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Title: The Monk: A Romance

Author: M. G. Lewis

Release date: July 1, 1996 [eBook #601]
Most recently updated: August 5, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/601

Credits: Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MONK: A
ROMANCE ***

The Monk:
A Romance

by M. G. Lewis, Esq. M.P.

Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas,
Nocturnos lemures, portentaque.

HORAT.

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

Contents

PREFACE
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.

PREFACE

IMITATION OF HORACE
Ep. 20.—B. 1.
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 port-folio,
You scorn the prudent lock and key,
And pant well bound and gilt to see
Your Volume in the window set
Of Stockdale, Hookham, or Debrett.

Go then, and pass that dangerous bourn
Whence never Book can back return:
And when you find, condemned, despised,
Neglected, blamed, and criticised,
Abuse from All who read you fall,
(If haply you be read at all
Sorely will you your folly sigh at,
And wish for me, and home, and quiet.

Assuming now a conjuror’s office, I
Thus on your future Fortune prophesy:—
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 Book-worm’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
Respecting me and my condition;
That I am one, the enquirer 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 judgements 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 aera
That Friendship is a pure chimaera:
More passionate no creature living,
Proud, obstinate, and unforgiving,
But yet for those who kindness show,
Ready through fire and smoke to go.

Again, should it be asked your page,
“Pray, what may be the author’s age?”
Your faults, no doubt, will make it clear,
I scarce have seen my twentieth year,
Which passed, kind Reader, on my word,
While England’s Throne held George the Third.

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

M. G. L.

Hague,
Oct. 28, 1794.

ADVERTISEMENT
The first idea of this Romance was suggested by the story of the Santon
Barsisa, related in The Guardian.—The 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.

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.

Scarcely had the Abbey Bell tolled for five minutes, and already was the
Church of the Capuchins thronged with Auditors. Do not encourage the idea
that the Crowd was assembled either from motives of piety or thirst of
information. But very few were influenced by those reasons; and in a city
where superstition reigns with such despotic sway as in Madrid, to seek for
true devotion would be a fruitless attempt. The Audience now assembled in
the Capuchin Church was collected by various causes, but all of them were
foreign to the ostensible motive. The Women came to show themselves, the
Men to see the Women: Some were attracted by curiosity to hear an Orator
so celebrated; Some came because they had no better means of employing
their time till the play began; Some, from being assured that it would be
impossible to find places in the Church; and one half of Madrid was
brought thither by expecting to meet the other half. The only persons truly
anxious to hear the Preacher were a few antiquated devotees, and half a
dozen rival Orators, determined to find fault with and ridicule the discourse.
As to the remainder of the Audience, the Sermon might have been omitted
altogether, certainly without their being disappointed, and very probably
without their perceiving the omission.
Whatever was the occasion, it is at least certain that the Capuchin Church
had never witnessed a more numerous assembly. Every corner was filled,
every seat was occupied. The very Statues which ornamented the long aisles
were pressed into the service. Boys suspended themselves upon the wings
of Cherubims; St. Francis and St. Mark bore each a spectator on his

shoulders; and St. Agatha found herself under the necessity of carrying
double. The consequence was, that in spite of all their hurry and expedition,
our two newcomers, on entering the Church, looked round in vain for
places.
However, the old Woman continued to move forwards. In vain were
exclamations of displeasure vented against her from all sides: In vain was
She addressed with—“I assure you, Segnora, there are no places here.”—“I
beg, Segnora, that you will not crowd me so intolerably!”—“Segnora, you
cannot pass this way. Bless me! How can people be so troublesome!”—The
old Woman was obstinate, and on She went. By dint of perseverance and
two brawny arms She made a passage through the Crowd, and managed to
bustle herself into the very body of the Church, at no great distance from
the Pulpit. Her companion had followed her with timidity and in silence,
profiting by the exertions of her conductress.
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed the old Woman in a tone of disappointment,
while She threw a glance of enquiry round her; “Holy Virgin! What heat!
What a Crowd! I wonder what can be the meaning of all this. I believe we
must return: There is no such thing as a seat to be had, and nobody seems
kind enough to accommodate us with theirs.”
This broad hint attracted the notice of two Cavaliers, who occupied stools
on the right hand, and were leaning their backs against the seventh column
from the Pulpit. Both were young, and richly habited. Hearing this appeal to
their politeness pronounced in a female voice, they interrupted their
conversation to look at the speaker. She had thrown up her veil in order to
take a clearer look round the Cathedral. Her hair was red, and She squinted.
The Cavaliers turned round, and renewed their conversation.
“By all means,” replied the old Woman’s companion; “By all means,
Leonella, let us return home immediately; The heat is excessive, and I am
terrified at such a crowd.”
These words were pronounced in a tone of unexampled sweetness. The
Cavaliers again broke off their discourse, but for this time they were not
contented with looking up: Both started involuntarily from their seats, and
turned themselves towards the Speaker.
The voice came from a female, the delicacy and elegance of whose figure
inspired the Youths with the most lively curiosity to view the face to which
it belonged. This satisfaction was denied them. Her features were hidden by

a thick veil; But struggling through the crowd had deranged it sufficiently to
discover a neck which for symmetry and beauty might have vied with the
Medicean Venus. It was of the most dazzling whiteness, and received
additional charms from being shaded by the tresses of her long fair hair,
which descended in ringlets to her waist. Her figure was rather below than
above the middle size: It was light and airy as that of an Hamadryad. Her
bosom was carefully veiled. Her dress was white; it was fastened by a blue
sash, and just permitted to peep out from under it a little foot of the most
delicate proportions. A chaplet of large grains hung upon her arm, and her
face was covered with a veil of thick black gauze. Such was the female, to
whom the youngest of the Cavaliers now offered his seat, while the other
thought it necessary to pay the same attention to her companion.
The old Lady with many expressions of gratitude, but without much
difficulty, accepted the offer, and seated herself: The young one followed
her example, but made no other compliment than a simple and graceful
reverence. Don Lorenzo (such was the Cavalier’s name, whose seat She had
accepted) placed himself near her; But first He whispered a few words in
his Friend’s ear, who immediately took the hint, and endeavoured to draw
off the old Woman’s attention from her lovely charge.
“You are doubtless lately arrived at Madrid,” said Lorenzo to his fair
Neighbour; “It is impossible that such charms should have long remained
unobserved; and had not this been your first public appearance, the envy of
the Women and adoration of the Men would have rendered you already
sufficiently remarkable.”
He paused, in expectation of an answer. As his speech did not absolutely
require one, the Lady did not open her lips: After a few moments He
resumed his discourse:
“Am I wrong in supposing you to be a Stranger to Madrid?”
The Lady hesitated; and at last, in so low a voice as to be scarcely
intelligible, She made shift to answer,—“No, Segnor.”
“Do you intend making a stay of any length?”
“Yes, Segnor.”
“I should esteem myself fortunate, were it in my power to contribute to
making your abode agreeable. I am well known at Madrid, and my Family
has some interest at Court. If I can be of any service, you cannot honour or

oblige me more than by permitting me to be of use to you.”—“Surely,” said
He to himself, “She cannot answer that by a monosyllable; now She must
say something to me.”
Lorenzo was deceived, for the Lady answered only by a bow.
By this time He had discovered that his Neighbour was not very
conversible; But whether her silence proceeded from pride, discretion,
timidity, or idiotism, He was still unable to decide.
After a pause of some minutes—“It is certainly from your being a
Stranger,” said He, “and as yet unacquainted with our customs, that you
continue to wear your veil. Permit me to remove it.”
At the same time He advanced his hand towards the Gauze: The Lady
raised hers to prevent him.
“I never unveil in public, Segnor.”
“And where is the harm, I pray you?” interrupted her Companion
somewhat sharply; “Do not you see that the other Ladies have all laid their
veils aside, to do honour no doubt to the holy place in which we are? I have
taken off mine already; and surely if I expose my features to general
observation, you have no cause to put yourself in such a wonderful alarm!
Blessed Maria! Here is a fuss and a bustle about a chit’s face! Come, come,
Child! Uncover it; I warrant you that nobody will run away with it from you
—”
“Dear aunt, it is not the custom in Murcia.”
“Murcia, indeed! Holy St. Barbara, what does that signify? You are
always putting me in mind of that villainous Province. If it is the custom in
Madrid, that is all that we ought to mind, and therefore I desire you to take
off your veil immediately. Obey me this moment Antonia, for you know
that I cannot bear contradiction—”
Her niece was silent, but made no further opposition to Don Lorenzo’s
efforts, who, armed with the Aunt’s sanction hastened to remove the Gauze.
What a Seraph’s head presented itself to his admiration! Yet it was rather
bewitching than beautiful; It was not so lovely from regularity of features as
from sweetness and sensibility of Countenance. The several parts of her
face considered separately, many of them were far from handsome; but
when examined together, the whole was adorable. Her skin though fair was
not entirely without freckles; Her eyes were not very large, nor their lashes

particularly long. But then her lips were of the most rosy freshness; Her fair
and undulating hair, confined by a simple ribband, poured itself below her
waist in a profusion of ringlets; Her throat was full and beautiful in the
extreme; Her hand and arm were formed with the most perfect symmetry;
Her mild blue eyes seemed an heaven of sweetness, and the crystal in which
they moved sparkled with all the brilliance of Diamonds: She appeared to
be scarcely fifteen; An arch smile, playing round her mouth, declared her to
be possessed of liveliness, which excess of timidity at present represt; She
looked round her with a bashful glance; and whenever her eyes accidentally
met Lorenzo’s, She dropt them hastily upon her Rosary; Her cheek was
immediately suffused with blushes, and She began to tell her beads; though
her manner evidently showed that She knew not what She was about.
Lorenzo gazed upon her with mingled surprise and admiration; but the
Aunt thought it necessary to apologize for Antonia’s mauvaise honte.
“’Tis a young Creature,” said She, “who is totally ignorant of the world.
She has been brought up in an old Castle in Murcia; with no other Society
than her Mother’s, who, God help her! has no more sense, good Soul, than
is necessary to carry her Soup to her mouth. Yet She is my own Sister, both
by Father and Mother.”
“And has so little sense?” said Don Christoval with feigned
astonishment; “How very Extraordinary!”
“Very true, Segnor; Is it not strange? However, such is the fact; and yet
only to see the luck of some people! A young Nobleman, of the very first
quality, took it into his head that Elvira had some pretensions to Beauty—
As to pretensions, in truth, She had always enough of THEM; But as to
Beauty....! If I had only taken half the pains to set myself off which She
did....! But this is neither here nor there. As I was saying, Segnor, a young
Nobleman fell in love with her, and married her unknown to his Father.
Their union remained a secret near three years, But at last it came to the
ears of the old Marquis, who, as you may well suppose, was not much
pleased with the intelligence. Away He posted in all haste to Cordova,
determined to seize Elvira, and send her away to some place or other, where
She would never be heard of more. Holy St. Paul! How He stormed on
finding that She had escaped him, had joined her Husband, and that they
had embarked together for the Indies. He swore at us all, as if the Evil Spirit
had possessed him; He threw my Father into prison, as honest a painstaking

Shoe-maker as any in Cordova; and when He went away, He had the cruelty
to take from us my Sister’s little Boy, then scarcely two years old, and
whom in the abruptness of her flight, She had been obliged to leave behind
her. I suppose, that the poor little Wretch met with bitter bad treatment from
him, for in a few months after, we received intelligence of his death.”
“Why, this was a most terrible old Fellow, Segnora!”
“Oh! shocking! and a Man so totally devoid of taste! Why, would you
believe it, Segnor? When I attempted to pacify him, He cursed me for a
Witch, and wished that to punish the Count, my Sister might become as
ugly as myself! Ugly indeed! I like him for that.”
“Ridiculous”, cried Don Christoval; “Doubtless the Count would have
thought himself fortunate, had he been permitted to exchange the one Sister
for the other.”
“Oh! Christ! Segnor, you are really too polite. However, I am heartily
glad that the Condé was of a different way of thinking. A mighty pretty
piece of business, to be sure, Elvira has made of it! After broiling and
stewing in the Indies for thirteen long years, her Husband dies, and She
returns to Spain, without an House to hide her head, or money to procure
her one! This Antonia was then but an Infant, and her only remaining Child.
She found that her Father-in-Law had married again, that he was
irreconcileable to the Condé, and that his second Wife had produced him a
Son, who is reported to be a very fine young Man. The old Marquis refused
to see my Sister or her Child; But sent her word that on condition of never
hearing any more of her, He would assign her a small pension, and She
might live in an old Castle which He possessed in Murcia; This had been
the favourite habitation of his eldest Son; But since his flight from Spain,
the old Marquis could not bear the place, but let it fall to ruin and confusion
—My Sister accepted the proposal; She retired to Murcia, and has remained
there till within the last Month.”
“And what brings her now to Madrid?” enquired Don Lorenzo, whom
admiration of the young Antonia compelled to take a lively interest in the
talkative old Woman’s narration.
“Alas! Segnor, her Father-in-Law being lately dead, the Steward of his
Murcian Estates has refused to pay her pension any longer.
With the design of supplicating his Son to renew it, She is now come to
Madrid; But I doubt, that She might have saved herself the trouble! You

young Noblemen have always enough to do with your money, and are not
very often disposed to throw it away upon old Women. I advised my Sister
to send Antonia with her petition; But She would not hear of such a thing.
She is so obstinate! Well! She will find herself the worse for not following
my counsels: the Girl has a good pretty face, and possibly might have done
much.”
“Ah! Segnora,” interrupted Don Christoval, counterfeiting a passionate
air; “If a pretty face will do the business, why has not your Sister recourse
to you?”
“Oh! Jesus! my Lord, I swear you quite overpower me with your
gallantry! But I promise you that I am too well aware of the danger of such
Expeditions to trust myself in a young Nobleman’s power! No, no; I have as
yet preserved my reputation without blemish or reproach, and I always
knew how to keep the Men at a proper distance.”
“Of that, Segnora, I have not the least doubt. But permit me to ask you;
Have you then any aversion to Matrimony?”
“That is an home question. I cannot but confess, that if an amiable
Cavalier was to present himself....”
Here She intended to throw a tender and significant look upon Don
Christoval; But, as She unluckily happened to squint most abominably, the
glance fell directly upon his Companion: Lorenzo took the compliment to
himself, and answered it by a profound bow.
“May I enquire,” said He, “the name of the Marquis?”
“The Marquis de las Cisternas.”
“I know him intimately well. He is not at present in Madrid, but is
expected here daily. He is one of the best of Men; and if the lovely Antonia
will permit me to be her Advocate with him, I doubt not my being able to
make a favourable report of her cause.”
Antonia raised her blue eyes, and silently thanked him for the offer by a
smile of inexpressible sweetness. Leonella’s satisfaction was much more
loud and audible: Indeed, as her Niece was generally silent in her company,
She thought it incumbent upon her to talk enough for both: This She
managed without difficulty, for She very seldom found herself deficient in
words.

“Oh! Segnor!” She cried; “You will lay our whole family under the most
signal obligations! I accept your offer with all possible gratitude, and return
you a thousand thanks for the generosity of your proposal. Antonia, why do
not you speak, Child? While the Cavalier says all sorts of civil things to
you, you sit like a Statue, and never utter a syllable of thanks, either bad,
good, or indifferent!”
“My dear Aunt, I am very sensible that....”
“Fye, Niece! How often have I told you, that you never should interrupt a
Person who is speaking!? When did you ever know me do such a thing? Are
these your Murcian manners? Mercy on me! I shall never be able to make
this Girl any thing like a Person of good breeding. But pray, Segnor,” She
continued, addressing herself to Don Christoval, “inform me, why such a
Crowd is assembled today in this Cathedral?”
“Can you possibly be ignorant, that Ambrosio, Abbot of this Monastery,
pronounces a Sermon in this Church every Thursday? All Madrid rings with
his praises. As yet He has preached but thrice; But all who have heard him
are so delighted with his eloquence, that it is as difficult to obtain a place at
Church, as at the first representation of a new Comedy. His fame certainly
must have reached your ears—”
“Alas! Segnor, till yesterday I never had the good fortune to see Madrid;
and at Cordova we are so little informed of what is passing in the rest of the
world, that the name of Ambrosio has never been mentioned in its
precincts.”
“You will find it in every one’s mouth at Madrid. He seems to have
fascinated the Inhabitants; and not having attended his Sermons myself, I
am astonished at the Enthusiasm which He has excited. The adoration paid
him both by Young and Old, by Man and Woman is unexampled. The
Grandees load him with presents; Their Wives refuse to have any other
Confessor, and he is known through all the city by the name of the ‘Man of
Holiness’.”
“Undoubtedly, Segnor, He is of noble origin—”
“That point still remains undecided. The late Superior of the Capuchins
found him while yet an Infant at the Abbey door. All attempts to discover
who had left him there were vain, and the Child himself could give no
account of his Parents. He was educated in the Monastery, where He has
remained ever since. He early showed a strong inclination for study and

retirement, and as soon as He was of a proper age, He pronounced his vows.
No one has ever appeared to claim him, or clear up the mystery which
conceals his birth; and the Monks, who find their account in the favour
which is shewn to their establishment from respect to him, have not
hesitated to publish that He is a present to them from the Virgin. In truth the
singular austerity of his life gives some countenance to the report. He is
now thirty years old, every hour of which period has been passed in study,
total seclusion from the world, and mortification of the flesh. Till these last
three weeks, when He was chosen superior of the Society to which He
belongs, He had never been on the outside of the Abbey walls: Even now
He never quits them except on Thursdays, when He delivers a discourse in
this Cathedral which all Madrid assembles to hear. His knowledge is said to
be the most profound, his eloquence the most persuasive. In the whole
course of his life He has never been known to transgress a single rule of his
order; The smallest stain is not to be discovered upon his character; and He
is reported to be so strict an observer of Chastity, that He knows not in what
consists the difference of Man and Woman. The common People therefore
esteem him to be a Saint.”
“Does that make a Saint?” enquired Antonia; “Bless me! Then am I
one?”
“Holy St. Barbara!” exclaimed Leonella; “What a question! Fye, Child,
Fye! These are not fit subjects for young Women to handle. You should not
seem to remember that there is such a thing as a Man in the world, and you
ought to imagine every body to be of the same sex with yourself. I should
like to see you give people to understand, that you know that a Man has no
breasts, and no hips, and no ...”.
Luckily for Antonia’s ignorance which her Aunt’s lecture would soon
have dispelled, an universal murmur through the Church announced the
Preacher’s arrival. Donna Leonella rose from her seat to take a better view
of him, and Antonia followed her example.
He was a Man of noble port and commanding presence. His stature was
lofty, and his features uncommonly handsome. His Nose was aquiline, his
eyes large black and sparkling, and his dark brows almost joined together.
His complexion was of a deep but clear Brown; Study and watching had
entirely deprived his cheek of colour. Tranquillity reigned upon his smooth
unwrinkled forehead; and Content, expressed upon every feature, seemed to

announce the Man equally unacquainted with cares and crimes. He bowed
himself with humility to the audience: Still there was a certain severity in
his look and manner that inspired universal awe, and few could sustain the
glance of his eye at once fiery and penetrating. Such was Ambrosio, Abbot
of the Capuchins, and surnamed, “The Man of Holiness”.
Antonia, while She gazed upon him eagerly, felt a pleasure fluttering in
her bosom which till then had been unknown to her, and for which She in
vain endeavoured to account. She waited with impatience till the Sermon
should begin; and when at length the Friar spoke, the sound of his voice
seemed to penetrate into her very soul. Though no other of the Spectators
felt such violent sensations as did the young Antonia, yet every one listened
with interest and emotion. They who were insensible to Religion’s merits,
were still enchanted with Ambrosio’s oratory. All found their attention
irresistibly attracted while He spoke, and the most profound silence reigned
through the crowded Aisles.
Even Lorenzo could not resist the charm: He forgot that Antonia was
seated near him, and listened to the Preacher with undivided attention.
In language nervous, clear, and simple, the Monk expatiated on the
beauties of Religion. He explained some abstruse parts of the sacred
writings in a style that carried with it universal conviction. His voice at
once distinct and deep was fraught with all the terrors of the Tempest, while
He inveighed against the vices of humanity, and described the punishments
reserved for them in a future state. Every Hearer looked back upon his past
offences, and trembled: The Thunder seemed to roll, whose bolt was
destined to crush him, and the abyss of eternal destruction to open before
his feet. But when Ambrosio, changing his theme, spoke of the excellence
of an unsullied conscience, of the glorious prospect which Eternity
presented to the Soul untainted with reproach, and of the recompense which
awaited it in the regions of everlasting glory, His Auditors felt their
scattered spirits insensibly return. They threw themselves with confidence
upon the mercy of their Judge; They hung with delight upon the consoling
words of the Preacher; and while his full voice swelled into melody, They
were transported to those happy regions which He painted to their
imaginations in colours so brilliant and glowing.
The discourse was of considerable length; Yet when it concluded, the
Audience grieved that it had not lasted longer. Though the Monk had ceased

to speak, enthusiastic silence still prevailed through the Church: At length
the charm gradually dissolving, the general admiration was expressed in
audible terms. As Ambrosio descended from the Pulpit, His Auditors
crowded round him, loaded him with blessings, threw themselves at his
feet, and kissed the hem of his Garment. He passed on slowly with his
hands crossed devoutly upon his bosom, to the door opening into the Abbey
Chapel, at which his Monks waited to receive him. He ascended the Steps,
and then turning towards his Followers, addressed to them a few words of
gratitude, and exhortation. While He spoke, his Rosary, composed of large
grains of amber, fell from his hand, and dropped among the surrounding
multitude. It was seized eagerly, and immediately divided amidst the
Spectators. Whoever became possessor of a Bead, preserved it as a sacred
relique; and had it been the Chaplet of thrice-blessed St. Francis himself, it
could not have been disputed with greater vivacity. The Abbot, smiling at
their eagerness, pronounced his benediction, and quitted the Church, while
humility dwelt upon every feature. Dwelt She also in his heart?
Antonia’s eyes followed him with anxiety. As the Door closed after him,
it seemed to her as had she lost some one essential to her happiness. A tear
stole in silence down her cheek.
“He is separated from the world!” said She to herself; “Perhaps, I shall
never see him more!”
As she wiped away the tear, Lorenzo observed her action.
“Are you satisfied with our Orator?” said He; “Or do you think that
Madrid overrates his talents?”
Antonia’s heart was so filled with admiration for the Monk, that She
eagerly seized the opportunity of speaking of him: Besides, as She now no
longer considered Lorenzo as an absolute Stranger, She was less
embarrassed by her excessive timidity.
“Oh! He far exceeds all my expectations,” answered She; “Till this
moment I had no idea of the powers of eloquence. But when He spoke, his
voice inspired me with such interest, such esteem, I might almost say such
affection for him, that I am myself astonished at the acuteness of my
feelings.”
Lorenzo smiled at the strength of her expressions.

“You are young and just entering into life,” said He; “Your heart, new to
the world and full of warmth and sensibility, receives its first impressions
with eagerness. Artless yourself, you suspect not others of deceit; and
viewing the world through the medium of your own truth and innocence,
you fancy all who surround you to deserve your confidence and esteem.
What pity, that these gay visions must soon be dissipated! What pity, that
you must soon discover the baseness of mankind, and guard against your
fellow-creatures as against your Foes!”
“Alas! Segnor,” replied Antonia; “The misfortunes of my Parents have
already placed before me but too many sad examples of the perfidy of the
world! Yet surely in the present instance the warmth of sympathy cannot
have deceived me.”
“In the present instance, I allow that it has not. Ambrosio’s character is
perfectly without reproach; and a Man who has passed the whole of his life
within the walls of a Convent cannot have found the opportunity to be
guilty, even were He possessed of the inclination. But now, when, obliged
by the duties of his situation, He must enter occasionally into the world, and
be thrown into the way of temptation, it is now that it behoves him to show
the brilliance of his virtue. The trial is dangerous; He is just at that period of
life when the passions are most vigorous, unbridled, and despotic; His
established reputation will mark him out to Seduction as an illustrious
Victim; Novelty will give additional charms to the allurements of pleasure;
and even the Talents with which Nature has endowed him will contribute to
his ruin, by facilitating the means of obtaining his object. Very few would
return victorious from a contest so severe.”
“Ah! surely Ambrosio will be one of those few.”
“Of that I have myself no doubt: By all accounts He is an exception to
mankind in general, and Envy would seek in vain for a blot upon his
character.”
“Segnor, you delight me by this assurance! It encourages me to indulge
my prepossession in his favour; and you know not with what pain I should
have repressed the sentiment! Ah! dearest Aunt, entreat my Mother to
choose him for our Confessor.”
“I entreat her?” replied Leonella; “I promise you that I shall do no such
thing. I do not like this same Ambrosio in the least; He has a look of
severity about him that made me tremble from head to foot: Were He my

Confessor, I should never have the courage to avow one half of my
peccadilloes, and then I should be in a rare condition! I never saw such a
stern-looking Mortal, and hope that I never shall see such another. His
description of the Devil, God bless us! almost terrified me out of my wits,
and when He spoke about Sinners He seemed as if He was ready to eat
them.”
“You are right, Segnora,” answered Don Christoval; “Too great severity
is said to be Ambrosio’s only fault. Exempted himself from human failings,
He is not sufficiently indulgent to those of others; and though strictly just
and disinterested in his decisions, his government of the Monks has already
shown some proofs of his inflexibility. But the crowd is nearly dissipated:
Will you permit us to attend you home?”
“Oh! Christ! Segnor,” exclaimed Leonella affecting to blush; “I would
not suffer such a thing for the Universe! If I came home attended by so
gallant a Cavalier, My Sister is so scrupulous that She would read me an
hour’s lecture, and I should never hear the last of it. Besides, I rather wish
you not to make your proposals just at present.”
“My proposals? I assure you, Segnora....”
“Oh! Segnor, I believe that your assurances of impatience are all very
true; But really I must desire a little respite. It would not be quite so delicate
in me to accept your hand at first sight.”
“Accept my hand? As I hope to live and breathe....”
“Oh! dear Segnor, press me no further, if you love me! I shall consider
your obedience as a proof of your affection; You shall hear from me
tomorrow, and so farewell. But pray, Cavaliers, may I not enquire your
names?”
“My Friend’s,” replied Lorenzo, “is the Condé d’Ossorio, and mine
Lorenzo de Medina.”
“’Tis sufficient. Well, Don Lorenzo, I shall acquaint my Sister with your
obliging offer, and let you know the result with all expedition. Where may I
send to you?”
“I am always to be found at the Medina Palace.”
“You may depend upon hearing from me. Farewell, Cavaliers. Segnor
Condé, let me entreat you to moderate the excessive ardour of your passion:
However, to prove to you that I am not displeased with you, and prevent

your abandoning yourself to despair, receive this mark of my affection, and
sometimes bestow a thought upon the absent Leonella.”
As She said this, She extended a lean and wrinkled hand; which her
supposed Admirer kissed with such sorry grace and constraint so evident,
that Lorenzo with difficulty repressed his inclination to laugh. Leonella then
hastened to quit the Church; The lovely Antonia followed her in silence; but
when She reached the Porch, She turned involuntarily, and cast back her
eyes towards Lorenzo. He bowed to her, as bidding her farewell; She
returned the compliment, and hastily withdrew.
“So, Lorenzo!” said Don Christoval as soon as they were alone, “You
have procured me an agreeable Intrigue! To favour your designs upon
Antonia, I obligingly make a few civil speeches which mean nothing to the
Aunt, and at the end of an hour I find myself upon the brink of Matrimony!
How will you reward me for having suffered so grievously for your sake?
What can repay me for having kissed the leathern paw of that confounded
old Witch? Diavolo! She has left such a scent upon my lips that I shall smell
of garlick for this month to come! As I pass along the Prado, I shall be taken
for a walking Omelet, or some large Onion running to seed!”
“I confess, my poor Count,” replied Lorenzo, “that your service has been
attended with danger; Yet am I so far from supposing it be past all
endurance that I shall probably solicit you to carry on your amours still
further.”
“From that petition I conclude that the little Antonia has made some
impression upon you.”
“I cannot express to you how much I am charmed with her. Since my
Father’s death, My Uncle the Duke de Medina, has signified to me his
wishes to see me married; I have till now eluded his hints, and refused to
understand them; But what I have seen this Evening....”
“Well? What have you seen this Evening? Why surely, Don Lorenzo, You
cannot be mad enough to think of making a Wife out of this Grand-daughter
of ‘as honest a painstaking Shoe-maker as any in Cordova’?”
“You forget, that She is also the Grand-daughter of the late Marquis de
las Cisternas; But without disputing about birth and titles, I must assure
you, that I never beheld a Woman so interesting as Antonia.”
“Very possibly; But you cannot mean to marry her?”

“Why not, my dear Condé? I shall have wealth enough for both of us,
and you know that my Uncle thinks liberally upon the subject.
From what I have seen of Raymond de las Cisternas, I am certain that he
will readily acknowledge Antonia for his Niece. Her birth therefore will be
no objection to my offering her my hand. I should be a Villain could I think
of her on any other terms than marriage; and in truth She seems possessed
of every quality requisite to make me happy in a Wife. Young, lovely,
gentle, sensible....”
“Sensible? Why, She said nothing but ‘Yes,’ and ‘No’.”
“She did not say much more, I must confess—But then She always said
‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ in the right place.”
“Did She so? Oh! your most obedient! That is using a right Lover’s
argument, and I dare dispute no longer with so profound a Casuist. Suppose
we adjourn to the Comedy?”
“It is out of my power. I only arrived last night at Madrid, and have not
yet had an opportunity of seeing my Sister; You know that her Convent is in
this Street, and I was going thither when the Crowd which I saw thronging
into this Church excited my curiosity to know what was the matter. I shall
now pursue my first intention, and probably pass the Evening with my
Sister at the Parlour grate.”
“Your Sister in a Convent, say you? Oh! very true, I had forgotten. And
how does Donna Agnes? I am amazed, Don Lorenzo, how you could
possibly think of immuring so charming a Girl within the walls of a
Cloister!”
“I think of it, Don Christoval? How can you suspect me of such
barbarity? You are conscious that She took the veil by her own desire, and
that particular circumstances made her wish for a seclusion from the World.
I used every means in my power to induce her to change her resolution; The
endeavour was fruitless, and I lost a Sister!”
“The luckier fellow you; I think, Lorenzo, you were a considerable gainer
by that loss: If I remember right, Donna Agnes had a portion of ten
thousand pistoles, half of which reverted to your Lordship. By St. Jago! I
wish that I had fifty Sisters in the same predicament. I should consent to
losing them every soul without much heart-burning—”

“How, Condé?” said Lorenzo in an angry voice; “Do you suppose me
base enough to have influenced my Sister’s retirement? Do you suppose
that the despicable wish to make myself Master of her fortune could....”
“Admirable! Courage, Don Lorenzo! Now the Man is all in a blaze. God
grant that Antonia may soften that fiery temper, or we shall certainly cut
each other’s throat before the Month is over! However, to prevent such a
tragical Catastrophe for the present, I shall make a retreat, and leave you
Master of the field. Farewell, my Knight of Mount Aetna! Moderate that
inflammable disposition, and remember that whenever it is necessary to
make love to yonder Harridan, you may reckon upon my services.”
He said, and darted out of the Cathedral.
“How wild-brained!” said Lorenzo; “With so excellent an heart, what
pity that He possesses so little solidity of judgment!”
The night was now fast advancing. The Lamps were not yet lighted. The
faint beams of the rising Moon scarcely could pierce through the gothic
obscurity of the Church. Lorenzo found himself unable to quit the Spot. The
void left in his bosom by Antonia’s absence, and his Sister’s sacrifice which
Don Christoval had just recalled to his imagination, created that melancholy
of mind which accorded but too well with the religious gloom surrounding
him. He was still leaning against the seventh column from the Pulpit. A soft
and cooling air breathed along the solitary Aisles: The Moonbeams darting
into the Church through painted windows tinged the fretted roofs and massy
pillars with a thousand various tints of light and colours:
Universal silence prevailed around, only interrupted by the occasional
closing of Doors in the adjoining Abbey.
The calm of the hour and solitude of the place contributed to nourish
Lorenzo’s disposition to melancholy. He threw himself upon a seat which
stood near him, and abandoned himself to the delusions of his fancy. He
thought of his union with Antonia; He thought of the obstacles which might
oppose his wishes; and a thousand changing visions floated before his
fancy, sad ’tis true, but not unpleasing. Sleep insensibly stole over him, and
the tranquil solemnity of his mind when awake for a while continued to
influence his slumbers.
He still fancied himself to be in the Church of the Capuchins; but it was
no longer dark and solitary. Multitudes of silver Lamps shed splendour
from the vaulted Roof; Accompanied by the captivating chaunt of distant

choristers, the Organ’s melody swelled through the Church; The Altar
seemed decorated as for some distinguished feast; It was surrounded by a
brilliant Company; and near it stood Antonia arrayed in bridal white, and
blushing with all the charms of Virgin Modesty.
Half hoping, half fearing, Lorenzo gazed upon the scene before him.
Suddenly the door leading to the Abbey unclosed, and He saw, attended by
a long train of Monks, the Preacher advance to whom He had just listened
with so much admiration. He drew near Antonia.
“And where is the Bridegroom?” said the imaginary Friar.
Antonia seemed to look round the Church with anxiety. Involuntarily the
Youth advanced a few steps from his concealment. She saw him; The blush
of pleasure glowed upon her cheek; With a graceful motion of her hand She
beckoned to him to advance. He disobeyed not the command; He flew
towards her, and threw himself at her feet.
She retreated for a moment; Then gazing upon him with unutterable
delight;—“Yes!” She exclaimed, “My Bridegroom! My destined
Bridegroom!” She said, and hastened to throw herself into his arms; But
before He had time to receive her, an Unknown rushed between them. His
form was gigantic; His complexion was swarthy, His eyes fierce and
terrible; his Mouth breathed out volumes of fire; and on his forehead was
written in legible characters—“Pride! Lust! Inhumanity!”
Antonia shrieked. The Monster clasped her in his arms, and springing
with her upon the Altar, tortured her with his odious caresses. She
endeavoured in vain to escape from his embrace. Lorenzo flew to her
succour, but ere He had time to reach her, a loud burst of thunder was heard.
Instantly the Cathedral seemed crumbling into pieces; The Monks betook
themselves to flight, shrieking fearfully; The Lamps were extinguished, the
Altar sank down, and in its place appeared an abyss vomiting forth clouds
of flame. Uttering a loud and terrible cry the Monster plunged into the
Gulph, and in his fall attempted to drag Antonia with him. He strove in
vain. Animated by supernatural powers She disengaged herself from his
embrace; But her white Robe was left in his possession. Instantly a wing of
brilliant splendour spread itself from either of Antonia’s arms. She darted
upwards, and while ascending cried to Lorenzo,
“Friend! we shall meet above!”

At the same moment the Roof of the Cathedral opened; Harmonious
voices pealed along the Vaults; and the glory into which Antonia was
received was composed of rays of such dazzling brightness, that Lorenzo
was unable to sustain the gaze. His sight failed, and He sank upon the
ground.
When He woke, He found himself extended upon the pavement of the
Church: It was Illuminated, and the chaunt of Hymns sounded from a
distance. For a while Lorenzo could not persuade himself that what He had
just witnessed had been a dream, so strong an impression had it made upon
his fancy. A little recollection convinced him of its fallacy: The Lamps had
been lighted during his sleep, and the music which he heard was occasioned
by the Monks, who were celebrating their Vespers in the Abbey Chapel.
Lorenzo rose, and prepared to bend his steps towards his Sister’s
Convent. His mind fully occupied by the singularity of his dream, He
already drew near the Porch, when his attention was attracted by perceiving
a Shadow moving upon the opposite wall. He looked curiously round, and
soon descried a Man wrapped up in his Cloak, who seemed carefully
examining whether his actions were observed. Very few people are exempt
from the influence of curiosity. The Unknown seemed anxious to conceal
his business in the Cathedral, and it was this very circumstance, which
made Lorenzo wish to discover what He was about.
Our Hero was conscious that He had no right to pry into the secrets of
this unknown Cavalier.
“I will go,” said Lorenzo. And Lorenzo stayed, where He was.
The shadow thrown by the Column, effectually concealed him from the
Stranger, who continued to advance with caution. At length He drew a letter
from beneath his cloak, and hastily placed it beneath a Colossal Statue of
St. Francis. Then retiring with precipitation, He concealed himself in a part
of the Church at a considerable distance from that in which the Image
stood.
“So!” said Lorenzo to himself; “This is only some foolish love affair. I
believe, I may as well be gone, for I can do no good in it.”
In truth till that moment it never came into his head that He could do any
good in it; But He thought it necessary to make some little excuse to
himself for having indulged his curiosity. He now made a second attempt to
retire from the Church: For this time He gained the Porch without meeting

with any impediment; But it was destined that He should pay it another visit
that night. As He descended the steps leading into the Street, a Cavalier
rushed against him with such violence, that Both were nearly overturned by
the concussion. Lorenzo put his hand to his sword.
“How now, Segnor?” said He; “What mean you by this rudeness?”
“Ha! Is it you, Medina?” replied the Newcomer, whom Lorenzo by his
voice now recognized for Don Christoval; “You are the luckiest Fellow in
the Universe, not to have left the Church before my return. In, in! my dear
Lad! They will be here immediately!”
“Who will be here?”
“The old Hen and all her pretty little Chickens! In, I say, and then you
shall know the whole History.”
Lorenzo followed him into the Cathedral, and they concealed themselves
behind the Statue of St. Francis.
“And now,” said our Hero, “may I take the liberty of asking, what is the
meaning of all this haste and rapture?”
“Oh! Lorenzo, we shall see such a glorious sight! The Prioress of St.
Clare and her whole train of Nuns are coming hither. You are to know, that
the pious Father Ambrosio (The Lord reward him for it!) will upon no
account move out of his own precincts: It being absolutely necessary for
every fashionable Convent to have him for its Confessor, the Nuns are in
consequence obliged to visit him at the Abbey; since when the Mountain
will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must needs go to the Mountain. Now
the Prioress of St. Clare, the better to escape the gaze of such impure eyes
as belong to yourself and your humble Servant, thinks proper to bring her
holy flock to confession in the Dusk: She is to be admitted into the Abbey
Chapel by yon private door. The Porteress of St. Clare, who is a worthy old
Soul and a particular Friend of mine, has just assured me of their being here
in a few moments. There is news for you, you Rogue! We shall see some of
the prettiest faces in Madrid!”
“In truth, Christoval, we shall do no such thing. The Nuns are always
veiled.”
“No! No! I know better. On entering a place of worship, they ever take
off their veils from respect to the Saint to whom ’tis dedicated. But Hark!
They are coming! Silence, silence! Observe, and be convinced.”

“Good!” said Lorenzo to himself; “I may possibly discover to whom the
vows are addressed of this mysterious Stranger.”
Scarcely had Don Christoval ceased to speak, when the Domina of St.
Clare appeared, followed by a long procession of Nuns. Each upon entering
the Church took off her veil. The Prioress crossed her hands upon her
bosom, and made a profound reverence as She passed the Statue of St.
Francis, the Patron of this Cathedral. The Nuns followed her example, and
several moved onwards without having satisfied Lorenzo’s curiosity. He
almost began to despair of seeing the mystery cleared up, when in paying
her respects to St. Francis, one of the Nuns happened to drop her Rosary. As
She stooped to pick it up, the light flashed full upon her face. At the same
moment She dexterously removed the letter from beneath the Image, placed
it in her bosom, and hastened to resume her rank in the procession.
“Ha!” said Christoval in a low voice; “Here we have some little Intrigue,
no doubt.”
“Agnes, by heaven!” cried Lorenzo.
“What, your Sister? Diavolo! Then somebody, I suppose, will have to pay
for our peeping.”
“And shall pay for it without delay,” replied the incensed Brother.
The pious procession had now entered the Abbey; The Door was already
closed upon it. The Unknown immediately quitted his concealment and
hastened to leave the Church: Ere He could effect his intention, He descried
Medina stationed in his passage. The Stranger hastily retreated, and drew
his Hat over his eyes.
“Attempt not to fly me!” exclaimed Lorenzo; “I will know who you are,
and what were the contents of that Letter.”
“Of that Letter?” repeated the Unknown. “And by what title do you ask
the question?”
“By a title of which I am now ashamed; But it becomes not you to
question me. Either reply circumstantially to my demands, or answer me
with your Sword.”
“The latter method will be the shortest,” rejoined the Other, drawing his
Rapier; “Come on, Segnor Bravo! I am ready!”
Burning with rage, Lorenzo hastened to the attack: The Antagonists had
already exchanged several passes before Christoval, who at that moment

had more sense than either of them, could throw himself between their
weapons.
“Hold! Hold! Medina!” He exclaimed; “Remember the consequences of
shedding blood on consecrated ground!”
The Stranger immediately dropped his Sword.
“Medina?” He cried; “Great God, is it possible! Lorenzo, have you quite
forgotten Raymond de las Cisternas?”
Lorenzo’s astonishment increased with every succeeding moment.
Raymond advanced towards him, but with a look of suspicion He drew
back his hand, which the Other was preparing to take.
“You here, Marquis? What is the meaning of all this? You engaged in a
clandestine correspondence with my Sister, whose affections....”
“Have ever been, and still are mine. But this is no fit place for an
explanation. Accompany me to my Hotel, and you shall know every thing.
Who is that with you?”
“One whom I believe you to have seen before,” replied Don Christoval,
“though probably not at Church.”
“The Condé d’Ossorio?”
“Exactly so, Marquis.”
“I have no objection to entrusting you with my secret, for I am sure that I
may depend upon your silence.”
“Then your opinion of me is better than my own, and therefore I must
beg leave to decline your confidence. Do you go your own way, and I shall
go mine. Marquis, where are you to be found?”
“As usual, at the Hotel de las Cisternas; But remember, that I am
incognito, and that if you wish to see me, you must ask for Alphonso
d’Alvarada.”
“Good! Good! Farewell, Cavaliers!” said Don Christoval, and instantly
departed.
“You, Marquis,” said Lorenzo in the accent of surprise; “You, Alphonso
d’Alvarada?”
“Even so, Lorenzo: But unless you have already heard my story from
your Sister, I have much to relate that will astonish you. Follow me,
therefore, to my Hotel without delay.”

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

“Well, Antonia!” said the Aunt, as soon as She had quitted the Church;
“What think you of our Gallants? Don Lorenzo really seems a very obliging
good sort of young Man: He paid you some attention, and nobody knows
what may come of it. But as to Don Christoval, I protest to you, He is the
very Phoenix of politeness. So gallant! so well-bred! So sensible, and so
pathetic! Well! If ever Man can prevail upon me to break my vow never to
marry, it will be that Don Christoval. You see, Niece, that every thing turns
out exactly as I told you: The very moment that I produced myself in
Madrid, I knew that I should be surrounded by Admirers. When I took off
my veil, did you see, Antonia, what an effect the action had upon the
Condé? And when I presented him my hand, did you observe the air of
passion with which He kissed it? If ever I witnessed real love, I then saw it
impressed upon Don Christoval’s countenance!”
Now Antonia had observed the air, with which Don Christoval had kissed
this same hand; But as She drew conclusions from it somewhat different
from her Aunt’s, She was wise enough to hold her tongue. As this is the
only instance known of a Woman’s ever having done so, it was judged
worthy to be recorded here.
The old Lady continued her discourse to Antonia in the same strain, till
they gained the Street in which was their Lodging. Here a Crowd collected
before their door permitted them not to approach it; and placing themselves
on the opposite side of the Street, they endeavoured to make out what had
drawn all these people together. After some minutes the Crowd formed
itself into a Circle; And now Antonia perceived in the midst of it a Woman
of extraordinary height, who whirled herself repeatedly round and round,
using all sorts of extravagant gestures. Her dress was composed of shreds of
various-coloured silks and Linens fantastically arranged, yet not entirely
without taste. Her head was covered with a kind of Turban, ornamented
with vine leaves and wild flowers. She seemed much sun-burnt, and her
complexion was of a deep olive: Her eyes looked fiery and strange; and in

her hand She bore a long black Rod, with which She at intervals traced a
variety of singular figures upon the ground, round about which She danced
in all the eccentric attitudes of folly and delirium. Suddenly She broke off
her dance, whirled herself round thrice with rapidity, and after a moment’s
pause She sang the following Ballad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mad? Not She, Child; She is only wicked. She is a Gypsy, a sort of
Vagabond, whose sole occupation is to run about the country telling lyes,
and pilfering from those who come by their money honestly. Out upon such
Vermin! If I were King of Spain, every one of them should be burnt alive
who was found in my dominions after the next three weeks.”
These words were pronounced so audibly that they reached the Gypsy’s
ears. She immediately pierced through the Crowd and made towards the
Ladies. She saluted them thrice in the Eastern fashion, and then addressed
herself to Antonia.

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

“Dearest Aunt!” said Antonia, “Indulge me this once! Let me have my
fortune told me!”
“Nonsense, Child! She will tell you nothing but falsehoods.”
“No matter; Let me at least hear what She has to say. Do, my dear Aunt!
Oblige me, I beseech you!”
“Well, well! Antonia, since you are so bent upon the thing, ... Here, good
Woman, you shall see the hands of both of us. There is money for you, and
now let me hear my fortune.”
As She said this, She drew off her glove, and presented her hand; The
Gypsy looked at it for a moment, and then made this reply.

THE GYPSY
“Your fortune? You are now so old,
Good Dame, that ’tis already told:
Yet for your money, in a trice
I will repay you in advice.
Astonished at your childish vanity,
Your Friends all tax you with insanity,
And grieve to see you use your art
To catch some youthful Lover’s heart.
Believe me, Dame, when all is done,
Your age will still be fifty one;
And Men will rarely take an hint

Of love, from two grey eyes that squint.
Take then my counsels; Lay aside
Your paint and patches, lust and pride,
And on the Poor those sums bestow,
Which now are spent on useless show.
Think on your Maker, not a Suitor;
Think on your past faults, not on future;
And think Time’s Scythe will quickly mow
The few red hairs, which deck your brow.

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

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

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

THE GYPSY
“Jesus! what a palm is there!
Chaste, and gentle, young and fair,
Perfect mind and form possessing,
You would be some good Man’s blessing:
But Alas! This line discovers,
That destruction o’er you hovers;
Lustful Man and crafty Devil
Will combine to work your evil;
And from earth by sorrows driven,
Soon your Soul must speed to heaven.
Yet your sufferings to delay,
Well remember what I say.
When you One more virtuous see
Than belongs to Man to be,
One, whose self no crimes assailing,

Pities not his Neighbour’s Failing,
Call the Gypsy’s words to mind:
Though He seem so good and kind,
Fair Exteriors oft will hide
Hearts, that swell with lust and pride!
Lovely Maid, with tears I leave you!
Let not my prediction grieve you;
Rather with submission bending
Calmly wait distress impending,
And expect eternal bliss
In a better world than this.

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

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

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

The monks having attended their Abbot to the door of his Cell, He
dismissed them with an air of conscious superiority in which Humility’s
semblance combated with the reality of pride.
He was no sooner alone, than He gave free loose to the indulgence of his
vanity. When He remembered the Enthusiasm which his discourse had
excited, his heart swelled with rapture, and his imagination presented him
with splendid visions of aggrandizement. He looked round him with
exultation, and Pride told him loudly that He was superior to the rest of his
fellow-Creatures.
“Who,” thought He; “Who but myself has passed the ordeal of Youth, yet
sees no single stain upon his conscience? Who else has subdued the
violence of strong passions and an impetuous temperament, and submitted
even from the dawn of life to voluntary retirement? I seek for such a Man in
vain. I see no one but myself possessed of such resolution. Religion cannot
boast Ambrosio’s equal! How powerful an effect did my discourse produce
upon its Auditors! How they crowded round me! How they loaded me with
benedictions, and pronounced me the sole uncorrupted Pillar of the Church!
What then now is left for me to do? Nothing, but to watch as carefully over

the conduct of my Brothers as I have hitherto watched over my own. Yet
hold! May I not be tempted from those paths which till now I have pursued
without one moment’s wandering? Am I not a Man, whose nature is frail,
and prone to error? I must now abandon the solitude of my retreat; The
fairest and noblest Dames of Madrid continually present themselves at the
Abbey, and will use no other Confessor.
I must accustom my eyes to Objects of temptation, and expose myself to
the seduction of luxury and desire. Should I meet in that world which I am
constrained to enter some lovely Female, lovely ... as yon Madona....!”
As He said this, He fixed his eyes upon a picture of the Virgin, which
was suspended opposite to him: This for two years had been the Object of
his increasing wonder and adoration. He paused, and gazed upon it with
delight.
“What Beauty in that countenance!” He continued after a silence of some
minutes; “How graceful is the turn of that head! What sweetness, yet what
majesty in her divine eyes! How softly her cheek reclines upon her hand!
Can the Rose vie with the blush of that cheek? Can the Lily rival the
whiteness of that hand? Oh! if such a Creature existed, and existed but for
me! Were I permitted to twine round my fingers those golden ringlets, and
press with my lips the treasures of that snowy bosom! Gracious God, should
I then resist the temptation? Should I not barter for a single embrace the
reward of my sufferings for thirty years? Should I not abandon.... Fool that I
am! Whither do I suffer my admiration of this picture to hurry me? Away,
impure ideas! Let me remember that Woman is for ever lost to me. Never
was Mortal formed so perfect as this picture. But even did such exist, the
trial might be too mighty for a common virtue, but Ambrosio’s is proof
against temptation. Temptation, did I say? To me it would be none. What
charms me, when ideal and considered as a superior Being, would disgust
me, become Woman and tainted with all the failings of Mortality. It is not
the Woman’s beauty that fills me with such enthusiasm; It is the Painter’s
skill that I admire, it is the Divinity that I adore! Are not the passions dead
in my bosom? Have I not freed myself from the frailty of Mankind? Fear
not, Ambrosio! Take confidence in the strength of your virtue. Enter boldly
into a world to whose failings you are superior; Reflect that you are now
exempted from Humanity’s defects, and defy all the arts of the Spirits of
Darkness. They shall know you for what you are!”

Here his Reverie was interrupted by three soft knocks at the door of his
Cell. With difficulty did the Abbot awake from his delirium. The knocking
was repeated.
“Who is there?” said Ambrosio at length.
“It is only Rosario,” replied a gentle voice.
“Enter! Enter, my Son!”
The Door was immediately opened, and Rosario appeared with a small
basket in his hand.
Rosario was a young Novice belonging to the Monastery, who in three
Months intended to make his profession. A sort of mystery enveloped this
Youth which rendered him at once an object of interest and curiosity. His
hatred of society, his profound melancholy, his rigid observation of the
duties of his order, and his voluntary seclusion from the world at his age so
unusual, attracted the notice of the whole fraternity. He seemed fearful of
being recognised, and no one had ever seen his face. His head was
continually muffled up in his Cowl; Yet such of his features as accident
discovered, appeared the most beautiful and noble. Rosario was the only
name by which He was known in the Monastery.
No one knew from whence He came, and when questioned in the subject
He preserved a profound silence. A Stranger, whose rich habit and
magnificent equipage declared him to be of distinguished rank, had engaged
the Monks to receive a Novice, and had deposited the necessary sums. The
next day He returned with Rosario, and from that time no more had been
heard of him.
The Youth had carefully avoided the company of the Monks: He
answered their civilities with sweetness, but reserve, and evidently showed
that his inclination led him to solitude. To this general rule the Superior was
the only exception. To him He looked up with a respect approaching
idolatry: He sought his company with the most attentive assiduity, and
eagerly seized every means to ingratiate himself in his favour. In the
Abbot’s society his Heart seemed to be at ease, and an air of gaiety
pervaded his whole manners and discourse. Ambrosio on his side did not
feel less attracted towards the Youth; With him alone did He lay aside his
habitual severity. When He spoke to him, He insensibly assumed a tone
milder than was usual to him; and no voice sounded so sweet to him as did
Rosario’s. He repayed the Youth’s attentions by instructing him in various

sciences; The Novice received his lessons with docility; Ambrosio was
every day more charmed with the vivacity of his Genius, the simplicity of
his manners, and the rectitude of his heart: In short He loved him with all
the affection of a Father. He could not help sometimes indulging a desire
secretly to see the face of his Pupil; But his rule of self-denial extended
even to curiosity, and prevented him from communicating his wishes to the
Youth.
“Pardon my intrusion, Father,” said Rosario, while He placed his basket
upon the Table; “I come to you a Suppliant. Hearing that a dear Friend is
dangerously ill, I entreat your prayers for his recovery. If supplications can
prevail upon heaven to spare him, surely yours must be efficacious.”
“Whatever depends upon me, my Son, you know that you may
command.
What is your Friend’s name?”
“Vincentio della Ronda.”
“’Tis sufficient. I will not forget him in my prayers, and may our thrice-
blessed St. Francis deign to listen to my intercession!—What have you in
your basket, Rosario?”
“A few of those flowers, reverend Father, which I have observed to be
most acceptable to you. Will you permit my arranging them in your
chamber?”
“Your attentions charm me, my Son.”
While Rosario dispersed the contents of his Basket in small Vases placed
for that purpose in various parts of the room, the Abbot thus continued the
conversation.
“I saw you not in the Church this evening, Rosario.”
“Yet I was present, Father. I am too grateful for your protection to lose an
opportunity of witnessing your Triumph.”
“Alas! Rosario, I have but little cause to triumph: The Saint spoke by my
mouth; To him belongs all the merit. It seems then you were contented with
my discourse?”
“Contented, say you? Oh! you surpassed yourself! Never did I hear such
eloquence ... save once!”
Here the Novice heaved an involuntary sigh.

“When was that once?” demanded the Abbot.
“When you preached upon the sudden indisposition of our late Superior.”
“I remember it: That is more than two years ago. And were you present? I
knew you not at that time, Rosario.”
“’Tis true, Father; and would to God! I had expired, ere I beheld that day!
What sufferings, what sorrows should I have escaped!”
“Sufferings at your age, Rosario?”
“Aye, Father; Sufferings, which if known to you, would equally raise
your anger and compassion! Sufferings, which form at once the torment and
pleasure of my existence! Yet in this retreat my bosom would feel tranquil,
were it not for the tortures of apprehension. Oh God! Oh God! how cruel is
a life of fear!—Father! I have given up all; I have abandoned the world and
its delights for ever: Nothing now remains, Nothing now has charms for
me, but your friendship, but your affection. If I lose that, Father! Oh! if I
lose that, tremble at the effects of my despair!”
“You apprehend the loss of my friendship? How has my conduct justified
this fear? Know me better, Rosario, and think me worthy of your
confidence. What are your sufferings? Reveal them to me, and believe that
if ’tis in my power to relieve them....”
“Ah! ’tis in no one’s power but yours. Yet I must not let you know them.
You would hate me for my avowal! You would drive me from your
presence with scorn and ignominy!”
“My Son, I conjure you! I entreat you!”
“For pity’s sake, enquire no further! I must not ... I dare not... Hark! The
Bell rings for Vespers! Father, your benediction, and I leave you!”
As He said this, He threw himself upon his knees and received the
blessing which He demanded. Then pressing the Abbot’s hand to his lips,
He started from the ground and hastily quitted the apartment. Soon after
Ambrosio descended to Vespers (which were celebrated in a small chapel
belonging to the Abbey), filled with surprise at the singularity of the
Youth’s behaviour.
Vespers being over, the Monks retired to their respective Cells. The
Abbot alone remained in the Chapel to receive the Nuns of St. Clare. He
had not been long seated in the confessional chair before the Prioress made
her appearance. Each of the Nuns was heard in her turn, while the Others

waited with the Domina in the adjoining Vestry. Ambrosio listened to the
confessions with attention, made many exhortations, enjoined penance
proportioned to each offence, and for some time every thing went on as
usual: till at last one of the Nuns, conspicuous from the nobleness of her air
and elegance of her figure, carelessly permitted a letter to fall from her
bosom. She was retiring, unconscious of her loss. Ambrosio supposed it to
have been written by some one of her Relations, and picked it up intending
to restore it to her.
“Stay, Daughter,” said He; “You have let fall....”
At this moment, the paper being already open, his eye involuntarily read
the first words. He started back with surprise! The Nun had turned round on
hearing his voice: She perceived her letter in his hand, and uttering a shriek
of terror, flew hastily to regain it.
“Hold!” said the Friar in a tone of severity; “Daughter, I must read this
letter.”
“Then I am lost!” She exclaimed clasping her hands together wildly.
All colour instantly faded from her face; she trembled with agitation, and
was obliged to fold her arms round a Pillar of the Chapel to save herself
from sinking upon the floor. In the meanwhile the Abbot read the following
lines:

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

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

“This letter must to the Prioress!” said He, and passed her.
His words sounded like thunder to her ears: She awoke from her torpidity
only to be sensible of the dangers of her situation. She followed him hastily,
and detained him by his garment.
“Stay! Oh! stay!” She cried in the accents of despair, while She threw
herself at the Friar’s feet, and bathed them with her tears. “Father,
compassionate my youth! Look with indulgence on a Woman’s weakness,
and deign to conceal my frailty! The remainder of my life shall be
employed in expiating this single fault, and your lenity will bring back a
soul to heaven!”
“Amazing confidence! What! Shall St. Clare’s Convent become the
retreat of Prostitutes? Shall I suffer the Church of Christ to cherish in its
bosom debauchery and shame? Unworthy Wretch! such lenity would make
me your accomplice. Mercy would here be criminal. You have abandoned
yourself to a Seducer’s lust; You have defiled the sacred habit by your
impurity; and still dare you think yourself deserving my compassion?
Hence, nor detain me longer! Where is the Lady Prioress?” He added,
raising his voice.
“Hold! Father, Hold! Hear me but for one moment! Tax me not with
impurity, nor think that I have erred from the warmth of temperament. Long
before I took the veil, Raymond was Master of my heart: He inspired me
with the purest, the most irreproachable passion, and was on the point of
becoming my lawful husband. An horrible adventure, and the treachery of a
Relation, separated us from each other: I believed him for ever lost to me,
and threw myself into a Convent from motives of despair. Accident again
united us; I could not refuse myself the melancholy pleasure of mingling
my tears with his: We met nightly in the Gardens of St. Clare, and in an
unguarded moment I violated my vows of Chastity. I shall soon become a
Mother: Reverend Ambrosio, take compassion on me; take compassion on
the innocent Being whose existence is attached to mine. If you discover my
imprudence to the Domina, both of us are lost: The punishment which the
laws of St. Clare assign to Unfortunates like myself is most severe and
cruel. Worthy, worthy Father! Let not your own untainted conscience render
you unfeeling towards those less able to withstand temptation! Let not
mercy be the only virtue of which your heart is unsusceptible! Pity me,
most reverend! Restore my letter, nor doom me to inevitable destruction!”

“Your boldness confounds me! Shall I conceal your crime, I whom you
have deceived by your feigned confession? No, Daughter, no! I will render
you a more essential service. I will rescue you from perdition in spite of
yourself; Penance and mortification shall expiate your offence, and Severity
force you back to the paths of holiness. What; Ho! Mother St. Agatha!”
“Father! By all that is sacred, by all that is most dear to you, I supplicate,
I entreat....”
“Release me! I will not hear you. Where is the Domina? Mother St.
Agatha, where are you?”
The door of the Vestry opened, and the Prioress entered the Chapel,
followed by her Nuns.
“Cruel! Cruel!” exclaimed Agnes, relinquishing her hold.
Wild and desperate, She threw herself upon the ground, beating her
bosom and rending her veil in all the delirium of despair. The Nuns gazed
with astonishment upon the scene before them. The Friar now presented the
fatal paper to the Prioress, informed her of the manner in which he had
found it, and added, that it was her business to decide, what penance the
delinquent merited.
While She perused the letter, the Domina’s countenance grew inflamed
with passion. What! Such a crime committed in her Convent, and made
known to Ambrosio, to the Idol of Madrid, to the Man whom She was most
anxious to impress with the opinion of the strictness and regularity of her
House! Words were inadequate to express her fury. She was silent, and
darted upon the prostrate Nun looks of menace and malignity.
“Away with her to the Convent!” said She at length to some of her
Attendants.
Two of the oldest Nuns now approaching Agnes, raised her forcibly from
the ground, and prepared to conduct her from the Chapel.
“What!” She exclaimed suddenly shaking off their hold with distracted
gestures; “Is all hope then lost? Already do you drag me to punishment?
Where are you, Raymond? Oh! save me! save me!”
Then casting upon the Abbot a frantic look, “Hear me!” She continued;
“Man of an hard heart! Hear me, Proud, Stern, and Cruel! You could have
saved me; you could have restored me to happiness and virtue, but would
not! You are the destroyer of my Soul; You are my Murderer, and on you

fall the curse of my death and my unborn Infant’s! Insolent in your yet-
unshaken virtue, you disdained the prayers of a Penitent; But God will show
mercy, though you show none. And where is the merit of your boasted
virtue? What temptations have you vanquished? Coward! you have fled
from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of Trial will arrive! Oh! then
when you yield to impetuous passions! when you feel that Man is weak,
and born to err; When shuddering you look back upon your crimes, and
solicit with terror the mercy of your God, Oh! in that fearful moment think
upon me! Think upon your Cruelty! Think upon Agnes, and despair of
pardon!”
As She uttered these last words, her strength was exhausted, and She
sank inanimate upon the bosom of a Nun who stood near her. She was
immediately conveyed from the Chapel, and her Companions followed her.
Ambrosio had not listened to her reproaches without emotion. A secret
pang at his heart made him feel, that He had treated this Unfortunate with
too great severity. He therefore detained the Prioress and ventured to
pronounce some words in favour of the Delinquent.
“The violence of her despair,” said He, “proves, that at least Vice is not
become familiar to her. Perhaps by treating her with somewhat less rigour
than is generally practised, and mitigating in some degree the accustomed
penance....”
“Mitigate it, Father?” interrupted the Lady Prioress; “Not I, believe me.
The laws of our order are strict and severe; they have fallen into disuse of
late, But the crime of Agnes shows me the necessity of their revival. I go to
signify my intention to the Convent, and Agnes shall be the first to feel the
rigour of those laws, which shall be obeyed to the very letter. Father,
Farewell.”
Thus saying, She hastened out of the Chapel.
“I have done my duty,” said Ambrosio to himself.
Still did He not feel perfectly satisfied by this reflection. To dissipate the
unpleasant ideas which this scene had excited in him, upon quitting the
Chapel He descended into the Abbey Garden.
In all Madrid there was no spot more beautiful or better regulated. It was
laid out with the most exquisite taste. The choicest flowers adorned it in the
height of luxuriance, and though artfully arranged, seemed only planted by

the hand of Nature: Fountains, springing from basons of white Marble,
cooled the air with perpetual showers; and the Walls were entirely covered
by Jessamine, vines, and Honeysuckles. The hour now added to the beauty
of the scene. The full Moon, ranging through a blue and cloudless sky, shed
upon the trees a trembling lustre, and the waters of the fountains sparkled in
the silver beam: A gentle breeze breathed the fragrance of Orange-blossoms
along the Alleys; and the Nightingale poured forth her melodious murmur
from the shelter of an artificial wilderness. Thither the Abbot bent his steps.
In the bosom of this little Grove stood a rustic Grotto, formed in
imitation of an Hermitage. The walls were constructed of roots of trees, and
the interstices filled up with Moss and Ivy. Seats of Turf were placed on
either side, and a natural Cascade fell from the Rock above. Buried in
himself the Monk approached the spot. The universal calm had
communicated itself to his bosom, and a voluptuous tranquillity spread
languor through his soul.
He reached the Hermitage, and was entering to repose himself, when He
stopped on perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one of the
Banks lay a man in a melancholy posture.
His head was supported upon his arm, and He seemed lost in mediation.
The Monk drew nearer, and recognised Rosario: He watched him in silence,
and entered not the Hermitage. After some minutes the Youth raised his
eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the opposite Wall.
“Yes!” said He with a deep and plaintive sigh; “I feel all the happiness of
thy situation, all the misery of my own! Happy were I, could I think like
Thee! Could I look like Thee with disgust upon Mankind, could bury
myself for ever in some impenetrable solitude, and forget that the world
holds Beings deserving to be loved! Oh God! What a blessing would
Misanthropy be to me!”
“That is a singular thought, Rosario,” said the Abbot, entering the Grotto.
“You here, reverend Father?” cried the Novice.
At the same time starting from his place in confusion, He drew his Cowl
hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated himself upon the Bank, and obliged
the Youth to place himself by him.
“You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy,” said He; “What
can possibly have made you view in so desirable a light, Misanthropy, of all

sentiments the most hateful?”
“The perusal of these Verses, Father, which till now had escaped my
observation. The Brightness of the Moonbeams permitted my reading them;
and Oh! how I envy the feelings of the Writer!”
As He said this, He pointed to a marble Tablet fixed against the opposite
Wall: On it were engraved the following lines.

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me, Oh! Lord! from life retire,
Unknown each guilty worldly fire,

Remorseful throb, or loose desire;
And when I die,
Let me in this belief expire,
‘To God I fly’!”

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

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

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

Slowly He returns to his Cell at Evening, for no one there is anxious for his
arrival; He has no comfort in his solitary unsavoury meal: He throws
himself upon his couch of Moss despondent and dissatisfied, and wakes
only to pass a day as joyless, as monotonous as the former.”
“You amaze me, Father! Suppose that circumstances condemned you to
solitude; Would not the duties of Religion and the consciousness of a life
well spent communicate to your heart that calm which....”
“I should deceive myself, did I fancy that they could. I am convinced of
the contrary, and that all my fortitude would not prevent me from yielding
to melancholy and disgust. After consuming the day in study, if you knew
my pleasure at meeting my Brethren in the Evening! After passing many a
long hour in solitude, if I could express to you the joy which I feel at once
more beholding a fellow-Creature! ’Tis in this particular that I place the
principal merit of a Monastic Institution. It secludes Man from the
temptations of Vice; It procures that leisure necessary for the proper service
of the Supreme; It spares him the mortification of witnessing the crimes of
the worldly, and yet permits him to enjoy the blessings of society. And do
you, Rosario, do you envy an Hermit’s life? Can you be thus blind to the
happiness of your situation? Reflect upon it for a moment. This Abbey is
become your Asylum: Your regularity, your gentleness, your talents have
rendered you the object of universal esteem: You are secluded from the
world which you profess to hate; yet you remain in possession of the
benefits of society, and that a society composed of the most estimable of
Mankind.”
“Father! Father! ’tis that which causes my Torment! Happy had it been
for me, had my life been passed among the vicious and abandoned! Had I
never heard pronounced the name of Virtue! ’Tis my unbounded adoration
of religion; ’Tis my soul’s exquisite sensibility of the beauty of fair and
good, that loads me with shame! that hurries me to perdition! Oh! that I had
never seen these Abbey walls!”
“How, Rosario? When we last conversed, you spoke in a different tone. Is
my friendship then become of such little consequence? Had you never seen
these Abbey walls, you never had seen me: Can that really be your wish?”
“Had never seen you?” repeated the Novice, starting from the Bank, and
grasping the Friar’s hand with a frantic air; “You? You? Would to God, that
lightning had blasted them, before you ever met my eyes! Would to God!

that I were never to see you more, and could forget that I had ever seen
you!”
With these words He flew hastily from the Grotto. Ambrosio remained in
his former attitude, reflecting on the Youth’s unaccountable behaviour. He
was inclined to suspect the derangement of his senses: yet the general tenor
of his conduct, the connexion of his ideas, and calmness of his demeanour
till the moment of his quitting the Grotto, seemed to discountenance this
conjecture. After a few minutes Rosario returned. He again seated himself
upon the Bank: He reclined his cheek upon one hand, and with the other
wiped away the tears which trickled from his eyes at intervals.
The Monk looked upon him with compassion, and forbore to interrupt his
meditations. Both observed for some time a profound silence. The
Nightingale had now taken her station upon an Orange Tree fronting the
Hermitage, and poured forth a strain the most melancholy and melodious.
Rosario raised his head, and listened to her with attention.
“It was thus,” said He, with a deep-drawn sigh; “It was thus, that during
the last month of her unhappy life, my Sister used to sit listening to the
Nightingale. Poor Matilda! She sleeps in the Grave, and her broken heart
throbs no more with passion.”
“You had a Sister?”
“You say right, that I HAD; Alas! I have one no longer. She sunk beneath
the weight of her sorrows in the very spring of life.”
“What were those sorrows?”
“They will not excite your pity: you know not the power of those
irresistible, those fatal sentiments, to which her Heart was a prey. Father,
She loved unfortunately. A passion for One endowed with every virtue, for
a Man, Oh! rather let me say, for a divinity, proved the bane of her
existence. His noble form, his spotless character, his various talents, his
wisdom solid, wonderful, and glorious, might have warmed the bosom of
the most insensible. My Sister saw him, and dared to love though She never
dared to hope.”
“If her love was so well bestowed, what forbad her to hope the obtaining
of its object?”
“Father, before He knew her, Julian had already plighted his vows to a
Bride most fair, most heavenly! Yet still my Sister loved, and for the

Husband’s sake She doted upon the Wife. One morning She found means to
escape from our Father’s House: Arrayed in humble weeds She offered
herself as a Domestic to the Consort of her Beloved, and was accepted. She
was now continually in his presence: She strove to ingratiate herself into his
favour: She succeeded. Her attentions attracted Julian’s notice; The virtuous
are ever grateful, and He distinguished Matilda above the rest of her
Companions.”
“And did not your Parents seek for her? Did they submit tamely to their
loss, nor attempt to recover their wandering Daughter?”
“Ere they could find her, She discovered herself. Her love grew too
violent for concealment; Yet She wished not for Julian’s person, She
ambitioned but a share of his heart. In an unguarded moment She confessed
her affection. What was the return? Doating upon his Wife, and believing
that a look of pity bestowed upon another was a theft from what He owed to
her, He drove Matilda from his presence. He forbad her ever again
appearing before him. His severity broke her heart: She returned to her
Father’s, and in a few Months after was carried to her Grave.”
“Unhappy Girl! Surely her fate was too severe, and Julian was too cruel.”
“Do you think so, Father?” cried the Novice with vivacity; “Do you think
that He was cruel?”
“Doubtless I do, and pity her most sincerely.”
“You pity her? You pity her? Oh! Father! Father! Then pity me!”
The Friar started; when after a moment’s pause Rosario added with a
faltering voice,—“for my sufferings are still greater. My Sister had a Friend,
a real Friend, who pitied the acuteness of her feelings, nor reproached her
with her inability to repress them. I ...! I have no Friend! The whole wide
world cannot furnish an heart that is willing to participate in the sorrows of
mine!”
As He uttered these words, He sobbed audibly. The Friar was affected.
He took Rosario’s hand, and pressed it with tenderness.
“You have no Friend, say you? What then am I? Why will you not
confide in me, and what can you fear? My severity? Have I ever used it
with you? The dignity of my habit? Rosario, I lay aside the Monk, and bid
you consider me as no other than your Friend, your Father. Well may I
assume that title, for never did Parent watch over a Child more fondly than I

have watched over you. From the moment in which I first beheld you, I
perceived sensations in my bosom till then unknown to me; I found a
delight in your society which no one’s else could afford; and when I
witnessed the extent of your genius and information, I rejoiced as does a
Father in the perfections of his Son. Then lay aside your fears; Speak to me
with openness: Speak to me, Rosario, and say that you will confide in me. If
my aid or my pity can alleviate your distress....”
“Yours can! Yours only can! Ah! Father, how willingly would I unveil to
you my heart! How willingly would I declare the secret which bows me
down with its weight! But Oh! I fear! I fear!”
“What, my Son?”
“That you should abhor me for my weakness; That the reward of my
confidence should be the loss of your esteem.”
“How shall I reassure you? Reflect upon the whole of my past conduct,
upon the paternal tenderness which I have ever shown you. Abhor you,
Rosario? It is no longer in my power. To give up your society would be to
deprive myself of the greatest pleasure of my life. Then reveal to me what
afflicts you, and believe me while I solemnly swear....”
“Hold!” interrupted the Novice; “Swear, that whatever be my secret, you
will not oblige me to quit the Monastery till my Noviciate shall expire.”
“I promise it faithfully, and as I keep my vows to you, may Christ keep
his to Mankind. Now then explain this mystery, and rely upon my
indulgence.”
“I obey you. Know then.... Oh! how I tremble to name the word! Listen
to me with pity, revered Ambrosio! Call up every latent spark of human
weakness that may teach you compassion for mine! Father!” continued He
throwing himself at the Friar’s feet, and pressing his hand to his lips with
eagerness, while agitation for a moment choaked his voice; “Father!”
continued He in faltering accents, “I am a Woman!”
The Abbot started at this unexpected avowal. Prostrate on the ground lay
the feigned Rosario, as if waiting in silence the decision of his Judge.
Astonishment on the one part, apprehension on the other, for some minutes
chained them in the same attitudes, as had they been touched by the Rod of
some Magician. At length recovering from his confusion, the Monk quitted
the Grotto, and sped with precipitation towards the Abbey. His action did

not escape the Suppliant. She sprang from the ground; She hastened to
follow him, overtook him, threw herself in his passage, and embraced his
knees. Ambrosio strove in vain to disengage himself from her grasp.
“Do not fly me!” She cried; “Leave me not abandoned to the impulse of
despair! Listen, while I excuse my imprudence; while I acknowledge my
Sister’s story to be my own! I am Matilda; You are her Beloved.”
If Ambrosio’s surprise was great at her first avowal, upon hearing her
second it exceeded all bounds. Amazed, embarrassed, and irresolute He
found himself incapable of pronouncing a syllable, and remained in silence
gazing upon Matilda: This gave her opportunity to continue her explanation
as follows.
“Think not, Ambrosio, that I come to rob your Bride of your affections.
No, believe me: Religion alone deserves you; and far is it from Matilda’s
wish to draw you from the paths of virtue. What I feel for you is love, not
licentiousness; I sigh to be possessor of your heart, not lust for the
enjoyment of your person. Deign to listen to my vindication: A few
moments will convince you that this holy retreat is not polluted by my
presence, and that you may grant me your compassion without trespassing
against your vows.”—She seated herself: Ambrosio, scarcely conscious of
what He did, followed her example, and She proceeded in her discourse.
“I spring from a distinguished family: My Father was Chief of the noble
House of Villanegas. He died while I was still an Infant, and left me sole
Heiress of his immense possessions. Young and wealthy, I was sought in
marriage by the noblest Youths of Madrid; But no one succeeded in gaining
my affections. I had been brought up under the care of an Uncle possessed
of the most solid judgment and extensive erudition. He took pleasure in
communicating to me some portion of his knowledge. Under his
instructions my understanding acquired more strength and justness than
generally falls to the lot of my sex: The ability of my Preceptor being aided
by natural curiosity, I not only made a considerable progress in sciences
universally studied, but in others, revealed but to few, and lying under
censure from the blindness of superstition. But while my Guardian laboured
to enlarge the sphere of my knowledge, He carefully inculcated every moral
precept: He relieved me from the shackles of vulgar prejudice; He pointed
out the beauty of Religion; He taught me to look with adoration upon the
pure and virtuous, and, woe is me! I have obeyed him but too well!

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

Ambrosio, can I have been deceived? Can you be less generous than I
thought you? I will not suspect it. You will not drive a Wretch to despair; I
shall still be permitted to see you, to converse with you, to adore you! Your
virtues shall be my example through life; and when we expire, our bodies
shall rest in the same Grave.”
She ceased. While She spoke, a thousand opposing sentiments combated
in Ambrosio’s bosom. Surprise at the singularity of this adventure,
Confusion at her abrupt declaration, Resentment at her boldness in entering
the Monastery, and Consciousness of the austerity with which it behoved
him to reply, such were the sentiments of which He was aware; But there
were others also which did not obtain his notice. He perceived not, that his
vanity was flattered by the praises bestowed upon his eloquence and virtue;
that He felt a secret pleasure in reflecting that a young and seemingly lovely
Woman had for his sake abandoned the world, and sacrificed every other
passion to that which He had inspired: Still less did He perceive that his
heart throbbed with desire, while his hand was pressed gently by Matilda’s
ivory fingers.
By degrees He recovered from his confusion. His ideas became less
bewildered: He was immediately sensible of the extreme impropriety,
should Matilda be permitted to remain in the Abbey after this avowal of her
sex. He assumed an air of severity, and drew away his hand.
“How, Lady!” said He; “Can you really hope for my permission to
remain amongst us? Even were I to grant your request, what good could
you derive from it? Think you that I ever can reply to an affection, which...”
“No, Father, No! I expect not to inspire you with a love like mine. I only
wish for the liberty to be near you, to pass some hours of the day in your
society; to obtain your compassion, your friendship and esteem. Surely my
request is not unreasonable.”
“But reflect, Lady! Reflect only for a moment on the impropriety of my
harbouring a Woman in the Abbey; and that too a Woman, who confesses
that She loves me. It must not be. The risque of your being discovered is too
great, and I will not expose myself to so dangerous a temptation.”
“Temptation, say you? Forget that I am a Woman, and it no longer exists:
Consider me only as a Friend, as an Unfortunate, whose happiness, whose
life depends upon your protection. Fear not lest I should ever call to your
remembrance that love the most impetuous, the most unbounded, has

induced me to disguise my sex; or that instigated by desires, offensive to
your vows and my own honour, I should endeavour to seduce you from the
path of rectitude. No, Ambrosio, learn to know me better. I love you for
your virtues: Lose them, and with them you lose my affections. I look upon
you as a Saint; Prove to me that you are no more than Man, and I quit you
with disgust. Is it then from me that you fear temptation? From me, in
whom the world’s dazzling pleasures created no other sentiment than
contempt? From me, whose attachment is grounded on your exemption
from human frailty? Oh! dismiss such injurious apprehensions! Think
nobler of me, think nobler of yourself. I am incapable of seducing you to
error; and surely your Virtue is established on a basis too firm to be shaken
by unwarranted desires. Ambrosio, dearest Ambrosio! drive me not from
your presence; Remember your promise, and authorize my stay!”
“Impossible, Matilda; your interest commands me to refuse your prayer,
since I tremble for you, not for myself. After vanquishing the impetuous
ebullitions of Youth; After passing thirty years in mortification and penance,
I might safely permit your stay, nor fear your inspiring me with warmer
sentiments than pity. But to yourself, remaining in the Abbey can produce
none but fatal consequences. You will misconstrue my every word and
action; You will seize every circumstance with avidity, which encourages
you to hope the return of your affection; Insensibly your passions will gain
a superiority over your reason; and far from these being repressed by my
presence, every moment which we pass together, will only serve to irritate
and excite them. Believe me, unhappy Woman! you possess my sincere
compassion. I am convinced that you have hitherto acted upon the purest
motives; But though you are blind to the imprudence of your conduct, in me
it would be culpable not to open your eyes. I feel that Duty obliges my
treating you with harshness: I must reject your prayer, and remove every
shadow of hope which may aid to nourish sentiments so pernicious to your
repose. Matilda, you must from hence tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, Ambrosio? Tomorrow? Oh! surely you cannot mean it!
You cannot resolve on driving me to despair! You cannot have the
cruelty....”
“You have heard my decision, and it must be obeyed. The Laws of our
Order forbid your stay: It would be perjury to conceal that a Woman is

within these Walls, and my vows will oblige me to declare your story to the
Community. You must from hence!—I pity you, but can do no more!”
He pronounced these words in a faint and trembling voice: Then rising
from his seat, He would have hastened towards the Monastery. Uttering a
loud shriek, Matilda followed, and detained him.
“Stay yet one moment, Ambrosio! Hear me yet speak one word!”
“I dare not listen! Release me! You know my resolution!”
“But one word! But one last word, and I have done!”
“Leave me! Your entreaties are in vain! You must from hence tomorrow!”
“Go then, Barbarian! But this resource is still left me.”
As She said this, She suddenly drew a poignard: She rent open her
garment, and placed the weapon’s point against her bosom.
“Father, I will never quit these Walls alive!”
“Hold! Hold, Matilda! What would you do?”
“You are determined, so am I: The Moment that you leave me, I plunge
this Steel in my heart.”
“Holy St. Francis! Matilda, have you your senses? Do you know the
consequences of your action? That Suicide is the greatest of crimes? That
you destroy your Soul? That you lose your claim to salvation? That you
prepare for yourself everlasting torments?”
“I care not! I care not!” She replied passionately; “Either your hand
guides me to Paradise, or my own dooms me to perdition! Speak to me,
Ambrosio! Tell me that you will conceal my story, that I shall remain your
Friend and your Companion, or this poignard drinks my blood!”
As She uttered these last words, She lifted her arm, and made a motion as
if to stab herself. The Friar’s eyes followed with dread the course of the
dagger. She had torn open her habit, and her bosom was half exposed. The
weapon’s point rested upon her left breast: And Oh! that was such a breast!
The Moonbeams darting full upon it enabled the Monk to observe its
dazzling whiteness. His eye dwelt with insatiable avidity upon the
beauteous Orb. A sensation till then unknown filled his heart with a mixture
of anxiety and delight: A raging fire shot through every limb; The blood
boiled in his veins, and a thousand wild wishes bewildered his imagination.

“Hold!” He cried in an hurried faultering voice; “I can resist no longer!
Stay, then, Enchantress; Stay for my destruction!”
He said, and rushing from the place, hastened towards the Monastery: He
regained his Cell and threw himself upon his Couch, distracted irresolute
and confused.
He found it impossible for some time to arrange his ideas. The scene in
which He had been engaged had excited such a variety of sentiments in his
bosom, that He was incapable of deciding which was predominant. He was
irresolute what conduct He ought to hold with the disturber of his repose.
He was conscious that prudence, religion, and propriety necessitated his
obliging her to quit the Abbey: But on the other hand such powerful reasons
authorized her stay that He was but too much inclined to consent to her
remaining. He could not avoid being flattered by Matilda’s declaration, and
at reflecting that He had unconsciously vanquished an heart which had
resisted the attacks of Spain’s noblest Cavaliers: The manner in which He
had gained her affections was also the most satisfactory to his vanity: He
remembered the many happy hours which He had passed in Rosario’s
society, and dreaded that void in his heart which parting with him would
occasion. Besides all this, He considered, that as Matilda was wealthy, her
favour might be of essential benefit to the Abbey.
“And what do I risque,” said He to himself, “by authorizing her stay?
May I not safely credit her assertions? Will it not be easy for me to forget
her sex, and still consider her as my Friend and my disciple? Surely her
love is as pure as She describes. Had it been the offspring of mere
licentiousness, would She so long have concealed it in her own bosom?
Would She not have employed some means to procure its gratification? She
has done quite the contrary: She strove to keep me in ignorance of her sex;
and nothing but the fear of detection, and my instances, would have
compelled her to reveal the secret. She has observed the duties of religion
not less strictly than myself. She has made no attempts to rouze my
slumbering passions, nor has She ever conversed with me till this night on
the subject of Love. Had She been desirous to gain my affections, not my
esteem, She would not have concealed from me her charms so carefully: At
this very moment I have never seen her face: Yet certainly that face must be
lovely, and her person beautiful, to judge by her ... by what I have seen.”

As this last idea passed through his imagination, a blush spread itself
over his cheek. Alarmed at the sentiments which He was indulging, He
betook himself to prayer; He started from his Couch, knelt before the
beautiful Madona, and entreated her assistance in stifling such culpable
emotions. He then returned to his Bed, and resigned himself to slumber.
He awoke, heated and unrefreshed. During his sleep his inflamed
imagination had presented him with none but the most voluptuous objects.
Matilda stood before him in his dreams, and his eyes again dwelt upon her
naked breast. She repeated her protestations of eternal love, threw her arms
round his neck, and loaded him with kisses: He returned them; He clasped
her passionately to his bosom, and ... the vision was dissolved. Sometimes
his dreams presented the image of his favourite Madona, and He fancied
that He was kneeling before her: As He offered up his vows to her, the eyes
of the Figure seemed to beam on him with inexpressible sweetness. He
pressed his lips to hers, and found them warm: The animated form started
from the Canvas, embraced him affectionately, and his senses were unable
to support delight so exquisite. Such were the scenes, on which his thoughts
were employed while sleeping: His unsatisfied Desires placed before him
the most lustful and provoking Images, and he rioted in joys till then
unknown to him.
He started from his Couch, filled with confusion at the remembrance of
his dreams. Scarcely was He less ashamed, when He reflected on his
reasons of the former night which induced him to authorize Matilda’s stay.
The cloud was now dissipated which had obscured his judgment: He
shuddered when He beheld his arguments blazoned in their proper colours,
and found that He had been a slave to flattery, to avarice, and self-love. If in
one hour’s conversation Matilda had produced a change so remarkable in
his sentiments, what had He not to dread from her remaining in the Abbey?
Become sensible of his danger, awakened from his dream of confidence, He
resolved to insist on her departing without delay. He began to feel that He
was not proof against temptation; and that however Matilda might restrain
herself within the bounds of modesty, He was unable to contend with those
passions, from which He falsely thought himself exempted.
“Agnes! Agnes!” He exclaimed, while reflecting on his embarrassments,
“I already feel thy curse!”

He quitted his Cell, determined upon dismissing the feigned Rosario. He
appeared at Matins; But his thoughts were absent, and He paid them but
little attention. His heart and brain were both of them filled with worldly
objects, and He prayed without devotion. The service over, He descended
into the Garden. He bent his steps towards the same spot where, on the
preceding night, He had made this embarrassing discovery. He doubted not
but that Matilda would seek him there: He was not deceived. She soon
entered the Hermitage, and approached the Monk with a timid air. After a
few minutes during which both were silent, She appeared as if on the point
of speaking; But the Abbot, who during this time had been summoning up
all his resolution, hastily interrupted her. Though still unconscious how
extensive was its influence, He dreaded the melodious seduction of her
voice.
“Seat yourself by my side, Matilda,” said He, assuming a look of
firmness, though carefully avoiding the least mixture of severity; “Listen to
me patiently, and believe, that in what I shall say, I am not more influenced
by my own interest than by yours: Believe, that I feel for you the warmest
friendship, the truest compassion, and that you cannot feel more grieved
than I do, when I declare to you that we must never meet again.”
“Ambrosio!” She cried, in a voice at once expressive of surprise and
sorrow.
“Be calm, my Friend! My Rosario! Still let me call you by that name so
dear to me! Our separation is unavoidable; I blush to own, how sensibly it
affects me.— But yet it must be so. I feel myself incapable of treating you
with indifference, and that very conviction obliges me to insist upon your
departure. Matilda, you must stay here no longer.”
“Oh! where shall I now seek for probity? Disgusted with a perfidious
world, in what happy region does Truth conceal herself? Father, I hoped
that She resided here; I thought that your bosom had been her favourite
shrine. And you too prove false? Oh God! And you too can betray me?”
“Matilda!”
“Yes, Father, Yes! ’Tis with justice that I reproach you. Oh! where are
your promises? My Noviciate is not expired, and yet will you compell me
to quit the Monastery? Can you have the heart to drive me from you? And
have I not received your solemn oath to the contrary?”

“I will not compell you to quit the Monastery: You have received my
solemn oath to the contrary. But yet when I throw myself upon your
generosity, when I declare to you the embarrassments in which your
presence involves me, will you not release me from that oath? Reflect upon
the danger of a discovery, upon the opprobrium in which such an event
would plunge me: Reflect that my honour and reputation are at stake, and
that my peace of mind depends on your compliance. As yet my heart is free;
I shall separate from you with regret, but not with despair. Stay here, and a
few weeks will sacrifice my happiness on the altar of your charms. You are
but too interesting, too amiable! I should love you, I should doat on you!
My bosom would become the prey of desires which Honour and my
profession forbid me to gratify. If I resisted them, the impetuosity of my
wishes unsatisfied would drive me to madness: If I yielded to the
temptation, I should sacrifice to one moment of guilty pleasure my
reputation in this world, my salvation in the next. To you then I fly for
defence against myself. Preserve me from losing the reward of thirty years
of sufferings! Preserve me from becoming the Victim of Remorse! your
heart has already felt the anguish of hopeless love; Oh! then if you really
value me, spare mine that anguish! Give me back my promise; Fly from
these walls. Go, and you bear with you my warmest prayers for your
happiness, my friendship, my esteem and admiration: Stay, and you become
to me the source of danger, of sufferings, of despair! Answer me, Matilda;
What is your resolve?”—She was silent—“Will you not speak, Matilda?
Will you not name your choice?”
“Cruel! Cruel!” She exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony; “You know
too well that you offer me no choice! You know too well that I can have no
will but yours!”
“I was not then deceived! Matilda’s generosity equals my expectations.”
“Yes; I will prove the truth of my affection by submitting to a decree
which cuts me to the very heart. Take back your promise. I will quit the
Monastery this very day. I have a Relation, Abbess of a Covent in
Estramadura: To her will I bend my steps, and shut myself from the world
for ever. Yet tell me, Father, shall I bear your good wishes with me to my
solitude? Will you sometimes abstract your attention from heavenly objects
to bestow a thought upon me?”

“Ah! Matilda, I fear that I shall think on you but too often for my
repose!”
“Then I have nothing more to wish for, save that we may meet in heaven.
Farewell, my Friend! my Ambrosio!— And yet methinks, I would fain bear
with me some token of your regard!”
“What shall I give you?”
“Something.—Any thing.—One of those flowers will be sufficient.”
(Here She pointed to a bush of Roses, planted at the door of the Grotto.) “I
will hide it in my bosom, and when I am dead, the Nuns shall find it
withered upon my heart.”
The Friar was unable to reply: With slow steps, and a soul heavy with
affliction, He quitted the Hermitage. He approached the Bush, and stooped
to pluck one of the Roses. Suddenly He uttered a piercing cry, started back
hastily, and let the flower, which He already held, fall from his hand.
Matilda heard the shriek, and flew anxiously towards him.
“What is the matter?” She cried; “Answer me, for God’s sake! What has
happened?”
“I have received my death!” He replied in a faint voice; “Concealed
among the Roses ... A Serpent....”
Here the pain of his wound became so exquisite, that Nature was unable
to bear it: His senses abandoned him, and He sank inanimate into Matilda’s
arms.
Her distress was beyond the power of description. She rent her hair, beat
her bosom, and not daring to quit Ambrosio, endeavoured by loud cries to
summon the Monks to her assistance. She at length succeeded. Alarmed by
her shrieks, Several of the Brothers hastened to the spot, and the Superior
was conveyed back to the Abbey. He was immediately put to bed, and the
Monk who officiated as Surgeon to the Fraternity prepared to examine the
wound. By this time Ambrosio’s hand had swelled to an extraordinary size;
The remedies which had been administered to him, ’tis true, restored him to
life, but not to his senses; He raved in all the horrors of delirium, foamed at
the mouth, and four of the strongest Monks were scarcely able to hold him
in his bed.
Father Pablos, such was the Surgeon’s name, hastened to examine the
wounded hand. The Monks surrounded the Bed, anxiously waiting for the

decision: Among these the feigned Rosario appeared not the most insensible
to the Friar’s calamity. He gazed upon the Sufferer with inexpressible
anguish; and the groans which every moment escaped from his bosom
sufficiently betrayed the violence of his affliction.
Father Pablos probed the wound. As He drew out his Lancet, its point
was tinged with a greenish hue. He shook his head mournfully, and quitted
the bedside.
“’Tis as I feared!” said He; “There is no hope.”
“No hope?” exclaimed the Monks with one voice; “Say you, no hope?”
“From the sudden effects, I suspected that the Abbot was stung by a
cientipedoro:[1] The venom which you see upon my Lancet confirms my
idea: He cannot live three days.”
[1] The cientipedoro is supposed to be a native of Cuba, and to have been
brought into Spain from that island in the vessel of Columbus.

“And can no possible remedy be found?” enquired Rosario.
“Without extracting the poison, He cannot recover; and how to extract it
is to me still a secret. All that I can do is to apply such herbs to the wound
as will relieve the anguish: The Patient will be restored to his senses; But
the venom will corrupt the whole mass of his blood, and in three days He
will exist no longer.”
Excessive was the universal grief at hearing this decision. Pablos, as He
had promised, dressed the wound, and then retired, followed by his
Companions: Rosario alone remained in the Cell, the Abbot at his urgent
entreaty having been committed to his care. Ambrosio’s strength worn out
by the violence of his exertions, He had by this time fallen into a profound
sleep. So totally was He overcome by weariness, that He scarcely gave any
signs of life; He was still in this situation, when the Monks returned to
enquire whether any change had taken place. Pablos loosened the bandage
which concealed the wound, more from a principle of curiosity than from
indulging the hope of discovering any favourable symptoms. What was his
astonishment at finding, that the inflammation had totally subsided! He
probed the hand; His Lancet came out pure and unsullied; No traces of the
venom were perceptible; and had not the orifice still been visible, Pablos
might have doubted that there had ever been a wound.

He communicated this intelligence to his Brethren; their delight was only
equalled by their surprize. From the latter sentiment, however, they were
soon released by explaining the circumstance according to their own ideas:
They were perfectly convinced that their Superior was a Saint, and thought,
that nothing could be more natural than for St. Francis to have operated a
miracle in his favour. This opinion was adopted unanimously: They
declared it so loudly, and vociferated,—“A miracle! a miracle!”—with such
fervour, that they soon interrupted Ambrosio’s slumbers.
The Monks immediately crowded round his Bed, and expressed their
satisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was perfectly in his senses, and
free from every complaint except feeling weak and languid. Pablos gave
him a strengthening medicine, and advised his keeping his bed for the two
succeeding days: He then retired, having desired his Patient not to exhaust
himself by conversation, but rather to endeavour at taking some repose. The
other Monks followed his example, and the Abbot and Rosario were left
without Observers.
For some minutes Ambrosio regarded his Attendant with a look of
mingled pleasure and apprehension. She was seated upon the side of the
Bed, her head bending down, and as usual enveloped in the Cowl of her
Habit.
“And you are still here, Matilda?” said the Friar at length. “Are you not
satisfied with having so nearly effected my destruction, that nothing but a
miracle could have saved me from the Grave? Ah! surely Heaven sent that
Serpent to punish....”
Matilda interrupted him by putting her hand before his lips with an air of
gaiety.
“Hush! Father, Hush! You must not talk!”
“He who imposed that order, knew not how interesting are the subjects
on which I wish to speak.”
“But I know it, and yet issue the same positive command. I am appointed
your Nurse, and you must not disobey my orders.”
“You are in spirits, Matilda!”
“Well may I be so: I have just received a pleasure unexampled through
my whole life.”
“What was that pleasure?”

“What I must conceal from all, but most from you.”
“But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda....”
“Hush, Father! Hush! You must not talk. But as you do not seem inclined
to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse you with my Harp?”
“How? I knew not that you understood Music.”
“Oh! I am a sorry Performer! Yet as silence is prescribed you for eight
and forty hours, I may possibly entertain you, when wearied of your own
reflections. I go to fetch my Harp.”
She soon returned with it.
“Now, Father; What shall I sing? Will you hear the Ballad which treats of
the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of Roncevalles?”
“What you please, Matilda.”
“Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Rosario, call me your Friend! Those
are the names, which I love to hear from your lips. Now listen!”
She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for some moments with
such exquisite taste as to prove her a perfect Mistress of the Instrument. The
air which She played was soft and plaintive:
Ambrosio, while He listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a pleasing
melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matilda changed the
strain: With an hand bold and rapid She struck a few loud martial chords,
and then chaunted the following Ballad to an air at once simple and
melodious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While She sung, Ambrosio listened with delight: Never had He heard a
voice more harmonious; and He wondered how such heavenly sounds could
be produced by any but Angels. But though He indulged the sense of
hearing, a single look convinced him that He must not trust to that of sight.
The Songstress sat at a little distance from his Bed. The attitude in which
She bent over her harp, was easy and graceful: Her Cowl had fallen
backwarder than usual: Two coral lips were visible, ripe, fresh, and melting,
and a Chin in whose dimples seemed to lurk a thousand Cupids. Her Habit’s
long sleeve would have swept along the Chords of the Instrument: To
prevent this inconvenience She had drawn it above her elbow, and by this
means an arm was discovered formed in the most perfect symmetry, the
delicacy of whose skin might have contended with snow in whiteness.
Ambrosio dared to look on her but once: That glance sufficed to convince
him, how dangerous was the presence of this seducing Object. He closed

his eyes, but strove in vain to banish her from his thoughts. There She still
moved before him, adorned with all those charms which his heated
imagination could supply: Every beauty which He had seen, appeared
embellished, and those still concealed Fancy represented to him in glowing
colours. Still, however, his vows and the necessity of keeping to them were
present to his memory. He struggled with desire, and shuddered when He
beheld how deep was the precipice before him.
Matilda ceased to sing. Dreading the influence of her charms, Ambrosio
remained with his eyes closed, and offered up his prayers to St. Francis to
assist him in this dangerous trial! Matilda believed that He was sleeping.
She rose from her seat, approached the Bed softly, and for some minutes
gazed upon him attentively.
“He sleeps!” said She at length in a low voice, but whose accents the
Abbot distinguished perfectly; “Now then I may gaze upon him without
offence! I may mix my breath with his; I may doat upon his features, and
He cannot suspect me of impurity and deceit!—He fears my seducing him
to the violation of his vows! Oh! the Unjust! Were it my wish to excite
desire, should I conceal my features from him so carefully? Those features,
of which I daily hear him....”
She stopped, and was lost in her reflections.
“It was but yesterday!” She continued; “But a few short hours have past,
since I was dear to him! He esteemed me, and my heart was satisfied!
Now!... Oh! now how cruelly is my situation changed! He looks on me with
suspicion! He bids me leave him, leave him for ever! Oh! You, my Saint!
my Idol! You, holding the next place to God in my breast! Yet two days, and
my heart will be unveiled to you.—Could you know my feelings, when I
beheld your agony! Could you know, how much your sufferings have
endeared you to me! But the time will come, when you will be convinced
that my passion is pure and disinterested. Then you will pity me, and feel
the whole weight of these sorrows!”
As She said this, her voice was choaked by weeping. While She bent
over Ambrosio, a tear fell upon his cheek.
“Ah! I have disturbed him!” cried Matilda, and retreated hastily.
Her alarm was ungrounded. None sleep so profoundly, as those who are
determined not to wake. The Friar was in this predicament: He still seemed
buried in a repose, which every succeeding minute rendered him less

capable of enjoying. The burning tear had communicated its warmth to his
heart.
“What affection! What purity!” said He internally; “Ah! since my bosom
is thus sensible of pity, what would it be if agitated by love?”
Matilda again quitted her seat, and retired to some distance from the Bed.
Ambrosio ventured to open his eyes, and to cast them upon her fearfully.
Her face was turned from him. She rested her head in a melancholy posture
upon her Harp, and gazed on the picture which hung opposite to the Bed.
“Happy, happy Image!” Thus did She address the beautiful Madona;
“’Tis to you that He offers his prayers! ’Tis on you that He gazes with
admiration! I thought you would have lightened my sorrows; You have only
served to increase their weight: You have made me feel that had I known
him ere his vows were pronounced, Ambrosio and happiness might have
been mine. With what pleasure He views this picture! With what fervour He
addresses his prayers to the insensible Image! Ah! may not his sentiments
be inspired by some kind and secret Genius, Friend to my affection? May it
not be Man’s natural instinct which informs him... Be silent, idle hopes! Let
me not encourage an idea which takes from the brilliance of Ambrosio’s
virtue. ’Tis Religion, not Beauty which attracts his admiration; ’Tis not to
the Woman, but the Divinity that He kneels. Would He but address to me
the least tender expression which He pours forth to this Madona! Would He
but say that were He not already affianced to the Church, He would not
have despised Matilda! Oh! let me nourish that fond idea! Perhaps He may
yet acknowledge that He feels for me more than pity, and that affection like
mine might well have deserved a return; Perhaps, He may own thus much
when I lye on my deathbed! He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and
the confession of his regard will soften the pangs of dying. Would I were
sure of this! Oh! how earnestly should I sigh for the moment of
dissolution!”
Of this discourse the Abbot lost not a syllable; and the tone in which She
pronounced these last words pierced to his heart. Involuntarily He raised
himself from his pillow.
“Matilda!” He said in a troubled voice; “Oh! my Matilda!”
She started at the sound, and turned towards him hastily. The suddenness
of her movement made her Cowl fall back from her head; Her features
became visible to the Monk’s enquiring eye. What was his amazement at

beholding the exact resemblance of his admired Madona? The same
exquisite proportion of features, the same profusion of golden hair, the same
rosy lips, heavenly eyes, and majesty of countenance adorned Matilda!
Uttering an exclamation of surprize, Ambrosio sank back upon his pillow,
and doubted whether the Object before him was mortal or divine.
Matilda seemed penetrated with confusion. She remained motionless in
her place, and supported herself upon her Instrument. Her eyes were bent
upon the earth, and her fair cheeks overspread with blushes. On recovering
herself, her first action was to conceal her features. She then in an unsteady
and troubled voice ventured to address these words to the Friar.
“Accident has made you Master of a secret, which I never would have
revealed but on the Bed of death. Yes, Ambrosio; In Matilda de Villanegas
you see the original of your beloved Madona. Soon after I conceived my
unfortunate passion, I formed the project of conveying to you my Picture:
Crowds of Admirers had persuaded me that I possessed some beauty, and I
was anxious to know what effect it would produce upon you. I caused my
Portrait to be drawn by Martin Galuppi, a celebrated Venetian at that time
resident in Madrid. The resemblance was striking: I sent it to the Capuchin
Abbey as if for sale, and the Jew from whom you bought it was one of my
Emissaries. You purchased it. Judge of my rapture, when informed that you
had gazed upon it with delight, or rather with adoration; that you had
suspended it in your Cell, and that you addressed your supplications to no
other Saint. Will this discovery make me still more regarded as an object of
suspicion? Rather should it convince you how pure is my affection, and
engage you to suffer me in your society and esteem. I heard you daily extol
the praises of my Portrait: I was an eyewitness of the transports, which its
beauty excited in you: Yet I forbore to use against your virtue those arms,
with which yourself had furnished me. I concealed those features from your
sight, which you loved unconsciously. I strove not to excite desire by
displaying my charms, or to make myself Mistress of your heart through the
medium of your senses. To attract your notice by studiously attending to
religious duties, to endear myself to you by convincing you that my mind
was virtuous and my attachment sincere, such was my only aim. I
succeeded; I became your companion and your Friend. I concealed my sex
from your knowledge; and had you not pressed me to reveal my secret, had
I not been tormented by the fear of a discovery, never had you known me
for any other than Rosario. And still are you resolved to drive me from you?

The few hours of life which yet remain for me, may I not pass them in your
presence? Oh! speak, Ambrosio, and tell me that I may stay!”
This speech gave the Abbot an opportunity of recollecting himself. He
was conscious that in the present disposition of his mind, avoiding her
society was his only refuge from the power of this enchanting Woman.
“You declaration has so much astonished me,” said He, “that I am at
present incapable of answering you. Do not insist upon a reply, Matilda;
Leave me to myself; I have need to be alone.”
“I obey you—But before I go, promise not to insist upon my quitting the
Abbey immediately.”
“Matilda, reflect upon your situation; Reflect upon the consequences of
your stay. Our separation is indispensable, and we must part.”
“But not to-day, Father! Oh! in pity not today!”
“You press me too hard, but I cannot resist that tone of supplication.
Since you insist upon it, I yield to your prayer: I consent to your remaining
here a sufficient time to prepare in some measure the Brethren for your
departure. Stay yet two days; But on the third,” ... (He sighed involuntarily)
—“Remember, that on the third we must part for ever!”
She caught his hand eagerly, and pressed it to her lips.
“On the third?” She exclaimed with an air of wild solemnity; “You are
right, Father! You are right! On the third we must part for ever!”
There was a dreadful expression in her eye as She uttered these words,
which penetrated the Friar’s soul with horror: Again She kissed his hand,
and then fled with rapidity from the chamber.
Anxious to authorise the presence of his dangerous Guest, yet conscious
that her stay was infringing the laws of his order, Ambrosio’s bosom
became the Theatre of a thousand contending passions. At length his
attachment to the feigned Rosario, aided by the natural warmth of his
temperament, seemed likely to obtain the victory: The success was assured,
when that presumption which formed the groundwork of his character came
to Matilda’s assistance. The Monk reflected that to vanquish temptation was
an infinitely greater merit than to avoid it: He thought that He ought rather
to rejoice in the opportunity given him of proving the firmness of his virtue.
St. Anthony had withstood all seductions to lust; Then why should not He?
Besides, St. Anthony was tempted by the Devil, who put every art into

practice to excite his passions: Whereas, Ambrosio’s danger proceeded from
a mere mortal Woman, fearful and modest, whose apprehensions of his
yielding were not less violent than his own.
“Yes,” said He; “The Unfortunate shall stay; I have nothing to fear from
her presence. Even should my own prove too weak to resist the temptation,
I am secured from danger by the innocence of Matilda.”
Ambrosio was yet to learn, that to an heart unacquainted with her, Vice is
ever most dangerous when lurking behind the Mask of Virtue.
He found himself so perfectly recovered, that when Father Pablos visited
him again at night, He entreated permission to quit his chamber on the day
following. His request was granted. Matilda appeared no more that evening,
except in company with the Monks when they came in a body to enquire
after the Abbot’s health. She seemed fearful of conversing with him in
private, and stayed but a few minutes in his room. The Friar slept well; But
the dreams of the former night were repeated, and his sensations of
voluptuousness were yet more keen and exquisite. The same lust-exciting
visions floated before his eyes: Matilda, in all the pomp of beauty, warm,
tender, and luxurious, clasped him to her bosom, and lavished upon him the
most ardent caresses. He returned them as eagerly, and already was on the
point of satisfying his desires, when the faithless form disappeared, and left
him to all the horrors of shame and disappointment.
The Morning dawned. Fatigued, harassed, and exhausted by his
provoking dreams, He was not disposed to quit his Bed. He excused himself
from appearing at Matins: It was the first morning in his life that He had
ever missed them. He rose late. During the whole of the day He had no
opportunity of speaking to Matilda without witnesses. His Cell was
thronged by the Monks, anxious to express their concern at his illness; And
He was still occupied in receiving their compliments on his recovery, when
the Bell summoned them to the Refectory.
After dinner the Monks separated, and dispersed themselves in various
parts of the Garden, where the shade of trees or retirement of some Grotto
presented the most agreeable means of enjoying the Siesta. The Abbot bent
his steps towards the Hermitage: A glance of his eye invited Matilda to
accompany him.
She obeyed, and followed him thither in silence. They entered the Grotto,
and seated themselves. Both seemed unwilling to begin the conversation,

and to labour under the influence of mutual embarrassment. At length the
Abbot spoke: He conversed only on indifferent topics, and Matilda
answered him in the same tone. She seemed anxious to make him forget
that the Person who sat by him was any other than Rosario. Neither of them
dared, or indeed wished to make an allusion, to the subject which was most
at the hearts of both.
Matilda’s efforts to appear gay were evidently forced: Her spirits were
oppressed by the weight of anxiety, and when She spoke her voice was low
and feeble. She seemed desirous of finishing a conversation which
embarrassed her; and complaining that She was unwell, She requested
Ambrosio’s permission to return to the Abbey. He accompanied her to the
door of her cell; and when arrived there, He stopped her to declare his
consent to her continuing the Partner of his solitude so long as should be
agreeable to herself.
She discovered no marks of pleasure at receiving this intelligence, though
on the preceding day She had been so anxious to obtain the permission.
“Alas! Father,” She said, waving her head mournfully; “Your kindness
comes too late! My doom is fixed. We must separate for ever. Yet believe,
that I am grateful for your generosity, for your compassion of an
Unfortunate who is but too little deserving of it!”
She put her handkerchief to her eyes. Her Cowl was only half drawn over
her face. Ambrosio observed that She was pale, and her eyes sunk and
heavy.
“Good God!” He cried; “You are very ill, Matilda! I shall send Father
Pablos to you instantly.”
“No; Do not. I am ill, ’tis true; But He cannot cure my malady. Farewell,
Father! Remember me in your prayers tomorrow, while I shall remember
you in heaven!”
She entered her cell, and closed the door.
The Abbot dispatched to her the Physician without losing a moment, and
waited his report impatiently. But Father Pablos soon returned, and declared
that his errand had been fruitless. Rosario refused to admit him, and had
positively rejected his offers of assistance. The uneasiness which this
account gave Ambrosio was not trifling: Yet He determined that Matilda
should have her own way for that night: But that if her situation did not

mend by the morning, he would insist upon her taking the advice of Father
Pablos.
He did not find himself inclined to sleep. He opened his casement, and
gazed upon the moonbeams as they played upon the small stream whose
waters bathed the walls of the Monastery. The coolness of the night breeze
and tranquillity of the hour inspired the Friar’s mind with sadness. He
thought upon Matilda’s beauty and affection; Upon the pleasures which He
might have shared with her, had He not been restrained by monastic fetters.
He reflected, that unsustained by hope her love for him could not long exist;
That doubtless She would succeed in extinguishing her passion, and seek
for happiness in the arms of One more fortunate. He shuddered at the void
which her absence would leave in his bosom. He looked with disgust on the
monotony of a Convent, and breathed a sigh towards that world from which
He was for ever separated. Such were the reflections which a loud knocking
at his door interrupted. The Bell of the Church had already struck Two. The
Abbot hastened to enquire the cause of this disturbance. He opened the door
of his Cell, and a Lay-Brother entered, whose looks declared his hurry and
confusion.
“Hasten, reverend Father!” said He; “Hasten to the young Rosario.
He earnestly requests to see you; He lies at the point of death.”
“Gracious God! Where is Father Pablos? Why is He not with him? Oh! I
fear! I fear!”
“Father Pablos has seen him, but his art can do nothing. He says that He
suspects the Youth to be poisoned.”
“Poisoned? Oh! The Unfortunate! It is then as I suspected! But let me not
lose a moment; Perhaps it may yet be time to save her!”
He said, and flew towards the Cell of the Novice. Several Monks were
already in the chamber. Father Pablos was one of them, and held a medicine
in his hand which He was endeavouring to persuade Rosario to swallow.
The Others were employed in admiring the Patient’s divine countenance,
which They now saw for the first time. She looked lovelier than ever. She
was no longer pale or languid; A bright glow had spread itself over her
cheeks; her eyes sparkled with a serene delight, and her countenance was
expressive of confidence and resignation.

“Oh! torment me no more!” was She saying to Pablos, when the terrified
Abbot rushed hastily into the Cell; “My disease is far beyond the reach of
your skill, and I wish not to be cured of it”—Then perceiving Ambrosio,—
“Ah! ’tis He!” She cried; “I see him once again, before we part for ever!
Leave me, my Brethren; Much have I to tell this holy Man in private.”
The Monks retired immediately, and Matilda and the Abbot remained
together.
“What have you done, imprudent Woman!” exclaimed the Latter, as soon
as they were left alone; “Tell me; Are my suspicions just? Am I indeed to
lose you? Has your own hand been the instrument of your destruction?”
She smiled, and grasped his hand.
“In what have I been imprudent, Father? I have sacrificed a pebble, and
saved a diamond: My death preserves a life valuable to the world, and more
dear to me than my own. Yes, Father; I am poisoned; But know that the
poison once circulated in your veins.”
“Matilda!”
“What I tell you I resolved never to discover to you but on the bed of
death: That moment is now arrived. You cannot have forgotten the day
already, when your life was endangered by the bite of a Cientipedoro. The
Physician gave you over, declaring himself ignorant how to extract the
venom: I knew but of one means, and hesitated not a moment to employ it. I
was left alone with you: You slept; I loosened the bandage from your hand;
I kissed the wound, and drew out the poison with my lips. The effect has
been more sudden than I expected. I feel death at my heart; Yet an hour, and
I shall be in a better world.”
“Almighty God!” exclaimed the Abbot, and sank almost lifeless upon the
Bed.
After a few minutes He again raised himself up suddenly, and gazed upon
Matilda with all the wildness of despair.
“And you have sacrificed yourself for me! You die, and die to preserve
Ambrosio! And is there indeed no remedy, Matilda? And is there indeed no
hope? Speak to me, Oh! speak to me! Tell me, that you have still the means
of life!”
“Be comforted, my only Friend! Yes, I have still the means of life in my
power: But ’tis a means which I dare not employ. It is dangerous! It is

dreadful! Life would be purchased at too dear a rate, ... unless it were
permitted me to live for you.”
“Then live for me, Matilda, for me and gratitude!”— (He caught her
hand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips.)—“Remember our late
conversations; I now consent to every thing: Remember in what lively
colours you described the union of souls; Be it ours to realize those ideas.
Let us forget the distinctions of sex, despise the world’s prejudices, and
only consider each other as Brother and Friend. Live then, Matilda! Oh!
live for me!”
“Ambrosio, it must not be. When I thought thus, I deceived both you and
myself. Either I must die at present, or expire by the lingering torments of
unsatisfied desire. Oh! since we last conversed together, a dreadful veil has
been rent from before my eyes. I love you no longer with the devotion
which is paid to a Saint: I prize you no more for the virtues of your soul; I
lust for the enjoyment of your person. The Woman reigns in my bosom, and
I am become a prey to the wildest of passions. Away with friendship! ’tis a
cold unfeeling word. My bosom burns with love, with unutterable love, and
love must be its return. Tremble then, Ambrosio, tremble to succeed in your
prayers. If I live, your truth, your reputation, your reward of a life past in
sufferings, all that you value is irretrievably lost. I shall no longer be able to
combat my passions, shall seize every opportunity to excite your desires,
and labour to effect your dishonour and my own. No, no, Ambrosio; I must
not live! I am convinced with every moment, that I have but one alternative;
I feel with every heart-throb, that I must enjoy you, or die.”
“Amazement!—Matilda! Can it be you who speak to me?”
He made a movement as if to quit his seat. She uttered a loud shriek, and
raising herself half out of the Bed, threw her arms round the Friar to detain
him.
“Oh! do not leave me! Listen to my errors with compassion! In a few
hours I shall be no more; Yet a little, and I am free from this disgraceful
passion.”
“Wretched Woman, what can I say to you! I cannot ... I must not ... But
live, Matilda! Oh! live!”
“You do not reflect on what you ask. What? Live to plunge myself in
infamy? To become the Agent of Hell? To work the destruction both of you
and of Myself? Feel this heart, Father!”

She took his hand: Confused, embarrassed, and fascinated, He withdrew
it not, and felt her heart throb under it.
“Feel this heart, Father! It is yet the seat of honour, truth, and chastity: If
it beats tomorrow, it must fall a prey to the blackest crimes. Oh! let me then
die today! Let me die, while I yet deserve the tears of the virtuous! Thus
will expire!”—(She reclined her head upon his shoulder; Her golden Hair
poured itself over his Chest.)— “Folded in your arms, I shall sink to sleep;
Your hand shall close my eyes for ever, and your lips receive my dying
breath. And will you not sometimes think of me? Will you not sometimes
shed a tear upon my Tomb? Oh! Yes! Yes! Yes! That kiss is my assurance!”
The hour was night. All was silence around. The faint beams of a solitary
Lamp darted upon Matilda’s figure, and shed through the chamber a dim
mysterious light. No prying eye, or curious ear was near the Lovers:
Nothing was heard but Matilda’s melodious accents. Ambrosio was in the
full vigour of Manhood. He saw before him a young and beautiful Woman,
the preserver of his life, the Adorer of his person, and whom affection for
him had reduced to the brink of the Grave. He sat upon her Bed; His hand
rested upon her bosom; Her head reclined voluptuously upon his breast.
Who then can wonder, if He yielded to the temptation? Drunk with desire,
He pressed his lips to those which sought them: His kisses vied with
Matilda’s in warmth and passion. He clasped her rapturously in his arms;
He forgot his vows, his sanctity, and his fame: He remembered nothing but
the pleasure and opportunity.
“Ambrosio! Oh! my Ambrosio!” sighed Matilda.
“Thine, ever thine!” murmured the Friar, and sank upon her bosom.

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 forbad 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 began 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.”
“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 Nobleman. 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 conversation with her were as fruitless
as the first. She was inflexible, and I was not permitted to see her till the
day preceding that on which She entered the Cloister never to quit it more.
This interview took place in the presence of our principal Relations. It was
for the first time since her childhood that I saw her, and the scene was most
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; I painted to her imagination all the pleasures which She was
going to quit, and besought her to disclose to me, what occasioned her
disgust to the world. At this last question She turned pale, and her tears
flowed yet faster. She entreated me not to press her on that subject; That it
sufficed me to know that her resolution was taken, and that a Convent was
the only place where She could now hope for 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 Rodolpha’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 authorises 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:—

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 misfortunes should both
Agnes and myself have escaped! Fate had ordained it otherwise! You were
on your Travels when I first became acquainted with your Sister; and as our
Enemies took care to conceal from her your direction, it was impossible for
her to implore by letter your protection and advice.
On leaving Salamanca, at which University as I have since heard, you
remained a year after I quitted it, I immediately set out upon my Travels.
My Father supplied me liberally with money; But He insisted upon my
concealing my rank, and presenting myself as no more than a private
Gentleman. This command was issued by the counsels of his Friend, the
Duke of Villa Hermosa, a Nobleman for whose abilities and knowledge of
the world I have ever entertained the most profound veneration.
“Believe me,” said He, “my dear Raymond, you will hereafter feel the
benefits of this temporary degradation. ’Tis true, that as the Condé 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 Condé 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, which will
now be in your power, and from which, in my opinion, you will derive
considerable benefit. Do not confine yourself to the Illustrious of those
Countries through which you pass. Examine the manners and customs of

the multitude: Enter into the Cottages; and by observing how the Vassals of
Foreigners are treated, 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 eyewitness 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 respecting 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’Alvarada, 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 that Theatre of Luxury without heaving one sigh of regret.
I now bent my course towards Germany, intending to visit most of the
principal courts: Prior to this expedition, I meant to make some little stay at
Strasbourg. On quitting my Chaise at Luneville to take some 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 enquired of the Host, who the Lady was, that had just departed.
“A German Baroness, Monsieur, of great rank and fortune. She has been
upon a visit to the Duchess of Longueville, as her Servants informed me;
She is going to Strasbourg, where She will find her Husband, and then both
return to their Castle in Germany.”
I resumed my journey, intending to reach Strasbourg 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
Strasbourg, 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 Strasbourg, an
undertaking at that season very far from agreeable. However, seeing no
other resource, I was obliged to make up my mind to it. Accordingly I
communicated my design to the Postillion, telling him that I would send
People to assist him as soon as I reached Strasbourg. I had not much
confidence in his honesty; But Stephano being well-armed, and the Driver
to all appearance considerably advanced in years, I believed I ran no danger
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 Strasbourg, the Postillion shook his head in
disapprobation.
“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
risque 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 quite 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 Strasbourg, 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
Wood-man’s Cottage.”
He obeyed, and we moved onwards: The Horses contrived with some
difficulty to drag the shattered vehicle after us. My Servant was become
almost speechless, and 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 any one answered; The People within seemed in doubt whether we
should be admitted.
“Come! Come, Friend Baptiste!” cried the Driver with impatience;
“What are you about? Are you asleep? Or will you refuse a night’s lodging
to a Gentleman, whose Chaise has just broken down in the Forest?”
“Ah! is it you, honest Claude?” replied a Man’s voice from within; “Wait
a moment, and the door shall be opened.”
Soon after the bolts were drawn back. The door was unclosed, and a Man
presented himself to us with a Lamp in his hand. He gave the Guide an
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,” 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 over-spread 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 Wood-man conversed gaily on different subjects. The
Postillion, who had been furnished with a bottle of spirits, was now ready to
set out for Strasbourg, and enquired, whether I had any further commands.
“For Strasbourg?” interrupted Baptiste; “You are not going thither
tonight?”
“I beg your pardon: If I do not fetch Workmen to mend the Chaise, How
is Monsieur to proceed tomorrow?”
“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
Strasbourg 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 Wood-man’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 stept 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 Strasbourg. 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 up stairs.
I could not help expressing to the Wood-man how much I pitied him for
being chained for life to a Partner of such ill-humour.
“Ah! Lord! Monsieur, Every one has his share of grievances, and
Marguerite has fallen to mine. Besides, after all She is only cross, and not
malicious. The worst is, that her affection for two children by a former
Husband makes her play the Step-mother with my two Sons. She cannot
bear the sight of them, and by her good-will they would never set a foot
within my door. But on this point I always stand firm, and never will
consent to abandon the poor Lads to the world’s mercy, as She has often

solicited me to do. In every thing else I let her have her own way; and truly
She manages a family rarely, that I must say for her.”
We were conversing in this manner, when our discourse was interrupted
by a loud halloo, which rang through the Forest.
“My Sons, I hope!” exclaimed the Wood-man, and ran to open the door.
The halloo was repeated: We now distinguished the trampling of Horses,
and soon after a Carriage, attended by several Cavaliers stopped at the
Cottage door. One of the Horsemen enquired how far they were still from
Strasbourg. 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 Strasbourg, and also that the Horses were
so fatigued as to be incapable of proceeding further. A Lady, who appeared
to be the principal, expressed much chagrin at this intelligence; But as there
was no remedy, one of the Attendants asked the Wood-man, whether He
could 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 Wood-man, that I transferred my
right to the Lady; He made some objections; But I overruled them, and
hastening to the Carriage, opened the door, and assisted the Lady to
descend. I immediately recognized her for the same person whom I had
seen at the Inn at Luneville. I took an 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
newcomers 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 armed-chair, which I had just quitted. She thanked me very
graciously; and made a thousand apologies for putting me to an
inconvenience. Suddenly the Wood-man’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 sun-burnt. They paid their compliments to us in
few words, and acknowledged 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 drawing a brace of pistols from his girdle laid them
upon a shelf.
“You travel well-armed,” said I.
“True, Monsieur;” replied Robert. “We left Strasbourg late this 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, Madame; For my own part, I have travelled through the
wood at all hours, and never met with one of them.”

Here Marguerite returned. Her Stepsons drew her to the other end of the
room, and whispered her for some minutes. By the looks which they cast
towards us at intervals, I conjectured them to be enquiring our business in
the Cottage.
In the meanwhile the Baroness expressed her apprehensions, 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 Strasbourg that night, and
that would She trust him with a letter, She might depend upon its being
safely delivered.
“And how comes it,” said I, “that you are under no apprehension of
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, and her wish to send Claude
to Strasbourg blinded her to the danger of the undertaking. Accordingly, it
was resolved that He should set out without delay. The Baroness wrote her
letter to her Husband, and I sent a few lines to my Banker, apprising him
that I should not be at Strasbourg till the next day. Claude took our letters,
and left the Cottage.
The Lady declared herself much fatigued by 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 up stairs. 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, 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, enquired whether I had any further commands, and on my
replying in the negative, He 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. What was my astonishment, my horror, at
finding the sheets crimsoned with blood!
At that 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. Every thing 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 movements.
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 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 to be already on his way to Strasbourg. Expecting their discourse
to throw some light upon my situation, I hastened to put myself in a
condition to hear it with safety. For this purpose I extinguished the candle,
which stood upon a table near 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 Wood-man had been
blaming Claude for tardiness, since when I returned to the window, the
latter was endeavouring to excuse his fault.
“However,” added He, “my diligence at present shall make up for my
past delay.”
“On that condition,” answered Baptiste, “I shall readily forgive you. But
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, that this Spaniard is rich?”

“His Servant boasted at the Inn, that the effects in his Chaise were worth
above 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.”
“May be so, but I had rather She had stayed away. The Spaniard was a
secure prey. The Boys and myself could easily have mastered him and his
Servant, and then the two thousand 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
tomorrow 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 bye, take care of
your Wife: You know how strong is her repugnance to our mode of life, and
She may find means to give information to the Lady’s Servants of our
design.”
“Oh! 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 dispatched this instant; But as it is possible
for you to miss the Banditti, I am fearful of being summoned to produce
them by their Domestics in the Morning.”
“And suppose either of the Travellers should discover your design?”
“Then we must poignard those in our power, and take our chance about
mastering the rest. However, to avoid running such a risque, 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 watch-word?”
“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 this
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 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 overheard the message with which Claude was dispatched, 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 sallad, and her Step-sons were whispering
together at the further end of the room. Baptiste having the round of the
Garden to make, ere He could reach the Cottage door, was not yet arrived. I
seated myself quietly opposite to the Baroness.
A glance upon Marguerite told her that her hint had not been thrown
away upon me. How different did She now appear to me! What before
seemed gloom and 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 good-will.
In spite of all my endeavours to conceal it, my agitation was but too
visibly expressed upon my countenance. I was pale, and both my words and
actions were disordered and embarrassed. The young Men observed this,
and enquired 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, professed that the pleasure of making my
acquaintance amply compensated for the delay in her journey, and gave me
a pressing invitation to make some stay at the Castle of Lindenberg. As She
spoke thus, the Youths exchanged a malicious smile, which declared that
She would be fortunate if She ever reached that Castle herself. This action
did not escape me; But I concealed the emotion which it excited in my
breast. I continued to converse with the Lady; But my discourse was 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 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 apprized 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 infinite
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 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 mean while 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

Champagne; 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 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 Champagne 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 drank sufficient,” said He to his Brother in a low voice,
while He reseated himself.
Marguerite looked apprehensive, that I had tasted the liquor: A glance
from my eye reassured her.
I waited with anxiety for the effects which the Beverage would produce
upon the Lady. 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
themselves. My situation became every moment more painful; I sustained
the character of confidence with a worse grace than ever. Equally afraid of
the arrival of their Accomplices and of their suspecting my knowledge of

their designs, I knew not how to dissipate the distrust which the Banditti
evidently entertained for me. In this new dilemma the friendly Marguerite
again assisted me. She passed behind the Chairs of her Stepsons, 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.
“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 dispatch him at all events.”
“And why not dispatch him at all events?” enquired 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 tonight, a pretty figure we should make when the Servants
enquire for him in the Morning! No, no, Jacques; We must wait for our
Associates. If they join us, we are strong enough to dispatch the Domestics
as well as their Masters, and the booty is our own; If Claude does not find
the Troop, we must take patience, and suffer the prey to slip through our
fingers. Ah! Boys, Boys, had you arrived but five minutes sooner, the
Spaniard would have been done for, and two thousand Pistoles our own.
But you are always out of the way when you are most wanted.
You are the most unlucky Rogues!”
“Well, well, Father!” answered Jacques; “Had you been of my mind, all
would have been over by this time. You, 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 tonight, we must take care to waylay them tomorrow.”
“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 accents of despair,
“Almighty God! They are lost!”
Luckily the Wood-man and his Sons were too much occupied by 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 dispatch 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 the floor, Marguerite, wresting
the dagger from his hand, plunged it repeatedly in his heart till He expired.
No sooner was this horrible but necessary act perpetrated than 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 Strasbourg, which was much nearer than the
perfidious Claude had assured me. Marguerite was well acquainted with the
road, and galloped on before me. We were obliged to pass by the Barn,
where the Robbers were slaughtering our Domestics. The door was open:
We distinguished the shrieks of the dying and imprecations of the
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 recognised the
Fugitives.
“Betrayed! Betrayed!” He shouted to his Companions.
Instantly they left their bloody work, and hastened to regain their Horses.
We heard no more. I buried my spurs in the sides of my Courser, and
Marguerite goaded on hers with the poignard, which had already rendered
us such good service. We flew like lightning, and gained the open plains.
Already was Strasbourg’s 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.
“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 mean while
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 Strasbourg, 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
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 ever 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
Strasbourg. 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 found 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.
“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 Strasbourg of respectable Parents; Their names I must at
present conceal: My Father still lives, and deserves not to be involved in my
infamy; If you grant my request, you shall be informed of my family name.
A Villain made himself Master of my affections, and to follow him I quitted
my Father’s House. Yet though my passions overpowered my virtue, I 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 Strasbourg, 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 circumstance, which might lead me to
suspect the crimes in which He but too often participated. He succeeded
perfectly: It was not till after my Seducer’s death, that I discovered his
hands to have been stained with the blood of innocence.

“One fatal night He was brought back to the Cavern covered with
wounds: He received them in attacking an English Traveller, whom his
Companions immediately sacrificed to their resentment. He had only time
to entreat my pardon for all the sorrows which He had caused me: He
pressed my hand to his lips, and expired. My grief was inexpressible. As
soon as its violence abated, I resolved to return to Strasbourg, to throw
myself with my two Children at my Father’s feet, and implore his
forgiveness, though I little hoped to obtain it. What was my consternation
when informed that no one 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 accepting one of their Band
for my Husband! My prayers and remonstrances were vain. They cast lots
to decide to whose possession I should fall; I became the property of the
infamous Baptiste. A Robber, who had once been a Monk, pronounced over
us a burlesque rather than a religious Ceremony: I and my Children were
delivered into the hands of my new Husband, and He conveyed us
immediately to his home.
“He assured 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 experience had convinced
me of the horrors of my situation: My first Lover had carefully concealed
them from me; Baptiste rather rejoiced in opening my eyes to the cruelties
of his profession, and strove to familiarise me with blood and slaughter.
“My nature was licentious and warm, but not cruel: My conduct had been
imprudent, but my heart was not unprincipled. Judge then what I must have
felt at being a continual witness of crimes the most horrible and revolting!
Judge how I must have grieved at being united to a Man who received the
unsuspecting Guest with an air of openness and hospitality, at the very
moment that He meditated his destruction. Chagrin and 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 risque every
thing to preserve the Stranger. The vigilance of Baptiste prevented me from
warning Don Alphonso of his danger: I knew that my betraying the secret
would be immediately punished with death; and however embittered was
my life by calamities, I wanted courage to sacrifice it for the sake of
preserving that of another Person. My only hope rested upon procuring
succour from Strasbourg: At this I resolved to try; and should an
opportunity offer of warning Don 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 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, communicated 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 Strasbourg. Had He been accosted by the Banditti, He was
to have declared himself sent upon a message by Baptiste, but fortunately
He reached the Town without meeting any obstacle. Immediately upon his

arrival at Strasbourg, He entreated assistance from the Magistrature: 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, whom 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 enquire why the sleepy potion had been
presented to me. She said that Baptiste supposed me to have arms about me,
and wished to incapacitate me from making resistance: It was a precaution
which He always took, since as the Travellers had no hopes of escaping,
Despair would have incited them to sell their lives dearly.
The Baron then desired Marguerite to inform him, what were her present
plans. I joined him in declaring my readiness to show my gratitude to her
for the preservation of my life.
“Disgusted with a world,” She replied, “in which I have met with nothing
but misfortunes, my only wish is to retire into a Convent. But first I must
provide for my Children. I find that my Mother is no more, probably driven
to an untimely grave by my desertion! My Father is still living; He is not an
hard Man; Perhaps, Gentlemen, in spite of my ingratitude and imprudence,
your intercessions may induce him to forgive me, and to take charge of his
unfortunate Grand-sons. If you obtain this boon for me, you will repay my
services a thousand-fold!”
Both the Baron and myself assured Marguerite, that we would spare no
pains to obtain her pardon: and that even should her Father be inflexible,
She need be under no apprehensions respecting the fate of her Children. I
engaged 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 compleatly 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 Strasbourg, 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 Convent: He said that She was too
necessary to his happiness, and She was easily persuaded to relinquish her
design. 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 Strasbourg; and when I was on the point of
leaving it, He besought me with tears to take him into my service: He set
forth all his little talents in the most favourable colours, and tried to
convince me that I should find him of infinite use to me upon the road. I
was unwilling to charge myself with a Lad but scarcely turned of thirteen,
whom I knew could only be a burthen to me: However, I could not resist the
entreaties of this affectionate Youth, who in fact possessed a thousand
estimable qualities. With some difficulty He persuaded his relations to let
him follow me, and that permission once obtained, He was dubbed with the
title of my Page. Having passed a week at Strasbourg, 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 IV.
Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the Earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold!
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which Thou dost glare with! Hence, horrible shadow!
Unreal mockery hence!

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 past 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 chace, He
treated the subject with as much gravity as it had been a Battle on which the
fate of two kingdoms was depending. I happened to be a tolerable
Sportsman: Soon after my arrival at Lindenberg I gave some proofs of my
dexterity. The Baron immediately marked me down for a Man of Genius,
and vowed to me an eternal friendship.
That friendship was become to me by no means indifferent. At the Castle
of Lindenberg I beheld for the first time your Sister, the lovely Agnes. For
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 perfection,
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 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 enquiries
respecting her of the Baroness.
“She is my Niece,” replied that Lady; “You are still ignorant, Don
Alphonso, that I am your Countrywoman. 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 exclamation 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, and which I have
learnt from the mouth of Agnes herself.”
He then resumed his narrative as follows.)
You cannot but be aware that your Parents were unfortunately Slaves to
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 whom her education
was confided performed their charge with exactitude: They made her a
perfect Mistress of many talents, and strove to infuse into her mind a taste

for the retirement and tranquil pleasures of a Convent. 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 imagination 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 learnt partly from Agnes, partly from the Baroness herself.
I immediately determined upon rescuing this lovely Girl from a fate so
contrary to her inclinations, and ill-suited to her merit. I endeavoured to
ingratiate myself into her favour: I boasted of my friendship and intimacy
with you. She listened to me with avidity; She seemed to devour my words
while I spoke in your praise, and her eyes thanked me for my affection to
her Brother. My constant and unremitted attention at length gained me her
heart, and with difficulty I obliged her to confess that She loved me. When
however, I proposed her quitting the Castle of 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 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. Authorised by the confession of her
regard, I redoubled my exertions. My principal Battery was directed against
the Baroness; It was easy to discover that her word was law 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 unremitting vengeance
those who opposed themselves to her wishes. The warmest of Friends, the
most inveterate of Enemies, such was the Baroness Lindenberg.
I laboured incessantly to please her: Unluckily I succeeded but too well.
She seemed gratified by my attention, and 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 past with
Agnes; But as I was conscious that complaisance for her Aunt would
advance our union, I submitted with a good grace to the penance imposed
upon me. Donna Rodolpha’s Library was principally composed of old
Spanish Romances: These were her favourite studies, and once a day one of
these unmerciful Volumes was put regularly into my hands. I read the
wearisome adventures of “Perceforest,” “Tirante the White,” “Palmerin of
England,” and “the Knight of the Sun,” till the Book was on the point of
falling from my hands through Ennui. However, the increasing pleasure
which the Baroness seemed to take in my society, encouraged me to
persevere; and latterly She showed for me a partiality so marked, that Agnes

advised me to seize the first opportunity of declaring our mutual passion to
her Aunt.
One Evening, I was alone with Donna Rodolpha in her own apartment.
As our readings generally treated of love, Agnes was never permitted to
assist at them. I was just congratulating myself on having finished “The
Loves of Tristan and the Queen 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 made upon my heart.
At length I can no longer hide my weakness either from myself or from
you. I yield to the violence of my passion, and own that I adore you! For
three long months I stifled my desires; But grown stronger by resistance, I
submit to their impetuosity. 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, my Lorenzo, what must have been
my confusion at this discovery. I at once saw all the magnitude of this
obstacle, which I had raised myself 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 the Laws 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,
consternation gave place to rage, and the blood rushed back into her cheeks
with violence.

“Villain!” She cried; “Monster of deceit! Thus is the avowal of my love
received? Is it thus that.... But no, no! It cannot, it shall not be! Alphonso,
behold me at your feet! Be witness of my despair! Look with pity on a
Woman who loves you with sincere affection! She who possesses your
heart, how has She merited such a treasure? What sacrifice has She made to
you?
What raises her above Rodolpha?”
I endeavoured to lift her from her Knees.
“For God’s sake, 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
Sopha. Then hastening to the door, I summoned her Women to her
assistance; I committed her to their care, and seized the opportunity of
escaping.
Agitated and confused beyond expression I bent my steps towards the
Garden. The benignity with which the Baroness had listened to me at first
raised my hopes to the highest pitch: I imagined her to have perceived my
attachment 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 superstition of the Parents of Agnes, aided by

her Aunt’s unfortunate passion, seemed to oppose such obstacles to our
union as were almost insurmountable.
As I past 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 eye 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 Groupe 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?”
She cast her eye 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 Bleeding 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 Son, 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 entertainment commenced about a Century ago. It was
accompanied with shrieking, howling, groaning, swearing, and many other
agreeable noises of the same kind. But though one particular room was
more especially honoured with her visits, She did not entirely confine
herself to it. She 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.”
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 rung
with oaths and execrations: A Moment after She repeated her Paternoster:
Now She howled out the most horrible blasphemies, and then chaunted De
Profundis, as orderly as if still in the Choir. In short She seemed a mighty

capricious Being: But whether She prayed or cursed, whether She was
impious or devout, She always contrived to terrify her Auditors out of their
senses. The Castle became scarcely habitable; and its Lord was so
frightened by these midnight Revels, that one fine morning He was found
dead in his bed. This success seemed to please the Nun mightily, for now
She made more noise than ever. But the next Baron proved too cunning for
her. He made his appearance with a celebrated Exorciser in his hand, who
feared not to shut himself up for a night in the haunted Chamber. There it
seems that He had an hard battle with the Ghost, before She would promise
to be quiet. She was obstinate, but He was more so, and at length She
consented to let the Inhabitants of the Castle take a good night’s rest. For
some time after no news was heard of her. But at the end of five years the
Exorciser died, and then the Nun ventured to peep abroad again. 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 Apparition: Not that this is thought
by any means necessary, since She could easily whip through the Keyhole 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 Ghost-ship.”
“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 Cunegonda, my Governess, She
protests that fifteen years ago She saw the Spectre with her own eyes. She
related to me one evening how She and several other Domestics had been

terrified while at Supper by the appearance of the Bleeding Nun, as the
Ghost is called in the Castle: ’Tis from her account that I drew this sketch,
and you may be certain that Cunegonda was not omitted. There She is! I
shall never forget what a passion She was in, and how ugly She looked
while She scolded me for having made her picture so like herself!”
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. 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 choaked 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 conjectures 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 me 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.
You may spare your supplications.” She continued, perceiving me on the
point of speaking; “My resolution is fixed and immoveable. 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 my 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. Farewell, Segnor; Remember, that
tomorrow 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 immediate 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 Strasbourg in Stephano’s room, and my
little Page whom I before mentioned to you. The fidelity, intelligence, and
good temper of Theodore 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 learnt
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 disappointed, 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
quitted 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 discernment 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 Strasbourg, 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 past the greatest part of his time in
reading; He had acquired much 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 descended, 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 past
through the Village with Dame Cunegonda: She seemed in 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 past.
“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 recognised. 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; The Page followed
me, and drew the Ladder after us. I 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 further advanced. Another quarter of an hour
elapsed, and I heard the light foot of my Mistress approaching the Pavilion
with precaution. I flew 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 of the Castle. As soon as the
Clock strikes “one,” I shall quit my chamber, drest 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 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 me, 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 or Horses were to be procured nearer than 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 protested 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
unperceived 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
excellent invention! 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 Alphonso, 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 Ghost-ship back to your apartment.”
She approached the Sopha 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 compleatly 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 Cunegonda,
bad 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 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 waded 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 up stairs, reached my chamber unperceived, 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 a little surprised at my returning so late, but asked no
impertinent 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 entertained 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
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 appearance.
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 past away five days, during which I
had prepared every thing 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 spight 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 amusement, 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 brow 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 antient 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 established herself in a nook of the deserted Eastern Turret. I
heard her melancholy shriek, and looked upwards. She sat upon the ride of
a window, which I recognized to be that of the haunted Room. This brought
to my remembrance the story of the Bleeding Nun, and I sighed 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 today
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 separating. 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 ridge of the hill, the stillness of the scene
inspired me with melancholy ideas not altogether unpleasing. The Castle
which stood full in my sight, formed an object equally awful and
picturesque. Its ponderous Walls tinged by the 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 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 Staircase windows as
the lovely Ghost past 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!
Agnes! Agnes! I am thine!
In my veins while blood shall roll,
Thou art mine!
I am thine!
Thine my body! Thine my soul!

Terrified and breathless She was unable to speak: She dropt her Lamp
and dagger, and sank upon my bosom in 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
pretending 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 bad 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. Immediately 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 vye 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 apprehension for the safety of Agnes combined
to overpower me so compleatly, 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 disputing whether my recovery was possible. I spoke German
tolerably well. As soon as I could utter an articulate sound, I enquired 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 an
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 enquired 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 past 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 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 bye-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 over-heated brain, and paid no
attention to my entreaties. However, the Hostess assured me that a fresh
enquiry 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
consequence 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 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 Corse. Her countenance was long and haggard; Her cheeks and
lips were bloodless; The paleness of death was spread over her features, and
her eyeballs fixed stedfastly 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 expressions.
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! Thou art mine!
Raymond! Raymond! I am thine! &c.—’

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 rouzed 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.
I 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 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 rouzed 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 armed-Chair 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! &c.——’

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.”
Even night was this repeated. Far from growing accustomed to the Ghost,
every succeeding visit inspired me with greater horror. Her idea pursued me
continually, 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 Sopha, 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 Hypochondriac. 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 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 surprized that during this time I made no enquiries after your
Sister. Theodore, who with difficulty had discovered my abode, had quieted
my apprehensions for her safety: At the same time He convinced 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 surprize 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 enquiry. 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 past, 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 mean while Theodore having seen my Carriage drive off with the
false Agnes, returned joyfully to the Village. The next morning He released
Cunegonda from her 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 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 this 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 surprize 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
Rodolpha’s order was kept out of her sight: What proved a still greater
confirmation of my being an Impostor, was the arrival of a letter from
yourself declaring that you had no sort of acquaintance with Alphonso
d’Alvarada. 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 a Convent.
Incensed at my behaviour, and disgusted with the world in general, She
consented to receive the veil. She past 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 had 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
considered 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 some skill in Music. He had also acquired
some taste in poetry, and even ventured sometimes to write verses himself.
He occasionally composed 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 Sopha, 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 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 or 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 enquiring 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 Sopha. (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 drest plainly, his hair was unpowdered, 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.
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 enquire,” said I, “by what means you are in possession of a
secret which I have carefully concealed from the knowledge of everyone?”
“How can I be ignorant of your distress, 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. I 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! Fate obliges me to be constantly in movement: I 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 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 astonishment at the
mysterious turn of his manner and conversation.
His assurances that I should soon be relieved from the Apparition’s visits
produced a good effect upon my constitution. Theodore, whom I rather
treated as an adopted Child than a Domestic, was surprized 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 enquiry I
found that the Stranger had already past 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 in his 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 respectfully,
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 in it
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 &c; I
observed, that 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.”
“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 impressed upon his brow. For the horror with which this object

inspired me I cannot account, but I never felt its equal! My senses left me
for some moments; A mysterious dread overcame my courage, and had not
the Exorciser 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!—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 Exorciser led me out of the Circle. He replaced the
Bible &c. 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 Grandfather: 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 proscribed her nocturnal riots in the
Castle of Lindenberg, and I hold this narrative from his own lips.
“Beatrice de las Cisternas took the veil at an early age, not by her own
choice, but at the express command of her Parents. 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 herself 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
inclinations 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.
“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 underneath the 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. Drest 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 horror 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 death 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
Exorciser. 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 Exorciser 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 the Almighty’s
vengeance has denied to me for ever!”
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 in prey to yet greater respecting
yourself. Deign to inform me, to whom I am under such real obligations.
You mention circumstances long past, and persons long dead: You were
personally acquainted with the Exorciser, 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?”
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 explanation till the next day. With this
request I was obliged to comply, and He left me. In the Morning my first
care was to enquire after the mysterious Stranger. Conceive my
disappointment when informed that He had already quitted Ratisbon. I
dispatched 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 wandering 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
give this supposition 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 quiennial
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 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 enquired 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 Strasbourg, 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 past 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 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 politeness, and enquired
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 Cisternas. I no sooner mentioned the name
than He profest himself an acquaintance 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 enquired 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 Sopha 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 detaining me so late at the Convent of St. Clare. The high
esteem in which I 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 opportunity 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 every thing in the Hotel de
Medina is perfectly at your disposal.”
Conceive my surprize, 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 flattered 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 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 recognized 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 Condé de las Cisternas, I was determined 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 Rodolpha, 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 interests; 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 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 newcomer
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 recognised me in spite of my disguise
at a single glance. She rose hastily from her seat with an exclamation of
surprize, 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 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 extinguished 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 Cardinal-Duke of Lerma’s
influence at the Court of Rome: I assured her that I should easily obtain a
dispensation 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 an hope, I could
know but little of her Father. Liberal and kind in every other respect,
Superstition formed the only stain upon his character. Upon this head He
was inflexible; He sacrificed his 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. But let the worst happen; Should Don
Gaston be irreconcileable, 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 deathbed 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 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 unguarded moment, the honour of Agnes was sacrificed to my passion.”
(Lorenzo’s eyes 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, and listened 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 forgiveness. She forced her hand from me, which I
had taken, and would have prest 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 risque.
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 no where 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 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 during 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 the drawer of a Cabinet: He took out a
folded paper, which He presented to his Auditor. Lorenzo opened it, and
recognised his Sister’s hand. The contents were as follows:

“Into what an abyss of misery have you plunged me!
Raymond, 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 tenderness, solicits me to
pardon my Seducer, and apply to his love for the means of
preservation. Raymond, your child lives in my bosom. I
tremble at the vengeance of the Prioress; I tremble much for
myself, yet 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
concealing 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, 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 chuse
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, Oh! 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 relyed: But the Cardinal wrote me word, that I must
find some means of conveying Agnes out of the Convent, unknown 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 approved of my design, and profest himself
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 tomorrow 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.
O You! whom Vanity’s light bark conveys
On Fame’s mad voyage by the wind of praise,
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’er-throws.

POPE.

Here the Marquis concluded his adventures. Lorenzo, before He could
determine on his reply, past 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
temptation 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 Agnes. What has past 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
tomorrow 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 interests of Antonia. The
Marquis was much surprized at hearing of this new Relation: His Father

had carried his hatred of Elvira to the Grave, and had never given the least
hint that He knew what was become of his eldest Son’s Widow. Don
Raymond assured his friend that He was not mistaken in supposing him
ready to 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 She
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 Antiroom, 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 longed to show
his poetry, but first chose to be pressed for it.
“Indeed, my Lord, they are not worthy your attention.”
“Not these verses, which you just now declared to be so charming?
Come, come, let me see whether our opinions are the same. I promise
that you shall find in me an indulgent Critic.”
The Boy produced his paper with seeming reluctance; but the satisfaction
which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes betrayed the vanity of his little
bosom. The Marquis smiled while He observed the emotions of an heart as
yet but little skilled in veiling its sentiments. He seated himself upon a
Sopha: Theodore, while Hope and fear contended on his anxious
countenance, waited with inquietude for his Master’s decision, while the
Marquis read the following lines.

LOVE AND AGE
The night was dark; The wind blew cold;
Anacreon, grown morose and old,
Sat by his fire, and fed the chearful flame:
Suddenly the Cottage-door expands,
And lo! before him Cupid stands,
Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name.

“What is it Thou?” the startled 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 desart 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.

“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 passed deprived of rest;
The jealous pangs which racked 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 the offended God, and frowned;
(His frown was sweet as is the Virgin’s smile!)
“Do You to Me these words address?
To Me, who do not love you less,
Though You my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile!

“If one proud Fair you chanced to find,
An hundred other Nymphs were kind,
Whose smiles might well for Julia’s frowns atone:
But such is Man! His partial hand
Unnumbered favours writes on sand,
But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.

“Ingrate! Who led Thee to the wave,
At noon where Lesbia loved to lave?
Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay?
And who, when Caelia shrieked for aid,
Bad you with kisses hush the Maid?
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 knees;
And swear, not wine itself would please,
Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl!

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

“Again beloved, esteemed, carest,
Cupid shall in thine arms be prest,
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
The fairest 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 plucked from Cupid’s wing
Sweeps the too-long-neglected 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 deckt with flowers;
Mild Zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers;
High towered the glorious Sun, and poured the blaze of day.

Attracted by the harmonious sound,
Sylvans and Fauns the Cot surround,
And curious crowd the Minstrel to behold:
The Wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove;
Eager They run; They list, they love,
And while They hear the strain, forget the Man is old.

Cupid, to nothing constant long,
Perched on the Harp attends the song,
Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes:
Now on the Poet’s breast reposes,
Now twines his hoary locks with roses,
Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.

Then thus Anacreon—“I no more
At other shrine my vows will pour,
Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire:
From Phœbus or the blue-eyed Maid
Now shall my verse request no aid,
For Love alone shall be the Patron of my Lyre.

“In lofty strain, of earlier days,
I spread the King’s or Hero’s praise,
And struck the martial Chords with epic fire:
But farewell, Hero! farewell, King!
Your deeds my lips no more shall sing,
For Love alone shall be the subject of my Lyre.

The Marquis returned the paper with a smile of encouragement.
“Your little 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 six lines in my life: Those six produced so
unlucky an effect that I am fully resolved never to compose another. But I
wander from my subject. I was going to say that you cannot employ your
time worse than in making verses. An Author, whether good or bad, or
between both, is an Animal whom everybody is privileged to attack; For
though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to
judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own punishment, contempt
and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails upon its Author a
thousand mortifications. He finds himself assailed by partial and ill-
humoured 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 character or
conduct, and aim at wounding the Man, since They cannot hurt the Writer.
In short, to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose yourself to the
arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappointment. Whether you write
well or ill, be assured that you will not escape from blame; Indeed this
circumstance contains a young Author’s chief consolation: He remembers
that Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjust and envious Critics, and He
modestly conceives himself to be 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 you might as easily persuade me not to love, as I persuade you 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 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 only seem introduced in order to rhyme with others; and most
of the best ideas are borrowed from other Poets, though possibly you are
unconscious of the theft yourself. These faults may occasionally be excused
in a work of length; But a short Poem must be correct and perfect.”
“All this is true, Segnor; But you should consider that I only write for
pleasure.”
“Your defects are the less excusable. Their incorrectness may be forgiven
in those who work for money, who are obliged to compleat a given task in a
given time, and are paid according to the bulk, not value of their
productions. 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 impardonable, and merit the sharpest arrows of criticism.”
The Marquis rose from the Sopha; the Page looked discouraged 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 enquire for
Letters. He found several waiting for him; but that which He sought was not
amongst them. Leonella had found it impossible to write that evening.
However, her impatience to secure Don Christoval’s heart, on which She
flattered herself with having made no slight impression, permitted her not to
pass another day without informing him where She was to be found. On her
return from the Capuchin Church, She had related to her Sister with
exultation how attentive 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 concealed in her own
breast. She had observed with inquietude that at the mention of Lorenzo, a
deep blush spread itself over her Daughter’s cheek. The timid Antonia dared
not to pronounce his name: Without knowing wherefore, She felt
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 anyone, She took an opportunity
of dispatching 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 forgetfulness: 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 too amiable
Don Christoval, will not permit my obeying her injunctions.
I have therefore stolen a moment to inform you, that we
lodge in the Strada di San Iago, four doors from the Palace
d’Albornos, and nearly opposite to the Barber’s Miguel
Coello. Enquire 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 Condé d’Ossorio, tell him ... I blush while I declare it ...
Tell him that his presence will be but too acceptable to the
sympathetic

LEONELLA.

The latter sentences were written in red ink, to express the blushes of her
cheek, while She committed an outrage upon her virgin modesty.
Lorenzo had no sooner perused this note than He set out in search of Don
Christoval. Not being able to find him in the course of the day, He
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
politeness, 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
Sopha: Antonia sat by her embroidery frame, and Leonella, in a pastoral
dress, held “Montemayor’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 Shoe-maker, 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 in her youth, and readily excused the imprudence of the late
Condé de las Cisternas. She desired him to be seated, and immediately
resumed her place upon the Sopha.
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 an 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 her behalf; But still She
gave him no invitation to repeat his visit.
However, when upon rising to depart He requested permission to enquire
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 lanched 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 than I do. In my opinion his
figure is pleasing, his conversation sensible, and manners engaging. Still He
may have struck you differently: You may think him disagreeable, and ...”.
“Disagreeable? Oh! 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 his society had afforded you
pleasure?”
“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 upon 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 Sopha, 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 sorrows 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 positively; But unless I judge too favourably of his
character, He will discontinue them without taking offence, if I confess to
him my reasons, and throw myself entirely on his generosity. The next time
that I see him, I will honestly avow to him the embarrassment which his
presence occasions. How say you, my Child? Is not this measure
necessary?”
Antonia subscribed to every thing 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. Every thing 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 impatient: 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 been 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 Grate with a melancholy countenance:

She informed him that for several days Agnes had appeared much agitated;
That She had been prest by the Nuns in vain to reveal the cause, and apply
to their tenderness for advice and consolation; That She had obstinately
persisted in concealing the cause of her 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 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 proceedings 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 Sopha. 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
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 Condé de las Cisternas’ 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 past 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 Antonia as descended from the
Condé de la Cisternas: Consider her as a poor and unprotected Orphan, as
the Grand-child of the Tradesman Torribio Dalfa, as the needy Pensioner of
that Tradesman’s Daughter. Reflect upon the difference between such a
situation, and that of the Nephew and Heir of the potent Duke of Medina. I
believe your intentions to be honourable; But as there are no hopes that

your Uncle will approve of the union, I foresee that the consequences of
your attachment must be fatal to my Child’s repose.”
“Pardon me, Segnora; You are misinformed if you suppose the Duke of
Medina to resemble the generality of Men. His sentiments are liberal and
disinterested: He loves me well; and I have no reason to dread his
forbidding the marriage when He perceives that my happiness depends
upon Antonia. But supposing him to refuse his sanction, what have I still to
fear? My Parents are no more; My little fortune is in my own possession: It
will be sufficient to support Antonia, and I shall exchange for her hand
Medina’s Dukedom without one sigh of regret.”
“You are young and eager; It is natural for you to entertain such ideas.
But Experience has taught me to my cost that curses accompany an unequal
alliance. I married the Condé de las Cisternas in opposition to the will of his
Relations; Many an heart-pang has punished me for the imprudent step.
Whereever 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, 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 destruction! 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 his 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 terms, and load himself with curses for being
the Murderer of my repose. Taught by experience that an 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
Uncle’s consent, while I live, She never shall 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 realised; The Indian
Islands will offer us a secure retreat; I have an estate, though not of value,
in Hispaniola: Thither will we fly, and I shall consider it to be my native
Country, if it gives me Antonia’s undisturbed possession.”
“Ah! Youth, this is a fond romantic vision. Gonzalvo thought the same.
He fancied that He 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 forgotten, by the Companions of your Youth! To see your
dearest Friends, the fondest objects of your affection, perishing with
diseases incidental to Indian atmospheres, and find yourself unable to
procure for them necessary assistance! I have felt all this! My Husband and
two sweet Babes found their Graves in Cuba: Nothing would have saved
my young Antonia but my sudden 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 chaunted some well-known air as He past 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 Sopha, and proceeded.
“Excuse my quitting you for a few moments: The remembrance 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’s steps again shall press thy shore.

Hushed are the winds; While soft the Vessel sailing
With gentle motion plows the 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 beloved, appear;
From yonder craggy point the gale of Even
Still wafts my native accents to mine ear:

Propped on some moss-crowned Rock, and gaily singing,
There in the Sun his nets the Fisher dries;
Oft have I heard the plaintive Ballad, bringing
Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

Ah! Happy Swain! He waits the accustomed hour,
When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky;
Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,
And shares the feast his native fields supply:

Friendship and Love, his Cottage Guests, receive him
With honest welcome and with smile sincere;
No threatening woes of present joys bereave him,
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.

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 chaunting wild his rustic notes:

No more my arms a Parent’s fond embraces,
No more my heart domestic calm, must know;
Far from these joys, with sighs which Memory traces,
To sultry skies, and distant climes I go.

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 piece-meal 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 doat on thee for ever,
And feel, that all thy 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 played,
My Castle’s antient Halls, its frowning Towers,
Each much-regretted wood, and well-known Glade,

Dreams 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!

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 an union taking place, I fear that it is desired but too ardently by my
Daughter. You have made an impression upon her young heart, which gives
me the most serious alarm: To prevent that impression from growing
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, what ever
steps you may take, what ever 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 authorises 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 more.”
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 had not called in person, and made no scruple of confiding to her
his Sister’s History. He concluded by saying that He hoped to set Agnes at
liberty the next day; and that as soon as Don Raymond’s fears were quieted
upon this subject, He would lose no time in assuring 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, from a Friend who was educated in the
same Convent with her. She reported her to be haughty, inflexible,
superstitious, and revengeful. I have since heard that She is infatuated with
the idea of rendering her Convent the most regular in Madrid, and never
forgave those whose imprudence threw upon it the slightest stain. Though
naturally 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 past between them.
She looked forward with satisfaction to the prospect of his becoming her
Son-in-law; But Prudence bad 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 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 surprize.
“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 since
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 sufficient reason for me to wish her absence, and
think her a disgrace to the Sisterhood of St. Clare: But She has forfeited my
affection in a manner yet more culpable. Her crimes were great, and when
you know the cause of her death, you will doubtless rejoice, Don Lorenzo,
that such a Wretch is no longer in existence. She was taken ill on Thursday
last on returning from confession in the Capuchin Chapel. Her malady
seemed attended with strange circumstances; But She persisted in
concealing its cause: Thanks to the Virgin, we were too ignorant to suspect
it! Judge then what must have been our consternation, our horror, when She
was delivered the next day of a stillborn Child, whom She immediately

followed to the Grave. How, Segnor? Is it possible that your countenance
expresses no surprize, 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 past 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 event 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 meanwhile his
emissaries constantly surrounded Elvira’s Door. He had intelligence of all
the movements of his Mistress: As She never failed every Thursday to
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: All but the Marquis credited her death; and now
Lorenzo determined to disclose his sentiments to his Uncle. He had already
dropt 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 entranced They lay,
They blessed the night, and curst the coming day.

LEE.

The burst of transport was past: 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 melancholy 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 I
not shared in your guilt? Have you not shared in my pleasure? Guilt, did I

say? In what consists ours, unless in the opinion of an ill-judging World?
Let that World be ignorant of them, and our joys become divine and
blameless! 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 irresistible! Then banish those clouds from your brow, my
Ambrosio! Indulge in those pleasures freely, without which life 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 voluptuously round him, drew him towards
her, and glewed 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 Syren’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 safely. 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 appall me: I will
look upon the consequences of my action boldly, nor shudder at the horrors
which they present. I will think my sacrifice scarcely worthy to purchase
your possession, and remember that a moment past in your arms in this
world o’er-pays an age of punishment in the next. But before I take this

step, Ambrosio, give me your solemn oath never to enquire 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 that life is safe which I dedicate to your pleasures. To prevent creating
suspicion, do not visit me during the day. Remember the Key, and that I
expect you before twelve. Hark! I hear steps approaching! Leave 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 enquire 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
wishes to repose.”
Father Pablos obeyed, and hearing the Bell ring, accompanied the Abbot
to Matins. Ambrosio felt embarrassed as He entered the Chapel. Guilt was
new to him, and He fancied that every eye could read the transactions of the
night upon his countenance. He strove to pray; His bosom no longer glowed
with devotion; His thoughts insensibly wandered to Matilda’s secret
charms. But what He wanted in purity of heart, He supplied by exterior
sanctity. The better to cloak his transgression, He redoubled his pretensions
to the semblance of virtue, and never appeared more devoted to Heaven as
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 learnt, 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 ecstacy; 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 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 Rosario

had at length been prevailed upon to follow his prescription; But that the
medicine had not produced the slightest effect, and that He believed no
mortal skill could rescue him from the Grave. With this opinion the Abbot
agreed, and affected to lament the untimely fate of a Youth, 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 drest 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 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 or 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 past.
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. Rays of light proceeded up the Staircase: They enabled the
concealed Spectators to observe two Females drest 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.
“Every thing is prepared,” said the Prioress; “Her fate shall be decided
tomorrow. 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 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 convince Ambrosio that I abhor
such crimes, than by punishing that of Agnes with all the rigour of which
our severe laws admit. Cease then your supplications; They will all be
unavailing. My resolution is taken: Tomorrow 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 tomorrow,
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 surprize, and may give birth to suspicions
which it is most our interest to avoid. Rather, 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 pleasures, 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 any one approaches, warn me by your
voice; But as you value your existence, presume not to follow me. Your life
would fall a victim to your imprudent curiosity.”
Thus saying She advanced towards the Sepulchre, still holding her Lamp
in one hand, and her little Basket in the other. She touched the door: It
turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and a narrow winding staircase of
black marble presented itself to her eyes. She descended it. Ambrosio
remained above, watching the faint beams of the Lamp as they still
proceeded up the stairs. They disappeared, and He found himself in total
darkness.
Left to himself He could not reflect without surprize on the sudden
change in Matilda’s character and sentiments. But a few days had past since
She appeared the mildest and softest of her sex, devoted to his will, and
looking up to him as to a superior Being. Now She assumed a sort of
courage and manliness in her manners and discourse but ill-calculated to
please him. She spoke no longer to insinuate, but command: He found
himself unable to cope with her in argument, and was unwillingly obliged

to confess the superiority of her judgment. Every moment convinced him of
the 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 female 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 quality. However, though he
blamed her insensibility, He felt the 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 distinguish her words, and ere they reached him they
were deadened into a low murmur. He longed to penetrate into this mystery.
He resolved to disobey her injunctions and follow her into 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 earthquake 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 accompanied by a strain of sweet but solemn Music, which
as it stole through the Vaults below, inspired the Monk with mingled delight
and terror. It had not long been hushed, when He heard Matilda’s steps upon
the Staircase. She ascended from the Cavern; The most lively joy animated
her beautiful features.
“Did you see any thing?” She asked.
“Twice I saw a column of light flash up the Staircase.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing.”
“The Morning is on the point of breaking. Let us retire to the Abbey, lest
daylight should betray us.”
With a light step She hastened from the burying-ground. She regained her
Cell, and the curious Abbot still accompanied her. She closed the door, and
disembarrassed herself of her Lamp and Basket.
“I have succeeded!” She cried, throwing herself upon his bosom:
“Succeeded beyond my fondest hopes! I shall live, Ambrosio, shall live for
you! The step which I shuddered at taking proves to me a source of joys
inexpressible! 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 your
business in the Cavern made a secret? Do you think me undeserving of your
confidence? Matilda, I must doubt the truth of your affection, while you
have joys in which I am forbidden to share.”
“You reproach me with injustice. I grieve sincerely that I am obliged to
conceal from you my happiness. But I am not to blame: The fault lies not in
me, but in yourself, my Ambrosio! You are still too much the Monk. Your
mind is enslaved by the prejudices of Education; And Superstition might
make you shudder at the idea of that which experience has taught me to
prize and value. At present you are unfit to be trusted with a secret of such
importance: But the strength of your judgment; and the curiosity which I
rejoice to see sparkling in your eyes, makes 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 enquire into
this night’s adventures. I insist upon your keeping this oath: For though”
She added smiling, while She sealed his lips with a wanton kiss; “Though I
forgive your breaking your vows to heaven, I expect you to keep your vows
to me.”
The Friar returned the embrace which had set his blood on fire. The
luxurious and unbounded excesses of the former night were renewed, and
they separated not till the Bell rang for Matins.
The same pleasures were frequently repeated. The Monks rejoiced in the
feigned Rosario’s unexpected recovery, and none of them suspected his real
sex. The Abbot possessed his Mistress in tranquillity, and perceiving his
frailty unsuspected, abandoned himself to his passions in full security.
Shame and remorse no longer tormented him. Frequent repetitions made
him familiar with sin, and his bosom became proof against the stings of
Conscience. In these sentiments He was encouraged by Matilda; But She
soon was aware that She had satiated her Lover by the 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: Where
none were to be found, Satiety made him fancy them. The Monk was
glutted with the fullness of pleasure: A Week had scarcely elapsed before
He was wearied of his Paramour: His warm constitution still made him seek
in her arms the gratification of his lust: But when the moment of passion
was over, He quitted her with disgust, and his humour, naturally inconstant,
made him sigh impatiently for variety.
Possession, which cloys Man, only increases the affection of Woman.
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 continued: But it was clear
that He was led to her arms, not by love, but the cravings of brutal appetite.
His constitution made a 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 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 enterprizing, 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
proofs 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
succeeded fully. To deserve admittance into the order of St. Francis was
Ambrosio’s highest ambition. His Instructors carefully repressed those
virtues whose grandeur and disinterestedness were ill-suited to the Cloister.
Instead of universal benevolence, He adopted a selfish partiality for his own
particular establishment: He was taught to consider compassion for the
errors of Others as a crime of the blackest dye: The noble frankness of his
temper was exchanged for servile humility; and in order to break his natural
spirit, the Monks terrified his young mind by placing before him all the

horrors with which Superstition could furnish them: They painted to him
the torments of the Damned in colours the most dark, terrible, and fantastic,
and threatened him at the slightest fault with eternal perdition. No wonder
that his imagination constantly dwelling upon these fearful objects should
have rendered his character timid and apprehensive. Add to this, that his
long absence from the great world, and total unacquaintance with the
common dangers of life, made him form of them an idea far more dismal
than the reality. While the Monks were busied in rooting out his virtues and
narrowing his sentiments, they allowed every vice which had fallen to his
share to arrive at full perfection. He was suffered to be proud, vain,
ambitious, and disdainful: He was jealous of his Equals, and despised all
merit but his own: He was implacable when offended, and cruel in his
revenge. Still in spite of the pains taken to 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 unacquainted with his
original disposition. He pronounced the most severe sentences upon
Offenders, which, the moment 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 persuaded that what He did must be right, and supposed him to
have good reasons for changing his resolutions. The fact was, that the
different sentiments with which Education and Nature had inspired him
were combating in his bosom: It remained for 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
Woman’s power to bestow, and if He read in the course of his studies
“That men were fond, he smiled, and wondered how!”

For a time, spare diet, frequent watching, and severe penance cooled and
represt the natural warmth of his constitution: But no sooner 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
his 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
injoined penance by any other than Ambrosio. In his resolution of never
stirring out of his Convent, He still persisted. This circumstance created a
still greater opinion of his sanctity and self-denial. Above all, the Women
sang forth his praises loudly, less influenced by devotion than by his noble
countenance, majestic air, and well-turned, graceful figure. The Abbey door
was thronged with Carriages from morning 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 those Interpreters, He would have needed no other means of
expressing his desires. For his misfortune, they were so strongly persuaded
of his continence, that the possibility of 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 silence. He knew
that it would be difficult for a Woman to keep a secret so strange and so
important as his frailty; and He even trembled lest Matilda should betray
him. Anxious to preserve a reputation which was infinitely dear to him, He
saw all the risque 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
dispatched, 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 an heart less susceptible, than that which panted in the Abbot’s
breast. With more than usual softness of manner He desired her to proceed,
and heard her speak as follows with an emotion which increased every
moment.
“Reverend Father, you see an Unfortunate, threatened with the loss of her
dearest, of almost her only Friend! My Mother, my excellent Mother lies
upon the bed of sickness. 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.”
“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 deathbed, 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 Antonia’s
image. He felt a thousand new emotions springing in his bosom, and He
trembled to examine into the cause which gave them birth. They were
totally different from those inspired by Matilda, when She first declared her
sex and her affection. He felt not the provocation of lust; 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
the visions of Fancy: His thoughts were all gentle, sad, and soothing, and
the whole wide world presented him with no other object than Antonia.
“Happy Man!” He exclaimed in his romantic enthusiasm; “Happy Man,
who is destined to possess the heart of that lovely Girl! What delicacy in her
features! What elegance in her form! 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 enthralls 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 distrest, 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 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 risque 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 Madona. 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 recognised: 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 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 risque 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
Christoval. 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 knowing
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
Condé’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
every body who was kind enough to listen to her, to tear his image from her
too susceptible heart. She affected the airs of a lovesick 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;
“Of lonely haunts, and twilight Groves,
“Places which pale Passion loves!”

Such was the state of Leonella’s mind, when obliged 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 Antichamber to that where Elvira was
reposing. The Female Domestic who had admitted him left him alone while
She announced his arrival to her Mistress. Antonia, who had been by her
Mother’s 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 armed-chair by the side of the
Bed, withdrew into another department.
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 eloquence He
calmed every fear, and dissipated every scruple: He bad her reflect on the
infinite mercy of her Judge, despoiled Death of his darts and terrors, and
taught her to view without shrinking the abyss of eternity, on whose brink
She then stood. Elvira was absorbed in attention and delight: While She
listened to his exhortations, confidence and comfort stole insensibly into her
mind. She 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 learnt 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 insignificant
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, promising to
conceal carefully the honour of his visits. The Monk then gave her his
benediction, and retired from the chamber.
In the Antiroom He found Antonia: He could not refuse himself the
pleasure of passing a few moments in her society. He bad her take comfort,
for that her Mother seemed composed and tranquil, and He hoped that She
might yet do well. He enquired 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 know 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 distrust: They suspect that some secret motive must
lurk behind it: They express their thanks with restraint and caution, and fear
to praise a kind action to its full extent, aware that some future day a return
may be required. Not 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 unequalled sweetness of her voice, her modest vivacity,
her unstudied elegance, her expressive countenance, and intelligent eyes
united to inspire him with pleasure and 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 this conversation
which possessed for him but too many charms. He repeated to Antonia his
wishes that his visits should not be made known, which desire She
promised to observe. He then quitted the House, while his Enchantress
hastened to her Mother, ignorant of the mischief which her Beauty had
caused. She was eager to know Elvira’s opinion of the Man whom She had
praised in such enthusiastic terms, and was delighted to find it equally
favourable, if not even more so, than her own.
“Even before He spoke,” said Elvira, “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. It seemed perfectly familiar to my ear. Either I must have known the
Abbot in former times, or his voice bears a wonderful resemblance to that
of some other, to whom I have often listened.

There were certain tones which touched my very heart, and made me feel
sensations so singular, that I strive in vain to account for them.”
“My dearest Mother, it produced the same effect upon me: Yet certainly
neither 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. I know not why, but I feel
more at my ease while conversing with him than I usually do with people
who are unknown to me. I feared not to repeat to him all my childish
thoughts; and somehow I felt confident that He would hear my folly with
indulgence. Oh! 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.”
“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 heaven, and was sent as
a present to the Capuchins by the Virgin.”

“That was very kind of her. And so He fell from heaven, Antonia?
He must have had a terrible tumble.”
“Many do not credit this, and I fancy, my dear Mother, that I must
number you among the Unbelievers. Indeed, as our Landlady told my Aunt,
the general idea is that his Parents, being poor and unable to maintain him,
left him just born at the Abbey door. The late Superior from pure charity
had him educated in the Convent, and He proved to be a model of virtue,
and piety, and learning, and I know not what else besides: In consequence,
He was first received as a Brother of the order, and not long ago was chosen
Abbot. However, whether this account or the other is the true one, at least
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 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. Rosolia, her Patroness; She recommended
herself to the protection of heaven, and as had been her custom from
infancy, concluded her devotions by chaunting 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:

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 Night-mare, 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;
Shew 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.

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 has ’scaped the wreck,
Sighless will I my life resign,
And yield to God my Spirit back,
As pure as when it first was mine.

Having finished her usual devotions, Antonia retired to bed. Sleep soon
stole over her senses; and for several hours She enjoyed that calm repose
which innocence alone can know, and for which many a Monarch with
pleasure would exchange his Crown.

CHAPTER VII.
——Ah! how dark
These long-extended realms and rueful wastes;
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,
Dark as was Chaos ere the Infant Sun
Was rolled together, or had tried its beams
Athwart the gloom profound!
The sickly Taper
By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults,
Furred round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime,
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make
Thy night more irksome!

BLAIR.

Returned undiscovered to the Abbey, Ambrosio’s mind was filled with
the most pleasing images. He was wilfully blind to the danger of exposing
himself to Antonia’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 penetration, of which latter
unfortunately both for himself and Antonia He possessed an ample share,
supplied a knowledge of the arts of seduction. He easily distinguished the
emotions which were favourable to his designs, and seized every means
with avidity of infusing corruption into Antonia’s bosom. This He found no
easy matter. Extreme simplicity prevented her from perceiving the aim to

which the Monk’s insinuations tended; But the excellent morals which She
owed to Elvira’s care, the solidity and correctness of her understanding, and
a strong sense of what was right implanted in her heart by Nature, made her
feel that his precepts must be faulty. By a few simple words She frequently
overthrew the whole bulk of his sophistical arguments, and made him
conscious how weak they were when opposed to Virtue and Truth. On such
occasion 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 mildness might have convinced him that He had nothing
to dread from her resentment. She had resumed the character of the gentle
interesting Rosario: She taxed him not with ingratitude; But her eyes filled
with involuntary tears, and the soft melancholy of her countenance and
voice uttered complaints far more touching than words could have
conveyed. 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 her, and avoided her company with care. Matilda saw that She in
vain attempted to regain his affections: Yet She stifled the impulse of

resentment, and continued to treat her inconstant Lover with her former
fondness and attention.
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 reestablishment 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 Antichamber, 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 Sopha 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
impropriety in conversing with him in one room than another. She thought
herself equally secure of his principles and her own, and having replaced
herself upon the Sopha, 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. It was the Bible.
“How!” said the Friar to himself; “Antonia reads the Bible, and is still so
ignorant?”
But, upon a further 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 that, unrestricted, no reading more improper
could be permitted a young Woman. Many of the narratives can only tend to
excite ideas the worst calculated for a female breast: Every thing is called
plainly and roundly by its name; and the annals of a Brothel would scarcely
furnish a greater choice of indecent expressions. Yet this is the Book which
young Women are recommended to study; which is put into the hands of
Children, able to comprehend little more than those passages of which they

had better remain ignorant; and which but too frequently inculcates the first
rudiments of vice, and gives the first alarm to the still sleeping passions. Of
this was Elvira so fully convinced, that She would have preferred putting
into her Daughter’s hands “Amadis de Gaul,” or “The Valiant Champion,
Tirante the White;” and would sooner have authorised her studying the lewd
exploits of “Don Galaor,” 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
omitted. She had adhered to this determination, and such was the Bible
which Antonia was reading: It had been lately delivered to her, and She
perused it with an avidity, with a delight that was 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
impressed upon her bosom. Besides, She thought of an Husband 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 some one is, you know
not? Perceive you not that what formerly could please, has charms for you
no longer? That a thousand new wishes, new ideas, new sensations, have
sprang 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 voluptuous melancholy which at times overspreads your
features, all these marks belye 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 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 hers, sucked in her pure delicious breath, violated with his
bold hand the treasures of her bosom, and wound around him her soft and
yielding limbs. Startled, alarmed, and confused at his action, surprize 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 Mankind not to be imposed upon by the Monk’s reputed
virtue. She reflected on several circumstances, which though trifling, on
being put together seemed to authorize her fears. His frequent visits, which
as far as She could see, were confined to her family; His evident emotion,
whenever She spoke of Antonia; His being in the full prime and heat of
Manhood; and above all, his pernicious philosophy communicated to her by
Antonia, and which accorded but ill with his conversation in her presence,
all these circumstances inspired her with doubts respecting the purity of
Ambrosio’s friendship. In consequence, She resolved, when He should next
be alone with Antonia, to endeavour at surprizing him. Her plan had
succeeded. ’Tis true, that when She entered the room, He had already
abandoned his prey; But the disorder of her Daughter’s dress, and the
shame and confusion stamped upon the Friar’s countenance, sufficed to
prove that her suspicions were but too well-founded. However, She was too
prudent to make those suspicions known. She judged that to unmask the

Imposter 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 Sopha, 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 reestablished, 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 an 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 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 risque which She had ran: But She was obliged to
treat the subject with caution, lest in removing the bandage of ignorance,
the veil of innocence should be rent away. She therefore contented herself
with warning 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 confusion. He
knew not what course to pursue. Debarred the presence of Antonia, He had
no hopes of satisfying that passion which was now become a part of his
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 direct imprecations He
vowed vengeance against her; He swore that, cost what it would, He still
would possess Antonia. Starting from the Bed, He paced the chamber with
disordered steps, howled with impotent fury, dashed himself violently
against the walls, and indulged all the transports of rage and madness.
He was still under the influence of this storm of passions when He heard
a gentle knock at the door of his Cell. Conscious that his voice must have
been heard, He dared not refuse admittance to the Importuner: He strove to
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.
“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.”
Her mildness had an instantaneous effect upon Ambrosio’s feelings.
“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
circumstance 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 them 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 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 not that which by most is esteemed impious, and
by many chimerical. I speak of those arts which relate to the world of
Spirits. His deep researches into causes and 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 enquiring 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 daemon. 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 past in St.
Clare’s Sepulchre? Then was it that, surrounded by mouldering bodies, I
dared to perform those mystic rites which summoned to my aid a fallen
Angel. Judge what must have been my joy at discovering that my terrors
were imaginary: I saw the Dæmon obedient to my orders, I saw him
trembling at my frown, and found that, instead of selling my soul to a
Master, my courage had purchased for myself a slave.”
“Rash Matilda! What have you done? You have doomed yourself to
endless perdition; You have bartered for momentary power eternal
happiness! If on witchcraft depends the fruition of my desires, I renounce
your aid most absolutely. The consequences are too horrible: I doat upon
Antonia, but am not so blinded by lust as to sacrifice for her enjoyment my
existence both in this world and the next.”
“Ridiculous prejudices! Oh! blush, Ambrosio, blush at being subjected to
their dominion. Where is the risque 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, witness my incantations, and Antonia is
your own.”
“To obtain her by such means I neither can, or will. Cease then to
persuade me, for I dare not employ Hell’s agency.

“You DARE not? How have you deceived me! That 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 danger, wilfully shall I expose myself to
the Seducer’s arts? Shall 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 at present? 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 Dæmons, 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 punishment; ’Tis not respect for God which restrains you, but
the terror of his vengeance! Fain would you offend him in secret, but you
tremble to profess yourself his Foe. Now shame on the coward soul, which
wants the courage either to be a firm Friend or open Enemy!”
“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 still feel in my heart an innate love of virtue.
But it ill becomes you to tax me with my perjury: You, who first seduced
me to violate my vows; You, who first rouzed my sleeping vices, made me
feel the weight of Religion’s chains, and bad me be convinced that guilt had
pleasures. Yet though my principles have yielded to the force of
temperament, 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 her heart, and unless you interfere, a few days will make her his
Bride. This intelligence was brought me by my invisible Servants, to whom
I had recourse on first perceiving your indifference. They watched your
every action, related to me all that past at Elvira’s, and inspired me with the
idea of favouring your designs. Their reports have been my only comfort.
Though you shunned my presence, all your proceedings were known to me:
Nay, I was constantly with you in some degree, thanks to this 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.
“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 excited strongly.
“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. Immediately, a thick smoke rose from the characters traced upon the
borders, and spread itself over the surface. It dispersed again gradually; A
confused mixture of colours and images presented themselves to the Friar’s
eyes, which at length 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, She 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.
“Come!” She said, and took his hand; “Follow me, and witness the
effects of your resolve!”
This said, She drew him hastily along. They passed into the Burying-
ground unobserved, opened the door of the Sepulchre, and found
themselves at the head of the subterraneous Staircase. As yet the beams of
the full Moon had guided their steps, but that 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 this spot, and formed a sort of Labyrinth.
Ambrosio was now left alone: Darkness the most profound surrounded him,
and encouraged the doubts which began to revive in his bosom. He had
been hurried away by the delirium of the moment: The shame of betraying
his terrors, while in Matilda’s presence, had induced him to repress them;
But now that he was abandoned to himself, they resumed their former
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, and
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 past through innumerable Caverns and winding
passages, the attempt of regaining the Stairs was hopeless. His fate was
determined: No possibility of escape presented itself: He therefore
combated his apprehensions, and called every argument to his succour,
which might enable him to support the trying scene with fortitude. He
reflected that Antonia would be the reward of his daring: He inflamed his
imagination by enumerating her charms. He persuaded himself that (as
Matilda had observed), He always should have time sufficient for
repentance, and that as He employed her assistance, not that of the
Dæmons, the crime of Sorcery could not 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 past in silence, after which the
murmur was repeated. It appeared to be the groaning of one in pain. In any