expect me at your
house ; I will then examine into what I can do for you,
and if it is in my power, will free you from this unwelcome
visitor. Now then go home, and peace be with you ! '

' Home ! ' exclaimed Jacintha ; ' I go home ! Not I, by
my troth ! except under your protection, I set no foot of
mine within the threshold. God help me ! The ghost may
meet me upon the stairs, and whisk me away with her to
the Devil ! Oh, that I had accepted young Melchior fiasco's
offer ! Then I should have had somebody to protect me ;
but now I am a lone woman, and meet with nothing but
crosses and misfortunes. Thank Heaven, it is not yet too
late to repent ! There is Simon Gonzalez will have me any
day of the week, and if I live till daybreak, 1 will marry
him out off hand. A husband I will have, that is deter-
mined, for now this ghost is once in my house, I shall be
frightened out of my wits to sleep alone. But, for God's
sake, reverend father, come with me now ! I shall have no
rest till the house is purified, or the poor young lady either.
The dear girl ! — she is in a piteous taking ; I left her in

CHAPTER IX 261

strong convulsions, and I doubt she will not easily recover
her fright.'

The friar started, and interrupted her hastily. ' In con-
vulsions, say you ? Antonia in convulsions ! Lead on, good
woman ; I follow you this moment.'

Jacintha insisted upon his stopping to furnish himself
with the vessel of holy water. With this request he
complied. Thinking herself safe under his protection,
should a legion of ghosts attack her, the old woman
returned the monk a profusion of thanks, and they
departed together for the Strada di San Iago.

So strong an impression had the spectre made upon
Antonia, that for the first two or three hours the physician
declared her life to be in danger. The fits at length
becoming less frequent, induced him to alter his opinion :
he said that to keep her quiet was all that was necessary,
and he ordered a medicine to be prepared which would
tranquillize her nerves, and procure her that repose which
at present she much wanted. The sight of Ambrosio, who
now appeared with Jacintha at her bedside, contributed
essentially to compose her ruffled spirits. Elvira had not
sufficiently explained herself upon the nature of his
designs, to make a girl so ignorant of the world as her
daughter aware how dangerous was his acquaintance. At
this moment, when, penetrated with horror at the scene
which had just passed, and dreading to contemplate the
ghost's prediction, her mind had need of all the succours
of friendship and religion, Antonia regarded the abbot with
an eye doubly partial. That strong prepossession in his
favour still existed, which she had felt for him at first
sight; she fancied, yet knew not wherefore, that his
presence was a safeguard to her from every danger, insult,
or misfortune. She thanked him gratefully for his visit,
and related to him the adventure which had alarmed her
so seriously.

The abbot strove to reassure her, and convince her that
the whole had been a deception of her over-heated fancy.
The solitude in which she had passed the evening, the gloom
of night, the book which she had been reading, and the
room in which she sat, were all calculated to place before
her such a vision. He treated the idea of ghosts with
ridicule, and produced strong arguments to prove the
fallacy of such a system. His conversation tranquillized

262 THE MONK

and comforted her, but did not convince her. She could
not believe that the spectre had been a mere creature of
her imagination : every circumstance was impressed upon
her mind too forcibly to permit her nattering herself with
such an idea. She persisted in asserting that she had really
seen her mother's ghost, had heard the period of her dis-
solution announced, and declared that she never should
quit her bed alive. Ambrosio advised her against en-
couraging these sentiments, and then quitted her chamber,
having promised to repeat his visit on the morrow.
Antonia received this assurance with every mark of joy ;
but the monk easily perceived that he was not equally
acceptable to her attendant. Flora obeyed Elvira's injunc-
tions with the most scrupulous observance ; she examined
with an anxious eye every circumstance likely in the least
to prejudice her young mistress, to whom she had been
attached for many years ; she was a native of Cuba, had
followed Elvira to Spain, and loved the young Antonia
with a mother's affection. Flora quitted not the room for
a moment while the abbot remained there : she watched
his every word, his every look, his every action. He saw
that her suspicious eye was always fixed upon him, and
conscious that his designs would not bear inspection so
minute, he felt frequently confused and disconcerted. He
was aware that she doubted the purity of his intentions —
that she would never leave him alone with Antonia; and his
mistress defended by the presence of this vigilant observer,
he despaired of finding the means to gratify his passion.

As he quitted the house, Jacintha met him, and begged
that some masses might be sung for the repose of Elvira's
soul, which she doubted not was suffering in purgatory.

He promised not to forget her request ; but he perfectly
gained the old woman's heart, by engaging to watch during
the whole of the approaching night in the haunted chamber.
Jacintha could find no terms sufficiently strong to express
her gratitude, and the monk departed, loaded with her
benedictions.

It was broad day when he returned to the abbey. His
first care was to communicate what had passed to his
confidant. He felt too sincere a passion for Antonia, to
have heard unmoved the prediction of her speedy death,
and he shuddered at the idea of losing an object so dear to
him. Upon this head Matilda reassured him. She con-

CHAPTER IX 263

firmed the arguments which himself had already used :
she declared Antonia to have been deceived by the
wandering of her brain, by the spleen which oppressed
her at the moment, and by the natural turn of her mind
to superstition and the marvellous. As to Jacintha's
account, the absurdity refuted itself. The abbot hesitated
not to believe that she had fabricated the whole story,
either confused by terror, or hoping to make him comply
more readily with her request. % Having overruled the
monk's apprehensions, Matilda continued thus :

' The prediction and the ghost are equally false/ but it

must be your care, Ambrosio, to verify the first. ((Antonia

within three days must indeed be dead to the world, but

she must live for you.) Her present illness, and this fancy

which she had taken into her head, will colour a plan

which I have long meditated, but which was impracticable

without your procuring access to Antonia. She shall be

yours, not for a single night, but for ever : all the vigilance

of her duenna shall not avail her; you shall riot unrestrained

in the charms of your mistress. This very day must the

scheme be put in execution, for you have no time to lose.

The nephew of the Duke of Medina Celi prepares to demand

Antonia for his bride ; in a few days she will be Temoved

to the palace of her relation, the Marquis de las Cisternas,

and there she will be secure from your attempts. Thus,

during your absence, have I been informed by my spies,

who are ever employed in bringing me intelligence for your

service. Now then, listen to me: There is a juice extracted

from certain herbs known but to few, which brings on the

person who drinks it the exact image of death. Let this

be administered to Antonia : you may easily find means to, '

pour a few drops into her medicine. The effect will be

throwing her into strong convulsions for an hour ; after

which her blood will gradually cease to flow, and heart to

beat ; a mortal paleness will spread itself over her features,

and she will appear a corpse to every eye. She has no

friends about her : you may charge yourself unsuspected

with the superintendence of her funeral, and cause her to

be buried in the vaults of St. Clare. Their solitude and

easy access render these caverns favourable to your designs.

Give Antonia the soporific draught this evening; eight-and-

forty hours after she has drank it, life will revive in her

bosom. She will then be absolutely in your power ; she

V kfl/

264 THE MONK

will find all resistance unavailing, and necessity will compel
her to receive you in her arms.'

' Antonia will be in my power ! ' exclaimed the monk.
'Matilda, you transport me. At length then, happiness
will be mine ; and that happiness will be Matilda's gift —
will be the gift of friendship ! I shall clasp Antonia in
my arms, far from every prying eye, from every tormenting
intruder ! I shall sigh out my soul upon her bosom — shall
teach her young heart the first rudiments of pleasure, and
revel uncontrolled in the endless variety of her charms !
And shall this delight indeed be mine ? Shall I give the
reins to my desires, and gratify every wild, tumultuous
wish ? Oh, Matilda ! how can I express to you my
gratitude ? '

' By profiting by my counsels. Ambrosio, I live but to
serve you ; your interest and happiness are equally mine :
be your person Antonia's, but to your friendship and your
heart I still assert my claim. Contributing to yours forms
now my only pleasure. Should my exertions procure the
gratification of your wishes, I shall consider my trouble to
be amply repaid. But let us lose no time : the liquor of
which I spoke is only to be found in St. Clare's laboratory.
Hasten then to the prioress, request of her admission to
the laboratory, and it will not be denied. There is a closet
at the lower end of the great room, filled with liquids of
different colours and qualities ; the bottle in question
stands by itself upon the third shelf on the left ; it
contains a greenish liquor : fill a small phial with it when
you are unobserved, and Antonia is your own.'

The monk hesitated not to adopt this infamous plan.
His desires, but too violent before, had acquired fresh
vigour from the sight of Antonia. As he sat by her
bedside, accident had again betrayed to him some of those
charms on which his eyes had dwelt with such delight on
the night of Elvira's murder. Sometime her white and
polished arm was displayed in arranging the pillow ;
sometimes a sudden movement discovered part of her
swelling bosom ; but wherever the new-found charm pre-
sented itself, there rested the friar's gloating eyes. Scarcely
could he master himself sufficiently to conceal his desires
from Antonia and her vigilant duenna. Inflamed by the
remembrance of these beauties, he entered into Matilda's
scheme without hesitation.

CHAPTER IX 265

No sooner were matins over than he bent his course
towards the convent of St. Clare; his arrival threw
the whole sisterhood into the utmost amazement. The
prioress was sensible of the honour done her convent by his
paying it his first visit, and strove to express her gratitude
by every possible attention. He was paraded through the
garden, shown all the relics of saints and martyrs, and
treated with as much respect and distinction as had he
been the Pope himself. On his part, Ambrosio received
the domina's civilities very graciously, and strove to
remove her surprise at his having broken through his
resolution. He stated that among his penitents, illness
prevented many from quitting their houses. These were
exactly the people who most needed his advice and the
comforts of religion. Many representations had been
made to him upon this account, and though highly
repugnant to his own wishes, he had found it absolutely
necessary for the service of Heaven to change his
determination, and quit his beloved retirement. The
prioress applauded his zeal in his profession, and his
charity towards mankind; she declared that Madrid was
happy in possessing a man so perfect and irreproachable.
In such discourse the friar at length reached the
laboratory; he found the closet — the bottle stood in the
place which Matilda had described, and the monk seized
an opportunity to fill his phial unobserved with the
soporific liquid. Then, having partaken of a collation in
the refectory, he retired from the convent, pleased with
the success of his visit, and leaving the nuns delighted by
the honour conferred upon them.

He waited till evening before he took the road to
Antonia's dwelling. Jacintha welcomed him with transport,
and besought him not to forget his promise to pass the
night in the haunted chamber : that promise he now
repeated. He found Antonia tolerably well, but still
harping upon the ghost's prediction. Flora moved not
from her lady's bed, and by symptoms yet stronger than on
the former night, testified her dislike to the abbot's
presence : still Ambrosio affected not to observe them.
The physician arrived while he was conversing with
Antonia. It was dark already ; lights were called for,
and Flora was compelled to descend for them herself.
However, as she left a third person in the room, and

266 THE MONK

expected to be absent but a few minutes, she believed that
she risked nothing in quitting her post. No sooner had
she left the room, than Ambrosio moved towards the table,
on which stood Antonia's medicine : it was placed in a
recess of the window. The physician, seated in an arm-
chair, and employed in questioning his patient, paid no
attention to the proceedings of the monk. Ambrosio
seized the opportunity ; he drew out the fatal phial, and
let a few drops fall into the medicine ; he then hastily
left the table, and returned to the seat which he had
quitted. When Flora made her appearance with lights,
everything seemed to be exactly as she had left it.

The physician declared that Antonia might quit her
chamber the next day with perfect safety. He recom-
mended her following the same prescription which on the
night before had procured her a refreshing sleep. Flora
replied that the draught stood ready upon the table ; he
advised the patient to take it without delay, and then
retired. Flora poured the medicine into a cup, and
presented it to her mistress. At that moment Ambrosio's
courage failed him. Might not Matilda have deceived
him ? Might not jealousy have persuaded her to destroy
her rival, and substitute poison in the room of an opiate ?
This idea appeared so reasonable, that he was on the
point of preventing her from swallowing the medicine.
His resolution was adopted too late ; the cup was already
emptied, and Antonia restored it into Flora's hands. No
remedy was now to be found ; Ambrosio could only
expect the moment impatiently destined to decide upon
Antonia's life or death, upon his own happiness or despair.

Dreading to create suspicion by his stay, or betray
himself by his mind's agitation, he took leave of his
victim, and withdrew from the room. Antonia parted
from him with less cordiality than on the former night.
Flora had represented to her mistress that to admit his
visits was to disobey her mother's orders ; she described to
her his emotion on entering the room and the fire which
sparkled in his eyes while he gazed upon her. This had
escaped Antonia's observation, but not her attendant's,
who, explaining the monk's designs and their probable
consequences in terms much clearer than Elvira's, though
not quite so delicate, had succeeded in alarming her young
lady, and persuading her to treat him more distantly than

CHAPTER IX 267

she had done hitherto. The idea of obeying her mother's
■will at once determined Antonia. Though she grieved at
losing his society, she conquered herself sufficiently to
receive the monk with some degree of reserve and coldness.
She thanked him with respect and gratitude for his
former visits, but did not invite his repeating them in
future. It now was not the friar's interest to solicit
admission to her presence, and he took leave of her as if
not designing to return. Fully persuaded that the
acquaintance which she dreaded was now at an end, Flora
was so much worked upon by his easy compliance that she
began to doubt the justice of her suspicions. As she
lighted him downstairs, she thanked him for having
endeavoured to root out from Antonia's mind her
superstitious terrors of the spectre's prediction : she added,
that as he seemed interested in Donna Antonia's welfare,
should any change take place in her situation, she would
be careful to let him know it. The monk, in replying,
took pains to raise his voice, hoping that Jacintha would
hear it. In this he succeeded : as he reached the foot of
the stairs with his conductress, the landlady failed not to
make her appearance.

'Why, surely you are not going away, reverend father ?'
cried she. ' Did you not promise to pass the night in the
haunted chamber ? Christ Jesus ! I shall be left alone with
the ghost, and a fine pickle I shall be in by morning ! Do
all I could, say all I could, that obstinate old brute, Simon
Gonzalez, refused to marry me to-day, and before to-morrow
comes I suppose I shall be torn to pieces by the ghosts and
goblins, and devils, and what not ! For God's sake, your
holiness, do not leave me in such a woeful condition ! On
my bended knees I beseech you to keep your promise ;
watch this night in the haunted chamber ; lay the apparition
in the Red Sea, and Jacintha remembers you in her prayers
to the last day of her existence ! '

This request Ambrosio expected and desired ; yet he
affected to raise objections, and to seem unwilling to keep
his word. He told Jacintha that the ghost existed nowhere
but in her own brain, and that her insisting upon his
staying all night in the house was ridiculous and useless.
Jacintha was obstinate ; she was not to be convinced, and
pressed him so urgently not to leave her a prey to the
Devil, that at length he granted her request. All this

268 THE MONK

show of resistance imposed not upon Flora, who was
naturally of a suspicious temper. She suspected the monk
to be acting a part very contrary to his own inclinations,
and that he wished for no better than to remain where he
was. She even went so far as to believe that Jacintha was
in his interest ; and the poor old woman was immediately
set down as no better than a procuress. While she
applauded herself for having penetrated into this plot
against her lady's honour, she resolved in secret to render
it fruitless.

--' So then ', said she to the abbot, with a look half satirical
and half indignant, 'so then you mean to stay here to-
night ? Do so, in God's name ! Nobody will prevent you.
Sit up to watch for the ghost's arrival ; I shall sit up too,
and the Lord grant that I may see nothing worse than a
ghost! I quit not Donna Antonia' s bedside during this
blessed night. Let me see anyone dare to enter the room,
and, be he mortal or immortal, be he ghost, devil, or man,
I warrant his repenting that ever he crossed the threshold.'
This hint was sufficiently strong, and Ambrosio under-
stood its meaning. But instead of showing that he
perceived her suspicions, he replied mildly, that he
approved the duenna's precautions, and advised her to
persevere in her intention. This, she assured him faith-
fully, that he might depend upon her doing. Jacintha
then conducted him into the chamber where the ghost had
appeared, and Flora returned to her lady's.

Jacintha opened the door of the haunted room with a
ti'embling hand ; she ventured to peep in, but the wealth
of India would not have tempted her to cross the threshold.
She gave the taper to the monk, wished him well through
the adventure, and hastened to be gone. Ambrosio entered.
He bolted the door, placed the light upon the table, and
seated himself in the chair, which on the former night had
sustained Antonia. In spite of Matilda's assurances that
the spectre was a mere creation of fancy, his mind was
impressed with a certain mysterious horror. He in vain
endeavoured to shake it off. The silence of the night, the
story of the apparition, the chamber wainscotted with dark
oak panels, the recollection which it brought with it of
the murdered Elvira, and his incertitude respecting the
nature of the drops given by him to Antonia, made him
feel uneasy at his present situation. But he thought

CHAPTER IX 269

much less of the spectre than of the poison. Should he
have destroyed the only object which rendered life
dear to him — should the ghost's prediction prove true
— should Antonia in three days be no more, and he
the wretched cause of her death — the supposition
was too horrible to dwell upon. He drove away
these dreadful images, and as often they presented
themselves again before him. Matilda had assured him
that the effects of the opiate would be speedy. He
listened with fear, yet with eagerness, expecting to hear
some disturbance in the adjoining chamber. All was still
silent. He concluded that the drops had not begun to
operate. Great was the stake for which he now played ;
a moment would suffice to decide upon his misery or
happiness. Matilda had taught him the means of ascer-
taining that life was not extinct for ever : upon this assay
depended all his hopes. With every instant his impatience
redoubled ; his terrors grew more lively, his anxiety more
awake. Unable to bear this state of incertitude, he en-
deavoured to divert it by substituting the thoughts of
others for his own. The books, as was before mentioned,
were ranged upon shelves near the table : this stood
exactly opposite to the bed, which was placed in an
alcove near the closet door. Ambrosio took down a
volume, and seated himself by the table ; but his attention
wandered from the pages before him. Antonia's image,
and that of the murdered Elvira, persisted to force them-
selves before his imagination. Still he continued to read,
though his eyes ran over the characters without his mind
being conscious of their import.

Such was his occupation, when he fancied that he heard
a footstep ; he turned his head, but nobody was to be seen.
He resumed his book ; but in a few minutes after the
same noise was repeated, and followed by a rustling noise
close behind him. He now started from his seat, and,
looking round him, perceived the closet door standing half
unclosed : on his first entering the room, he had tried to
open it, but found it bolted on the inside.

' How is this ? ' said he to himself; ' how comes this
door unfastened ? '

He advanced towards it ; he pushed it open, and looked
into the closet : no one was there. While he stood irreso-
lute, he thought that he distinguished a groaning in the

2;o THE MONK

adjacent chamber ; it was Antonia's, and he supposed that
the drops began to take effect. But upon listening more
attentively, he found the noise to be caused by Jacintha,
who had fallen asleep by the lady's bedside, and was
snoring most lustily. Ambrosio drew back, and returned
to the other room, musing upon the sudden opening of the
closet door, for which he strove in vain to account.

He paced the chamber up and down in silence. At
length he stopped, and the bed attracted his attention.
The curtain of the recess was but half drawn. He sighed
involuntarily.

' That bed' , said he, in a low voice, ' that bed was
Elvira's ! There has she passed many a quiet night, for
she was good and innocent. How sound must have been
her sleep ! — and yet now she sleeps sounder ! Does she
indeed sleep ? — Oh, God grant that she may ! What if
she rose from her grave at this sad and silent hour ? what
if she broke the bonds of the tomb, and glided angrily
before my blasted eyes ? — Oh, I never could support the
sight ! Again to see her form distorted by dying agonies,
her blood-swollen veins, her livid countenance, her eyes
bursting from their sockets with pain ! — to hear her
speak of future punishment — menace me with Heaven's
vengeance — tax me with the crimes I have committed —
with those I am going to commit ! — Great God ! what is
that?'

As he uttered these words, his eyes, which were fixed
upon the bed, saw the curtain shaken gently backwards
and forwards. The apparition was recalled to his mind,
and he almost fancied that he beheld Elvira's visionary
form reclining upon the bed. A few moments' consideration
sufficed to reassure him.

' It was only the wind ', said he, recovering himself.

Again he paced the chamber ; but an involuntary
movement of awe and inquietude constantly led his eye
towards the alcove. He drew near it with irresolution.
He paused before he ascended the few steps which led to
it. He put out his hand thrice to remove the curtain, and
as often drew it back.

' Absurd terrors ! ' he cried at length, ashamed of His
own weakness.

Hastily he mounted the steps, when a figure, dressed in
white, started from the alcove, and, gliding by him, made

CHAPTER IX 271

with precipitation towards the closet. Madness and despair
now supplied the monk with that courage of which he had,
till then, been destitute. He flew down the steps, pursued
the apparition, and attempted to grasp it.

' Ghost, or devil, I hold you ! ' he exclaimed, and seized
the spectre by the arm.

' Oh ! Christ Jesus ! ' cried a shrill voice ; ' holy father,
how you gripe me ! I protest that I mean no harm ! '

This address, as well as the arm which he held, convinced
the abbot that the supposed ghost was substantial flesh
and blood. He drew the intruder towards the table, and,
holding up the light, discovered the features of — Madonna
Flora !

Incensed at having been betrayed by this trifling cause
into fears so ridiculous, he asked her sternly what business
had brought her to that chamber ? Flora, ashamed at being
found out and terrified at the severity of Ambrosio's looks,
fell upon her knees, and promised to make a full confession.

' I protest, reverend father,' said she, ' that I am quite
grieved at having disturbed you ; nothing was further
from my intention. I meant to get out of the room as
quietly as I got in; and had you been ignorant that I
watched you, you know it would have been the same thing
as if I had not watched you at all. To be sure I did very
wrong in being a spy upon you — that I cannot deny. But,
Lord ! your reverence, how can a poor weak woman resist
curiosity ? Mine was so strong to know what you were
doing, that I could not but try to get a little peep without
anybody knowing anything about it. So with that I left
old Dame Jacintha sitting by my lady's bed, and I ventured
to steal into the closet. Being unwilling to interrupt you,
I contented myself at first with putting my eye to the
keyhole ; but, as I could see nothing by this means, I
undrew the bolt, and while your back was turned to the
alcove, I whipped me in softly and silently. Here I lay
snug behind the curtain till your reverence found me out,
and seized me ere I had time to regain the closet door.
This is the whole truth, I assure you, holy father ; and I
beg your pardon a thousand times for my impertinence.'

During this speech the abbot had time to recollect
himself ; he was satisfied with reading the penitent spy a
lecture upon the dangers of curiosity, and the meanness of
the action in which she had been just discovered. Flora

272 THE MONK

declared herself fully persuaded that she had done wrong ;
she promised never to be guilty of the same fault again,
and was retiring very humble and contrite to Antonia's
chamber, when the closet door was suddenly thrown open,
and in rushed Jacintha, pale and out of breath.

' Oh, father, father ! ' she cried, in a voice almost choked
with terror ; ' what shall I do ? What shall I do ? Here is
a fine piece of work ! Nothing but misfortunes ! — nothing
but dead people, and dying people ! Oh, I shall go
distracted ! I shall go distracted ! '

' Speak, speak ! ' cried Flora and the monk, at the same
time : ' what has happened ? what is the matter ? '

'Oh, I shall have another corpse in my house! Some
witch has certainly cast a spell upon it, upon me, and upon
all about me ! Poor Donna Antonia ! There she lies in just
such convulsions as killed her mother ! The ghost told her
true — I am sure the ghost told her true ! '

Flora ran, or rather flew to her lady's chamber. Ambrosio
followed her, his bosom trembling with hope and apprehen-
sion. They found Antonia as Jacintha had described, torn
by racking convulsions, from which they in vain endeavoured
to relieve her. The monk despatched Jacintha to the abbey,
in all haste, and commissioned her to bring Father Pablos
back with her, without losing a moment.

' I will go for him ', replied Jacintha, ' and tell him to
come hither ; but as to bringing him myself, I shall do no
such thing. I am sure that the house is bewitched, and
burn me if ever I set foot in it again.'

With this resolution she set out for the monastery, and
delivered to Father Pablos the abbot's orders. She then
betook herself to the house of old Simon Gonzalez, whom
she resolved never to quit till she had made him her
husband, and his dwelling her own.

Father Pablos had no sooner beheld Antonia, than he
pronounced her incurable. The convulsions continued for
an hour ; during that time her agonies were much milder
than those which her groans created in the abbot's heart.
Her every pang seemed a dagger in his bosom ; and he
cursed himself a thousand times for having adopted so
barbarous a project. The hour being expired, by degrees
the fits became less frequent, and Antonia less agitated.
She felt that her dissolution was approaching, and that
nothing could save her.

CHAPTER IX 273

' Worthy Ambrosio ', she said, in a feeble voice, while
she pressed his hand to her lips, ' I am now at liberty to
express how grateful is my heart for your attention and
kindness. I am upon the bed of death — yet an hour, and
I shall be no more ; I may therefore acknowledge, without
restraint, that to relinquish your society was very painful
to me : but such was the will of a parent — and I dared not
disobey. I die without repugnance ; there are few who
will lament my leaving them — there are few whom I
lament to leave. Among those few, I lament for none
more than for yourself ; but we shall meet again,
Ambrosio — we shall one day meet in heaven ; there shall
our friendship be renewed, and my mother shall view it
with pleasure.'

She paused. The abbot shuddered when she mentioned
Elvira. Antonia imputed his emotion to pity and concern
for her.

' You are grieved for me, father ', she continued ; ' ah,
sigh not for my loss ! I have no crimes to repent, at least
none of which I am conscious; and I restore my soul
without fear to him from whom I received it. I have but
few requests to make ; yet let me hope that what few I
have shall be granted. Let a solemn mass be said for my
soul's repose, and another for that of my beloved mother —
not that I doubt her resting in her grave ; I am now con-
vinced that my reason wandered, and the falsehood of the
ghost's prediction is sufficient to prove my error. But
everyone has some failing; my mother may have had
hers, though I knew them not. I therefore wish a mass
to be celebrated for her repose, and the expense may be
defrayed by the little wealth of which I am possessed.
Whatever may then remain, I bequeath to my Aunt
Leonella. When I am dead, let the Marquis de las
Cisternas know that his brother's unhappy family can no
longer importune him. But disappointment makes me
unjust: they tell me that he is ill, and perhaps, had it
been in his power, he wished to have protected me. Tell
him, then, father, only that I am dead, and that if he had
any faults to me, I forgave him from my heart. This
done, I have nothing more to ask for than your prayers.
Promise to remember my request, and I shall resign my
life without a pang or sorrow.'
Ambrosio engaged to comply with her desires, and pro-

274 THE MONK

ceeded to give her absolution. Every moment announced
the approach of Antonia's fate : her sight failed, her heart
beat sluggishly, her fingers stiffened and grew cold, and at
two in the morning she expired without a groan. As soon
as the breath had forsaken her body, Father Pablos retired,
sincerely affected at the melancholy scene. On her part,
Flora gave way to the most unbridled sorrow. Far
different concerns employed Ambrosio ; he sought for the
pulse, whose throbbing, so Matilda had assured him, would
prove Antonia's death but temporary. He found it — he
pressed it — it palpitated beneath his hand, and his heart
was filled with ecstasy. However, he carefully concealed
his satisfaction at the success of his plan. He assumed a
melancholy air, and addressing himself to Flora, warned
her against abandoning herself to fruitless sorrow. Her
tears were too sincere to permit her listening to his
counsels, and she continued to weep unceasingly. The
friar withdrew, first promising to give orders himself
about the funeral, which, out of consideration for Jacintha,
as he pretended, should take place with all expedition.
Plunged in grief for the loss of her beloved mistress, Flora
scarcely attended to what he said. Ambrosio hastened to
command the burial. He obtained permission from the
prioress that the corpse should be deposited in St. Clare's
sepulchre ; and on the Friday morning, every proper and
needful ceremony being performed, Antonia's body was
committed to the tomb.

On the same day Leonella arrived at Madrid, intending
to present her young husband to Elvira. Various circum-
stances had obliged her to defer her journey from Tuesday
to Friday; and she had no opportunity of making this
alteration in her plans known to her sister. As her heart
was truly affectionate, and as she had ever entertained a
sincere regard for Elvira and her daughter, her surprise at
hearing of their sudden and melancholy fate was fully
equalled by her sorrow and disappointment. Ambrosio
sent to inform her of Antonia's bequest : at her solicitation
he promised, as soon as Elvira's trifling debts were dis-
charged, to transmit to her the remainder. This being
settled, no other business detained Leonella in Madrid, and
she returned to Cordova with all diligence.

CHAPTER X

Oh, could I worship aught beneath the skies,
That earth hath seen, or fancy could devise,
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand,
Built by no mercenary vulgar hand,
"With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair,
As ever dressed a bank or scented summer air.

— Cowpeb

His whole attention bent upon bringing to justice the
assassins of his sister, Lorenzo little thought how severely
his interest was suffering in another quarter. As was
before mentioned, he returned not to Madrid till the
evening of that day on which Antonia was buried.
Signifying to the grand inquisitor the order of the
cardinal-duke (a ceremony not to be neglected when a
member of the church was to be arrested publicly),
communicating his design to his uncle and Don Ramirez,
and assembling a troop of attendants sufficient to prevent
opposition, furnished him with full occupation during the
few hours preceding midnight. Consequently he had no
opportunity to inquire about his mistress, and was
perfectly ignorant both of her death and her mother's.

The Marquis was by no means out of danger: his
delirium was gone, but had left him so much exhausted,
that the physicians declined pronouncing upon the conse-
quences likely to ensue* As for Raymond himself, he
wished for nothing more earnestly than to join Agnes in
the grave. Existence was hateful to him : he saw nothing
in the world deserving his attention ; and he hoped to hear
that Agnes was revenged, and himself given over in the
same moment.

Followed by Raymond's ardent prayers for success,
Lorenzo was at the gates of St. Clare a full hour before
the time appointed by the Mother St. Ursula. He was
accompanied by his uncle, by Don Ramirez de Mello, and
a party of chosen archers. Though in considerable
numbers, their appearance created no surprise: a great

275

276 THE MONK

crowd was already assembled before the convent doors, in
order to witness the procession. It was naturally supposed
that Lorenzo and his attendants were conducted thither
by the same design. The Duke of Medina being recog-
nized, the people drew back, and made way for his party
to advance. Lorenzo placed himself opposite to the great
gate, through which the pilgrims were to pass. Convinced
that the prioress could not escape him, he waited patiently
for her appearance, which she was expected to make
exactly at midnight.

The nuns were employed in religious duties established
in honour of St. Clare, and to which no profane was ever
admitted. The chapel windows were illuminated. As
they stood on the outside, the auditors heard the full
swell of the organ, accompanied by a chorus of female
voices, rise upon the stillness of the night. This died
away, and was succeeded by a single strain of harmony :
it was the voice of her who was destined to sustain in
the procession the character of St. Clair. For this office
the most beautiful virgin of Madrid was always selected,
and she upon whom the choice fell esteemed it as the
highest of honours. While listening to the music, whose
melody distance only seemed to render sweeter, the
audience was wrapped up in profound attention. Universal
silence prevailed through the crowd, and every heart was
filled with reverence for religion — every heart but Lorenzo's.
Conscious that among those who chanted the praises of
their God so sweetly, there were some who cloaked with
devotion the foulest sins, their hymns inspired him with
detestation at their hypocrisy. He had long obs erved with
disapprobation and co ntempt the_^ supe^Eiioii— which
governed^ Madrid's '".inhabitants. His good sense had
pointed out to him the artifices of the monks, and the
gross absurdity of their miracles, wonders, and suppositious
relics. He blushed to see his countrymen the dupes of
deceptions so ridiculous, and only wished for an oppor-
tunity to free them from their monkish fetters. That
opportunity, so long desired in vain, was at length pre-
sented to him. He resolved not to let it slip, but to set
before the people, in glaring colours , how enormous w ere
the abuses but t oo frequently practise ? in monasteries, and
now umustly public ebluem was LesXuwed indiscriminately
upon all who wore a religious habit. He longed for the "

CHAPTER X 277

moment destined to unmask the hypocrites, and convince
his countrymen that a sanctified exterior does not always
hide a virtuous heart.

The service lasted till midnight was announced by the
convent bell. That sound being heard, the music ceased ;
the voices died away softly, and soon after the lights
disappeared from the chapel windows. Lorenzo's heart
beat high, when he found the execution of his plan to be
at hand. From the natural superstition of the people, he
had prepared himself for some resistance : but he trusted
that the Mother St. Ursula would bring good reasons to
justify his proceeding. He had force with him to repel
the first impulse of the populace, till his arguments should
be heard. His only fear was lest the domina, suspecting
his design, should have spirited away the nun on whose
deposition everything depended. Unless the Mother St.
Ursula should be present, he could only accuse the prioress
upon suspicion; and this reflection gave him some little
apprehension for the success of his enterprise. The
tranquillity which seemed to reign through the convent in
some degree reassured him : still he expected the moment
eagerly when the presence of his ally should deprive him
of the power of doubting.

The abbey of Capuchins was only separated from the
convent by the garden and cemetery. The monks had been
invited to assist at the pilgrimage. They now arrived,
marching two by two, with lighted torches in their hands,
and chanting hymns in honour of St. Clare. Father
Pablos was at their head, the abbot having excused himself
from attending. The people made way for the holy train,
and the friars placed themselves in ranks on either side of
the great gates. A few minutes sufficed to arrange the
order of the procession. This being settled, the convent
doors were thrown open, and again the female chorus
sounded in full melody. First appeared a band of
choristers. As soon as they had passed, the monks fell in,
two by two, and followed with steps slow and measured :
next came the novices; they bore no tapers, as did the
professed, but moved on, with eyes bent downwards, and
seemed to be occupied by telling their beads. To them
succeeded a young and lovely girl, who represented St.
Lucia ; she held a golden basin, in which were two eyes ;
her own were covered by a velvet bandage, and she was

278 THE MONK

conducted by another nun, habited as an angel. She was
followed by St. Catherine, a palm branch in one hand, a
flaming sword in the other : she was robed in white, and
her brow was ornamented with a sparkling diadem. After
her appeared St. Genevieve, surrounded by a number of
imps, who putting themselves into grotesque attitudes,
drawing her by the robe, and sporting round her with
antic gestures, endeavoured to distract her attention from
the book on which her eyes were constantly fixed. These
merry devils greatly entertained the spectators, who
testified their pleasure by repeated bursts of laughter.
The prioress had been careful to select a nun whose
disposition was naturally solemn and saturnine. She had
every reason to be satisfied with her choice : the drolleries
of the imps were entirely thrown away, and St. Genevieve
moved on without discomposing a muscle.

Each of these saints were separated from the other by
a band of choristers, exalting her praise in their hymns,
but declaring her to be very much inferior to St. Clare,
the convent's avowed patroness. These having passed, a
long train of nuns appeared, bearing, like the choristers,
each a burning taper. Next came the relics of St. Clare,
inclosed in vases equally precious for their materials and
workmanship : but they attracted not Lorenzo's attention.
The nun who bore the heart occupied him entirely.
According to Theodore's description, he doubted not her
being the Mother St. Ursula. She seemed to look round
with anxiety : as he stood foremost in the rank by which
the procession passed, her eye caught Lorenzo's. A flush
of joy overspread her till then pallid cheek. She turned
to her companion eagerly.

' We are safe ', he heard her whisper ; ' 'tis her brother.'
His heart being now at ease, Lorenzo gazed with tran-
quillity upon the remainder of the show. Now appeared
its mo3t brilliant ornament; it was a machine fashioned
like a throne, rich with jewels, and dazzling with light.
It rolled onwards, upon concealed wheels, and was guided
by several lovely children dressed as seraphs. The summit
was covered with silver clouds, upon which reclined the
most beautiful form that eyes ever witnessed. It was a
damsel representing St. Clare : her dress was of inestimable
price, and round her head a wreath of diamonds formed an
artificial glory : but all these ornaments yielded to the

CHAPTER X 279

lustre of her charms. As she advanced, a murmur of
delight ran through the crowd. Even Lorenzo confessed
secretly that he never beheld more perfect beauty ; and
had not his heart been Antonia's, it must have fallen a
sacrifice to this enchanting girl. As it was, he considered
her only as a fine statue : she obtained from him no tribute
save cold admiration ; and when she had passed him, he
thought of her no more.

' Who is she ? ' asked a bystander, in Lorenzo's hearing.

'One whose beauty you must often have heard celebrated.
Her name is Virginia de Villa Franca : she is a pensioner
of St. Clare's convent, a relation of the prioress, and has
been selected with justice as the ornament of the procession.'

The throne moved onwards. It was followed by the
prioress herself : she marched at the head of the remaining
nuns with a devout and sanctified air, and closed the
procession. She moved on slowly ; her eyes were raised
to heaven ; her countenance, calm and tranquil, seemed
abstracted from all sublunary things, and no feature
betrayed her secret pride at displaying the pomp and
opulence of her convent. She passed along, accompanied
by the prayers and benedictions of the populace : but how
great was the general confusion and surprise, when Don
Ramirez, starting forward, challenged her as his prisoner !

For a moment amazement held the domina silent and
immovable ; but no sooner did she recover herself, than
she exclaimed against sacrilege and impiety, and called
upon the people to rescue a daughter of the Church. They
were eagerly preparing to obey her, when Don Ramirez,
protected by the archers from their rage, commanded
them to forbear, and threatened them with the severest
vengeance of the Inquisition. At that dreaded word every
arm fell, every sword shrunk back into its scabbard : the
prioress herself turned pale, and trembled. The general
silence convinced her that she had nothing to hope but
from innocence ; and she besought Don Ramirez, in a
faltering voice, to inform her of what crime she was
accused.

' That you shall know in time,' replied he ; ' but first I
must secure the Mother St. Ursula.'

' The Mother St. Ursula ! ' repeated the domina faintly.

At this moment casting her eyes round, she saw Lorenzo
and the duke, who had followed Don Ramirez;,

280 THE MONK

' Ah, great God ! ' she cried, clasping her hands together
with a frantic air — ' I am betrayed ! '

' Betrayed ! ' replied St. Ursula, who now arrived, con-
ducted by some of the archers, and followed by the nun her
companion in the procession : 'not betrayed, but discovered.
In me recognize your accuser : you know not how well I am
instructed in your guilt. — Segnor ', she continued, turning
to Don Ramirez, ' I commit myself to your custody. I
charge the prioress of St. Clare with murder, and stake my
life for the justice of my accusation ! '

A general cry of surprise was uttered by the whole
audience, and an explanation was loudly demanded. The
trembling nuns, terrified at the noise and universal
confusion, had dispersed, and fled different ways. Some
regained the convent — others sought refuge in the dwellings
of their relations — and many, only sensible of their present
danger, and anxious to escape from the tumult, ran
through the streets, and wandered they knew not whither.
The lovely Virginia was one of the first to fly ; and in
order that she might be better seen and heard, the people
desired that St. Ursula should harangue them from the
vacant throne. The nun complied : she ascended the
glittering machine, and then addressed the surrounding
multitude as follows:

'However strange and unseemly may appear my
conduct, when considered to be adopted by a female and
a nun, necessity will justify it most fully. A secret, a
horrible secret weighs heavy upon my soul : no rest can
be mine till I have revealed it to the world, and satisfied
that innocent blood which calls from the grave for
vengeance. Much have I dared, to gain this opportunity
of lightening my conscience. Had I failed in my attempt
to reveal the crime — had the domina but suspected that
the mystery was known to me, my ruin was inevitable.
Angels, who watch unceasingly over those who deserve
their favour, have enabled me to escape detection. I am
now at liberty to relate a tale, whose circumstances will
freeze every honest soul with horror y Mine is the task to
ren d the veil from hypocrisy, and shoV miggM UflH'l V' A ^T^~
" to what dangers t> "> W0™ a " rs. sYpngftiTj who fnjlfi nnrlgr
'the sway of a m onasti c tyrant. J

1 Am6ng the VdtaftGs bi St."Clare none was more lovely,
none more gentle than Agnes de Medina. I knew her

CHAPfER X 281

well ; she entrusted to me every secret of her heart : I
was her friend and confidante, and I loved her with sincere
affection. Nor was I singular in my attachment; her
piety unfeigned, her willingness to oblige, and her angelic
disposition, rendered her the darling of all that was estim-
able in the convent. The prioress herself, proud, scrupulous,
and forbidding, could not refuse Agnes that tribute of
approbation which she bestowed upon no one else. Every
one has some fault — alas ! Agnes had her weakness ; she
violated the laws of our order, and incurred the inveterate
hate of the unforgiving domina. St. Clare's rules are
severe ; but grown antiquated and neglected, many of late
years have either been forgotten, or changed by universal
consent into milder punishments. The penance adjudged
to the crime of Agnes was most cruel, most inhuman. The
law had been long exploded : alas ! it still existed, and the
revengeful prioress now determined to revive it. This law
decreed that the offender should be plunged into a private
dungeon, expressly constituted to hide from the world fori
ever the victim of cruelty and tyrannic superstition. In
this dreadful abode she was to lead a perpetual solitude,
deprived of all society, and believed to be dead by those
whom affection might have prompted to attempt her rescue.
Thus was she to languish out the remainder of her days,
with no other food than bread and water, and no other
comfort than the free indulgence of her tears.'

The indignation created by this account was so violent,
as for some moments to interrupt St. Ursula's narrative.
When the disturbance ceased, and silence again prevailed
through the assembly, she continued her discourse, while
at every word the domina's countenance betrayed her
increasing terrors.

' A council of the twelve elder nuns was called : I was of
the number. The prioress, in exaggerated colours, described
the offence of Agnes, and scrupled not to propose the revival
of this almost forgotten law. To the shame of our sex be
it spoken that, either so absolute was the domina's will in
the convent or so much had disappointment, solitude, and
self-denial hardened their hearts and soured their tempers,
this barbarous proposal was assented to by nine voices out
of the twelve. I was not one of the nine. Frequent
opportunities had convinced me of the virtues of Agnes,
and I loved and pitied her most sincerely. The Mothers

282 THE MONK

Bertha and Cornelia joined my party ; we made the
strongest opposition possible, and the superior found her-
self compelled to change her intention. In spite of the
majority in her favour, she feared to break with us openly.
She knew that, supported by the Medina family, our forces
would be too strong for her to cope with ; and she also
knew that, after being once imprisoned, and supposed
dead, should Agnes be discovered, her ruin would be
inevitable ; she therefore gave up her design, though with
much reluctance. She demanded some days to reflect upon
a mode of punishment which might be agreeable to the
whole community ; and she promised, that as soon as her
resolution was fixed, the same council should be again
summoned. Two days passed away ; on the evening of
the third it was announced, that on the next day Agnes
should be examined ; and that, according to her behaviour
onthatoccasion,herpunishmentshould be eitherstrengthened
or mitigated.

" On the night preceding this examination, I stole to the
cell of Agnes, at an hour when I supposed the other nuns
to be buried in sleep. I comforted her to the best of my
power ; I bade her take courage, told her to rely upon the
support of her friends, and taught her certain signs, by
which I might instruct her to answer the domina's ques-
tions by an assent or negative. Conscious that her enemy
would strive to confuse, embarrass, and daunt her, I feared
her being ensnared into some confession prejudicial to her
interest. Being anxious to keep my visit secret, I staid
with Agnes but a short time. I bade her not to let her
spirits be cast down. I mingled my tears with those which
streamed down her cheek, embraced her fondly, and was
on the point of retiring, when I heard the sound of steps
approaching the cell. I started back. A curtain which
veiled a large crucifix offered me a retreat, and I hastened
to place myself behind it. The door opened. The prioress
entered, followed by four other nuns. They advanced
towards the bed of Agnes. The superior reproached her
with her errors in the bitterest terms. She told her, that
she was a disgrace to the convent, that she was resolved to
deliver the world and herself from such a monster, and
commanded her to drink the contents of a goblet now
presented to her by one of the nuns. Aware of the fatal
properties of the liquor, and trembling to find herself upon

CHAPTER X 283

the brink of eternity, the unhappy girl strove to excite the
domina's pity by the most affecting prayers. She sued
for life in terms which might have melted the heart of a
fiend. She promised to submit patiently to any punish-
ment, to shame, imprisonment, and torture, might she but
be permitted to live ! — oh, might she but live another
month, or week, or day ! Her merciless enemy listened to
her complaints unmoved : she told her, that at first she
meant to have spared her life, and that, if she had altered
her intention, she bad to thank the opposition of her
friends. She continued to insist upon her swallowing the
poison : she bade her recommend herself to the Almighty's
mercy, not to hers ; and assured her that in an hour she
would be numbered with the dead. Perceiving that it was
vain to implore this unfeeling woman, she attempted to
spring from her bed, and call for assistance : she hoped, if
she could not escape the fate announced to her, at least to
have witnesses of the violence committed. The prioress
guessed her design : she seized her forcibly by the arm,
and pushed her back upon her pillow ; at the same time
drawing a dagger, and placing it at the breast of the
unfortunate Agnes, she protested that if she uttered a
single cry, or hesitated a single moment to drink the
poison, she would pierce her heart that instant. Already
half dead with fear, she could make no further resistance.
The nun approached with the fatal goblet; the domina
obliged her to take it, and swallow the contents. She
drank, and the horrid deed was accomplished. The nuns
then seated themselves round the bed ; they answered her
groans with reproaches — they interrupted with sarcasms
the prayers in which she recommended her parting soul to
mercy — they threatened her with Heaven's vengeance, and
eternal perdition — they bade her despair of pardon, and
strewed with yet sharper thorns death's painful pillow.
Such were the sufferings of this young unfortunate, till
released by fate from the malice of her tormentors. She
expired in horror of the past — in fears for the future ; and
her agonies were such as must have amply gratified the
hate and vengeance of her enemies. As soon as her victim
ceased to breathe, the domina retired, and was followed by
her accomplices.

' It was now that I ventured from my concealment. I
dared not to assist my unhappy friend, aware that without

284 THE MONK

preserving her, I should only have brought on myself the
same destruction. Shocked and terrified beyond expression
at this horrid scene, scarcely had I sufficient strength to
regain my cell. As I reached the door of that of Agnes, I
ventured to look towards the bed on which lay her lifeless
body, once so lovely and so sweet. I breathed a prayer for
her departed spirit, and vowed to revenge her death by the
shame and punishment of her assassins. With danger and
difficulty I have kept my oath. I unwarily dropped some
words at the funeral of Agnes, while thrown off my guard
by excessive grief, which alarmed the guilty conscience of
the prioress. My every action was observed — my every
step was traced : I was instantly surrounded by the
superior's spies. It was long before I could find means
of conveying to the unhappy girl's relations an intimation
of my secret. It was given out that Agnes had expired
suddenly: this account was credited not only by her friends
in Madrid, but even by those within the convent. The
poison had left no marks upon her body ; no one suspected
the true cause of her death, and it remained unknown to
all, save the assassins and myself.

' I have no more to say ; for what I have already said, I
will answer with my life. I repeat, that the prioress is a
murderess ; that she has driven from the world — perhaps
from heaven, an unfortunate, whose offence was light and
venial ; that she has abused the power entrusted to her
hands, and has been a tyrant, a barbarian, and an hypocrite,
I also accuse the four nuns, Violante, Camilla, Alix, and
Mariana, as being her accomplices, and equally criminal.'

Here St. Ursula ended her narrative. It created horror
and surprise throughout ; but when she related the
inhuman murder of Agnes, the indignation of the mob
was so audibly testified, that it was scarcely possible to
hear the conclusion. This confusion increased with every
moment. At length a multitude of voices exclaimed, that
the prioress should be given up to their fury. To this Don
Ramirez positively refused to consent. Even Lorenzo bade
the people remember, that she had undergone no trial, and
advised them to leave her punishment to the Inquisition.
All representations were fruitless ; the disturbance grew
still more violent, and the populace more exasperated. In
vain did Ramirez attempt to convey his prisoner out of the
throng : wherever he turned, a band of rioters barred his

CHAPTER X 285

passage, and demanded her being delivered over to them
more loudly than before. Ramirez ordered his attendants
to cut their way through the multitude. Oppressed by-
numbers, it was impossible to draw their swords. He
threatened the mob with the vengeance of the Inquisition :
but in this moment of popular frenzy, even this dreadful
name had lost its effect. Though regret for his sister made
him look upon the prioress, Lorenzo could not help pitying
a woman in a situation so terrible : but in spite of all his
exertions, and those of the duke, of Don Ramirez and the
archers, the people continued to press onwards. They
forced a passage through the guards who protected their
destined victim, dragged her from her shelter, and pro-
ceeded to take upon her a most] summary and cruel
vengeance. Wild with terror, and scarcely knowing what
she said, the wretched woman shrieked for a moment's
mercy : she protested that she was innocent of the death
of Agnes, and could clear herself from the suspicion beyond
the power of doubt. The rioters heeded nothing but the
gratification of their barbarous vengeance. They refused
to listen to her : they showed her every sort of insult,
loaded her with mud and filth, and called her by the most
opprobrious appellations. They^tore her one from another,
and each new tormenter was more savage than the former.
They stifled with howls and execrations her shrill cries for
mercy, and dragged her through the streets, spurning her,
trampling her, and treating her with every species of
cruelty which hate or vindictive fury could invent. At
length, a flint, aimed by some well-directing hand, struck
her full upon the temple. She sank upon the ground
bathed in blood, and in a few minutes terminated her
miserable existence. Yet, though she no longer felt their
insults, the rioters still exercised their impotent rage upon
her lifeless body. They beat it, trod upon it, and ill-used
it, till it became no more than a mass of flesh, unsightly,
shapeless, and disgusting.

Unable to prevent this shocking event, Lorenzo and his
friends had beheld it with the utmost horror ; but they
were roused from their compelled inactivity on hearing
that the mob were attacking the convent of St. Clare.
The incensed populace, confounding the innocent with the
guilty, had resolved to sacrifice all the nuns of that order
to their rage, and not to leave one stone of the building

286 . THE MONK

upon another. Alarmed at this intelligence, they hastened
to the convent, resolved to defend it if possible, or at least
to rescue the inhabitants from the fury of the rioters.
Most of the nuns had fled, but a few still remained in
their habitation. Their situation was truly dangerous.
However, as they had taken the precaution of fastening
the inner gates, with this assistance Lorenzo hoped to repel
the mob, till Don Ramirez should return to him with a more
sufficient force.

Having been conducted by the former disturbance to the
distance of some streets from the convent, he did not
immediately reach it. When he arrived, the throng sur-
rounding it was so excessive as to prevent his approaching
the gates. In the interim, the populace besieged the
building with persevering rage : they battered the walls,
threw lighted torches in at the windows, and swore that
by break of day not a nun of St. Clare's order should be
left alive. Lorenzo had just succeeded in piercing his way
through the crowd, when one of the gates was forced open;
the rioters poured into the interior part of the building,
where they exercised their vengeance upon everything
which found itself in their passage. They broke the
furniture into pieces, tore down the pictures, destroyed
the relics, and in their hatred of her servant, forgot all
respect to the saint. Some employed themselves in
searching out the nuns, others in pulling down parts of
convent, and others again in setting fire to the pictures
and valuable furniture which it contained. These latter
produced the most decisive desolation. Iiideed the conse-
quences of their action were more sudden than themselves
had expected or wished. The flames rising from the
burning piles caught part of the building, which being
old and dry, the conflagration spread with rapidity from
room to room. The walls were soon shaken by the
devouring element : the columns gave way, the roofs
came tumbling down upon the rioters, and crushed many
of them beneath their weight. Nothing was to be heard
but shrieks and groans. The convent was wrapped in
flames, and the whole presented a scene of devastation
and horror.

Lorenzo was shocked at having been the cause, however
innocent, of this frightful disturbance ; he endeavoured to
repair his fault by protecting the helpless inhabitants of

CHAPTER X 287

the convent. He entered it with the mob, and exerted
himself to repress the prevailing fury, till the sudden and
alarming progress of the flames compelled him to provide
for his own safety. The people now hurried out as eagerly
as they had before thronged in; but their numbers
clogging up the doorway, and the fire gaining upon them
rapidly, many of them perished ere they had time to effect
their escape. Lorenzo's good fortune directed him to a
small door in a farther aisle of the chapel. The bolt was
already undrawn : he opened the door, and found himself
at the foot of St. Clare's sepulchre.

Here he stopped to breathe. The duke and some of his
attendants had followed him, and thus were in security for
the present. They now consulted what steps they should
take to escape from this scene of disturbance ; but their
deliberations were considerably interrupted by the sight of
volumes of fire rising from amidst the convent's massy
walls, by the noise of some heavy arch tumbling down
in ruins, or by the mingled shrieks of the nuns and
rioters, either suffocating in the press, perishing in
the flames, or crushed beneath the weight of the falling
mansion.

Lorenzo inquired whither the wicket led ? He was
answered, to the garden of the Capuchins; and it was
resolved to explore an outlet upon that side. Accordingly
the duke raised the latch, and passed into the adjoining
cemetery. The attendants followed without ceremonyi
Lorenzo being the last, was also on the point of quitting
the colonnade, when he saw the door of the sepulchre
opened softly. Someone looked out, but on perceiving
strangers, uttered a loud shriek, started back again, and
flew down the marble stairs.

' What can this mean ? ' cried Lorenzo ; ' here is some
mystery concealed. Follow me without delay ! '

Thus saying, he hastened into the sepulchre, and pursued
the person, who continued to fly before him. The duke
knew not the cause of this exclamation, but supposing that
he had good reasons for it, followed him without hesitation.
The others did the same, and the whole party soon arrived
at the foot of the stairs. The upper door having been left
open, the neighbouring flames darted from above a sufficient
light to enable Lorenzo's catching a glance of the fugitive
running through the long passages and distant vaults ; but

288 THE MONK

when a sudden turn deprived him of this assistance, total
darkness succeeded, and he could only trace the object of
his inquiry by the faint echo of retiring feet. The pursuers
were now compelled to proceed with caution: as well as
they could judge, the fugitive also seemed to slacken pace,
for they heard the steps follow each other at longer
intervals. They at length were bewildered by the
labyrinth of passages, and dispersed in various directions.
Carried away by his eagerness to clear up this mystery,
and to penetrate into which he was impelled by a move-
ment secret and unaccountable, Lorenzo heeded not this
circumstance till he found himself in total solitude. The
noise of footsteps had ceased, all was silent around, and no
clue offered itself to guide him to the flying person. He
stopped to reflect on the means most likely to aid his
pursuit. He was persuaded that no common cause would
have induced the fugitive to seek that dreary place at an
hour so unusual ; the cry which he had heard seemed
uttered in a voice of terror, and he was convinced that
some mystery was attached to this event. After some
minutes passed in hesitation, he continued to proceed,
feeling his way along the walls of the passage. He had
already passed some time in this slow progress, when he
descried a spark of light glimmering at a distance. Guided
by this observation, and having drawn his sword, he bent
his steps towards the place whence the beam seemed to be
emitted.

It proceeded from the lamp which flamed before St.
Clare's statue. Before it stood several females, their white
garments streaming in the blast, as it howled along the
vaulted dungeons. Curious to know what had brought
them together in this melancholy spot, Lorenzo drew near
with precaution. The strangers seemed earnestly engaged
in conversation. They heard not Lorenzo's steps, and he
approached unobserved, till he could hear their voices
distinctly.

' I protest ', continued she who was speaking when he
arrived, and to whom the rest were listening with great
attention, ' I protest that I saw them with my own eyes.
I flew down the steps, they pursued me, and I escaped
falling into their hands with difficulty. Had it not been
for the lamp, I should never have found you.'

' And what could bring them hither ? ' said another, in

CHAPTER X 289

a trembling voice ; ' do you think that they were looking
for us ? '

' God grant that my fears may be false ! ' rejoined the
first ; • but I doubt they are murderers ! If they discover
us, we are lost ! As for me, my fate is certain. My affinity
to the prioress will be a sufficient crime to condemn me ;
and though till now these vaults have afforded me a
retreat — '

Here looking up, her eye fell upon Lorenzo, who bad
continued to approach slowly.

' The murderers ! ' she cried.

She started away from the statue's pedestal, on which
she had been seated, and attempted to escape by flight.
Her companions at the same moment uttered a terrified
scream, while Lorenzo arrested the fugitive by the arm.
Frightened and desperate, she sank upon her knees before
him.

' Spare me ! ' she exclaimed ; ' for Christ's sake, spare me !
I am innocent — indeed I am ! '

While she spoke, her voice was almost choked with fear.
The beams of the lamp darting full upon her face, which
was unveiled, Lorenzo recognized the beautiful Virginia de
Villa Franca. He hastened to raise her from the ground,
and besought her to take courage. He promised to protect
her from the rioters, assured her that her retreat was still
a secret, and that she might depend upon his readiness to
defend her to the last drop of his blood. During this con-
versation, the nuns had thrown themselves into various
attitudes : one knelt, and addressed herself to Heaven ;
another hid her face in the lap of her neighbour ; some
listened motionless with fear to the discourse of the
supposed assassin ; while others embraced the statue of
St. Clare, and implored her protection with frantic cries.
On perceiving their mistake, they crowded round Lorenzo,
and heaped benedictions on him by dozens. He found that,
on hearing the threats of the mob, and terrified by the
cruelties which from the convent towers they had seen
inflicted on the superior, many of the pensioners and nuns
had taken refuge in the sepulchre. Among the former was
to be reckoned the lovely Virginia ; nearly related to the
prioress, she had more reason than the rest to dread the
rioters, and now besought Lorenzo earnestly not to abandon
her to their rage. Her companions, most of whom were

290 THE MONK

women of noble family, made the same request, which he
readily granted : he promised not to quit them till he had
seen each of them safe in the arms of her relations ; but he
advised their deferring to quit the sepulchre for some time
longer, when the popular fury should be somewhat calmed,
and the arrival of military force have dispersed the
multitude.

' Would to God ', cried Virginia, ' that I were already
safe in my mother's embraces ! How say you, Segnor ?
Will it be long ere we may leave this place ? Every
moment that I pass here, I pass in torture.'

' I hope, not long ', said he ; ' but till you can proceed
with security, this sepulchre will prove an impenetrable
asylum. Here you run no risk of a discovery, and I would
advise your remaining quiet for the next two or three
hours.'

' Two or three hours ! ' exclaimed Sister Helena ; ' if I
stay another hour in this vault, I shall expire with fear.
Not the wealth of worlds should bribe me to undergo again
what I have suffered since my coming hither. Blessed
Virgin ! — to be in this melancholy place in the middle of
night, surrounded by the mouldering bodies of my deceased
companions, and expecting every moment to be torn in
pieces by their ghosts, who wander about me, and complain,
and groan, and wail in accents that make my blood run
cold ! Christ Jesus ! it is enough to drive me to
madness ! '

' Excuse me ', replied Lorenzo, ' if I am surprised that,
while menaced by real woes, you are capable of yielding to
imaginary dangers. These terrors are puerile and ground-
less : combat them, holy sister. I have promised to guard
you from the rioters, but against the attacks of superstition
you must depend for protection upon yourself. The idea
of ghosts is ridiculous in the extreme : and if you continue
to be swayed by ideal terrors — '

' Ideal ! ' exclaimed the nuns with one voice ; ' why, we
heard it ourselves, Segnor — everyone of us heard it ! It
was frequently repeated, and it sounded every time more
melancholy and deep. You will never persuade me that
we could all have been deceived. Not we, indeed ; no, no :
had the noise been merely created by fancy — '

' Hark ! hark ! ' interrupted Virginia, in a voice of terror.
' God preserve us ! there it is again.'

CHAPTER X 291

The nuns clasped their hands together, and sank upon
their knees. Lorenzo looked round him eagerly, and was
on the point of yielding to the fears which already had
possessed the women. Universal silence prevailed. He
examined the vault, but nothing was to be seen. He now
prepared to address the nuns, and ridicule their childish
apprehensions, when his attention was arrested by a deep
and long-drawn groan.

' What was that ? ' he cried, and started.

' There, Segnor ! ' said Helena ; ' now you must be
convinced. You have heard the noise yourself; now
judge whether our terrors are imaginary. Since we have
been here, that groaning has been repeated almost every
five minutes. Doubtless it proceeds from some soul in
pain, who wishes to be prayed out of purgatory : but none
of us dare ask it the question. As for me, were I to see an
apparition, the fright, I am very certain, would kill me out
of hand.'

As she said this, a second groan was heard yet more
distinctly. The nuns crossed themselves, and hastened to
repeat their prayers against evil spirits. Lorenzo listened
attentively. He even thought that he could distinguish
sounds, as of one speaking in complaint, but distance
rendered them inarticulate. The noise seemed to come
from the midst of the small vault in which he and the
nuns then were, and which a multitude of passages branch-
ing out in various directions formed into a sort of star.
Lorenzo's curiosity, which was ever awake, made him
anxious to solve this mystery. He desired that silence
might be kept. The nuns obeyed him. All was hushed,
till the general stillness was again disturbed by the groan-
ing, which was repeated several times successively. He
perceived it to be most audible, when, upon following the
sound, he was conducted close to the shrine of St. Clare.

' The noise comes from hence ', said he ; ' whose is this
statue ? '

Helena, to whom he addressed the question, paused for
a moment. Suddenly she clapped her hands together.
' Aye 1 ' cried she, ' it must be so. I have discovered the
meaning of these groans.'

The nuns crowded round her, and besought her eagerly,
to explain herself. She gravely replied, that for time
immemorial the statue had been famous for performing

292 THE MONK

miracles. From this she inferred, that the saint was
concerned at the conflagration of a convent which she
protected, and expressed her grief by audible lamentations.
Not having equal faith in the miraculous saint, Lorenzo
did not think this solution of the mystery quite so satisfac-
tory as the nuns, who subscribed to it without hesitation.
In one point, 'tis true, that he agreed with Helena. He
suspected that the groans proceeded from the statue : the
more he listened, the more was he confirmed in this idea.
He drew nearer to the image, designing to inspect it more
closely ; but perceiving his intention, the nuns besought
him for God's sake to desist, since, if he touched the statue,
his death was inevitable.

' And in what consists the danger ? ' said he.
' Mother of God, in what ? ' replied Helena, ever eager to
relate a miraculous adventure ; ' if you had only heard the
hundredth part of those marvellous stories . about this
statue, which the domina used to recount ! She assured us
often and often, that, if we only dared to lay a finger upon
it, we might expect the most fatal consequences. Among
other things, she told us that a robber having entered these
vaults by night, he observed yonder ruby, whose value is
inestimable. Do you see it, Segnor ? it sparkles upon the
third finger of the hand in which she holds a crown of
thorns. This jewel naturally excited the villain's cupidity :
he resolved to make himself master of it. For this purpose
he ascended the pedestal ; he supported himself by grasping
the saint's right arm, and extended his own towards the
ring. What was his surprise, when he saw the statue's
hand raised in a posture of menace, and heard her lips
pronounce his eternal perdition ! Penetrated with awe
and consternation, he desisted from his attempt, and
prepared to quit the sepulchre. In this he also failed.
Flight was denied him. He found it impossible to dis-
engage the hand which rested upon the right arm of the
statue. In vain did he struggle ; he remained fixed to
the image, till the insupportable and fiery anguish which
darted itself through his veins compelled his shrieking for
assistance. The sepulchre was now filled with spectators.
The villain confessed his sacrilege, and was only released
by the separation of his hand from his body. It has
remained ever since fastened to the image. The robber
turned hermit, and led ever after an exemplary life. But

CHAPTER X 293

yet the saint's decree was performed ; and tradition says,
that he continues to haunt this sepulchre, and implores St.
Clare's pardon with groans and lamentations. Now I think
of it, those which we have just heard may very possibly
have been uttered by the ghost of this sinner : but of this
I will not be positive. All that I can say is, that since
that time no one has ever dared to touch the statue. Then
do not be foolhardy, good Segnor ! For the love of Heaven
give up your design, nor expose yourself unnecessarily to
certain destruction ! '

Not being convinced that this destruction would be so
certain as Helena seemed to think it, Lorenzo persisted in
his resolution. The nuns besought him to desist, in piteous
terms, and even pointed out the robber's hand, which was
in effect still visible upon the arm of the statue. This
proof, as they imagined, must convince him. It was very
far from doing so ; and they were greatly scandalized,
when he declared his suspicion that the dried and
shrivelled fingers had been placed there by order of the
prioress. In spite of their prayers and threats, he
approached the statue. He sprang over the iron rails
which defended it, and the saint underwent a thorough
examination. The image at first appeared to be of stone,
but proved on further inspection to be formed of no more
solid materials than coloured wood. He shook it, and
attempted to move it ; but it appeared to be of a piece
with the base which it stood upon. He examined it over
and over ; still no clue guided him to the solution of this
mystery, for which the nuns were become equally solicitous,
when they saw that he touched the statue with impunity.
He paused, and listened : the groans were repeated at
intervals, and he was convinced of being in the spot
nearest to them. He mused upon this singular event, and
ran over the statue with inquiring eyes. Suddenly they
rested upon the shrivelled hand. It struck him, that so
particular an injunction was not given without cause,
not to touch the arm of the image. He again ascended
the pedestal ; he examined the object of his attention, and
discovered a small knob of iron concealed between the
saint's shoulder and what was supposed to have been the
hand of the robber. This observation delighted him. He
applied his fingers to the knob, and pressed it down forcibly.
Immediately a rumbling noise was heard within the statue,

294 THE MONK

as if a chain tightly stretched was flying back. Startled
at the sound, the timid nuns started away, prepared to
hasten from the vault at the first appearance of danger.
All remaining quiet and still, they again gathered round
Lorenzo, and beheld his proceedings with anxious curiosity.

Finding that nothing followed this discovery, he
descended. As he took his hand from the saint, she
trembled beneath his touch. This created new terrors in
the spectators, who believed the statue to be animated.
Lorenzo's ideas upon the subject were widely different.
He easily comprehended that the noise which he had
heard was occasioned by his having loosened a chain
which attached the image to its pedestal. He once more
attempted to move it, and succeeded without much
exertion. He placed it upon the ground, and then
perceived the pedestal to be hollow, and covered at the
opening with a heavy iron grate.

This excited such general curiosity, that the Sisters forgot
both their real and imaginary dangers. Lorenzo proceeded
to raise the grate, in which the nuns assisted him to the
utmost of their strength. The attempt was accomplished
with little difficulty. A deep abyss now presented itself
before them, whose thick obscurity the eye strove in vain
to pierce. The rays of the lamp were too feeble to be of
much assistance. Nothing was discernible, save a flight of
rough, unshapen steps, which sank into the yawning gulf,
and were soon lost in darkness. The groans were heard
no more ; but all believed them to have ascended from this
cavern. As he bent over it, Lorenzo fancied that he
distinguished something bright twinkling through the
gloom. He gazed attentively upon the spot where it
showed itself, and was convinced that he saw a small spark
of light, now visible, now disappearing. He communicated
this circumstance to the nuns : they also perceived the
spark ; but when he declared his intention to descend into
the cave, they united to oppose his resolution. All their
remonstrances could not prevail on him to alter it. None
of them had courage enough to accompany him ; neither
could he think of depriving them of the lamp. Alone,
therefore, and in darkness, he prepared to pursue his
design, while the nuns were contented to offer up prayers
for his success and safety.

The steps were so narrow and uneven, that to descend

CHAPTER X 295

them was like walking down the side of a precipice. The
obscurity by which he was surrounded rendered his footing
insecure. He was obliged to proceed with great caution,
lest he should miss the steps, and fall into the gulf below
him. This he was several times on the point of doing.
However, he arrived sooner upon solid ground than he had
expected. He now found that the thick darkness and
impenetrable mists which reigned through the cavern had
deceived him into the belief of its being much more pro-
found than it proved upon inspection. He reached the
foot of the stairs unhurt: he now stopped, and looked
round for the spark which had before caught his attention.
He sought in vain : all was dark and gloomy. He listened
for the groans; but his ear caught no sound except the
distant murmur of the nuns above, as in low voices they
repeated their Ave-Marias. He stood irresolute to which
side he should address his steps. At all events, he deter-
mined to proceed : he did so, but slowly, fearful lest,
instead of approaching, he should be retiring from the
object of his search. The groans seemed to announce one
in pain, or at least in sorrow, and he hoped to have the
power of relieving the mourner's calamities. A plaintive
tone, sounding at no great distance, at length reached his
hearing : he bent his course joyfully towards it. It became
more audible as he advanced; and he soon beheld again
the spark of light, which a low projecting wall had hitherto
concealed from him.

It proceeded from a small lamp which was placed on a
heap of stones, and whose faint and melancholy rays served
rather to point out than dispel the horrors of a narrow
gloomy dungeon, formed in one side of the cavern ; it also
showed several other recesses of similar construction,
but whose depth was buried in obscurity. Coldly played
the light upon the damp walls, whose dew-stained surface
gave back a feeble reflection. A thick and pestilential fog
clouded the height of the vaulted dungeon. As Lorenzo
advanced, he felt a piercing chillness spread itself through
his veins. The frequent groans still engaged him to move
forwards. He turned towards them, and by the lamp's
glimmering beams beheld, in a corner of this loathsome
abode, a creature stretched upon a bed of straw, so wretched,
so emaciated, so pale, that he doubted to think her woman,
She was half naked : her long dishevelled hair fell in dis-

296 THE MONK

order over her face, and almost entirely concealed it. One
wasted arm hung listlessly upon a tattered rug, which
covered her convulsed and shivering limhs : the other was
wrapped round a small bundle, and held it closely to her
bosom. A large rosary lay near her : opposite to her was
a crucifix, on which she bent her sunk eyes fixedly ; and by
her side stood a basket and a small earthen pitcher.

Lorenzo stopped ; he was petrified with horror. He
gazed upon the miserable object with disgust and pity.
He trembled at the spectacle ; he grew sick at heart : his
strength failed him, and his limbs were unable to support
his weight. He was obliged to lean against the low wall
which was near him, unable to go forward or to address
the sufferer. She cast her eyes towards the staircase ; the
wall concealed Lorenzo, and she observed him not.

' No one comes ! ' she at length murmured.

As she spoke, her voice was hollow, and rattled in her
throat ; she sighed bitterly.

' No one comes ! ' she repeated ; ' no, they have forgotten
me ! They will come no more ! '

She paused for a moment ; then continued mournfully :
' Two days ! Two long, long days, and yet no food !
And yet no hope, no comfort ! Foolish woman ! How
can I wish to lengthen a life so wretched ? Yet such a
death ! Oh God, to perish by such a death ! To linger
out such ages in torture ! Till now, I knew not what it
was to hunger ! Hark ! — No ! no one comes : they will
come no more ! '

She was silent. She shivered, and drew the rug over
her naked shoulders.

" I am very cold ; I am still unused to the damps of this
dungeon. 'Tis strange ! But no matter ; colder shall I
soon be, and yet not feel it. I shall be cold, cold as thou
art ! '

She looked at the bundle, which lay upon her breast.
She bent over it, and kissed it : then drew back hastily,
and shuddered with disgust.

' It was once so sweet ! It would have been so lovely,
so like him ! I have lost it for ever ! How a few days
have changed it ! I should not know it again myself.
Yet it is dear to me — God ! how dear ! I will forget
what it is — I will only remember what it was, and love
it as well as when it was so sweet ! so lovely ! so like

CHAPTER X 297

him !^ I thought that I had wept away all my tears, but
here is one still lingering.'

She wiped her eyes with a tress of her hair. She put
out her hand for the pitcher, and reached it with difficulty.
She cast into it a look of hopeless inquiry. She sighed,
and replaced it upon the ground.

' Quite a void ! Not a drop ! — not one drop left to
cool my scorched-up burning palate! Now would I give
treasures for a draught of water ! — And they are God's
servants who make me suffer thus ! They think themselves
holy, while they torture me like fiends ! They are cruel *
and unfeeling : and 'tis they who bid me repent ; and 'tis
they who threaten me with eternal perdition ! Saviour !
Saviour ! you think not so ! '

She again fixed her eyes upon the crucifix, took her
rosary, and, while she told her beads, the quick motion of
her lips declared her to be praying with fervency.

While he listened to her melancholy accents, Lorenzo's
sensibility became yet more violently affected. The first
sight of such misery had given a sensible shock to his
feelings; but that being past, he now advanced towards
the captive. She heard his steps, and uttering a cry of
ioy, dropped the rosary.

' Hark ! hark ! hark ! ' she cried ; ' someone comes ! '

She strove to raise herself, but her strength was unequal
to the attempt ; she fell back, and as she sank again upon
the bed of straw, Lorenzo heard the rattling of heavy
chains. He still approached, while the prisoner thus
continued : 'Is it you, Camilla ? You are come then at
last ! Oh, it was time ! I thought that you had forsaken
me ; that I was doomed to perish of hunger. Give me to
drink, Camilla, for pity's sake ! I am faint with long
fasting, and grown so weak that I cannot raise myself
from the ground. Good Camilla, give me to drink, lest I
expire before you.'

Fearing that surprise in her enfeebled state might be
fatal, Lorenzo was at a loss how to address her.

' It is not Camilla ', said he at length, speaking in a slow
and gentle voice.

' Who is it then ? ' replied the sufferer ; ' Alix, perhaps,
or Violante ? My eyes are grown so dim and feeble that I
cannot distinguish your features; but, whichever it is, if
your breast is sensible of the least compassion, if you are

298 THE MONK

not more cruel than wolves and tigers, take pity on my
sufferings. You know that I am dying for want of
sustenance. This is the third day since these lips have
received nourishment. Do you bring me food ? Or come
you only to announce my death, and learn how long I have
yet to exist in agony ? '

' You mistake my business ', replied Lorenzo ; ' I am no
emissary of the cruel prioress. I pity your sorrows, and
come hither to relieve them.'

' To relieve them ? ' repeated the captive ; ' said you to
relieve them ? '

At the same time starting from the ground, and support-
ing herself upon her hands, she gazed upon the stranger
earnestly.

■ ' Great God ! Is it no illusion ? A man ! Speak !
Who are you ? What brings you hither ? Come you to
save me, to restore me to liberty, to life and light ? Oh,
speak ! speak quickly, lest I encourage a hope whose
disappointment will destroy me ! '

' Be calm ! ' replied Lorenzo, in a voice soothing and
compassionate ; ' the domina, of whose cruelty you complain,
has already paid the forfeit of her offences ; you have
nothing more to fear from her. A few minutes will
restore you to liberty and the embraces of your friends,
from whom you have been secluded. You may rely upon
my protection. Give me your hand, and be not fearful.
Let me conduct you where you may receive those attentions
which your feeble state requires.'

' Oh ! yes, yes, yes ! ' cried the prisoner, with an exulting
shriek ; ' there is God, then, and a just one ! Joy ! joy ! I
shall once more breathe the fresh air, and view the light
of the glorious sunbeams ! I will go with you, stranger !
I will go with you ! Oh ! Heaven will bless you for pitying
an unfortunate ! But this, too, must go with me ', she
added, pointing to the small bundle, which she still clasped
to her bosom, ' I cannot part with this. I will bear it
away: it shall convince the world how dreadful are the
abodes so falsely termed religious. Good stranger, lend
me your hand to rise ; I am faint with want, and sorrow,
and sickness, and my strength has quite forsaken me ! So,
that is well ! '

As Lorenzo stooped to raise her, the beams of the lamp
struck full upon his face,

CHAPTER X 299

' Almighty God ! ' she exclaimed ; ' is it possible ? — That
look ! those features ! — Oh, yes ! it is, it is — '

She extended her arms to throw them round him, but
her enfeebled frame was unable to sustain the emotions
which agitated her bosom. She fainted, and again sank
upon the bed of straw.

Lorenzo was surprised at her last exclamation. He
thought that he had before heard such accents as her
hollow voice had just formed ; but where, he could not
remember. He saw, that in her dangerous situation
immediate physical aid was absolutely necessary, and he
hastened te convey her from the dungeon. He was at first
prevented from doing so by a strong chain fastened round
the prisoner's body, and fixing her to the neighbouring
wall. However, his natural strength being aided by
anxiety to relieve the unfortunate, he soon forced out the
staple to which one end of the chain was attached : then
taking the captive in his arms, he bent his course towards
the staircase. The rays of the lamp above, as well as the
murmur of female voices, guided his steps. He gained the
stairs, and in a few minutes after arrived at the iron
grate.

The nuns, during his absence, had been terribly tormented
by curiosity and apprehension. They were equally sur-
prised and delighted on seeing him suddenly emerge from
the cave. Every heart was filled with compassion for the
miserable creature whom he bore in his arms. While the
nuns, and Virginia in particular, employed themselves in
striving to recall her to her senses, Lorenzo related in few
words the manner of his finding her. He then observed to
them, that by this time the tumult must have been quelled,
and that he could now conduct them to their friends with-
out danger. All were eager to quit the sepulchre. Still,
to prevent all possibility of ill-usage, they besought
Lorenzo to venture out first alone, and examine whether
the coast was clear. With this request he complied.
Helena offered to conduct him to the staircase ; and they
were on the point of departing, when a strong light flashed
from several passages upon the adjacent walls. At the
same time, steps were heard of people approaching hastily, }
and whose number seemed to be considerable. The nuns *
were greatly alarmed at this circumstance ; they supposed
their retreat to be discovered, and the rioters to be

300 THE MONK

advancing in pursuit of them. Hastily quitting the
prisoner, who remained insensible, they crowded round
Lorenzo, and claimed his promise to protect them.
Virginia alone forgot her own danger by striving to
relieve the sorrows of another. She supported the
sufferer's head upon her knees, bathing her temples with
rose-water, chafing hef cold hands, and sprinkling her face
with tears which were drawn from her by compassion.
The strangers approaching nearer, Lorenzo was enabled
to dispel the fears of the suppliants. His name, pro-
nounced by a number of voices, among which he
distinguished the duke's, pealed along the vaults, and
convinced him that he was the object of their search.
He communicated this intelligence to the nuns, who
received it with rapture. A few moments after confirmed
his idea. Don Ramirez as well as the duke appeared,
followed by attendants with torches. They had been
seeking him through the vaults, in order to let him know
that the mob was dispersed, and the riot entirely over.
Lorenzo recounted briefly his adventure in the cavern, and
explained how much the unknown was in want of medical
assistance. He besought the duke to take charge of her,
as well as of the nuns and pensioners.

'As for me', said he, 'other cares demand my attention.
While you with one half of the archers convey these ladies
to their respective homes, I wish the other half to be left
with me. I will examine the cavern below, and pervade
the most secret recesses of the sepulchre. I cannot rest
till convinced that yonder wretched victim was the only
one confined by superstition in these vaults.'

The duke applauded his intention. Don Ramirez offered
to assist him in his inquiry, and his proposal was accepted
with gratitude. The nuns having made their acknow-
ledgments to Lorenzo, committed themselves to the care
of his uncle, and were conducted from the sepulchre.
Virginia requested that the unknown might be given to
her in charge, and promised to let Lorenzo know, whenever
she was sufficiently recovered to accept his visits. In truth,
she made this promise more from consideration for herself,
than for either Lorenzo or the captive. She had witnessed
his politeness, gentleness, and intrepidity, with sensible
emotion. She wished earnestly to preserve his acquaint-
ance ; and in addition to the sentiments of pity which the

CHAPTER X 301

prisoner excited, she hoped that her attention to this
unfortunate would raise her a degree in the esteem of
Lorenzo. She had no occasion to trouble herself upon this
head. The kindness already displayed by her, and the
tender concern which she had shown for the sufferer, had
gained her an exalted place in his good graces. While
occupied in alleviating the captive's sorrows, the nature
of her employment adorned her with new charms, and
rendered her beauty a thousand times more interesting.
Lorenzo viewed her with admiration and delight : he con-
sidered her as a ministering angel descended to the aid of
afflicted innocence ; nor could his heart have resisted her
attractions, had it not been steeled by the remembrance of
Antonia.

The duke now conveyed the nuns in safety to the
dwellings of their respective friends. The rescued prisoner
was still insensible, and gave no signs of life, except by
occasional groans. She was borne upon a sort of litter.
Virginia, who was constantly by the side of it, was appre-
hensive that, exhausted by long abstinence, and shaken by
the sudden change from bonds and darkness to liberty and
light, her frame would never get the better of the shock.
Lorenzo and Don Ramirez still remained in the sepulchre.
After deliberating upon their proceedings, it was resolved
that, to prevent losing time, the archers should be divided
into two bodies : that with one, Don Ramirez should
examine the cavern, while Lorenzo, with the other, might
penetrate into the further vaults. This being arranged,
and his followers being provided with torches, Don Ramirez
advanced to the cavern. He had already descended some
steps, when he heard people approaching hastily from the
interior part of the sepulchre. This surprised him, and he
quitted the cave precipitately.

' Do you hear footsteps ? ' said Lorenzo. ' Let us bend
our course towards them. 'Tis from this side that they
seem to proceed.'

At that moment a loud and piercing shriek induced him
to quicken his steps.

' Help ! help ! for God's sake ! ' cried a voice, whose
melodious tone penetrated Lorenzo's heart with terror.

He flew towards the cry with the rapidity of lightning,
and was followed by Ramirez with equal swiftness.

CHAPTER XI

Great Heaven ! how frail thy creature man is made !

How by himself insensibly betrayed !

In our own strength unhappily secure,

Too little cautious of the adverse power,

On pleasure's flowery brink we idly stray,

Masters as yet of our returning~way :

Till the strong gusts of raging passion rise,

Till the dire tempest mingles earth and skies,

And, swift into the boundless ocean borne,

Our foolish confidence too late we mourn !

Round our devoted heads the billows beat,

And from our troubled view the lessening lands retreat.

— Pbiok

All this while Ambrosio was unconscious of the dreadful
scenes which were passing so near. The execution of his
designs upon Antonia employed his every thought.
Hitherto he was satisfied with the success of his plans.
Antonia had drank the opiate, was buried in the vaults of
St. Clare, and absolutely in his disposal. Matilda, who was
well acquainted with the nature and effects of the soporific
medicine, had computed that it would not cease to operate
till one in the morning. For that hour he waited with
impatience. The festival of St. Clare presented him with a
favourable opportunity of consummating his crime. He
was certain that the friars and nuns would be engaged in
the procession, and that he had no cause to dread an inter-
ruption : from appearing himself at the head of the monks,
he had desired to be excused. He doubted not, that, being
beyond the reach of help, cut off from all the world, and
totally in his power, Antonia would comply with his
desires. The affection which she had ever expressed for
him warranted this persuasion : but he resolved, that should
she prove obstinate, no consideration whatever should pre-
vent him from enjoying her. Secure from a discovery, he
shuddered not at the idea of employing force ; or, if he felt
any repugnance, it arose not from a principle of shame or
compassion, but from his feeling for Antonia the most

302

CHAPTER XI 303

sincere and ardent affection, and wishing to owe her favours
to no one but herself.

The monks quitted the abbey at midnight. Matilda was
among the choristers, and led the chant. Ambrosio was
left by himself, and at liberty to pursue his own inclina-
tions. Convinced that no one remained behind to watch
his motions, or disturb his pleasures, he now hastened to
the western aisles. His heart beating with hope not un-
mingled with anxiety, he crossed the garden, unlocked the
door which admitted him into the cemetery, and in a few
minutes he stood before the vaults. Here he paused : he
looked round him with suspicion, conscious that his business
was unfit for any other eye. As he stood in hesitation, he
heard the melancholy shriek of the screech-owl : the wind <
rattled loudly against the windows of the adjacent convent, i
and, as the current swept by him, bore with it the faint
notes of the chant of choristers. He opened the door
cautiously, as if fearing to be overheard : he entered, and
closed it again after him. Guided by his lamp, he threaded
the long passages, in whose windings Matilda had instructed
him, and reached the private vault which contained his
sleeping mistress.

Its entrance was by no means easy to discover ; but this
was no obstacle to Ambrosio, who at the time of Antonia's
funeral had observed it too carefully to be deceived. He
found the door, which was unfastened, pushed it open, and
descended into the dungeon. He approached the humble
tomb in which Antonia reposed. He had provided himself
with an iron crow and a pick-axe ; but this precaution was
unnecessary. The grate was slightly fastened on the out-
side : he raised it, and, placing the lamp upon its ridge,
bent silently over the tomb. By the side of three putrid i
half-corrupted bodies lay the sleeping beauty. A lively
red, the forerunner of returning animation, had already
spread itself over her cheeks; and, as wrapped in her
shroud she reclined upon her funeral bier, she seemed to
smile at the images of death around her. While he gazed
upon their rotting bones and disgusting figures, who perhaps
were once as sweet and lovely, Ambrosio thought upon
Elvira, by him reduced to the same state. As the memory
of that horrid act glanced upon his mind, it was clouded
with a gloomy horror ; yet it served but to strengthen his
resolution to destroy Antonia's honour.

304 THE MONK

' For your sake, fatal beauty ', murmured the monk, while
gazing on his devoted prey, 'for your sake have I com-
mitted this murder and soLi myself to eternal tortures.
Now you are jn my poweif the produce of my guilt will
at least be mineS Hope not that your prayers breathed in
tones of unequalled melody, your bright eyes filled with
tears, and your hands lifted in supplication, as when seek-
ing in penitence the Virgin's pardon — hope not that your
moving innocence, your beauteous grief, or all your suppliant
arts, shall ransom you from my embraces. Before the
break of day, mine you must, and mine you shall be ! '

He lifted her, still motionless, from the tomb : he seated
himself upon a bank of stone, and, supporting her in his
arms, watched impatiently for the symptoms of returning
animation. Scarcely could he command his passion suffici-
ently to restrain himself from enjoying her while yet
insensible. His natural lust was increased in ardour by
the difficulties which had opposed his satisfying it, as also
by his long abstinence from woman; since, from the
moment of resigning her claim to his love, Matilda had
exiled him from her arms for ever.

' I am no prostitute, Ambrosio ', had she told him, when,
in the fulness of his lust, he-demanded her favours with
more than usual earnestness ; \J am now no more than your
friend, and will not be your mistress) Cease then to solicit
my complying with desires which insult me. While your
heart was mine, I gloried in your embraces. Those happy
times are past; my person is become indifferent to you,
and 'tis necessity, not love, which makes you seek my
enjoyment. I cannot yield to a request so humiliating to
my pride.'

Suddenly deprived of pleasures, the use of which had
made them an absolute want, the monk felt this restraint
severely. Naturally addicted to the gratification of the
senses, in the full vigour of manhood and heat of blood,
he had suffered his temperament to acquire such ascendancy
thafhis lust was become madness."} Of his fondness for
AntWa none but the grosser particles remained ; he longed
for the possession of her person ; and even the gloom of
the vault, the surrounding silence, and the resistance which
he expected from her, seemed to give a fresh edge to his
fierce and unbridled desires.

Gradually he felt the bosom, which rested against his,

CHAPTER XI 305

glow with returning warmth. Her heart throbbed again,
her blood flowed swifter, and her lips moved. At length
she opened her eyes; but, still oppressed and bewildered
by the effects of the strong opiate, she closed them again
immediately. Ambrosio watched her narrowly, nor per-
mitted a movement to escape him. Perceiving that she
was fully restored to existence, he caught her in rapture
to his bosom, and closely pressed his lips to hers. The
suddenness of his action sufficed to dissipate the fumes
which obscured Antonia's reason. She hastily raised
herself, and cast a wild look round her. The strange
images which presented themselves on every side con-
tributed to confuse her. She put her hand to her head,
as if to settle her disordered imagination. At length she
took it away, and threw her eyes through the dungeon a
second time : they fixed on the abbot's face.

' Where am I ? ' she said abruptly. * How came I here ?
Where is my mother ? Methought I saw her ! Oh ! a
dream, a dreadful dream told me — But where am I ?
Let me go ! I cannot stay here ! '

She attempted to rise, but the monk prevented her.

1 Be calm, lovely Antonia ! ' he replied ; ' no danger is
near you ; confide in my protection. Why do you gaze on
me so earnestly ? Do you not know me ? Not know your
friend, Ambrosio ? '

' Ambrosio ! my friend ! — Oh ! yes, yes, I remember —
But why am I here ? Who has brought me ? Why are
you with me ? — Oh ! Flora bade me beware ! — Here~&i?e—
nothing but graves, and tombs, and skeletons ! This place
frightens me ! Good Ambrosio, take me away from it, for
it recalls my fearful dream ! Methought I was dead, and
laid in my grave ! Good Ambrosio, take me from hence !
— Will you not ? Oh ! will you not ? — Do not look on me
thus ! — Your flaming eyes terrify me ? — Spare me, father !
Oh ! spare me, for God's sake ! '

' Why these terrors, Antonia?' rejoined the abbot, folding
her in his arms, and covered her bosom with kisses which
she in vain struggled to avoid. ' What fear you from me
— from one who adores you ? What matters it where you
are ? This sepulchre seems to me love's bower. This
gloom is the friendly night of mystery, which he spreads
over our delights ! Such do I think it, and such must my
Antonia. Yes, my sweet girl, yes ! Your veins shall glow

u

306 THE MONK

with the fire which circles in mine, and my transports
shall be doubled by your sharing them ! '

While he spoke thus, he repeated his embraces, and
permitted himself the most indecent liberties. Even
Antonia's ignorance was not proof against the freedom of
his behaviour. She was sensible of her danger, forced
herself from his arms, and, her shroud being her only
garment, she wrapped it closely round her.

' Unhand me, father ! ' she cried, her honest indignation
tempered by alarm at her unprotected position. ' Why
have you brought me to this place? Its appearance
freezes me with horror ! Convey me from hence, if you
have the least sense of pity and humanity ! Let me return
to the house, which I have quitted I know not how ; but
stay here one moment longer, I neither will nor ought.'

Though the monk was somewhat startled by the resolute
tone in which this speech was delivered, it produced upon
him no other effect than surprise.. He caught her hand,
forced her upon his knee ; and, gazing upon her with
gloating eyes, he thus replied to her :

'Compose yourself, Antonia. Resistance is unavailing,
and I need disavow my passion for you no longer. You
are imagined dead ; society is for ever lost to you. I
possess you here alone ; you are absolutely in my power,
and I burn with desires which I must either gratify or
die ; but I would owe my happiness to yourself. My
lovely girl ! My adorable Antonia ! let me instruct you
_ ie4°y s *o which you are still a stranger, and teach you to
feel those pleasures in my arms which I must soon enjoy
in yours. Nay, this struggling is childish ', he continued,
seeing her repel his caresses, and endeavour to escape from
his grasp ; ' no aid is near ; neither heaven nor earth shall
save you from my embraces. Yet why reject pleasures so
sweet, so rapturous ? No one observes us : our commerce
will be a secret to all the world. Love and opportunity
invite your giving loose to your passions. Yield to them,
my Antonia ! Yield to them, my lovely girl ! Throw
your arms thus fondly round me ; join your lips thus
closely to mine ! Amidst all her gifts has Nature denied
her most precious, the sensibility of pleasure ? Oh,
impossible ! Every feature, look, and motion, declares you
formed to bless, and to be blessed yourself ! Turn not on
me those supplicating eyes; consult your own charms;

CHAPTER XI 307

they will tell you that I am proof against entreaty.
Can I relinquish these limbs so white, so soft, so
delicate ! — these swelling breasts, round, full, and elastic !
— these lips fraught with such inexhaustible sweetness ?
Can I relinquish these treasures, and leave them to
another's enjoyment ? No, Antonia ! — never, never ! I
swear it by this kiss ! — and this ! — and this ! '

"With every moment the friar's passion became more
ardent, and Antonia's terror more intense. She struggled
to disengage herself from his arms. Her exertions were
unsuccessful ; and, finding that Ambrosio's conduct became
still freer, she shrieked for assistance with all her strength.
The aspect of the vault, the pale glimmering of the lamp,
the surrounding obscurity, the sight of the tomb, and the
objects of mortality which met her eyes on either side, /
were ill calculated to inspire her with those emotions by
which the friar was agitated. Even his caresses terrified
her from their fury, and created no other sentiment than
fear. On the contrary, her alarm, her evident disgust, and
incessant opposition, seemed only to inflame the monk's
desires, and supply his brutality with additional strength.
Antonia's shrieks were unheard ; yet she continued them,
nor abandoned her endeavours to escape till, exhausted
and out of breath, she sank from his arms upon her knees,
and once more had recourse to prayers and supplications.
This attempt had no better success than the former. On
the contrary, taking advantage of her situation, the
ravisher threw himself by her side. He clasped her to
his bosom almost lifeless with terror and faint with
struggling. He stifled her cries with kisses, treated her
with the rudeness of an unprincipled barbarian, proceeded
from freedom to freedom, and, in the violence of his lustful
delirium, wounded and bruised her tender limbs. Heedless
of her tears, cries, and entreaties, he gradually made
himself master of her person, and desisted not from his
prey till he had accomplished his crime and the dishonour^/
of Antonia.

Scarcely had he succeeded in his design than he
shuddered at himself and the means by which it was
effected. The very excess of his former eagerness to possess
Antonia now contributed to inspire him with disgust ; and \
a secret impulse made him feel how base and unmanly was
the crime which he had just committed. He started

308 THE MONK

hastily from her arms. She, who so lately had been the
object of his adoration, now raised no other sentiment in
his heart than aversion and rage. He turned away from
her ; or, if his eyes rested upon her figure involuntarily, it
was only to dart upon her looks of hate. The unfortunate
had fainted ere the completion of her disgrace: she only
recovered life to be sensible of her misfortune. She
remained stretched upon the earth in silent despair ; the
tears chased each other slowly down her cheeks, and her
bosom heaved with frequent sobs. Oppressed with grief,
she continued for some time in this state of torpidity. At
length she rose with difficulty, and, dragging her feeble
steps towards the door, prepared to quit the dungeon.

The sound of her footsteps roused the monk from his
sullen apathy. Starting from the tomb against which he
reclined, while his eyes wandered over the images of cor-
ruption contained in it, he pursued the victim of his
brutality, and soon overtook her. He seized her by the
arm, and violently forced her back into the dungeon.

' Whither go ye ? ' he cried, in a a stern voice ; ' return
this instant ! '

Antonia trembled at the fury of his countenance.

' What would you more ? ' she said, with timidity ; ' is not
my ruin completed ? Am I not undone, undone for ever !
Is not your cruelty contented, or have I yet more to suffer ?
Let me depart: let me return to my home, and weep
unrestrained my shame and my affliction ! '

' Return to your home ! ' repeated the monk, with bitter
and contemptuous mockery ; then suddenly his eyes flashing
with passion : ' What ! That you may denounce me to the
world — that you may proclaim me a hypocrite, a ravisher,
a betrayer, a monster of cruelty, lust, and ingratitude?
No, no, no ! I know well the whole weight of my offences
— well, that your complaints would be too just, and my
crimes too notorious ! You shall not from hence to tell
Madrid that I am a villain ; that my conscience is loaded
with sins, which make me despair of Heaven's pardon.
Wretched girl ! you must stay here with me — here, amidst
these lonely tombs, these images of death, these rotting,
loathsome, corrupted bodies! Here shall you stay and
witness my sufferings — witness what it is to feel the
horrors of despondency, and breathe the last groan in
blasphemy and curses ! — And whom am I to thank for

CHAPTER XI 309

this ? What seduced me into crimes, whose bare remem-
brance makes me shudder ? Fatal witch ! — was it not thy
beauty ? Have you not plunged my soul in shame ? Have
you not made me a perjured hypocrite, aravisher.an assassin !
Nay, a,t this moment, does not that angel look bid me
despair of God's forgiveness ? Oh ! when I stand before
his judgment-throne, that look will suffice to damn me !
You will tell my Judge that you were happy, till I saw
you; that you were innocent till I polluted you! You
will come with those tearful eyes, those cheeks pale and
ghastly, those hands lifted in supplication, as when you
sought from me that mercy which I gave not ! Then will
my perdition be certain ! Then will come your mother's
ghost, and will hurl me down into the dwellings of fiends,
and flames, and furies, and everlasting torments ! And
'tis you who will accuse me ! 'tis you who will cause my
eternal anguish ! — you, wretched girl ! you ! you ! '

As he thundered out these words, he violently grasped
Antonia's arm, and spurned the earth with delirious fury.

Supposing his brain to be turned, Antonia sank in terror
upon her knees ; she lifted up her hands, and her voice
almost died away ere she could give it utterance.

' Spare me ! spare me ! ' she murmured, with difficulty.

' Silence ! ' cried the friar madly, and dashed her upon
the ground.

He quitted her, and paced the dungeon with a wild and
disordered air. His eyes rolled fearfully : Antonia trem-
bled whenever she met their gaze. He seemed to meditate
on something horrible, and she gave up all hopes of escaping
from the sepulchre with life. Yet in harbouring this idea
she did him injustice. Amidst the horror and disgust to
which his soul was a prey, pity for his victim still held a
place in it. The storm of passion once over, he would have
given worlds, had he possessed them, to have restored to
her that innocence of which his unbridled lust had deprived
her. Of the desires which had urged him to the crime, no
trace was left in his bosom. The wealth of India would
not have tempted him to a second enjoyment of her person.
His nature seemed to revolt at the very idea, and fain
would he have wiped from his memory the scene which
had just passed. As his gloomy rage abated, in proportion
did his compassion augment for Antonia. He stopped, and
would have spoken to her words of comfort ; but he knew

310 THE MONK

not from whence to draw them, and remained gazing upon
her with mournful wildness. Her situation seemed so
hopeless, so woe-begone, as to baffle mortal power to
relieve her. What could he do for her ? Her peace of
mind was lost, her honour irreparably ruined. She was
cut off for ever from society, nor dared he give her back to
it. He was conscious that, were she to appear in the world
again, his guilt would be revealed, and his punishment
inevitable. To one so laden with crimes death came armed
with double terrors. Yet, should he restore Antonia to
light and stand the chance of her betraying him, how
miserable a prospect would present itself before her ! She
could never hope to be creditably established ; she would
be marked with infamy, and condemned to sorrow and
solitude for the remainder of her existence. What was the
alternative ? A resolution far more terrible for Antonia,
but which at least would insure the abbot's safety. He
determined to leave the world persuaded of her death, and
to retain her a captive in this gloomy prison. There he
proposed to visit her every night, to bring her food, to
/ profess his penitence, and mingle his tears with hers. The
monk felt that this resolution was unjust and cruel ; but it
was his only means to prevent Antonia from publishing
his guilt and her own infamy. Should he release her, he
could not depend upon her silence. His offence was too
flagrant to permit his hoping for her forgiveness. Besides,
her reappearing would excite universal curiosity, and the
violence of her affliction would prevent her from concealing
its cause: he determined, therefore, that Antonia should
remain a prisoner in the dungeon.

He approached her with confusion painted on his
countenance. He raised her from the ground — her hand
trembled as he took it, and he dropped it again as if he
had touched a serpent. Nature seemed to recoil at the
touch. He felt himself at once repulsed from and attracted
towards her, yet could account for neither sentiment.
There was something in her look which penetrated him
with horror ; and though his understanding was still
ignorant of it, conscience pointed out to him the whole
extent of his crime. In hurried accents, yet the gentlest
he could find, while his eye was averted, and his voice
\ scarcely audible, he strove to console her under a misfortune
which now could not be avoided. He declared himself

CHAPTER XI 311

sincerely penitent, and that he would gladly shed a drop
of his blood for every tear which his barbarity had forced
from her. Wretched and hopeless, Antonia listened to him
in silent grief ; but when he announced her confinement in
the sepulchre, that dreadful doom, to which even death
seemed preferable, roused her from her insensibility at
once. To linger out a life of misery in a narrow, loathsome
cell, known to exist by no human being save her ravisher,
surrounded by mouldering corpses, breathing the pestilential
air of corruption, never more to behold the light, or drink
the pure gale of heaven — the idea was more terrible than
she could support ; it conquered even her abhorrence of
the friar. Again she sank upon her knees ; she besought
his compassion in terms the most pathetic and urgent:
she promised, would he but restore her to liberty, to
conceal her injuries from the world ; to assign any reasons
for her reappearance which he might judge proper ; and in
order to prevent the least suspicion from falling upon him,
she offered to quit Madrid immediately. Her entreaties
were so urgent as to make a considerable impression upon
the monk. He reflected, that as her person no longer
excited his desires, he had no interest in keeping her con-
cealed as he had at first intended ; that he was adding a
fresh injury to those which she had already suffered ; and
that, if she adhered to her promises, whether she was
confined or at liberty, his life and reputation were equally
secure. On the other hand, he trembled lest, in her
affliction, Antonia should unintentionally break her engage-
ment, or that her excessive simplicity and ignorance of
deceit should permit someone more artful to surprise her
secret. However well-founded were these apprehensions,
compassion, and a sincere wish to repair his fault as much
as possible, solicited his complying with the prayers of his
suppliant. The difficulty of colouring Antonia's unexpected
return to life, after her supposed death and public interment,
was the only point which kept him irresolute. He was
still pondering on the means of removing this obstacle,
when he heard the sound of feet approaching with precipi-
tation. The door of the vault was thrown open, and
Matilda rushed in, evidently much confused and terrified.
On seeing a stranger enter, Antonia uttered a cry of joy;
but her hopes of receiving succour from him were soon
dissipated. The supposed novice, without expressing the

312 THE MONK

least surprise at finding a woman alone with the monk, in
so strange a place, and at so late an hour, addressed him
thus, without losing a moment :

' What is to be done, Ambrosio ? We are lost, unless
some speedy means is found of dispelling the rioters.
Ambrosio, the convent of St. Clare is on fire ; the prioress
has fallen a victim to the fury of the mob. Already is the
abbey menaced with a similar fate. Alarmed at the threats
of the people, the monks seek for you everywhere. They
imagine that your authority alone will suffice to calm this
disturbance. No one knows what is become of you, and
■ your absence creates universal astonishment and despair.
I profited by the confusion, and fled hither to warn you of
the danger.'

' This will soon be remedied ', answered the abbot ; ' I
will hasten back to my cell : a trivial reason will account
*" for my having been missed.'

' Impossible ! ' rejoined Matilda : ' the sepulchre is filled
, with archers. Lorenzo de Medina, with several officers of
the Inquisition, searches through the vaults, and pervades
every passage. You will be intercepted in your flight ;
your reasons for being at this late hour in the sepulchre
will be examined ; Antonia will be found, and then you
are undone for ever ! '

' Lorenzo de Medina ! — officers of the Inquisition ! What
brings them here ? Seek they for me ? — Am I then
suspected ? — oh ! speak, Matilda ! answer me in pity ! '

' As yet they do not think of you ; but I fear that they
will ere long. Your only chance of escaping their notice
rests upon the difficulty of exploring this vault. The door
is artfully hidden ; haply it may not be observed, and we
may remain concealed till the search is over.'

' But Antonia — should the inquisitors draw near, and her
cries be heard — '

" Thus I remove that danger ! ' interrupted Matilda.

At the same time drawing a poniard, she rushed upon
her devoted prey.

' Hold ! hold ! ' cried Ambrosio, seizing her hand, and
wresting from it the already lifted weapon. ' What would
you do, cruel woman ? The unfortunate has already
suffered but too much, thanks to your pernicious counsels !
Would to God that I had never followed them ! Would to
God that I had never seen your face ! '

CHAPTER XI 313

Matilda darted upon him a look of scorn. ' Absurd ! '
she exclaimed, with an air of passion and majesty, which
impressed the monk with awe. ' After robbing her of all
that made it dear, can you fear to deprive her of a life so
miserable ? But 'tis well ! Let her live to convince you
of your folly. I abandon you to your evil destiny ! I
disclaim your alliance ! Who trembles to commit so
insignificant a crime deserves not my protection. Hark !
hark, Ambrosio ! hear you not the archers ? They come,
and your destruction is inevitable ! '

At this moment the abbot heard the sound of distant
voices. He flew to close the door, on whose concealment
his safety depended, and which Matilda had neglected to
fasten. Ere he could reach it, he saw Antonia glide
suddenly by him, rush through the door, and fly towards* '
the noise with the swiftness of an arrow. She had listened
attentively to Matilda: she heard Lorenzo's name mentioned,
and resolved to risk everything to throw herself under his
protection. The door was open. The sounds convinced
her that the archers could be at no great distance. She
mustered up her little remaining strength, rushed by the
monk ere he perceived her design, and bent her course
rapidly towards the voices. As soon as he recovered from
his first surprise, the abbot failed not to pursue her. In
vain did Antonia redouble her speed, and stretch every
nerve to the utmost. Her enemy gained upon her every
moment : she heard his steps close after her, and felt the
heat of his breath glow upon her neck. He overtook her
— he twisted his hands in the ringlets of her streaming
hair, and attempted to drag her back with him to the
dungeon. Antonia resisted with all her strength. She
folded her arms round a pillar which supported the roof,
and shrieked loudly for assistance. In vain did the monk
strive to threaten her to silence.

' Help ! ' she continued to exclaim ; ' help ! help, for
God's sake ! '

Quickened by her cries, the sound of footsteps was heard
approaching. The abbot expected every moment to see
the inquisitors arrive. Antonia still resisted, and he now
enforced her silence by means the most horrible and in-
human. He still grasped Matilda's dagger ; without ,
allowing himself a moment's reflection, he raised it, and 1
plunged it twice in the bosom of Antonia. She shrieked,

314 THE MONK

and sank upon the ground. The monk endeavoured to
bear her away with him, but she still embraced the pillar
firmly. At that instant the light of approaching torches
flashed upon the walls. Dreading a discovery, Ambrosio
was compelled to abandon his victim, and hastily fled back
to the vault, where he had left Matilda.

He fled not unobserved. Don Ramirez happening to
arrive the first, perceived a female bleeding upon the
ground, and a man flying from the spot, whose confusion
betrayed him for the murderer. He instantly pursued the
fugitive, with some part of the archers, while the others
remained with Lorenzo, to protect the wounded stranger.
They raised her, and supported her in their arms. She
had fainted from excess of pain, but soon gave signs of
returning life. She opened her eyes ; and on lifting up
her head, the quantity of fair hair fell back, which till
then had obscured her features.

' God Almighty, it is Antonia ! '

Such was Lorenzo's exclamation, while he snatched her
from the attendant's arms, and clasped her in his own.

Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poniard had
answered but too well the purpose of its employer. The
wounds were mortal, and Antonia was conscious that she
never could recover. Yet the few moments which remained
for her were moments of happiness. The concern ex-
pressed upon Lorenzo's countenance, the frantic fondness
of his complaints, and his earnest inquiries respecting her
wounds, convinced her beyond a doubt that his affections
were her own. She would not be removed from the vaults,
fearing lest motion should only hasten her death : and she
was unwilling to lose those moments which she passed in
receiving proofs of Lorenzo's love, and assuring him of her
own. She told him that, had she still been undefiled, she
might have lamented the loss of life ; but that, deprived
of honour, and branded with shame, death was to her a
blessing : she could not have been his wife ; and that hope
being denied her, she resigned herself to the grave, without
one sigh of regret. She bade him take courage, conjured
him not to abandon himself to fruitless sorrow, and de-
clared that she mourned to leave nothing in the whole
world but him. While every sweet accent increased
rather than lightened Lorenzo's grief, she continued to
converse with him till the moment of dissolution. Her

CHAPTER XI 315

voice grew faint, and scarcely audible ; a thick cloud
spread itself over her eyes — her heart beat slow and
irregular, and every instant seemed to announce that
her fate was near at hand.

She lay, her head reclining upon Lorenzo's bosom, and
her lips still murmuring to him words of comfort. She
was interrupted by the convent bell, as, tolling at a distance,
it struck the hour. Suddenly Antonia's eyes sparkled with
celestial brightness — her frame seemed to have received
new strength and animation. „ She started from her lover's
arms. 'pViiTYMmvisfe-rw, iWCLo /"V^M" t

' Three o'clock ! ' she cried. ' Mothe r, I c ome f '

Sue clasped her hands, and sank lileless upon the ground.
Lorenzo, in agony, threw himself beside her. He tore his
hair, beat his breast, and refused to be separated from the
corpse. At length, his force being exhausted, he suffered
himself to be led from the vault, and was conveyed to the
Palace de Medina, scarcely more alive than the unfortunate
Antonia.

In the meanwhile, though closely pursued, Ambrosio
succeeded in regaining the vault. The door was already
fastened when Don Ramirez arrived, and much time elapsed
ere the fugitive's retreat was discovered. But nothing can
resist perseverance. Though so artfully concealed, the
door could not escape the vigilance of the archers. They
forced it open, and entered the vault, to the infinite dis-
may of Ambrosio and his companion. The monk's confusion,
his attempt to hide himselfjhisja^aiflight, and the blood
sprinkled upon his cloth^sTleft no r oomT»i 4 ft ubt his being
Antonia's murderer, /cut when he was recognr&^d for the
immaculate Ambrose, ' the man of holiness' , the\ idol of
Madrid, the facultiesW the spectators were champa up in
surprise, and scarcely cauldthey persuadeJhjOHlJielves that
what they saw was no visToli. ' ■Th^aBbot strove not to
vindicate himself, but preserved a sullen silence. He was
secured and bound. The same precaution was taken with
Matilda. Her cowl being removed, the delicacy of her
features and profusion of her golden hair betrayed her sex ;
and this incident created fresh amazement. The dagger
was also found in the tomb, where the monk had thrown
it ; and the dungeon having undergone a thorough search,
the two culprits were conveyed to the prisons of the
Inquisition.

316 THE MONK

Don Ramirez took care that the populace should remain
ignorant both of the crimes and profession of the captives.
He feared a repetition of the riots, which had followed the
apprehending the prioress of St. Clare. He contented him-
self with stating to the Capuchins the guilt of their superior.
To avoid the shame of a public accusation, and dreading a
popular fury, from which they had already saved their
abbey with much difficulty, the monks readily permitted
the inquisitors to search their mansion without noise. No
fresh discoveries were made. The effects found in the
abbot's and Matilda's cells were seized, and carried to the
Inquisition, to be produced in evidence. Everything else
remained in its former position, and order and tranquillity
once more prevailed through Madrid.

St. Clare's convent was completely ruined by the united
ravages of the mob and conflagration. Nothing remained
of it but the principal walls, whose thickness and solidity
had preserved them from the flames. The nuns who had
belonged to it were obliged, in consequence, to disperse
themselves into other societies : but the prejudice against
them ran high, and the superiors were very unwilling to
to admit them. However, most of them being related to
families the most distinguished for their riches, birth, and
power, the several convents were compelled to receive them,
though they did it with a very ill grace. This prejudice
was extremely false and unjustifiable. After a close in-
vestigation, it was proved that all in the convent were
persuaded of the death of Agnes, except the four nuns,
whom St. Ursula had pointed out. These had fallen
victims to the popular fury, as had also several who were
perfectly innocent and unconscious of the whole affair
Blinded by resentment, the mob had sacrificed every nun
who fell into their hands ; they who escaped were entirely
indebted to the Duke de Medina's prudence and moderation.
Of this they were conscious, and felt for that nobleman a
ise of gratitude.

VirginiaVas not the most sparing of her thanks ; she
" led eqj ^flly to make a proper return for his attentions,
and to obtain the good graces of Lorenzo's uncle. In this
she easily succeeded. The duke beheld her beauty with
wonder and admiration ; and while his eyes were enchanted
with her form, the sweetness of her manners, and her
tender concern for the suffering nun, prepossessed his heart

CHAPTER XI 317

in tier favour. This Virginia had discernment enough to per-
ceive, and she redoubled her attention to the invalid.
When he parted from her at the door of her father's palace,
the duke entreated permission to inquire occasionally after
her health. His request was readily granted; Virginia
assured him that the Marquis de Villa Franca would be
proud of an opportunity to thank him in person for the
protection afforded to her. They now separated — he en-
chanted with her beauty and gentleness, and she much
pleased with him, and more with his nephew.

On entering the palace, Virginia's first care was to
summon the family physician, and take care of her unknown
charge. Her mother hastened to share with her the
charitable office. Alarmed by the riots, and trembling for
his daughter's safety, who was his only child, the Marquis
had flown to St. Clare's convent, and was still employed
in seeking her. Messengers were now despatched on all
sides, to inform him that he would find her safe at his
hotel, and desire him to hasten thither immediately. His
absence gave Virginia liberty to bestow her whole attention
upon her patient ; and though much disordered herself by
the adventures of the night, no persuasion could induce her
to quit the bedside of the sufferer. Her constitution being
much enfeebled by want and sorrow, it was some time
before the stranger was restored to her senses. She found
great difficulty in swallowing the medicines prescribed to
her ; but this obstacle being removed, she easily conquered
her disease, which proceeded from nothing but weakness.
The attention which was paid her, the wholesome food, to
which she had been long a stranger, and her joy at being
restored to liberty, to society, and, as she dared to hope, to
love — all this combined to her speedy re-establishment.
From the first moment of knowing her, her melancholy
situation, her sufferings almost unparalleled, had engaged
the affections of her amiable hostess. Virginia felt for her
the most lively interest : but how was she delighted when,
her guest being sufficiently recovered to relate her history,
she recognized in the captive nun the sister of Lorenzo.

This victim of monastic cruelty was indeed no other than
the unfortunate Agnes. During her abode in the convent,
she had been well known to Virginia ; but her emaciated
form, her features altered by affliction, her death universally
credited, and her overgrown and matted hair, which hung

318 THE MONK

over her face and bosom in disorder, at first had prevented
her being recollected. The prioress had put every artifice
in practice to induce Virginia to take the veil; for the
heiress of Villa Franca would have been no despicable
acquisition. Her seeming kindness and unremitted atten-
tion so far succeeded, that her young relation began to
think seriously upon compliance.

Better instructed in the disgust and ennui of a monastic
life, Agnes had penetrated the designs of the domina. She
trembled for the innocent girl, and endeavoured to make
her sensible of her error. She painted in their true colours
the numerous inconveniences attached to a convent, the
continued restraint, the low jealousies, the petty intrigues,
the servile court and gross flattery expected by the
superior. She then bade Virginia reflect on the brilliant
prospect which presented itself before her. The idol of
her parents, the admiration of Madrid, endowed by nature
and education with every perfection of person and mind,
she might look forward to an establishment the most
fortunate. Her riches furnished her with the means of
exercising, in their fullest extent, charity and benevolence,
those virtues so dear to her ; and her stay in the world
would enable her discovering objects worthy her protection,
which could not be done in the seclusion of a convent.

Her persuasions induced Virginia to lay aside all thoughts
of the veil : but another argument, not used by Agnes Jiad
more weight with her than all the others put together. TShe
had seen Lorenzo when he visited his sister at the gpatep
his person pleased her, and her conversations with Agnes
generally used to terminate in some question about her
brother. She, who doted upon Lorenzo, wished for no
better than an opportunity to trumpet out his praise. She
spoke of him in terms of rapture; and, to convince her
auditor how just were his sentiments, how cultivated his
mind, and elegant his expressions, she showed her at
different times the letters which she received from him.
She soon perceived that from these communications the
heart of her young friend had imbibed impressions which
she was far from intending to give, but was truly happy
to discover. She could not have wished her brother a
more desirable union : heiress of Villa Franca, virtuous,
affectionate, beautiful, and accomplished, Virginia seemed
calculated to make him happy. She sounded her brother

CHAPTER XI 319

upon the subject, though without mentioning names or
circumstances. He assured her, in his answers, that his
heart and hand were totally disengaged, and she thought
that upon these grounds she might proceed without danger.
She in consequence endeavoured to strengthen the dawning
passion of her friend. Lorenzo was made the constant
topic of her discourse ; and the avidity with which her
auditor listened, the sighs which frequently escaped from
her bosom, and the eagerness with which, upon any
digression, she brought back the conversation to the
subject whence it had wandered, sufficed to convince Agnes
that her brother's addresses would be far from disagreeable.
She at length ventured to mention her wishes to the duke.
Though a stranger to the lady herself, he knew enough of
her situation to think her worthy his nephew's hand. It
was agreed between him and his niece, that she should
insinuate the idea to Lorenzo, and she only waited his
return to Madrid to propose her friend to him as his bride.
The unfortunate events which took place in the interim
prevented her from executing her design. Virginia wept
her loss sincerely, both as a companion, and as the only
person to whom she could speak of Lorenzo. Her passion
continued to prey upon her heart in secret, and she had
always determined to confess her sentiments to her
mother, when accident once more threw their object in her
way. The sight of him so near her, his politeness, his
compassion, his intrepidity, had combined to give new-
ardour to her affection. When she now found her friend
and advocate restored to her, she looked upon her as a gift
from heaven ; she ventured to cherish the hope of being
united to Lorenzo, and resolved to use with him his sister's
influence.

Supposing that before her death Agnes might possibly
have made the proposal, the duke had placed all his
nephew's hints of marriage to Virginia's account ; conse-
quently he gave them the most favourable reception. On
returning to his hotel, the relation given him of Antonia's
death, and Lorenzo's behaviour on the occasion, made
evident his mistake. He lamented the circumstances ; but
the unhappy girl being effectually out of the way, he
trusted that his designs would yet be executed. 'Tis true
that Lorenzo's situation just then ill suited him for a
bridegroom. His hopes disappointed at the moment when

320 THE MONK

he expected to realize them, and the dreadful and sudden
death of his mistress, had effected him very severely. The
duke found him upon the bed of sickness. His attendants
expressed serious apprehensions for his life ; but the
uncle entertained not the same fears. He^was of opinion,
and not unwisely, that ' men have died, and worms have
ate them, but not for love ! ' He therefore flattered
himself, that however deep might be the impression made
upon his nephew's heart, time and Virginia would be able
to efface it. He now hastened to the afflicted youth, and
endeavoured to console him ; he sympathized in his
distress, but encouraged him to resist the encroachments of
despair. He allowed, that he could not but feel shocked
at an event so terrible, nor could he blame his sensibility ;
but he besought him not to torment himself with vain
regrets, and rather to struggle with affliction, and preserve ■
his life, if not for his own sake, at least for the sake of
those who were fondly attached to him. While he laboured
much to make Lorenzo forget Antonia's loss, the duke
paid his court assiduously to Virginia, and seized every
opportunity to advance his nephew's interest in her heart.

It may easily be expected that Agnes was not long
without inquiring after Don Raymond. She was shocked
to hear the wretched situation to which grief had induced
him-; yet she could not help exulting secretly, when she
reflected that his illness proved the sincerity of his love.
The duke undertook the office himself of announcing to
the invalid the happiness which awaited him. Though he
omitted no precaution to prepare him for such an event, at
this sudden change from despair to happiness, Raymond's
transports were so violent, as nearly to have proved fatal
to him. These once passed, the tranquillity of his mind,
the assurance of felicity, and above all, the presence of
Agnes (who was no sooner re-established by the care of
Virginia and the marchioness, than she hastened to attend
her lover), soon enabled him to overcome the effects of his
late dreadful malady. The calm of his soul communicated
itself to his body, and he recovered with such rapidity as
to create universal surprise.

Not so Lorenzo. Antonia's death, accompanied with
such terrible circumstances, weighed upon his mind
heavily. He was worn down to a shadow ; nothing could
give him pleasure. He was persuaded with difficulty to

CHAPTER XI 321

swallow nourishment sufficient for the support of life, and
a consumption was apprehended. The society of Agnes
formed his only comfort. Though accident had never
permitted their being much together, he entertained for
her a sincere friendship and attachment. Perceiving how
necessary she was to him, she seldom quitted his chamber.
She listened to his complaints with unwearied attention,
and soothed him by the gentleness of her manners, and by
sympathizing with his distress. She still inhabited the
Palace de Villa Franca, the possessors of which treated her
with marked affection. The duke had intimated to the
Marquis his wishes respecting Virginia. The match was
unexceptionable : Lorenzo was heir to his uncle's immense
property, and was distinguished in Madrid for his agreeable
person, extensive knowledge, and propriety of conduct.
Add to this, that the marchioness had discovered how
strong was her daughter's prepossession in his favour.

In consequence the duke's proposal was accepted without
hesitation. Every precaution was taken to induce Lorenzo's
seeing the lady with those sentiments which she so well
merited to excite. In her visits to her brother, Agnes was
frequently accompanied by the marchioness ; and as soon
as he was able to move into his anti-chamber, Virginia,
under her mother's protection, was sometimes permitted to
express her wishes for his recovery. This she did with
such delicacy, the manner in which she mentioned Antonia
was so tender and soothing, and when she lamented her
rival's melancholy fate, her bright eyes shone so beautiful
through her tears, that Lorenzo could not behold or listen
to her without emotion. His relations, as well as the lady,
perceived that with every day her society seemed to give
him fresh pleasure, and that he spake of her in terms of
stronger admiration. However, they prudently kept their
observations to themselves ; no word was dropped which
might lead him to suspect their designs; they continued
their former conduct and attention, and left time to ripen
into a warmer sentiment the friendship which he already
felt for Virginia.

In the meanwhile her visits became more frequent ; and
latterly there was scarce a day of which she did not pass
some part by the side of Lorenzo's couch. He gradually
regained his strength, but the progress of his recovery was
slow and doubtful One evening he seemed to be in better

x

322 THE MONK

spirits than usual ; Agnes and her lover, the duke, Virginia,
and her parents, were sitting round him. He now, for the
first time, entreated his sister to inform him how she had
escaped the effects of the poison which St. Ursula had seen
her swallow. Fearful of recalling those scenes to his mind
in which Antonia had perished, she had hitherto concealed
from him the history of her sufferings. As he now started
the subject himself, and thinking that perhaps the narrative
of her sorrows might draw him from the contemplation of
those on which he dwelt too constantly, she immediately
complied with his request. The rest of the company had
already heard her story ; but the interest which all present
felt for its heroine made them anxious to hear it repeated.
The whole society seconding Lorenzo's entreaties, Agnes
obeyed. She first recounted the discovery which had
taken place in the abbey chapel, the domina's resentment,
and the midnight scene, of which St. Ursula had been a
concealed witness. Though the nun had already described
this latter event, Agnes now related it more circumstantially,
and at large. After which she proceeded in her narrative
as follows :

CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF AGNES DE MEDINA

' My supposed death was attended with the greatest
agonies. Those moments which I believed my last were
embittered by the domina's assurances that I could not
escape perdition ; and as my eyes closed, I heard her rage
exhale itself in curses on my offence. The horror of this
situation, of a death-bed from which hope was banished, of
a sleep from which I was only to wake to find myself the
prey of flames and furies, was more dreadful than I can
describe. When animation revived in me, my soul was
still impressed with these terrible ideas. I looked round
with fear, expecting to behold the ministers of Divine
vengeance. For the first hour, my senses were so bewildered,
and my brain so dizzy, that I strove in vain to arrange
the strange images which floated in wild confusion before
me. If I endeavoured to raise myself from the ground,
the wandering of my head deceived me. Everything
around me seemed to rock, and I sank once more upon the
earth. My weak and dazzled eyes were unable to bear a
nearer approach to a gleam of light, which I saw trembling

CHAPTER XI 323

above me. I was compelled to close them again, and
remain motionless in the same posture.

' A full hour elapsed, before I was sufficiently myself to
examine the surrounding objects. When I did examine
them, what terror filled my bosom ! I found myself
extended upon a sort of wicker couch. It had six handles
to it, which doubtless had served the nuns to convey me
to my grave. I was covered with a linen cloth, several
faded flowers were strewn over me. On one side lay a
small wooden crucifix ; on the other a rosary of large
beads. Four low narrow walls confined me. The top was
also covered, and in it was fitted a small grated door,
through which was admitted the little air that circulated
in this miserable place. A faint glimmering of light, which
streamed through the bars, permitted me to distinguish the
surrounding horrors. I was oppressed by a noisome
suffocating smell, and perceiving that the grated door was
unfastened, I thought that I might possibly effect my
escape. As I raised myself with this design, my hand
rested upon something soft: I grasped it, and advanced
towards the light. Almighty God ! what was my disgust
— my consternation! In spite of its putridity, and the
worms which preyed upon it, I perceived a corrupted
human head, and recognized the features of a nun who had
died some months before. I threw it from me, and sank
almost lifeless upon my bier.

' When my strength returned, this circumstance, and the
consciousness of being surrounded by the loathsome and
mouldering bodies of my companions, increased my desire
to escape from my fearful prison. I again moved towards
the light. The grated door was within my reach. I
lifted it without difficulty: probably it had been left
unclosed, to facilitate my quitting the dungeon. Aiding
myself by the irregularity of the walls, some of whose
stones projected beyond the rest, I contrived to ascend
them, and drag myself out of my prison. I now found
myself in a vault tolerably spacious. Several tombs,
similar in appearance to that whence I had just escaped,
were ranged along the sides in order, and seemed to be
considerably sunk within the earth. A sepulchral lamp
was suspended from the roof by an iron chain, and shed a
gloomy light through the dungeon. Emblems of death
were seen on every side: skulls, shoulder-blades, thigh-

324 THE MONK

bones, and other relics of mortality, were scattered upon
the dewy ground. Each tomb was ornamented with a
large crucifix, and in one corner stood a wooden statue of
St. Clare. To these objects I at first paid no attention : a
door, the only outlet from the vault, had attracted my
eyes. I hastened towards it, having wrapped my winding-
sheet closely round me. I pushed against the door, and to
my inexpressible terror found that it was fastened on the
outside.

' I guessed immediately that the prioress, mistaking the
nature of the liquor which she had compelled me to drink,
instead of poison had administered a strong opiate. From
this I concluded that, being to all appearance dead, I had
received the rites of burial; and that, deprived of the
power of making my existence known, it would be my
fate to expire of hunger. This idea penetrated me with
horror, not merely for my own sak*e, but that of the
innocent creature who still lived within my bosom. I
again endeavoured to open the door, but it resisted all my
efforts. I stretched my voice to the extent of its compass,
and shrieked for aid. I was remote from the hearing of
everyone. No friendly voice replied to mine. A profound
and melancholy silence prevailed through the vault, and I
despaired of liberty. My long abstinence from food now
began to torment me. The tortures which hunger inflicted
on me were the most painful and insupportable': yet they
seemed to increase with every hour which passed over my
head. Sometimes I threw myself upon the ground, and
rolled upon it wild and desperate : sometimes starting up,
I returned to the door, again strove to force it open, and
repeated my fruitless cries for succour. Often Mas I on
the point of striking my temple against the sharp corner
of some monument, dashing out my brains, and thus
terminating my woes at once. But still the remembrance
of my baby vanquished my resolution. I trembled at a
deed which equally endangered my child's existence and
my own. Then would I vent my anguish in loud excla-
mations and passionate complaints ; and then again, my
strength failing me, silent and hopeless I would sit me
upon the base of St. Clare's statue, fold my arms, and
abandon myself to sullen despair. Thus passed several
wretched hours. Death advanced towards me with rapid
strides, and I expected that every succeeding moment

CHAPTER XI 3^5

would be that of my dissolution. Suddenly a neighbouring
tomb caught my eye: a basket stood upon it, which till
then I had not observed. I started from my seat : I made
towards it as swiftly as my exhausted frame would permit.
How eagerly did I seize the basket, on finding it to obtain
a loaf of coarse bread, and a small bottle of water.

• I threw myself with avidity upon these humble aliments.
They had to all appearance been placed in the vault for
several days. The bread was hard, and the water tainted :
yet never did I taste food to me so delicious. When the
cravings of appetite were satisfied, I busied myself with
conjectures upon this new circumstance. I debated whether
the basket had been placed there with a view to my
necessity. Hope answered my doubts in the affirmative.
Yet who could guess me to be in need of such assistance ?
If my existence was known, why was I detained in this
gloomy vault ? If J was kept a prisoner, what meant the
ceremony of committing me to the tomb ? Or, if I was
doomed to perish with hunger, to whose pity was I
indebted for provisions placed within my reach ? A
friend would not have kept my dreadful punishment a
secret : neither did it seem probable that an enemy would
have taken pains to supply me with the means of
existence. Upon the whole, I was inclined to think
that the domina's designs upon my life had been
discovered by some one of my partisans in the con-
vent, who had found means to substitute an opiate for
poison; that she had furnished me with food to support
me, till she could effect my delivery; and that she was
then employed in giving intelligence to my relations of my
danger, and pointing out a way to release me from captivity.
Yet why then was the quality of my provisions so coarse ?
How could my friend have entered the vault without the
domina's knowledge ? and if she had entered, why was the
door fastened so carefully ? These reflections staggered
me : yet still this idea was the most favourable to my
hopes, and I dwelt upon it in preference.

'My meditations were interrupted by the sound of
distant footsteps. They approached, but slowly. Rays of
light now darted through the crevices of the door. Un-
certain whether the persons who advanced came to relieve
me, or were conducted by some other motive to the vault,
I failed not to attract their notice by loud cries for help.

326 THE MONK

Still the sounds drew near. The light grew stronger. At
length with inexpressible pleasure I heard the key
turning in the lock. Persuaded that my deliverance was
at hand, I flew towards the door with a shriek of joy. It
opened : but all my hopes of escape died away, when the
prioress appeared, followed by the same four nuns who
had been witnesses of my supposed death. They bore
torches in their hands, and gazed upon me in fearful
silence.

'I started back in terror. The domina descended into
the vault, as did also her companions. She bent upon me
a stern, resentful eye, but expressed no surprise at finding
me still living. She took the seat which I had just quitted.
The door was again closed, and the nuns ranged themselves
behind their superior, while the glare of their torches,
dimmed by the vapours and dampness of the vault,
gilded with cold beams the surrounding monuments. For
some moments all preserved a dead and solemn silence. I
stood at some distance from the prioress. At length she
beckoned me to advance. Trembling at the severity of her
aspect, my strength scarce sufficed me to obey her. I drew
near, but my limbs were unable to support their burthen.
I sank upon my knees, I clasped my hands, and lifted them
up to her for mercy, but had no power to articulate a
syllable.

' She gazed upon me with angry eyes.

' " Do I see a penitent, or a criminal ? " she said at
length ; " are those hands raised in contrition for your
crimes, or in fear of meeting their punishment ? Do those
tears acknowledge the justice of your doom, or only solicit
mitigation of your sufferings ? I fear me, 'tis the latter."

' She paused, but kept her eye still fixed upon mine.

* " Take courage ", she continued ; " I wish not for your
death, but your repentance. The draught which I
administered was no poison, but an opiate. My intention
in deceiving you was to make you feel the agonies of a
guilty conscience, had death overtaken you suddenly, while
your crimes were still unrepented. You have suffered
those agonies ; I have brought you to be familiar with the
sharpness of death, and I trust that your momentary
anguish will prove to you an eternal benefit. It is not my
design to destroy your immortal soul, or bid you seek the
grave, burthened with the weight of sins unexpiated. No,

CHAPTER XI 327

daughter, far from it ; I will purify you with wholesome
chastisement, and furnish you with full leisure for con-
trition and remorse. Hear then my sentence : the ill-judged
zeal of your friends delayed its execution, but cannot now
prevent it. All Madrid believes you to be no more ; your
relations are thoroughly persuaded of your death, and the
nuns your partisans have assisted at your funeral. Your
existence can never be suspected : I have taken such pre-
cautions as must render it an impenetrable mystery. Then
abandon all thoughts of a world from which you are
eternally separated, and employ the few hours which are
allowed you in preparing for the next."

' This exordium led me to expect something terrible. I
trembled, and would have spoken to deprecate her wrath ;
but a motion of the domina commanded me to be silent.
She proceeded :

'"Though of late years unjustly neglected, and now
opposed by many of our misguided sisters — whom Heaven
convert ! — it is my intention to revive the laws of our
order in their full force. That against incontinence is
severe, but no more than so monstrous an offence demands.
Submit to it, daughter, without resistance ; you will find
the benefit of patience and resignation in a better life than
this. Listen then to the sentence of St. Clare. — Beneath
these vaults there exist prisons, intended to receive such
criminals as yourself : artfully is their entrance concealed,
and she who enters them must resign all hopes of liberty.
Thither must you now be conveyed. Food shall be supplied
you, but not sufficient for the indulgence of appetite : you
shall have just enough to keep together body and soul, and
its quality shall be the simplest and coarsest. Weep,
daughter, weep, and moisten your bread with your tears :
God knows that you have ample cause for sorrow !
Chained down in one of these secret dungeons, shut out
from the world and light for ever, with no comfort but
religion, no society but repentance ; thus must you groan
away the remainder of your days. Such are St. Clare's
orders ; submit to them without repining. Follow me ! "

'Thunderstruck at this barbarous decree, my little
remaining strength abandoned me. I answered only by
falling at her feet, and bathing them with tears. The
domina, unmoved by my affliction, rose from her seat with
a stately air : she repeated her commands in an absolute

328 THE MONK

tone ; but my excessive faintness made me unable to obey
her. Mariana and Alix raised me from the ground, and
carried me forwards in their arms. The prioress moved
on, leaning on Violante, and Camilla preceded her with a
torch. Thus passed our sad procession along the passages,
m silence only broken by my sighs and groans. We
stopped before the principle shrine of St. Clare. The
statue was removed from its pedestal, though how I knew
not. The nuns afterwards raised an iron grate, till then
concealed by the image, and let it fall on the other side
with a loud crash. The awful sound, repeated by the
vaults above and the caverns below me, roused me from
the despondent apathy in which I had been plunged. I
looked before me: an abyss presented itself to my
affrighted eyes, and a steep and narrow staircase, whither
my conductors were leading me. I shrieked, and started
back. I implored compassion, rent the air with my cries,
and summoned both heaven and earth to my assistance.
In vain ! I was hurried down the staircase, and forced into
one of the cells which lined the cavern's sides.

' My blood ran cold as I gazed upon this melancholy
abode. The cold vapours hovering in the air, the walls
green with damp, the bed of straw so forlorn and comfort-
less, the chain destined to bind me for ever to my prison,
and the reptiles of every description, which, as the torches
advanced towards them, I descried hurrying to their retreats,
struck my heart with terrors almost too exquisite for
nature to bear. Driven by despair to madness, I burst
suddenly from the nuns who held me ; I threw myself
upon my knees before the prioress, and besought her
mercy in the most passionate and frantic terms.

' " If not on me ", said I, " look at least with pity on that
innocent being, whose life is attached to mine ! Great is
my crime, but let not my child suffer for it ! My baby
has committed no fault. Oh, spare me for the sake of my
unborn offspring, whom, ere it tastes life, your severity
dooms to destruction ! "

' The prioress drew back hastily ; she forced her habit
from my grasp, as if my touch had been contagious.

' " What ! " she exclaimed, with an exasperated air ;
" what ! dare you plead for the produce of your shame ?
Shall a creature be permitted to live, conceived in guilt so
monstrous ? Abandoned woman, speak for him no more !

CHAPTER XI 329

Better that the wretch should perish than live : begotten
in perjury, incontinence, and pollution, it cannot fail to"
prove a prodigy of vice. Hear me, thou guilty ! Expect
no mercy from me, either for yourself or brat. Rather
pray that death may seize you before you produce it ; or,
if it must see the light, that its eyes may immediately be
closed again for ever ! No aid shall be given you in your
labour ; bring your offspring into the world yourself, feed
it yourself, nurse it yourself, bury it yourself : God grant
that the latter may happen soon, lest you receive comfort
from the fruit of your iniquity ! "

' This inhuman speech, the threats which it contained,
the dreadful sufferings foretold to me by the domina, and
her prayers for my infant's death, on whom, though unborn,
I already doted, were more than my exhausted frame could
support. Uttering a deep groan, I fell senseless at the feet
of my unrelenting enemy. I know not how long I re-
mained in this situation ; but I imagine that some time
must have elapsed before my recovery, since it sufficed the
prioress and her nuns to quit the cavern. When my senses
returned, I found myself in silence and solitude ; I heard
not even the retiring footsteps of my persecutors. All was
hushed, and ^all was dreadful ! I had been thrown upon
the bed of straw : the heavy chain which I had already
eyed with terror was wound around my waist, and
fastened me to the wall. A lamp glimmering with dull
melancholy rays through my dungeon, permitted my
distinguishing all its horrors. It was separated from the
cavern by a low and irregular wall of stone. A large
chasm was left open in it, which formed the entrance, for
door there was none. A leaden crucifix was in front of my
straw couch. A tattered rug lay near me, as did also a
chaplet of beads ; and not far from me stood a pitcher of
water, and a wicker basket, containing a small loaf, and a
bottle of oil to supply my lamp.

' With a despondent eye did I examine this scene of
suffering : when I reflected that I was doomed to pass in it
the remainder of my days, my heart was rent with bitter
anguish. I had once been taught to look forward to a
lot so different ! At one time my prospects had appeared
so bright, so flattering ! Now all was lost to me. Friends,
comfort, society, happiness — in one moment I was deprived
of all. Dead to the world, dead to pleasure, I lived to

330 THE MONK

nothing but the sense of misery. How fair did that world
seem to me, from which I was for ever excluded ! How
many loved objects did it contain, whom I never should
behold again! As I threw a look of terror round my
prison, as I shrunk from the cutting wind which howled
through my subterraneous dwelling, the change seemed so
striking, "so abrupt, that I doubted its reality. That the
Duke de Medina's niece, that the destined bride of the
Marquis de las Cisternas, one bred up in affluence, related
to the noblest family in Spain, and rich in a multitude of
affectionate friends — that she should in one month become
a captive, separated from the world for ever, weighed down
with chains, and reduced to support life with the coarsest
aliments — appeared a change so sudden and incredible,
that I believed myself the sport of some frightful vision.
Its continuance convinced me of my mistake with but too
much certainty. Every morning I looked for some relief
from my sufferings ; every morning my hopes were dis-
appointed. At length I abandoned all idea of escaping ; I
resigned myself to my fate, and only expected liberty,
when she became the companion of death.

' My mental anguish, and the dreadful scenes in which I
had been an actress, advanced the period of my labour. In
solitude and misery, abandoned by all, unassisted by art,
uncomforted by friendship, with pangs which if witnessed
would have touched the hardest heart, was I delivered of
my wretched burden. It came alive into the world ; but I
knew not how to treat it, or by what means to preserve its
existence. I could only bathe it with tears, warm it in my
bosom, and offer up prayers for its safety. I was soon
deprived of this mournful employment : the want of
proper attendance, my ignorance how to nurse it, the bitter
cold of the dungeon, and the unwholesome air which in-
flated its lungs, terminated my sweet babe's short and
painful existence. It expired in a few hours after its birth,
and I witnessed its death with agonies which beggar all
description.

' But my grief was unavailing. My infant was no more ;
nor could all my sighs impart to its little tender frame
the breath of a moment. I rent my winding-sheet, and
wrapped in it my lovely child. I placed it on my bosom,
its soft arm folded round my neck, and its pale cold cheek
resting upon mine. Thus did its lifeless limbs repose, while

CHAPTER XI 331

I covered it with kisses, talked to it, wept, and moaned
over it without remission day or night. Camilla entered
my prison regularly once every twenty-four hours, to bring
me food. In spite of her flinty nature, she could not
behold this spectacle unmoved. She feared that grief so
excessive would at length turn my brain ; and in truth, I
was not always in my proper senses. From a principle of
compassion, she urged me to permit the corpse to be buried ;
but to this I never would consent. I vowed not to part
with it while I had life : its presence was my only comfort,
and no persuasion could induce me to give it up. It soon
became a mass of putridity, and to every eye was a loath-
some and disgusting object — to every eye but a mother's.
In vain did human feelings bid me recoil from this emblem
of mortality with repugnance. I withstood, and vanquished
that repugnance. I persisted in holding my infant to my
bosom, in lamenting it, loving it, adoring it ! Hour after
hour have I passed upon my sorry couch, contemplating what
had once been my child. I endeavoured to retrace its
features through the livid corruption with which they were
overspread. During my confinement, this sad occupation
was my only delight ; and at that time worlds should not
have bribed me to give it up. Even when released from
my prison, I brought away my child in my arms. The
representations of my two kind friends — [Here she took
the hands of the marchioness and Virginia, and pressed
them alternately to her lips] — at length persuaded me to
resign my unhappy infant to the grave. Yet I parted
from it with reluctance. However, reason at length pre-
vailed; I suffered it to be taken from me, and it now
reposes in consecrated ground.

4 1 before mentioned, that regularly once a day Camilla
brought me food. She sought not to embitter my sorrows
with reproach. She bade me, 'tis true, resign all hopes of
liberty and worldly happiness ; but she encouraged me to
bear with patience my temporary distress, and advised me
to draw comfort from religion. My. situation evidently
affected her more than she ventured to express ; but she
believed that to extenuate my fault would make me less
anxious to repent it. Often while her lips painted the
enormity of my guilt in glaring colours, her eyes betrayed
how sensible she was to my sufferings. In fact, I am
certain that none of my tormentors (for the three Other

332 THE MONK

, nuns entered my prison occasionally) were so much
actuated by the spirit of oppressive cruelty, as by the
idea that to afflict my body was the only way to preserve
my soul. Nay, even this persuasion might not have had
such weight with them, and they might have thought my
punishment too severe, had not their good dispositions
been repressed by blind obedience to their superior. Her
resentment existed in full force. My project of elopement
having been discovered by the abbot of the Capuchins, she
supposed herself lowered in his opinion by my disgrace,
and in consequence her hate was inveterate. She told the
nuns, to whose custody I was committed, that my fault
was of the most heinous nature, that no sufferings could
equal the offence, and that nothing could save me from
eternal perdition but punishing my guilt with the utmost
severity. The superior's word is an oracle to but too many
of a convent's inhabitants. The nuns believed whatever
the prioress chose to assert : though contradicted by reason
and charity, they hesitated not to admit the truth of her
arguments. They followed her injunctions to the very
letter, and were fully persuaded, that to treat me with
lenity, or to show the least pity for my woes, would be a
direct means to destroy my chance for salvation.

' Camilla being most employed about me, was particularly
charged by the prioress to treat me with harshness. In
compliance with these orders, she frequently strove to
convince me how just was my punishment, and how
enormous was my crime. She bade me think myself too
happy in saving my soul by mortifying my body, and even
threatened me sometimes with eternal perdition. Yet, as
I before observed, she always concluded by words of en-
couragement and comfort ; and, though uttered by Camilla's
lips, I easily recognized the domina's expressions. Once,
and once only, the prioress visited me in my dungeon.
She then treated me with the most unrelenting cruelty.
She loaded me with reproaches, taunted me with my
frailty ; and, when I implored her mercy, told me to ask
it of Heaven, since I deserved none on earth. She even
gazed upon my lifeless infant without emotion ; and when
she left me, I heard her charge Camilla to increase the
hardships of my captivity. Unfeeling woman ! — But let
me check my resentment : she has expiated her errors by
her sad and unexpected death. Peace be with her! and

CHAPTER XI 333

may her crimes be forgiven in heaven, as I forgive her my
sufferings on earth !

'Thus did I drag on a miserable existence. Far from
growing familiar with my prison, I beheld it every moment
with new horror. The cold seemed more piercing and
bitter, the air more thick and pestilential. My frame
became weak, feverish, and emaciated. I was unable to
rise from the bed of straw, and exercise my limbs in the
narrow limits to which the length of my chain permitted
me to move. Though exhausted, faint, and weary, I
trembled to profit by the approach of sleep. My slumbers
were constantly interrupted by some obnoxious insect '
crawling over me. Sometimes I felt the bloated toad,
hideous and pampered with the poisonous vapours of the
dungeon, dragging his loathsome length along my bosom :
sometimes the quick cold lizard roused me, leaving his^
slimy track upon my face, and entangling itself in the
tresses of my wild and matted hair. Often have I at : -
waking found my fingers ringed with the long worma-y
which bred in the corrupted flesh of my infant. At such *'
times, I shrieked with terror and disgust; and while I
shook off the reptile, trembled with all a woman's
weakness.

'Such was my situation when Camilla was suddenly
taken ill. A dangerous fever, supposed to be infectious,
confined her to her bed. Everyone, except the lay-sister
appointed to nurse her, avoided her with caution, and feared
to catch the disease. She was perfectly delirious, and by
no means capable of attending to me. The domina, and
the nuns admitted to the mystery, had latterly entirely
given me over to Camilla's care. In consequence, they
busied themselves no more about me ; and occupied by
preparing for the approaching festival, it is more than
probable that I never once entered into their thoughts.
Of the reason of Camilla's negligence I have been informed
since my release by the Mother St. Ursula. At that time
I was very far from suspecting its cause. On the contrary,
I waited for my gaoler's appearance at first with impa-
tience and afterwards with despair. One day passed
away; another followed it; the third arrived. Still no
Camilla! still no food! I knew the lapse of time byvthe
wasting of my lamp, to feed which, fortunately a week's
supply°of oil had been left me. I supposed, either that

334 THE MONK

the nuns had forgotten me, or that the domina had
ordered them to let me perish. The latter idea seemed
the most probable : yet so natural is the love of life, that
I trembled to find it true. Though embittered by every
species of misery, my existence was still dear to me, and I
dreaded to lose it. Every succeeding minute proved to me
that I must abandon all hopes of relief. I was become an
absolute skeleton: my eyes already failed me, and my
limbs were beginning to stiffen. I could only express my
anguish, and the pangs of that hunger which gnawed my
heart-strings, by frequent groans, whose melancholy sound
the vaulted roof of the dungeon re-echoed. I resigned
myself to my fate : I already expected the moment of
dissolution, when my guardian-angel — when my beloved
brother arrived in time to save me. My sight, grown dim
and feeble, at first refused to recognize him : and when I
did distinguish his features, the sudden burst of rapture
was too much for me to bear. I was overpowered by the
swell of joy at once more beholding a friend, and that a
friend so dear to me. Nature could not support my
emotions, and took her refuge in insensibility.

' You already know what are my obligations to the
family of Villa Franca. But what you cannot know is
the extent of my gratitude, boundless as the excellence of
my benefactors. Lorenzo ! Raymond ! names so dear to
me ! teach me to bear with fortitude this sudden transition
from misery to bliss. So lately a captive, oppressed with
chains, perishing with hunger, hidden from the light,
excluded from society, hopeless, neglected, and, as I feared,
forgotten — suffering every inconvenience of cold and want :
now restored to life and liberty, enjoying all the comforts
of affluence and ease, surrounded by those who are most
loved by me, and on the point of becoming his bride who
has long been wedded to my heart, my happiness is so
exquisite, so ^perfect, that scarcely can my brain sustain
the weight. «One only wish remains ungratified : it is to
see my brother in his former health, and. to know that
Antonia's memory is buried in her grave J> Granted this
prayer, I have nothing more to desire. I trust that my
past sufferings have purchased from Heaven the pardon of
my momentary weakness. That I have offended, offended
greatly and grievously, I am fully conscious ; but let not
my husband, because he once conquered my virtue, doubt

CHAPTER XI 335

the propriety of my future conduct. I have been frail and
full of error ; but I yielded not to the warmth of con-
stitution. Raymond, affection for you betrayed me. I
was too confident of my strength : but I depended no less
on your honour than my own. I had vowed never to see
you more. Had it not been for the consequences of that
unguarded moment, my resolution had been kept. Fate
willed it otherwise, and I cannot but rejoice at its decree.
Still my conduct has been highly blamable ; and while I
attempt to justify myself, I blush at recollecting my im-
prudence. Let me then dismiss the ungrateful subject ;
first assuring you, Raymond, that you shall have no cause
to repent our union, and that, the more culpable have
been the errors of your mistress, the more exemplary shall
be the conduct of your wife.'

Here Agnes ceased : and the Marquis replied to her
address in terms equally sincere and affectionate. Lorenzo
expressed his satisfaction at the prospect of being so closely
connected with a man for whom he had ever entertained
the highest esteem. The Pope's bull had fully and
effectually released Agnes from her religious engagements.
The marriage was therefore celebrated as soon as the
needful preparations had been made; for the Marquis
wished to have the ceremony performed with all possible
splendour and publicity. This being over, and the bride
having received the compliments of Madrid, she departed
with Don Raymond for his castle in Andalusia. Lorenzo
accompanied them as did also the Marchioness de Villa
Franca and her lovely daughter. It is needless to say that
Theodore was of the party, and it would be impossible to
describe his joy at his master's marriage. Previous to his
departure, the Marquis, to atone in some measure for his
past neglect, made some inquiries relative to Elvira. Find-
ing that she, as well as her daughter, had received many
services from Leonella and Jacintha, he showed his respect
to the memory of his sister-in-law, by making the two
women handsome presents. Lorenzo followed his example.
Leonella was highly flattered by the attentions of noblemen
so distinguished, and Jaci n tha Wp««pd t.hfl hnnr -an nrTiinh
her house wa s bewitched.

' On her side, Agues faffed not to reward her convent
friends. The worthy Mother St. Ursula, to whom she

336 THE MONK

owed her liberty, was named, at her request, superintendent
of ' The Ladies of Charity '. This was one of the best and
most opulent societies throughout Spain. Bertha and
Cornelia, not choosiDg to quit their friend, were appointed
to principal charges in the same establishment. As to the
nuns who had aided the domina in persecuting Agnes;
Camilla, being confined by illness to her bed, had perished
in the flames which consumed St. Clare's convent. Mariana,
Alix, and Violante, as well as two more, had fallen victims
to the popular rage. The three others who had in council
supported the domina's sentence were severely reprimanded,
and banished to religious houses in obscure and distant
provinces. Here they languished away a few years,
ashamed of their former weakness, and shunned by their
companions with aversion and contempt.

Nor was the fidelity of Flora permitted to go unrewarded.
Her wishes being consulted, she declared herself impatient
to revisit her native land. In consequence, a passage was
procured for her to jCuba, where she arrived in safety,
loaded with the presents of Raymond and Lorenzo.

The debts of gratitude discharged, Agnes was at liberty
to pursue her favourite plan. Lodged in the same house,
Lorenzo and Virginia were eternally together. The more
he saw of her, the more was he convinced of her merit.
On her part, she laid herself out to please ; and not to
succeed was for her impossible. Lorenzo witnessed with
admiration her beautiful person, elegant manners, innumer-
able talents, and sweet disposition. He was also much
flattered by her prejudice in his favour, which she had not
sufficient art to conceal. However, his sentiments partook
not of that ardent character which had marked his affection
for Antonia : the image of that lovely and unfortunate girl
still lived in his heart, and baffled all Virginia's efforts to
displace it. Still, when the duke proposed to him the
match, which he wished so earnestly to take place, his
nephew did not reject the offer. The urgent supplication
of his friends, and the lady's merit, conquered his repug-
nance to entering into new engagements. He proposed
himself to the Marquis de Villa Franca, and was accepted
with joy and gratitude. Virginia became his wife, nor did
she ever give him cause to repent his choice. His esteem
increased for her daily. Her unremitted endeavours to
please him could not but succeed. His affection assumed

CHAPTER XI 337

stronger and warmer colours. Antonia's image was gradu-
ally effaced from his bosom, and Virginia became sole
mistress of that heart, which she well deserved to possess
without a partner.

The remaining years of Raymond and Agnes, of Lorenzo
and Virginia, were happy as can be those allotted to
mortals, born to be the prey of grief, and sport of disap-
pointment. The exquisite sorrows with which they had
been afflicted made them think lightly of every succeeding
woe. They had felt the sharpest darts in misfortune's
quiver; those which remained appeared blunt in com-
parison. Having weathered Fate's heaviest storms, they
looked calmly upon its terrors ; or, if ever they felt afflic-
tion's casual gales, they seemed to them gentle as zephyrs
which breathe over summer seas.

CHAPTER XII

He was a fell despightful fiend :
Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below :
By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancour keened :
Of man, alike of good or bad, the foe.

—Thomson

On the day following Antonia's death, all Madrid was a
scene of consternation and amazement. An archer who
had witnessed the adventure in the sepulchre had indis-
creetly related the circumstances of the murder: he had
also named the perpetrator. The confusion was without
example which this intelligence raised among the devotees.
Most of them disbelieved it, and went themselves to the
abbey to ascertain the fact. Anxious to avoid the shame
to which their superior's ill conduct exposed the whole
brotherhood, the monks assured the visitors that Ambrosio
was prevented from receiving them as usual by nothing
but illness. This attempt was unsuccessful. The same
excuse being repeated day after day, the archer's story
gradually obtained confidence. The abbot's partisans
abandoned him: no one entertained a doubt of his
guilt ; and they who before had been the warmest in
his praise were now the most vociferous in his con-
demnation.

While his innocence or guilt was debated in Madrid
with the utmost acrimony, Ambrosio was a prey to the
pangs of conscious villainy, and the terrors of punishment
impending over him. When he looked back to the
eminence on which he had lately stood, at peace with
the world and with himself, scarcely could he believe
that he was indeed the culprit, whose crimes and whose
fate he trembled to consider. ^Rijt. a. fp.w wqaWH^had
elapsed since he was pure and virtuous, courted by the
wisest and noblest in Madrid, and regarded by the people
with a reverence that approached idolatry. He now saw
himself stained with the most loathed and monstrous sins,
the object of universal execration, a prisoner of the holy

338

CHAPTER XII 339

office, and probably doomed to perish in tortures the most
severe. He could not hope to deceive his judges : the
proofs of his guilt were too strong. His being in the
sepulchre at so late an hour, his confusion at the discovery,
the dagger which in his first alarm he owned had been con-
cealed by him, and the blood which had spurted upon his
habit from Antonia's wound, sufficiently marked him out
for the assassin. He waited with agony for the day of
examination. He had no resource to comfort him in his
distress. Religion could not inspire him with fortitude.
If he read the books of morality which were put into his
hands, he saw in them nothing but the enormity of his
offences. If he attempted to pray, he recollected that he
deserved not Heaven's protection, and believed his crimes
so monstrous as to exceed even God's infinite goodness.
For every other sinner he thought there might be hope,
but for him there could be none. Shuddering at the past,
anguished by the present, and dreading the future, thus
passed he the few days preceding that which was marked
for his trial.

That day arrived. At nine in the morning his prison-
door was unlocked, and his gaoler entering, commanded*
him to follow him. He obeyed with trembling. He
was conducted into a spacious hall hung with black cloth.
At the table sat three grave, stern-looking men, also
habited in black : one was the grand inquisitor, whom
the importance of this cause had induced to examine into
it himself. At a smaller table at a little distance sat the
secretary, provided with all necessary implements for
writing. Ambrosio was beckoned to advance, and take
his station at the lower end of the table. As his eye
glanced downwards, he perceived various iron instruments
lying scattered upon the floor. Their forms were unknown
to him, but apprehension immediately guessed them to be
engines of torture. He turned pale, and with difficulty
prevented himself-lrom sinking upon the ground.

Profound silence prevailed, except when the inquisitors
whispered a few words among themselves mysteriously.
Near an hour passed away, and with every second of it
Ambrosio's fears grew more poignant. At length a small
door, opposite to that by which he had entered the hall,
grated heavily upon its hinges. _ An officer appeared, and
was immediately followed by the beautiful Matilda. Her

340 THE MONK

hair hung about her face wildly ; her cheeks were pale,
and her eyes sunk and hollow. She threw a melancholy
look upon Ambrosio : he replied by one of aversion and
reproach. She was placed opposite to him. A bell then
sounded thrice. It was the signal for opening the court,
iand the inquisitors entered upon their office.
J In these trials, neither the accusation is mentioned, nor
I the name of the accuser. The prisoners are only asked,
whether they will confess. If they reply that, having no
crime, they can make no confession, they are put to the
torture without delay. This is repeated at intervals, either
till the suspected avow themselves culpable, or the persever-
ance of the examinants is worn out and exhausted : but
without a direct acknowledgment of their guilt, the in-
quisition never pronounces the final doom of its prisoners.
In general, much time is suffered to elapse without their
being questioned ; but Ambrosio's trial had been hastened
on account of a solemn auto da fi which would take place
in a few days, and in which the inquisitors meant this
distinguished culprit to perform a part, and give a striking
testimony of their vigilance.

The abbot was not merely accused of rape and murder ;
the crime of sorcery was laid to his charge, as well as to
Matilda's : she had been seized as an accomplice in Antonia's
assassination. On searching her cell, various suspicious
books and instruments were found, which justified the
accusation brought against her. To criminate the monk,
the constellated mirror was produced, which Matilda had
accidentally left in his chamber. The strange figures
engraved upon it caught the attention of Don Ramirez,
while searching the abbot's cell ; in consequence, he carried
it away with him. It was shown to the grand inquisitor,
who, having considered it for some time, took off a small
golden cross which hung at his girdle, and laid it upon the
mirror: instantly a loud noise was heard, resembling a
clap of thunder, and the steel shivered into a thousand
pieces. This circumstance confirmed the suspicion of the
monk's having dealt in magic. It was even supposed, that
his former influence over the minds of the people was
entirely to be ascribed to witchcraft,
t Determined to make him confess not only the crimes
which he had committed, but those also of whjch he was
innocent, the inquisitors began their examination Though

CHAPTER XII 341

dreading the tortures, as he yet more dreaded death, which
would consign him to eternal torments, the abbot asserted
his purity in a voice bold and resolute. Matilda followed
his example, but spoke with fear and trembling. Having
in vain exhorted him to confess, the inquisitors ordered the
monk to be put to the question. The decree was imme-
diately executed. Ambrosio suffered the most excruciating
pangs that ever were invented by human cruelty. Yet so
dreadful is death, when guilt accompanies it, that he had
sufficient fortitude to persist in his disavowal. His agonies
were redoubled in consequence ; nor was he released till,
fainting from excess of pain, insensibility rescued him from
the hands of his tormentors.

Matilda was next ordered to the torture ; but, terrified
by the sight of the friar's sufferings, her courage totally
deserted her. She sank upon her knees, acknowledged
her corresponding with infernal spirits, and that she had
witnessed the monk's assassination of Antonia ; but as to
the crime of sorcery, she declared herself the sole criminal,
and Ambrosio perfectly innocent. The latter assertion met
with no credit. The abbot had recovered his senses in
time to hear the confession of his accomplice : but he was
too much enfeebled by what he had already undergone, to
be capable at that time of sustaining new torments. He
was commanded back to his cell, but first informed, that,
as soon as he had gained strength sufficient, he must
prepare himself for a second examination. The inquisitors
hoped that he would then be less hardened and obstinate.
To Matilda it was announced, that she must expiate her
crime in fire on the approaching auto da fe. All
her tears and entreaties could procure no mitigation
of her doom, and she was dragged by force from the
hall of trial.

Returned to his dungeon, the sufferings of Ambrosio's
body were far more supportable than those of his mind.
His dislocated limbs, the nails torn from his hands and
feet, and his fingers mashed and broken by the pressure of
screws, were far surpassed in anguish by the agitation of
his soul and vehemence of his terrors. He saw that, guilty
or innocent, his judges were bent upon condemning him.
The remembrance of what his denial had already cost him
terrified him at the idea of being again applied to the
question, and almost engaged him to confess his crimes,

342 THE MONK

Then again the consequences of his confession flashed
before him, and rendered him once more irresolute. His
death would be inevitable; and that a death the most
dreadful. He had listened to Matilda's doom, and doubted
not that a similar was reserved for him. He shuddered at
the approaching auto da fi t at the idea of perishing in
flames, and only escaping from endurable torments to pass
into others more subtile and everlasting. With affright
did he bend his mind's eye on the space beyond the grave ;
nor could hide from himself how justly he ought to dread
Heaven's vengeance. In this labyrinth, of terrors, fain
would he have taken his refuge in the gloom of atheism ;
fain would he have denied the soul's immortality ; have
persuaded himself that, when his eyes once closed, they
would never more open, and that the same moment would
annihilate his soul and body. Even this resource was
refused to him. To permit his being blind jto the fallacy
of this belief, his knowledge was too extensive, his under-
standing too solid and just. (He could not help feeling the
existence nf a. (lr>d. > Those "truths, once his comfort, now '
"presented themselves before him in the clearest light ; but
they only served to drive him to distraction. They
destroyed his ill-grounded hopes of escaping punishment ;
and, dispelled by the irresistible brightness of truth and
conviction, philosophy's deceitful vapours faded away like
a dream.

In anguish almost too great for mortal frame tol)ear, he
expected the time when he was again to be examined. He
busied himself in planning ineffectual schemes for escaping
both present and future punishment. Of the first, there
was no possibility ; "of the second, despair made him neglect
the only means. While reason forced him to acknowledge
a God's existence, conscience made him doubt the infinity
of his goodness. He disbelieved that a sinner like himself
could find mercy. He had not been deceived into error ;
ignorance could furnish him with no excuse. He had seen
vice in her true colours. Before he committed his crimes,
he had computed every scruple of their weight, and yet he
had committed them.

' Pardon ! ' he would cry in an excess of frenzy ; ' oh !
there can be none for me ! '

Persuaded of this, instead of humbling himself in
penitence, of deploring his guilt, and employing his few

CHAPTER XII 343

remaining hours in deprecating Heaven's wrath, he
abandoned himself to the transports of desperate rage:,
he sorrowed for the punishment of his crimes, not their
commission ; and exhaled his bosom's anguish in idle sighs,
in vain lamentations, in blasphemy and despair. As the
few beams of day which pierced through the bars of his
prison window gradually disappeared, and their place was
supplied by the pale and glimmering lamp, he felt his
terrors redouble, and his ideas became more gloomy, more
solemn, more despondent. He dreaded the approach of
sleep. No sooner did his eyes close, wearied with tears
and watching, than the dreadful visions seemed to be
realized on which his mind had dwelt during the day.
He found himself in sulphurous realms and burning
caverns, surrounded by fiends appointed his tormentors,
and who drove him through a variety of tortures, each
of which was more dreadful than the former. Amidst
these dismal scenes wandered the ghosts of Elvira and
her daughter. They reproached him with their deaths,
recounted his crimes to the demons, and urged them to
inflict torments of cruelty yet more refined. Such were
the pictures which floated before his eyes in sleep : they
vanished not till his repose was disturbed by excess of
agony. Then would he start from the ground on which
he had stretched himself, his brows running down with
cold sweat, his eyes wild and frenzied ; and he only
exchanged the terrible certainty for surmises scarcely
more supportable. He paced his dungeon with disordered
steps ; he gazed with terror upon the surrounding
darkness, and often did he cry :

' Oh, fearful is night to the guilty ! '

The day of his second examination was at hand. He
had been compelled to swallow cordials, whose virtues
were calculated to restore his bodily strength, and enable
him to support the question longer. On the night pre-
ceding this dreaded day, his fears for the morrow permitted
him not to sleep. His terrors were so violent as nearly to
annihilate his mental powers. He sat like one stupefied
near the table on which his lamp was burning dimly.
Despair chained up his faculties in idiotism, and he re-
mained for some hours unable to speak or move, or indeed
to think,

344 THE MONK

' Look up, Ambrosio ! ' said a voice, in accents well known
to him.

The monk started, and raised his melancholy eyes.
Matilda stood before him. She had quitted her religious
habit. She now wore a female dress, at once elegant and
splendid ; a profusion of diamonds blazed upon her robes,
and her hair was confined by a coronet of roses. In her
right hand she held a small book ; a lively expression of
pleasure beamed upon her countenance — but still it was
mingled with a wild imperious majesty, which inspired
the monk with awe, and repressed in some measure his
transports at seeing her.

' You here, Matilda ! ' he at length exclaimed ; ' how
have you gained entrance ? Where are your chains ?
What means this magnificence, and the joy which
sparkles in your eyes ? Have our judges relented ? Is
there a chance of my escaping ? Answer me for pity,
and tell me what I have to hope or fear.'

' Ambrosio ! ' she replied, with an air of commanding
dignity, ' I have baffled the Inquisition's fury : I am free ;
a few moments will place kingdoms between these dungeons
and me ; yet I purchase my liberty at a dear, at a dreadful,
price ! Dare you pay the same, Ambrosio ? Dare you
spring without fear over the bounds which separate men
from angels ? You are silent ; you look upon me with
eyes of suspicion and alarm : I read your thoughts, and
confess their justice. Yes, Ambrosio, I have sacrificed all
for life and liberty. I am no longer a candidate for
heaven ! I have renounced God's service, and am enlisted
beneath the banners of his foes ! The deed is past recall ;
yet, were it in my power to go back, I would not. Oh,
my friend, to expire in such torments ! to die amidst
curses and execrations ! to bear the insults of an exas-
perated mob ! to be exposed to all the mortifications of
shame and infamy ! who can reflect without horror on
such a doom ? Let me then exult in my exchange. I
have sold distant and uncertain happiness for present and
secure. I have preserved a life, which otherwise I had
lost in torture ; and I have obtained the power of pro-
curing every bliss which can make that life delicious !
The infernal spirits obey me as their sovereign ; by their
aid shall my days be passed in every refinement of luxury
and voluptuousness. I will enjoy unrestrained the gratifi-

CHAPTER XII 345

cation of my senses ; every passion shall be indulged even
to satiety ; then will I bid my servants invent new pleasures,
to revive and stimulate my glutted appetites ! I go im-
patient to exercise my newly-gained dominion : I pant to
be at liberty. Nothing should hold me one moment longer
in this abhorred abode, but the hope of persuading you to
follow my example. Ambrosio, I still love you ; our
mutual guilt and danger have rendered you dearer to
me than ever, and I would fain save you from impending
destruction. Summon then your resolution to your aid,
and renounce for immediate and certain benefits the hopes
of a salvation difficult to obtain, and perhaps altogether
erroneous. Shake off the prejudice of vulgar souls ;
abandon a God who has abandoned you, and raise yourself
to the level of superior beings ! '

She paused for the monk's reply : he shuddered while
he gave it.

'Matilda', he said, after a long silence, in a low and
unsteady voice, ' what price gave you for liberty ? '

She answered him firm and dauntless.

' AmbrosiOjjt \ras-iny -seal ! '

' Wretched woman ! What have you done ? Pass but
a few years, and how dreadful will be your sufferings ! '

'Weak man! Pass but this night, and how dreadful
will be your own ! po you remember what you have
already endured ? to-morrow you must bear torments
doubly exquisite. Do you remember the horrors of a fiery
punishment ? In two days you must be led a victim to the
stake ! What then will become of you ? Still dare you
hope for pardon ? Still are you beguiled with visions of
salvation ? Think upon your crimes ! Think upon your
lust, your perjury, inhumanity, and hypocrisy! Think
upon the innocent blood which cries to the throne of God
for vengeance ! and then hope for mercy — then dream of
heaven, and sigh for worlds of light, and realms of peace
and pleasure ! Absurd ! Open your eyes, Ambrosio, and
be prudent. Hell is your lot ; you are doomed to eternal
perdition; nought lies beyond your grave, but a gulf of
devouring flames. And will you then speed towards that
hell ? Will you clasp that perdition in your, arms ere 'tis
needful? Will you plunge into those flames while you
still have the power to shun them? 'Tis a madman's
action. No, no, Ambrosio, let us for a while fly from

346 THE MONK

Divine vengeance. Be advised by me ; purchase, by one
moment's courage, the bliss of years ; enjoy the present,
and forget that a future lags behind.'

' Matilda, your coansels are dangerous ; I dare not, I will
not follow them; /l must not give up my claim to salva-
tion. Monstrous are my crimes ; but God is merciful, and
I will not despair of pardon^?

' Is such your resolution ? I have no more to say. I
speed to joy and liberty, and abandon you to death and
eternal torments ! '

'Yet stay one moment, Matilda! You command the
infernal demons : you can force open these prison-doors ; you
can release me from these chains which weigh me down.
Save me, I conjure you, and bear me from these fearful
abodes ! '

'You ask the only boon beyond my power to bestow.
I am forbidden to assist a churchman and a partisan of
God. Renounce those titles, and command me.'

' I will not sell my soul to perdition.'

' Persist in your obstinacy, till you find yourself at the
stake: then will you repent your error, and sigh for
escape when the moment is gone by. I quit you. Yet
ere the hour of death arrives, should wisdom enlighten
you, listen to the means of repairing your present fault.
I leave with you this book. Read the four first lines of
the seventh page backwards. The spirit, whom you have
already once beheld, will immediately appear to you. If
you are wise, we shall meet again; if not, farewell for
ever ! '

She let the book fall upon the ground. A cloud of blue
fire wrapped itself round her. She waved her hand to
Ambrosio, and disappeared. The momentary glare which
the flames poured through the dungeon, on dissipating
suddenly, seemed to have increased its natural gloom.
The solitary lamp scarcely gave light sufficient to guide
the monk to a chair. He threw himself into his seat,
folded his arms, and, leaning his head upon the table,
sank into reflections perplexing and unconnected.

He was still in this attitude, when the opening of the
prison-door roused him from his stupor. He was sum-
moned to appear before the grand inquisitor. He rose, and
followed his gaoler with painful steps. He was led into
the same hall, placed before the same examiners, and was

CHAPTER XII 347

again interrogated whether he would confess. He replied as
before, that, having no crimes, he could acknowledge none.
But when the executioners prepared to put him to the ques-
tion, when he saw the engines of torture, and remembered
the pangs which they had already inflicted, his resolution
failed him entirely. Forgetting the consequences, and only
anxious to escape the terrors of the present moment, he
made an ample confession. He disclosed every circum-
stance of his guilt, and owned not merely the crimes with
which he was charged, but those of which he had never
been suspected. Being interrogated as to Matilda's flight,
which had created much confusion, he confessed that she
had sold herself to Satan, and that she was indebted to
sorcery for her escape. He still assured his judges, that
for his own part he had never entered into any compact
with the infernal spirits ; but the threat of being tortured
made him declare himself to be a sorcerer and heretic, and
whatever other title the inquisitors chose to fix upon him.
In consequence of this avowal, his sentence was immediately
pronounced. He was ordered to prepare himself to perish
in the auto da fe, which was to be solemnized at twelve
o'clock that night. This hour was chosen, from the idea,
that the horror of the flames being heightened by the
gloom of midnight, the execution would have a greater
effect upon the mind of the people.

Ambrosio, rather dead than alive, was left alone in his
dungeon. The moment in which this terrible decree was
pronounced had nearly proved that of his dissolution. He
looked forward to the morrow with despair, and his terrors
increased with the approach of midnight. Sometimes he
was buried in gloomy silence ; at others he raved with
delirious passion, wrung his hands, and cursed the hour
when he first beheld the light. In one of these moments
his eye rested upon Matilda's mysterious gift. His trans-
ports of rage were instantly suspended. He looked
earnestly at the book ; he took it up, but immediately
threw it from him with horror. He walked rapidly up
and down his dungeon — then stopped, and again fixed his
eyes on the spot where the book had fallen. He reflected
that here at least was a resource from the fate which he
dreaded. He stooped, and took it up a second time. He
remained for some time trembling and irresolute ; he
longed to try the charm, yet feared its consequences. The

348 THE MONK

recollection of his sentence at length fixed his indecision.
He opened the volume; but his agitation was so great,
that he at first sought in vain for the page mentioned by
Matilda. Ashamed of himself, he called all his courage to
his aid. He turned to the seventh leaf: he began to read
it aloud ; but his eyes frequently wandered from the book,
while he anxiously cast them round in search of the spirit,
whom he wished, yet dreaded to behold. Still he persisted
in his design ; and with a voice unassured, and frequent
interruptions, he contrived to finish the four first lines of
the page.

They were in a language whose import was totally
unknown to him. Scarce had he pronounced the last
word, when the effects of the charm were evident. A loud
burst of thunder was heard, the prison shook to its very
foundations, a blaze of lightning flashed through the cell,
and in the next moment, borne upon sulphurous whirlwinds,
Lucifer stood before him a second time. But he came not
as when, at Matilda's summons, he borrowed the seraph's
form to deceive Ambrosio. He appeared in all that ugli-
ness which, since his fall from heaven, had been his portion.
His blasted limbs still bore marks of the Almighty's
thunder. A swarthy darkness spread itself over his
gigantic form : his hands and feet were armed with long
talons. Fury glared in his eyes, which might have struck
the bravest heart with terror. Over his huge shoulders
waved two enormous sable wings ; and his hair was supplied
by living snakes, which twined themselves round his brows
with frightful hissings. In one hand he held a roll of
parchment, and in the other an iron pen. Still the
lightning flashed around him, and the thunder with
repeated bursts seemed to announce the dissolution of
Nature.

Terrified at an apparition so different from what he
had expected, Ambrosio remained gazing upon the fiend,
deprived of the power of utterance. The thunder had
ceased to roll : universal silence reigned through the
dungeon.

' For what am I summoned hither ? ' said the demon, in
a voice which sulphurous fogs had damped to hoarseness.

At the sound, Nature seemed to tremble. A violent
earthquake rocked the ground, accompanied by a fresh
burst of thunder, louder and more appalling than the first.

CHAPTER XII 349

Ambrosio was long unable to answer the demon's
demand.

'I am condemned to die', he said with a faint voice,
his blood running cold while he gazed upon his dreadful
visitor. ' Save me ! bear me from hence ! '

' Shall the reward of my services be paid me ? Dare
you embrace my cause ? Will you be mine, body and soul ?
Are you prepared to renounce Him who made you, and Him
who died for you ? Answer but ' Yes ! ' and Lucifer is -
your slave."

' Will no less price content you ? Can nothing satisfy
you but my eternal ruin ? Spirit, you ask too much Yet
convey me from this dungeon — be my servant for one
hour, and I will be yours for a thousand years. Will not
this offer suffice ? '

' It will not. I must have your soul — must have it
mine, and mine for ever.'

' Insatiate demon ! I will not doom myself to endless
torments ; I will not give up my hopes of being one day
pardoned.'

' You will not ! On what chimera rest, then, your hopes ?
Short-sighted mortal ! Miserable wretch ! Are you not
guilty ? Are you not infamous in the eyes of men and
angels ? Can such enormous sins be forgiven ? Hope
you to escape my power ? Your fate is already pronounced.
The eternal has abandoned you. Mine you are marked in
the book of destiny, and mine you must and shall be.'

' Fiend ! 'tis false ! Infinite is the Almighty's mercy,
and the penitent shall meet His forgiveness. My crimes
are monstrous, but I will not despair of pardon. Haply,
when they have received due chastisement — '

' Chastisement ! Was purgatory meant for guilt like
yours ? Hope you that your offences shall be bought off
by pi'ayers of superstitious dotards and droning monks ?
Ambrosio, be wise. Mine you must be. You are doomed
to flames, but may shun them for the present. Sign this
parchment: I will bear you from hence, and you may
pass your remaining years in bliss and liberty. Enjoy
your existence: indulge in every pleasure to which
appetite may lead you. But from the moment that it
quits your body, remember that your soul belongs to me,
and that I will not be defrauded of my right.'

The monk was silent : but his looks declared that the

350 THE MONK

tempter's words were not thrown away. He reflected on
the conditions proposed with horror. On the other hand,
he believed himself doomed to perdition, and that, by-
refusing the demon's succour, he only hastened tortures
which he never could escape. The fiend saw that his
resolution was shaken. He renewed his instances, and
endeavoured to fix the abbot's indecision. He described
the agonies of death in the most terrific colours ; and he
worked so powerfully upon Ambrosio's despair and fears,
that he prevailed upon him to receive the parchment.
He then struck the iron pen which he held into a vein of
the monk's left hand. It pierced deep, and was instantly
filled with blood : yet Ambrosio felt no pain from the
wound. The pen was put into his hand : it trembled.
The wretch placed the parchment on the table before him,
and prepared to sign it. Suddenly he held his hand : he
started away hastily, and threw the pen upon the table.

'What am I doing?' he cried. Then turning to the
fiend with a desperate air : ' Leave me ! Begone ! I will
not sign the parchment.'

' Fool ! ' exclaimed the disappointed demon, darting
looks so furious as penetrated the friar's soul with horror.
' Thus am I trifled with ? Go, then ! Rave in agony,
expire in tortures, and then learn the extent of the
Eternal's mercy ! But beware how you make me again
your mock ! Call me no more, till resolved to accept my
offers. Summon me a second time to dismiss me thus idly,
and these talons shall rend you into a thousand pieces.
Speak yet again : will you sign the parchment ? '

' I will not. Leave me. Away ! '

Instantly the thunder was heard to roll horribly ; once
more the earth trembled with violence : the dungeon
resounded with loud shrieks, and the demon fled with
blasphemy and curses.

At first the monk rejoiced at having resisted the
seducer's arts, and obtained a triumph over mankind's
enemy ; but as the hour of punishment drew near, his
former terrors revived in his heart ; their momentary
repose seemed to have given them fresh vigour ; the
nearer that the time approached, the more did he dread
appearing before the throne of God: he shuddered to
think how soon he must be plunged into eternity — how
soon meet the eyes of his Creator, whom he had so

CHAPTER XII 3Si

grievously offended. The bell announced midnight: it
was the signal for being led to the stake. As he listened
to the first stroke, the blood ceased to circulate in the
abbot's veins; he heard death and torture murmured in
each succeeding sound: he expected to see the archers
entering his prison: and as the bell forbore to toll, he
seized the magic volume in a fit of despair. He opened it,
turned hastily to the seventh page, and as if fearing to
allow himself a moment's thought, ran over the fatal lines
with rapidity.

Accompanied by his former terrors, Lucifer again stood
before the trembler.

'You have summoned me', said the fiend. 'Are you
determined to be wise ? Will you accept my conditions ?
You know them already. Renounce your claim to
salvation, make over to me your soul, and I bear you from
this dungeon instantly. Yet is it time. Resolve, or it
will be too late. Will you sign the parchment ? '

' I must — Fate urges me — I accept yourjjpnditions.' ^

' Sign the parchment ', replied the demon, in an exulting
tone.

The contract and the bloody pen still lay upon the table.
Ambrosio drew near it. He prepared to sign his name. A
moment's reflection made him hesitate.

' Hark ! ' cried the tempter ; ' they come — be quick. Sign
the parchment, and I bear you from hence this moment.'

In effect, the archers were heard approaching, appointed
to lead Ambrosio to the stake. The sound encouraged the
monk in his resolution. 'What is the import of this
writing ? ' said he.

'It makes your soul over to me for ever, and without
reserve.'

' What am I to receive in exchange ? '

' My protection, and release from this dungeon. Sign it,
and this instant I bear you away.'

Ambrosio took up the pen. He set it to the parchment.
Again his courage failed him ; he felt a pang of terrors
at his heart, and once more threw the pen upon the table.

' Weak and puerile ! ' cried the exasperated fiend. ' Away
with this folly ! Sign the writing this instant, or I sacrifice
you to my rage.'

At this moment the bolt of the outward door was drawn
back. The prisoner heard the rattling of chains : the heavy

352 THE MONK

bar fell ; the archers were on the point of entering. Worked
up to frenzy by the urgent danger, shrinking from the
approach of death, terrified by the demon's threats, and
seeing no other means to escape destruction, the wretched
monk complied. He signed the fatal contract, and gave it
hastily into the evil spirit's hands, whose eyes, as he received
the gift, glared with malicious rapture.

' Take it ! ' said the God-abandoned man. ' Now then,
save me ! snatch me from hence ! '

' Hold ! Do you freely and absolutely renounce your
Creator and His Son?'
'I do! I do!'

' Do you make over your soul to me for ever ? '
' For ever ! '

' Without reserve or subterfuge ? without future appeal
to the Divine Mercy ? '

The last chain fell from the door of the prison. The
key was heard turning in the lock. Already the iron door
grated heavily upon its rusty hinges.

' I am yours for ever, and irrevocably ! ' cried the monk,
wild with terror ; ' I abandon all claim to salvation. I own
no power but yours. Hark ! hark ! they come ! Oh
save me ! bear me away ! '

' I have triumphed ! You are mine past reprieve, and I
fulfil my promise.'

While he spoke, the door unclosed. Instantly the demon
grasped one of Ambrosio's arms, spread his broad pinions,
and sprang with him into the air. The roof opened as they
soared upwards, and closed again when they had quitted
the dungeon.

In the meanwhile, the gaoler was thrown into the utmost
surprise by the disappearance of his prisoner. Though
neither he nor the archers were in time to witness the
monk's escape, a sulphurous smell prevailing through the
prison sufficiently informed them by whose aid he had
been liberated. They hastened to make their report to the
grand inquisitor. The story, how a sorcerer had been
carried away by the Devil, was soon noised about Madrid ;
and for some days the whole city was employed in discuss-
ing the subject. Gradually it ceased to be the topic of
conversation. Other adventures arose, whose novelty
engaged universal attention, and Ambrosio was soon for-
gotten as totally as if he never had existed. While this

CHAPTER XII 3S3

was passing, the monk, supported by his infernal guide,
traversed the air with the rapidity of an arrow, and a few
moments^placed him upon a precipice's brink, the steepest
in SierraliIorena>v.

Though rescued fr$Jm the Inquisition, Ambrosio as yet was
insensible of the blessings of liberty. The damning contract
weighed heavy upon his mind ; and the scenes in which he
had been a principal actor had left behind them such
impressions as rendered his heart the seat of anarchy and
confusion. The objects now before his eyes, and which the *
full moon sailing through clouds permitted him to examine, \
were ill calculated to inspire that calm of which he stood
so much in need. The disorder of his imagination was
increased by the wildness of the surrounding scenery — by
the gloomy caverns and steep rocks, rising above each other,
and dividing the passing clouds ; solitary clusters of trees,
scattered here and there, among whose thick -twined *
branches the wind of night sighed hoarsely and mourn-
fully ; the shrill cry of mountain eagles, who had built
their nests among these lonely deserts ; the stunning roar
of torrents, as swelled by late rains they rushed violently
down tremendous precipices, and the dark waters of a
silent sluggish stream, which faintly reflected the moon-
beams, and bathed the rock's base on which Ambrosio
stood. The abbot cast round him a look of terror.
His infernal conductor was still by his side, and eyed
him with a look of mingled malice, exultation, and
contempt.

' Whither have you brought me ? ' said the monk at
length, in a hollow, trembling voice. ' Why am I placed
in this melancholy scene ? Bear me from it quickly !
Carry me to Matilda ! '

The fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in
silence. Ambrosio could not sustain his glance ; he turned
away his eyes, while thus spoke the demon :

' I have him then in my power ! This model of piety !
thi3 being without reproach ! this mortal who placed his
puny virtues on a level with those of angels ! He is mine
irrevocably, eternally mine ! Companions of my suffer-
ings ! denizens of hell ! how grateful will be my present ! '

He paused — then addressed himself to the monk :
' Carry you to Matilda I ' he continued, repeating
Ambrosio's words: 'Wretch! you shall soon be with

354 THE MONK

her ! You well deserve a place near her, for 'hell boasts
no miscreant more guilty than yourself. Hark, Ambrosio !
while I unveil your crimes ! You have shed the blood of
two innocents ; Antonia and Elvira perished by your
i hand. That Antonia whom you violated was your sister !
| that Elvira^— _whom — ■you-.aMtfdeyed-'- 'gav&^'you -bisthj
j Tremble, abandoned hypocrite, inhuman parricide, in-
i cestuous ravisher ! Tremble at the extent of your
j offences ! And you it was who thought yourself proof
i against temptation, absolved from human frailties, and
free from error and vice ! Is pride, then, a virtue ? Is
inhumanity no fault ? Know, vain man ! that I long have
marked you^f or my prey : I watched the movements of
your heart ;(l saw that you were virtuous from vanity,
not principle^and I seized the fit moment of seductfon.
I observed yolir blind idolatry of the Madonna's picture.^ I
bade a subordinate but crafty spirit assume a similar form,
and you eagerly yielded to the blandishments of MatildaS
Your pride was gratified by her flattery ; your lust only
needed an opportunity to break forth ; you ran into the
snare blindly, and scrupled not to commit a crime which
you blamed in another with unfeeling severity. It was I
who threw Matilda in your way ; it was I who gave you
entrance to Antonia's chamber ; it was I who caused the
dagger to be given you which pierced your sister's bosom,
and it was I who warned Elvira in dreams of your designs
upon her daughter, and thus, by preventing your profiting
by her sleep, compelled you to add rape as well as incest to
ihe catalogue of your crimes. Hear, hear, Ambrosio!
N^Had you resisted me one minute longer, you had saved
1 your body and soul. The guards whom youheard at your
, prison-door came to signify your pardon^ But I had
1 already triumphed : my plots had already succeeded.
Scarcely could I propose crimes so quick as you per-
formed them. You are mine, and Heaven itself cannot
rescue you from my power. Hope not that your penitence
will make void our contract. Here is your bond signed
with your blood ; you have given up your claim to mercy,
and nothing can restore to you the rights which you have
foolishly resigned. Believe you that your secret thoughts
escaped me ? No, no— I read them all ! You trusted that
you should still have time for repentance. I saw your
artifice, knew its falsity, and rejoiced in deceiving the

CHAPTER XII 355

deceiver ! You are mine Jbeyond reprieve : I burn
to possess ,.my right, and( alive you quit not these
mountains.' j ^

During the demon's speech, Ambrosio had been
stupefied by terror and surprise. This last declaration
roused him.

' Not quit these mountains alive ! ' he exclaimed.
* Perfidious ! what mean you ? Have you forgotten our
contract?'

The fiend answered by a malicious laugh,

* Our contract ! Have I not performed my part ? What
more did I promise than to save you from your prison ?
Have I not done so ? Are you not safe from the Inquisi-
tion — safe from all but from me ? Fool that you were, to
confide yourself to a devil ! Why did you not stipulate
for life, and power, and pleasure ? — then all would have
been granted : now, your reflections come too late.
Miscreant ! prepare for death ; you have not many hours
to live ! '

On hearing this sentence, dreadful were the feelings of
the devoted wretch ! He sank upon his knees, and raised
his hands towards heaven.

The fiend read his intention, and prevented it. ' What ! '
he cried, darting at him a look of fury ; ' dare you still
implore the Eternal's mercy ? Would you feign penitence,
and again act an hypocrite's part ? Villain ! resign your
hopes of pardon. Thus I secure my prey.'

As he said this, darting his talons into the monk's shaven
crown, he sprang with him from the rock. The caves and
mountains rang with Ambrosio's shrieks. The demon
continued to soar aloft, till reaching a dreadful height, he
released the sufferer. Headlong fell the monk through the
airy waste : the sharp point of rock received him, and he
rolled from precipice to precipice, till, bruised and mangled,
he rested on the river's banks. Instantly a violent storm
arose : the winds in fury rent up rocks and forests : the
sky was now black with clouds, now sheeted with fire :
the rain fell in torrents ; it swelled the stream ; the waves
overflowed their banks; they reached the spot where
Ambrosio lay, and, when they abated, carried with them
into the river the corpse of the despairing monk.

356 THE MONK

Haughty lady, why shrunk you back when yon poor
frail one drew near ? Was the air infected by her errors ?
Was your purity soiled by her passing breath ? Ah, lady !
smooth that insulting brow : stifle the reproach just burst-
ing from your scornful lip : wound not a soul that bleeds
already ! She has suffered, suffers still. Her air is gay,
but her heart is broken ; her dress sparkles, but her bosom
groans.

- Lady, to look with mercy on the conduct of others is a
virtue no less than to look with severity on your own.

FINIS

Printed by Cowan Sf Co. , Limited, Perth.