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 The monk; 
 
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Cornell University 
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 the Cornell University Library. 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 351 6723 
 
THE MONK 
 
LIBRARY OF EARLY NOVELISTS. 
 
 6s. net. 
 Large crown 8vo, strongly bound in buckram gilt, gilt top. 
 
 Life of John Buncle. Amory. 
 Adventures of Don Sylvio. Wieland. 
 Heptameron ; translated by Machen. 
 Decameron; boccaccio ; translated by Rigg. 
 Mrs. Behn's Novels. 
 Gesta Bomanorum ; translated by Swan. 
 Fool of Quality. Brooke. 
 
 Gulliver's Travels (ist edn.), and other writings 
 
 of Swift. 
 The Monk. M. G, Lewis. 
 Moll Flanders and Roxana. Defoe. 
 Early English Prose Romances. W. J. Thoms. 
 Arcadia. Sir P. Sidney. 
 Chrysal ; or, The Adventures of a Guinea. 
 
THE MONK 
 
 A ROMANCE 
 
 BY 
 
 M. G. LEWIS 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 E. A. BAKER, M. A. 
 
 Somnia, terrores magicos, mira&ula, sagas, 
 Noctwnos lemures, porUntaque.-H.ox.. 
 
 Dreams, magic terrors, spells of mighty power, 
 Witches and ghosts who rove at midnight hour. 
 
 LONDON 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, Limited 
 
 New Yobk: E. P. DUTTON & Co. 
 1907 
 
vn 
 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The request of the publishers of the present volume for a preface 
 raises the question : What reason is there to justify a new edition 
 of Lewis's Monk, a book that has been reprinted very rarely 
 since the time of its first appearance, and even so only in the 
 form of abridged, or more or less surreptitious, editions ? It may 
 be admitted at once that this erst belauded romance has little 
 claim to perpetuation on its own merits. Only disappointment 
 awaits anyone who has taken too seriously the praise bestowed 
 by his contemporaries on Lewis's genius and supposed gifts of 
 powerful and unearthly imagination, and has been deceived by 
 the story of his sudden leap into fame, and of his literary friend- 
 ship with Byron and Shelley, into fancying The Monk in any way 
 a great book. But the most notorious exemplar of the ' Gothic ' 
 school of romance, the novel that summarized most concisely the 
 idiosyncrasies of its kind, and gave so forcible a stimulus to the 
 manufacture of tales of terror, has historical importance enough 
 to be saved from the oblivion that waits upon very scarce books. 
 Those, again, who pay any attention to the course of popular 
 taste in reading, no unimportant factor in the literary history 
 of a nation, will find The Monk worth examining at first hand. 
 There is food for thought in the case of a man of mere average 
 ability who, on the strength of one crude production written 
 in his teens, was able to find publishers and a market for a 
 miscellaneous series of works that would daunt the hardihood 
 of the most indefatigable researcher to read now, and who not 
 only won with ease the success of such a writer as the late Guy 
 Boothby, but was widely regarded as among the leading men of 
 letters of his day. Perhaps, after all, it is reason enough for a 
 reprint that the book is one everybody knows by name, yet few 
 indeed have read. 
 
 A life of Matthew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818) is extant in two 
 volumes octavo ; but to the fatuous indulgence of the anonymous 
 biographer most readers will prefer the brief notice in the 
 Dictionary of National Biography, which easily takes in all that 
 has any interest in a very ordinary career. (Born rich, he 
 never had to face adversity in any shape, /unless we except 
 the differences between his father and mother, in which he 
 took his mother's part, and had his pocket money reduced in 
 consequence. He never had to write a line for profit, though 
 his gains from this source must have been considerable. He 
 
viii INTRODUCTION 
 
 enjoyed his life, his letters leave no doubt on that point, but ifc 
 was not a life worthy of commemoration in two volumes octavo. 
 Prefixed to the two volumes there is a portrait, which might 
 have served all the purposes of a memoir. It is the face of a 
 good-natured, insignificant young man, 'who never made an 
 enemy ; a man who shone in private life, was kind to his slaves, 
 and never had a brilliant idea in his life. His only qualification 
 for writing books was an insatiable ambition, the cacoethes scribendi 
 in its most vulgar form, combined with an indomitable industry 
 that, by the grace of Providence, is not often allied to it. But 
 there was no conceit, no egotism of any kind, in Monk Lewis : 
 he looked upon his gift for enthralling his readers by making 
 their flesh creep as an unaccountable endowment of Nature, and 
 his letters show how conscious he was of his lack of any personal 
 impressiveness to support the dignity of his reputation. This 
 amiable modesty of his must have been the trait that pleased 
 Shelley and Byron, who were, no doubt, very much amused at 
 the spectacle of this little man overwhelmed by the greatness 
 thrust upon him by his friends. 
 
 Lewis wrote The Monk in 1795, just before he was twenty; he 
 devoted ten weeks to the performance, rather more than, accord- 
 ing to the best accounts, had been given by another wealthy 
 scribbler to the composition of Vatheh, some ten years before, a 
 tale of the same kin as The Monk, but far more original, and 
 unquestionably a work of imagination. Lewis's book had a 
 successful sale, and made a great sensation — two things that 
 are not always mutually dependent. Worse books of the same 
 character as The Monk would, at the present date, command a 
 lucrative sale, but would create no sensation — we are too well 
 acquainted with the species. But although Lewis avowedly 
 made no attempt to be original, borrowing his effects from 
 sources candidly pointed out in his preface; and although he 
 made no secret that he was incited to write The Monk by his 
 perusal of The Mysteries of Udolpha, which he considered ' one of 
 the most interesting books that has (sic) ever been published ' ; 
 in spite of all thk his book was a new thing, at least to the 
 reading public of his own time and country. It was new in that 
 instead of the mild titillation of the nerves produced by Mrs. 
 Eadcliffe's timid trifling with the world of phantoms and name- 
 less terrors, it threw away all restraint. There is nothing- 
 supernatural in Mrs. Eadcliffe's novels; her ghosts are all 
 make-believe, and the reader's alarm is carefully soothed before 
 it exceeds the point of pleasant excitation. There is no mistake 
 on the contrary, about Lewis's ghosts ; they are the most blood- 
 curdling creations that a crude fancy can depict. And, if you 
 do not believe in ghosts, he has yet more efficacious means of 
 
INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 shaking your nerves at his disposal, in the more palpable shape 
 of charnel-house horrors, the most repulsive incidents of disease 
 and mortality, loathsome crimes and diabolical men. He outdid 
 Mrs. Radcliffe, and in the same way he outdid every writer from 
 whom he borrowed. One of the most superlative gifts of the 
 literary mind is the faculty of reticence, the instinct that tells 
 what to omit. Lewis's peculiar gift was the negation of reticence; 
 he is most forcible and emphatic where other men are silent. To 
 write in complete defiance of the literary canons requires clever- 
 ness of a sort ; and this is how The Monk is such a curiosity in 
 the literary annals of that period. 
 
 An excellent example of Lewis's contrarious reading of the 
 rules of good writing is a certain ' monodrama ' called The 
 Captive, in which he pursued his own methods so thoroughly, 
 that he put to fright an audience met together with the most 
 kindly expectations of applauding him. This piece of unmiti- 
 gated realism was in the form of a monologue, with scenery, 
 and two or three additional actors, who come in, and in dumb 
 show perform just those revolting parts of the action which 
 the wise feeling of the Greeks and most modern playwrights 
 carried out behind the scenes. Mrs. Litchfield recited it at 
 Covent Garden to a large and fashionable assembly. It re- 
 presents the mental torments of a miserable woman, imprisoned 
 as a lunatic by her inhuman husband, and, before the very eyes 
 of the audience, driven by terror and agony into actual madness. 
 No wonder that it 'threw a portion of the audience — whose 
 nerves were unable to withstand the dreadful truth of the 
 language and the scene — into hysterics, and the whole theatre 
 into confusion and horror. . . . Never did Covent Garden 
 present such a picture of agitation and dismay. Ladies bathed 
 in tears — others fainting — and some shrieking with terror — 
 while such of the audience as were able to avoid demonstration 
 like these, sat aghast, with pale horror painted on their 
 countenance. It is said that the very box-keepers took 
 fright ..." 
 
 Praise and denunciation greeted the appearance of The Monk, 
 and reading between the lines one can see that Lewis was not 
 displeased with either. He was, indeed, so much affected by 
 the attacks on the immorality of the book that, when a new 
 edition was demanded, he brought it out in an expurgated form, 
 or what he called expurgated. But he was never really ashamed 
 of The Monk. His father took him to task, and there is a 
 contrite letter to be seen in the two volumes octavo, acknow- 
 ledging his error and promising amendment. But his repentance 
 was very half-hearted. He always prided himself on the cogno- 
 men of ' Monk,' with which he had been immediately dubbed, 
 
x INTRODUCTION 
 
 and cultivated it by dropping the second initial of his signature, 
 ' M. G-. Lewis,' and not correcting those who ignorantly addressed 
 their letters to ' Monk Lewis, Esq.' 
 
 Of his later works, poems, plays, tales, translations and other 
 effusions, very little need be said. One of his ' Wardour Street 
 dramas,' ' Alfonso, King of Castile,' was the subject of an amusing 
 review by Sydney Smith, in the Edinburgh Review, in 1803. 
 The best even Lewis's admiring biographer can say for his 
 poetry is that: 'Our author's muse seldom soared to a very 
 high flight, and was therefore the less liable to those sudden 
 " sinkings " which Johnson pronounces to be bathos.' How 
 many who are familiar with the sweetly sentimental melody of 
 'The Banks of Allan Water' are aware that the words were 
 composed by the notorious Monk Lewis ? Many of these works, 
 little known as they are, have long been easier to obtain than 
 the more famous Monk, which has been out of print, except in 
 an abridgment, since the earlier half of the last century. 
 
 In the preface to Frankenstein, Mrs. Shelley, after describing 
 the ghastly nightmare that gave her the idea of that gloomy 
 romance, exclaims : ' Oh ! if I could only contrive one (story) 
 which would frighten my reader as I myself had been frightened 
 that night ! ' This might be taken for their general motto by 
 manufacturers of the novel of terror, or, as it was loosely called 
 from Horace Walpole's time onwards, ' The Gothic story.' But 
 to contrive a series of incidents is not enough to frighten us, 
 the writer has to see that they make a strong impression on our 
 mind. There are two chief ways of doing this, the realistic 
 method and the poetic. The writer tries to produce a semblance, 
 of fact, either by apparent truth of description or by the pretence 
 of logical reasoning ; or else he aims, not at convincing us, but' 
 merely at poetic faith, defined by Coleridge as the wilting 
 suspension of disbelief for the moment; that is, he stimulates 
 the imagination of the reader by means of the suggestive powers 
 of language. Edgar Poe's Descent into the Maelstrom or The Case 
 of M. Valdemar is a good instance of the first method, and his 
 Fall of the House of Usher, or Silence, a Fable, of the other. 
 Whichever method is adopted, the writer may reinforce his 
 effects to a vast extent by agitating the feelings skilfully and 
 powerfully; and the portrayal of mental states, emotions 
 especially, not only enlarges the field to be exploited, but 
 is an invaluable aid to both realist and poet, helping to make 
 more credible by awakening sympathy, and adding depth and 
 harmony to the narrative. One useful auxiliary overlooked by 
 Lewis, although Mrs. Radcliffe had wielded it with masterly 
 skill, is suggestion instead of description, the employment of 
 vague hints in lieu of plain statements. Monk Lewis had no 
 
INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 sense of the unnerving power of the terror that stalks unseen: 
 to him a corpse, or, at any rate, a skeleton, was as efficient a 
 bogey as a ghost. 
 
 The first ' G-othic ' romance in English is usually said to be 
 Walpole's Castle of Otranto (1764), although there is no reason 
 why Smollett's Ferdinand, Comt Fathom, published in 1753, 
 should not have the credit. Walpole's story, at any rate, made 
 the thing fashionable. It is, on the 'Gothic' side, a crude 
 accumulation of terror-striking incidents ; apart from this, it is 
 a tale of love and intrigue with a complicated plot. The horrors 
 of the story ; the colossal helm, the animated statues and pictures, 
 the nose dropping blood ; show a certain fertility of invention, 
 but of imagination not a trace. Walpole's inability to realize 
 imaginatively any of the situations he devises deprives him 
 of the power of giving a modern reader even the mildest thrill. 
 It is quite absurd to watch the inmates of the haunted castle 
 peacefully conducting their love affairs, and the mercenary baron 
 carrying on his nefarious intrigues in the most business-like 
 fashion, calmly oblivious of the frightful omens and apparitions 
 besetting them at every step. The Baron of Otranto looks on 
 the ancestral ghosts as a nuisance, and a sad detraction from the 
 comforts of his residence ; but what chiefly annoys him is their 
 uncalled-for interference with his private affairs. There is none 
 of the atmosphere of eeriness and indefinable terror which forms 
 the most potent ingredient in a really effective ghost story. 
 
 Miss Clara Reeve, author of The Old English Baron (1777), had 
 prudish objections to Walpole's free use of the supernatural. 
 She resolved, accordingly, to write a tale of terror without 
 .ghosts. One mysterious incident alone would she permit herself, 
 a horrible groan, heard on the spot where the rightful heir to 
 the property had been foully slain. But even this moderate 
 demand on our faith is, of course, a draft upon the supernatural. 
 A groan may be a prodigy as unaccountable as the gigantic 
 apparitions of her predecessor. Mrs. Radcliffe, whose five 
 romances began with The Castles of Athlyn and Dunblayne, in 
 1789, and ended with The Italian, in 1797, had the same 
 scruples; she would have no supernaturalism. Her peculiar 
 -expedient was the postponed explanation. She excites feelings 
 of wonder and apprehension, only to disappoint the reader by 
 explaining everything as the result of perfectly commonplace 
 events. It is useless to urge that our interest in the ingenuity 
 of her explanations, and the genuineness of our feelings of awe 
 afid terror while they last, atone for this disagreeable shock. 
 (There is a most inartistic contrast between the sublimity of the 
 imaginary incidents and the triteness of the actuality. Never- 
 theless, Mrs. Radcliffe discovered one thing of unique importance, 
 
xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 the value of atmosphere : landscapes, ruins, characters, costumes, 
 light and shade, are subdued by delicate touches to the right key 
 of emotion ; everything lulls the reader into the state of mind 
 most harmonious with the incidents to be enacted. Her novels 
 were of the nature of complex symphonies, with the feelings of 
 awe and fear among the dominant motives ; and if they are too 
 long-winded for our taste, they certainly abound in passages of 
 real beauty, which leave an indelible impression on the mind, 
 and have not been without their influence on later literature. 
 
 Lewis, unfortunately, when in The Monk he opened a new 
 chapter in the history of the 'Gothic' romance, showed no 
 appreciation of what was best in Mrs. Radcliffe. Atmosphere 
 was a thing much too supersensual for his blunt perceptions. 
 Violent blows upon the reader's nerves seemed to him the most 
 straightforward way to secure his effects ; he made no attempt 
 to rationalize his ghostly phenomena ; his only idea of the wizard 
 atmosphere was to prepare our minds with a whifF from the 
 churchyard. He found that horror is an easy thing to produce ; 
 he never learned that terror requires more skill and subtlety. 
 This mistake was not repeated by his direct successor, Maturin, 
 author of The Fatal Revenge, or, The Family of Montorio (1807), of 
 Melmoth the Wanderer (1820), of Bertram, a Tragedy, and other 
 lurid pieces. In rejecting any scruple as to the free employment 
 of supernaturalism, he followed Lewis, but he left him far behind 
 in the force and skill of his attacks upon the reader's nerves. 
 Maturin's theory of the end and aim of art would probably 
 commend itself to few in our day ; but it is impossible to deny 
 the art and delicacy with which he calculated his thrills, and the 
 adroitness with which he utilized the devices of reticence and 
 suggestion. Maturin was a connoisseur of sensations, a scientific 
 investigator of the theory of terror, who analyzed his effects 
 with the precision of a psychologist ; consequently his were the 
 most admirably-constructed ' shockers ' produced in his time. 
 
 Mrs. Shelley's Frankenstein (18lfe>) has many passages still 
 capable of making a profound impression on sensitive minds, 
 and these are the passages where she has not been content 
 merely with terrifying incident, but fully depicts the mental 
 and emotional states of her principal actors. She was not the 
 inventor of the scientific romance, but she was the first to adapt 
 its methods to the peculiar purposes of the novel of terror. 
 Lovers of this species of fiction have been spoiled now by the 
 accurate knowledge and the powers of methodical exposition 
 devoted thereto by Jules Verne and Mr. H. G-. Wells. But if one 
 can overlook the blemishes due merely to her lack of scientific 
 attainments, and throw oneself into the situation of Mrs. Shelley's 
 still less scientific public, it must be acknowledged that she was 
 
INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 not far from attaining the nightmare effect she aimed at. 
 Another book that was widely read in translation about this 
 time was Schiller's Ghost-seer ■• it received extravagant praise from 
 many critics, who simply bear witness to the strength of the 
 craze for graveyard romance. ' Schiller proceeds upon Mrs. Ead- 
 cliffe's plan of piling up a succession of mysterious occurrences, 
 seemingly the acts of infernal ministers, and then explaining all 
 at the end as the result of natural, though not very probable, 
 events. But his novel is of a totally different complexion from 
 hers. A foreign prince sojourning at Venice is the object of a 
 secret conspiracy, of which the principal agent is a mysterious 
 Armenian, who seems possessed of superhuman attributes, dis- 
 appearing and reappearing in inexplicable ways, and performing 
 unheard-of miracles by means, apparently, of his authority in the 
 spirit world. The plot is a complicated tissue of which it would 
 take many pages to give the reader even a faint idea; its 
 intricacies require a closer attention than few would care to 
 devote; and when the end is reached, and the bewildering 
 entanglement unravelled, it will be a very meritorious reader 
 who can keep clear, in his own mind, all the threads of the plot, 
 and enjoy in retrospect the final solution of his perplexities. 
 Evidence is forthcoming that contemporary readers thought this 
 one of the most stupendous books ever written ; the figure of 
 the Armenian gave the nervous spasms of fright ; they believed 
 the art of thrilling could go no further. But there was still a 
 future for the tale of terror ; in England masterpieces in the art 
 were to be composed on very different lines by such antagonistic 
 types of intellect as George Macdonald, Stevenson, and Eudyard 
 Kipling, not to mention the notable attempts of Bulwer Lytton, 
 in The Haunted and the Haunters, Zanoni, and A Strange Story ; 
 whilst American writers were to achieve still higher things; 
 Hawthorne with his soul-shaking embodiments of moral dread ; 
 Poe with his Defoe-like excursions into the world of preternatural 
 wonders, and his finer realizations of the mysticism and sinister 
 beauty that underlie the darker movements of our thought ; and 
 lastly, Mr. Henry James, many of whose short stories, subtile and 
 recondite as they are, yet in their capacity to sway the feelings 
 are far more potent than the raw sensations of Monk Lewis and 
 Maturin. The author of The Turn of the Screw makes consummate 
 use of his scientific insight into the hidden springs of fear. His 
 science helps him in more ways than one, enabling him to give a 
 sufficiently rational account of the phenomena represented, and 
 to trick the mind into belief in their objectivity, and telling him 
 how to thrill the reader as if by a light touch on the nerve. Mr. 
 James is the latest American experimenter in the fiction of 
 terror j the earliest was a contemporary of Monk Lewis, and it 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 is interesting to observe how original, and how strikingly 
 successful, transatlantic authors have always been in this byway 
 of letters. Charles Brockden Brown was the first American 
 novelist, and like Lewis began to write under the influence of 
 Mrs. Eadcliffe. He was an intelligent imitator, and while he 
 copied her better features, he adapted them with success to a 
 totally new class of subject, and developed them according to his 
 own conceptions. He, too, aimed at the effects of supernaturalism 
 without the reality., But, instead of seeking to explain incredible 
 incidents by means of an extraordinary concatenation of ordinary 
 events, he based the whole structure on the durable foundation 
 of certain strange, but not impossible circumstances ; the erratic 
 behaviour of a somnambulist, as in Edgar Rvmily (1799-1801), a 
 case of suspended animation and the mysterious conduct of a 
 concealed criminal, as in Arthur Mervyn (1798-1800), or the 
 utterances of a ventriloquist as in Wielwnd. Although things of 
 this kind are in themselves exceptional and contrary to ordinary 
 experience, Brown managed to keep them in the background so 
 as not to offend the reader's sense of probability too much. 
 They were inconspicuous, though essential parts of the machinery. 
 It was in conjunction with less abnormal circumstances that they 
 had their full effect. One may forget the actual incidents of the 
 novel Edgar Huntly; but the sense of abject and incompre- 
 hensible fear that pervades the book, the formless dread with 
 which we accompany the adventurer into the panther-haunted 
 caves of the Alleghanies, and flee with him through the mid- 
 night woods infested with murdering Indian braves, will remain 
 as an indestructible impression of the book. Brown excelled in 
 evoking the nightmare atmosphere, in making the reader's hair 
 stand on end for no definable reason whatever. He was also 
 peculiarly skilful in giving, by means of a few touches, the idea 
 of a fearful personality, of a human being more to be dreaded 
 than a fiend from the pit. Welbeck, in Arthur Mervyn, the 
 scoundrel who exercises such a deadly fascination over the hero, 
 is a striking example of this terrible glamour; and there is 
 another figure in the same book, who does not even appear on 
 the scene, and is merely alluded to by the hero in his fevered 
 cogitations, yet gives one the same mental shock as Arthur 
 Mervyn felt when he thought he heard his menacing footstep at 
 his chamber-door. The secret is, of course, that Brown does not 
 relate incidents, but records impressions, sets down the thoughts 
 and feelings of the actors directly, and so arouses in us thoughts 
 and feelings only a little less powerful. 
 
 These early writers are all alike in the painful insipidity of 
 their style. The arts of language play an unusually important 
 part in narratives of the wonderful ; a careful examination of any 
 
INTRODUCTION xv 
 
 one of Poe's incomparable stories is enough to prove this. But 
 the ponderous emptiness of Brown's prose is like the ponderous- 
 ness of Calibm's Guide to Letters ; nothing more stilted was ever 
 penned ; it caricatures itself. And if anybody believes that the 
 felicities of expression hight ' journalese ' are one of the latest 
 products of evolution, let him turn to The Monk There, in 
 Lewis's glib diction, he will recognize all the graces usually 
 considered the special property of the halfpenny paper. Here is 
 a piece of dialogue, the culminating passage in one of the most 
 impassioned, most delirious love-scenes in the story, the scene 
 where the supposed novice reveals her sex and her uncontrollable 
 affection for Ambrosio : — 
 
 " This speech gave the abbot an opportunity of recollecting him- 
 self. He was conscious that, in the present disposition of his 
 mind, avoiding her society was his only refuge from the power 
 of this enchanting woman. 
 
 ' Your declaration has so much astonished me,' said he, ' that I 
 am at present incapable of answering you. Do not insist upon a 
 reply. Matilda : leave me to myself, I have need to be alone.' 
 
 ' I obey you ; but, before I go, promise not to insist upon my 
 quitting the abbey immediately.' 
 
 'Matilda, reflect upon your situation; reflect upon the con- 
 sequences of your stay ; our separation is indispensable, and we 
 must part.' 
 
 * But not to-day, father ! Oh ! in pity, not to-day ! ' 
 
 'You press me too hard; but I cannot resist that tone of 
 supplication. Since you insist upon it, I yield to your prayer ; 
 I consent to your remaining here a sufficient time to prepare in 
 some measure the brethren for your departure : stay yet two 
 days; but on the third' (he sighed involuntarily) 'remember, 
 that on the third we must part for ever ! ' 
 
 She caught his hand eagerly, and pressed it to her lips. 
 
 ' On the third ! ' she exclaimed, with an air of wild solemnity : 
 ' You are right, father, you are right ! On the third we must part 
 for ever ! ' 
 
 There was a dreadful expression in her eye as she uttered 
 these words which penetrated the friar's soul with horror. 
 Again she kissed his hand, and then fled with rapidity from the 
 chamber. 
 
 Anxious to authorize the presence of his dangerous guest, yet 
 conscious that her stay was infringing the laws of his order, 
 Ambrosio's bosom became the theatre of a thousand contending 
 passions." 
 
 . Are these the accents of ungovernable passion? The same 
 continued : — 
 
 " » No, rather, no ! I expect not to inspire you with a love like 
 
xvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 mine : I only wish for the liberty to be near you ; to pass some 
 hours of the day in your society; to obtain your compassion, 
 your friendship, and esteem. ■ Surely my request is not 
 unreasonable.' 
 
 ' But, reflect, lady ; reflect only for a moment on the impro- 
 priety of my harbouring a woman in the abbey, and that too a 
 woman who confesses that she loves me. It must not be. The 
 risk of your being discovered is too great ; and I will not expose 
 myself to so dangerous a temptation.' " 
 
 And this is how the abbot surrenders to her importunate 
 blandishments : — 
 
 "He accompanied her to the door of her cell; and, when 
 arrived there, he stopped her to declare his consent to her 
 continuing the partner of his solitude, so long as should be 
 agreeable to herself." 
 
 A crowd does not scatter or disperse in Lewis's prose, it 
 becomes 'nearly dissipated.' The abbot never preaches; he 
 either ' delivers a discourse ' or * pronounces a sermon.' Instead 
 of taking a nap after dinner, the monks • separate and disperse 
 themselves in various parts of the garden, where the shade of 
 trees or retirement of some grotto present the most agreeable 
 means of enjoying the siesta.' A young lady tells a gentleman : 
 
 ' Segnor, you delight me by this assurance ! It encourages 
 me to indulge my prepossession in his favour ; and you know 
 not with what pain I should have repressed the sentiment ! ' 
 
 In fact, Lewis's Monk scarcely wants a single one of the vicious 
 attractions that have in all ages secured literary fame among 
 the unliterary, and a popularity whose magnitude is always, 
 providentially, in exactly inverse ratio to its duration. But let 
 one thing be remembered, the works of Monk Lewis and his 
 like, which would never have flourished and multiplied as they 
 did without the negative merits that'^aae them so popular, were 
 after all the raw material of the romanticism that culminated in 
 the Ancient Mariner, La Belle Dame sans Merci, and The Fall of 
 the House of Usher. That their crude romanticism is amply 
 represented among the fiction securing widest and most lucrative 
 circulation at the present time, in the cheap illustrated magazine, 
 or in the decent vesture of the six-shilling novel, it is hardly 
 necessary to mention. 
 
 E. A. B. 
 
 August, 1906. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 IMITATION OF HORACE, EPODES, I., XX. 
 
 Methinks, oh, vain ill-judging book, 
 I see thee cast a wishful look, 
 Where reputations won and lost are 
 In famous row called Paternoster. 
 Incensed to find your precious olio 
 Buried in unexplored portfolio, 
 You scorn the prudent lock and key ; 
 And pant, well bound and gilt, to see 
 Your volume in the window set 
 Of Stockdale, Hookham, or Debrett. 
 Go, then, and pass that dangerous bourn 
 Whence never book can back return ; 
 And, when you find — condemned, despised, 
 Neglected, blamed, and criticized — 
 ■ Abuse from all who read you fall, 
 (fiTiaply you be read at all) 
 Sorely will you your folly sigh at, 
 And wish for me, and home, and quiet. 
 
 Assuming now a conjuror's office, I 
 
 Thus on your future fortune prophesy : 
 xvii 
 
xviii PREFACE 
 
 Soon as your novelty is o'er, 
 And you are young and new no more, 
 In some dark dirty corner thrown, 
 Mouldy with damps, with cobwebs strown, 
 Your leaves shall be the bookworm's prey ; 
 Or sent to chandler-shop away, 
 And doomed to suffer public scandal, 
 Shall line the trunk or wrap the candle ! 
 
 But, should you meet with approbation, 
 And some one find an inclination 
 To ask, by natural transition, 
 Eespecting me and my condition, 
 That I am one, th' inquirer teach, 
 Nor very poor, nor very rich ; 
 Of passions strong, of hasty nature, 
 Of graceless form and dwarfish stature ; 
 By few approved, and few approving ; 
 Extreme in hating and in loving ; 
 Abhorring all whom I dislike, 
 Adoring who my fancy strike : 
 In forming judgments never long, 
 And for the most part judging wrong ; 
 In friendship firm, but still believing 
 Others are treacherous and deceiving ; 
 And thinking, in the present era, 
 That friendship is a pure chimera ; 
 More passionate no creature living, 
 Proud, obstinate, and unforgiving, 
 
PREFACE xix 
 
 But yet, for those who kindness show, 
 Ready through fire and smoke to go. 
 
 Again, should it be asked your page, 
 ' Pray, what may be the author's age 1 ' 
 Your faults, no doubt, will make it clear, 
 I scarce have seen my twentieth_year, 
 Which passed, kind reader, on my word, 
 While England's throne held George the Third. 
 
 Now then your venturous course pursue : 
 Go, my delight ! — dear Book, adieu ! 
 
 M. G. L. 
 Haqtje, Oct. 28, 1794. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 The first idea of this Romance was suggested by the 
 story of the Santon Barsisa, related in The Guardian. — 
 Tlie Bleeding Nun is a tradition still credited in many 
 parts of Germany ; and I have been told that the ruins 
 of the castle of Lauenstein, which she is supposed to 
 haunt, may yet be seen upon the borders of Thuringia. 
 The Water-King, from the third to the twelfth stanza, 
 is the fragment of an original Danish ballad ; and 
 Belerma and Durandarte is translated from some stanzas 
 to be found in a collection of old Spanish poetry 
 which contains also the popular song of Gayferos and 
 Melesindra, mentioned in Don Quixote. — I have now 
 made a full avowal of all the plagiarisms of which I 
 am aware myself, but I doubt not many more may be 
 found of which I am at present totally unconscious. 
 
 xxi 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1 
 
 it 
 
 II 
 
 27 
 
 »» 
 
 in 
 
 73 
 
 »» 
 
 IV 
 
 101 
 
 >» 
 
 v . ... 
 
 152 
 
 »i 
 
 VI 
 
 177 
 
 >■> 
 
 VII 
 
 204 
 
 »> 
 
 VIII .... 
 
 224 
 
 I) 
 
 IX 
 
 244 
 
 »» 
 
 X 
 
 275 
 
 i» 
 
 XI 
 
 302 
 
 »» 
 
 XII . . 
 
 338 
 
 XXlll 
 
THE MONK 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Lord Angelo is precise ; 
 Stands at a guard with envy ; scarce confesses 
 That his blood flows, or that his appetite 
 Is more to bread than stone. 
 
 — Measure for Measure 
 
 ScAKCELY had the abbey-bell tolled for five minutes, and 
 already was the church of the Capuchins thronged with 
 auditors. Do not encourage the idea that the crowd was 
 assembled either from motives of piety or thirst of infor- 
 mation. But very few were influenced by those reasons ; 
 and, in a city where superstition reigns with such despotic 
 sway as in Madrid, to seek for true devotion would be a 
 fruitless attempt. The audience now assembled in the 
 Capuchin church was collected by various causes, but all 
 of them were foreign to the ostensible motive. The 
 women came to show themselves — the men, to see the 
 women : some were attracted by curiosity to hear an 
 orator so celebrated ; some came, because they had no 
 better means of employing their time till the play began ; 
 some, from being assured that it would be impossible to 
 find places in the church ; and one half of Madrid was 
 brought thither by expecting to meet the other half. 
 The only persons truly anxious to hear the preacher 
 were a few antiquated devotees and half a dozen rival 
 orators determined to find fault with and ridicule the 
 discourse. As to the remainder of the audience, the 
 sermon might have been omitted altogether, certainly 
 without their being disappointed and very probably 
 without their perceiving the omission. 
 
 Whatever was the occasion, it is at least certain that the 
 I Capuchin church had never witnessed a more numerous 
 \assembly. Every corner was filled, every seat was occu- 
 
2 THE MONK j 
 
 I 
 pied. The very statues which ornamented the long aisles ' 
 were pressed into the service. Boys suspended themselves 
 upon the wings of cherubims ; St. Francis and St. Mark 
 bore each a spectator on his shoulders ; and St. Agatha 1 
 found herself under the necessity of carrying double. J 
 The consequence was that, in spite of all their hurry and 
 expedition, our two new comers, on entering the church, 
 looked round in vain for places. 
 
 However, the old woman continued to move forwards. 
 In vain were exclamations of displeasure vented against 
 her from all sides ; in vain was she addressed with : * I 
 assure you, Segnora, there are no places here.' ' I beg, 
 Segnora, that you will not crowd me so intolerably ! ' 
 ' Segnora, you cannot pass this way. Bless me ! How 
 can people be so troublesome ? '—The old woman was 
 obstinate, and on she went. By dint of perseverance and 
 two brawny arms she made a passage through the crowd, 
 and managed to bustle herself into the very body of the 
 church at no great distance from the pulpit. Her com- 
 panion had followed her with timidity and in silence, 
 profiting by the exertions of her conductress. 
 
 ' Holy Virgin ! ' exclaimed the old woman, in a tone of 
 disappointment, while she threw a glance of inquiry round 
 her ; ' Holy Virgin ! What heat ! What a crowd ! I 
 wonder what can be the meaning of all this. I believe 
 we must return ; there is no such thing as a seat to be had, 
 and nobody seems kind enough to accommodate us with 
 theirs.' 
 
 This broad hint attracted the notice of two cavaliers, 
 who occupied stools on the right hand and were leaning 
 their backs against the seventh column from the pulpit. 
 Both were young, and richly habited. Hearing this appeal 
 to their politeness pronounced in a female voice, they inter- 
 rupted their conversation to look at the speaker. She had 
 thrown up her veil in order to take a clearer look round 
 the cathedral: her hair was red, and she squinted. The 
 cavaliers turned round, and renewed their conversation. 
 
 ' By all means,' replied the old woman's companion ; ' by 
 all means, Leonella, let us return home immediately ; the 
 heat is excessive, and I am terrified at such a crowd.' 
 
 These words were pronounced in a tone of unexampled! 
 sweetness. The cavaliers again broke off their discourse, 
 but for this time they were not contented with looking up ; 
 
CHAPTER I 3 
 
 but started involuntarily from their seats, and turned 
 themselves towards the speaker. 
 
 The voice came from a female, the delicacy and elegance 
 of whose figure inspired the youths with the most lively 
 curiosity to view the face to which it belonged. This 
 satisfaction was denied them. Her features were hidden 
 by a thick veil ; but struggling through the crowd had 
 deranged it sufficiently to discover a neck which for 
 symmetry and beauty might have vied with the Medicean 
 Venus. It was of the most dazzling whiteness, and re- 
 ceived additional charms from being shaded by the tresses 
 of her long fair hair, which descended in ringlets to her 
 waist. Her figure was rather below than above the middle 
 size : it was light and airy as that of an Hamadryad. Her 
 bosom was carefully veiled. Her dress was white ; it was 
 fastened by a blue sash, and just permitted to peep out 
 from under it a little foot of the most delicate proportions. 
 A chaplet of large grains hung upon her arm, and her face 
 was covered with a veil of thick black gauze. Such was 
 the female to whom the youngest of the cavaliers now 
 offered his seat, while the other thought it necessary to 
 pay the same attention to her companion. 
 
 The old lady with many expressions of gratitude, but 
 without much difficulty, accepted the offer, and seated her- 
 self ; the young one followed her example, and made no 
 other compliment than a simple and graceful reverence. 
 Don Lorenzo (such was the cavalier's name whose seat she 
 had accepted) placed himself near her; but first he 
 whispered a few words in his friend's ear, who immediately 
 took the hint, and endeavoured to draw off the old woman's 
 attention from her lovely charge. 
 
 ' You are doubtless lately arrived at Madrid ? ' said 
 Lorenzo to his fair neighbour. ' It is impossible that such 
 charms should have long remained unobserved ; and, had 
 not this been your first public appearance, the envy of the 
 women and adoration of the men would have rendered you 
 already sufficiently remarkable.' 
 
 He paused, in expectation of an answer. As his speech 
 did not absolutely require one, the lady did not open her 
 lips. After a few moments, he resumed his discourse : 
 
 ' Am I wrong in supposing you to be a stranger to 
 Madrid?' 
 
 The lady hesitated ; and at last, in so low a voice as to 
 
4 THE MONK 
 
 be scarcely intelligible, she made shift to answer : ' No, 
 Segnor.' 
 
 * Do you intend making a stay of any length ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Segnor.' 
 
 ' I should esteem myself fortunate were it in my power 
 to contribute to making your abode agreeable : I am well 
 known at Madrid, and my family has some interest at 
 court. If I can be of any service, you cannot honour or 
 oblige me more than by permitting me to be of use to you.' 
 ' Surely ', said he to himself, ' she cannot answer that by a 
 monosyllable ; now she must say something to me.' 
 
 Lorenzo was deceived, for the lady answered only by a 
 bow. 
 
 By this time he had discovered that his neighbour was 
 not very conversable ; but, whether her silence proceeded 
 from pride, discretion, timidity, or idiotism, he was still 
 unable to decide. 
 
 After a pause of some minutes, ' It is certainly from 
 your being a stranger ', said he, ' and as yet unacquainted 
 with our customs that you continue to wear your veil.. 
 Permit me to remove it.' 
 
 At the same time he advanced his hand towards the 
 gauze; the lady raised hers to prevent him. 
 
 ' I never unveil in public, Segnor..',., 
 
 *"Ahd where is the harm, I pray you ? ' interrupted her 
 companion somewhat sharply ; 'Do not you see, that the 
 other ladies have all laid their veils aside — to do honour, 
 no doubt, to the holy place in which we are ? I have 
 taken off mine already ; and surely, if I expose my features 
 to general observation, you have no cause to put yourself 
 in such a wonderful alarm ! Blessed Maria ! Here is &' 
 fuss and a bustle about a chit's face ! Come, come, child ! 
 uncover it ! I warrant you that nobody will run away with 
 it from you — ' 
 
 ' Dear aunt, it is not the custom in Murcia — ' 
 
 ' Murcia, indeed ! Holy St. Barbara, what does that 
 signify? You are always putting me in mind of that 
 villanous province. If it is the custom in Madrid, that is 
 all that we ought to mind ; and therefore I desire you to 
 take off your veil immediately. Obey me this moment,, 
 Antonia, for you know I cannot bear contradiction.' 
 Tier niece was silent, but made no further opposition to 
 Don Lorenzo's efforts, who, armed with the aunt's sanction,! 
 
CHAPTER I 5 
 
 hastened to remove the gauze. What a seraph's head pre- 
 sented itself to his admiration ! Yet it was rather bewitch- 
 ing than beautiful; it was not so lovely from regularity 
 of features as from sweetness and sensibility of countenance. 
 The several parts of her face considered separately, many 
 of them were far from handsome, but when examined 
 together the whole was adorable. Her skin, though fair, 
 was not entirely without freckles; her eyes were not very 
 large, nor their lashes particularly long ; but then her lips 
 were of the most rosy freshness ; her fair and undulating 
 hair, confined by a simple ribband, poured itself below her 
 waist in a profusion of ringlets ; her neck was full and 
 beautiful in the extreme ; her hand and arm were formed 
 with the most perfect symmetry ; her mild blue eyes 
 seemed an heaven of sweetness, and the crystal in which 
 they moved sparkled with all the brilliance of diamonds. 
 She appeared to be scarcely fifteen ; an arch smile, playing 
 round her mouth, declared her to be possessed of liveliness, 
 which excess of timidity at present repressed. She looked 
 round her with a bashful glance ; and, whenever her eyes 
 accidently met Lorenzo's, she dropped them hastily upon 
 her rosary ; her cheek was immediately suffused with 
 blushes, and she began to tell her beads, though her manner 
 evidently showed that she knew not what she was about. 
 
 Lorenzo gazed upon her with mingled surprise and 
 admiration ; but the aunt thought it necessary to apologise 
 for Antonia's mauvaise honte. 
 
 ' 'Tis a young creature ', said she, ' who is totally ignorant 
 
 of the world. She has bepn Vimim-M nr> in nx\ oJdjaailgJri, 
 
 ^Muxcia^wjtfi no other society,, than .her mother's^ who, God 
 
 "Tielp her, has ho more sense, goodsoul. than is necessary ib 
 
 •carry heF'soup to her mouth ; yet she is my own sister, 
 
 both by father and mother.' 
 
 ' And has so little sense ? ' said Don Chrjgjbpval, with 
 feigned astonishment. ' How very extraordinary ! ' 
 
 ' Very true, Segnor ; is it not strange ? However, such 
 is the fact ; and yet only to see the luck of some people ! 
 A young nobleman, of the very first quality, took it into 
 his head that Elvira had some pretensions to beauty. As 
 to pretensions, in truth she had always enough of them; 
 but as to beauty — if I had only taken half the pains to 
 set myself off which she did ! But this is neither here nor 
 there. As I was saying, Segnor, a young nobleman fell in 
 
6 THE MONK 
 
 love with her, and married her unknown to his father. 
 Their union remained a secret near three years ; but at 
 last it came to the ears of the old Marquis, who, as you 
 may well suppose, was not much pleased with the intelli- 
 gence. Away he posted in all haste to Cordova, determined 
 to seize Elvira, and send her away to some place or other, 
 where she would never be heard of more. Holy St. Paul ! 
 How he stormed on finding that she had escaped, him, had 
 joined her husband, and that they had embarked together 
 for the Indies ! He swore at us all, as if the evil spirit had 
 possessed him ; he threw my father into prison — as honest 
 a painstaking shoemaker as any in Cordova ; and, when 
 he went away, he had the cruelty to take from us my 
 sister's little boy, then scarcely two years old, and whom, 
 in the abruptness of her flight, she had been obliged to 
 leave behind her. I suppose that the poor little wretch 
 met with bitter bad treatment from him, for in a few 
 months after we received intelligence of his death.' 
 
 ' Why, this was a most terrible old fellow, Segne*a ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, shocking ! — and a man so totally devoid of taste! 
 Why, would you believe it, Segnor? — when I attempted 
 to pacify him, he cursed me for a witch, and wished that, 
 to punish the Count, my sister might become as ugly as 
 myself ! Ugly, indeed ! I like him for that.' 
 
 ' Ridiculous ! ' cried Don Christoval. ' Doubtless the 
 Count would have thought himself fortunate had he 
 been permitted to exchange the one sister for the other.' 
 
 'Oh Christ! Segnor, you are really too polite. How- 
 ever, I am heartily glad that the Conde* was of a different 
 way of thinking. A mighty pretty piece of business to be 
 sure Elvira has made of it! After broiling and stewing 
 in the Indies for thirteen long years, her husband dies, and 
 she returns to Spain without a house to hide her head or 
 money to procure her one ! This Antonia was then but an 
 infant, and her only remaining child. She found that her 
 father-in-law had married again, that he was irreconcileable 
 to the Conde*, and that his second wife had produced him 
 a son, who is reported to be a very fine young man. The 
 old Marquis refused to see my sister or her child ; but sent 
 her word that, on condition of never hearing any more of 
 her, he would assign her a small pension, and she might 
 live in an old castle which he possessed in Murcia. This 
 had been the favourite habitation of his eldest son ; but 
 
CHAPTER I 7 
 
 since his flight from Spain, the old Marquis could not bear 
 the place, but let it fall to ruin and confusion. . My sister 
 accepted the proposal ; she retired to Murcia, and has 
 remained there till within the last month.' 
 
 ' And what brings her now to Madrid ? ' inquired Don 
 Lorenzo, whom admiration of the young Antonia compelled 
 him to take a lively interest in the talkative old woman's 
 narration. 
 
 ' Alas ! Segnor, her father-in-law being lately dead, the 
 steward of his Murcian estates has refused to pay her 
 pension any longer. With the design of supplicating his 
 son to renew it, she is now come to Madrid ; but I doubt 
 that she might have saved herself the trouble. You young 
 noblemen have always enough to do with your money, and 
 are not very often disposed to throw it away upon old 
 women. I advised my sister to send Antonia with her 
 petition ; but she would not hear of such a thing. She is 
 so obstinate ! Well, she will find herself the worse for not 
 following my counsels : the girl has a good pretty face, and 
 possibly might have done much.' 
 
 ' Ah, Segnora !' interrupted Don Christoval, counterfeiting 
 a passionate air, ' if a pretty face will do the business, why 
 has not your sister recourse to you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! Jesus ! My Lord, I swear you quite overpower 
 me with your gallantry ! But I promise you that I am 
 too well aware of the danger of such expeditions to trust 
 myself in a young nobleman's power ! No, no ; I have as 
 yet preserved my reputation without blemish or reproach, 
 and I always knew how to keep the men at a proper 
 distance.' 
 
 ' Of that, Segnora, I have not the least doubt. But 
 permit me to ask you, have you then any aversion to 
 matrimony ? ' 
 
 ' That is a home question. I cannot but confess, that if 
 an amiable cavalier was to present himself — ' 
 
 Here she intended to throw a tender and significant look 
 upon Don Christoval, but, as she unluckily happened to 
 squint most abominably, the glance fell directly upon his 
 companion. Lorenzo-^rook the compliment to himself, and 
 answered it by a profound bow. 
 
 ' May I inquire ', said he, ' the name of the Marquis ? ' 
 
 ' The Marquis de las Cisternas.' 
 
 ' I know him intimately well. He is not at present in 
 
8 THE MONK 
 
 Madrid, but is expected here daily. He is one of the best 
 of men ; and if the lovely Antonia will permit me to be 
 her advocate with him, I doubt not my being able to make 
 a favourable report of her cause.' 
 
 Antonia raised her blue eyes, and silently thanked him 
 for the offer by a smile of inexpressible sweetness. 
 Leonella's satisfaction was much more loud and audible. 
 Indeed, as her niece was generally silent in her company, 
 she thought it incumbent upon her to talk enough for 
 both: this she managed without difficulty, for she very 
 seldom found herself deficient in words. 
 
 ' Oh, Segnor ! ', she erred, ' you will lay our whole family 
 under the most signal obligations ! I accept your offer 
 with all possible gratitude, and return you a thousand 
 thanks for the generosity of your proposal. Antonia, why 
 do you not speak, child ? While the cavalier says all sorts 
 of civil things to you, you sit like a statue, and never utter 
 a syllable of thanks, either bad, good, or indifferent ! ' 
 
 ' My dear aunt, I am very sensible that — ' 
 
 ' Fie, niece ! How often have I told you that you never 
 should interrupt a person who is speaking ! When did you 
 ever know me do such a thing ? Are these your Murcian 
 manners ? Mercy on me, I shall never be able to make 
 this girl any thing like a person of good breeding. But 
 pray, Segnor', she continued, addressing herself to Don 
 Ohristoval, ' inform me, why such a crowd is assembled 
 to-day in this cathedral.' 
 
 ' Can you possibly be ignorant that Ambrosio, abbot of 
 this monastery, pronounces a sermon in this church every 
 Thursday ? All Madrid rings with his praises. As yet he 
 has preached but thrice, but all who have heard him are so 
 delighted with his eloquence that it is as difficult to obtain 
 a place at church as at the first representation of a new 
 comedy. His fame certainly must have reached your 
 ears ? ' 
 
 •Alas, Segnor, till yesterday I never had the good 
 fortune to see Madrid; and at Cordova we are so little 
 informed of what is passing in the rest of the world that 
 the name of Ambrosio has never been mentioned in its 
 precincts.' 
 
 ' ' You will find it in every one's mouth at Madrid. He 
 seems to have fascinated the inhabitants ; and, not having 
 attended his sermons myself, I am astonished at the 
 
CHAPTER I 9 
 
 enthusiasm which he has excited. The adoration paid 
 him both by young and old, by man and woman, is 
 unexampled. The grandees load him with presents ; 
 their wives refuse to have any other confessor ; and he 
 is known through all the city by the name of The man of 
 holiness.' 
 
 ' Undoubtedly, Segnor, he is of noble origin ? ' 
 
 ' That point still remains undecided. The late superior 
 of the Capuchins found him while yet an infant at the 
 abbey-door: all attempts to discover who had left him 
 there were vain, and the child himself could give no 
 account olhis parents. He was educated in the monastery, 
 where he has remained ever since. He early showed a 
 strong inclination for study and retirement ; and, as soon 
 as he was of a proper age, he pronounced his vows. No 
 one has ever appeared to claim him, or clear up the mystery 
 which conceals his birth ; and the monks, who find their 
 account in the favour which is shown to their establish- 
 ment from respect to him, have not hesitated to publish 
 that he is a present to them from the Virgin. In truth, 
 the singular austerity of his life gives some countenance to 
 the report. He is now thirty years old, every hour of 
 which period has been passed in study, total seclusion from 
 the world, and mortification of the flesh. Till these last 
 three weeks, when he was chosen superior of the society to 
 which he belongs, he had never been on the outside of the 
 abbey-walls. Even now he never quits them except on 
 Thursdays, when he delivers a discourse in this cathedral, 
 which all Madrid assembles to hear. His knowledge is 
 said to be the most profound, his eloquence the most 
 persuasive. In the whole course of his life he has never 
 been known to transgress a single rule of his order ; the 
 smallest stain is not to be discovered upon his character ; 
 and he is reported to be so strict an observer of chastity 
 that he knows not in what consists the difference of man 
 and woman : the common people, therefore, esteem him to 
 be a saint.' 
 
 ' Does that make a saint ? ' inquired Antonia. ' Bless 
 me, then am I one.' 
 
 ' Holy St. Barbara!' exclaimed Leonella, 'what a question ! 
 Fie, child, fie ! these are not fit subjects for young women 
 to handle. You should not seem to remember that there is 
 such a thing as a man in the world, and you ought to 
 
xo THE MONK 
 
 imagine everybody to be of the same sex with yourself. I 
 should like to see you give people to understand that you 
 know that a man has no breasts, and no hips, and no. .... . 
 
 Luckily for Antonia's ignorance, which her aunt's lecture 
 would soon have dispelled, an universal murmur through 
 the church announced the preacher's arrival. Donna 
 Leonella rose from her seat to take a better view of him, 
 and Antonia followed her example. 
 
 He was a man of noble port and commanding presence. 
 His stature was lofty, and his features uncommonly hand- 
 some. His nose was aquiline; his eyes large, black and 
 sparkling, and his dark brows almost joined together. 
 His complexion was of a deep but clear brown ; study and 
 watching had entirely deprived his cheek of colour. 
 Tranquillity reigned upon his smooth unwrinkled forehead; 
 and content, expressed upon every feature, seemed to 
 announce the man equally unacquainted with cares and 
 crimes. He bowed himself with humility to the audience. 
 Still there was a certain severity in his look and manner 
 that inspired universal awe, and few could sustain the 
 glance of his eye, at once fiery and penetrating. Such 
 was Ambrosio, abbot of the Capuchins, and surnamed The 
 man of holiness. 
 
 Antonia, while she gazed upon him eagerly, felt a 
 pleasure fluttering in her bosom which till then had been 
 unknown to her, and for which she in vain endeavoured to 
 account. She waited with impatience till the sermon 
 should begin : and, when at length the friar spoke, the 
 sound of his voice seemed to penetrate into her very soul. 
 Though no other of the spectators felt such violent sensa- 
 tions as did the young Antonia, yet every one listened 
 with interest and emotion. They who were insensible to 
 religion's merits were still enchanted with Ambrosio's 
 oratory. All found their attention irresistibly attracted 
 while he spoke, and the most profound silence reigned 
 through the crowded aisles. Even Lorenzo could not 
 resist the charm ; he forgot that Antonio was seated near 
 him, and listened to the preacher with undivided attention. 
 
 In language nervous, clear, and simple, the monk 
 expatiated on the beauties of religion. He explained some 
 abstruse parts of the sacred writings in a style that carried 
 with it universal conviction. His voice, at once distinct 
 and deep, was fraught with all the terrors of the tempest,,. 
 
CHAPTER I ii 
 
 while he inveighed against the vices of humanity, and 
 described the punishments reserved for them in a future 
 state. Every hearer looked back upon his past offences, 
 and trembled : the thunder seemed to roll whose bolt was 
 destined to crush him, and the abyss of eternal destruction 
 to open before his feet ! But when Ambrosio, changiDg 
 his theme, spoke of the excellence of an unsullied conscience, 
 of the glorious prospect which eternity presented to the 
 soul untainted with reproach, and of the recompense which 
 awaited it in the regions of everlasting glory, his auditors 
 felt their scattered spirits insensibly return : they threw 
 themselves with confidence upon the mercy of their judge ; 
 they hung with delight upon the consoling words of the 
 preacher; and, while his full voice swelled into melody, 
 they were transported to those happy regions which he 
 painted to their imaginations in colours so brilliant and 
 glowing. 
 
 The discourse was of considerable length ; yet, when it 
 concluded, the audience grieved that it had not lasted 
 longer. Though the monk had ceased to speak, enthusiastic 
 silence still prevailed through the church. At length, the 
 charm gradually dissolving, the general admiration was 
 expressed in audible terms. As Ambrosio descended from 
 the pulpit, his auditors crowded round him, loaded him 
 with blessings, threw themselves at his feet, and kissed 
 the hem of his garment. He passed on slowly, with his 
 hands crossed devoutly upon his bosom, to the door opening 
 into the abbey -chapel, at which his monks waited to 
 receive him. He ascended the steps, and then, turning 
 towards his followers, addressed to them a few words of 
 gratitude and exhortation. While he spoke, his rosary,,/ 
 composed of large grains of amber, fell from his hand, and 
 dropped among the surrounding multitude. It was seized 
 eagerly, and immediately divided amidst the spectators. 
 Whoever became possessor of a bead preserved it as a * 
 sacred relique ; and, had it been the chaplet of thrice- 
 blessed St. Francis himself, it could not have been disputed 
 with greater vivacity. The abbot, smiling at their eager- 
 ness, pronounced his benediction and quitted the church, 
 while humility dwelt upon every feature. D welt she, also, 
 in his hea rt ? """ 
 
 Antonias eyes followed him with anxiety : as the door 
 closed after him, it seemed t« her as if she had lost some. 
 
12 THE MONK 
 
 one esaantkL to her happioess-j-a tear stole in silence down 
 her cheek. 
 
 ' He is separated from the world ! ' said she to herself ; 
 ' perhaps, I shall never see him more ! ' 
 
 As she wiped away the tear, Lorenzo observed her 
 action. 
 
 ' Are you satisfied with our orator ? ' said he ; 'or do you 
 think that Madrid over-rates his talents ? ' 
 
 Antonia's heart was so filled with admiration for the 
 monk that she eagerly seized the opportunity of speaking 
 of him ; besides, as she now no longer considered Lorenzo 
 as an absolute stranger, she was less embarrassed by her 
 excessive timidity. 
 
 ' Oh ! he far exceeds all my expectations ' answered she ; 
 1 till this moment I had no idea of the powers of eloquence. 
 But, when he spoke, his voice inspired me with such 
 interest, such esteem, I might almost say such affection for 
 him, that I am myself astonished at the acuteness of my 
 feelings.' 
 
 Lorenzo smiled at the strength of her expressions. 
 
 'You are young, and just entering into life' said he; 
 'your heart, new to the world and full of warmth and 
 •sensibility, receives its first impressions with eagerness. 
 Artless yourself, you suspect not others of deceit; and, 
 ■ viewing the world through the medium of your own truth 
 and innocence, you fancy all who surround you to deserve 
 your confidence and esteem. What pity that these gay 
 visions must soon be dissipated! What pity that you 
 must soon discover the baseness of mankind, and guard 
 against your fellow-creatures as against your foes ! ' 
 
 ' Alas ! Segnor ', replied Antonia, ' the misfortunes of 
 my parents have already placed before me but too many 
 sad examples of the perfidy of the world ! Yet surely in 
 the present instance the warmth of sympathy cannot have 
 deceived me.' 
 
 ' In the present instance I allow that it has not. 
 Ambrosio's character is perfectly without reproach ; and a 
 man who has passed the whole of his life within the walls 
 of a convent cannot have found the opportunity to be 
 guilty, even were he possessed of the inclination. But now, 
 when obliged by the duties of his situation he must enter 
 occasionally into the world and be thrown into the way of 
 temptation, it is now that it behoves him to show the 
 
CHAPTER I 13 
 
 brilliance of his virtue^ The trial is dangerous ; he is just 
 at that period of life when the passions are most vigorous, 
 unbridled, and despotic ; his established reputation will 
 mark him out to seduction as an illustrious victim ; novelty 
 will give additional charms to the allurements of pleasure ; 
 and even the talents with which nature has endowed him 
 will contribute to his ruin by facilitating the means of 
 obtaining his object. Very few would return victorious 
 from a contest so severe.' 
 
 ' Ah ! surely Ambrosio will be one of those few.' 
 
 • Of that I have myself no doubt : by all accounts he is 
 an exception to mankind in general, and envy would seek 
 in vain for a blot upon his character.' 
 
 ' Segnor, you delight me by this assurance ! It 
 encourages me to indulge my prepossession in his favour ; 
 and you know not with what pain I should have repressed 
 the sentiment ! Ah J dearest aunt, entreat my mother to 
 choose him for our confessor.' 
 
 ' I entreat her ? ' replied Leonella. ' I promise you that 
 I shall do no such thing. I do not like this same Ambrosio 
 in the least; he has a look of severity about him that 
 made me tremble from head to foot. Were he my con- 
 fessor, I should never have the courage to avow one half 
 of my peccadilloes; and then I should be in a rare 
 condition ? I never saw such a stern-looking mortal, and 
 hope that I never shall see such another. His description 
 of the devil, God bless us, almost terrified me out of my 
 wits ; and, when he- spoke about sinners, he seemed as if 
 he was ready to eat them.' 
 
 ' You are right, Segnora ' answered Don Christoval. 
 ' Too great severity is said to be Ambrosio's only fault. 
 Exempted himself from human feelings, he is not sufficiently 
 indulgent to those of others; and, though strictly just and 
 disinterested in his decisions, his government of the monks 
 has already shown some proofs of his inflexibility. But 
 the crowd is nearly dissipated : will you permit us to 
 attend you home ? ' 
 
 '0 Christ, Segnor', exclaimed- Leonella, affecting to 
 blush ; ' I would not suffer such a thing for the universe ! 
 If I came home attended by so gallant a cavalier, my sister 
 is so scrupulous that she would read me an hour's lecture, 
 and I should never hear the last of it. Besides, I rather 
 wish you not to make your proposals just at present.' 
 
14 THE MONK 
 
 ' My proposals ? I assure you, Segnora — ' 
 
 ' Oh, Segnor, I believe that your assurances of impatience 
 are all very true ; but really I must desire a little respite. 
 It Would not be quite so delicate in me to accept your 
 hand at first sight.' 
 
 ' Accept my hand ! As I hope to live and breathe — ' 
 
 ' Oh ! dear Segnor, press me no further : if you love me, 
 I shall consider your obedience as a proof of your affection ; 
 you shall hear from me to-morrow, and so farewell. But 
 pray, cavaliers, may I not inquire your names ? ' 
 
 ' My friend's', replied Lorenzo, * is the Oonde d'Ossorio ; 
 and mine, Lorenzo de Medina.' 
 
 ' Tis sufficient ! Well, Don Lorenzo, I shall acquaint my 
 sister with your obliging offer, and let you know the result 
 with all expedition. Where may I send to you ? ' 
 
 '. I am always to be found at the Medina palace. 
 
 'You may depend upon hearing from me. Farewell; 
 cavaliers. Segnor Conde", let me entreat you to moderate 
 the excessive ardour of your passion. However, to prove 
 thatlam not displeased with you, and prevent your abandon- 
 ing yourself to despair, receive this mark of my affection, and 
 sometimes bestow a thought upon the absent Leonella.' 
 
 As she said this, she extended a lean and wrinkled hand; 
 which her supposed admirer kissed with such sorry grace 
 and constraint so evident that Lorenzo with difficulty 
 repressed his inclination to laugh. Leonella then hastened 
 to quit the church: the lovely Antonia followed her in 
 silence; but, when she reached the porch, she turned 
 involuntarily and cast back her eyes towards Lorenzo. He 
 bowed to her, as bidding her farewell ; she returned the 
 compliment, and hastily withdrew. 
 
 ' So, Lorenzo ! ', said Don Christoval, as soon as they were 
 alone, ' you have procured me an agreeable intrigue ! To 
 favour your designs upon Antonia, I obligingly make a few 
 civil speeches which mean nothing to the aunt, and at the 
 end of an hour I find myself upon the brink of matrimony ! 
 How will you reward me, for having suffered so grievously 
 for your sake ? What can repay me for having kissed the 
 leathern paw of that confounded old witch? Diavolo! 
 She has left such a scent upon my lips that I shall smell of 
 garlic for this month to come ! As I pass along the Prado, 
 I shall be taken for a walking omelet, or some large onion 
 running to seed ! ' 
 
CHAPTER I 15 
 
 " I confess, my poor Count ', replied Lorenzo, ' that your 
 service has been attended with danger ; yet am I so far 
 from supposing it to be past all endurance that I shall 
 probably solicit you to carry on your amour still further.' 
 
 'From that petition I conclude that the little Antonia 
 has made some impression upon you ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot express to you how much I am charmed with 
 her. Since my father's death my uncle, the duke de 
 Medina, has signified to me his wishes to see me married ; 
 I have till now eluded his hints, and refused to understand 
 them ; but what I have seen this evening — ' 
 
 ' Well, what have you seen this evening ? Why surely, 
 Don Lorenzo, you cannot be mad enough to think of 
 making a wife out of this granddaughter of " as honest a 
 painstaking shoemaker as any in Cordova ? " ' 
 
 ' You forget that she is also the granddaughter of the 
 late Marquis de las Cisternas. But, without disputing 
 about birth and titles, I must assure you that I never 
 beheld a woman so interesting as Antonia.' 
 
 ' Very possibly ; but you cannot mean to marry her ? ' 
 
 ' Why not, my dear Conde' ? I shall have wealth enough 
 for both of us ; and you know that my uncle thinks liberally 
 upon the subject. From what I have seen of Raymond de 
 las Cisternas, I am certain that he will readily acknow- 
 ledge Antonia for his niece. Her birth, therefore, will be 
 no objection to my offering her my hand. I should be a 
 villain could I think of her on any other terms than 
 marriage; and in truth she seems possessed of every 
 quality requisite to make me happy in a wife — young, 
 lovely, gentle, sensible — ' 
 
 ' Sensible ? — Why, she said nothing but Yes and No.' 
 
 ' She did not say much more, I must confess — but then 
 she always said Yes or No in the right place.' 
 
 ' Did she so ? Oh, your most obedient, that is using a 
 right lover's argument; and I dare dispute no longer 
 with so profound a casuist. Suppose we adjourn to the 
 comedy ? ' 
 
 'It is out of my power. I only arrived last night at 
 Madrid, and have not yet had an opportunity of seeing my 
 sister. You know that her convent is in this street, and I 
 was going thither when the crowd which I saw thronging 
 into this church excited my curiosity to know what 
 was the matter. I shall now pursue my first intention, 
 
16 THE MONK 
 
 and probably pass the evening with my sister at the 
 parlour-grate.' 
 
 ' Your sister in a convent, say you ? Ob, very true : I 
 had forgotten! And how does Donna Agnes? I am 
 amazed, Don Lorenzo, how you could possibly think of 
 immuring so charming a girl within the walls of a 
 cloister ! ' 
 
 'I think of it, Don Christoval? How can you suspect 
 me of such barbarity ? You are conscious that she took 
 the veil by her own desire, and that particular circum- 
 stances made her wish for a seclusion from the world. I 
 used every means in my power to induce her to change 
 her resolution; the endeavour was fruitless, and I lost a 
 sister ! ' 
 
 ' The luckier fellow you : I think, Lorenzo, you were a 
 considerable gainer by that loss ; if I remember right, 
 Donna Agnes had a portion of ten thousand pistoles, 
 half of which reverted to your Lordship. By St. Jago, 
 I wish that I had fifty sisters in the same predicament ! 
 I should consent to losing them every soul without much 
 heart-burning.' 
 
 ' How, Cond^ ? ' said Lorenzo in an angry voice ; ' do you 
 suppose me base enough to have influenced my sister's 
 retirement ? Do you suppose that the despicable wish to 
 make myself master of her fortune could — ' 
 
 ' Admirable ! Courage, Don Lorenzo ! Now the man is 
 all in ablaze. God grant that Antonia may soften that fiery 
 temper, or we shall certainly cut each other's throat before 
 the month is over ! However, to prevent such a tragical 
 catastrophe for the present, I shall make a retreat and 
 leave you master of the field. Farewell, my knight of 
 Mount iEtna ! Moderate that inflammable disposition, and 
 remember that, whenever it is necessary to make love to 
 yonder harridan, you may reckon upon my services.' 
 He said, and darted out of the cathedral. 
 ' How wild-brained ! ' said Lorenzo. ' With so excellent 
 an heart, what pity that he possesses so little solidity of 
 judgment ! ' 
 
 The night was now fast advancing. The lamps were 
 not yet lighted. The faint beams of the rising moon 
 scarcely could pierce through the gothic obscurity of the 
 church. Lorenzo found himself unable to quit the spot 
 The void left in his bosom by Antonia's absence, and his 
 
CHAPTER I 17 
 
 sister's sacrifice which Don Christoval had just recalled to 
 his imagination, created that melancholy of mind which 
 accorded but too well with the religious gloom surrounding 
 him. He was still leaning against the seventh column 
 from the pulpit. A soft and cooling air breathed along 
 the solitary aisles ; the moonbeams darting into the church 
 through painted windows, tinged the fretted roofs and 
 massy pillars with a thousand various shades of light and 
 colours. Universal silence prevailed around, only inter- 
 rupted by the occasional closing of doors in the adjoining 
 abbey. 
 
 The calm of the hour and solitude of the place con- 
 tributed to nourish Lorenzo's disposition to melancholy. 
 He threw himself upon a seat which stood near him, and 
 abandoned himself to the delusions of his fancy. Ho 
 thought of his union with Antonia ; he thought of the 
 obstacles which might oppose his wishes ; and a thousand 
 changing visions floated before his fancy — sad, 'tis true, 
 but not unpleasing. Sleep insensibly stole over him ; 
 and the tranquil solemnity of his mind, when awake, for 
 a while continued to influence his slumbers. 
 
 He still fancied himself to be in the church of the 
 Capuchins ; but it was no longer dark and solitary. 
 Multitudes of silver lamps shed splendour from the 
 vaulted roofs; accompanied by the captivating chant 
 of distant choristers, the organ's melody swelled through 
 the church; the altar seemed decorated as for some 
 distinguished feast; it was surrounded by a brilliant 
 company; and near it stood Antonia arrayed in bridal 
 white, and blushing with all the charms of virgin modesty. 
 
 Half hoping, half fearing, Lorenzo gazed upon the scene 
 before him. Suddenly the door leading to the abbey 
 unclosed ; and he saw, attended by a long train of monks, 
 the preacher advance to whom he had just listened with 
 so much admiration. He drew near Antonia. 
 
 ' And where is the bridegroom ? ' said the imaginary friar. 
 
 Antonia seemed to look round the church with anxiety. 
 Involuntarily the youth advanced a few steps from his 
 concealment. She saw him ; the blush of pleasure glowed 
 upon her cheek ; with a graceful motion of her hand she 
 beckoned to him to advance. He disobeyed not the 
 command ; he flew towards her, and threw himself at 
 her feet. 
 
18 THE MONK 
 
 She retreated for a moment; then gazing upon him 
 with unutterable delight : 'Yes', she exclaimed, ' my bride- 
 groom ! my destined bridegroom ! ' 
 
 She said, and hastened to throw herself into his arms ; 
 but before he had time to receive her, an unknown rushed 
 between them : his form was gigantic ; his complexion was 
 swarthy, his eyes fier/e ^dierri^le ; -his_TBWitk breathed 
 -t>ut~volume& -of finv<and on his forehead was written in 
 legible characters '\Pride ! .'Lust! //inhumanity !/ 
 
 Antonia shrieked. xTh^^hohstej' ojasped her)n his arms, 
 and, springing with her upon the alW,jb,artared her with 
 his odious caresses. — Sbe endeavoured in vain to escape 
 from his embrace. Lorenzo flew to her succour ; but ere 
 he had time to reach her a loud burst of thunder was 
 heard. Instantly the cathedral seemed crumbling into 
 pieces ; the monks betook themselves to flight, shrieking 
 fearfully ; the lamps were extinguished, the altar sunk 
 down, and in its place appeared an abyss vomiting forth 
 clouds of flame. Uttering a loud and terrible cry, the 
 monster plunged into the gulf, and in his fall attempted 
 to drag Antonia with him. He strove in vain. Animated 
 by supernatural powers she disengaged herself from his 
 embraces ; but her white robe was left in his possession. 
 Instantly a wing of brilliant splendour spread itself from 
 either of Antonia's arms. She darted upwards, and, while 
 ascending, cried to Lorenzo : ' Friend ! we shall meet 
 above ! ' 
 
 At the same moment, the roof of the cathedral opened ; 
 harmonious voices pealed along the vaults ; and the glory 
 into which Antonia was received was composed of rays of 
 such dazzling brightness that Lorenzo was unable to sustain 
 the gaze. His sight failed, and he sank upon the ground. 
 
 When he awoke, he found himself extended upon the 
 pavement of the church : it was illuminated, and the chant 
 of hymns sounded from a distance. For a while Lorenzo 
 could not persuade himself that what he had just witnessed 
 had been a dream, so strong an impression had it made 
 upon his fancy. A little recollection convinced him of its 
 fallacy : the lamps had been lighted during his sleep ; and 
 the music which he heard was occasioned by the monks, 
 who were celebrating their vespers in the abbey-chapel. 
 
 Lorenzo rose, and prepared to bend his steps towards his 
 sister's convent, his mind fully occupied by the singularity 
 
CHAPTER I 19 
 
 of his dream. He already drew near the porch when his 
 attention was attracted by perceiving a shadow moving 
 upon the opposite wall. He looked curiously round, and 
 soon descried a man wrapped up in his cloak who seemed 
 carefully examining whether his actions were observed. 
 Very few people are exempt from the influence of curiosity. 
 The unknown seemed anxious to conceal his business in the 
 cathedral ; and it was this very circumstance which made 
 Lorenzo wish to discover what he was about. 
 
 Our hero was conscious that he had no right to pry into 
 the secrets of this unknown cavalier. 
 
 ' I will go' saidLorenzo. AndLorenzo stayed where he was. 
 
 The shadow thrown by the column effectually concealed 
 him from the stranger, who continued to advance with 
 caution. At length he drew a letter from beneath his 
 cloak, and hastily placed it beneath a colossal statue of St. 
 Francis. Then, retiring with precipitation, he concealed 
 himself in a part of the church at a considerable distance 
 from that in which the image stood. 
 
 ' So ! ' said Lorenzo to himself ; ' this is only some foolisn 
 love affair. I believe, I may as well be gone, for I can do 
 no good in it.' 
 
 In truth, till that moment it never came into his head 
 that he could do any good in it ; but he thought it necessary 
 to make some little excuse to himself for having indulged 
 his curiosity. He now made a second attempt to retire 
 from the church. For this time he gained the porch with- 
 out meeting with any impediment ; but it was destined 
 that he should pay it another visit that night. As he 
 descended the steps leading into the street, a cavalier rushed 
 against him with such violence that both were nearly over- 
 turned by the concussion. Lorenzo put his hand to his 
 sword. 
 
 ' How now, Segnor ? ' said he ; ' what mean you by this 
 rudeness ? ' 
 
 ' Ha ! Is it you, Medina ? ' replied the new comer ; whom 
 Lorenzo, by his voice, now recognised for Don Christoval. 
 ' You are the luckiest fellow in the universe not to have 
 left the church before my return. In, in, my dear lad, they 
 will be here immediately ! ' 
 
 ' Who will be here ? ' 
 
 ' The old hen and all her pretty little chickens. In, I 
 say ; and then you shall know the whole history.' 
 
20 THE MONK 
 
 Lorenzo followed him into the cathedral, and they 
 concealed themselves behind the statue of St. Francis. 
 
 ' And now', said our hero, ' may I take the liberty of 
 asking what is the meaning of all this haste and rapture ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! Lorenzo, we shall see such a glorious sight ! The 
 prioress of St. Clare and her whole train of nuns are coming 
 hither. You are to know that the pious father Ambrosio 
 (the Lord reward him for it !) will upon no account move 
 out of his own precincts. It being absolutely necessary 
 for every fashionable convent to have him for its confessor, 
 the nuns are in consequence obliged to visit him at the 
 abbey, since, when the mountain will not come to Mahomet, 
 Mahomet must needs go to the mountain. Now the prioress 
 of St. Clare, the better to escape the gaze of such impure 
 eyes as belong to yourself and your humble servant, thinks 
 proper to bring her holy flock to confession in the dusk : 
 she is to be admitted into the abbey-chapel by yon private 
 door. The porteress of St. Clare, who is a worthy old soul 
 and a particular friend of mine, has just assured me of their 
 being here in a few moments. There is news for you, you 
 rogue ! We shall see some of the prettiest faces in Madrid ! ' 
 
 ' In truth, Christoval, we shall do no such thing. The 
 nuns are always veiled.' 
 
 ' No ! no ! I know better. On entering a place of worship, 
 they ever take off their veils, from respect to the saint to 
 whom 'tis dedicated. But hark, they are coming ! Silence ! 
 silence ! observe, and be convinced.' 
 
 ' Good ! ' said Lorenzo to himself ; ' I may possibly dis- 
 cover to whom the vows are addressed of this mysterious 
 stranger.' 
 
 Scarcely had Don Christoval ceased to speak when the 
 domina of St. Clare appeared, followed by a long procession 
 of nuns. Each upon entering the church took off her veil 
 The prioress crossed her hands upon her bosom, and made 
 a profound reverence as she passed the statue of St. Francis, 
 the patron of this cathedral. The nuns followed her 
 example, and several moved onwards without having 
 satisfied Lorenzo's curiosity. He almost began to despair 
 of seeing the mystery cleared up when, in paying her 
 respect to St Francis, one of the nuns happened to drop 
 her rosary. As she stooped to pick it up, the light flashed 
 full in her face. At the same moment she dexterously 
 removed the letter from beneath the image, placed it in her 
 
CHAPTER I 21 
 
 bosom, and hastened to resume her rank in the pro- 
 cession. 
 
 ' Ha ! ' said Christoval in a low voice, ' here we have 
 some little intrigue, no doubt.' 
 
 1 Agnes, by heaven ! ' cried Lorenzo. 
 
 ' What, your sister ? Diavolo ! Then somebody, I 
 suppose, will have to pay for our peeping.' 
 
 ' And shall pay for it without delay ', replied the incensed 
 brother. 
 
 The pious procession had now entered the abbey ; the 
 door was already closed upon it. The unknown 
 immediately quitted his concealment, and hastened to 
 leave the church: ere he could effect his intention, he 
 descried Medina stationed in his passage. The stranger 
 hastily retreated, and drew his hat over his eyes. 
 
 ' Attempt not to fly me ! ' exclaimed Lorenzo ; ' I will 
 know who you are, and what were the contents of that 
 letter.' 
 
 ' Of that letter ? ' repeated the unknown. ' And by what 
 title do you ask the question ? ' 
 
 ' By a title of which I am now ashamed ; but it becomes 
 not you to question me. Either reply circumstantially to 
 my demands, or answer me with your sword.' 
 
 'The latter method will be the shortest' rejoined the 
 other, drawing his rapier ; ' come on, Segnor Bravo, I am 
 ready.' 
 
 Burning with rage, Lorenzo hastened to the attack : the 
 antagonists had already exchanged several passes before 
 Christoval, who at that moment had more sense than 
 either of them, could throw himself between their weapons. 
 
 ' Hold ! hold ! Medina ! ' he exclaimed ; ' remember the 
 consequences of shedding blood on consecrated ground ! ' 
 
 The stranger immediately dropped his sword. 
 
 ' Medina ? ' he cried. ' Great God, is it possible ! 
 Lorenzo, have you quite forgotten Raymond de las 
 Cisternas ? ' 
 
 Lorenzo's astonishment increased with every succeeding 
 moment. Raymond advanced towards him ; but with a 
 look of suspicion he drew back his hand, which the other 
 was preparing to take. 
 
 ' You here, Marquis ? What is the meaning of all this ? 
 You engaged in a clandestine correspondence with my 
 sister, whose affections — ' 
 
22 THE MONK 
 
 ' Have ever been, and still are, mine. But this is no fit 
 place for an explanation. Accompany me to my hotel, and 
 you shall know everything. Who is that with you ? ' 
 
 ' One whom I believe you to have seen before ', replied 
 Don Christoval, ' though probably not at church.' 
 
 'The Condi* d'Ossorio?' 
 
 ' Exactly so, Marquis.' 
 
 'I have no objection to entrusting you with my secret, 
 for I am sure that I may depend upon your silence.' 
 
 ' Then your opinion of me is better than my own, and 
 therefore I must beg leave to decline your confidence. Do 
 you go your own way, and I shall go mine. Marquis, 
 where are you to be found ? ' 
 
 ' As usual, at the hotel de las Cisternas ; but remember 
 that I am incognito, and that, if you wish to see me, you 
 must ask for Alphonso d'Alvarada.' 
 
 ' Good ! Good ! Farewell, cavaliers ! ' said Don 
 Christoval, and instantly departed. 
 
 ' You, Marquis ', said Lorenzo, in the accent of surprise, 
 ' you, Alphonso d'Alvarada ! ' 
 
 ' Even so, Lorenzo : but unless you have already heard 
 my story from your sister, I have much to relate that will 
 astonish you. Follow me, therefore, to my hotel without 
 delay.' 
 
 At this moment the porter of the Capuchins entered the 
 cathedral to lock up the doors for the night. The two 
 noblemen instantly withdrew, and hastened with all speed 
 to the palace de las Cisternas. 
 
 'Well, Antonia', said the aunt, as soon as she had 
 quitted the church, 'what think you of our gallants? 
 Don Lorenzo really seems a very obliging good sort of 
 young man: he paid you some attention, and nobody 
 knows what may not come of it. But as to Don 
 Christoval, I protest to you he is the very phcenix of 
 politeness ; so gallant, so well bred, so sensible, and so 
 pathetic ! Well, if ever man can prevail upon me to break 
 my vow never to marry, it will be that Don Christoval. 
 You see, niece, that everything turns out exactly as I told 
 you : the very moment that I produced myself in Madrid, 
 I knew that I should be surrounded by admirers. When 
 I took off my veil, did you see, Antonia, what an effect the 
 action had upon the Conde" ? And when I presented him 
 
CHAPTER I 23 
 
 my hand, did you observe the air of passion with which he 
 kissed it ? If ever I witnessed" real love, I then saw it 
 impressed upon Don Christoval's countenance ! ' 
 
 Now Ahtonia had observed the air with which Don 
 Christoval had kissed the same hand ; but, as she drew 
 conclusions from it somewhat different from her aunt's, 
 she was wise enough to hold her tongue. As this is the. 
 only instance_knosraL-al. a woman's ever h&vip<f7f™ia so^it.. 
 waj3 judged^wortby to be recorded here. 
 
 The old lady continued her discourse* to Antonia in the 
 same strain till they gained the street in which was their 
 lodging. Here a crowd collected before their door 
 permitted them not to approach it; and, placing them- 
 selves on the opposite side of the street, they endeavoured 
 to make out what had drawn all these people together. 
 After some minutes the crowd formed itself into a circle ; 
 and now Antonia perceived in the midst of it a woman of 
 extraordinary height who whirled herself repeatedly round 
 and round, using all sorts of extravagant gestures. Her 
 dress was composed of shreds of various-coloured silks and 
 linens fantastically arranged, yet not entirely without 
 taste. Her head was covered with a kind of turban, 
 ornamented with vine - leaves and wild flowers. She 
 seemed much sunburnt, and her complexion was of a deep 
 olive : her eyes looked fiery and strange ; and in her hand 
 she bore a long black rod, with which she at intervals 
 traced a variety of singular figures upon the ground, round 
 about which she danced in all the eccentric attitudes of 
 folly and delirium. Suddenly she broke off her dance, 
 whirled herself round thrice with rapidity ; and after a 
 moment's pause, she sang the following ballad : 
 
 THE GIPSY'S SONG 
 
 Come, cross my hand ! My art surpasses 
 All that did ever mortal know : 
 
 Come, maidens, come ! My magic glasses 
 Your future husband's form can show : 
 
 For 'tis to me the power is given, 
 Unclosed, the book of Fate to see ; 
 
 To read the fixed resolves of Heaven, 
 And dive into futurity. 
 
24 THE MONK 
 
 I guide the pale moon's silver waggon ; 
 
 The winds in magic bonds I hold ; 
 I charm to sleep the crimson dragon, 
 
 Who loves to watch o'er buried gold. 
 
 Fenced round with spells, unhurt I venture 
 Their sabbath strange where witches keep ; 
 
 Fearless the sorcerer's circle enter, 
 And woundless tread on snakes asleep. 
 
 Lo 1 Here are charms of mighty power ! 
 
 This makes secure an husband's truth ; 
 And this, composed at midnight hour, 
 
 Will force to love the coldest youth. 
 
 If any maid too much has granted, 
 
 Her loss this philtre will repair. 
 This blooms a cheek where red is wanted, 
 
 And this will make a brown girl fair. 
 
 Then silent hear, while I discover 
 
 What I in Fortune's mirror view ; 
 And each, when many a year is over, 
 
 Shall own the gipsy's sayings true. 
 
 ' Dear aunt ! ' said Antonia, when the stranger had 
 finished, ' is she not mad ? ' > 
 
 ' Mad ? Not she, child ; she is only wicked. / She is a 
 gipsy, a sort of vagabond, whose sole occupation is to run 
 about the country telling lies and pilfering from those who 
 come by their money honestly. • Out upon such vermin ! 
 If I were king of Spain, every one of them should be 
 burnt alive who was found in my dominions after the 
 • next three weeks.' 
 
 These words were pronounced so audibly that they 
 reached the gipsy's ears. She immediately pierced through 
 the crowd and made towards the lady. She saluted them 
 thrice in the eastern fashion, and then addressed herself 
 to Antonia. 
 
 * Lady, gentle lady ! know 
 I your future fate can show ; 
 Give your hand, and do not fear : 
 Lady, gentle lady, hear ! ' 
 
 ' Dearest aunt ! ', said Antonia, ' indulge me this once ! 
 Let me have my fortune told me ! ' 
 
 * Nonsense, child ! She will tell you nothing but 
 falsehoods,' 
 
CHAPTER I 25 
 
 ' No matter ; let me at least hear what she has to say. 
 Do, my dear aunt, oblige me, I beseech you ! ' 
 
 ' Well, well, Antonia, since you are so bent upon the 
 thing — Here, good woman, you shall see the hands of 
 both of us. There is money for you, and now let me hear 
 my fortune.' 
 
 As she said this, she drew off her glove, and presented 
 her hand. The gipsy looked at it for a moment, and then 
 made this reply : 
 
 ' Your fortune ! — You are now so old, 
 Good dame, that 'tis already told : 
 Yet, for your money, in a trice 
 I will repay you in advice. 
 Astonished at your childish vanity, 
 Your friends all tax you with insanity, 
 And grieve to see you use your art 
 To catch some youthful lover's heart. 
 Believe me, dame, when all is done, 
 Your age will still be fifty-one ; 
 And men will rarely take an hint 
 Of love from two gray eyes that squint. 
 Take then my counsels ; lay aside 
 Your paint and patches, lust and pride, 
 And on the poor those sums bestow 
 Which now are spent on useless show. 
 Think on your Maker, not a suitor ; 
 Think on your past faults, not on future ; 
 And think Time's scythe will quickly mow, 
 The few red hairs which deck your brow.' 
 
 The audience rang with laughter during the gipsy's 
 address; and ' fifty-one ', ' squinting eyes', ' red hair', ' paint 
 and patches', etc., were bandied from mouth to mouth. 
 Leonella was almost choked with passion, and loaded her 
 malicious adviser with the bitterest reproaches. The 
 swarthy prophetess for some time listened to her with a 
 contemptuous smile: at length she made her a short 
 answer, and then turned to Antonia : 
 
 4 Peace, lady I What I said was true. 
 And now, my lovely maid, to you : 
 Give me your hand, and let me see 
 Your future doom, and heaven's decree.' 
 
 In imitation of Leonella, Antonia drew off her glove, 
 and presented her white hand to the gipsy, who, having 
 
26 THE MONK 
 
 gazed upon it for some time with a mingled expression of 
 pity and astonishment, pronounced her oracle in the 
 following words : 
 
 * Jesus ! What a palm is there ! 
 Chaste and gentle, young and fair, 
 Perfect mind and form possessing, 
 You would be some good man's blessing ; 
 But, alas, this line discovers 
 That destruction o'er you hovers ; 
 Lustful man and crafty devil 
 Will combine to work your evil ; 
 And from earth by sorrows driven, 
 Soon your soul must speed to heaven. 
 Yet your sufferings to delay, 
 Well remember what I say. 
 When you one more virtuous see 
 Than belongs to man to be ; 
 One, whose self no crimes assailing, 
 Pities not his neighbour's failing ; 
 Call the gipsy's words to mind : 
 Though he seem so good and kind, 
 Fair exteriors oft will hide 
 Hearts that swell with lust and pride. 
 
 Lovely maid, with tears I leave you : 
 Let not my prediction grieve you ; 
 Rather, with submission bending, 
 Calmly wait distress impending, 
 And expect eternal bliss 
 In a better world than this.' 
 
 Having said this, the gipsy again whirled herself round 
 thrice, and then hastened out of the street with frantic 
 gesture. The crowd followed her : and, Elvira's door 
 being now unembarrassed, Leonella entered the house, out 
 of humour with the gipsy, with her niece, and with the 
 people, in short, with every body but herself and her 
 charming cavalier The gipsy's predictions had also 
 considerably affected Antonia ; but the impression soon 
 wore off, and in a few hours she had forgotten the 
 adventure as totally as had it never taken place. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 F&rse b6 tu gustassi una s61 volta 
 La millennia parte civile gibje, 
 Chd gusta un cbr amato riamando, 
 Diresti ripentita soapirando, 
 Perduto e tutto il tempo 
 Che 1 in amar non si spende. 
 
 — Tasso 
 
 Hadst thou but tasted once the thousandth part 
 Of joys which bless the loved and loving heart, 
 Your words repentant and your sighs would prove 
 Lost is the time which is not past in love. 
 
 The monks having attended their abbot to the door of his 
 cell, he dismissed them with an air of conscious superiority, 
 in which humility's semblance combated with the reality 
 of pride. 
 
 He was no sooner alone than he gave free loose to the 
 indulgence of his.vanityj When he remembered the en- 
 thusiasm which his discourse had excited, his heart swelled 
 with rapture and his imagination presented him with 
 splendid visions of aggrandisement. He looked round 
 him with exultation ;* and pride told him loudly that he 
 was superior to the rest of his fellow-creatures. 
 
 ' Who ', thought he, ' who but myself has passed the 
 ordeal of youth, yet sees no single stain upon his 
 conscience ? Who else has subdued the violence of 
 strong passions and an impetuous temperament, and 
 submitted even from the dawn of life to voluntary re- 
 tirement ? I seek for such a man in vain. I see no one 
 but myself possessed of such resolution. Religion cannot 
 boast Ambrosio's equal ! How powerful an effect did my 
 discourse produce upon its auditors ! How they crowded 
 round me ! How they loaded me with benedictions, and 
 pronounced me the sole uncorrupted pillar of the church ! 
 What then now is left for me to do ? Nothing but to 
 watch as carefully over the conduct of my brethren as I 
 have hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold ! May I 
 
 27 
 
28 THE MONK 
 
 not be tempted from those paths which, till now, I have 
 pursued without one moment's wandering ? Am I not a 
 man, whose nature is frail and prone to error ? I must 
 now abandon the solitude of my retreat ; the fairest and 
 noblest dames of Madrid continually present themselves at 
 the abbey, and will use no other confessor; I must accustom 
 my eyes to objects of temptation, and expose myself to the 
 seduction of luxury and desire. Should I meet in that 
 world which I am constrained to enter some lovely female 
 — lovely as yon Madonna — ! ' 
 
 As he said this, he fixed his eyes upon a picture of the 
 Virgin which was suspended opposite to him : this for two 
 years had been the object of his increasing wonder and 
 adoration. He paused, and gazed upon it with delight. 
 
 * What beauty in that countenance ! ' he continued, after 
 a silence of some minutes; 'how graceful is the turn of 
 that head! What sweetness, yet what majesty in her 
 divine eyes! How softly her cheek reclines upon her 
 hand! Can the rose vie with the blush of that cheek? 
 Can the lily rival the whiteness of that hand ? Oh, if such 
 a creature existed, and existed but for me ! Were I per- 
 mitted to twine round my fingers those golden ringlets, 
 and press with my lips the treasures of that snowy bosom ! 
 Gracious God, should I then resist the temptation ? Should 
 I not barter for a single embrace the reward of my sufferings 
 for thirty years? Should I not abandon — Fool that I 
 am ! Whither do I suffer my admiration of this picture 
 to hurry me ? Away, impure ideas ! Let me remember 
 that woman is for ever lost to me. Never was mortal 
 formed so perfect as this picture. But, even did such 
 exist, the trial might be too mighty for a common virtue : 
 but Ambrosio's is proof against temptation. Temptation, 
 did I say?— to me it would be none: what charms me, 
 when ideal and considered as a superior being, would 
 disgust me, become woman and tainted with all the failings 
 of mortality. (It is not the woman's beauty that fills me 
 with such enthusiasm: it is the painter's skill that I 
 admire; it is the divinity that I adore. Are not the 
 passions dead in my bosom ? Have I not freed myself 
 from the frailty of mankind ? Fear not, Ambrosio ! Take 
 confidence in the strength of your virtue: enter boldly 
 into the world, to whose failings you are superior ; reflect 
 that you are now exempted from humanity's defects, and 
 
CHAPTER II 29 
 
 defy all the arts of the spirits of darkness: they shall 
 know you for what you are ! ' 
 
 Here his reverie was interrupted by three soft knocks 
 at the door of his cell — with difficulty did the abbot awake 
 from his delirium : the knocking was repeated. 
 
 ' Who is there ? ' said Ambrosio, at length. 
 
 ' It is only Rosario ' replied a gentle voice. 
 
 ' Enter ! enter, my son ! ' 
 
 The door was immediately opened, and Rosario appeared 
 with a small basket in his hand. 
 
 Rosario was a young novice belonging to the monastery, 
 who in three months intended to make his profession. A 
 sort of mystery enveloped this youth, which rendered him 
 at once an object of interest and curiosity. His hatred of 
 society, his profound^Tn^ilSSeEShvhis rigid observance of 
 the duties 01 his orOTN^^andhis^oluntary seclusion from 
 the world, at his age so unusualTattracted the notice of the 
 whole fraternity. He seemed fearful of being recognized, 
 and no one had ever seen his face. His head was con- 
 tinually muffled up in his cowl; yet such of his features 
 as accident discovered appeared the most beautiful and 
 noble. Rosario was the only name by which he was 
 known in the monastery. No one knew from whence he 
 came ; and, when questioned on the subject, he preserved 
 a profound silence. A stranger, whose rich habit and 
 magnificent equipage declared him to be of distinguished 
 rank, had engaged the monks to receive a novice, and had 
 deposited the necessary sums. The next day he returned 
 with Rosario, and from that time no more had been heard 
 of him. 
 
 The youth had carefully avoided the company of the 
 monks : he answered their civilities with sweetness but 
 reserve, and evidently showed that his inclination led him 
 to solitude. To this general rule the superior was the 
 only exception. To him he looked up with a respect 
 approaching idolatry : he sought his company with the 
 mosTTCttenfive 'assiduity, and eagerly seized every means 
 to ingratiate himself in his favour. In the abbot's society 
 his heart seemed to be at ease, and an air of gaiety 
 pervaded his whole manners and discourse. Ambrosio on 
 his side did not feel less attracted towards the youth : with 
 him alone did he lay aside his habitual severity ; when he 
 spoke to him, he insensibly assumed a tone milder than 
 
30 THE MONK 
 
 was usual to him ; and no voice sounded so sweet to him 
 as did Rosario's. He repaid the youth's attentions by 
 instructing him in various sciences; the novice received 
 his lessons with docility ; Ambrosio was every day more 
 charmed with the vivacity of his genius, the simplicity of 
 his manners, and the rectitude of his heart : in short, he 
 loved him with all the affection of a father. He could 
 hot help sometimes indulging a desire secretly to see the 
 face of his pupil ; but his rule of self-denial extended even 
 to curiosity, and prevented him from communicating his 
 wishes to the youth. 
 
 'Pardon my intrusion, father', said Rosario, while he 
 placed his basket upon the table ; ' I come to you a 
 suppliant. Hearing that a dear friend is dangerously ill, 
 I entreat your prayers for his recovery. If supplications 
 can prevail upon heaven to spare him, surely yours must 
 be efficacious.' 
 
 'Whatever depends upon me, my son, you know that 
 you may command. What is your friend's name ? ' 
 
 ' Vincentio della Ronda.' 
 
 "Tis sufficient; I will not forget him in my prayers: 
 and may our thrice-blessed St. Francis deign to listen to 
 my intercession ! What have you in your basket, Rosario ? ' 
 
 ' A few of those flowers, reverend father, which I have 
 observed to be most acceptable to you. Will you permit 
 my arranging them in your chamber ? ' 
 
 ' Your attentions charm me, my son.' 
 
 While Rosario dispersed the contents of his basket in 
 small vases, placed for that purpose in various parts of the 
 room, the abbot thus continued the conversation : 
 
 ' I saw you not in the church this evening, Rosario.' 
 
 ' Yet I was present, father : I am too grateful for 
 your protection to lose an opportunity of witnessing 
 your triumph.' 
 
 ' Alas, Rosario, I have but little cause to triumph : the 
 saint spoke by my mouth ; to him belongs all the merit. 
 It seems, then, you were contented with my discourse ? ' 
 
 ' Contended, say you ? Oh, you surpassed yourself ! 
 Never did I hear such eloquence, save once ! ' Here the 
 novice heaved an involuntary sigh. 
 
 ' When was that once ? ' demanded the abbot. 
 
 * When you preached upon the sudden indisposition of 
 our late superior.' 
 
CHAPTER II 31 
 
 ' I remember it : that is more than two years ago. 
 And were you present ? I knew you not at that time, 
 Rosario.' 
 
 ' Tis true, father ; and would to God I had expired ere 
 I beheld that day ! What sufferings, what sorrows should 
 I have escaped ! ' 
 
 ' Sufferings at your age, Rosario ? ' 
 
 ' Aye, father ; sufferings which, if known to you, would 
 equally raise your anger and compassion — sufferings which 
 form at once the torment and pleasure of my existence ! 
 Yet in this retreat my bosom would feel tranquil were it 
 not for the tortures of apprehension ! Oh God, oh God ! 
 How cruel is a life of fear ! — Father ! I have given up all ; 
 I have abandoned the world and its .delights for ever: 
 nothing now remains, nothing now has charms for me, but 
 your friendship, but your affection. If I lose that, father, 
 oh, if I lose that, tremble at the effects of my despair ! ' 
 
 ' You apprehend the loss of my friendship ? How has 
 my conduct justified this fear ! Know me better, Rosario, 
 and think me worthy of your confidence. What are your 
 sufferings ? Reveal them to me, and believe that if 'tis in 
 my power to relieve them — ' 
 
 ' Ah, 'tis in no one's power but yours. Yet I must not 
 let you know them. You would hate me for my avowal ! 
 You would drive me from your presence with scorn and 
 ignominy.' 
 
 ' My son, I conjure you ! I entreat you — ' 
 
 ' For pity's sake, inquire no further ! I must not — I 
 dare not ! Hark ! The bell rings for vespers ! Father, 
 your benediction, and I leave you.' 
 
 As he said this, he threw himself upon his knees, and 
 received the blessing which he demanded. Then pressing 
 the abbot's hand to his lips, he started from the ground, 
 and hastily quitted the apartment. Soon after Ambrosio 
 descended to vespers, which were celebrated in a small 
 chapel belonging to the abbey, filled with surprise at the 
 singularity of the youth's behaviour. 
 
 Vespers being over, the monks retired to their respective 
 cells. The abbot alone remained in the chapel, to receive 
 the nuns of St. Clare. He had not been long seated in the 
 confessional chair before the prioress made her appearance. 
 Each of the nuns was heard in her turn, while the others 
 waited with the domina in the adjoining vestry. Ambrosio 
 
32 THE MONK 
 
 listened to the confessions with attention, made many 
 exhortations, enjoined penance proportioned to each offence, 
 and for some time every thing went on as usual : till at 
 last one of the nuns, conspicuous from the nobleness of her 
 air and elegance of her figure, carelessly permitted a letter 
 to fall from her bosom. She was retiring unconscious of 
 her loss. Ambrosio supposed it to have been written by 
 some one of her relations, and picked it up, intending to 
 restore it to her. 
 
 ' Stay, daughter ' said he ; ' you have let fall — ' 
 
 At this moment, the paper being already open, his eye 
 involuntarily read the first words. He started back with 
 surprise. The nun had turned round on hearing his voice : 
 she perceived her letter in his hand, and, uttering a shriek 
 of terror, flew hastily to regain it. 
 
 ' Hold ! ' said the friar in a tone of severity ; ' daughter, I 
 must read this letter.' 
 
 ' Then I am lost ! ' she exclaimed, clasping her hands 
 together wildly. 
 
 AH colour instantly faded from her face ; she trembled 
 with agitation, and was obliged to fold her arms round a 
 pillar of the chapel to save herself from sinking upon the 
 floor. In the meanwhile, the abbot read the following 
 lines : 
 
 All is ready for your escape, my dearest Agnes. At twelve to-morrow 
 night I shall expect to find you at the garden-door : I have obtained 
 the key, and a few hours will suffice to place you in a secure asylum. 
 Let no mistaken scruples induce you to reject the certain means tl 
 preserving yourself and the innocent creature whom you nourish in 
 your bosom. Remember that you had promised to be mine, long ere 
 you engaged yourself to the church ; that your situation will soon be 
 evident to the prying eyes of your companions ; and that flight is the 
 only means of avoiding the effects of their malevolent resentment. 
 Farewell, my Agnes, my dear and destined wife ! Fail not to be at 
 the garden-door at twelve ! 
 
 As soon as he had finished, Ambrosio bent an eye stern 
 and angry upon the imprudent nun. 
 
 'This letter must to the prioress' said he, and passed 
 her. 
 
 His words sounded like thunder to her ears : she awoke 
 from her torpidity only to be sensible of the dangers of her 
 situation. She followed him hastily, and detained him bv 
 his garment. ' 
 
CHAPTER II 33 
 
 ' Stay ; oh, stay ! ' she cried, in the accents of despair, 
 while she threw herself at the friar's feet, and bathed them 
 with her tears. ' Father, compassionate my youth ! Look 
 with indulgence on a woman's weakness, and deign to con- 
 ceal my frailty ! The remainder of my life shall be 
 employed in expiating this simple fault, and your lenity 
 will bring back a soul to heaven ! ' 
 
 ' Amazing confidence ! What ! Shall St. Clare's convent 
 become the retreat of prostitutes ? Shall I suffer the 
 church of Christ to cherish in its bosom debauchery and 
 shame ? Unworthy wretch ! Such lenity would make me 
 your accomplice : mercy would here be criminal. You 
 have abandoned yourself to a seducer's lust ; you have 
 defiled the sacred habit by your impurity ; and still dare 
 you think yourself deserving my compassion ? Hence, nor 
 detain me longer. Where is the lady prioress ? ' he added, 
 raising his voice. 
 
 ' Hold, father, hold ! Hear me but for one moment ! 
 Tax me not with impurity, nor think that I have erred 
 from the warmth of temperament. Long before I took the 
 veil, Raymond was master of my heart: he inspired me 
 with the purest, the most irreproachable passion, and was 
 on the point of becoming my lawful husband. A horrible 
 adventure, and the treachery of a relation, separated us 
 from each other. I believed him for ever lost to me, and 
 threw myself into a convent from motives of despair. 
 Accident again united us; I could not refuse myself the 
 melancholy pleasure of mingling my tears with his. We 
 met nightly in the gardens of St. Clare, and in an un- 
 guarded moment I violated my vows of chastity. I shall 
 soon become a mother. Reverend Ambrosio, take com- 
 passion on me; take compassion on the innocent being 
 whose existence is attached to mine. If you discover my 
 imprudence to the domina, both of us are lost. The punish- 
 ment which the laws of St. Clare assign to unfortunates 
 like myself is most severe and cruel. Worthy, worthy 
 father, let not your own untainted conscience render you 
 unfeeling towards those less able to withstand temptation ! 
 Let not mercy be the only virtue of which your heart is 
 unsusceptible ! Pity me, most reverend ! Restore my 
 letter, nor doom me to inevitable destruction ! ' 
 
 'Your boldness confounds me. Shall I conceal your 
 crime — /, whom you have deceived by your feigned con- 
 
 c 
 
34 THE MONK 
 
 fession ? No, daughter, no ! I will render you a more 
 essential service ; I will rescue you from perdition in spite 
 of yourself. Penance and mortification shall expiate your 
 offence, and severity force you back to the paths of 
 holiness. — What, ho ! Mother St. Agatha ! ' 
 
 ' Father, by all that is sacred, by all that is most dear 
 to you, I supplicate, I entreat — ' 
 
 ' Release me : I will not hear you. Where is the domina ? 
 Mother St. Agatha, where are you ? ' 
 
 The door of the vestry opened, and the prioress entered 
 the chapel, followed by her nuns. 
 
 ' Cruel, cruel ! ' exclaimed Agnes, relinquishing her hold. 
 
 Wild and desperate, she threw herself upon the ground, 
 beating her bosom and rending her veil in all the delirium 
 of despair. The nuns gazed with astonishment upon the 
 scene before them. The friar now presented the fatal 
 paper to the prioress, informed her of the manner in which 
 he had found it, and added that it was her business to 
 decide what penance the delinquent merited. 
 
 While she perused the letter, the domina's countenance 
 grew inflamed with passion. What ! Such a crime com- 
 mitted in her convent, and made known to Ambrosio, to 
 the idol of Madrid, to the man whom she was most anxious 
 to impress with the opinion of the strictness and regularity 
 of her house ! Words were inadequate to express her fury : 
 she was silent, and darted upon the prostrate nun looks of 
 menace and malignity. 
 
 'Away with her to the convent ! ' said sb.e, at length, to 
 some of her attendants. 
 
 Two of the oldest nuns now approaching Agnes, raised 
 her forcibly from the ground, and prepared to conduct her 
 from the chapel. 
 
 ' What ! ' she exclaimed suddenly, shaking off their hold 
 with distracted gestures, * is all hope then lost ? Already do 
 you drag me to punishment ? Where are you, Raymond ? 
 Oh ! save me, save me ! ' Then casting upon the abbot a 
 vfrantic look : * Hear me ", she continued, ' man of an hard 
 heart ! Hear me, proud, stern, and cruel ! You could 
 have saved me ; you could have restored me to happiness 
 and virtue but would not ; you are the destroyer of my^ 
 soul ; you are my murderer, and on you all the curse of my 
 death and my unborn infant's ! Insolent in your yet 
 unshaken virtue, you disdained the prayers of a penitent ; 
 
CHAPTER II 35 
 
 but God will show mercy, though you show none. And 
 where is the merit of your boasted virtue ? What tempta- 
 tions have you vanquished ? Coward ! You have fled 
 from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of trial will 
 arrive. Oh ! then, when you yield to impetuous passions ; 
 when you feel that man is weak, and born to err ; when, 
 shuddering, you look back upon your crimes, and solicit 
 with terror the mercy of your God, oh ! — in that fearful 
 moment, think upon me ! Think upon your cruelty ! 
 Think upon Agnes — and despair of pardon ! *"! 
 
 As she uttered these last words, her strength was ex- 
 hausted, and she sank inanimate upon the bosom of a nun 
 who stood near her. She was immediately conveyed from 
 the chapel, and her companions followed her. 
 
 Ambrosio had not listened to her reproaches without 
 emotion : a secret pang at his heart made him feel that he 
 had treated this unfortunate with too great severity ; he 
 therefore detained the prioress, and ventured to pronounce 
 some words in favour of the delinquent. 
 
 'The violence of her despair', said he, 'proves that at 
 least vice is not become familiar to her. Perhaps, by 
 treating her with somewhat less rigour than is generally 
 practised, and mitigating, in some degree, the accustomed 
 penance — ' 
 
 ' Mitigate it, father ? ' interrupted the lady prioress — 
 ' not I, believe me. The laws of our order are strict and 
 severe ; they have fallen into disuse of late ; but the 
 crime of Agnes shows me the necessity of their revival. 
 I go to signify my intention to the convent ; and Agnes 
 shall he the first to feel the rigour of those laws, which 
 shall be obeyed to the very letter. Father, farewell ! ' 
 
 Thus saying, she hastened out of the chapel. 
 
 ' I have done my duty ' said Ambrosio to himself. 
 
 Still did he not feel perfectly satisfied by this reflection. 
 To dissipate the unpleasant ideas which this scene had 
 excited in him, upon quitting the chapel he descended into 
 the abbey-garden. In all Madrid there was no spot more 
 beautiful or better regulated. It was laid out with the 
 most exquisite taste ; the choicest flowers adorned it in 
 the height of luxuriance, and, though artfully_.arranged, 
 seemed only planted by the hand of nature. Fountains 
 springing from basons of white marble cooled the air with 
 perpetual showers, and the walls were entirely covered by 
 
36 THE MONK 
 
 jesamine, vines, and honeysuckles. The hour now added 
 to the beauty of the scene. The full moon, ranging 
 through a blue and cloudless sky, shed upon the trees a 
 trembling lustre, and the waters of the fountains sparkled 
 in the silver beam ; a gentle breeze breathed the fragrance 
 of orange-blossoms along the alleys, and the nightingale 
 poured forth her melodious murmur from the shelter of 
 an artificial wilderness — thither the abbot bent his steps. 
 
 In the bosom of the little grove stood a rustic grotto, 
 formed in imitation of a hermitage. The walls were con- 
 structed of roots of trees, and the interstices filled up with 
 moss and ivy. Seats of turf were placed on either side, 
 and a natural cascade fell from the rock above. Buried 
 in himself, the monk approached the spot : the universal 
 calm had communicated itself to his bosom, and a 
 voluptuous tranquillity spread languor through his soul. 
 
 He reached the hermitage, and was entering to repose 
 himself when he stopped on perceiving it to be already 
 occupied. Extended upon one of the banks lay a man in 
 a melancholy posture : his head was supported upon his 
 arm, and he seemed lost in meditation. The monk drew 
 nearer, and recognised Rosario : he watched him in silence, 
 and entered not the hermitage. After some minutes the 
 youth raised his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the 
 opposite wall. 
 
 ' Yes ', said he, with a deep and plaintive sigh, ' I feel all 
 the happiness of thy situation, all the misery of • my own. 
 Happy were I, could I think like thee — could I look like 
 thee with disgust upon mankind, could bury myself for ever 
 in some impenetrable solitude, and forget that the world 
 holds beings deserving to be loved ! O God, what a 
 blessing would misanthropy be to me ! ' 
 
 'That is a singular thought, Rosario' said the abbot, 
 entering the grotto. 
 
 ' You here, reverend father ? ' cried the novice. 
 
 At the same time, starting from his place in confusion, 
 he drew his cowl hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated 
 himself upon the bank, and obliged the youth to place 
 himself by him. 
 
 ' You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy ' 
 said he ; ' what can possibly have made you viewTTri so 
 desirable a light, misanthropy — of all sentiments the most 
 hateful ? ' "- ■ "■ 
 
CHAPTER II 37 
 
 ' The perusal of these verses, father, which till now had 
 escaped my observation. The brightness of the moon- 
 beams permitted my reading them ; and, oh, how I envy 
 the feelings of the writer ! ' 
 
 As he said this, he pointed to a marble tablet fixed 
 against the opposite wall : on it were engraved the 
 following lines: 
 
 INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE 
 
 Whoe'er thou art these lines now reading, 
 Think not, though from the world receding, 
 I joy my lonely days to lead in 
 
 This desert drear — 
 That with remorse a conscience bleeding 
 
 Hath led me here. 
 
 No thought of guilt my bosom sours : 
 Free-will'd, I fled from courtly bowers ; 
 For well I saw, in halls and towers, 
 
 That Lust and Pride, 
 The arch-fiend's dearest darkest powers, 
 
 In state preside. 
 
 I saw mankind with vice mcrusted ; 
 
 I saw that honour's sword was rusted — 
 
 That few for aught but folly lusted — 
 
 That he was still deceived, who trusted 
 
 In love or friend ; 
 
 And hither came, with men disgusted, 
 
 My life to end. 
 i 
 
 In this lone cave, in garments lowly, 
 
 Alike a foe to noisy folly 
 
 And brow-bent gloomy melancholy, 
 
 I wear away 
 My life, and in my office holy 
 
 Consume the day. 
 
 This rock my shield when storms are blowing J 
 The limpid streamlet yonder flying 
 Supplying drink ; the earth bestowing 
 
 My simple food ; 
 But few enjoy the calm I know in 
 
 This desert rude. 
 
 Content and comfort bless me more in 
 
 This grot, than e'er I felt before in 
 
 A palace ; and, with thoughts still soaring 
 
 To God on high, 
 Each night and morn, with voice imploring, 
 
 This wish I sigh : 
 
38 THE MONK 
 
 'Let me, Lord', from life retire, 
 Unknown each guilty worldly fire, 
 Remorseful throb, or loose desire ; 
 
 And, when I die, 
 Let me in this belief expire — 
 
 To God I fly ! 
 
 Stranger, if, full of youth and riot, 
 As yet no grief has marred thy quiet, 
 Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at 
 
 The Hermit's prayer : 
 But if thou hast a cause to sigh at 
 
 Thy fault, or care ; 
 
 If thou hast known false love's vexation, 
 Or hast been exiled from thy nation, 
 Or guilt affrights thy contemplation, 
 
 And makes thee pine ; 
 Oh ! how must thou lament thy station, 
 
 And envy mine ! 
 
 ' Were it possible ', said the friar, ' for man to be so totally 
 wrapped up in himself as to live in absolute seclusion from 
 human nature, and could yet feel the contented tranquillity 
 which these lines express, I allow that the situation would 
 be more desirable than to live in a world so pregnant with 
 , every vice and every folly ; but this never can be the case. 
 This inscription was merely placed here for the ornament 
 of the grotto, and the sentiments and the hermit are equally 
 imaginary__Manjwas_ bOTn_for_society : however little he 
 -TSSy~^d~^aJeaed to the world, he never can wholly forget 
 Mt or bear to be wholly forgotten by it. Disgusted at the 
 guilt or absurdity of mankind, the misanthrope flies from 
 it ; he resolves to become a hermit, and buries himself in 
 the cavern of some gloomy rock. While hate inflames his 
 bosom, possibly he may feel contented with his situation ; 
 but when his passions begin to cool; when time has 
 mellowed his sorrows, and healed those wounds which he 
 bore with him to his solitude ; think you that content 
 becomes his companion ? Ah, no, Rosario ! No longer 
 sustained by the violence of his passions, he feels all the 
 monotony of his way of living, and his heart becomes the 
 prey of ennui and weariness. He looks round and finds 
 himself alone in the universe : the love of society revives 
 in his bosom, and he pants to return to that world which 
 he has abandoned. Nature loses all her charms in his 
 eyes: no one is near him to point out her beauties, or 
 
CHAPTER II 39 
 
 share in his admiration of her excellence and variety. 
 Propped upon the fragment of some rock, 'he gazes upon 
 the tumbling water-fall with a vacant eye ; he views with- 
 out emotion the glory of the setting sun ; slowly he returns 
 to his cell at evening, for no one there is anxious for his 
 arrival : he has no comfort in his solitary, unsavoury meal ; 
 he throws himself upon his couch of moss, despondent and 
 dissatisfied ; and wakes only to pass a day as joyless, as 
 monotonous as the former.' 
 
 'You amaze me, father! Suppose that circumstances 
 condemned you to solitude, would not the duties of religion 
 and the consciousness of a life well spent communicate to 
 your heart that calm which — ' 
 
 ' I should deceive myself did I fancy that they could. I 
 am convinced of the contrary, and that all my fortitude 
 would not prevent me from yielding to melancholy and 
 disgust. After consuming the day in study, if you knew 
 my pleasure at meeting my brethren in the evening ! 
 After passing many a long hour in solitude, if I could 
 express to you the joy which I feel at once more beholding 
 a fellow- creature ! 'Tis in this particular that I place the 
 principal merit of a monastic institution. It secludes man 
 from the temptations of vice; it procures that leisure 
 necessary for the proper service of the Supreme ; it spares 
 him the mortification of witnessing the crimes of the 
 worldly, and yet permits him to enjoy the blessings of 
 society. And do you, Rosario, do you envy a hermit's life 1 
 Can you be thus blind to the happiness of your situation ? 
 Reflect upon it for a moment. This abbey is become your 
 asylum : your regularity, your gentleness, your talents, 
 have rendered, you the object of universal esteem: you 
 are secluded from the world, which you profess to hate ; 
 yet you remain in possession of the benefits of society, 
 and that a society composed of the most estimable of 
 mankind.' 
 
 'Father, father! 'Tis that which causes my torment. 
 Happy had it been for me had my life been passed among 
 the vicious and abandoned ; had I never heard pronounced 
 the name of virtue. 'Tis my unbounded adoration of 
 religion, 'tis my soul's exquisite sensibility of the beauty 
 of fair and good, that loads me with shame — that hurries 
 me to perdition. Oh, that I had never seen these abbey- 
 walls!' 
 
40 THE MONK 
 
 ' How, Rosario ? When we last conversed, you spoke in 
 a different tone. Is my friendship, then, become of such 
 little consequence ? Had you never seen these abbe3 T -walls, 
 you never had seen me. Can that really be your wish ? ' 
 
 ' Had never seen you ? ' repeated the novice, starting 
 from the bank, and grasping the friar's hand with a 
 frantic air — ' you, you ! Would to God that lightning 
 had blasted them before you ever met my eyes ! Would 
 to God that I were never to see you more, and could forget 
 that I had ever seen you ! ' 
 
 With these words, he flew hastily from the grotto. 
 Ambrosio remained in his former attitude, reflecting on 
 the youth's unaccountable behaviour. He was inclined to 
 suspect the derangement of his senses ; yet the general 
 tenor of his conduct, the connexion of his ideas, and 
 calmness of his demeanour till the moment of his quitting 
 the grotto, seemed to discountenance this conjecture. 
 After a few minutes, Rosario returned. He again seated 
 himself upon the bank ; he reclined his cheek upon one 
 hand, and with the other wiped away the tears which 
 trickled from his eyes at intervals. 
 
 The monk looked upon him with compassion, and fore- 
 bore to interrupt his meditations. Both observed for some 
 time a profound silence. The nightingale had now taken 
 her station upon an orange-tree fronting the hermitage, 
 and poured forth a strain the most melancholy and melod- 
 ious. Rosario raised his head, and listened to her with 
 attention. 
 
 ' It was thus ', said he,- with a deep drawn sigh, ' it was 
 thus, that, during the last month of her unhappy life, my 
 sister used to sit listening to the nightingale. Poor Matilda ! 
 She sleeps in the grave, and her broken heart throbs no 
 more with passion.' 
 
 ' You had a sister ? ' 
 
 ' You say right, that I had. Alas ! I have one no longer : 
 she sank beneath the weight of her sorrows in the very 
 spring of life.' 
 
 ' What were those sorrows ? ' 
 
 ' They will not excite your pity. You know not the 
 power of those irresistible, those fatal sentiments to which 
 her heart was a prey. Father, she loved, unfortunately. 
 A passion for one endowed with every virtue, for a man 
 — oh, rather let me say for a divinity — proved the bane of 
 
CHAPTER II 41 
 
 her existence. His noble form, his spotless character, his 
 various talents, his wisdom solid, wonderful, and glorious, 
 might have warmed the bosom of the most insensible. My 
 sister saw him, and dared to love, though she never dared 
 to hope.' 
 
 ' If her love was so well bestowed, what forbade her to 
 hope the obtaining of its object ? ' 
 
 ' Father, before he knew her, Julian had already plighted 
 his vows to a bride most fair, most heavenly ! Yet still 
 my sister loved, and for the husband's sake she doted upon 
 the wife. One morning she found means to escape from 
 our father's house : arrayed in humble weeds, she offered 
 herself as a domestic to the consort of her beloved, and 
 was accepted. She was now continually in his presence ; 
 she strove to ingratiate herself into his favour: she 
 succeeded. Her attentions attracted Julian's notice ; the 
 virtuous are ever grateful, and he distinguished Matilda 
 above the rest of her companions.' 
 
 'And did not your parents seek for her? Did they 
 submit tamely to their loss, nor attempt to recover their 
 wandering daughter ? ' 
 
 •Ere they could find her, she discovered, herself. Her 
 love grew too violent for concealment ; yet she wished not 
 for Julran's person ; she ambitioned but a share of his 
 heart, }ln an unguarded moment she confessed her 
 affectidn. What was the return ? Doting upon his wife, 
 and believing that a look of pity bestowed upon another 
 was a theft from what he owed to her, he drove Matilda 
 from his presence : he forbade her ever again appearing 
 before him. His severity broke her heart : she returned 
 to her father's, and in a few months after was carried to 
 her grave.' 
 
 , ' Unhappy girl ! -Surely her fate was too severe, and 
 (Julian was too cruel.O 
 
 ' Do you think so, father ? ' cried the novice with 
 vivacity. ' Do you think that he was cruel ? ' 
 
 ' Doubtless I do, and pity her most sincerely.' 
 
 ' You pity her ? You pity her ? — Oh ! father, father ! — 
 then pity me — ' 
 
 The friar started ; when, after a moment's pause, 
 Rosario added, with a faltering voice : ' for my sufferings 
 are still greater. My sister had a friend, a real friend, who 
 pitied the acuteness of her feelings, nor reproached her 
 
42 THE MONK 
 
 with her inability to repress them. I — I have no friend ! 
 The whole wide world cannot furnish an heart that is 
 willing to participate in the sorrows of mine.' 
 
 As he uttered these words, he sobbed audibly. The 
 friar was affected. He took Rosario's hand, and pressed it 
 with tenderness. 
 
 ' You have no friend, say you ? What then am I ? 
 Why will you not confide in me, and what can you fear ? 
 My severity ? Have I ever used it with you ? The 
 dignity of my habit ? Kosario, I lay aside the monk, and 
 bid you consider me as no other than your friend, your 
 father. Well may I assume that title, for never did parent 
 watch over a child more fondly than I have watched over 
 you. From the moment in which I first beheld you I 
 perceived sensations in my bosom till then unknown to 
 me ; I found a delight in your society which no one's else 
 could afford; and, when I witnessed the extent of your 
 genius and information, I rejoiced as does a father in the 
 perfections of his son. Then lay aside your fears ; speak 
 to me with openness : speak to me, Rosario, and say that 
 you will confide in me. If my aid or my pity can alleviate 
 your distress — ' 
 
 ' Yours can ; yours only can. Ah, father, how willingly 
 would I unveil to you my heart ! How willingly would I 
 declare the secret which bows me down with its weight ! 
 But, oh, I fear, I fear — ' 
 
 ' What, my son ? ' 
 
 'That you should abhor me for my weakness; that the 
 reward of my confidence should be the loss of your esteem.' 
 
 ' How shall I reassure you ? Reflect upon the whole of 
 my past conduct, upon the paternal tenderness which I 
 have ever shown you. Abhor you, Rosario ? It is no 
 longer in my power. To give up your society would be 
 to deprive myself of the greatest pleasure of my life. Then 
 reveal to me what afflicts you, and believe me while I 
 solemnly swear — ' 
 
 ' Hold ! ' interrupted the novice. ' Swear that, whatever 
 be my secret, you will not oblige me to quit the monastery 
 till my noviciate shall expire.' 
 
 'I promise it faithfully ; and as I keep my vows to you 
 may Christ keep His to mankind ! Now, then, explain 
 this mystery, and rely upon my indulgence.' 
 
 ' I obey you. -Know then — oh, how I tremble to name 
 
CHAPTER II 43 
 
 the word ! Listen to me with pity, revered Ambrosio ! 
 Call up every latent spark of human weakness that may 
 teach you compassion for mine ! Father ! ' continued he, 
 throwing himself at the friar's feet and pressing his hand 
 to his lips with eagerness, while agitation for a moment 
 choked his voice; 'jather !', continued he in f altering^ 
 accents, 'I am a woman..!.' " 
 
 The abbot started at this unexpected avowal. Prostrate 
 on the ground lay the feigned Eosario, as if waiting in 
 silence the decision of his judge. Astonishment on the 
 one part, apprehension on the other, for some minutes 
 chained them in the same attitudes, as they had been 
 touched by the rod of some magician. At length, recovering 
 from his confusion, the monk quitted the grotto, and sped 
 with precipitation towards the abbey. His action did not 
 escape the suppliant. She sprang from the ground; she 
 hastened to follow him, overtook him, threw herself in his 
 passage, and embraced his knees. Ambrosio strove in vain 
 to disengage himself from her grasp. 
 
 ' Do not fly me ! ' she cried. ' Leave me not 
 abandoned to the impulse of despair! Listen, while I 
 excuse my imprudence, while I acknowledge my sister's 
 story to be my own ! I am_Matilda ; you are her beloved.' •* 
 
 If Ambrosio's surprise was gre13nit'^§rHiriarTEvWaX 
 upon hearing her second it exceeded all bounds. Amazed, 
 embarrassed, and irresolute, he found himself incapable of 
 pronouncing a syllable, and remained in silence gazing 
 upon Matilda. This gave her opportunity to continue her 
 explanation as follows : 
 
 ' Think not, Ambrosio, that I come to rob your bride of 
 your affections. No, believe me : Religion alone deserves 
 you ; and far is it from Matilda's wish to draw you from 
 the paths of virtue. What I feel for you is love, not 
 licentiousness. I sigh to be possessor of your heart, not 
 lust for the enjoyment of your person. Deign to listen to 
 my vindication — A few moments will convince you that 
 this holy retreat is not polluted by my presence, and that 
 you may grant me your compassion without trespassing 
 against your vows.' — She seated herself. Ambrosio, 
 scarcely conscious of what he did, followed her example, 
 and she proceeded in her discourse : 
 
 ' I spring from a distinguished family ; my father was 
 chief of the noble house of Villanegas : he died while I was 
 
44 THE MONK 
 
 still an infant, and left me sole heiress of his immense 
 possessions. Young and wealthy, I was sought in marriage 
 by the noblest youths of Madrid ; but no one succeeded 
 in gaining my affections. I had been brought up under 
 the care of an uncle possessed of the most solid judgment 
 and extensive erudition ; he took pleasure in communicating 
 to me some portion of his knowledge. Under his instrnc- 
 tion my understanding acquir ed more strength and lUstnesF 
 "tT5S'''giarm^y-fe»lfeh4fr-fch» lot ol my sex ; the ability of" 
 my preceptor being aided by natural curiosity, X,npt,_only 
 made a considerable progress in sciences univer sally_studied, " 
 but" in others revealed but to few and lying under censure 
 from the blindness of superstition. But, while my guardian 
 laboured to enlarge the sphere of my knowledge, he care- 
 fully inculcated every moral precept : he relieved me from 
 the shackles of vulgar prejudice ; he pointed out the beauty 
 of religion ; he taught me to look with adoration upon the 
 pure and virtuous ; and, woe is me, I have obeyed him but 
 too well ! 
 
 ' With such dispositions, judge whether I could observe 
 with any other sentiment than disgust, the vice, dissipa- 
 tion, and ignorance, which disgrace our Spanish youth. I 
 rejected every offer with disdain : my heart remained with- 
 out a master, till chance conducted me to the cathedral of 
 the Capuchins. Oh, surely on that day my guardian angel 
 slumbered, neglectful of his charge ! Then was it that I 
 first beheld you : you supplied the superior's place absent 
 from illness. You cannot but remember the lively enthu- 
 siasm which your discourse created. Oh, how I drank 
 your words ! How your eloquence seemed to steal me 
 from myself ! I scarcely dared to breathe, fearing to lose 
 a syllable; and, while you spoke, methought a radiant 
 glory beamed round your head and your countenance shone 
 with the majesty of a god. I retired from the church, 
 glowing with admiration. From that moment you became 
 the idol of my heart, the never-changing object of my 
 meditations. I inquired respecting you. The reports 
 which were made me of your mode of life, of your know- 
 ledge, piety, and self-denial, riveted the chains imposed on 
 me by your eloquence. I was conscious that there was no 
 longer a void in my heart; that I had found the man 
 whom I had sought till then in vain. In expectation of 
 hearing you again, every day I visited your cathedral : 
 
CHAPTER II 45 
 
 you remained secluded within the abbey-walls, and I 
 always withdrew, wretched and disappointed. The night 
 was more propitious to me, for then you stood before me 
 in my dreams ; you vowed to me eternal friendship ; you 
 led me through the paths of virtue, and assisted me to 
 support the vexations of life. The morning dispelled 
 these pleasing visions — I awoke, and found myself separated 
 from you by barriers which appeared insurmountable. 
 Time seenrtid'UiJihjiiJto mcceas«=±it^~sirength of my passion : 
 I grew^iiaelancholvlax 
 
 grew v 4iafilan^olvla%d ^despondentri fled from society, 
 and my heallh declined daily. At length, no longer able 
 to exist in this state of torture, I resolved to assume the 
 disguise in which you see me. My artifice was fortunate : 
 I was received into the monastery, and succeeded in gaining 
 your esteem. 
 
 ' Now, then, I should have felt completely happy, had 
 not my quiet been disturbed by the fear of detection. The 
 pleasure which I received from your society was embittered 
 by the idea that perhaps I should soon be deprived of it ; 
 and my heart throbbed so rapturously at obtaining the 
 marks of your friendship as to convince me that I never 
 should survive its loss. I resolved, therefore, not to leave 
 the discovery of my sex to chance — to confess the whole to 
 you, and throw myself entirely on your mercy and indul- 
 gence. Ah, Ambrosio, can I have been deceived? Can 
 you be less generous than I thought you ? I will not 
 suspect it. You will not drive a wretch to despair ; I shall 
 still be permitted to see you, to converse with you, to adore 
 you ! Your virtues shall be my example through life ; 
 and, when we expire, our bodies shall rest in the same 
 grave.' 
 
 She ceased. While she spoke, a thousand opposing 
 sentiments combated in Ambrosio's bosom. Surprise at 
 the singularity of this adventure ; confusion at her abrupt 
 declaration; resentment at her boldness in entering the 
 monastery ; and consciousness of the austerity with which 
 it behoved him to reply — such were the sentiments of 
 which he was aware ; but there were others also which did 
 not obtain his notice. , He perceived not that his vanity 
 was flattered by the praises bestowed upon his eloquence 
 and virtue ; that he felt a secret pleasure in reflecting that 
 a young ^gcad seemingly lovely woman had for his sake 
 abandoned the world, and sacrificed every other passion 
 
46 THE MONK 
 
 to that which he had inspired ; still less did he perceive 
 that his heart throbbed with desire, while his hand was 
 pressed gently by Matilda's ivory fingers. 
 
 By degrees he recovered from his confusion : his ideas 
 became less bewildered ; he was immediately sensible of 
 the extreme impropriety, should Matilda be permitted to 
 remain in the abbey after this avowal of her sex. He 
 assumed an air of severity, and drew away his hand. 
 
 'How, lady!' said he, 'can you really hope for my 
 permission to remain amongst us ? Even were I to grant 
 your request, what good could you derive from it ? Think 
 you, that I can ever reply to an affection, which — ' 
 
 ' No, father, no ! I expect not to inspire you with a love 
 like mine : I only wish for the liberty to be near you ; to 
 pass some hours of the day in your society ; to obtain your 
 compassion, your friendship, and esteem. Surely my 
 request is not unreasonable.' 
 
 ' But reflect, lady ; reflect only for a moment on the 
 impropriety of my harbouring a woman in the abbey, and 
 that too a woman who confesses that she loves me. It 
 must not be. The risk of your being discovered is too 
 great; and I will not expose myself to so dangerous a 
 temptation.' 
 
 ' Temptation, say you ? Forget that I am a woman, and 
 it no longer exists: consider me only as a friend, as an 
 unfortunate, whose happiness, whose life depends upon your 
 protection. Fear not lest I should ever call to your remem- 
 brance that love, the most impetuous, the most unbounded, 
 has induced me to disguise my sex, or that, instigated by 
 desires offensive to your vows and my own honour, I should 
 endeavour to seduce you from the path/ of rectitude. No, 
 Ambrosio ! Learn to know me better :(l love you for your 
 virtues ; lose them, and with them you lose my affections?} 
 I look upon you as a saint : prove to me that you are no 
 more than man and I quit you with disgust. Is it, then, 
 from me that you fear temptation ? From me, in whom 
 the world's dazzling pleasures created no other sentiment 
 than contempt ? From me, whose attachment is grounded 
 on your exemption from human frailty ? Oh, dismiss such 
 injurious apprehensions ! Think nobler of me ; think 
 nobler of yourself. I am incapable of seducing you to error 
 and surely your virtue is established on a basis too firm 
 to be shaken by unwarranted desires. Ambrosio, dearest 
 
CHAPTER II 47 
 
 Ambrosio ! Drive me not from your presence ; remember 
 your promise, and authorize my stay.' 
 
 ' Impossible, Matilda ! Your interest commands me to 
 refuse your prayer, since I tremble for you, not for my- 
 self. After vanquishing the impetuous ebullitions of youth, 
 after passing thiry years in mortification and penance, I 
 might safely permit your stay, nor fear your inspiring me 
 with warmer sentiments than pity ; but, to yourself, 
 remaining in the abbey can produce none but fatal conse- 
 quences. You will misconstrue my every word and action ; 
 you will seize every circumstance with avidity which 
 encourages you to hope the return of your affection ; 
 insensibly your passions will gain a superiority over your 
 reason ; and, far from being repressed by my presence, 
 every moment which we passed together will only serve to 
 irritate and excite them. Believe me, unhappy woman, 
 you possess my sincere compassion. I am convinced that 
 you have hitherto acted upon the purest motives; but, 
 though you are blind to the imprudence of your conduct, in 
 me it would be culpable not to open your eyes. I feel that 
 duty obliges my treating you with harshness; I must 
 reject your prayer, and remove every shadow of hope which 
 may aid to nourish sentiments so pernicious to your repose. 
 Matilda, you must from hence to-morrow.' 
 
 ' To-morrow, Ambrosio ? To-morrow ? Oh, surely you 
 cannot mean it! You cannot resolve on driving me to 
 despair ! You cannot have the cruelty — ' 
 
 ' You have heard my decision, and it must be obeyed : 
 the laws of our order forbid your stay. It would be 
 perjury to conceal that a woman is within these walls ; 
 and my vows will oblige me to declare your story to the 
 community. You must from hence. I pity you, but can 
 do no more.' 
 
 He pronounced these words in a faint and trembling 
 voice ; then, rising from his seat, he would have hastened 
 towards the monastery. Uttering a loud shriek, Matilda 
 followed, and detained him. 
 
 ' Stay yet one moment, Ambrosio ! hear me yet speak 
 one word ! ' 
 
 ' I dare not listen: Release me : you know my resolution.' 
 
 ' But one word — but one last word, and I have done ! ' 
 
 'Leave me. Your entreaties are in vain: you must 
 from hence to-morrow.' 
 
48 THE MONK 
 
 ' Go then, barbarian ! But this resource is still left me.' 
 As she said this, she suddenly drew a poniard. She rent 
 open her garment, and placed the weapon's point against 
 her bosom. 
 
 ' Father, I will never quit these walls alive.' 
 ' Hold, hold, Matilda ! What would you do ? ' 
 'You are determined, so am I: the moment that you 
 leave me, I plunge this steel in my heart.' 
 _ ' Holy St. Francis ! Matilda, have you your senses ? 
 """Do you know the consequences of your action — that 
 \ suicide is the greatest of crimes — that you destroy your 
 I soul — that you lose your claim to salvation — that you 
 \ prepare for yourself everlasting torments ? ' 
 ""• ' I care not, I care not ' she replied passionately ; ' either 
 your hand guides me to paradise, or my own dooms me to 
 perdition ! Speak to me, Ambrosio ! Tell me that you 
 will conceal my story, that I shall remain your friend and 
 your companion, or this poniard drinks my blood.' 
 
 As she uttered these last words, she lifted her arm, and 
 made a motion as if to stab herself. The friar's eyes 
 followed with dread the course of the dagger. She had, 
 torn open her habit, and her bosom was half-exposed. The 
 weapon's point rested upon her le/ f V-"?at — -, -> -i — rbU. -thftt-^- 
 was such a breast ! — the^moon-bfiams darting full_jjpon it 
 enabled the monk to obser ve it s dazzlin g whiteness. His 
 "eyeTdwelt with "insatiable"avidity_u£onJthe— beaufceous^rb : . 
 7£jj|nsation_tili . then im'-nmw- ^44<m3— bjg hfiatt^with a 
 mixture~qF anxiety and delight ; a ragi ng fire shoFth rouffh. 
 weryhmbT the blood boiled in h^_veuTS i and a thousand 
 
 wtldwTsKes bewildered his imagination. ~ — > — 
 
 .' ' Hold ! ' he cried, in an hurriebVFaltering voice ; ' I can 
 resist no longer ! Stay then, enchantress ! Stay for my 
 destruction ! ' 
 
 He said ; and, rushing from the place, he hastened 
 towards the monastery : he regained his cell, and threw 
 himself upon his couch, distracted, irresolute, and confused. 
 He found it impossible for some time to arrange his 
 ideas. The scene in which he had been engaged had 
 excited such a variety of sentiments in his bosom that he 
 was incapable of deciding which was predominant. He 
 was irresolute what conduct he ought to hold with the 
 disturber of his repose ; he was conscious that prudence, 
 religion, and propriety, necessitated his obliging her to 
 
CHAPTER II 49 
 
 quit the abbey : but on the other hand such powerful 
 reasons authorized her stay that he was but too much 
 inclined to consent to her remaining. He could not avoid 
 being nattered by Matilda's declaration, and at reflecting 
 that he had unconsciously vanquished an heart which had 
 resisted the attacks of Spain's noblest cavaliers. The 
 manner in which he had gained her affections was also the 
 most satisfactory to his vanity : he remembered the many 
 happy hours which he had passed in Rosario's society, and 
 dreaded that void in his heart which parting with him j 
 would occasion. Besides all this he considered that as 
 Matilda was wealthy, her favour might b e of essential * 
 benofMi. t o the abbey. "^ ~ "— - — 
 
 ' And what do 1 risk ', said he to himself, ' by authorizing 
 her stay ? May I not safely credit her assertions ? Will 
 it not be easy for me to forget her sex, and still consider 
 her as my friend and my disciple ? Surely her love is as 
 pure as she describes: had it been the offspring of mere 
 licentiousness, would she so long have concealed it in her 
 own bosom ? Would she not have employed some means 
 to procure its gratification ? She has done quite the 
 contrary : she strove to keep me in ignorance of her sex ; 
 and nothing but the fear of detection and my instances 
 would have compelled her to reveal the secret. She has 
 observed the duties of religion not less strictly than 
 -myself ; she has made no attempt to rouse my slumbering 
 passions, nor has she ever conversed with me till this night 
 on the subject of love. Had she been desirous to gain my 
 affections, not my esteem, she would not have concealed 
 from me her charms so carefully ; at this very moment I 
 have never seen her face ; yet certainly that face must be / 
 lovely, and her person beautiful, to judge by her — by what J 
 I have seen.' — - 
 
 As this last idea passed through his imagination, a blush 
 spread itself over his cheek. Alarmed at the sentiments 
 which he was indulging, he betook himself to prayer : he 
 started from his couch, knelt before the beautiful Madonna, 
 and entreated her assistance in stifling such culpable 
 emotions ; he then returned to his bed, and resigned 
 himself to slumber. 
 
 He awoke heated and unrefreshed . During his sleep' 
 his inflamed imagination had presented him with none but 
 the most vnln pfrioiia obj ects. Matilda stood before him in 
 
50 THE MONK 
 
 his dreams, and his eyes again dwelt upon her naked 
 breast ; she repeated her protestations of eternal love, 
 threw her arms round his neck, and loaded him with 
 kisses : he returned them ; he clasped her passionately to 
 his bosom, and — the vision was dissolved.-" Sometimes his 
 dreams presented the image of his favourite Madonna, and 
 he fancied that he was kneeling before her ; as he offered 
 up his vows to her, the eyes of the figure seemed to beam 
 on him with inexpressible sweetness ; he pressed his lips to 
 hers, and found them warm: the animated form started 
 Crom the canvas, embraced him affectionately, and his 
 senses were unable to support delight so exquisite. Such 
 were the scenes on which his thoughts were employed 
 while sleeping; his unsatisfied desires placed before him 
 the most lustful and provoking images, and he rioted J n... 
 joys till then unknown to him. 
 
 —He' starMdTTrSBT 'ffis'TblfCnTfilled with confusion at the 
 remembrance of his dreams ; scarcely was he less ashamed 
 when he reflected on his reasons of the former night which 
 induced him to authorize Matilda's stay. The cloud was 
 now dissipated which had obscured his judgment ; he 
 shuddered when he beheld his arguments blazoned in their 
 proper colours, and found that he had been a slave to 
 flattery^ to avarice, and se ff-loy e. If in "one hour's con- 
 versation Matilda had produced a change so remarkable 
 in his sentiments, what had he not to dread from her 
 remaining in the abbey ? Become sensible of his danger, 
 awakened from his dream of confidence, he resolved to 
 insist on her departing without delay ; he began to feel 
 that he was not proof against temptation ; and that, how- 
 ever Matilda might restrain herself within the bounds of 
 modesty, he was unable to contend with those passions from 
 which he falsely thought himself exempted. 
 
 ' Agnes ! Agne s ! ' he exclaimed, while reflecting on his 
 
 nts; ' I already feel thy cu rse ! ' 
 He quitted his ceu, determined upon dismissing the 
 
 feigned Rosario. He appeared at matins ; but his thoughts 
 were absent, and he paid them but little attention ; his 
 head and brain were both of them filled with worldly 
 objects, and he prayed without devotion. The service 
 over, he descended into the garden; he bent his steps 
 towards the same spot where on the preceding night he 
 had made this embarrassing discovery; he doubted not 
 
CHAPTER II 51 
 
 that Matilda would seek him there. He was not deceived : 
 she soon entered the hermitage, and approached the monk 
 With a timid air. After a few minutes, during which both 
 were silent, she appeared as if on the point of speaking ; 
 but the abbot, who during this time had been summoning 
 up all his resolution, hastily interrupted her. Though still 
 unconscious how extensive was its influence, he dreaded 
 the melodious seduction of her voice. 
 
 ' Seat yourself by my side, Matilda ' said he, assuming a 
 look of firmness, though carefully avoiding the least mixture 
 of severity ; ' listen to me patiently, and believe that in 
 what I shall say I am not more influenced by my own 
 interest than by yours ; believe that I feel for you the 
 warmest friendship, the truest compassion, and that you 
 cannot feel more grieved than I do, when I declare to you 
 that we must never meet again.' 
 
 ' Ambrosio ! ' she cried, in a voice at once expressive botk 
 of surprise and of sorrow. 
 
 ' Be calm, my friend, my Rosario ! — still let me call you 
 by that name so dear "to me : our separation is unavoid- 
 able ; I blush to own how sensibly it affects me. But yet 
 it must be so ; I feel myself incapable of treating you with 
 indifference ; and that very conviction obliges me to insist 
 upon your departure. Matilda, you must stay here no 
 longer.' 
 
 ' Ob, where shall I now seek for probity ? Disgusted 
 with a perfidious world, in what happy region does Truth 
 conceal herself ? Father, I hoped that she resided here ; I 
 thought that your bosom had been her favourite shrine. 
 And you, too, prove false 1 Oh God ! — and you, too, can 
 betray me ? ' 
 
 ' Matilda ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, father, yes ; 'tis with justice that I reproach you. 
 Oh, where are your promises ? My noviciate is not expired, 
 and yet will you compel me to quit the monastery ? Can 
 you have the heart to drive me from you ? And have I not 
 received your solemn oath to the contrary ? ' 
 
 ' I will not compel you to quit the monastery ; you have 
 received my solemn oath to the contrary ; but yet, when I 
 throw myself upon your generosity, when I declare to you 
 the embarrassments in which your presence involves me, 
 will you not release me from that oath ? Reflect upon the 
 danger of a discovery, upon the opprobrium in which such 
 
 \ 
 
52 THE MONK 
 
 an event would plunge me. Reflect, that my honour and 
 reputation are at stake, and that my peace of mind depends 
 on your compliance. As yet my heart is free; I shall 
 separate from you with regret but not with despair. Stay 
 here, and a few weeks will sacrifice my happiness on the 
 altar of your charms; you are but too interesting, too 
 amiable ! I should love you, I should dote on you ! My 
 bosom would become the prey of desires which honour and 
 my profession forbid me to gratify. If I resisted them, the 
 impetuosity of my wishes unsatisfied would drive me to 
 madness : if I yielded to the temptation, I should sacrifice 
 to one moment of guilty pleasure my reputation in this 
 world, my salvation in the next. To you, then, I fly for 
 defence against myself. Preserve me from losing the 
 reward of thirty years of suffering! Preserve me from 
 becoming the victim of remorse ! Your heart has already 
 felt the anguish of hopeless love : oh ! then, if you really 
 value me, spare mine that anguish ! Give me back my 
 promise ; fly from these walls. Go, and you bear with 
 you my warmest prayers for your happiness, my friend- 
 ship, my esteem, and admiration ; stay, and you become to 
 me the source of danger, of sufferings, of despair. Answer 
 me, Matilda — what is your resolve ? ' 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 ' Will you not speak, Matilda ? Will you not name your 
 choice ? ' 
 
 ' Cruel ! cruel ! ' she exclaimed, wringing her hands in 
 agony ; ' you know too well that you offer me no choice ; 
 you know too well that I can have no will but yours ! ' 
 
 'I was not then deceived. Matilda's generosity equals 
 my expectations.' 
 
 ' Yes '; I will prove the truth of my affection by sub- 
 mitting to a decree which cuts me to the very heart. Take 
 back your promise. I will quit the monastery this very 
 day. I have a relation, abbess of a convent in Estramadura ; 
 to her will I bend my steps, and shut myself from the world 
 for ever. Yet tell me, father, shall I bear your good wishes 
 with me to my solitude ? Will you sometimes abstract 
 your attention from heavenly objects to bestow a thought 
 upon me ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, Matilda, I fear that I shall think on you too often 
 for my repose ! ' 
 
 'Then I have nothing more to wish for save that we may 
 
CHAPTER II 53 
 
 meet in heaven. Farewell, my friend, my Ambrosio! And 
 yet, methinks, I would fain bear with me some token of 
 your regard.' 
 
 ' What shall I give you ? ' 
 
 ' Something — anything — one of those flowers will be 
 sufficient.' Here she pointed to a bush of roses, planted 
 at the door of the grotto. 'I will hide it in my bosom, 
 and, when I am dead, the nuns sball find it withered upon 
 my heart.' 
 
 The friar was unable to reply : with slow steps and a 
 soul heavy with affliction he quitted the hermitage. He 
 approached the bush, and stooped to pluck one of the 
 roses. Suddenly he uttered a piercing cry, started back 
 hastily, and let the flower, which he already held, fall 
 from his hand. Matilda heard the shriek, and flew 
 anxiously towards him. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' she cried. ' Answer me, for 
 God's sake ! What has happened ? ' 
 
 ' I have received my death ' he replied in a faint voice : 
 ' concealed among the roses — a serpent — ' 
 
 Here the pain of his wound became so exquisite that 
 nature was unable to bear it : his senses abandoned him, 
 and he sank inanimate into Matilda's arms. 
 
 Her distress was beyond the power of description. She 
 rent her hair, beat her bosom, and, not daring to quit 
 Ambrosio, endeavoured by loud cries to summon the monks 
 to her assistance. She at length succeeded. Alarmed by 
 her shrieks, several of the brothers hastened to the spot, 
 and the superior was conveyed back to the abbey. He was 
 immediately put to bed, and the monk who officiated as 
 surgeon to the fraternity prepared to examine the wound. 
 By this time Ambrosio's hand had swelled to an enormous 
 size; the remedies which had been administered to him, 
 'tis true, restored him to life, but not to his senses ; he 
 raved in all the horrors of delirium, foamed at the mouth, 
 and four of the strongest monks were scarcely able to hold 
 him in his bed. 
 
 Father Pablos (such was the surgeon's name) hastened 
 to examine the wounded hand. The monks surrounded 
 the bed, anxiously waiting for the decision ; among these 
 the feigned Rosario appeared not the most insensible to 
 the friar's calamity. He gazed upon the sufferer with 
 inexpressible anguish ; and his groans, which every 
 
54 THE MONK 
 
 moment escaped from his bosom, sufficiently betrayed the 
 violence of his affliction. 
 
 Father Pablos probed the wound. As he drew out his 
 instrument, its point was tinged with a greenish hue. He 
 shook his head mournfully, and quitted the bedside. 
 
 ' 'Tis as I feared ' said he ; ' there is no hope.' 
 
 ' No hope ! ' exclaimed the monks with one voice ; ' say 
 you, no hope ?' 
 
 ' From the sudden effects, I suspected that the abbot 
 was stung by a cientipedoro : : the venom which you see 
 upon my instrument confirms my idea. He cannot live 
 three days.' 
 
 'And can no possible remedy be found?' inquired 
 Eosario. 
 
 ' Without extracting the poison, he cannot recover ; and 
 how to extract it is to me still a secret. All that I can do 
 is to apply such herbs to the wound as will relieve the 
 anguish : the patient will be restored to his senses ; but 
 the venom will corrupt the whole mass of his blood, and 
 in three days he will exist no longer.' 
 
 Excessive was the universal grief at hearing this 
 decision. Pablos, as he had promised, dressed the wound, 
 and then retired, followed by his companions. Rosario 
 alone remained in the cell, the abbot, at his urgent 
 entreaty, having been committed to his care. Ambrosio's 
 strength worn out by the violence of his exertions, he had 
 by this time fallen into a profound sleep. So totally was 
 he overcome by weariness that he scarcely gave any signs 
 of life. He was still in this situation when the monks 
 returned to inquire whether any change had taken place. 
 Pablos loosened the bandage which concealed the wound, 
 more from a principal of curiosity than from indulging 
 the hope of discovering any favourable symptoms. What 
 was his astonishment at finding that the inflammation had 
 totally subsided ! He probed the hand ; his instrument 
 came out pure and unsullied ; no traces of the venom were 
 perceptible ; and, had not the orifice still been visible, 
 Pablos might have doubted that there had ever been a 
 wound. 
 
 He communicated this intelligence to his brethren ; their 
 delight was only equalled by their surprise. From the 
 
 1 The cientipedoro is supposed to be a native of Cuba, and to have 
 been brought into Spain from that island in the vessel of Columbus. 
 
CHAPTER II 55 
 
 latter sentiment, however, they were soon released, by 
 explaining the circumstance according to their own ideas. 
 They were perfectly convinced that their superior was a 
 saint, and thought that nothing could be more natural than 
 for St. Francis to have operated a miracle in his favour. 
 This opinion was adopted unanimously. They declared it 
 so loudly, and vociferated ' A miracle ! A miracle ! ' with 
 such fervour, that they soon interrupted Ambrosio's 
 slumbers. 
 
 The monks immediately crowded round his bed, and ex- 
 pressed their satisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He 
 was perfectly in his senses, and free from every complaint, 
 except feeling weak and languid. Pablos gave him a 
 strengthening medicine, and advised his keeping his bed 
 for the two succeeding days ; he then retired, having 
 desired his patient not to exhaust himself by conversation, 
 but rather to endeavour at taking some repose. The other 
 monks followed his example, and the abbot and Rosario 
 were left without observers. 
 
 For some minutes Ambrosio regarded his attendant with 
 a look of mingled pleasure and apprehension. She was 
 seated upon the side of the bed her head bending down, 
 and, as usual, enveloped in the cowl of her habit. 
 
 ' And you are still here, Matilda ? ' said the friar at 
 length ; ' are you not satisfied with having so nearly 
 effected my destruction that nothing but a miracle could 
 have saved me from the grave ? Ah ! surely heaven sent 
 that serpent to punish — ' 
 
 Matilda interrupted him by putting her hand before his 
 lips with an air of gaiety. 
 
 ' Hush, father, hush ! You must not talk.' 
 
 ' He who imposed that order knew not how interesting 
 are the subjects on which I wish to speak. 
 
 1 But I know it, and yet issue the same positive com- 
 mand. I am appointed your nurse, and you must not 
 disobey my orders.' 
 
 ' You are in spirits, Matilda ! ' 
 
 ' Well may I be so ; I have just received a pleasure 
 unexampled through my whole life.' 
 
 ' What was that pleasure ? ' 
 
 ' What I must conceal from all, but most from you.' 
 
 " But most from me ? Nay, then I entreat you, 
 Matilda — ' 
 
56 THE MONK 
 
 ' Hush, father, hush ! You must not talk. — But, as you 
 do not seem inclined to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse 
 you with my harp ? ' 
 
 ' How ! I knew not that you understood music' 
 
 ' Oh ! I am a sorry performer ! Yet, as silence is pre- 
 scribed you for eight -and -forty hours, I may possibly 
 entertain you, when wearied of your own reflections. I go 
 to fetch my harp.' 
 
 She soon returned with it. 
 
 'Now, father, what shall I sing? Will you hear the 
 ballad which treats of the gallant Durandarte, who died in 
 the famous battle of Roncevalles ? ' 
 
 ' What you please, Matilda.' 
 
 ' Oh, call me not Matilda ! Call me Rosario. Call me 
 your friend. Those are the names which I love to hear 
 from your lips. Now listen.' 
 
 She then turned her harp, and afterwards preluded for 
 some moments with such exquisite taste as to prove her 
 a perfect mistress of the instrument. The air which she 
 played was soft and plaintive. Ambrosio, while he listened, 
 felt his uneasiness subside, and a pleasing melancholy 
 spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matilda changed 
 the strain ; with an hand bold and rapid, she struck a few 
 loud martial chords, and then chanted the following ballad 
 to an air at once simple and melodious : 
 
 DURANDARTE AND BELERMA 
 
 Sad and fearful is the story 
 Of the Roncevalles fight ; 
 On those fatal plains of glory 
 Perish'd many a gallant knight. 
 
 There fell Durandarte : never 
 Verse a nobler chieftain named : 
 He, before his lips for ever 
 Closed in silence, thus exclaimed : 
 
 ' Oh, Belerma ! Oh, my dear one, 
 For my pain and pleasure born ! 
 Seven long years I served thee, fair one ; 
 Seven long years my fee was scorn. 
 
 ' And when now thy heart, replying 
 To my wishes, burns like mine ; 
 Cruel fate my bliss denying, 
 Bids me every hope resign. 
 
CHAPTER II 5; 
 
 Ah, though young I fall, believe me, 
 Death would never claim a sigh ; 
 'Tia to lose thee, 'tis to leave thee, 
 Makes me think it hard to die ! 
 
 ' Oh ! my cousin Montesinos ; 
 By that friendship firm and dear 
 Which from youth has lived between us, 
 Now my last petition hear : 
 
 ' When my soul, these limbs forsaking, 
 Eager seeks a purer air, 
 From my breast the cold heart taking, 
 Give it to Belerma's care. 
 
 ' Say, I of my lands possessor 
 Named her with my dying breath : 
 Say, my lips I oped to bless her, 
 Ere they clos'd for aye in death ! 
 
 ' Twice a week, too — how sincerely 
 I adored her, cousin, say — 
 Twice a week, for one who dearly 
 Loved her, cousin, bid her pray. 
 
 ' Montesinos, now the hour 
 Marked by fate is near at hand : 
 Lo, my arm has lost its power ! 
 Lo, I drop my trusty brand. 
 
 ' Eyes, which forth beheld me going, 
 Homewards ne'er shall see me hie : 
 Cousin, stop those tears o'erflowing, 
 Let me on thy bosom die. 
 
 ' Thy kind hand my eyelids closing, 
 Yet one favour I implore : 
 Pray thou for my soul's reposing, 
 When my heart shall throb no more. 
 
 ' So shall Jesus, still attending, 
 Gracious to a Christian's vow, 
 Pleased accept my ghost ascending, 
 And a seat in heaven allow.' 
 
 Thus spoke gallant Durandarte ; 
 Soon his brave heart broke in twain : 
 Greatly joyed the Moorish party, 
 That the gallant knight was slain. 
 
 Bitter weeping, Montesinos 
 Took from him his helm and glaive ; 
 Bitter weeping, Montesinos 
 Dug his gallant cousin's grave. 
 
58 THE MONK 
 
 To perform his promise made, he 
 Cut the heart from out the breast ; 
 That Belerma, wretched lady, 
 Might receive the last bequest. 
 
 Sad was Montesinos' heart, he 
 Felt distress his bosom rend. 
 ' Oh, my cousin Durandarte, 
 Woe is me to view thy end ! 
 
 ' Sweet in manners, fair in favour, 
 Mild in temper, fierce in fight : 
 Warrior nobler, gentler, braver 1 
 Never shall behold the light. 
 
 ' Cousin, lo, my tears bedew thee 1 
 How shall I thy loss survive ! 
 Durandarte, he who slew thee, 
 Wherefore left he me alive ? ' 
 
 While she sang, Ambrosio listened with delight ; never 
 had he heard a voice more harmonious ; and he wondered 
 how such heavenly sounds could be produced by any but 
 angels. But, though he indulged the sense of hearing, a 
 single look convinced him that he must not trust to that of 
 sight. The songstress sat at a little distance from his bed. 
 The attitude in which she bent over her harp was easy 
 and graceful ; her cowl had fallen backwarder than usual ; 
 two coral lips were visible, ripe, fresh, and melting ; and a 
 chin in whose dimple3 seemed to lurk a thousand Cupids. 
 Her habit's long sleeve would have swept along the chords 
 of the instrument : to prevent this inconvenience she had 
 drawn it above her elbow ; and by this means an arm was 
 discovered, formed in the most perfect symmetry, the 
 delicacy of whose skin might have contended with snow in 
 whiteness. Ambrosio dared to look on her but once ; that 
 glance sufficed to convince him how dangerous was the 
 presence of this seducing object. He closed his eyes, but 
 strove in vain to banisn ner irom his thought. There she 
 still moved before him, adorned with all those charms 
 which his heated imagination could supply. Every beauty 
 which he had seen appeared embellished ; and those still con- 
 cealed fancy represented to him in glowing colours. Still, 
 however, his vows and the necessity of keeping to them 
 were present to his memory. He struggled with desire, 
 and shuddered when he beheld how deep was the precipice 
 before him. 
 
CHAPTER II 59 
 
 Matilda ceased to sing. Dreading the influence of her 
 charms, Ambrosio remained with his eyes closed, and 
 offered up his prayers to St. Francis to assist him in this 
 dangerous trial ! Matilda believed that he was sleeping ; 
 she rose from her seat, approached the bed softly, and for 
 some minutes gazed upon him attentively. 
 
 ' He sleeps ! ' said she at length in a low voice, but whose 
 accents the abbot distinguished perfectly; 'now then I 
 may gaze upon him without offence ; I may mix my breath 
 with his ; I may dote upon his features, and he cannot 
 suspect me of impurity and deceit. He fears my seducing 
 him to the violation of his vows. Oh, the unjust ! Were 
 it my wish to excite desire, should I conceal my features 
 from him so carefully — those features, of which I daily 
 hear him — ' 
 
 She stopped, and was lost in her reflections. 
 
 ' It was but yesterday ' she continued ; ' but a few short 
 hours have passed since I was dear to him ; he esteemed 
 me, and my heart was satisfied ; now, oh, now, how cruelly 
 is my situation changed ! He looks on me with suspicion ; 
 he bids me leave him, leave him for ever. Oh, you, my 
 saint, my idol ! You, holding the next place to God in my 
 breast ; yet two days, and my heart will be unveiled to 
 you. Could you know my feelings when I beheld your 
 agony ! Could you know how much your sufferings have 
 endeared you to me ! But the time will come when you 
 will be convinced that my passion is pure and disinterested. 
 Then you will pity me, and feel the whole weight of these 
 sorrows.' 
 
 As she said this, her voice was choked by weeping. 
 While she bent over Ambrosio, a tear fell upon his 
 cheek. 
 
 ' Ah ! I have disturbed him ' cried Matilda, and retreated 
 hastily. 
 
 Her alarm was ungrounded. None sleep so profoundly 
 as those who are determined not to wake. The friar was 
 in this predicament; he still seemed buried in a repose, 
 which every succeeding minute rendered him less capable 
 of enjoying. The burning tear had communicated its 
 warmth to his heart. 
 
 ' What affection, what purity 1 ' said he internally. ' Ah, 
 since my bosom is thus sensible of pity, what would it be 
 if agitated by love ? ' 
 
60 THE MONK 
 
 Matilda again quitted her seat, and retired to some 
 distance from the bed. Ambrosio ventured to open his 
 eyes, and to cast them upon her fearfully. H>r faea 
 turned from him. She rested her head in £ melancholy! 
 posture upon her harp, and gazed on the pre 
 hung opposite to the bed. 
 
 ' Happy, happy image ! ' Thus did she address the 
 beautiful Madonna ; ' 'tis to you that he offers his prayers, 
 'tis on you that he gazes with admiration ! I thought you 
 would have lightened my sorrows ; you have only served 
 to increased their weight ; you have made me feel that, had 
 I known him ere his vows were pronounced, Ambrosio and 
 happiness might have been mine. With what pleasure he 
 views this picture ! With what fervour he addresses his 
 prayers to the insensible image ! Ah, may not his senti- 
 ments be inspired by some kind and secret genius, friend 
 to my affection ? May it not be man's natural instinct 
 which informs him — ? Be silent, idle hopes ! Let me 
 not encourage an idea which takes from the brilliance of 
 Ambrosio's virtue. 'Tis religion, not beauty, which attracts 
 his admiration; 'tis not to the woman, but the divinity, 
 that he kneels. Would he but address to me the least 
 tender expression which he pours forth to this Madonna ! 
 Would he but say that, were he not already affianced to 
 the church, he would not have despised Matilda ! Oh, let 
 me nourish that fond idea. Perhaps he may yet acknow- 
 ledge that he feels for me more than pity, and that 
 affection like mine might well have deserved a return. 
 Perhaps he may own thus much when I lie on my death- 
 bed. He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and the 
 confession of his regard will soften the pangs of dying. 
 Would I were sure of this ! Oh, how earnestly should I 
 sigh for the moment of dissolution ! ' 
 
 Of this discourse the abbot lost not a syllable ; and the 
 tone in which she pronounced these last words pierced 
 to his heart. Involuntarily he raised himself from his 
 pillow. 
 
 'Matilda!' he said in a troubled voice: 'Oh. mv 
 Matilda!' ' 
 
 She started at the sound, and turned towards him hastily. 
 The suddenness of her movement made her cowl fall back 
 from her head ; her features became visible to the monk's 
 inquiring eye. What was his amazement at beholding the 
 
CHAPTER II 6t 
 
 exact resemblance of his admired Madonna J^ The same 
 exip^ffie"^dporWh oT features, "the same profusion of 
 golden hair, the same rosy lips, heavenly eyes, and majesty 
 of countenance, adorned Matilda ! Uttering an exclama- 
 tion of surprise, Ambrosio sank back upon his pillow, and 
 doubted whether the object before him was mortal or 
 divine. 
 
 Matilda seemed penetrated with confusion. She remained 
 motionless in her place, and supported herself upon her 
 instrument. Her eyes were bent upon the earth, and her 
 fair cheeks overspread with blushes. On recovering 
 herself, her first action was to conceal her features. She 
 then, in an unsteady and troubled voice, ventured to 
 address these words to the friar : 
 
 ' Accident has made you master of a secret which I never 
 would have revealed but on the bed of death ; yes, Ambrosio, 
 in Matilda de Villanegas you see the original of your beloved 
 Madonna. Soon after I conceived my unfortunate passion 
 I formed the project of conveying to you my picture. 
 Crowds of admirers had persuaded me that I possessed 
 some beauty, and I was anxious to know what effect it 
 would produce upon you. I caused my portrait to be 
 drawn by Martin Galuppi, a celebrated Venetian, at that 
 time resident in Madrid. The resemblance was striking ; 
 I sent it to the Capuchin abbey as if for sale ; and the Jew 
 from whom you bought it was one of my emissaries. You 
 purchased it. Judge of my rapture when informed that 
 you had gazed upon it with delight, or rather with adora- 
 tion ; that you had suspended it in your cell, and that you 
 addressed your supplications to no other saint ! Will this 
 discovery make me still more regarded as an object of 
 suspicion ? Rather should it convince you how pure is 
 my affection, and engage you to suffer me in your society 
 and esteem. I heard you daily extol the praises of my 
 portrait ; I was an eye-witness of the transports which its 
 beauty excited in you ; yet I forbore to use against your 
 virtue those arms with which yourself had furnished me ; 
 I concealed those features from your sight which you loved 
 unconsciously — I strove not to excite desire by displaying 
 my charms, or to make myself mistress of your heart 
 through the medium of your senses. To attract your 
 notice by studiously attending to religious duties, to endear 
 myself to you by convincing you that my mind was virtuous 
 
62 THE MONK 
 
 and my attachment sincere — such was my only aim. I 
 succeeded ; I became your companion and your friend. I 
 concealed my sex from your knowledge ; and had you not 
 pressed me to reveal my secret, had I not been tormented 
 by the fear of a discovery, never had you known me for 
 any other than Rosario. And still are you resolved to 
 drive me from you ? The few hours of life which yet 
 remain for me, may I not pass them in your presence ? Oh, 
 speak Ambrosio, and tell me that I may stay.' 
 
 This speech gave the abbot an opportunity* of recollecting 
 himself. He was conscious that, in the present disposition 
 of his mind, avoiding her society was his only refuge from 
 the power of this; enchanting woman. 
 
 ' Your declaration has so much astonished me ', said he, 
 1 that I am at present incapable of answering you. Do 
 not insist upon a reply. Matilda : leave me to myself, I 
 have need to be alone.' 
 
 ' I obey you ; but, before I go, promise not to insist upon 
 my quitting the abbey immediately.' 
 
 ' Matilda, reflect upon your situation ; reflect upon the 
 consequences of your stay ; our separation is indispensable, 
 and we must part.' 
 
 ' But not to-day, father ! Oh ! in pity, not to-day ! ' 
 
 ' You press me too hard ; but I cannot resist that tone of 
 supplication. Since you insist upon it, I yield to your 
 prayer ; I consent to your remaining here a sufficient 
 time to prepare in some measure the brethren for your 
 departure : stay yet two days ; but on the third ' (he 
 sighed involuntarily) ' remember, that on the third we 
 must part for ever ! ' 
 
 She caught his hand eagerly, and pressed it to her lips. 
 
 ' On the third ! ' she exclaimed with an air of wild 
 solemnity : ' You are right, father, you are right ! On 
 the third we must part for ever ! ' 
 
 There was a dreadful expression in her eye as she 
 uttered these words which penetrated the friar's soul with 
 horror. Again, she kissed his hand, and then fled with 
 rapidity from the chamber. 
 
 Anxious to authorize the presence of his dangerous guest, 
 yet conscious that her stay was infringing the laws of his 
 order, Arabrosio's bosom became the theatre of a thousand 
 contending passions. At length his attachment to the 
 feigned Rosario, aided by the natural warmth of his 
 
CHAPTER III 63 
 
 temperament, seemed likely to obtain the victory ; the 
 success was assured, when that presumption which formed 
 the groundwork of his character came to Matilda's assist- 
 ance. The monk reflected that to vanquish temptation 
 was an infinitely greater merit than to avoid it ; he 
 thought that he ought rather to rejoice in the opportunity 
 given him of proving the firmness of his virtue. St. 
 Anthony had withstood all seductions to lust, then why 
 should not he ? Besides, St. Anthony was tempted by the 
 devil, who put every art into practice to excite his passions, 
 whereas Ambrosio's danger proceeded from a mere mortal 
 woman, fearful and modest, whose apprehensions of his 
 yielding were not less violent than his own. 
 
 ' Yes ', said he, ' the unfortunate shall stay ; I have 
 nothing to fear from her presence ; even should my own 
 prove too weak to resist the temptation, I am secured from 
 danger by the innocence of Matilda.' 
 
 Ambrosio was yet to learn that, to a heart unacquainted 
 with her, vice is ever most dangerous when lurking behind 
 the mask of virtue. 
 
 He found himself so perfectly recovered that, when 
 father Pablos visited him again at night, he entreated 
 permission to quit his chamber on the day following. 
 His request was granted. Matilda appeared no more 
 that evening, except in company with the monks when 
 they came in a body to inquire after the abbot's health. 
 She seemed fearful of conversing with him in private, and 
 stayed but a few minutes in his room. The friar slept 
 well ; but the dreams of the former night were repeated, 
 and his sensations of voluptuousness were yet more keen 
 and exquisite ; the same lust-exciting visions floated before 
 his eyes ; Matilda, in all the pomp of beauty, warm, tender, 
 and luxurious, clasped him to her bosom, and lavished upon 
 him the most ardent caresses. He returned them as eagerly, 
 and already was on the point of satisfying his desires, when 
 the f».ifKlftj = [ fj fnrm disappeared, and le ft, him to. all the 
 horrors ^shamejtndj^esep^^^ntr^ <3 ?f**S»^ £<r« 
 
 The mfmfvTTrHrm'n^i-- Fitti^tiprij HrrfrrH. and exhausted 
 by his provoking dreams, he was not disposed to quit his 
 bed ; he excused himself from appearing at matins : it was 
 the first morning in his life that he had ever missed them. 
 He rose late ; during the whole of the day he had no 
 opportunity of speaking to Matilda without witnesses ; 
 
64 THE MONK 
 
 his cell was thronged by the monks, anxious to express 
 their concern at his illness ; and he was still occupied in 
 receiving their compliments on his recovery, when the bell 
 summoned them to the refectory. 
 
 After dinner the monks separated and dispersed them- 
 selves in various parts of the garden, where the shade of 
 trees or retirement of some grotto presented the most 
 agreeable means of enjoying the siesta. The abbot bent 
 his steps towards the hermitage ; a glance of his eye 
 invited Matilda to accompany him : she obeyed, and 
 followed him thither in silence ; they entered the grotto, 
 and seated themselves. Both seemed unwilling to begin 
 the conversation, and to labour under the influence of 
 mutual embarrassment. At length the abbot spoke : he 
 conversed only on indifferent topics, and Matilda answered 
 him in the same tone ; she seemed anxious to make him 
 forget that the person who sat by him was any other than 
 Rosario. Neither of them dared, nor indeed wished, to 
 make an allusion to the subject which was most at the 
 heart of both. 
 
 Matilda's efforts to appear gay were evidently forced ; 
 her spirits were oppressed by the weight of anxiety ; and 
 when she spoke her voice was low and feeble : she seemed 
 desirous of finishing a conversation which embarrassed 
 her ; and, complaining that she was unwell, she requested 
 Ambrosio's permission to return to the abbey. He accom- 
 panied her to the door of her cell; and, when arrived 
 there, he stopped her to declare his consent to her 
 continuing the partner of his solitude, so long as should 
 be agreeable to herself. 
 
 She discovered no marks of pleasure at receiving this 
 intelligence, though on the preceding day she had been 
 so anxious to obtain the permission. 
 
 'Alas, father', she said, waving her head mournfully, 
 ' your kindness comes too late ; my doom is fixed ; we 
 must separate for ever: yet believe that I am grateful 
 for your generosity, for your compassion of an unfortunate 
 who is but too little deserving of it.' 
 
 She put her handkerchief to her eyes ; her cowl was 
 only half drawn over her face. Ambrosio observed that 
 she was pale, and her eyes sunk and heavy. 
 
 ' Good God ! ' he cried, « you are very ill, Matilda ; I shall 
 Bend father Pablos to you instantly.' 
 
CHAPTER II 65 
 
 ' No, do not : I am ill, 'tis true, but he cannot cure my 
 malady. Farewell, father ! Remember me in your prayers 
 to-morrow, while I shall remember you in heaven.' 
 
 She entered her cell, and closed the door. 
 
 The abbot despatched to her the physician without losing 
 a moment, and waited his report impatiently ; but father 
 Pablos soon returned, and declared that his errand had 
 been fruitless. Rosario refused to admit him, and had 
 positively rejected his offers of assistance. The uneasiness 
 which this account gave Ambrosio was not trifling; yet 
 he determined that Matilda should have her own way for 
 that night ; but that, if her situation did not mend by the 
 morning, he would insist upon her taking the advice of 
 father Pablos. 
 
 He did not find himself inclined to sleep ; he opened his 
 casement, and gazed upon the moonbeams as they played 
 upon the small stream whose waters bathed the walls of 
 the monastery. The coolness of the night-breeze and 
 tranquillity of the hour inspired the friar's mind with 
 sadness : he thought upon Matilda's beauty and affection ; 
 upon the pleasures which he might have shared with her, 
 had he not been restrained by monastic fetters. He 
 reflected that, unsustained by hope, her love for him 
 could not long exist; that doubtless she would succeed 
 in extinguishing her passion, and seek for happiness in 
 the arms of one more fortunate. He shuddered at the 
 void which her absence would leave in his bosom ; he 
 looked with disgust on the monotony of a convent, and 
 breathed a sigh towards that world from which he was 
 for ever separated. Such were the reflections when a loud 
 knocking at his door interrupted. The bell of the church 
 had already struck two. The abbot hastened to inquire 
 the cause of this disturbance. He opened the door of his 
 cell, and a lay-brother entered, whose looks declared his 
 hurry and confusion. 
 
 ' Hasten, reverend father ! ' said he, ' hasten to the young 
 Rosario : he earnestly requests to see you ; he lies at the 
 point of death.' 
 
 ' Gracious God, where is father Pablos ? Why is he not 
 with him ? Oh ! I fear, I fear — ' 
 
 ' Father Pablos has seen him, but his art can do nothing. 
 He says that he suspects the youth to be poisoned.' 
 
 ' Poisoned ? Oh ! the unfortunate ! It is, then, as I 
 
66 THE MONK 
 
 suspected ! But let me not lose a moment ; perhaps it 
 may yet be time to save her.' 
 
 He said, and flew towards the cell of the novice. Several 
 monks were already in the chamber; father Pablos was 
 one of them, and held a medicine in his hand, which he 
 was endeavouring to persuade Rosario to swallow. The 
 others were employed in admiring the patient's divine 
 countenance, which they now saw for the first time. 
 She looked lovelier than ever; she was no longer pale 
 or languid; a bright glow had spread itself over her 
 cheeks ; her eyes sparkled with a serene delight, and her 
 countenance was expressive of confidence and resignation. 
 
 ' Oh, torment me no more ! ' was she saying to Pablos, 
 when the terrified abbot rushed hastily into the cell ; ' my 
 disease is far beyond the reach of your skill, and I wish 
 not to be cured of it.' Then perceiving Ambrosio — 'Ah, 
 'tis he ! ' she cried ; ' I see him once again before we part 
 for ever! Leave me, my brethren; much have I to tell 
 this holy man in private.' 
 
 The monks retired immediately, and Matilda and the 
 abbot remained together. 
 
 ' What have you done, imprudent woman ? ' exclaimed 
 the latter, as soon as they were left alone : ' tell me ; are 
 my suspicions just ? Am I indeed to lose you ? Has your 
 own hand been the instrument of your destruction ? ' 
 
 She smiled^ and grasped his hand. 
 
 ' In what have I been imprudent, father ? I have 
 sacrificed a pebble and saved a diamond. My death 
 preserves a life valuable to the world, and more dear to me 
 than my own. Yes, father, I am poisoned ; but know, that 
 the poison once circulated in your veins.' 
 
 ' Matilda ! ' 
 
 ' What I tell you I resolved never to discover to you but 
 on the bed of death ; that moment is now arrived. You 
 cannot have forgotten the day already when your life was 
 endangered by the bite of a cientipedoro. The physician 
 gave you over, declaring himself ignorant how to extract 
 the venom. I knew but of one means, and hesitated not 
 a moment to employ it. I was left alone with you ; you 
 slept ; I loosened the bandage from your hand ; I kissed 
 the wound, and drew out the poison with my lips. The 
 effect has been more sudden than I expected. I feel death 
 at my heart ; yet an hour, and I shall be in a better world.' 
 
CHAPTER II 67 
 
 ' Almighty God ! ' exclaimed the abbot, and sank almost 
 lifeless upon the bed. 
 
 After a few minutes he again raised himself up suddenly, 
 and gazed upon Matilda with all the wildness of despair. 
 
 ' And you have sacrificed yourself for me ! You die, 
 and die to preserve Ambrosio ! And is there, indeed, no 
 remedy, Matilda ? And is there, indeed, no hope ? Speak 
 to me, oh, speak to me! Tell me that you have still the 
 means of life ! ' 
 
 ' Be comforted, my only friend ! Yes, I have still the 
 means of life in my power ; but it is a means which I dare 
 not employ ; it is dangerous ; it is dreadful ! Life would 
 be purchased at too dear a rate — unless it were permitted 
 me to live for you.' 
 
 ' Then live for me, Matilda ; for me and gratitude ! ' (he 
 caught her hand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips) — 
 ' Remember our late conversations ; I now consent to every- 
 thing. Remember in what lively colours you described 
 the union of souls ; be it ours to realize those ideas. Let 
 us forget the distinctions of sex, despise the world's 
 prejudices, and only consider each other as brother and 
 friend. Live then, Matilda — oh, live for me ! ' 
 
 'Ambrosio, it must not be. When I thought thus, I 
 deceived both you and myself: either I must die at 
 present, or expire by the lingering torments of unsatisfied 
 desire. Oh, since we last conversed together, a dreadful 
 veil has been rent from before my eyes. V I love you no 
 lo nger with the devotion which is paid to a saint ; 1 prize 
 y 6u no more tor the virtues, of vour soul ; I lust for t he 
 enjoymen t of your person .) The woman reigns in my 
 busuui, and 1 am become a prey to the wildest of passions. 
 Away with friendship ! 'Tis a cold unfeeling word : my 
 bosom burns with love," with unutterable love, and love 
 must be its return. Tremble then, Ambrosio, tremble to 
 succeed in your prayers. If I live, your truth, your 
 reputation, your reward of a life passed in sufferings — all 
 that you value — is irretrievably lost. I shall no longer be 
 able to combat my passions, shall seize every opportunity 
 to excite your desires, and labour to effect your dishonour 
 and my own. No, no, Ambrosio, I must not live ; I am 
 convinced with every moment that I have but one alter- 
 native ; I feel with every heart-throb, that I must enjoy 
 you or die.' 
 
68 THE MONK 
 
 'Amazement, Matilda! — Can it be you who sgeak to 
 me ? ' 
 
 He made a movement, as if to quit his seat. She 
 uttered a loud shriek, and, raising herself half out of 
 the bed, threw her arms round the friar to detain 
 him. 
 
 ' Oh, do not leave me ! Listen to my errors with com- 
 passion : in a few hours I shall be no more : yet a little, 
 and I am free from this disgraceful passion.' 
 
 ' Wretched women, what can I say to you ? I cannot — 
 I must not — But live, Matilda, oh, live ! ' 
 
 ' You do not reflect on what you ask. What ? Live to 
 plunge myself in infamy — to become the agent of hell — to 
 work the destruction both of you and of myself ? Feel 
 this heart, father.' 
 
 She took his hand. Confused, embarrassed, and 
 fascinated, he withdrew it not, and felt her heart throb 
 under it. 
 
 ' Feel this heart, father ! It is yet the seat of honour, 
 truth, and chastity. If it beats to-morrow, it must fall a 
 prey to the blackest crimes. Oh, let me, then, die to-day ! 
 Let me die while I yet deserve the tears of the virtuous. 
 Thus will I expire ! ' (She reclined her head upon his 
 shoulder ; her golden hair poured itself over his chest.) — 
 ' Folded in your arms, I shall sink to sleep ; your hand 
 shall close my eyes for ever, and your lips receive my 
 dying breath. And will you not sometimes think of me ? 
 Will you not sometimes shed a tear upon my tomb ? Oh, 
 yes, yes, yes ! — that kiss is my assurance.' 
 
 The hour was night. All was silence around. The faint 
 beams of a solitary lamp darted upon Matilda's figure, and 
 shed through the chamber a dim, mysterious, light. No 
 prying eye or curious ear was near the lovers; nothing 
 was- heard but Matilda's melodious accents. Ambrosio was 
 in the full vigour of manhood ; he saw before him a young 
 and beautiful woman, the preserver of his life, the adorer 
 of his person, and whom affection for him had reduced to 
 the brink of the grave. He sat upon her bed ; his hand 
 rested upon her bosom; her head inclined voluptuously 
 upon his breast. ^Who .then can wonder if he yielded to 
 the temptation ? "Drunk with desire,~he pressee HrftTlipT tq" 
 "those "which sought them fUs .ki^es._yied witli_ Matilda's 
 1n~warmtn and passion : he clasped her rapturouslyTn his 
 
CHAPTER II 69 
 
 arffiSj. _he„forgpt his vows, his sanctity, anA his fame ; he 
 remembered nothing but the pleasure and opportunity. 
 
 r ASbrosio !— Ohj my Ambrosio ! ' sighed Matilda. 
 
 ' Thine, ever CETne ' murmured the friar, and sank upon 
 her bosom. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 These are the villains 
 
 Whom all the travellers do fear so much. 
 
 Some of them are gentlemen, 
 
 Such as the fury of ungoverned youth 
 
 Thrust from the company of awful men. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona 
 
 The Marquis and Lorenzo proceeded to the hotel in silence. 
 The former employed himself in calling every circumstance 
 to his mind which related might give Lorenzo's the most 
 favourable idea of his connexion with Agnes. The latter, 
 justly alarmed for the honour of his family, felt embarrassed 
 by the presence of the Marquis ; the adventure which he 
 had just witnessed forbade his treating him as a friend; 
 and, Antonia's interests being entrusted to his mediation, 
 he saw the impolicy of treating him as a foe. He concluded 
 from these reflections that profound silence would be the 
 wisest plan, and waited with impatience for Don Raymond's 
 explanation. 
 
 They arrived at the hotel de las Cisternas. The Marquis 
 immediately conducted him to his apartment, and begun to 
 express his satisfaction at finding him at Madrid. Lorenzo 
 interrupted him. 
 
 ' Excuse me, my lord ', said he with a distant air, ' if I 
 reply somewhat coldly to your expressions of regard. A 
 sister's honour is involved in this affair ; till that is 
 established, and the purport of your correspondence with 
 Agnes cleared up, I cannot consider you as my friend. I 
 am anxious to hear the meaning of your conduct, and hope 
 that you will not delay the promised explanation.' 
 
 'First give me your word that you will listen with 
 patience and indulgence.' 
 
 ' I love my sister too well to judge her harshly ; and till 
 this moment I possessed no friend so dear to me as yourself. 
 I will also confess that your having it in your power to 
 oblige me in a business which I have much at heart makes 
 me very anxious to find you still deserving my esteem.' 
 
 70 
 
CHAPTER III 71 
 
 ' Lorenzo, you transport me ! No greater pleasure can 
 be given me than an opportunity of serving the brother 
 of Agnes.' 
 
 ' Convince me that I can accept your favours without 
 dishonour and there is no man in the world to whom I 
 am more willing to be obliged.' 
 
 ' Probably you have already heard your sister mention 
 the name of Alphonso d'Alvarada ? ' 
 
 'Never. Though I feel for Agnes an affection truly 
 fraternal, circumstances have prevented us from being 
 much together. While yet a child she was consigned to 
 the care of her aunt, who had married a German noble- 
 man. At his castle she remained till two years since, when 
 she returned to Spain, determined upon secluding herself 
 from the world.' 
 
 ' Good God ! Lorenzo ; you knew of her intention, and 
 yet strove not to make her change it ? ' 
 
 ' Marquis, you wrong me : the intelligence, which I 
 received at Naples, shocked me extremely, and I hastened 
 my return to Madrid for the express purpose of preventing 
 the sacrifice. The moment that I arrived I flew to the 
 convent of St. Clare, in which Agnes had chosen to perform 
 her noviciate. I requested to see my sister. Conceive my 
 surprise when she sent me a refusal : she declared positively 
 that, apprehending my influence over her mind, she would 
 not trust herself in my society till the day before that on 
 which she was to receive the veil. I supplicated the nuns ; 
 I insisted upon seeing Agnes, and hesitated not to avow 
 my suspicions, that her being kept from me was against 
 her own inclinations. To free herself from the imputation 
 of violence, the prioress brought me a few lines, written in 
 my sister's well-known hand, repeating the message already 
 delivered. All future attempts to obtain a moment's con- 
 versation with her were as fruitless as the first. She was 
 inflexible, and 1 was not permitted to see her till the day 
 preceding that on which she entered the cloister, never to 
 quit it more. This interview took place in the presence of 
 our principal relations. It was for the first time since her 
 childhood that I saw her, and the scene was most affecting : 
 she threw herself upon my bosom, kissed me, and wept 
 bitterly. By every possible argument, by tears, by prayers, 
 by kneeling, I strove to make her abandon her intention. 
 I represented to her all the hardships of a religious life ; 
 
72 THE MONK 
 
 painted to her imagination all the pleasures which she was 
 going to quit ; and besought her to disclose to me what 
 occasioned her disgust to the world. At this last question 
 she turned pale, and her tears flowed yet faster. She 
 entreated me not to press her on that subject; that it 
 sufficed me to know that her resolution was taken, and 
 that a convent was the only place where she could now 
 hope for tranquillity. She persevered in her design, and 
 made her profession. I visited her frequently at the grate ; 
 and every moment that I passed with her made me feel 
 more affliction at her loss. I was shortly after obliged to 
 quit Madrid ; I returned but yesterday evening, and since 
 then have not had time to call at St. Clare's convent.' 
 
 ' Then, till I mentioned it, you never heard the name of 
 Alphonso d'Alvarada ? ' 
 
 ' Pardon me ; my aunt wrote me word that an adventurer 
 so called had found means to get introduced into the castle 
 of Lindenberg; that he had insinuated himself into my 
 sister's good graces; and that she had even consented to 
 elope with him. However, before the plan could be 
 executed, the cavalier discovered that the estates which he 
 believed Agnes to possess in Hispaniola in reality belonged 
 to me. This intelligence made him change his intention ; 
 he disappeared on the day that the elopement was to have 
 taken place; and Agnes, in despair at his perfidy and 
 meanness, had resolved upon seclusion in a convent. She 
 added that, as this adventurer had given himself out to be 
 a friend of mine, she wished to know whether I had any 
 knowledge of him. I replied in the negative. I had then 
 very little idea that Alphonso d'Alvarada and the Marquis 
 de las Cisternas were one and the same person : the 
 description given me of the first by no means tallied with 
 what I knew of the latter.' 
 
 'In this I easily recognize Donna Jlodopba's perfidious 
 character. Every word of this account is stamped with 
 marks of her malice, of her falsehood, of her talents for 
 misrepresenting those whom she wishes to injure. Forgive 
 me, Medina, for speaking so freely of your relation. The 
 mischief which she has done me authorizes my resentment ; 
 and, when you have heard my story, you will be convinced 
 that my expressions have not been too severe.' 
 
 He then began his narrative in the following manner : 
 
CHAPTER III 73 
 
 THE HISTORY OF DON RAYMOND 
 
 MARQUIS DE LAS CISTERNAS 
 
 'Long experience, my dear Lorenzo, has convinced me 
 how generous is your nature: I waited not for your 
 declaration of ignorance respecting your sister's adventures 
 to suppose that they had been purposely concealed from 
 you. Had they reached your knowledge, from what mis- 
 fortunes should both Agnes and myself have escaped ! 
 Fate had ordained it otherwise. You were on your 
 travels when I first became acquainted with your sister ; 
 and, as our enemies took care to conceal from her your 
 direction, it was impossible for her to implore by letter 
 your protection and advice. 
 
 ' On leaving Salamanca, at which university, as I have 
 since heard, you remained a year after I quitted it, I 
 immediately set out upon my travels. My father supplied 
 me liberally with money ; but he insisted upon my con- 
 cealing my rank and presenting myself as no more than a 
 private gentleman. This command was issued by the 
 counsels of his friend the Duke of Villa Hermosa, a noble- 
 man for whose abilities and knowledge of the world I have 
 ever entertained the most profound veneration. 
 
 "'Believe me", said he, "my dear Raymond, you. will 
 hereafter feel the benefits of this temporary degradation. 
 'Tis true that, as the Conde de las Cisternas you would 
 have been received with open arms, and your youthful 
 vanity might have felt gratified by the attentions showered 
 upon you from all sides. At present much will depend 
 upon yourself: you have excellent recommendations, but 
 it must be your own business to make them of use to you : 
 you must lay yourself out to please ; you must labour to 
 gain the approbation of those to whom you are presented ; 
 they who would have courted the friendship of the Conde^ 
 de las Cisternas will have no interest in finding out the 
 merits, or bearing patiently with the faults, of Alphonso 
 d'Alvarada : consequently, when you find yourself really 
 liked, you may safely ascribe it to your good qualities, not 
 your rank ; and the distinction shown you will be infinitely 
 more flattering. Besides, your exalted birth would not 
 permit your mixing with the lower classes of society, 
 
74 THE MONK 
 
 which will now be in your power and from which, in my 
 
 opinion, you will derive considerable benefit. Do not 
 
 i confine yourself ie-the illustrious of those countries through 
 
 which you pas^ Examine the manners and customs of 
 
 the multitude ; enter into the cottages ; and, by observing 
 how the vassals of foreigners are treated, learn to diminish- 
 the burthens and augment the comforts of your own^ 
 ( According to my ideas of those advantages which a youth 
 destined to the possession of power and wealth may reap 
 from travel, he should not consider as the least essential 
 ( the opportunity of mixing with the classes below him, and 
 becoming an eye-witness of the sufferings of the people." 
 
 ' Forgive me, Lorenzo, if I seem tedious in my narration ; 
 the close connexion which now exists between us makes 
 me anxious that you should know every particular respect- 
 ing me ; and, in my fear of omitting the least circumstance 
 which may induce you to think favourably of your sister 
 and myself, I may possibly relate many which you may 
 think uninteresting. 
 
 ' I followed the Duke's advice : I was soon convinced of 
 its wisdom. I quitted Spain, calling myself by the 
 assumed title of Don Alphonso d'Alvatada and attended by 
 a single domestic of approved fidelity. Paris was my first 
 station. For some time I was enchanted with it, as indeed 
 must be every man who is young, rich, and fond of 
 pleasure. Yet, among all its gaieties, I felt that something 
 was wanting to my heart : I grew sick of dissipation ; I 
 discovered that the people among whom I lived, and whose 
 exterior was so polished and seducing, were at bottom 
 frivolous, unfeeling, and insincere. I turned from the 
 inhabitants of Paris with disgust, and quitted the theatre 
 of luxury without heaving one sigh of regret. 
 
 ' I now bent my course towards Germany, intending to 
 visit most of the principal courts. Prior to this expedition, 
 I meant to make some little stay at Strasburcr. On 
 quitting my chaise at Luneville to take some refreshment, 
 I observed a splendid equipage, attended by four domestics 
 in rich liveries, waiting at the door of the Silver Lion. 
 Soon after, as I looked out of the window, I saw a lady of 
 noble presence, followed by two female attendants, step 
 into the carriage, which drove off immediately. 
 
 ' I inquired of the host who the lady was that had just 
 departed. 
 
CHAPTER III 75 
 
 ' " A German Baroness, Monsieur, of great rank and 
 fortune; she has been upon a visit to the Duchess of 
 Longueville, as her servants informed me. She is going 
 to Strasburg, where she will find her husband, and then 
 both return to their castle in Germany." 
 
 'I resumed my journey, intending to reach Strasburg 
 that night. My hopes, however, were frustrated by the 
 breaking down of my chaise ; the accident happened in the 
 middle of a thick forest, and I was not a little embarrassed 
 as to the means of proceeding. It was the depth of winter ; 
 the night was already closing round us; and Strasburg, 
 which was the nearest town, was still distant from us 
 several leagues. It seemed to me that my only alternative 
 to passing the night in the forest was to take my servant's 
 horse and ride on to Strasburg, an undertaking at that 
 season very far from agreeable. However, seeing no other 
 resource, I was obliged to make up my mind to it ; accord- 
 ingly I communicated my design to the postillion, telling 
 him that I would send people to assist him, as soon as I 
 reached Strasburg. I had not much confidence in his 
 honesty ; but, Stephano being well armed and the driver 
 to all appearance considerably advanced in years, I believed 
 I ran no risk of losing my baggage. 
 
 'Luckily, as I then thought, an opportunity presented 
 itself of passing the night more agreeably than I expected. 
 On mentioning my design of proceeding by myself to 
 Strasburg, the postillion shook his head in disappro- 
 bation. 
 
 ' " It is a long way ", said he ; " you will find it a difficult 
 matter to arrive there without a guide : besides, Monsieur 
 seems unaccustomed to the season's severity ; and 'tis 
 possible that, unable to sustain the excessive cold — " 
 
 '"What use is there to present me with all these 
 objections ? " said I, impatiently interrupting him ; " I 
 have no other resource ; I run still greater risk of perishing 
 with cold by passing the night in the forest." 
 
 ' " Passing the night in the forest ? " he replied ; " oh, by 
 St. Denis, we are not in so bad a plight as that comes to 
 yet ! If I am not mistaken, we are scarcely five minutes 
 walk from the cottage of my old friend Baptiste : he is a / 
 wood-cutter, and a very honest fellow. I doubt not but [^ 
 he will shelter you for the night with pleasure. In the 
 meantime I can take the saddle-horse, ride to Strasburg, 
 
76 THE MONK 
 
 and be back with proper people to mend your carriage by 
 break of day." 
 
 '"And, in the name of God", said I, "how could you 
 leave me so long in suspense ? Why did you not tell me 
 of this cottage sooner ? What excessive stupidity ! " 
 
 ' " I thought, that perhaps Monsieur would not deign to 
 accept — " 
 
 ' " Absurd ! Come, come ; say no more, but conduct us 
 without delay to the woodman's cottage." 
 
 'He obeyed, and we moved onwards; the horses con- 
 trived with some difficulty to drag the shattered vehicle 
 after us. My servant was become almost speechless, and I 
 began to feel the effects of the cold myself before we 
 reached the wished-for cottage. It was a small but neat 
 building; as we drew near it, I rejoiced at observing 
 through the window the blaze of a comfortable fire. Our 
 conductor knocked at the door; it was some time before 
 anyone answered; the people within seemed in doubt 
 whether we should be admitted. 
 
 ' " Come, come, friend Baptiste ! " cried the driver with 
 impatience ; " what are you about ? Are you asleep ? Or 
 will you refuse a night's lodging to a gentleman whose 
 chaise has just broken down in the forest ? " 
 
 ' " Ah, is it you, honest Claude ? " replied a man's voice 
 from within; "wait a moment, and the door shall be 
 opened." 
 
 ' Soon after the bolts were drawn back ; the door was 
 unclosed, and a man presented himself to us with a lamp 
 in his hand ; he gave the guide a hearty reception, and 
 then addressed himself to me : ' " Walk in, Monsieur ; walk 
 in, and welcome. Excuse me for not admitting you at 
 first ; but there are so many rogues about this place that, 
 saving your presence, I suspected you to be one." 
 
 ' Thus saying, he ushered me into the room where I had 
 observed the fire. I was immediately placed in an easy- 
 chair, which stood close to the hearth. A female, whom I 
 supposed to be the wife of my host, rose from her seat 
 upon my entrance, and received me with a slight and 
 distant reverence. She made no answer to my compliment, 
 but, immediately re-seating herself, continued the work on 
 which she had been employed. Her husband's manners 
 were as friendly as hers were harsh and repulsive. 
 
 ' " I wish I could lodge you more conveniently, Monsieur ", 
 
CHAPTER III 77 
 
 said he, " but we cannot boast of much spare room in this 
 hovel. However, a chamber for yourself and another for 
 your servant I think we can make shift to supply. You 
 must content yourself with sorry fare ; but to what we 
 have, believe me, you are heartily welcome." Then, turning 
 to his wife : " Why, how you sit there, Marguerite, with as 
 much tranquillity as if you had nothing better to do ! Stir 
 about, dame! Stir about! Get some supper; look out 
 some sheets. Here, here ! — throw some logs upon the fire, 
 for the gentleman seems perished with cold." 
 
 ' The wife threw her work hastily upon the table, and 
 proceeded to execute his commands with every mark of 
 unwillingness. Her countenance had displeased me on the 
 first moment of my examining it ; yet, upon the whole, her 
 features were handsome unquestionably, but her skin was 
 sallow, and her person thin and meagre ; a louring gloom 
 overspread her countenance, and it bore such visible marks 
 of rancour and ill-will as could not escape being noticed by 
 the most inattentive observer : her every look and action 
 expressed discontent and impatience; and the answers 
 which she gave Baptiste, when he reproached her good- 
 humouredly for her dissatisfied air, were tart, short, and 
 cutting. In fine, I conceived at first sight equal disgust 
 for her and prepossession in favour of her husband, whose 
 appearance was calculated to inspire esteem and confidence. 
 His countenance was open, sincere, and friendly ; his 
 manners had all the peasant's honesty, unaccompanied by 
 his rudeness ; his cheeks were broad, full, and ruddy ; and 
 in the solidity of his person he seemed to offer an ample 
 apology for the leanness of his wife's. From the wrinkles 
 on his brow I judged him to be turned of sixty ; but he 
 bore his years well, and seemed still hearty and strong. 
 The wife could not be more than thirty, but in spirits and 
 vivacity she was infinitely older than the husband. 
 
 'However, in spite of her unwillingness, Marguerite 
 began to prepare the supper, while the woodman conversed 
 gaily on different subjects. The postillion, who had been 
 furnished with a bottle of spirits, was now ready to set 
 out for Strasburg, and inquired whether I had any further 
 commands. 
 
 ' " For Strasburg ? " interrupted Baptiste ; " you are not 
 going thither to-night ? " 
 
 I beg your pardon ; if I do not fetch workmen to 
 
 < K 
 
78 THE MONK 
 
 mend the chaise, how is Monsieur to proceed to- 
 morrow ? " 
 
 ' " That is true, as you say ; I had forgotten the chaise. 
 Well, but, Claude, you may at least eat your supper here ? 
 That can make you lose very little time; and Monsieur 
 looks too kind-hearted to send you out with an empty 
 stomach on such a bitter cold night as this is." 
 
 ' To this I readily assented, telling the postillion that 
 my reaching Strasburg the next day an hour or two later 
 would be perfectly immaterial. He thanked me, and, then 
 leaving the cottage with Stephano, put up his horses in 
 the woodman's stable. Baptiste followed them to the 
 door, and looked out with anxiety. ' " 'Tis a sharp, biting 
 wind,' said he : "I wonder what detains my boys so long ! 
 Monsieur, I shall show you two of the finest lads that ever 
 stepped in shoe of leather ; the eldest is three-and-twenty, 
 the second a year younger : their equals for sense, courage, 
 and activity are not to be found within fifty miles of 
 Strasburg. Would they were back again! I begin to 
 feel uneasy about them." 
 
 'Marguerite was at this time employed in laying the 
 cloth. ' And are you equally anxious for the return of 
 your sons ? ' said I to her. 
 
 ' " Not I," she replied peevishly ; " they are no children 
 of mine." 
 
 ' " Come, come, Marguerite ! " said the husband ; " do not 
 be out of humour with the gentleman for asking a simple 
 question ; had you not looked so cross, he would never 
 have thought you old enough to have a son of three-and- 
 twenty ; but you see how many years ill-temper adds to 
 you ! Excuse my wife's rudeness, Monsieur; a little thing 
 puts her out ; and she is somewhat displeased at your not 
 thinking her to be under thirty. That is the truth, is it 
 not, Marguerite ? You know Monsieur, that age is always 
 a ticklish subject with a woman. Come, come, Marguerite! 
 Clear up a little. If you have not sons as old, you will 
 some twenty years hence ; and I hope that we shall live to 
 see.them just such lads as Jacques and Robert." 
 
 " Marguerite clasped her hands together passionately. 
 ' " God forbid ! " said she, " God forbid ! If I thought it, 
 I would strangle them with my own hands." 
 
 'She quitted the room hastily, and went upstairs. I 
 could not help expressing to the woodman how much I 
 
CHAPTER III 79 
 
 pitied him for being chained for life to a partner of such 
 ill-humour. 
 
 ' " Ah, Lord ! Monsieur, everyone has his share of 
 grievances, and Marguerite has fallen to mine. Besides, 
 after all, she is only cross, and not malicious ; the, worst is 
 that Jher affection for two children by a former husband 
 makes her play the step-mother 'with my two sons; she 
 cannot bear the sight of them ; and, by her good will, they 
 would never set a foot within my door. But on this point 
 I always stand firm, and never will consent to abandon 
 the poor lads to the world's mercy, as she has often 
 solicited me to do. In everything else, I let her have her 
 own way ; and truly she manages a family rarely, that I 
 must say for her." 
 
 ' We were conversing in this manner, when our discourse 
 was interrupted by a loud halloo which rang through the 
 forest. " My sons, I hope ! " exclaimed the woodman, and 
 ran to open the door. 
 
 'The halloo was repeated. We now distinguished the 
 trampling of horses; and soon after a carriage attended 
 by several cavaliers stopped at the carriage door. One of 
 the horsemen inquired how far they were still from 
 Strasburg. As he addressed himself to me, I answered in 
 the number of miles which Claude had told me, upon 
 which a volley of curses was vented against the drivers 
 for having lost their way. The persons in the coach were 
 now informed of the distance of Strasburg, and also that 
 the horses were so fatigued as to be incapable of proceeding 
 further. A lady who appeared to be the principal 
 expressed much chagrin at this intelligence ; but, as there 
 was no remedy, one of the attendants asked the woodman 
 whether he should furnish them with lodging for the night. 
 
 'He seemed much embarrassed, and replied in the 
 negative, adding that a Spanish gentleman and his servant 
 were already in possession of the only spare apartments in 
 his house. On hearing this, the gallantry of my nation 
 would not permit me to retain those accommodations of 
 which a female was in want. I instantly signified to the 
 woodman that I transferred my right to the lady ; he made 
 some objections, but I overruled them ; and, hastening to 
 the carriage, opened the door and assisted the lady to 
 ascend. I immediately recognised her for. the same person 
 whom I had seen at the inn at Luneville. I took an 
 
80 THE MONK 
 
 opportunity of asking one of her attendants what was her 
 name ? 
 
 ' " The Baroness Lindenberg " was the answer. 
 
 * I could not but remark how different a reception our 
 host had given these new-comers and myself. His 
 reluctance to admit them was visibly expressed on his 
 countenance; and he prevailed on himself with difficulty 
 to tell the lady that she was welcome. I conducted her 
 into the house, and placed her in the arm-chair which I 
 had just quitted. She thanked me very graciously, and 
 made a thousand apologies for putting me to an incon- 
 venience. Suddenly the woodman's countenance cleared up. 
 
 ' " At last I have arranged it ! " said he, interrupting her 
 excuses. "I can lodge you and your suite, Madam, and 
 you will not be under the necessity of making this 
 gentleman suffer for his politeness. We have two spare 
 chambers, one for the lady, the other, Monsieur, for you ; 
 my wife shall give up hers to the two waiting- women ; 
 as for the men-servants, they must content themselves 
 with passing the night in a large barn which stands at a 
 few yards distance from the house ; there they shall have 
 a blazing fire, and as good a supper as we can make shift 
 to give them." 
 
 ' After several expressions of gratitude on the lady's 
 part, and opposition on mine to Marguerite's giving up her 
 bed, this arrangement was agreed to. As the room was 
 small, the Baroness immediately dismissed her male 
 domestics. Baptiste was on the point of conducting them 
 to the barn which he had mentioned, when two young 
 men appeared at the door of the cottage. 
 
 ' " Hell and furies ! " exclaimed the first, starting back, 
 " Robert, the house is filled with strangers ! " 
 
 "'Ha, there are my sons!" cried our host. "Why, 
 Jacques! Robert! Whither are you running, boys? There 
 is room enough still for you." 
 
 ' Upon this assurance the youths returned. The father 
 presented them to the Baroness and myself, after which 
 he withdrew with our domestics, while, at the request of 
 the two waiting-women, Marguerite conducted them to 
 the room designed for their mistress. 
 
 ' The two new-comers were tall, stout, well-made young 
 men, hard-featured, and very much sunburnt. They paid 
 their compliments to us in few words, and acknowledged 
 
CHAPTER III 81 
 
 Claude, who now entered the room, as an old acquaintance. 
 They then threw aside their cloaks in which they were 
 wrapped up, took off a leathern belt to which a large 
 cutlass was suspended, and, each drawiDg a brace of pistols 
 from his girdle, laid them upon a shelf. 
 
 ' " You travel well armed " said I. 
 
 ' " True, Monsieur ", replied Robert. " We left Strasburg 
 late this evening, and 'tis necessary to take precautions at 
 passing through this forest after dark ; it does not bear a 
 good repute, I promise you." 
 
 ' " How ? " said the Baroness ; " are there robbers 
 hereabout ? " 
 
 ' " So it is said, Madam ; for my own part, I have 
 travelled through the wood at all hours, and never met 
 with one of them." 
 
 ' Here Marguerite returned. Her step-sons drew her to 
 the other end of the room, and whispered to her for some 
 minutes. By the looks which they cast towards us at 
 intervals I conjectured them to be inquiring our business 
 in the cottage. 
 
 ' In the meanwhile, the Baroness expressed her appre- 
 hension that her husband would be suffering much anxiety 
 upon her account. She had intended to send on one of 
 her servants to inform the baron of her delay; but the 
 account which the young men gave of the forest rendered 
 this plan impracticable. Claude relieved her from her 
 embarrassment ; he informed her that he was under the 
 necessity of reaching Strasburg that night, and that, would 
 she trust him with a letter, she might depend upon its 
 being safely delivered. 
 
 ' " And how comes it ", said I, " that you are under no 
 apprehension of meeting these robbers ? " 
 
 ' " Alas ! Monsieur, a poor man with a large family 
 must not lose certain profit because 'tis attended with a 
 little danger, and perhaps my lord the Baron may give me 
 a trifle for my pains ; besides, I have nothing to lose 
 except my life, and that will not be worth the robbers' 
 taking." 
 
 ' I thought his arguments bad, and advised his waiting 
 till the morning ; but, as the Baroness did not second me, 
 I was obliged to give up the point. The Baroness 
 Lindenberg, as I found afterwards, had long been 
 accustomed to sacrifice the interests of others to her own, 
 
82 THE MONK 
 
 and her wish to send Claude to Strashurg blinded her 
 to the danger of the undertaking. Accordingly, it was 
 resolved that he should set out without delay. The 
 Baroness wrote her letter to her husband, and I sent a few 
 lines to my banker, apprising him that I should not be at 
 Strasburg till the next day. Claude took our letters, and 
 left the cottage. 
 
 'The lady declared herself much fatigued by her 
 journey; besides having come from some distance, the 
 drivers had contrived to lose their way in the forest. She 
 now addressed herself to Marguerite, desiring to be shown 
 to her chamber, and permitted to take half - an - hour's 
 repose. One of the waiting-women was immediately 
 summoned ; she appeared with a light, and the Baroness 
 followed her upstairs. The cloth was spreading in the 
 chamber where I was, and Marguerite soon gave me to 
 understand that I was in her way. Her hints were too 
 broad to be easily mistaken ; I therefore desired one of 
 the young men to conduct me to the chamber where I was 
 to sleep and where I could remain till supper was ready. 
 
 ' " Which chamber is it, mother ? " said Robert. 
 
 ' " The one with green hangings " she replied. " I have 
 just been at the trouble of getting it ready, and have put 
 fresh sheets upon the bed; if the gentleman chooses to 
 lollop and lounge upon it, he may make it again himself, 
 for me." 
 
 ' " You are out of humour, mother ; but that is no 
 novelty. Have the goodness to follow me, Monsieur.'' 
 
 ' He opened the door, and advanced towards a narrow 
 staircase. 
 
 ' " You have got no light " said Marguerite ; " is it your 
 own neck or the gentleman's that you have a mind to 
 break ? " 
 
 ' She crossed by me, and put a candle into Robert's hand, 
 having received which, he began to ascend the staircase. 
 Jacques was employed in laying the cloth, and his back 
 was turned towards me. Marguerite seized the moment 
 when we were unobserved ; she caught my hand, and 
 pressed it strongly. 
 
 ' " Look at the sheets ! " said she as she passed me, and 
 immediately resumed her former occupation. 
 
 'Startled by the abruptness of her action, I remained 
 as if petrified. Robert's voice desiring me to follow him 
 
CHAPTER III 83 
 
 recalled me to myself. I ascended the staircase. My 
 conductor ushered me into a chamber where an excellent 
 wood fire was blazing upon the hearth. He placed the 
 light upon the table, inquired whether I had any further 
 commands, and, on my replying in the negative, left me to 
 myself. You may be certain that the moment when I 
 found myself alone was that on which I complied with 
 Marguerite's injunction. I took the candle hastily, 
 approached the bed, and turned down the coverture. 
 W hat was my astonishment, my horror, at finding the 
 sfieets crimsoned with blood. ""' 
 
 ' ac tnat moment a thousand confused ideas passed 
 before my imagination. The robbers who infested the 
 wood, Marguerite's exclamation respecting her children, the 
 arms and appearance of the two young men, and the various 
 anecdotes which I had heard related respecting the secret 
 correspondence which frequently exists between banditti 
 and postillions — all these circumstances flashed upon my 
 mind, and inspired me with doubt and apprehension. I 
 ruminated on the most probable means of ascertaining the 
 truth of my conjectures. Suddenly I was aware of 
 someone below pacing hastily backwards and forwards. 
 Everything now appeared to me an object of suspicion. 
 With precaution I drew near the window, which, as the 
 room had been long shut up, was left open in spite of the 
 cold. I ventured to look out. The beams of the moon 
 permitted me to distinguish a man, whom I had no 
 difficulty to recognize for my host. I watched his move- 
 ments. He walked swiftly, then stopped and seemed to 
 listen ; he stamped upon the ground, and beat his stomach 
 with his arms, as if to guard himself from the inclemency 
 of the season ; at the least noise, if a voice was heard in 
 the lower part of the house, if a bat flitted past him, or 
 the wind rattled amidst the leafless boughs, he started, and 
 looked round with anxiety. 
 
 ' " Plague take him ! " said he at length with extreme 
 impatience ; " what can he be about ? " 
 
 ' He spoke in a low voice ; but, as he was just below my 
 window, I had no difficulty to distinguish his words. 
 
 'I now heard the steps of one approaching. Baptiste 
 went towards the sound ; he joined a man whom his low 
 stature and the horn suspended from his neck declared to 
 be no other than my faithful Claude, whom I had supposed 
 
84 THE MONK 
 
 to be already on his way to Strasburg. Expecting tbeir 
 discourse to throw some light upon my situation, I 
 hastened to put myself in a condition to hear it with 
 safety. For this purpose I extinguished the candle, which 
 stood upon a table near the bed ; the flame of the fire was 
 not strong enough to betray me, and I immediately resumed 
 my place at the window. 
 
 'The objects of my curiosity had stationed themselves 
 directly under it. I suppose that during my momentary 
 absence the woodman had been blaming Claude for tardi- 
 ness, since when I returned to the window the latter was 
 endeavouring to excuse his fault. 
 
 ' " However ", added he, " my diligence at present shall 
 make up for my past delay." 
 
 ' " On that condition ", answered Baptiste, " I shall 
 readily forgive you ; but in truth, as you share equally 
 with us in our prizes, your own interest will make you use 
 all possible diligence. 'Twould be a shame to let such a 
 noble booty escape us. You say this Spaniard is rich ? " 
 
 ' " His servant boasted at the inn that the effects in his 
 chaise were worth about two thousand pistoles." 
 
 ' Oh, how I cursed Stephano's imprudent vanity ! 
 
 ' " And I have been told ", continued the postillion, " that 
 this Baroness carries about her a casket of jewels of 
 immense value." 
 
 ' " Maybe so, but I had rather she had stayed away. 
 The Spaniard was a secure prey ; the boys and myself 
 could easily have mastered him and his servant, and then 
 the two thousand pistoles would have been shared between 
 us four. Now we must let in the band for a share, and 
 perhaps the whole covey may escape us. Should our 
 friends have betaken themselves to their different posts 
 before you reach the cavern, all will be lost. The lady's 
 attendants are too numerous for us to overpower them. 
 Unless our associates arrive in time, we must needs let 
 these travellers set out to-morrow without damage or 
 hurt." 
 
 ' " 'Tis plaguy unlucky that my comrades who drove the 
 coach should be those unacquainted with our confederacy ! 
 But never fear, friend Baptiste ; an hour will bring me to 
 the cavern ; it is now but ten o'clock, and by twelve you 
 may expect the arrival of the band. By -the ^"oy; take 
 care of your wife ; you know how strong is her 
 
CHAPTER III 85 
 
 repugnance to our mode of life, and she may find means 
 to give information to the lady's servants of our design." 
 
 ' "Oh ! I am secure of her silence ; she is too much 
 afraid of me and fond of her children to dare to betray 
 my secret. Besides, Jacques and Robert keep a strict eye 
 over her, and she is not permitted to set a foot out of the 
 cottage. The servants are safely lodged in the barn. I 
 shall endeavour to keep all quiet till the arrival of our 
 friends. Were I assured of your finding them, the 
 strangers should be despatched this instant ; but, as it is 
 possible for you to miss the banditti, I am fearful of being 
 summoned by their domestics to produce them in the 
 morning." 
 
 ' " And suppose either of the travellers should discover 
 your design ? " 
 
 ' " Then we must poniard those in our power, and take 
 our chance about mastering the rest. However, to avoid 
 running such a risk, hasten to the cavern ; the banditti 
 never leave it before eleven ; and, if you use diligence, you 
 may reach it in time to stop them." 
 
 ' " Tell Robert that I have taken his horse ; my own has 
 broken his bridle, and escaped into the wood. What is 
 the watchword ? " 
 
 ' " The reward of courage." 
 
 ' " 'Tis sufficient. I hasten to the cavern." 
 
 '"And I to rejoin my guests, lest my absence should 
 create suspicion. Farewell, and be diligent." 
 
 ' These worthy associates now separated ; the one bent 
 his course towards the stable, while the other returned to 
 the house. 
 
 'You may judge what must have been my feelings 
 during the conversation, of which I lost not a single syllable. 
 I dared not trust myself to my reflections, nor did any 
 means present itself to escape the dangers which threatened 
 me. Resistance I knew to be in vain : I was unarmed and 
 a single man against three. However, I resolved at least 
 to sell my life as dearly as I could. Dreading lest 
 Baptiste should perceive my absence and suspect me to 
 have overhead the message with which Claude was 
 despatched, I hastily relighted my candle and quitted the 
 chamber. On descending, I found the table spread for six 
 persons. The Baroness sat by the fireside ; Marguerite 
 was employed in dressing a salad, and her step-sons were 
 
86 THE MONK 
 
 whispering together at the further end of the room. 
 Baptiste, having the round of the garden to make ere he 
 could reach the cottage door, was not yet arrived. I seated 
 myself quietly opposite to the Baroness. 
 
 ' A glance upon Marguerite told her that her hint had 
 not been thrown away upon me. How different did she 
 now appear to me ! What before seemed gloom and 
 sullenness I now found to be disgust at her associates and 
 compassion for my danger. I looked up to her as to my 
 only resource ; yet, knowing her to be watched by her 
 husband with a suspicious eye, I could place but little 
 reliance on the exertions of her goodwill. 
 
 ' In spite of all my endeavours to conceal it, my agitation 
 was but too visibly expressed upon my countenance. I 
 was pale, and both my words and actions were disordered 
 and embarrassed. The young men observed this, and 
 inquired the cause. I attributed it to excess of fatigue and 
 the violent effect produced on me by the severity of the 
 season. Whether they believed me or not, I will not 
 pretend to say ; they at least ceased to embarrass me with 
 their questions. I strove to divert my attention from the 
 perils which surrounded me by conversing on different 
 subjects with the Baroness. I talked of Germany, 
 declaring my intention of visiting it immediately ; God 
 knows, that I little thought at that moment of ever seeing 
 it ! She replied to me with great ease and politeness ; pro- 
 fessed that the pleasure of making my acquaintance amply 
 compensated for delay in her journey ; and gave me a 
 pressing invitation to make some stay at the castle of 
 Lindenberg. As she spoke thus, the youths exchanged a 
 malicious smile, which declared that she would be fortunate 
 if she ever reached that castle herself. This action did not 
 escape me ; but I concealed the emotion which it excited 
 in my breast. I continued to converse with the lady ; but 
 my discourse was so frequently incoherent that, as she has 
 since informed me, she began to doubt whether I was in 
 my right senses. The fact was that, while my conversation 
 turned upon one subject, my thoughts were entirely 
 occupied by another. I meditated upon the means of 
 quitting the cottage, finding my way to the barn, and 
 giving the domestics information of our host's designs. I 
 was soon convinced how impracticable was the attempt. 
 Jacques and Robert watched my every movement with an 
 
CHAPTER III 87 
 
 attentive eye, and I was obliged to abandon the idea. All 
 my hopes_ now rested upon Claude's not finding the 
 banditti ; in that case, according to what I had overheard, 
 we should be permitted to depart unhurt. 
 
 ' I shuddered involuntarily as Baptiste entered the room. 
 He made many apologies for his long absence, but " he had 
 been detained by affairs impossible to be delayed ". He 
 then entreated permission for his family to sup at the same 
 table with us, without which, respect would not authorize 
 his taking such a liberty. Oh, how in my heart I cursed 
 the hypocrite ! How I loathed his presence who was on 
 the point of depriving me of an existence, at that time 
 infinitely dear ! I had every reason to be satisfied with 
 life ; I had youth, wealth, rank, and education, and the 
 fairest prospects presented themselves before me. I saw 
 those prospects on the point of closing in the most horrible 
 manner ; yet was I obliged to dissimulate and to receive 
 with a semblance of gratitude the false civilities of him 
 who held the dagger to my bosom. 
 
 ' The permission which our host demanded was easily 
 obtained. We seated ourselves at the table. The 
 Baroness and myself occupied one side; the sons were 
 opposite to us, with their backs to the door. Baptiste 
 took his seat by the Baroness at the upper end ; and the 
 place next to him was left for his wife. She soon entered 
 the room, and placed before us a plain but comfortable 
 peasant's repast. Our host thought it necessary to apologize 
 for the poorness of the supper : " he had not been apprised 
 of our coming ; he could only offer us such fare as had been 
 intended for his own family." 
 
 * " But ", added he, " should any accident detain my noble 
 guests longer than they at present intend, I hope to give 
 them a better treatment." 
 
 ' The villain ! I well knew the accident to which he 
 alluded. I shuddered at the treatment which he taught us 
 to expect. 
 
 ' My companion in danger seemed entirely to have got 
 rid of her chagrin at being delayed. She laughed, and 
 conversed with the family with in6nite gaiety. I strove, 
 but in vain, to follow her example. My spirits were 
 evidently forced, and the constraint which I put upon 
 myself escaped not Baptiste's observation. 
 
 '"Come, come, Monsieur, cheer up!" said he; "you 
 
88 THE MONK 
 
 seem not quite recovered from your fatigue. To raise 
 your spirits, what say you to a glass of excellent old wine, 
 which was left me by my father ? God rest his soul, he is 
 in a better world ! I seldom produce this wine ; but, as I 
 am not honoured with such guests every day, this is an 
 occasion which deserves a bottle." 
 
 ' He then gave his wife a key, and instructed her where 
 to find the wine of which he spoke. She seemed by no 
 means pleased with the commission ; she took the key 
 with an embarrassed air, and hesitated to quit the table. 
 
 ' " Did you hear me ? " said Baptiste, in an angry tone. 
 
 ' Marguerite darted upon him a look of mingled anger 
 and fear, and left the chamber. His eyes followed her 
 suspiciously till she had closed the door. 
 
 ' She soon returned, with a bottle sealed with yellow 
 wax. She placed it upon the table, and gave the key 
 back to her husband. I suspected that this liquor was 
 not presented to us without design, and I watched 
 Marguerite's movements with inquietude. She was 
 employed in rinsing some small horn goblets. As she 
 placed them before Baptiste, she saw that my eye was 
 fixed upon her; and, at the moment when she thought 
 herself unobserved by the banditti, she motioned to me 
 with her head not to taste the liquor. She then resumed 
 her place. 
 
 ' In the meanwhile, our host had drawn the cork, and, 
 filling two of the goblets, offered them to the lady and myself. 
 She at first made some objections ; but the instances of 
 Baptiste were so urgent that she was obliged to comply. 
 Fearing to excite suspicion, I hesitated not to take the 
 goblet presented to me. By its smell and colour I guessed 
 it to be champaign ; but some grains of powder floating 
 upon the top convinced me that it was not unadulterated. 
 However, I dared not to express my repugnance to 
 drinking it ; I lifted it to my lips, and seemed to be 
 swallowing it: suddenly starting from my chair, I made 
 the best of my way towards a vase of water at some 
 distance in which Marguerite had been rinsing the goblets. 
 I pretended to spit out the wine with disgust, and took 
 an opportunity, unperceived, of emptying the liquor into 
 the vase. 
 
 'The banditti seemed alarmed at my action. Jacques 
 half rose from his chair, put his hand into his bosom, and 
 
CHAPTER III 89 
 
 I discovered the haft of a dagger. I returned to my seat 
 with tranquillity, and affected not to have observed their 
 confusion. 
 
 ' " You have not suited my taste, honest friend ", said I 
 addressing myself to Baptiste ; " I never can drink 
 champaign without its producing a violent illness. I 
 swallowed a few mouthfuls ere I was aware of its quality, 
 and fear that I shall suffer for my imprudence." 
 
 ' Baptiste and Jacques exchanged looks of distrust. 
 
 ' " Perhaps ", said Robert, " the smell may be disagreeable 
 to you ? " 
 
 ' He quitted his chair, and removed the goblet. I observed 
 that he examined whether it was nearly empty. 
 
 '"He must have drunk sufficient" said he to his brother 
 in a low voice, while he re-seated himself. 
 
 ' Marguerite looked apprehensive that I had tasted the 
 liquor. A glance from my eye reassured her. 
 
 'I waited with anxiety for the effects which the 
 beverage would produce upon the lady. I doubted not 
 but the grains which I had observed were poisonous, and 
 lamented that it had been impossible for me to warn her 
 of the danger. But a few minutes had elapsed before I 
 perceived her eyes grow heavy ; her head sank upon her 
 shoulder, and she fell into a deep sleep. I affected not to 
 attend to this circumstance, and continued my conversation 
 with Baptiste with all the outward gaiety in my power to 
 assume; but he no longer answered me without constraint; 
 he eyed me with distrust and astonishment; and I saw 
 that the banditti were frequently whispering among them- 
 selves. My situation became every moment more painful ; 
 I sustained the character of confidence with a worse grace 
 than ever. Equally afraid of the arrival of their accom- 
 plices and of their suspecting my knowledge of their 
 designs, I knew not how to dissipate the distrust which 
 the banditti evidently entertained for me. In this new 
 dilemma the friendly Marguerite again assisted me. She 
 passed behind the chairs of her step-sons, stopped for a 
 moment opposite to me, closed her eyes, and reclined her 
 head upon her shoulder. This hint immediately dispelled 
 my incertitude : it told me that I ought to imitate the 
 Baroness, and pretend that the liquor had taken its full 
 effect upon me. I did so, and in a few minutes seemed 
 perfectly overcome with slumber. 
 
90 THE MONK 
 
 ' " So ! " cried Baptiste, as I fell back in my chair, " at 
 last he sleeps ! I began to think that he had scented our 
 design, and that we should have been forced to despatch 
 him at all events." 
 
 ' " And why not despatch him at all events ? " inquired 
 the ferocious Jacques. " Why leave him the possibility of 
 betraying our secret ? Marguerite, give me one of my 
 pistols ; a single touch of the trigger will finish him at 
 once." 
 
 '"And supposing" rejoined the father, "supposing that 
 our friends should not arrive to-night, a pretty figure we 
 should make when the servants inquire for him in the 
 morning ! No, no, Jacques ; we must wait for our 
 associates; if they join us, we are strong enough to 
 despatch the domestics as well as their masters, and the 
 booty is our own. If Claude does not find the troop, we 
 must take patience, and suffer the prey to slip through our 
 fingers. Ah, boys 1 boys, had you arrived but five minutes 
 sooner, the Spaniard would have been done for, and two 
 thousand pistoles our own. But you are always out of 
 the way when you are most wanted. You are the most 
 unlucky rogues — " 
 
 ' " Well, well, father ! " answered Jacques ; " had you 
 been of my mind, all would have been over by this time. 
 You, Robert, Claude, and myself — why the strangers were 
 but double the number; and, I warrant you, we might 
 have mastered them. However, Claude is gone ; 'tis too 
 late to think of it now. We must wait patiently for the 
 arrival of the gang; and, if the travellers escape us 
 to-night, we must take care to waylay them to-morrow." 
 
 ' " True ! true ! " said Baptiste ; " Marguerite, have you 
 given the sleeping draught to the waiting-women ? " 
 
 ' She replied in the affirmative. 
 
 '"All then is safe. Come, come, boys; whatever falls 
 out, we have no reason to complain of this adventure. We 
 run no danger, may gain much, and can lose nothing." 
 
 ' At this moment, I heard a trampling of horses. Oh ! 
 how dreadful was the sound to my ears ! A cold sweat 
 flowed down my forehead, and I felt all the terrors of 
 impending death. I was by no means reassured by hearing 
 the compassionate Marguerite exclaim, in the accent of 
 despair : 
 
 « "Almighty God, they are lost ! " 
 
CHAPTER III 91 
 
 'Luckily the woodman and his sons were too much 
 occupied oy the arrival of their associates to attend to me, 
 or the violence of my agitation would have convinced them 
 that my sleep was feigned. 
 
 ' " Open, open ! " exclaimed several voices on the outside 
 of the cottage. 
 
 ' " Yes, yes ! " cried Baptiste, joyfully ; " they are our 
 friends, sure enough. Now, then, our booty is certain. 
 Away, lads, away ! Lead them to the barn ; you know 
 what is to be done there." 
 
 ' Robert hastened to open the door of the cottage. 
 
 ' " But first ", said Jacques, taking up his arms, " first let 
 me djsepatch these sleepers." 
 
 '"No, no, no!" replied his father: "Go you to the 
 barn, where your presence is wanted. Leave me to take 
 care of these and the women above." 
 
 'Jacques obeyed, and followed his brother. They 
 seemed to converse with the new-comers for a few 
 minutes, after which I heard the robbers, dismount, and, 
 as I conjectured, bend their course towards the barn. 
 
 ' " So ! That is wisely done ! " muttered Baptiste ; 
 " they have quitted their horses that they may fall upon 
 the strangers by surprise. Good, good ! and now to 
 business." 
 
 'I heard him approach a small cupboard which was 
 fixed up in a distant part of the room, and unlock it At 
 this moment I felt myself shaken gently. 
 
 ' " Now ! now ! " whispered Marguerite. — I opened my 
 eyes. Baptiste stood with his back towards me. No one 
 else was in the room, save Marguerite and the sleeping 
 lady. The villain had taken a dagger from the cupboard, 
 and seemed examining whether it was sufficiently sharp. 
 I had neglected to furnish myself with arms, but I 
 perceived this to be my only chance of escaping, and 
 resolved not to lose the opportunity. I sprang from my 
 seat, darted suddenly upon Baptiste, and, clasping my 
 hands round his throat, pressed it so forcibly as to prevent 
 his uttering a single cry. You may remember that I was 
 remarkable at Salamanca for the power of my arm. It 
 now rendered me an essential service. Surprised, terrified, 
 and breathless, the villain was by no means an equal 
 antagonist. I threw him upon the ground ; I grasped him 
 still tighter ; and, while I fixed him without motion upon 
 
92 THE MONK 
 
 the floor, Marguerite, wresting the dagger from his hand, 
 plunged it repeatedly in his heart till he expired. 
 
 ' No sooner was this horrible but necessary act perpet- 
 rated than Marguerite called on me to follow her. 
 
 ' " Flight is our only refuge ", said she ; " quick, quick ! 
 Away!" 
 
 ' I hesitated not to obey her ; but, unwilling to leave the 
 Baroness a victim to the vengeance of the robbers, I raised 
 her in my arms still sleeping, and hastened after 
 Marguerite. The horses of the banditti were fastened 
 near the door. My conductress sprang upon one of them. 
 I followed her example, placed the Baroness before me, and 
 spurred on my horse. Our only hope -was to reach 
 Strasburg, which was much nearer than the perfidious 
 Claude had assured me. Marguerite was well acquainted 
 with the road, and galloped on before me. We were 
 obliged to pass by the barn, where the robbers were 
 slaughtering our domestics. The door was open ; we 
 distinguished the shrieks of the dying, and imprecations 
 of the murderers. What I felt at that moment, language 
 is unable to describe. 
 
 ' Jacques heard the trampling of our horses, as we 
 rushed by the barn. He flew to the door with a burning 
 torch in his hand, and easily recognized the fugitives. 
 
 ' " Betrayed ! Betrayed ! " he shouted to his companions. 
 
 ' Instantly they left their bloody work, and hastened to 
 regain their horses. We heard no more. I buried my 
 spurs in the sides of my courser, and Marguerite goaded on 
 hers with the poniard which had already rendered us such 
 good service. We flew like lightning, and gained the 
 open plains. Already was Strasburg steeple in sight when 
 we heard the robbers pursuing us. Marguerite looked 
 back, and distinguished our followers descending a small 
 hill at no great distance. It was in vain that we urged 
 on our horses ; the noise approached nearer with every 
 moment. 
 
 ' " We are lost ! " she exclaimed ; " the villains gain 
 upon us ! " 
 
 ' " On, on ! " replied I ; " I hear the trampling of horses 
 coming from the town." 
 
 ' We redoubled our exertions, and were soon aware of a 
 numerous band of cavaliers, who came towards us at full 
 speed. They were on the point of passing us. 
 
CHAPTER III 93 
 
 * " Stay ! stay ! " shrieked Marguerite ; " save us ! — for 
 God's sake, save us ! " 
 
 ' The foremost, who seemed to act as guide, immediately 
 reined-in his steed. 
 
 ' " 'Tis she, 'tis she ! " exclaimed he, springing upon the 
 ground ; " stop, my lord, stop ! They are safe ! 'Tis my 
 mother ! " 
 
 'At the same moment, Marguerite threw herself from 
 her horse, clasped him in her arms, and covered him with 
 kisses. The other cavaliers stopped at the exclamation. 
 
 ' " The Baroness Lindenberg ! " cried another of the 
 strangers eagerly, " where is she ? Is she not with you ? " 
 
 'He stopped, on beholding her lying senseless in my 
 arms. Hastily he caught her from me. The profound 
 sleep in which she was plunged made him at first tremble 
 for her life ; but the beating of her heart soon reassured 
 him. 
 
 ' " God be thanked ! " said he ; " she has escaped 
 unhurt." 
 
 ' I interrupted his joy by pointing out the brigands, who 
 continued to approach. No sooner had I mentioned them 
 than the greatest part of the company, which appeared to 
 be chiefly composed of soldiers, hastened forward to meet 
 them. The villains stayed not to receive their attack. 
 Perceiving their danger, they turned the heads of their 
 horses and fled into the wood, whither they were followed 
 by our preservers. In the meanwhile the stranger, whom 
 I guessed to be the Baron Lindenberg, after thanking me 
 for my care of his lady, proposed our returning with all 
 speed to the town. The Baroness, on whom the effects of 
 the opiate had not ceased to operate, was placed before 
 him ; Marguerite and her son remounted their horses ; the 
 Baron's domestics followed ; and we soon arrived at the 
 inn where he had taken his apartments. 
 
 ' This was at " The Austrian Eagle " , where my banker, 
 whom before my quitting Paris I had apprised of my 
 intention to visit Strasburg, had prepared lodgings for me. 
 I rejoiced at this circumstance. It gave me an opportunity 
 of cultivating the Baron's acquaintance, which I foresaw 
 would be of use to me in Germany. Immediately upon 
 our arrival the lady was conveyed to bed. A physician 
 was sent for, who prescribed a medicine likely to counteract 
 the effects of the sleepy potion ; and, after it had been 
 
94 THE MONK 
 
 poured down her throat, she was committed to the care of 
 the hostess. The Baron then addressed himself to me, and 
 entreated me to recount the particulars of this adventure. 
 I complied with his request instantaneously ; for, in pain 
 respecting Stephano's fate, whom I had been compelled 
 to abandon to the cruelty of the banditti, I found it 
 impossible for me to repose till I had some news of him. I 
 received but too soon the intelligence that my trusty 
 servant had perished. The soldiers who had pursued the 
 brigands returned while I was employed in relating my 
 adventure to the Baron. By their account I found that 
 the robbers had been overtaken. Guilt and true courage 
 are incompatible ; they had thrown themselves at the feet 
 of their pursuers, had surrendered themselves without 
 striking a blow, had discovered their secret retreat, made 
 known their signals by which the rest of the gang might be 
 seized, and, in short, had betrayed every mark of cowardice 
 and baseness. By this means the whole of the band, 
 consisting of near sixty persons, had been made prisoners, 
 bound, and conducted to Strasburg. Some of the soldiers 
 hastened to the cottage, one of the banditti serving them 
 as guide. Their first visit was to the fatal barn, where 
 they were fortunate enough to find two of the Baron's 
 servants still alive, though desperately wounded. The rest 
 had expired beneath the swords of the robbers, and of 
 these my unhappy Stephano was one. 
 
 'Alarmed at our escape, the robbers, in their haste to 
 overtake us, had neglected to visit the cottage ; in 
 consequence, the soldiers found the two waiting-women 
 unhurt and buried in the same death-like slumber which 
 had overpowered their mistress. There was nobody else 
 in the cottage, except a child not above four years old, 
 which the soldiers brought away with them. We were 
 busying ourselves with conjectures respecting the birth of 
 this little unfortunate, when Marguerite rushed into the 
 room with the baby in her arms. She fell at the feet of 
 the officer who was making us this report, and blessed him 
 a thousand times for the preservation of her child. 
 
 'When the first burst of maternal tenderness was over, 
 I besought her to declare by what means she had been 
 united to a man whose principles seemed so totally 
 discordant with her own. She bent her eyes downwards, 
 and wiped a few tears from her cheek. 
 
CHAPTER III 95 
 
 ' " Gentlemen ", said she, after a silence of some minutes, 
 " I would request a favour of you. You have a right to 
 know on whom you confer an obligation ; I will not, 
 therefore, stifle a confession which covers me with shame ; 
 but permit me to comprise it in as few words as possible. 
 
 ' " I was born in Strasburg, of respectable parents ; their 
 names I must at present conceal. My father still lives, 
 and deserves not to be involved in my infamy. If you 
 grant my request, you shall be informed of my family 
 name. A villain made himself master of my affections, 
 and to follow him I quitted my father's house. Yet 
 though my passions overpowered my virtue, I sank not 
 into that degeneracy of vice but too commonly the lot of 
 women who make the first false step. I loved my seducer, 
 dearly loved him ! I was true to his bed : this baby, and 
 the youth who warned you, my lord Baron, of your lady's 
 danger, are the pledges of our affection. Even at this 
 moment I lament his loss ; though 'tis to him that I owe 
 all the miseries of my existence. 
 
 ' " He was of noble birth, but he had squandered away 
 his paternal inheritance. His relations considered him as 
 a disgrace to their name, and utterly discarded him. His 
 excesses drew upon him the indignation of the police. He 
 was obliged to fly from Strasburg, and saw no other 
 resource from beggary than an union with the banditti 
 who infested the neighbouring forest, and whose troop was 
 chiefly composed of young men of family in the same 
 predicament with himself. I was determined not to 
 forsake him. I followed him to the cavern of the 
 brigands, and shared with him the misery inseparable 
 from a life of pillage. But, though I was aware that our 
 existence was supported by plunder, I knew not all the 
 horrible circumstances attached to my lover's profession ; 
 these he concealed from me with the utmost care. He 
 was conscious that my sentiments were not sufficiently 
 depraved to look without horror upon assassination. He 
 supposed, and with justice, that I should fly with 
 detestation from the embraces of a murderer. Eight years 
 of possession had not abated his love for me ; and he 
 cautiously removed from my knowledge every circum- 
 stance which might lead me to suspect the crimes in 
 which he but too often participated. He succeeded per- 
 fectly. It was not till after my seducer's death that I 
 
9 6 THE MONK 
 
 discovered his hands to have been stained with the blood 
 of innocence. 
 
 ' " One fatal night he was brought back to the 
 cavern, covered with wounds; he received them in 
 attacking an English traveller, whom his companions 
 immediately sacrificed to their resentment. He had only 
 time to entreat my pardon for all the sorrows which he 
 had caused me ; he pressed my hand to his lips, and 
 expired. My grief was inexpressible. As soon as its 
 violence abated, I resolved to return to Strasburg, to throw 
 myself with my two children at my father's feet, and 
 implore his forgiveness, though I little hoped to obtain it. 
 What was my consternation when informed that no one 
 entrusted with the secret of their retreat was ever 
 permitted to quit the troop of the banditti ; that I must 
 give up all hopes of ever rejoining society, and consent 
 instantly to accept one of their band for my husband ? 
 My prayers and remonstrances were vain. They cast lots 
 to decide to w hose p ossession I should fall. I became the 
 property ofytfTe" "Infamous Baptiste. A robber who had 
 once been^T monk pronounced over us a burlesque rather 
 than a religious Ceremony : I and my children were 
 deliveredVigito.tlre hands of my new husband, and he 
 conveyed us immediately to his home. 
 
 ' " He assured me that he had long entertained for me the 
 most ardent regard ; but that friendship for my deceased 
 lover had obliged him to stifle his desires. He endeavoured 
 to reconcile me to my fate, and for some time treated me 
 with respect and gentleness. At length, finding that my 
 aversion rather increased than diminished, he obtained 
 those favours by violence which I persisted to refuse him. 
 No resource remained for me but to bear my sorrows with 
 patience; I was conscious that I deserved them but too 
 well. Flight was forbidden. My children were in the 
 power of Baptiste ; and he had sworn that, if I attempted 
 to escape, their lives should pay for it. I had had too 
 many opportunities of witnessing the barbarity of his 
 nature to doubt his fulfilling his oath to the very letter. 
 Sad experienee had convinced me of the horrors of my 
 situation. My first lover had carefully concealed them 
 from me ; Baptiste rather rejoiced in opening my eyes to 
 the cruelties of his profession, and strove to familiarize me 
 with blood and slaughter. 
 
CHAPTER III 97 
 
 '"Mv nature was l icentious and warm, but not cruel ; 
 my conduct had been Imprudent," ^t rr-y hpflTf^wfiTTiftfr. 
 unprincipled^ Judge, then, what I must have felt at being 
 a continual witness of crimes the most horrible and 
 revolting ! Judge how I must have grieved at being 
 united to a man who received the unsuspecting guest with 
 an air of openness and hospitality at the very moment 
 that he meditated his destruction ! Chagrin and discontent 
 preyed upon my constitution ; the few charms bestowed 
 on me by nature withered away, and the dejection of my 
 countenance denoted the sufferings of my heart. I was 
 tempted a thousand times to put an end to my existence ; 
 but the remembrance of my children held my hand. I 
 trembled to leave my dear boys in my tyrant's power, and 
 trembled yet more for their virtue than their lives. The 
 second was still too young to benefit by my instructions ; 
 but in the heart of my eldest I laboured unceasingly to 
 plant those principles which might enable him to avoid 
 the crimes of his parents. He listened to me with docility, 
 or rather with eagerness. Even at his early age he showed 
 that he was not calculated for the society of villains ; and 
 the only comfort which I enjoyed among my sorrows was 
 to witness the dawning virtues of my Theodore. 
 
 ' " Such was my situation when the perfidy of Don 
 Alphonso's postillion conducted him to the cottage. His 
 youth, air, and manners interested me most forcibly in his 
 behalf. The absence of my husband's sons gave me an 
 opportunity which I had long wished to find ; and I 
 resolved to risk everything to preserve the stranger. The 
 vigilance of Baptiste prevented me from warning Don 
 Alphonso of his danger. I knew that my betraying the 
 secret would be immediately punished with death ; and, 
 however embittered was my life by calamities, I wanted 
 courage to sacrifice it for the sake of preserving that of 
 another person. My own hope rested upon procuring 
 succour from Strasburg. At this I resolved to try ; and, 
 should an opportunity offer of warning Don Alphonso of 
 his danger unobserved, I was determined to seize it with 
 avidity. By Baptiste's orders I went upstairs to make the 
 stranger's bed ; I spread upon it sheets in which a traveller 
 had been murdered but a few nights before, and which still 
 were stained with blood. I hoped that these marks would 
 not escape the vigilance of our guest, and that he would 
 
 G 
 
98 THE MONK 
 
 collect from them the designs of my perfidious husband. 
 Neither was this the only step which I took to preserve 
 the stranger ; Theodore was confined to his bed by illness. 
 I stole into his room unobserved by my tyrant, communi- 
 cated to him my project, and he entered into it with 
 eagerness. He rose in spite of his malady, and dressed 
 himself with all speed. I fastened one of the sheets round 
 his arms, and lowered him from the window. He flew to 
 the stable, took Claude's horse, and hastened to Strasburg. 
 Had he been accosted by the banditti, he was to have 
 declared himself sent upon a message by Baptiste, but 
 fortunately he reached the town without meeting any 
 obstacle. Immediately upon his arrival at Strasburg, he 
 entreated assistance from the magistrate ; his story passed 
 from mouth to mouth, and at length came to the knowledge 
 of my lord the Baron. Anxious for the safety of his lady, 
 who he knew would be upon the road that evening, it 
 struck him that she might have fallen into the power of 
 the robbers. He accompanied Theodore, who guided the 
 soldiers towards the cottage, and arrived just in time to 
 save us from falling once more into the hands of our 
 enemies." 
 
 ' Here I interrupted Marguerite to inquire why the 
 sleepy potion had been presented to me. She said that 
 Baptiste supposed me to have arms about me, and wished 
 to incapacitate me from making resistance ; it was a pre- 
 caution which he always took, since, as the travellers had 
 no hopes of escaping, despair would have incited them to 
 sell their lives dearly. 
 
 ' The Baron then desired Marguerite to inform him what 
 were her present plans. I joined him in declaring my 
 readiness to show my gratitude to her for the preservation 
 of my life. 
 
 ' " Disgusted with a world ", she replied, " in which I 
 have met with nothing but misfortunes, my only wish is 
 to retire into a convent. But first I must -provide for my 
 children. I find thatTmy mother is no more — probably 
 driven to an untimely grave by my desertion. My father 
 is still living. He is not an hard man. Perhaps, gentle- 
 men, in spite of my ingratitude and imprudence, your 
 intercessions may induce him to forgive me, and to take 
 charge of his unfortunate grandsons. If you obtain this 
 boon for me, you will repay my services a thousand-fold." 
 
CHAPTER III 99 
 
 ' Both the Baron and myself assured Marguerite that we 
 would spare no pains to obtain her pardon ; and that, even 
 should her father be inflexible, she need be under no 
 apprehensions respecting the fate of her children. I 
 engaged myself to provide for Theodore, and the Baron 
 promised to take the youngest under his protection. The 
 grateful mother thanked us with tears for what she called 
 generosity, but which in fact was no more than a proper 
 sense of our obligations to her ; she then left the room, to 
 put her little boy to bed, whom fatigue and sleep had 
 completely overpowered. 
 
 ' The Baroness, on recovering and being informed from 
 what dangers I had rescued her, set no bounds to the 
 expressions of her gratitude ; she was joined so warmly by 
 her husband in pressing me to accompany them to their 
 castle in Bavaria that I found it impossible to resist their 
 entreaties. During a week which we passed at Strasburg 
 the interests of Marguerite were not forgotten. In our 
 application to her father we succeeded as amply as we 
 could wish. The good old man had lost his wife. He had 
 no children but this unfortunate daughter, of whom he had 
 received no news for almost fourteen years. He was 
 surrounded by distant relations, who waited with impatience 
 for his decease in order to get possession of his money. 
 When therefore Marguerite appeared again so unexpectedly, 
 he considered her as a gift from Heaven ; he received her 
 and her children with open arms, and insisted upon their 
 establishing themselves in his house without delay. The 
 disappointed cousins were obliged to give place. The old 
 man would not hear of his daughter's retiring into a con- 
 vent : he said that she was too necessary to his happiness, 
 and she was easily persuaded to relinquish her designs. 
 But no persuasions could induce Theodore to give up the 
 plan which I had at first marked out for him. He had 
 attached himself to me most sincerely during my stay at 
 Strasburg ; and, when I was on the point of leaving it, he 
 besought me with tears to take him into my service. He 
 set forth all his little talents in the most favourable colours, 
 and tried to convince me that I should find him of infinite 
 use to me upon the road. I was unwilling to charge myself 
 with a lad scarcely turned of thirteen, who I knew could 
 only be a burthen to me ;' however I could not resist the 
 entreaties of this affectionate youth, who in fact possessed 
 
ioo THE MONK 
 
 a thousand estimable qualities. With some difficulty he 
 persuaded his relations to let him follow me ; and, that per- 
 mission once obtained, he was dubbed with the title of my 
 page. Having passed a week at Strasburg, Theodore and 
 myself set out for Bavaria in company with the Baron and 
 his lady. These latter, as well as myself, had forced 
 Marguerite to accept several presents of value, both for 
 herself and her youngest son. On leaving her, I promised 
 his mother faithfully that I would restore Theodore to her 
 within the year. 
 
 ' I have related this adventure at length, Lorenzo, that 
 you might understand the means by which " the adventurer 
 Alphonso d'Alvarada got introduced into the castle of 
 Lindenberg." Judge from this specimen, how much faith 
 should be given to your aunt's assertions.' 
 
CHAPTER I\ 
 
 Avaunt ! and quit my sight !— let the earth hide thee ! 
 Thy bones are marrowless ; thy blood is cold ; 
 Thou hast no speculation in those eyes 
 Which thou dost glare with ! — Hence, horrible shadow ! 
 Unreal mockery, hence 1 
 
 — Macbeth 
 
 CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF DON RAYMOND 
 
 ' My journey was uncommonly agreeable. I found the 
 Baron a man of some sense, but little knowledge of the 
 world. He had passed a great part of his life without 
 stirring beyond the precincts of his own domains, and 
 consequently his manners were far from being the most 
 polished ; but he was hearty, good-humoured, and friendly. 
 His attention to me was all that I could wish, and I had 
 every reason to be satisfied with his behaviour. His ruling 
 passion was hunting, which he had brought himself to 
 consider as a serious occupation ; and, when talking over 
 some remarkable chase, he treated the subject with as 
 much gravity as if it had been a battle on which the fate 
 of two kingdoms was depending. I happened to be a 
 tolerable sportsman ; soon after my arrival at Lindenberg, 
 I gave some proofs of my dexterity ; the Baron immedi- 
 ately marked me down for a man of genius, and vowed to 
 me an eternal friendship. 
 
 'That friendship was become to me by no means 
 indifferent. At the castle of Lindenberg I beheld for 
 the first time your sister, the lovely Agnes. For me, 
 whose heart was unoccupied and who grieved at the void, 
 to see her and to love her were the same. I found in 
 Agnes all that was requisite to secure my affection. She 
 was then scarcely sixteen ; her person, light and elegant, 
 was already formed ; she possessed several talents in pre- 
 fection, particularly those of music and drawing : her 
 character was gay, open, and good-humoured ; and the 
 graceful simplicity of her dress and manners formed an 
 
 IOI 
 
102 THE MONK 
 
 advantageous contrast to the art and studied coquetry of 
 the Parisian dames whom I had just quitted. From the 
 moment that I beheld her I felt the most lively interest 
 in her fate. I made many inquiries respecting her of the 
 Baroness. 
 
 ' " She is my niece ", replied that lady. " You are still 
 ignorant, Don Alphonso, that I am your country-woman. 
 I am sister to the duke of Medina Celi. Agnes is the 
 daughter of my second brother, Don Gaston : she has been 
 destined to the convent from her cradle, and will soon make 
 her profession at Madrid." ' 
 
 Here Lorenzo interrupted the Marquis by an exclama- 
 tion of surprise. ' Intended for the convent from her 
 cradle ! ' said he ; 'by heaven ! this is the first word that 
 I ever heard of such a design.' 
 
 ' I believe it, my dear Lorenzo ' answered Don Raymond ; 
 ' but you must listen to me with patience. You will not 
 be less surprised when I relate some particulars of your 
 family still unknown to you, which I have learned from 
 the mouth of Agnes herself.' 
 
 He then resumed his narrative as follows : ' You cannot 
 but be aware that your parents were unfortunately slaves 
 to the grossest superstition ; when this foible was called 
 into play, their every other sentiment, their every other 
 passion, yielded to its irresistible strength. While she was 
 big with Agnes, your mother was seized by a dangerous 
 illness and given over by her physicians. In this situation 
 Donna Inesilla vowed that, if she recovered from her 
 malady, the child then living in her bosom, if a girl, should 
 be dedicated to St. Clare, if a boy, to St Benedict. Her 
 prayers were heard ; she got rid of her complaint ; Agnes 
 entered the world alive, and was immediately destined to 
 the service of St. Clare. 
 
 ' Don Gaston readily chimed in with his lady's wishes ; 
 but, knowing the sentiments of the duke, his brother, 
 respecting a monastic life, it was determined that your 
 sister's destination should be carefully concealed from him. 
 The better to guard the secret, it was resolved that Agnes 
 should accompany her aunt, Donna Rodolpha, into Germany, 
 whither that lady was on the point of following her new- 
 married husband, Baron Lindenberg. On her arrival at 
 that estate the young Agnes was put into a convent, 
 situated but a few miles from the castle. The nuns to 
 
CHAPTER IV 103 
 
 whom her education was confided performed their charge 
 with exactitude ; they made her a perfect mistress of 
 many accomplishments, and strove to infuse into her mind 
 a taste for the retirement and tranquil pleasures of a con- 
 vent. But a secret instinct made the young recluse sensible 
 that she was not born for solitude ; in all the freedom of 
 youth and gaiety, she scrupled not to treat as ridiculous 
 many ceremonies which the nuns regarded with awe ; and 
 she was never more happy than when her lively imagina- 
 tion inspired her with some scheme to plague the stiff lady 
 abbess or the ugly, ill-tempered, old porteress. She looked 
 with disgust upon the prospect before her; however, no 
 alternative was offered to her, and she submitted to the 
 decree of her parents, though not without secret repining. 
 
 'That repugnance she had not art enough to conceal 
 long ; Don Gaston was informed of it. Alarmed, Lorenzo, 
 lest your affection for her should oppose itself to his 
 projects, and lest you should positively object to your 
 sister's misery, he resolved to keep the whole affair from 
 your knowledge as well as the duke's till the sacrifice 
 should be consummated. The season of her taking the veil 
 was fixed for the time when you should be upon your 
 travels ; in the meanwhile no hint was dropped of Donna 
 Inesilla's fatal vow. Your sister was never permitted to 
 know your direction. All your letters were read before 
 she received them, and those parts effaced which were likely 
 to nourish her inclination for the world ; her answers were 
 dictated either by her aunt or by dame Cunegonda, her 
 governess. These particulars I learned partly from Agnes, 
 partly from the Baroness herself. 
 
 'I immediately determined upon rescuing this lovely 
 girl from a fate so contrary to her inclinations and ill-suited 
 to her merit. I endeavoured to ingratiate myself into her 
 favour ; I boasted of my friendship and intimacy with you. 
 She listened to me with avidity ; she seemed to devour my 
 words while I spoke in your praise ; and her eyes thanked 
 me for my affection to her brother. My constant and 
 unremitted attention at length gained me her heart, and 
 with difficulty I obliged her to confess that she loved me ; 
 when, however, I proposed her quitting the castle of 
 Lindenberg, she rejected the idea in positive terms. 
 
 ' " Be generous, Alphonso " she said ; " you possess my 
 heart, but use not the gift ignobly ; employ not your 
 
ro4 THE MONK 
 
 ascendancy over me in persuading me to take a step at 
 which I should hereafter have to blush. I am young and 
 deserted; my brother, my only friend, is separated from 
 me, and my other relations act with me as my enemies. 
 Take pity on my unprotected situation: instead of seducing 
 me to an action which would cover me with shame, strive 
 rather to gain the affections of those who govern me. The 
 Baron esteems you. My aunt, to others ever harsh, proud, 
 and contemptuous, remembers that you rescued her from 
 the hands of murderers, and wears with you alone the 
 appearance of kindness and benignity. Try then your 
 influence over my guardians. If they consent to our union, 
 my hand is yours. From your account of my brother I 
 cannot doubt your obtaining his approbation ; and, when 
 they find the impossibility of executing their design, I trust 
 that my parents will excuse my disobedience and expiate 
 by some other sacrifice my mother's fatal vow." 
 
 'From the first moment that I beheld Agnes I had 
 endeavoured to conciliate the favour of her relations. 
 Authorized by the confession of her regard I redoubled my 
 exertions. My principal battery was directed against the 
 Baroness ; it was easy to discover that her word was law 
 in the castle: her husband paid her the most absolute 
 submission, and considered her as a superior being. She 
 was about forty ; in her youth she had been a beauty, but 
 her charms had been upon that large scale which can but 
 ill sustain the shock of years ; however, she still possessed 
 some remains of them. Her understanding was strong and 
 excellent when not obscured by prejudice, which unluckily 
 was but seldom the case. Her passions were violent ; she 
 spared no pains to gratify them, and pursued with un- 
 remitting vengeance those who opposed themselves to her 
 wishes : the warmest of friends, the most inveterate of 
 enemies — such was the Baroness Lindenberg. 
 
 ' I laboured incessantly to please her ; unluckily I 
 succeeded but too well. She seemed gratified by my 
 attention, and treated me with a distinction accorded by 
 her to no one else. One of my daily occupations was 
 reading to her for several hours; those hours I should 
 much rather have passed with Agnes, but, as I was conscious 
 that complaisance for her aunt would advance our union, I 
 submitted with a good grace to the penance imposed upon 
 me. Donna Rodolpha's library was principally composed 
 
CHAPTER IV .105 
 
 of old Spanish romances ; these were her favourite studies, 
 and once a day one of these unmerciful volumes was put 
 regularly into my hands. I read the wearisome adventures 
 of Perce Forest, Tirante the White, Palmerin of England, 
 and The Knight of the Sun, till the book was on the point 
 of falling from my hands through ennui. However, the 
 increasing pleasure which the Baroness seemed to take in 
 my society encouraged me to persevere ; and latterly she 
 showed for me a partiality so marked that Agnes advised 
 me to seize the first opportunity of declaring our mutual 
 passion to our aunt. 
 
 ' One evening I was alone with Donna Rodolpha, in her 
 own apartment. As our readings generally treated of love, 
 Agnes was never permitted to assist at them. I was just 
 congratulating myself on having finished The Loves of 
 Tristan and the Queen Iseult — 
 
 ' " Ah ! the unfortunates ! " cried the Baroness : " How 
 say you, Segnor ? Do you think it possible for man to feel 
 an attachment so disinterested and sincere ? " 
 
 ' " I cannot doubt it ", replied I; " my own heart furnishes 
 me with the certainty. Ah ! Donna Rodolpha, might I 
 but hope for your approbation of my love ! might I but 
 confess the name of my mistress without incurring your 
 resentment ! " 
 
 ' She interrupted me — 
 
 ' " Suppose I were to spare you that confession ? 
 Suppose I were to acknowledge that the object of 
 your desires is not unknown to me ? Suppose I were 
 to say that she returns your affection and laments 
 not less sincerely than yourself the unhappy vows which 
 separate her from you ? " 
 
 ' "Ah ! Donna Rodolpha ! " I exclaimed, throwing myself 
 upon my knees before her and pressing her hand to my 
 lips. " You have discovered my secret ! What is your 
 decision ? Must I despair, or may I reckon upon your 
 favour?" 
 
 ' She withdrew not the hand which I held ; but she 
 turned from me and covered her face with the other. 
 
 ' " How can I refuse it you ? " she replied. " Ah ! Don 
 Alphonso, I have long perceived to whom your attentions 
 were directed ; but till now I perceived not the impression 
 which they had made upon my heart. At length I can no 
 longer hide my weakness either from myself or from you ; 
 
106 THE MONK 
 
 I yield to the violence of my passion, and own that I adore 
 you ! For three long months I stifled my desires ; but, 
 growing stronger by resistance, I submit to their im- 
 petuosity. Pride, fear, and honour, respect for myself, and 
 my engagements to the Baron, all are vanquished. I 
 sacrifice them to my love for you ; and it still seems to me 
 that I pay too mean a price for your possession." 
 
 ' She paused for an answer. Judge, Lorenzo, what must 
 have been my confusion at this discovery ! I at once saw 
 all the magnitude of this obstacle which I had myself 
 raised to my happiness. The Baroness had placed those 
 attentions to her own account which I had merely paid 
 her for the sake of Agnes ; and the strength of her 
 expressions, the looks which accompanied them, and my 
 knowledge of her revengeful disposition, made me tremble 
 for myself and my beloved. I was silent for some minutes. 
 I knew not how to reply to her declaration ; I could only 
 resolve to clear up the mistake without delay, and for the 
 present to conceal from her knowledge the name of my 
 mistress. No sooner had she avowed her passion than the 
 transports which before were evident in my features gave 
 place to consternation and constraint. I dropped her hand, 
 and rose from my knees. The change in my countenance 
 did not escape her observation. 
 
 ' " What means this silence ? " said she, in a trembling 
 voice ; " where is that joy which you led me to expect ? " 
 
 "'Forgive me, Segnora.I answered, if what necessity forces 
 from me should seem harsh and ungrateful. To encourage 
 you in an error, which, however it may flatter myself, 
 must prove to you the source of disappointment, would 
 make me appear criminal in every eye. Honour obliges 
 me to inform you that you have mistaken for the solicitude 
 of love what was only the attention of friendship. The 
 latter sentiment is that which I wished to excite in your 
 bosom ! — to entertain a warmer, respect for you forbids 
 me, and gratitude for the Baron's generous treatment. 
 Perhaps these reasons would not be sufficient to shield me 
 from your attractions, were it not that my affections are 
 already bestowed upon another. You have charms, Segnora, 
 which might captivate the most insensible; no heart 
 unoccupied could resist them. Happy is it for me that 
 mine is no longer in my possession, or I should have to 
 reproach myself for ever with having violated ths lawg 
 
CHAPTER IV 10; 
 
 of hospitality. Recollect yourself, noble lady; recollect 
 what is owed by you to honour, by me to the Baron, and 
 replace by esteem and friendship those sentiments which 
 I never can return." 
 
 'The Baroness turned pale at this unexpected and 
 positive declaration; she doubted whether she slept or 
 woke. At length recovering from her surprise, con- 
 sternation gave place to rage, and the blood rushed back 
 into her cheeks with violence. 
 
 ' " Villain ! " she cried ; " Monster of deceit ! Thus is 
 the avowal of my love received ? It is thus that . . . but, 
 no, no ! It cannot, it shall not be ! Alphonso, behold me 
 at your feet ! Be witness of my despair ! Look with pity 
 on a woman who loves you with sincere affection ! She 
 who possesses your heart, how has she merited such a 
 treasure ? What sacrifice has she made to you ? What 
 raises her above Rodolpha ? " 
 
 ' I endeavoured to lift her from her knees. 
 
 ' "For God's sake, Segnora, restrain these transports; they 
 disgrace yourself and me. Your exclamations may be 
 heard, and your secret divulged to your attendants. I see 
 that my presence only irritates you ; permit me to retire." 
 
 ' I prepared to quit the apartment ; the Baroness caught 
 me suddenly by the arm. 
 
 ' " And who is this happy rival ? " said she, in a menacing 
 tone ; " I will know her name, and when I know it. . . ! 
 She is someone in my power ; you entreated my favour, 
 my protection ! Let me but find her, let me but know 
 who dares to rob me of your heart, and she shall suffer 
 every torment which jealousy and disappointment can inflict. 
 Who is she? Answer me this moment. Hope not to 
 conceal her from my vengeance ! Spies shall be set over 
 you ; every step, every look shall be watched ; your eyes 
 will discover my rival ; I shall know her ; and when she 
 is found, tremble, Alphonso, for her and for yourself." 
 
 'As she uttered these last words, her fury mounted to 
 such a pitch as to stop her powers of respiration. She 
 panted, groaned, and at length fainted away. As she was 
 falling, I caught her in my arms, and placed her upon a 
 sofa. Then, hastening to the door, I summoned her women 
 to her assistance ; I committed her to their care, and seized 
 the opportunity of escaping. 
 
 'Agitated and confused beyond expression, I bent my 
 
108 THE MONK 
 
 steps towards the garden. The benignity with which the 
 Baroness had listened to me at first raised my hopes to the 
 highest pitch ; I imagined her to have perceived my attach- 
 ment for her niece, and to approve of it. Extreme was my 
 disappointment at understanding the true purport of her 
 discourse. I knew not what course to take; the super- 
 stition of the parents of Agnes, aided by her aunt's 
 unfortunate passion, seemed to oppose such obstacles to 
 our union as were almost insurmountable. 
 
 ' As I passed by a low parlour, whose windows looked 
 into the garden, through the door which stood half open I 
 observed Agnes seated at a table. She was occupied in 
 drawing, and several unfinished sketches were scattered 
 round her. I entered, still undetermined whether I should 
 acquaint her with the declaration of the Baroness. 
 
 ' " Oh ! is it only you ? " said she, raising her head : " You 
 are no stranger, and I shall continue my occupation without 
 ceremony. Take a chair, and seat yourself by me." 
 
 ' I obeyed, and placed myself near the table. Unconscious 
 what I was doing, and totally occupied by the scene which 
 had just passed, I took up some of the drawings, and cast 
 my eyes over them. One of the subjects struck me from 
 its singularity. It represented the great hall of the castle 
 of Lindenberg. A door conducting to a narrow staircase 
 stood half open. In the foreground appeared a group of 
 figures, placed in the most grotesque attitudes ; terror was 
 expressed upon every countenance. Here was one upon 
 his knees, with his eyes cast up to heaven, and praying 
 most devoutly ; there, another was creeping away upon all 
 fours. Some hid their faces in their cloaks or the laps of 
 their companions ; some had concealed themselves beneath 
 a table, on which the remnants of a feast were visible ; 
 while others, with gaping mouths and eyes wide-stretched, 
 pointed to a figure supposed to have created this disturbance. 
 It represented a female of more than human stature, clothed 
 in the habit of some religious order. Her face was veiled ; 
 on her arm hung a chaplet of beads; her dress was in 
 several places stained with the blood which trickled from 
 a wound upon her bosom. In one hand she held a lamp, 
 in the other a large knife, and she seemed advancing towards 
 the iron gates of the hall. 
 
 '" What does this mean, Agnes ? " said I. " Is this some 
 invention of your own?" 
 
CHAPTER IV 109 
 
 1 She cast her eyes upon the drawing. 
 
 '" Oh ! no " she replied ; " 'tis the invention of much 
 wiser heads than mine. But can you possibly have lived 
 at Lindenberg for three whole months without hearing of 
 the Blading Nun.?" 
 
 ""• " You are the first who ever mentioned the name to me. 
 Pray, who may the lady be ? " 
 
 ' " That is more than I can pretend to tell you. All my 
 knowledge of her history comes from an old tradition in 
 this family, which has been handed down from father to 
 eon, and is firmly credited throughout the Baron's 
 domains. Nay, the Baron believes it himself; and as 
 for my aunt, who has a natural turn for the 
 marvellous, she would sooner doubt the veracity of 
 the Bible than of the Bleeding Nun. Shall I tell you 
 this history?" 
 
 ' I answered that she would oblige me much by relating 
 it ; she resumed her drawing, and then proceeded as follows, 
 in a tone of burlesqued gravity : 
 
 '"It is surprising that in all the chronicles of past times 
 this remarkable personage is never once mentioned. Fain 
 would I recount to you her life ; but unluckily till after 
 her death she was never known to have existed. Then 
 first did she think it necessary to make some noise in the 
 world ; and with that intention she made bold to seize upon 
 the castle of Lindenberg. Having a good taste, she took 
 up her abode in the best room of the house; and, once 
 established there, she began to amuse herself by knocking 
 about the tables and chairs in the middle of the night. 
 Perhaps she was a bad sleeper, but this I have never been 
 able to ascertain. According to the tradition, this enter- 
 tainment commenced about a century ago. It was accom- 
 panied with shrieking, howling, groaning, swearing, and 
 many other agreeable noises of the same kind. But, though 
 one particular room was more especially honoured with 
 her visits, she did not entirely confine herself to it. She 
 occasionally ventured into the old galleries, paced up and 
 down the spacious halls, or sometimes, stopping at the 
 doors of the chambers, she wept and wailed there, to the 
 universal terror of the inhabitants. In these nocturnal 
 excursions she was seen by different people, who all 
 describe her appearance as you behold it here traced by 
 the hand of her unworthy historian." 
 
no THE MONK 
 
 ' The singularity of this account insensibly engaged my 
 attention. 
 
 ' " Did she never speak to those who met her ? " said I. 
 
 ' " Not she. The specimens indeed which she gave 
 nightly of her talents for conversation, were by no means 
 inviting. Sometimes the castle Tung with oaths and 
 execrations; a moment after she repeated her 'pater- 
 noster ; now she howled out the most horrible blasphemies, 
 and then chanted Be profundis, as orderly as if still in 
 the choir : in short, she seemed a mighty capricious being ; 
 but, whether she prayed or cursed, whether she was 
 impious or devout, she always contrived to terrify her 
 auditors out of their senses. The castle became scarcely 
 habitable, and its lord was so frightened by these mid- 
 night revels that one fine morning he was found dead in 
 his bed. This success seemed to please the nun mightily, 
 for now she made more noise than ever. But the next 
 Baron proved too cunning for her. He made his appear- 
 ance with a celebrated exorcizer in his hand, who feared 
 not to shut himself up for a night in the haunted chamber. 
 There it seems that he had a hard battle with the ghost 
 before she would promise to be quiet. She was obstinate, 
 but he was more so ; and at length she consented to let the 
 inhabitants of the castle take a good night's rest. For 
 some time after no news was heard of her ; but at the end 
 of five years the exorcizer died, and then the nun ventured 
 to peep abroad again. However, she was now grown much 
 more tractable and well-behaved. She walked about in 
 silence, and never made her appearance above once in five 
 years. This custom, if you will believe the Baron, she still 
 continues. He is fully persuaded that on the fifth of May 
 of every fifth year, as soon as the clock strikes one, the 
 door of the haunted chamber opens. (Observe that this 
 room has been shut up for near a century.) Then out 
 walks the ghostly nun with her lamp and dagger; she 
 descends the staircase of the eastern tower, and crosses 
 the great hall. On that night the porter always leaves 
 the gates of the castle open, out of respect to the appari- 
 tion; not that this is thought by any means necessary, 
 since she could easily whip through the key-hole if she 
 chose it ; but merely out of politeness, and to prevent her 
 from making her exit in a way so derogatory to the dignity 
 of her ghostship." 
 
CHAPTER IV in 
 
 ' " And whither does she go, on quitting the castle ? " 
 
 "'To heaven, I hope ; but, if she does, the place certainly 
 is not to her taste, for she always returns after an hour's 
 absence. The lady then retires to her chamber, and is quiet 
 for another five years." 
 
 '"And you believe this, Agnes ? " 
 
 ' " How can you ask such a question ? No, no, Alphonso ! 
 I have too much reason to lament superstition's influence 
 to be its victim myself. However, I must not avow my 
 incredulity to the Baroness ; she entertains not a doubt of 
 the truth of this history. As to dame Ounegonda, my 
 governess, she protests that fifteen years ago she saw the 
 spectre with her own eyes. She related to me one evening 
 how she and several other domestics had been terrified 
 while at supper by the appearance of the Bleeding Nun, 
 as the ghost is called in the castle ; 'tis from her account 
 that I drew this sketch, and you may be certain that Oune- 
 gonda was not omitted. There she is ! I shall never forget 
 what a passion she was in, and how ugly she looked while 
 she scolded me for having made her picture so like 
 herself ! " 
 
 ' Here she pointed to a burlesque figure of an old woman 
 in an attitude of terror. 
 
 ' In spite of the melancholy which oppressed me, I could 
 not help smiling at the playful imagination of Agnes ; she 
 had perfectly preserved dame Cunegonda's resemblance, 
 but had so much exaggerated every fault, and rendered 
 every feature so irresistibly laughable, that I could easily 
 conceive the duenna's anger. 
 
 ' " The figure is admirable, my dear Agnes ! I knew not 
 that you possessed such talents for the ridiculous." 
 
 '"Stay a moment" she replied; "I will show you a 
 figure still more ridiculous than dame Cunegonda's. If 
 it pleases you, you may dispose of it as seems best to 
 yourself." 
 
 ' She rose, and went to a cabinet at some little distance ; 
 unlocking a drawer, she took out a small case, which she 
 opened and presented to me. 
 
 '"Do you know the resemblance ? " said she, smiling. 
 
 ' It was her own. 
 
 ' Transported at the gift, I pressed the portrait to my 
 lips with passion ; I threw myself at her feet, and declared 
 my gratitude in the warmest and most affectionate terms. 
 
U2 THE MONK 
 
 She listened to me with complaisance, and assured me that 
 she shared my sentiments; when suddenly she uttered a 
 loud shriek, disengaged the hand which I held, and flew 
 from the room by a door which opened to the garden. 
 Amazed at this abrupt departure, I rose hastily from my 
 knees. I beheld with confusion the Baroness standing 
 near me, glowing with jealousy and almost choked with 
 rage. On recovering from her swoon, she had tortured 
 her imagination to discover her concealed rival. No one 
 appeared to deserve her suspicions more than Agnes. She 
 immediately hastened to find her niece, tax her with 
 encouraging my addresses, and assure herself whether her con- 
 jectures were well-grounded. Unfortunately, she had already 
 seen enough to need no other confirmation ; she arrived 
 at the door of the room, at the precise moment when Agnes 
 gave me her portrait ; she heard me profess an everlasting 
 attachment to her rival, and saw ma kneeling at her 
 feet. She advanced to separate us; we were too much 
 occupied by each other to perceive her approach, and 
 were not aware of it till Agnes beheld her standing by 
 my side. 
 
 ' Rage on the part of Donna Rodolpha, embarrassment 
 on mine, for some time kept us both silent. The lady 
 recovered herself first : 
 
 ' " My suspicions then were just " said she ; " the coquetry 
 of my niece has triumphed, and 'tis to her that I am 
 sacrificed. In one respect, however, I am fortunate ; I shall 
 not be the only one who laments a disappointed passion ; 
 you, too, shall know what it is to love without hope ! I 
 daily expect orders for restoring Agnes to her parents. 
 Immediately upon her arrival in Spain she will take the 
 veil, and place an insuperable barrier to your union. Yon 
 may spare your supplications." — She continued, perceiving 
 me on the point of speaking : " my resolution is fixed and 
 immovable. Your mistress shall remain a close prisoner in 
 her chamber till she exchanges this castle for the cloister. 
 Solitude will perhaps recall her to a sense of her duty : 
 but to prevent your opposing that wished event, I must 
 inform you, Don Alphonso, that your presence here is no 
 longer agreeable either to the Baron or myself. It was 
 not to talk nonsense to ray niece, that your relations sent 
 you to Germany ; your business was to travel, and I should 
 be sorry to impede any longer so excellent a design. Fare- 
 
CHAPTER IV 113 
 
 well, Segnor ; remember, that to-morrow morning we meet 
 for the last time." 
 
 ' Having said this, she darted upon me a look of pride, 
 contempt, and malice, and quitted the apartment. I also 
 retired to mine, and consumed the night in planning the 
 means of rescuing Agnes from the power of her tyrannical 
 aunt. 
 
 ' After the positive declaration of its mistress, it was 
 impossible for me to make a longer stay at the castle of 
 Lindenberg ; accordingly, I, the next day announced my im- 
 mediate departure. The Baron declared that it gave him 
 sincere pain; and he expressed himself in my favour so 
 warmly that I endeavoured to win him over to my interest. 
 Scarcely had I mentioned the name of Agnes, when he 
 stopped me short, and said that it was totally out of his power 
 to interfere in the business. I saw that it was in vain to 
 argue ; the Baroness governed her husband with despotic 
 sway, and I easily perceived that she had prejudiced him 
 against the match. Agnes did not appear ; I entreated 
 permission to take leave of her, but my prayer was 
 rejected. I was obliged to depart without seeing her. 
 
 * At quitting him, the Baron shook my hand affectionately, 
 and assured me that as soon as his niece was gone I might 
 consider his house as my own. 
 
 ' " Farewell, Don Alphonso ! " said the Baroness, and 
 stretched out her hand to me. 
 
 ' I took it, and offered to carry it to my lips. She 
 prevented me. Her husband was at the other end of the 
 room, and out of hearing. 
 
 ' " Take care of yourself " she continued ; " my love is 
 become hatred, and my wounded pride shall not be 
 unatoned. Go where you will, my vengeance shall follow 
 you ! " 
 
 ' She accompanied these words with a look sufficient to 
 make me tremble. I answered not, but hastened to quit 
 the castle. 
 
 ' As my chaise drove out of the court, I looked up to the 
 windows of your sister's chamber ; nobody was to be seen 
 there. I threw myself back despondent in my carriage. I 
 was attended by no other servants than a Frenchman 
 whom I had hired at Sfcrasburg in Stephano's room, and 
 my little page, whom I before mentioned to you. The 
 fidelity, intelligence, and good temper of Theodore 
 
 H 
 
U4 THE MONK 
 
 had already made him dear to me ; but he now prepared 
 to lay an obligation on me which made me look upon him 
 as a guardian genius. Scarcely had we proceeded half a 
 mile from the castle when he rode up to the chaise door. 
 
 ' " Take courage, Segnor ! " said he in Spanish, which he 
 had already learned to speak with fluency and correctness. 
 " While you were with the Baron, I watched the moment 
 when dame Cunegonda was below-stairs, and mounted 
 into the chamber over that of Donna Agnes. I sang as 
 loud as I could a little German air well known to her, 
 hoping that she would recollect my voice. I was not dis- 
 appointed, for I soon heard her window open. I hastened 
 to let down a string with which I had provided myself. 
 Upon hearing the casement closed again, I drew up the 
 string, and, fastened to it, I found this scrap of paper." 
 
 ' He then presented me with a small note, addressed 
 to me. I opened it with impatience. It contained the 
 following words, written in pencil : 
 
 Conceal yourself for the next fortnight in some neighbouring village. 
 My aunt will believe you to have quited Lindenberg, and I shall be 
 restored to liberty. I will be in the west pavilion at twelve on the 
 night of the thirtieth. Fail not to be there, and we shall have an 
 opportunity of concerting our future plans. Adieu. 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 'At perusing these lines my transports exceeded all 
 bounds; neither did I set any to the expressions of 
 gratitude which I heaped upon Theodore. In fact, his 
 address and attention merited my warmest praise. You 
 will readily believe that I had not entrusted him with my 
 passion for Agnes ; but the arch youth had too much dis- 
 cernment not to discover my secret, and too much discretion 
 not to conceal his knowledge of it. He observed in silence 
 what was going on, nor strove to make himself an agent 
 in the business till my interests required his interference. 
 I equally admired his judgment, his penetration, his address, 
 and his fidelity. This was not the first occasion in which 
 I had found him of infinite use, and I was every day more 
 convinced of his quickness and capacity. During my short 
 stay at Strasburg, he had applied himself diligently to 
 learning the rudiments of Spanish. He continued to study 
 it, and with so much success that he spoke it with the same 
 facility as his native language. He passed the greatest 
 part of his time in reading. He had acquired much 
 
CHAPTER IV iiS 
 
 information for his age, and united the advantages of a 
 lively countenance and prepossessing figure to an excellent 
 understanding and the very best of hearts. He is now 
 fifteen ; he is still in my service ; and, when you see him, 
 I am sure that he will please you.— But excuse this 
 digression ; I return to the subject which I quitted. I 
 obeyed the instructions of Agnes. I proceeded to Munich ; 
 there I left my chaise under the care of Lucas, my French 
 servant, and then returned on horseback to a small village 
 about four miles distant from the castle of Lindenberg. 
 Upon arriving there, a story was related to the host at 
 whose inn I alighted which prevented his wondering at 
 my making so long a stay in his house. The old man, 
 fortunately, was credulous and incurious ; he believed all I 
 said, and sought to know no more than what I thought 
 proper to tell him. Nobody was with me but Theodore ; 
 both were disguised ; and, as we kept ourselves close, we 
 were not suspected to be other than what we seemed. In 
 this manner the fortnight passed away. During that time 
 I had the pleasing conviction that Agnes was once more 
 at liberty. She passed through the village with dame 
 Cunegonda; she seemed in good health and spirits, and 
 talked to her companion without any appearance of 
 constraint. 
 
 * Who are those ladies ? said I to my host, as the carriage 
 pasied. 
 
 ' " Baron Lindenberg's niece, with her governess," he 
 replied ; " she goes regularly every Friday to the convent 
 of St. Catharine, in which she was brought up, and which 
 is situated about a mile from hence." 
 
 ' You may be certain that I waited with impatience for 
 the ensuing Friday. I again beheld my lovely mistress. 
 She cast her eyes upon me as she passed the inn door. A 
 blush which overspread her cheek told me that in spite of 
 my disguise I had been recognized. I bowed profoundly. 
 She returned the compliment by a slight inclination of the 
 head, as if made to one inferior, and looked another way 
 till the carriage was out of sight. 
 
 'The long-expected, long-wished-for, night arrived. It 
 was calm, and the moon was at the full. As soon as the 
 clock struck eleven I hastened to my appointment, 
 determined not to be too late. Theodore had provided 
 a ladder; I ascended the garden wall without difficulty. 
 
n6 THE MONK 
 
 The page followed me, and drew the ladder after us. 1 
 posted myself in the west pavilion, and waited impatiently 
 for the approach of Agnes. Every breeze that whispered, 
 every leaf that fell, I believed to be her footstep, and 
 hastened to meet her. Thus was I obliged to pass a 
 full hour, every minute of which appeared to me an age. 
 The castle bell at length tolled twelve, and scarcely could 
 I believe the night to be no farther advanced. Another 
 quarter of an hour elapsed, and I heard the light 
 foot of my mistress approaching the pavilion with pre- 
 caution. I new to receive her, and conducted her to a 
 seat ; I threw myself at her feet, and was expressing my 
 joy at seeing her, when she thus interrupted me : 
 
 ' " We have no time to lose, Alphonso ; the moments are 
 precious ; for, though no more a prisoner, Cunegonda 
 watches my every step. An express is arrived from my 
 father; I must depart immediately for Madrid, and 'tis 
 with difficulty that I have obtained a week's delay. The 
 superstition of my parents, supported by the representations 
 of my cruel aunt, leaves me no hope of softening them to 
 compassion. In this dilemma I have resolved to commit 
 myself to your honour. God grant that you may never 
 give me cause to repent my resolution ! Flight is my only 
 resource from the horrors of a convent ; and my imprudence 
 must be excused by the urgency of the danger. Now listen 
 to the plan by which I hope to effect my escape. 
 
 ' " We are now at the thirtieth of April. On the fifth 
 day from this the visionary nun is expected to appear. In 
 my last visit to the convent I provided myself with a dress 
 proper for the character. A friend whom I have left there, 
 and to whom I made no scruple to confide my secret, 
 readily consented to supply me with a religious habit. 
 Provide a carriage, and be with it at a little distance from 
 the great gate from the castle. As soon as the clock strikes 
 ' one ' I shall quit my chamber, dressed in the same apparel 
 as the ghost is supposed to wear. Whoever meets me will 
 be too much terrified to oppose my escape ; I shall easily 
 reach the door, and throw myself under your protection. 
 Thus far success is certain ; but, oh ! Alphonso, should you 
 deceive me ; should you despise my imprudence, and 
 reward it with ingratitude, the world will not hold a being 
 more wretched than myself! I feel all the dangers to 
 which I shall be exposed. I feel that I am giving you a 
 
CHAPTER IV 117 
 
 right to treat me with levity ; but I rely upon your love, 
 upon your honour ! The step which I am on the point of 
 taking will incense my relations against me. Should you 
 desert, should you betray the trust reposed in you, I shall 
 have no friend to punish your insult or support my cause. 
 On yourself alone rests all my hope; and, if your own 
 heart does not plead in my behalf, I am undone for ever ! " 
 
 ' The tone in which she pronounced these words was so 
 touching that, in spite of my joy at receiving her promise 
 to follow me, I could not help being affected. I also 
 repined in secret at not having taken the precaution to 
 provide a carriage at the village ; in which case I might 
 have carried off Agnes that very night. Such an attempt 
 was now impracticable; neither carriage nor horses were 
 to be procured nearer Munich, which was distant from 
 Lindenberg two good days' journey. I was therefore 
 obliged to chime in with her plan, which in truth seemed 
 well arranged. Her disguise would secure her from being 
 stopped in quitting the castle, and would enable her to 
 step into the carriage at the very gate without difficulty 
 or losing time. 
 
 'Agnes reclined her head mournfully upon my shoulder, 
 and by the light of the moon I saw tears flowing down her 
 cheek. I strove to dissipate her melancholy, and encouraged 
 her to look forward to the prospect of happiness. I pro- 
 tested in the most solemn terms that her virtue and 
 innocence would be safe in my keeping ; and that, till the 
 church had made her my lawful wife, her honour should 
 be held by me as sacred as a sister's. I told her that my 
 first care should be to find you out, Lorenzo, and reconcile 
 you to our union ; and I was continuing to speak in the 
 same strain when a noise without alarmed me. Suddenly 
 the door of the pavilion was thrown open, and Cunegonda 
 stood before us. She had heard Agnes steal out of her 
 chamber, followed her into the garden, and perceived her 
 entering the pavilion. 
 
 'Favoured by the trees which shaded it and unper- 
 ceived by Theodore, who waited at a little distance, she 
 had approached in silence and overheard our whole 
 conversation. 
 
 ' " Admirable ! " cried Cunegonda, in a voice shrill with 
 passion, while Agnes uttered a loud shriek. " By St. 
 Barbara, young lady, you have an excellant invention! 
 
n8 THE MONK 
 
 You must personate the Bleeding Nun, truly ? What 
 impiety ! — what incredulity ! Marry, I have a good 
 mind to let you pursue your plan. When the real 
 ghost met you I warrant you would be in a pretty 
 condition ! Don Alphortto, you ought to be ashamed of 
 yourself for seducing a young ignorant creature to leave 
 her family and friends ; however, for this time, at least, 
 I shall mar your wicked designs ; the noble lady shall be 
 informed of the whole affair, and Agnes must defer playing 
 the spectre till a better opportunity. Farewell, Segnor. — 
 Donna Agnes, let me have the honour of conducting your 
 ghostship back to your apartment." 
 
 ' She approached the sofa on which her trembling pupil 
 was seated, took her by the hand, and prepared to lead her 
 from the pavilion. 
 
 'I detained her, and strove by entreaties, soothing 
 promises, and flattery, to win her to my party; but, 
 finding all that I could say of no avail, I abandoned the 
 vain attempt. 
 
 ' Your obstinacy must be its own punishment, said I ; 
 but one resource remains to save Agnes and myself, and I 
 shall not hesitate to employ it. 
 
 ' Terrified at this menace, she again endeavoured to quit 
 the pavilion ; but I seized her by the wrist, and detained 
 her forcibly. At the same moment Theodore, who had 
 followed her into the room, closed the door, and prevented 
 her escape. I took the veil of Agnes ; I threw it round 
 the duenna's head, who uttered such piercing shrieks that, 
 in spite of our distance from the castle, I dreaded their 
 being heard. At length I succeeded in gagging her so 
 completely that she could not produce a single sound. 
 Theodore and myself with some difficulty next contrived 
 to bind her hands and feet with our handkerchiefs ; and I 
 advised Agnes to regain her chamber with all diligence. I 
 promised that no harm should happen to Ounegonda ; bade 
 her remember that on the fifth of May I should be in 
 waiting at the great gate of the castle, and took of her an 
 affectionate farewell. Trembling and uneasy, she had 
 scarce power enough to signify her consent to my plans, 
 and fled back to her apartment in disorder and confusion. 
 
 ' In the meanwhile Theodore assisted me in carrying off 
 my antiquated prize. She was hoisted over the wall, 
 placed before me upon my horse like a portmanteau, and 
 
CHAPTER IV 119 
 
 I galloped away with her from the castle of Lindenberg. 
 The unlucky duenna never had made a more disagreeable 
 journey in her life. She was jolted and shaken till she 
 was become little more than an animated mummy, not to 
 mention her fright when we war 1 3d through a small river 
 through which it was necessary to pass in order to regain 
 the village. Before we reached the inn I had already 
 determined how to dispose of the troublesome Cunegonda. 
 We entered the street in which the inn stood ; and, while 
 the page knocked, I waited at a little distance. The 
 landlord opened the door with a lamp in his hand. 
 
 ' " Give me the light ", said Theodore " my master is 
 coming." 
 
 ' He snatched the lamp hastily, and purposely let it fall 
 upon the ground. The landlord returned to the kitchen 
 to re-light the lamp, leaving the door open. I profited by 
 the obscurity, sprang from my horse with Cunegonda in 
 my arms, darted upstairs, reached my chamber unper- 
 ceived, and, unlocking the door of a spacious closet, stowed 
 her within it, and then turned the key. The landlord and 
 Theodore soon after appeared with lights ; the former 
 expressed himself surprised at my returning so late, but 
 asked no impertiment questions. He soon quitted the 
 room, and left me to exult in the success of my 
 undertaking. 
 
 ' I immediately paid a visit to my prisoner. I strove to 
 persuade her submitting with patience to her temporary 
 confinement. My attempt was unsuccessful. Unable to 
 speak or move, she expressed her fury by her looks ; and, 
 except at meals, I never dared to unbind her or release her 
 from the gag. At such times I stood over her with a 
 drawn sword, and protested that, if she uttered a single 
 cry, I would plunge it in her bosom. As soon as she had 
 done eating, the gag was replaced. I was conscious that 
 this proceeding was cruel and could only be justified by 
 the urgency of circumstances. As to Theodore, he had no 
 scruples upon the subject, Cunegonda's captivity enter- 
 tained him beyond measure. During his abode in the 
 castle a continual warfare had been carried on between 
 him and the duenna ; and, now that he found his enemy 
 so absolutely in his power, he triumphed without mercy ; 
 he seemed to think of nothing but how to find out new 
 means of plaguing her. Sometimes he affected to pity her 
 
120 THE MONK 
 
 misfortune ; then laughed at, abused, and mimicked her ; 
 he played her a thousand tricks, each more provoking 
 than the other; and amused himself by telling her that 
 her elopement must have occasioned much surprise at the 
 Baron's. This was in fact the case. No one except Agnes 
 could imagine what was become of dame Cunegonda. 
 Every hole and corner was searched for her, the ponds 
 were dragged, and the woods underwent a thorough 
 examination: still no dame Cunegonda made her appear- 
 ance ; Agnes kept the secret, and I kept the duenna : the 
 Baroness, therefore, remained in total ignorance respecting 
 the old woman's fate, but suspected her to have perished 
 by suicide. Thus passed away five days, during which I 
 had prepared everything necessary for my enterprise. On 
 quitting Agnes I had made it my first business to dispatch 
 a peasant with a letter to Lucas at Munich, ordering him 
 to take care that a coach and four should arrive about ten 
 o'clock on the fifth of May at the village of Rosenwald. 
 He obeyed my instructions punctually; the equipage 
 arrived at the time appointed. 
 
 'As the period of her lady's elopement drew nearer, 
 Cunegonda's rage increased. I verily believe that spite 
 and passion would have killed her, had I not luckily 
 discovered her prepossession in favour of cherry-brandy. 
 With this favourite liquor she was plentifully supplied; 
 and, Theodore always remaining to guard her, the gag 
 was occasionally removed. The liquor seemed to have a 
 wonderful effect in softening the acrimony of her nature ; 
 and, her confinement not admitting of any other amuse- 
 ment, she got drunk regularly once a day, just by way of 
 passing the time. 
 
 ' The fifth of May arrived — a period by me never to be 
 forgotten ! Before the clock struck twelve I betook 
 myself to the scene of action. Theodore followed me on 
 horseback. I concealed the carriage in a spacious cavern 
 of the hill on whose hrow the castle was situated. This 
 cavern was of considerable depth, and among the peasants 
 was known by the name of Lindenberg Hole. The night 
 was calm and beautiful ; the moonbeams fell upon the 
 ancient towers of the castle, and shed upon their summits 
 a silver light. All was still around me ; nothing was to be 
 heard except the night-breeze sighing among the leaves, 
 the distant barking of village dogs, or the owl who had 
 
CHAPTER IV 121 
 
 established herself in a nook of the deserted eastern 
 turret. I heard her melancholy shriek, and looked 
 upwards; she sat upon the ridge of a window, which I 
 recognized to be that of the of the haunted room. This 
 brought to my remembrance the story of the Bleeding 
 Nun, and I signed while I reflected on the influence of 
 superstition and weakness of human reason. Suddenly I 
 heard a faint chorus steal upon the silence of the night. 
 
 ' What can occasion that noise, Theodore ? 
 
 ' " A stranger of distinction", replied he, " passed through 
 the village to-day in his way to the castle ; he is reported 
 to be the father of Donna Agnes ; doubtless the Baron has 
 given an entertainment to celebrate his arrival." 
 
 ' The castle-bell announced the hour of midnight. This 
 was the usual signal for the family to retire to bed. Soon 
 after I perceived lights in the castle moving backwards 
 and forwards in different directions. I conjectured the 
 company to be separated. I could hear the heavy 
 doors grate as they opened with difficulty, and as 
 they closed again the rotten casements rattled in their 
 frames. The chamber of Agnes was on the other side of 
 the castle. I trembled lest she should have failed in 
 obtaining the key of the haunted room. Through this it 
 was necessary for her to pass in order to reach the narrow 
 staircase by which the ghost was supposed to descend into 
 the great hall. Agitated by this apprehension, I kept my 
 eyes constantly fixed upon the window, where I hoped to 
 perceive the friendly glare of a lamp borne by Agnes. I 
 now heard the massy gates unbarred. By the candle in 
 his hand I distinguished old Conrad, the porter. He set 
 the portal doors wide open, and retired. The lights in the 
 castle gradually disappeared, and at length the whole 
 building was wrapt in darkness. 
 
 ' While I sat upon a broken rjjJge*of'lllm4*iiL the stillness 
 of the scene inspired me < Eith melanchol y ideas not 
 altogether unpleasing. The caslle, wnich stood full in my 
 sight, formed an object e qually awful and picturesqu e. Its 
 ponderous walls, tinged Dy she moon with solemn brightness; 
 its old and partly ruined towers, lifting themselves into 
 the clouds, and seeming to frown on the plains around 
 them; its lofty battlements, overgrown with ivy, and 
 folding gates, expanding in honour of the visionary 
 inhabitant; made me sensible of a sad and reverential 
 
122 THE MONK 
 
 horror. Yet did not these sensations occupy me so fully 
 as to prevent me from witnessing with impatience the 
 slow progress of time. I approached the castle, and 
 ventured to walk round it. A few rays of light still 
 glimmered in the chamber of Agnes. I observed them 
 with joy. I was still gazing upon them when I perceived 
 a figure draw near the window, and the curtain was 
 carefully closed to conceal the lamp which burned there. 
 Convinced by this observation that Agnes had not 
 abandoned our plan, I returned with a light heart to my 
 former station. 
 
 ' The half-hour struck ! — the three-quarters struck ! My 
 bosom beat high with hope and expectation. At length, 
 the wished -for sound was heard. The bell tolled 'one', 
 and the mansion echoed with the noise loud and solemn. — 
 I looked up to the casement of the haunted chamber. 
 Scarcely had five minutes elapsed when the expected 
 light appeared. I was now close to the tower. The 
 window was not so far from the ground, but that I fancied 
 I perceived a female figure with a lamp in her hand 
 moving slowly along the apartment. The light soon faded 
 away, and all was again dark and gloomy. 
 
 ' Occasional gleams of brightness darted from the stair- 
 case windows as the lovely ghost passed by them. I traced 
 the light through the hall; it reached the portal, and at 
 length I beheld Agnes pass through the folding gates. She 
 was habited exactly as she had described the spectre. A 
 chaplet of beads hung upon her arm ; her head was 
 enveloped in a long white veil ; her nun's dress was 
 stained with blood ; and she had taken care to provide 
 herself with a lamp and dagger. She advanced towards 
 the spot where I stood. I flew to meet her, and clasped 
 her in my arms. 
 
 ' Agnes ! said I, while I pressed her to my bosom : 
 
 Agnes ! Agnes ! thou art mine ! 
 
 Agnea ! Agnes ! I am thine ! 
 
 In my veins while blood shall roll, 
 
 Thou art mine ! 
 
 I am thine ! — 
 "Thine my body ! thine my soul I 
 
 ' Terrified and breathless, she was unable to speak. She 
 dropped her lamp and dagger, and sank upon my bosom in 
 
CHAPTER IV 123 
 
 silence. I raised her in my arms, and conveyed her to the 
 carriage. Theodore remained behind in order to release 
 dame Cunegonda. I also charged him with a letter to the 
 Baroness, explaining the whole affair, and entreating her 
 good offices in reconciling Don Gaston to my union with 
 his daughter. I discovered to her my real name. I proved 
 to her that my birth and expectations justified my pretend- 
 ing to her niece ; and assured her, though it was out of my 
 power to return her love, that I would strive unceasingly 
 to obtain her esteem and friendship. 
 
 ' I stepped into the carriage, where Agnes was already 
 seated. Theodore closed the door, and the postillions drove 
 away. At first, I was delighted with the rapidity of our 
 progress ; but as soon as we were in no danger of pursuit 
 I called to the drivers, and bade them moderate their pace. 
 They strove in vain to obey me; the horses refused to 
 answer the rein, and continued to rush on with astonishing 
 swiftness. The postillions redoubled their efforts to stop 
 them ; but, by kicking and plunging, the beasts soon 
 released themselves from this restraint. Uttering a loud 
 shriek, the drivers were hurled upon the ground. Immedi- 
 ately thick clouds obscured the sky; the winds howled 
 around us, the lightning flashed, and the thunder roared 
 tremendously. Never did I behold so frightful a tempest ! 
 Terrified by the jar of contending elements, the horses 
 seemed every moment to increase their speed. Nothing 
 could interrupt their career; they dragged the carriage 
 through hedges and ditches, dashed down the most 
 dangerous precipices, and seemed to vie in swiftness with 
 the rapidity of the winds. 
 
 ' All this while my companion lay motionless in my arms. 
 Truly alarmed by the magnitude of the danger, I was in 
 vain attempting to recall her to her senses when a loud 
 crash announced that a stop was put to our progress in the 
 most disagreeable manner. The carriage was shattered to 
 pieces. In falling I struck my temple against a flint. The 
 pain of the wound, the violence of' the shock, and appre- 
 hension for the safety of Agnes, combined to overpower 
 me so completely that my senses forsook me, and I lay 
 without animation on the ground. 
 
 'I probably remained for some time in this situation, 
 since, when I opened my eyes, it was broad daylight. 
 Several peasants were standing round me, and seemed 
 
124 THE MONK 
 
 disputing whether my recovery was possible. I spoke 
 German tolerably well. As soon as I could utter an 
 articulate sound, I inquired after Agnes. What was my 
 surprise and distress when assured by the peasants that 
 nobody had been seen answering the description which I 
 gave of her ! They told me, that, in going to their daily 
 labour, they had been alarmed by observing the fragments 
 of my carriage and by hearing the groans of a horse, the 
 only one of the four which remained alive ; the other three 
 lay dead by my side. Nobody was near me when they 
 came up, and much time had been lost before they succeeded 
 in recovering me. Uneasy beyond expression respecting 
 the fate of my companion, I besought the peasants to 
 disperse themselves in search of her. I described her dress, 
 and promised immense rewards to whoever brought me any 
 intelligence. As for myself, it was impossible for me to 
 join in the pursuit ; I had broken two of my ribs in the 
 fall ; my arm, being dislocated, hung useless by my side ; 
 and my left leg was shattered so terribly that I never 
 expected to recover its use. 
 
 'The peasants complied with my request; all left me 
 except four, who made a litter of boughs, and prepared to 
 convey me to the neighbouring town. I inquired its name ; 
 it proved to be Ratisbon, and I could scarcely persuade, 
 myself that I had travelled to such a distance in a single 
 night. I told the countrymen that at one o'clock that 
 morning I had passed through the village of Rosenwald. 
 They shook their heads wistfully, and made signs to each 
 other that I must certainly be delirious. I was conveyed 
 to a decent inn, and immediately put to bed. A physician 
 was sent for, who set my arm with success; he then 
 examined my other hurts, and told me that I need be under 
 no apprehension of the consequences of any of them, but 
 ordered me to keep myself quiet and be prepared for a 
 tedious and painful cure. I answered him that, if he hoped 
 to keep me quiet, he must first endeavour to procure me 
 some news of a lady who had quitted Rosenwald in my 
 company the night before, and had been with me at the 
 moment when the coach broke down. He smiled, and 
 only replied by advising me to make myself easy, for that 
 all proper care should be taken of me. As he quitted me, 
 the hostess met him at the door of the room. 
 
 < " The gentleman is not quite in his right senses ", I 
 
CHAPTER IV 125 
 
 heard him say to her in a low voice ; " 'tis the natural 
 consequence of his fall, but that will soon be over." 
 
 ' One after another the peasants returned to the inn and 
 informed me that no traces had been discovered of my 
 unfortunate mistress. Uneasiness now became despair. I 
 entreated them to renew their search in the most urgent 
 terms, doubling the promises which I had already made 
 them. My wild and frantic manner confirmed the by- 
 standers in the idea of my being delirious. No signs of 
 the lady having appeared, they believed her to be a 
 creature fabricated by my overheated brain, and paid no 
 attention to my entreaties. However, the hostess assured 
 me that a fresh inquiry should be made; but I found 
 afterwards that her promise was only given to quiet me ; 
 no further steps were taken in the business. 
 
 ' Though my baggage was left at Munich under the care 
 of my French servant, having prepared myself for a long 
 journey, my purse was amply furnished ; besides, my 
 equipage proved me to be of distinction, and in con- 
 sequence all possible attention was paid me at the inn. 
 The day passed away; still no news arrived of Agnes. 
 The anxiety of fear now gave place to despondency. I 
 ceased to rave about her, and was plunged in the depth of 
 melancholy reflections. Perceiving me to be silent and 
 tranquil, my attendants believed my delirium to have 
 abated, and that my malady had taken a favourable 
 turn. According to the physician's order, I swallowed a 
 composing medicine ; and as soon as the night shut in my 
 attendants withdrew and left me to repose. 
 
 ' That repose I wooed in vain. The agitation of my 
 bosom chased away sleep. Restless in my mind, in spite 
 of the fatigue of my body I continued to toss about from 
 side to side till the clock in a neighbouring steeple struck 
 ' one '. As I listened to the mournful hollow sound, and 
 heard it die away in the wind, I felt a sudden chillness 
 spread itself over my body. I shuddered without 
 knowing wherefore ; cold dews poured down my forehead, 
 and my hair stood bristling with alarm. Suddenly I heard 
 slow and heavy steps ascending the staircase By an 
 involuntary movement I started up in my bed, and drew 
 back the curtain. A single rush-light, which glimmered 
 upon the hearth, shed a faint gleam through the apartment, 
 which was hung with tapestry. The door was thrown 
 
126 THE MONK 
 
 open with violence. A figure entered, and drew near my 
 bed with solemn measured steps. With trembling 
 apprehension I examined this midnight visitor. God 
 Almighty ! — It was the Bleeding Nun ! — it was my lost 
 companion ! Her face was still veiled, but she no longer 
 held her lamp and dagger. She lifted up her veil slowly. 
 What a sight presented itself to my startled eyes ! I 
 beheld before me an animated corpse. Her countenance 
 was long and haggard ; her cheeks and lips were bloodless ; 
 the paleness of death was spread over her features ; and 
 her eye-balls, fixed steadfastly upon me, were lustreless and 
 hollow. 
 
 I gazed upon the spectre with horror too great to be 
 described. My blood was frozen in my veins. I would 
 have called for aid, but the sound expired ere it could pass 
 my lips. My nerves were bound up in impotence, and I 
 remained in the same attitude inanimate as a statue. 
 
 ' The visionary nun looked upon me for some minutes in 
 silence ; there was something petrifying in her regard. 
 At length, in a low sepulchral voice, she pronounced the 
 following words : 
 
 Raymond ! Raymond ! Thou art mine ! 
 Raymond ! Raymond ! I am thine ! 
 In thy veins while blood shall roll, 
 
 I am thine ! 
 
 Thou art mine ! — 
 Mine thy body, mine thy soul ! 
 
 ' Breathless with fear, I listened while she repeated my 
 own expression. The apparition seated herself opposite to 
 me at the foot of the bed, and was silent. Her eyes were 
 fixed earnestly upon mine; they seemed endowed with 
 the property of the rattlesnake's, for I strove in vain to 
 look off her. My eyes were fascinated, and I had not the 
 power of withdrawing them from the spectre's. 
 
 'In this attitude she remained for a whole long hour, 
 without speaking or moving ; nor was I able to do either. 
 At length the clock struck two. The apparition rose 
 from her seat, and approached the side of the bed. She 
 grasped with her icy fingers my hand, which hung lifeless 
 upon the coverture, and, pressing her cold lips to mine, 
 again repeated : 
 
 Raymond ! Raymond I Thou art mine ! 
 Raymond ! Raymond t I am thine t etc. 
 
CHAPTER IV 127 
 
 'She then dropped my hand, quitted the chamber with 
 slow steps, and the door closed after her. Till that 
 moment the faculties of my body had been all suspended ; 
 those of my mind had alone been waking. The charm 
 now ceased to operate ; the blood which had been frozen 
 in my veins rushed back to my heart with violence; I 
 uttered a deep groan, and sank lifeless upon my pillow. 
 
 ' The adjoining room was only separated from mine by 
 a thin partition ; it was occupied by the host and his wife ; 
 the former was roused by my groan, and immediately 
 hastened to my chamber ; the hostess soon followed him. 
 With some difficulty they succeeded in restoring me to my 
 senses, and immediately sent for the physician, who arrived 
 in all diligence. He declared my fever to be very much 
 increased, and that, if I continued to suffer such violent 
 agitation, he would not take upon him to ensure my life. 
 Some medicines which he gave me, in some degree 
 tranquillized my spirits: 1 fell into a sort of slumber 
 towards daybreak, but fearful dreams prevented me from 
 deriving any benefit from my repose. Agnes and the 
 Bleeding Nun presented themselves by turns to my fancy, 
 and combined to harass and torment me. I awoke fatigued 
 and unrefreshed. My fever seemed rather augmented 
 than diminished ; the agitation of my mind impeded my 
 fractured bones from knitting: I had frequent fainting 
 fits, and during the whole day the physician judged it 
 expedient not to quit me for two hours together. 
 
 ' The singularity of my adventure made me determine 
 to conceal it from every one, since I could not expect 
 that a circumstance so strange should gain credit. I was 
 very uneasy about Agnes. I knew not what she would 
 think at not finding me at the rendezvous, and dreaded 
 her entertaining suspicions of my fidelity ; however, I 
 depended upon Theodore's discretion, and trusted that my 
 letter to the Baroness would convince her of the rectitude 
 of my intentions. These considerations somewhat 
 lightened my inquietude upon her account ; but the 
 impression left upon my mind by my nocturnal visitor 
 grew stronger with every succeeding moment. The night 
 drew near ; I dreaded its arrival ; yet I strove to persuade 
 myself that the ghost would appear no more, and at all 
 events I desired that a servant might sit up in my chamber. 
 
 The fatigue of my body, from not having slept on the 
 
128 THE MONK 
 
 former night, co-operating with the strong opiates 
 administered to me in profusion, at length procured me 
 that repose of which I was so much in need. I sank into 
 a profound and tranquil slumber, and had already slept 
 for some hours when the neighbouring clock roused me 
 by striking 'one'. Its sound brought with it to my 
 memory all the horrors of the night before. The same 
 cold shivering seized me. I started up in my bed, and 
 perceived the servant fast asleep in an armchair near 
 me. I called him by his name : he made no answer. I 
 shook him forcibly by the arm, and strove in vain to 
 wake him : he was perfectly insensible to my efforts. I 
 now heard the heavy steps ascending the staircase; the 
 door was thrown open ; and again the Bleeding Nun 
 stood before me. Once more my limbs were chained in 
 second infancy; once more I heard those fatal words 
 repeated : 
 
 Raymond ! Raymond ! Thou art mine ! 
 Raymond ! Raymond ! I am thine ! etc. 
 
 'The scene which had shocked me so sensibly on the 
 former night was again presented. The spectre again 
 pressed her lips to mine, again touched me with her 
 rotting fingers, and, as on her first appearance, quitted 
 the chamber as soon as the clock told 'two'. 
 
 'Every night was this repeated. Far from growing 
 accustomed to the ghost, every succeeding visit inspired 
 me with greater horror. Her idea pursued me contin- 
 ually, and I became the prey of habitual melancholy. The 
 constant agitation of my mind naturally retarded the 
 re-establishment of my health. Several months elapsed 
 before I was able to quit my bed ; and, when at length 
 I was moved to a sofa, I was so faint, spiritless, and 
 emaciated that I could not cross the room without 
 assistance. The looks of my attendants sufficiently 
 denoted the little hope which they entertained of my 
 recovery. The profound sadness which oppressed me 
 without remission made the physician consider me to be 
 an Ivypochondriac. The cause of my distress I carefully 
 concealed in my own bosom, for I knew that no one could 
 give me relief. The ghost was not even visible to any 
 eye but mine. I had frequently caused attendants to 
 
CHAPTER IV 129 
 
 sit up in my room ; but the moment that the clock struck 
 'one' irresistible slumber seized them, nor left them till 
 the departure of the ghost. 
 
 ' You may be surprised that during this time I made 
 no inquiries after your sister. Theodore, who with 
 difficulty had discovered my abode, had quieted my 
 apprehensions for her safety ; at the same time he con- 
 vinced me that all attempts to release her from captivity 
 must be fruitless, till I should be in a condition to return 
 to Spain. The particulars of her adventure, which I 
 shall now relate to you, were partly communicated to 
 me by Theodore, and partly by Agnes herself. 
 
 'On the fatal night when her elopement was to have 
 taken place, accident had not permitted her to quit her 
 chamber at the appointed time. At length she ventured 
 into the haunted room, descended the staircase leading 
 into the hall, found the gates open as she expected, and 
 left the castle unobserved. What was her surprise at not 
 finding me ready to receive her ! She examined the 
 cavern, ranged through every alley of the neighbouring 
 wood, and passed two full hours in this fruitless inquiry. 
 She could discover no traces either of me or of the carriage. 
 Alarmed and disappointed, her only resource was to return 
 to the castle before the Baroness missed her ; but here she 
 found herself in a fresh embarrassment. The bell had 
 already tolled ' two ', the ghostly hour was passed, and the 
 careful porter had locked the folding gates. After much 
 irresolution, she ventured to knock softly. Luckily for 
 her, Conrad was still awake ; he heard the noise, and rose, 
 murmuring at being called up a second time. No sooner 
 had he opened one of the doors and beheld the supposed 
 apparition waiting there for admittance than he uttered a 
 loud cry, and sank upon his knees. Agnes profited by his 
 terror ; she glided by him, flew to her own apartment, and, 
 having thrown off her spectre's trappings, retired to bed, 
 endeavouring in vain to account for my disappearing. 
 
 'In the meanwhile Theodore, having seen my carriage 
 drive off with the false Agnes, returned joyfully to the 
 village. The next morning he released Cunegonda from 
 ber confinement, and accompanied her to the castle. There 
 he found the Baron, his lady, and Don Gaston, disputing 
 together upon the porter's relation. All of them agreed 
 in believing the existence of spectres; but the latter 
 
130 THE MONK 
 
 contended that for a ghost to knock for admittance was 
 a proceeding till then unwitnessed and totally incompatible 
 with the immaterial nature of a spirit. They were still 
 discussing the subject when the page appeared with 
 Cunegonda, and cleared up the mystery. On hearing 
 his deposition it was agreed unanimously that the Agnes 
 whom Theodore had seen step into my carriage must have 
 been the Bleeding Nun, and that the ghost who had 
 terrified Conrad was no other than Don Gaston's daughter. 
 
 'The first surprise which this discovery occasioned being 
 over, the Baroness resolved to make it of use in persuading 
 her niece to take the veil. Fearing lest so advantageous 
 an establishment for his daughter should induce Don 
 Gaston to renounce his resolution, she suppressed my 
 letter, and continued to represent me as a needy unknown 
 adventurer. A childish vanity had led me to conceal my 
 real name even from my mistress ; I wished to be loved 
 for myself, not for being the son and heir of the Marquis 
 de las Cisternas. The consequence was that my rank was 
 known to no one in the castle except the Baroness, and 
 she took good care to confine the knowledge to her own 
 breast. Don Gaston having approved his sister's design, 
 Agnes was summoned to appear before them. She was 
 taxed with having meditated an elopement, obliged to 
 make a full confession, and was amazed at the gentleness 
 with which it was received ; but what was her affliction 
 when informed that the failure of her project must be 
 attributed to me! Cunegonda, tutored by the Baroness, 
 told her, that, when I released her, I had desired her to 
 inform her lady that our connexion was at an end ; that 
 the whole affair was occasioned by a false report; and that 
 it by no means suited my circumstances to marry a woman 
 without fortune or expectations. 
 
 ' To this account my sudden disappearing gave but too 
 great an air of probability. Theodore, who could have 
 contradicted the story, by Donna Eodolpha's order was 
 kept out of her sight. What proved a still greater con- 
 firmation of my being an impostor was the arrival of a 
 letter from yourself, declaring that you had no sort of 
 acquaintance with Alphonso d'Alavrada. These seeming 
 proofs of my perfidy, aided by the artful insinuations of 
 her aunt, by Cunegonda's flattery and her father's threats 
 and anger, entirely conquered your sister's repugnance to 
 
CHAPTER IV 131 
 
 a convent. Incensed at my behaviour and disgusted with 
 the world in general, she consented to receive the veil. 
 She passed another month at the castle of Lindenberg, 
 during which my non-appearance confirmed her in her 
 resolution ; and then accompanied Don Gaston into Spain. 
 Theodore was now set at liberty. He hastened to Munich, 
 where I had promised to let him hear from me; but, 
 finding from Lucas that I never arrived there, he pursued 
 his search with indefatigable perseverance, and at length 
 succeeded in rejoining me at Ratisbon. 
 
 'So much was I altered that scarcely could he recollect 
 my features; the distress visible upon his, sufficiently 
 testified how lively was the interest which he felt for me. 
 The society of this amiable boy, whom I had always con- 
 sidered rather as a companion than a servant, was now my 
 only comfort. His conversation was gay, yet sensible, and 
 his observations shrewd and entertaining. He had picked 
 up much more knowledge than is usual at his age ; but 
 what rendered him most agreeable to me was his having 
 a delightful voice and no mean skill in music. He had 
 also acquired some taste in poetry, and even ventured 
 occasionally to write verses himself. He frequently com- 
 posed little ballads in Spanish. His compositions were but 
 indifferent, I must confess, yet they were pleasing to me 
 from their novelty; and hearing him sing them to his 
 guitar was the only amusement which I was capable of 
 receiving. Theodore perceived well enough that something 
 preyed upon my mind; but, as I concealed the cause of 
 my grief even from him, respect would not permit him to 
 pry into my secrets. 
 
 'One evening I was lying upon my sofa, plunged in 
 reflections very far from agreeable ; Theodore amused 
 himself by observing from the window a battle between 
 two postillions, who were quarrelling in the inn-yard. 
 
 ' " Ha ! ha ! " cried he suddenly ; " yonder is the Great 
 Mogul." 
 
 '"Who?" said I. 
 
 "'Only a man who made me a strange speech at 
 Munich." 
 
 ' " What was the purport of it ? " 
 
 ' " Now you put me in mind of it, Segnor, it was a kind 
 of message to you, but truly it was not worth delivering. 
 I believe the fellow to be mad, for my part. When I 
 
132 THE MONK 
 
 came to Munich in search of you, I found him living at 
 ' The King of the Romans ', and the host gave me an odd 
 account of him. By his accent he is supposed to be a 
 foreigner, but of what country nobody can tell. He 
 seemed to have no acquaintance in the town, spoke very 
 seldom, and never was seen to smile. He had neither 
 servants nor baggage, but his purse seemed well furnished, 
 and he did much good in the town. Some supposed him 
 to be an Arabian astrologer, others to be a travelling 
 mountebank, and many declared that he was Doctor 
 Faustus, whom the devil had sent back to Germany. The 
 landlord, however, told me, that he had the best reasons 
 to believe him to be the Great Mogul incognito." 
 
 ' " But the strange speech, Theodore — " 
 
 ' " True, I had almost forgotten the speech ; indeed, for 
 that matter, it would not have been a great loss if I had 
 forgotten it altogether. You are to know, Segnor, that, 
 while I was inquiring about you of the landlord, this 
 stranger passed by. He stopped, and looked at me 
 earnestly. 
 
 '"Youth", said he, in a solemn voice, "he whom you 
 seek has found that which he would fain lose. My hand 
 alone can dry up the blood. Bid your master wish for 
 me when the clock strikes ' one ' ". 
 
 '" How ? " cried I, starting from my sofa ; the words which 
 Theodore had repeated seemed to imply the stranger's 
 knowledge of my secret : Fly to him, my boy ! Entreat 
 him to grant me one moment's conversation. 
 
 ' Theodore was surprised at the vivacity of my manner ; 
 however, he asked no questions, but hastened to obey me. 
 I waited his return impatiently. But a short space of 
 time had elapsed when he again appeared and ushered 
 the expected guest into my chamber. He was a man 
 of majestic presence ; his countenance was strongly 
 marked, and his eyes were large, black, and sparkling; 
 yet there was a something in his look which, the moment 
 that I saw him, inspired me with a secret awe, not to say 
 horror. He was dressed plainly, his hair hung wildly 
 upon his brow, and a band of black velvet which encircled 
 his forehead spread over his features an additional gloom. 
 His countenance wore the marks of profound melancholy, 
 his step was slow, and his manner grave, stately, and 
 solemn. 
 
CHAPTER IV 133 
 
 ' He saluted me with politeness ; and, having replied to 
 the usual compliments of introduction, he motioned to 
 Theodore to quit the chamber. The page instantly 
 withdrew. 
 
 '"I know your business " said he, without giving me 
 time to speak. " I have the power of releasing you from 
 your nightly visitor; but this cannot be done before 
 Sunday. On the hour when the sabbath morning breaks 
 spirits of darkness have least influence over mortals. 
 After Saturday the nun shall visit you no more." 
 
 ' " May I not inquire ", said I, " by what means you are 
 in possession of a secret which I have carefully concealed 
 from the knowledge of every one ? " 
 
 ' " How can I be ignorant of your distresses, when their 
 cause at this moment stands beside you ? " 
 
 ' I started. The stranger continued. 
 
 ' " Though to you only visible for one hour in the 
 twenty-four, neither day or night does she ever quit you ; 
 nor will she ever quit you till you have granted her 
 request." 
 
 ' " And what is that request ? " 
 
 ' " That she must herself explain : it lies not in my 
 knowledge. Wait with patience for the night of 
 Saturday ; all shall be then cleared up." 
 
 ' I dared not press him further. He soon after changed 
 the conversation, and talked of various matters. He 
 named people who had ceased to exist for many centuries 
 and yet with whom he appeared to have been personally 
 acquainted. I could not mention a country, however 
 distant, which he had not visited, nor could I sufficiently 
 admire the extent and variety of his information. 1 
 remarked to him that having travelled, seen, and known 
 so much must have given him infinite pleasure. He shook 
 his head mournfully. 
 
 '"No one", he replied, "is adequate to comprehending 
 the misery of my lot;vFate obliges me to be constantly in" 
 movement; 1 am not permitted to pass more than a 
 fortnight in the same place. I have no friend in the 
 world, and, from the restlessness of my destiny, I never 
 can acquire one. Fain would I lay down my miserable 
 life, for I envy those who enjoy the quiet of the grave ; 
 but death eludes me, and flies from my embrace. In vain 
 do I throw myself in the way of danger. I plunge into 
 
134 THE MONK 
 
 the ocean ; the waves throw me back with abhorrence 
 upon the shore : I rush into fire ; the flames recoil at 
 my approach : I oppose myself to the fury of banditti ; 
 their swords become blunted and break against my breast. 
 The hungry tiger shudders at my approach, and the 
 alligator flies from a monster more horrible than itself. 
 God has set his seal upon me, and all his creatures respect 
 this fatal mark." 
 
 ' He put his hand to the velvet which was bound round 
 his forehead. There was in his eyes an expression of fury, 
 despair, and malevolence that struck horror to my very 
 soul. An involuntary convulsion made me shudder. The 
 stranger perceived it. 
 
 ' " Such is the curse imposed on me " he continued ; " I 
 am doomed to inspire all who look on me with terror and 
 detestation. You already feel the influence of the charm, 
 and with every succeeding moment will feel it more. I 
 will not add to your sufferings by my presence. Farewell 
 till Saturday ! As soon as the clock strikes twelve expect 
 me at your chamber-door." 
 
 ' Having said this, he departed, leaving me in astonish- 
 ment at the mysterious turn of his manner and conversation. 
 His assurances that I should soon be relieved from the 
 apparition's visit produced a good effect upon my constitu- 
 tion. Theodore, whom I rather treated as an adopted 
 child than a domestic, was surprised at his return to 
 observe the amendment in my looks. He congratulated 
 me on this symptom of returning health, and declared 
 himself delighted at my having received so much benefit 
 from my conference with the Great Mogul. Upon inquiry 
 I found that the stranger had already passed eight days 
 in Ratisbon: according to his own account, therefore, he 
 was only to remain there six days longer ; Saturday was 
 still at the distance of three. Oh, with what impatience 
 did I expect its arrival ! In the interim the Bleeding Nun 
 continued her nocturnal visits ; but, hoping soon to be 
 released from them altogether, the effects which they 
 produced on me became less violent than before. 
 
 ' The wished-for night arrived. To avoid creating 
 suspicion I retired to bed at my usual hour. But, as soon 
 as my attendants had left me, I dressed myself again, 
 and prepared for the stranger's reception. He entered my 
 room upon the turn of midnight. A small chest was ia 
 
CHAPTER IV 135 
 
 bis hand, which he placed near the stove. He saluted me 
 without speaking ; I returned the compliment, observing 
 an equal silence. He then opened his chest. 
 
 ' The first thing which he produced was a small wooden 
 crucifix ; he sank upon his knees, gazed upon it mournfully, 
 and cast his eyes towards heaven. He seemed to be 
 praying devoutly. At length he bowed his head respect- 
 fully, kissed the crucifix thrice, and quitted his kneeling 
 posture. He next drew from the chest a covered goblet ; 
 with the liquor which it contained, and which appeared to 
 be blood, he sprinkled the floor ; and then, dipping it in 
 one end of the crucifix, he described a circle in the middle 
 of the room. Round about this he placed various reliques, 
 sculls, thigh-bones, etc. I observed then he disposed them 
 all in the forms of crosses. Lastly, he took out a large 
 Bible, and beckoned me to follow him into the circle. I 
 obeyed. 
 
 ' " Be cautious not to utter a syllable ! " whispered the 
 stranger ; " step not out of the circle ; and, as you love 
 yourself, dare not to look upon my face ! " 
 
 'Holding the crucifix in one hand, the Bible in the 
 other, he seemed to read with profound attention. The 
 clock struck ' one ' ! As usual, I heard the spectre's steps 
 upon the staircase, but I was not seized with the accustomed 
 shivering. I waited her approach with confidence. She 
 entered the room, drew near the circle, and stopped. The 
 stranger muttered some words, to me unintelligible. Then 
 raising his head from the book, and extending the crucifix 
 towards the ghost, he pronounced, in a voice distinct and 
 solemn : 
 
 ' " Beatrice ! Beatrice ! Beatrice ! " 
 
 ' " What wouldst thou ? " replied the apparition, in a 
 hollow faltering tone. 
 
 ' " What disturbs thy sleep ? Why dost thou afflict and 
 torture this youth ? How can rest be restored to thy 
 unquiet spirit?" 
 
 ' " I dare not tell ! I must not tell ! Fain would I 
 repose in my grave, but stern commands force me to 
 prolong my punishment ! ' 
 
 ' " Knowest thou this blood ? Knowest thou in whose 
 veins it flowed ? Beatrice ! Beatrice ! In his name, I 
 charge thee to answer me." 
 
 ( " I dare not disobey my taskers," 
 
136 THE MONK 
 
 '- " Darest thou disobey me?" 
 
 ' He spoke in a commanding tone, and drew the sable 
 band from. his forehead. In spite of his injunctions to the 
 contrary, curiosity would not suffer me to keep my eyes off 
 his face ; I raised them, and beheld a burning cross im- 
 pressed upon his brow. For the horror with which this 
 object inspired me I cannot count, but I never felt its 
 equal. My senses left me for some moments ; a mysterious 
 dread overcame my courage ; and, had not the exorcizer 
 caught my hand, I should have fallen out of the circle. 
 
 ' When I recovered myself, I perceived that the burning 
 cross had produced an effect no less violent upon the spectre. 
 Her countenance expressed reverence and horror, and her 
 visionary limbs were shaken by fear. 
 
 ' " Yes ! " she said at length ; " I tremble at that mark ! 
 I respect it ! I obey you ! Know then, that my bones lie 
 still unburied ; they rot in the obscurity of Lindenberg 
 Hole. None but this youth has the right of consigning 
 them to the grave. His own lips have made over to me 
 his body and his soul ; never will I give back his promise, 
 never shall he know a night devoid of terror, unless he 
 engages to collect my mouldering bones, and deposit them 
 in the family vault of his Andalusian castle. Then let 
 thirty masses be said for the repose of my spirit ; and I 
 trouble this world no more. Now let me depart. Those 
 flames are scorching ! " 
 
 ' He let the hand drop slowly which held the 
 crucifix and which till then he had pointed towards her. 
 The apparition bowed her head, and her form melted into 
 air. The exorcizer led me out of the circle. He replaced 
 the Bible etc. in the chest ; and then addressed himself to 
 me, who stood near him speechless from astonishment. 
 
 ' " Don Raymond, you have heard the conditions on which 
 repose is promised you : be it your business to fulfil them 
 to the letter. For me nothing more remains than to clear 
 up the darkness still spread over the spectre's history, and 
 inform you that, when living Beatrice, bore the name of 
 las Cisternas. She was the great aunt of your grand- 
 father. In quality of your relation, her ashes demand 
 respect from you, though the enormity of her crimes must 
 excite your abhorrence. The nature of those crimes no 
 one is more capable of explaining to you than myself. I 
 was personally acquainted with the holy man who 
 
CHAPTER IV 137 
 
 proscribed her nocturnal riots in the castle of LindenbeFg, 
 and I hold this narrative from his own lips. .,>_., ■, .... " 
 
 '"^Beatrice de las Cisternas took the veil at an early 
 age ;""b.of by her own choice, but at the express, command 
 *of"hefi;paEents — 'She was then too young to regret the 
 pleasures of which her profession deprived her ; but no 
 sooner did her warm and voluptuous character begin to be 
 developed than she abandoned berself freely to the impulse 
 of her passions, and seized the first opportunity to procure 
 their gratification. This opportunity was at length 
 presented, after many obstacles which only added new 
 force to her desires. She contrived to elope from the 
 convent, and fled to Germany with the Baron Lindenberg. 
 She lived at his castle several months as his avowed 
 concubine. All Bavaria was scandalized by her impudent 
 and abandoned conduct. Her feasts vied in luxury with 
 Cleopatra's, and Lindenberg became the theatre of the 
 most unbridled debauchery. Not satisfied with displaying 
 the incontinence of a prostitute, she professed herself an 
 atheist ; she took every opportunity to scoff at her 
 monastic vows, and loaded with ridicule the most sacred 
 ceremonies of religion. 
 
 '"Possessed of a character so depraved, she did not long 
 confine her affections to one object. Soon after her arrival 
 at the castle the Baron's younger brother attracted her 
 notice by his strong-marked features, gigantic stature, and 
 herculean limbs. She was not of an humour to keep her 
 inclination long unknown ; but she found in Otto von 
 Lindenberg her equal in depravity. He returned her 
 passion just sufficiently to increase it ; and, when he had 
 worked it up to the desired pitch, he fixed the price of his 
 love at his brother's murder. The wretch consented to 
 this horrible agreement. A night was pitched upon for 
 perpetrating the deed. Otto, who resided on a small 
 estate a few miles distant from the castle, promised that 
 at one in the morning he would be waiting for her at 
 Lindenberg Hole ; that he would bring with him a party 
 of chosen friends, by whose aid he doubted not being able 
 to make himself master of the castle ; and that his next 
 step should be the uniting her hand to his. It was this 
 last promise which overruled every scruple of Beatrice ; 
 since, in spite of his affection for her, the Baron had 
 declared positively that he never would make her his wife. 
 
138 THE MONK 
 
 ' " The fatal night arrived. The Baron slept in the 
 arms of his perfidious mistress, when the castle bell struck 
 ' one '. Immediately Beatrice drew a dagger from under- 
 neath her pillow, and plunged it in her paramour's heart. 
 The Baron uttered a single dreadful groan, and expired. 
 The murderess quitted her bed hastily, took a lamp in one 
 hand, in the other the bloody dagger, and bent her course 
 towards the cavern. The porter dared not to refuse 
 opening the gates to one more dreaded in the castle than 
 its master. Beatrice reached Lindenberg Hole unopposed, 
 where, according to promise, she found Otto waiting for 
 her. He received, and listened to her narrative with 
 transport ; but, ere she had time to ask why he came 
 unaccompanied, he convinced her that he wished for no 
 witnesses to their interview. Anxious to conceal his 
 share in the murder, and to free himself from a woman 
 whose violent and atrocious character made him tremble 
 with reason for his own safety, he had resolved on the 
 destruction of his wretched agent. Rushing upon her 
 suddenly, he wrested the dagger from her hand. He 
 plunged it still reeking with his brother's blood in her 
 bosom, and put an end to her existence by repeated blows. 
 
 '"Otto now succeeded to the barony of Lindenberg. 
 The murder was attributed solely to the fugitive nun, and 
 no one suspected him to have persuaded her to the action. 
 But, though his crime was unpunished by man, God's 
 justice permitted him not to enjoy in peace his blood- 
 stained honours. Her bones lying still unburied in the 
 cave, the restless soul of Beatrice continued to inhabit the 
 castle. Dressed in her religious habit, in memory of her 
 vows broken to heaven, furnished with the dagger which 
 had drank the blood of her paramour, and holding the 
 lamp which had guided her flying steps, every night did 
 she stand before the bed of Otto. The most dreadful 
 confusion reigned through the castle.- The vaulted 
 chambers resounded with shrieks and groans ; .and the 
 spectre, as she ranged along the antique galleries, uttered 
 an incoherent mixture of prayers and blasphemies. Otto 
 was unable to withstand the shock which he felt at this 
 fearful vision ; its horrors increased with every succeeding 
 appearance. His alarm at length became so insupportable 
 that his heart burst ; and one morning he was found in 
 his bed totally deprived of warmth and animation. His 
 
CHAPTER IV 139 
 
 deffth did not put an end to the nocturnal riots. The 
 bones of Beatrice continued to lie unburied, and her ghost 
 continued to haunt the castle. 
 
 '"The domains of Lindenberg now fell to a distant 
 relation. But, terrified by the accounts given him of the 
 Bleeding Nun (so was the spectre called by the multitude), 
 the new Baron called to his assistance a celebrated exorcizer. 
 This holy man succeeded in obliging her to temporary 
 repose ; but, though she discovered to him her history, he 
 was not permitted to reveal it to others, or cause her 
 skeleton to be removed to hallowed ground. That office 
 was reserved for you ; and till your coming her ghost was 
 doomed to wander about the castle and lament the crime 
 which she had there committed. However, the exorcizer 
 obliged her to silence during his lifetime. So long as he 
 existed, the haunted chamber was shut up and the spectre 
 was invisible. At his death, which happened in five years 
 after, she again appeared, but only once on every fifth 
 year, on the same day and at the same hour when she 
 plunged her knife in the heart of her sleeping lover ; she 
 then visited the cavern which held her mouldering skeleton, 
 returned to the castle as soon as the clock struck two, and 
 was seen no more till the next five years had elapsed. 
 
 '"She was doomed to suffer during the space of a 
 century. That period is past. Nothing now remains, but 
 to consign to the grave the ashes of Beatrice. I have been 
 the means of releasing you from your visionary tormentor ; 
 and, amidst all the sorrows which oppress me, to think 
 that I have been of use to you, is some consolation. Youth, 
 farewell ! May the ghost of your relation enjoy that rest 
 in the tomb which tto AJmighty's .vengeance has denied to-- 
 .- me ^g r_£asjvT"*~ 
 " 'Here the stranger prepared to quit the apartment. 
 
 ' Stay yet one moment ! said I ; you have satisfied my 
 curiosity with regard to the spectre, but you leave me a 
 prey to yet greater respecting yourself. Deign to inform 
 me to whom I am under such real obligations. You 
 mention circumstances long past, and people long dead: 
 you were personally acquainted with the exorcizer, who, 
 by your own account, has been deceased near a century. 
 How am I to account for this ? What means that burning 
 cross upon your forehead, and why did the sight of it 
 strike such horror to my soul ? 
 
140 THE MONK 
 
 ' On these points he for some time refused to satisfy me. 
 At length, overcome by my entreaties, he consented to clear 
 up the whole on condition that I would defer his explana- 
 tion till the next day. With this request I was obliged to 
 comply, and he left me. In the morning, my first care was 
 to inquire after the mysterious stranger. Conceive my 
 disappointment when informed that he had quitted 
 Ratishon. I despatched messengers in pursuit of him, but 
 in vain. No traces of the fugitive were discovered. Since 
 that moment I never have heard any more of him, and 'tis 
 most probable that I never shall.' 
 
 Lorenzo here interrupted his friend's narrative : ' How ! ' 
 said he ; ' you have never discovered who he was, or even 
 formed a guess ? ' 
 
 ' Pardon me,' replied the Marquis ; ' when I related this 
 adventure to my uncle, the Cardinal-duke, he told me, that 
 he had no doubt of this singular man's being the celebrated 
 character known universally by the name of The Wander- 
 ing Jew. His not being permitted to pass more than 
 fourteen days on the same spot, the burning cross impressed 
 upon his forehead, the effect which it produced upon the 
 beholders, and many other circumstances, gave this sup- 
 position the colour of truth. The Cardinal is fully 
 persuaded of it; and, for my own part, I am inclined 
 to adopt the only solution which offers itself to this 
 riddle. — I return to the narrative from which I have 
 digressed. 
 
 ' From this period I recovered my health so rapidly as 
 to astonish my physicians. The Bleeding Nun appeared 
 no more, and I was soon able to set out for Lindenberg. 
 The Baron received me with open arms. I confided to him 
 the sequel of my adventure ; and he was not a little pleased 
 to find that his mansion would be no longer troubled with 
 the phantom's quinquennial visits. I was sorry to perceive 
 that absence had not weakened Donna Rodolpha's imprudent 
 passion. In a private conversation which I had with, her 
 during my short stay at the castle she renewed her attempts 
 to persuade me to return her affection. Regarding her as 
 the primary cause of all my sufferings, I entertained for 
 her no other sentiment than disgust. The skeleton of 
 Beatrice was found in the place which she had mentioned. 
 This being all that I sought at Lindenberg, I hastened to 
 quit the Baron's domains, equally anxious to perform the 
 
CHAPTER IV 141 
 
 obsequies of the murdered nun and escape the importunity 
 of a woman whom I detested. I departed, followed by 
 Donna Rodolpha's menaces that my contempt should not 
 be long unpunished. 
 
 I now bent my course towards Spain with all diligence, 
 Lucas, with my baggage had joined me during my abode 
 at Lindenberg. I arrived in my native country without 
 any accident, and immediately proceeded to my father's 
 castle in Andalusia. The remains of Beatrice were 
 deposited in the family vault, all due ceremonies performed, 
 and the number of masses said which she had required. 
 Nothing now hindered me from employing all my 
 endeavours to discover the retreat of Agnes. The Baroness 
 had assured me that her niece had already taken the veil ; 
 this intelligence I suspected to have been forged by 
 jealousy, and hoped to find my mistress still at liberty to 
 accept my hand. I inquired after her family ; I found 
 that before her daughter could reach Madrid, Donna 
 Inesilla was no more : you, my dear Lorenzo, were said to 
 be abroad, but where I could not discover ; your father 
 was in a distant province on a visit to the Duke de Medina; 
 and, as to Agnes, no one could or would inform me what 
 was become of her. Theodore, according to promise, had 
 returned to Strasburg, where he found his grandfather 
 dead and Marguerite in possession of his fortune. All her 
 persuasions to remain with her were fruitless ; he quitted 
 her a second time, and followed me to Madrid. He exerted 
 himself to the utmost in forwarding my search ; but our 
 united endeavours were unattended by success. The 
 retreat which concealed Agnes remained an impenetrable 
 mystery, and I began to abandon all hopes of recovering 
 her. 
 
 ' About eight months ago I was returning to my hotel in 
 a melancholy humour, having passed the evening at the 
 play-house. The night was dark, and I was unaccompanied. 
 Plunged in reflections which were far from being agreeable, 
 I perceived not that three men had followed me from the 
 theatre, till, on turning into an unfrequented street, they 
 all attacked me at the same time with the utmost fury. I 
 sprang back a few paces, drew my sword, and threw my 
 cloak over my left arm. The obscurity of the night was 
 in my favour. For the most part the blows of the assassins, 
 being aimed at random, failed to touch me. I at length 
 
i 4 2 THE MONK 
 
 was fortunate enough to lay one of my adversaries at my 
 feet ; but before this I had already received so many 
 wounds and was so warmly pressed that my destruction 
 would have been inevitable, had not the clashing of swords 
 called a cavalier to my assistance. He ran towards me 
 with his sword drawn ; several domestics followed him 
 with torches. His arrival made the combat equal ; yet 
 would not the bravoes abandon their design till the servants 
 were on the point of joining us. They then fled away, and 
 we lost them in the obscurity. 
 
 ' The stranger now addressed himself to me with polite- 
 ness, and inquired whether I was wounded. Faint with 
 the loss of blood, I could scarcely thank him for his 
 seasonable aid and entreat him to let some of his servants 
 convey me to the hotel de las Cisterhas. I no sooner 
 mentioned the name than he professed himself an acquaint- 
 ance of my father's, and declared that he would not permit 
 my being transported to such a distance before my wounds 
 had been examined. He added that his house was hard 
 by, and begged me to accompany him thither. His manner 
 was so earnest that I could not reject his offer; and, 
 leaning upon his arm, a few minutes brought me to the 
 porch of a magnificent hotel. / 
 
 ' On entering the house an old grey-headed domestic 
 came to welcome my conductor ; he inquired when the 
 duke, his master, meant to quit the country, and was 
 answered that he would remain there yet some months. 
 My deliverer then desired the family surgeon to be 
 summoned without delay ; his orders were obeyed. I was 
 seated upon a sofa in a noble apartment ; and, my wounds 
 being examined, they were declared to be very slight. The 
 surgeon, however, advised me not to expose myself to the 
 night-air ; and the stranger pressed me so earnestly to 
 take a bed in his house that I consented to remain where I 
 was for the present. 
 
 ' Being now left alone with my deliverer, I took the 
 opportunity of thanking him in more express terms than I 
 had done hitherto ; but he begged me to be silent upon the 
 subject. 
 
 ' " I esteem myself happy ", said he, " in having had it in 
 my power to render you this little service ; and I shall 
 think myself eternally obliged to my daughter for detain- 
 ing me so late at the convent of St. Clare. The high 
 
CHAPTER IV 143 
 
 esteem in which 1 have ever held the Marquis de las 
 Cisternas, though accident has not permitted our being so 
 intimate as I could wish, makes me rejoice in the oppor- 
 tunity of making his son's acquaintance. I am certain 
 that my brother, in whose house you now are, will lament 
 his not being at Madrid to receive you himself ; but, in the 
 duke's absence, I am master of the family, and may assure 
 you in his name that everything in the hotel de Medina is 
 perfectly at your disposal." 
 
 ' Conceive my surprise, Lorenzo, at discovering in the 
 person of my preserver Don Gaston de Medina. It was 
 only to be equalled by my secret satisfaction at the 
 assurance that Agnes inhabited the convent of St. Clare. 
 This latter sensation was not a little weakened, when, in 
 answer to my seemingly indifferent questions, he told me 
 that his daughter had really taken the veil. I suffered not 
 my grief at this circumstance to take root in my mind ; I 
 nattered myself with the idea that my uncle's credit at the 
 court of Rome would remove this obstacle ; and that 
 without difficulty I should obtain for my mistress a 
 dispensation from her vows. Buoyed up with this hope, I 
 calmed the uneasiness of my bosom, and I redoubled my 
 endeavours to appear grateful for the attention, and pleased 
 with the society, of Don Gaston. 
 
 'A domestic now entered the room, and informed me 
 that the bravo whom I had wounded, discovered some 
 signs of life. I desired that he might be carried to my 
 father's hotel, and said that, as soon as he recovered his 
 voice, I would examine him respecting his reasons for 
 attempting my life. I was answered, that he was already 
 able to speak, though with difficulty. Don Gaston's 
 curiosity made him press me to interrogate the assassin in 
 his presence ; but this curiosity I was by no means inclined 
 to gratify. One reason was that, doubting from whence 
 the blow came, I was unwilling to place before Don Gaston's 
 eyes the guilt of a sister. Another was that I feared to be 
 recognised for Alphonso d'Alvarada, and precautions taken 
 in consequence to keep me from the sight of Agnes. To 
 avow my passion for his daughter, and endeavour to make 
 him enter into my schemes, what I knew of Don Gaston's 
 character convinced me would be an imprudent step ; and, 
 considering it to be essential that he should know me for 
 no other than the Conde" de las Cisternas, I was determined 
 
144 THE MONK 
 
 not to let him hear the bravo's confession. I insinuated to 
 him that, as I suspected a lady to be concerned in the 
 business whose name might accidentally escape from the 
 assassin, it was necessary for me to examine the man in 
 private. Don Gaston's delicacy would not permit his 
 urging the point any longer, and in consequence the bravo 
 was conveyed to my hotel. 
 
 'The next morning I took leave of my host, who was to 
 return to the duke on the same day. My wounds had 
 been so trifling that, except being obliged to wear my arm 
 in a sling for a short time, I felt no inconvenience from the 
 night's adventure. The surgeon who examined the bravo's 
 wound declared it to be mortal ; he had just time to confess 
 that he had been instigated to murder me by the revengeful 
 Donna Eodolpha ; and expired in a few minutes after. 
 
 'All my thoughts were now bent upon getting to the 
 speech of my lovely nun. Theodore set himself to work, 
 and, for this time, with better success. He attacked the 
 gardener of St. Clare so forcibly with bribes and promises, 
 that the -old man was entirely gained over to my interest; 
 and it was settled that I should be introduced into the 
 convent in the character of his assistant. The plan was 
 put into execution without delay. Disguised in a common 
 habit, and a black patch covering one of my eyes, I was 
 presented to the lady prioress, who condescended to approve 
 of the gardener's choice. I immediately entered upon my 
 employment. Botany having been a favourite study with 
 me, I was by no means at a loss in my new station. For 
 some days I continued to work in the convent garden, 
 without meeting the object of my disguise ; on the fourth 
 morning I was more successful. I heard the voice of 
 Agnes, and was speeding towards the sound, when the 
 sight of the domina stopped me. I drew back with 
 caution, and concealed myself behind a thick clump of 
 trees. 
 
 ' The prioress advanced, and seated herself with Agnes 
 on a bench at no great distance. I heard her, in an angry 
 tone, blame her companion's continual melancholy. She 
 told her that to weep the loss of any lover, in her situation, 
 was a crime ; but that to weep the loss of a faithless one 
 was folly and absurdity in the extreme. Agnes replied in 
 so low a voice that I could not distinguish her words, 
 but I perceived that she used terms of gentleness and 
 
CHAPTER IV 145 
 
 submission. The conversation was interrupted by the arrival 
 of a young pensioner who informed the domina that she 
 was waited for in the parlour. The old lady rose, kissed 
 the cheek of Agnes, and retired. The new-comer remained. 
 Agnes spoke much to her in praise of somebody whom I 
 could not make out; but her auditor seemed highly 
 delighted and interested by the conversation. The nun 
 showed her several letters ; the other perused them with 
 evident pleasure, obtained permission to copy them, and 
 withdrew for that purpose, to my great satisfaction. 
 
 'No sooner was she out of sight than I quitted my 
 concealment. Fearing to alarm my lovely mistress, I 
 drew near her gently intending to discover myself by 
 degrees. But who for a moment can deceive the eyes of 
 love ? She raised her head at my approach, and recognized 
 me, in spite of my disguise, at a single glance. She rose 
 hastily from her seat with an exclamation of surprise, and 
 attempted to retire ; but I followed her, detained her, and 
 entreated to be heard. Persuaded of my falsehood, she , 
 refused to listen to me, and ordered me positively to quit 
 the garden. It was now my turn to refuse. I protested 
 that, however dangerous might be the consequences, I 
 would not leave her till she had heard my justification. I 
 assured her that she had been deceived by the artifices of 
 her relations ; that I could convince her, beyond the power 
 of doubt, that my passion had been pure and disinterested ; 
 and I asked her what should induce me to seek her in the 
 convent, were I influenced by the selfish motives which my 
 enemies had ascribed to me. 
 
 ' My prayers, my arguments, and vows not to quit her 
 till she had promised to listen to me, united to her fears 
 lest the nuns should see me with her to her natural 
 curiosity and to the affection which she still felt for me, 
 in spite of my supposed desertion, at length prevailed. 
 She told me that to grant my request at that moment 
 was impossible ; but she engaged to be in the same spot at 
 eleven that night, and to converse with me for the last 
 time. Having obtained this promise, I released her hand, 
 and she fled back with rapidity towards the convent. 
 
 'I communicated my success to my ally, the old 
 gardener ; he pointed out an hiding-place, where I might 
 shelter myself till night without fear of a discovery. 
 Thither I betook myself at the hour when I ought to have 
 
146 THE MONK 
 
 retired with my supposed master, and waited impatiently 
 for the appointed time. The chillness of the night was in 
 my favour, since it kept the other nuns confined to their 
 cells. Agnes alone was insensible of the inclemency of the 
 air, and before eleven joined me at the spot which had 
 witnessed our former interview. Secure from interruption, 
 I related to her the true cause of my disappearing on the 
 fatal fifth of May; she was evidently much affected by 
 my narrative : when it was concluded, she confessed the 
 injustice of her suspicions, and blamed herself for having 
 taken the veil through despair at my ingratitude. 
 
 ' " But now it is too late to repine ! " she added ; " the 
 die is thrown : I have pronounced my vows and dedicated 
 myself to the service of heaven. I am sensible how ill I 
 am calculated for a convent. My disgust at a monastic 
 life increases daily ; ennui and discontent are my constant 
 companions, and I will not conceal from you that the 
 passion which I formerly felt for one so near being my 
 husband is not yet extinquished in my bosom ; but we 
 must part! Insuperable barriers divide us from each 
 other, and on this side the grave we must never meet 
 again ! " 
 
 ' I now exerted myself to prove that our union was not 
 so impossible as she seemed to think it. I vaunted to her 
 the Oardinal-duke of Lerma's influence at the court of 
 Rome. I assured her that I could easily obtain a dis- 
 pensation from her vows; and I doubted not but Don 
 Gaston would coincide with my views, when informed of 
 my real name and long attachment. Agnes replied that, 
 since I encouraged such a hope, I could know but little of 
 her father. Liberal and kind in every other respectsjjpefa 
 sliUon_for med the only stam jipop^his character.. TJpon 
 this head,~Tie was inflexible; he sacrtficecThis dearest 
 interests to his scruples, and would consider it an insult to 
 suppose him capable of authorising his daughter to break 
 her vows to heaven. 
 
 ' But suppose, said I, interrupting her — suppose that he 
 should disapprove of our union : let him remain ignorant 
 of my proceedings till I have rescued you from the prison 
 in which you are now confined. Once my wife, you are 
 free from his authority. I need from him no pecuniary 
 assistance ; and, when he sees his resentment to be 
 unavailing, he will doubtless restore you to his favour. 
 
CHAPTER IV 14; 
 
 But, let the worst happen ; should Don Gaston be irrecon- 
 cilable, my relations will vie with each other in making 
 you forget his loss, and you will find in my father a 
 substitute for the parent of whom I shall deprive you. 
 
 ' " Don Raymond ", replied Agnes, in a firm and resolute 
 voice, "I love my father; he has treated me harshly in 
 this one instance ; but I have received from him, in every 
 other, so many proofs of love, that his affection is become 
 necessary to my existence. Were I to quit the convent, he 
 never would forgive me ; nor can I think that, on his 
 death-bed, he would leave me his curse, without shuddering 
 at the very idea. Besides, I am conscious myself, that my 
 vows are binding. Wilfully did I contract my engagement 
 with heaven : I cannot break it without a crime. Then 
 banish from your mind the idea of our being ever united. 
 I am devoted to religion ; and however I may grieve at 
 our separation, I would oppose obstacles myself to what I 
 feel would render me guilty." 
 
 ' I strove to overrule these ill-grounded scruples. We 
 we were still disputing upon the subject, when the convent 
 bell summoned the nuns to matins. Agnes was obliged to 
 attend them ; but she left me not till I had compelled her 
 to promise, that on the following night she would be at the 
 same place at the same hour. These meetings continued 
 for several weeks uninterrupted ; and 'tis now, Lorenzo, 
 that I must implore your indulgence. Reflect upon our 
 situation, our youth, our long attachment. Weigh all the 
 circumstances which attended our assignations, and you 
 will confess the temptation to have been irresistible ; you 
 will even pardon me when I acknowledge that in an 
 un guarded m oment the honour of Agnes was sacrificed to 
 "Tny passion?™™ T ", , , ; "" 
 
 Lorenzo s-^yes^ sparkled with fury; a deep crimson 
 spread itself over his face : he started from his seat, and 
 attempted to draw his sword. The Marquis was aware 
 of his movement, and caught his hand : he pressed it 
 affectionately : 
 
 ' My friend ! my brother ! — hear me to the conclusion ! 
 Till then restrain your passion ; and be at least convinced 
 that if what I have related is criminal, the blame must fall 
 upon me, and not upon your sister.' 
 
 Lorenzo suffered himself to be prevailed upon by Don 
 Raymond's entreaties ; he resumed his place r and listened 
 
148 THE MONK 
 
 to the rest of the narrative with a gloomy and impatient 
 countenance. The Marquis thus continued : 
 
 ' Scarcely was the first burst of passion past, when Agnes, 
 recovering herself, started from my arms with horror. 
 She called me infamous seducer, loaded me with the 
 bitterest reproaches, and beat her bosom in all the wildness 
 of delirium. Ashamed of my imprudence, I with difficulty 
 found words to excuse myself. I endeavoured to console 
 her ; I threw myself at her feet, and entreated her forgive- 
 ness. She forced her hand from me, which I had taken 
 and would have pressed to my lips. 
 
 ' " Touch me not ! " she cried, with a violence which 
 terrified me. " Monster of perfidy and ingratitude, how 
 have I been deceived in you ! I looked upon you as my 
 friend, my protector : I trusted myself in your hands with 
 confidence, and relying upon your honour, thought that 
 mine ran no risk ; and 'tis by you, whom I adored, that I 
 am covered with infamy ! — 'tis by you that I have been 
 seduced into breaking my vows to God, that I am reduced 
 to a level with the basest of my sex ! Shame upon you, 
 villain ! you shall never see me more ! " 
 
 ' She started from the bank on which she was seated. I 
 endeavoured to detain her; but she disengaged herself 
 from me with violence, and took refuge in the convent. 
 
 ' I retired, filled with confusion and inquietude. The 
 next morning I failed not, as usual, to appear in the garden; 
 but Agnes was nowhere to be seen. At night I waited for 
 her at the place where we generally met. I found no 
 better success. Several days and nights passed away in 
 the same manner. At length I saw my offended mistress 
 cross the walk, on whose borders I was working ; she was 
 accompanied by the same young pensioner, on whose arm 
 she seemed, from weakness, obliged to support herself. She 
 looked upon me for a moment, but instantly turned her 
 head away. I waited her return ; but she passed on to 
 the convent without paying any attention to me, or the 
 penitent looks with which I implored her forgiveness. 
 
 'As soon as the nuns were retired, the old gardener 
 joined me with a sorrowful air. 
 
 ' " Segnor ", said he, " it grieves me to say, that I can be 
 no longer of use to you ; the lady whom you used to meet 
 has just assured me that, if I admitted you again into the 
 garden, she would discover the whole business to the lady 
 
CHAPTER IV 149 
 
 prioress. She bade me tell you also that your presence 
 was an insult, and that, if you still possess the least respect 
 for her, you will never attempt to see her more. Excuse 
 me then for informing you that I can favour your disguise 
 no longer. Should the prioress be acquainted with my 
 conduct, she might not be contented with dismissing me 
 her service ; out of revenge, she might accuse me of having 
 profaned the convent, and cause me to be thrown into the 
 prisons of the Inquisition." 
 
 ' Fruitless were my attempts to conquer his resolution. 
 He denied me all future entrance into the garden, and 
 Agnes persevered in neither letting me see or hear from 
 her. In about a fortnight after a violent illness which 
 had seized my father obliged me to set out for Andalusia. 
 I hastened thither, and, as I imagined, found the Marquis 
 at the point of death. Though on its first appearance his 
 complaint was declared mortal, he lingered out several 
 months, during which my attendance upon him in his 
 malady, and the occupation of settling his affairs after his 
 decease, permitted not my quitting Andalusia. Within 
 these four days I returned to Madrid, and, on arriving at my - 
 hotel, I there found this letter waiting for me.' 
 
 Here the Marquis unlocked a drawer of a cabinet ; he 
 took out a folded paper, which he presented to his auditor. 
 Lorenzo opened it, and recognized his sister's hand. The 
 contents were as follows: 
 
 Into what an abyss of misery have you plunged me ! Eaymond, 
 you force me to become as criminal as yourself. I had resolved never 
 to see you more ; if possible, to forget you ; if not, only to remember 
 you with hate. A being for whom I already feel a mother's tender- 
 ness solicits me to pardon my seducer, and apply to his love for the 
 means of preservation. Ray mondj. your child lives, in my bosom. 
 I tremble at the vengeance bTEhe"prioress. I tremble much for myself, 
 ye.t more for the innocent creature whose existence depends upon mine. 
 Both of us are lost, should my situation be discovered. Advise me, 
 then, what steps to take, but seek not to see me. The gardener, who 
 undertakes to deliver this, is dismissed, and we have nothing to hope 
 from that quarter. The man engaged in his place is of incorruptible 
 fidelity. The best means of conveying to me your answer is by con- 
 cealing it under the great statue of St. Francis, which stands in the 
 Capuchin cathedral ; thither I go every Thursday to confession, and 
 shall easily have an opportunity of securing your letter. I hear that 
 you are now absent from Madrid. Need I entreat you to write the 
 very moment of your return ? I will not think it. Ah! Raymond, mine 
 is a cruel situation ! Deceived by my nearest relations, compelled to 
 embrace a profession the duties of which I am ill calculated to perform, 
 
150 THE MONK 
 
 conscious of the sanctity of those duties, and seduced into violating 
 them by one whom I least suspected of perfidy, I am now obliged by 
 circumstances to choose between death and perjury. Woman's 
 timidity, and maternal affection, permit me not to balance in the 
 choice. I feel all the guilt into which I plunge myself, when I yield 
 to the plan which you before proposed to me. My poor father's 
 death, which has taken place since we met, has removed one obstacle. 
 He sleeps in his grave, and I no longer dread his anger. But from the 
 anger of God — on, Raymond ! who shall shield me ? Who can protect 
 me against my conscience, against myself? I dare not dwell upon 
 these thoughts; they will drive me mad. I have taken my resolution. 
 Procure a dispensation from my vows. I am ready to fly with you. 
 Write to me, my husband ! Tell me that absence has not abated 
 your love ! Tell me that you will rescue from death your unborn 
 child, and its unhappy mother. I live in all the agonies of terror. 
 Every eye which is fixed upon me, seems to read my secret and my 
 shame. And you are the cause of those agonies ! Oh ! when my 
 heart first loved you, how little did it suspect you of making it feel 
 such pangs ! 
 
 Agnes. 
 
 Having perused the letter, Lorenzo restored it in silence. 
 The Marquis replaced it in the cabinet, and then proceeded : 
 
 ' Excessive was my joy at reading this intelligence, so 
 earnestly desired, so little expected. My plan was soon 
 arranged. When Don Gaston discovered to me his 
 daughter's retreat, I entertained no doubt of her readiness 
 to quit the convent: I had, therefore, entrusted the 
 Cardinal - duke of Lerma with the whole affair, who 
 immediately busied himself in obtaining the necessary 
 bull. Fortunately, I had afterwards neglected to stop his 
 proceedings. Not long since I received a letter from him, 
 stating that he expected daily to receive the order from 
 the court of Rome. Upon this I would willingly have 
 relied ; but the cardinal wrote me word, that I must find 
 some means of conveying Agnes out of the convent, un- 
 known to the prioress. He doubted not but this latter 
 would be much incensed, by losing a person of such high 
 rank from her society, and consider the renunciation of 
 Agnes as an insult to her house. He represented her as a 
 woman of a violent and revengeful character, capable of 
 proceeding to the greatest extremities. It was therefore 
 to be feared lest, by confining Agnes in the convent, she 
 should frustrate my hopes, and render the Pope's mandate 
 unavailing. Influenced by this consideration, I resolved to 
 carry off my mistress, and conceal her till the arrival of 
 the expected bull in the Cardinal - duke's estate. He 
 
CHAPTER IV 151 
 
 approved of my design, and professed myself ready to give 
 a shelter to the fugitive. I next caused the new gardener 
 of St. Clare to be seized privately and confined in my hotel. 
 By this means I became master of the key to the garden- 
 door, and I had now nothing more to do than prepare 
 Agnes for the elopement. This was done by the letter 
 which you saw me deliver this evening. I told her in it 
 that I should be ready to receive her at twelve to-morrow 
 night ; that I had secured the key of the garden, and that 
 she might depend upon a speedy release. 
 
 ' You have now, Lorenzo, heard the whole of my long 
 narrative. I have nothing to say in my excuse, save that 
 my intentions towards your sister have been ever the most 
 honourable ; that it has always been, and still is, my design 
 to make her my wife ; and that I trust, when you consider 
 these circumstances, our youth, and our attachment, you 
 will not only forgive our momentary lapse from virtue, but 
 will aid me in repairing my faults to Agnes, and securing 
 a lawful title to her person and her heart.' 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 Oh you whom Vanity's light bark conveys 
 On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise I 
 With what a shifting gale your course you ply — 
 For ever sunk too low, or borne too high ! 
 Who pants for glory finds but short repose : 
 A breath revives him, and a breath o'erthrows. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 Here the Marquis concluded his adventures. Lorenzo, 
 before he could determine on his reply, passed some 
 moments in reflection. At length he broke silence. 
 
 ' Raymond ', said he, taking his hand, ' strict honour 
 would oblige me to wash off in your blood the stain 
 thrown upon my family ; but the circumstances of your 
 case forbid me to consider you as an enemy. The_tempta- 
 tion was too great to be resisted. 'Tis the superstition of 
 my relations which has occasioned these misfortunes, and 
 they are more the offenders than yourself and Agnesy 
 What has passed between you cannot be recalled, but may 
 yet be repaired by uniting you to my sister. You have 
 ever been, you still continue to be, my dearest, and indeed 
 my only, friend. I feel for Agnes the truest affection ; and 
 there is no one on whom I would bestow her more willingly 
 than on yourself. Pursue, then, your design. I will 
 accompany you to-morrow night, and conduct her myself 
 to the house of the cardinal. My presence will be a 
 sanction for her conduct, and prevent her incurring blame 
 by her flight from the convent.' 
 
 The Marquis thanked him in terms by no means deficient 
 in gratitude. Lorenzo then informed him that he had 
 nothing more to apprehend from Donna Rodolpha's enmity. 
 Five months had already elapsed since, in an excess of 
 passion, she broke a blood-vessel, and expired in the course 
 of a few hours. He then proceeded to mention the interest 
 of Antonio* The Marquis was much surprised at hearing 
 of his new relation. His father had carried his hatred of 
 Elvira to the grave, and never given the least hint that he 
 
 152 
 
CHAPTER V 153 
 
 knew what was become of his eldest son's widow. Don 
 Raymond assured his friend that he was not mistaken in 
 supposing him ready to acknowledge his sister-in-law and 
 her amiable daughter. The preparations for the elopement 
 would not permit his visiting them the next day, but in 
 the meanwhile he desired Lorenzo to assure them of his 
 friendship, and to supply Elvira upon his account with any 
 sums which he might want. This the youth promised to 
 do, as soon as her abode should be known to him. He 
 then took leave of his future brother, and returned to the 
 Palace de Medina. 
 
 The day was already on the point of breaking when 
 the Marquis retired to his chamber. Conscious that his 
 narrative would take up some hours, and wishing to 
 secure himself from interruption on returning to the 
 hotel, he ordered his attendants not to sit up for him ; 
 consequently he was somewhat surprised on entering his 
 anti-room to find Theodore established there. The page 
 sat near a table with a pen in his hand, and was so 
 totally occupied by his employment that he perceived 
 not his lord's approach. The Marquis stopped to observe 
 him. Theodore wrote a few lines, then paused, and 
 scratched out a part of the writing ; then wrote again, 
 smiled, and seemed highly pleased with what he had 
 been about. At last he threw down his pen, sprang from 
 his chair, and clapped his hands together joyfully. 
 
 ' There it is ! ' cried he aloud ; ' now they are charming ! ' 
 
 His transports were interrupted by a laugh from the 
 Marquis, who suspected the nature of his employment. 
 
 ' What is so charming, Theodore ? ' 
 
 The youth started, and looked round: he blushed, ran 
 to the table, seized the paper on which he had been 
 writing, and concealed it in confusion. 
 
 'Oh, my lord, I knew not that you were so near me. 
 Can I be of use to you ? Lucas is already gone to bed.' 
 
 ' I shall follow his example, when I have given my 
 opinion of your verses.' 
 
 ' My verses, my lord ! ' 
 
 'Nay, I am sure that you have been writing some ; for 
 nothing else could have kept you awake till this time of 
 the morning. Where are they, Theodore ? I shall like 
 to see your composition.' 
 
 Theodore's cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson : he 
 
154 THE MONK 
 
 longed to show his poetry, but first chose to be pressed 
 for it. 
 
 ' Indeed, my lord, they are not worthy your attention.' 
 ' Not these verses which you just now declared to be so 
 charming ? Come, come, let me see whether our opinions 
 are the same. I promise that you shall find in me an 
 indulgent critic' 
 
 The Jboy produced his paper with seeming reluctance ; 
 but the satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive 
 eyes betrayed the vanity of his little bosom. The Marquis 
 smiled, while he observed the emotions of an heart as yet 
 but little skilled in veiling its sentiments. He seated 
 himself upon a sofa. Theodore, while hope and fear con- 
 tended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude 
 for his master's decision, while the Marquis read the 
 following lines: 
 
 LOVE AND AGE 
 
 The night waa dark ; the wind blew cold j 
 Anacreon, grown morose and old, 
 Sat by his fire, and fed the cheerful flame : 
 Sudden the cottage door expands, 
 And, lo ! before him Cupid stands, 
 Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name. 
 
 ' What ! is it thou 1 ' the startled sire 
 In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire 
 With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek : 
 ' Wouldst thou again with amorous rage 
 Inflame my bosom ! — steeled by age, 
 Vain boy ! to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak. 
 
 ' What seek you in this desert drear ? 
 No smiles or sports inhabit here ! 
 Ne'er did these vallies witness dalliance sweet : 
 Eternal winter binds the plains ; 
 Age in my house despotic reigns ; 
 My garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat 
 
 ' Begone, and seek the blooming bower, 
 Where some ripe virgin courts thy power, 
 Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed ; 
 On Damon's amorous breast repose ; 
 Wanton on Chloe's lip of rose, 
 Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head. 
 
CHAPTER V 155 
 
 ' Be such thy haunts ! These regions cold 
 Avoid ! Nor think, grown wise and old, 
 This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear : 
 Remembering that my fairest years 
 By thee were marked with sighs and tears, 
 I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare. 
 
 ' I have not yet forgot the pains 
 I felt while bound in Julia's chains : 
 The ardent flames with which my bosom burned ; 
 The nights I pass'd, deprived of rest ; 
 The jealous pangs which rack'd my breast ; 
 My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned. 
 
 ' Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more ! 
 Fly from my peaceful cottage door ! 
 No day, no hour, no moment shalt thou stay ! 
 I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts, 
 Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts : 
 Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray ! ' 
 
 ' Does age, old man, your wits confound ? ' 
 Replied th' offended god, and frown'd : 
 (His frown was sweet as is the virgin's smile !) 
 ' Do you to me these words address 1 
 To me who do not love you less, 
 Though you my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile ? 
 
 ' If one proud fair you chanced to find, 
 An hundred other nymphs were kind, 
 Whose smiles might well for Julia's frowns atone : 
 But such is man ! His partial hand 
 Unnumber'd favours writes on sand, 
 But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone. 
 
 * Ingrate ! Who led you to the wave, 
 At noon, where Lesbia loved to lave ? 
 Who nam'd the bower alone where Daphne lay ? 
 And who, when Celia shrieked for aid, 
 Bade you with kisses hush the maid 1 
 What other was't than Love, oh, false Anacreon, say ? 
 
 ' Then you could call me " Gentle boy ! 
 My only bliss, my source of joy ! " 
 Then you could prize me dearer than your soul ! 
 Could kiss, and dance me on your knee ; 
 And swear, not wine itself would please, 
 Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl I 
 
 ' Must those sweet days return no more ? 
 Must I for aye your loss deplore, 
 Banished your heart, and from your favour driven ? 
 Ah no ! my fears that smile denies ; 
 That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes 
 Declare me ever dear, and all my faults forgiven. 
 
156 THE MONK 
 
 ' Again belov'd, esteemed, caressed, 
 Cupid shall in thine arms be pressed, 
 Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep : 
 My torch thine age-struck heart shall warm ; 
 My hand pale Winter's rage disarm, 
 And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep, 
 
 A feather now of golden hue 
 He smiling from his pinion drew : 
 This to the poet's hand the boy commits ; 
 And straight before Anacreon's eyes 
 Thejiairest dreams of fancy rise 
 And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits. 
 
 His bosom glows with amorous fire ; 
 Eager he grasps the magic lyre ; 
 Swift o'er the tuneful chords his fingers move : 
 The feather pluck'd from Cupid's wing 
 Sweeps the too-long neglecfJed string, 
 While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of Love. 
 
 Soon as that name was heard, the woods 
 Shook off their snows, the melting floods 
 Broke their cold chains, and Winter fled away : 
 Once more the earth was decked with flowers ; 
 Mild zephyrs breathed through glooming bowers ; 
 High towered the glorious sun, and poured the blaze of day. 
 
 Attracted by th' harmonious sound, 
 Sylvans and fauns the cot surround, 
 And curious crowd the minstrel to behold : 
 The wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove ; 
 Eager they run ; they list, they love, 
 And, while they hear the strain, forget the man is old. 
 
 Cupid, to nothing constant long, 
 Perch'd on the harp, attends the song, 
 Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes : 
 Now tin the poet's breast reposes, 
 Now twines his hoary locks with roses, 
 Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats. 
 
 Then thus Anacreon : ' I no more 
 At other shrjnes my vows will pour, 
 Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire : 
 Fiom Phoebus or 1 the blue-ey^d maid 
 Now shall my verse request no aid, 
 For Love alone shall be the patron of my lyre. 
 
 ' In lofty strain, of earlier days, 
 I spread the king's or hero's praise, 
 And struck the martial chords with epio fire : 
 But farewell, hero ! Farewell king ! 
 Your deed my lips no more shall sing, 
 For Love alone shall be the subject of my lyre.' 
 
CHAPTER V 157 
 
 The Marquis returned the paper with a smile of 
 encouragement. 
 
 ' Your little poem pleases me much ' said he ; ' however, 
 you must not count my opinion for anything — I am no 
 judge of verses ; and, for my own part, never composed 
 more than sis lines in my life: those six produced so 
 unlucky an effect, that I am fully resolved never to compose 
 another. But I wander from my subject. I was going to 
 say, that y.ou cannot employ your time worse than in 
 making verses. An author, whether good or bad, or 
 between both, is an animal whom everybody is privileged 
 to attack ; for though all are not able to write books, all 
 conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composi- 
 tion carries with it its own punishment — contempt and 
 ridicule; a good one excites envy, and entaijs upon its 
 author a thousand mortifications : he finds himself assailed 
 by partial and ill-humoured criticism ; one man finds fault 
 with the plan, another with the style, a third with the 
 precept which it strives to inculcate ; and they who cannot 
 succeed in finding fault with the book, employ themselves 
 in stigmatizing its author : they maliciously rake out from 
 obscurity every little circumstance which may throw 
 ridicule upon his private oharacter or conduct, and aim at 
 wounding the man, since they cannot hurt the writer. In 
 short, to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose 
 yourself to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and 
 disappointnient?\ Whether you write well or ill, be assured 
 that you will not escape from blame. Indeed, this circum- 
 stance contains a young author's chief consolation : he 
 remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjust 
 and envious critics, and he modestly conceives himself to 
 be exactly in their predicament. But I am conscious that 
 all these sage observations are thrown away upon you. 
 Authorship is a mania , to conquer which no reasons are 
 "sufficiently strong ; and youmight as easily persuade me 
 -Vmfcjn )r )y e, in I p a r-ma ri A von not to write. _ However, if 
 you cannot help being occasionally seized with a poetical 
 paroxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating 
 your verses to none but those whose partiality for you 
 secures their approbation.' 
 
 ' Then, my lord, you do not think these lines tolerable ? ' 
 said Theodore, with an humble and dejected air. 
 
 * You mistake my meaning. As I said before, they have 
 
158 THE MONK 
 
 pleased me much ; but my regard for you makes me partial, 
 and others might judge them less favourably. I must still 
 remark, that even my prejudice in your favour does not 
 blind me so much as to prevent my observing several 
 faults. For instance, you make a terrible confusion of 
 metaphors ; you are too apt to make the strength of your 
 lines consist more in the words than sense ; some of the 
 verses seem introduced only in order to rhyme with others; 
 and most of the best ideas are borrowed from other poets, 
 though possibly you are unconscious of the theft yourself. 
 These faults may occasionally be excused in a work of 
 length, but a short poem must be correct and perfect.' 
 
 ' All this is true, Segnor ; but you should consider that I 
 only write for pleasure.' 
 
 ' Your defects are the less excusable. Their incorrect- 
 ness may be forgiven who work for money, who are 
 obliged to complete a given task in a given time, and 
 are paid according to the bulk, not value, of their pro- 
 ductions. But in those whom no necessity forces to turn 
 author, who merely write for fame, and have full leisure 
 to polish their compositions, faults are unpardonable, and 
 merit the sharpest arrows of criticism.' 
 
 The Marquis rose from the sofa ; the page looked dis- 
 couraged and melancholy; and this did not escape his 
 master's observation. 
 
 ' However ', added he, smiling, ' I think that these lines 
 do you no discredit. Your versification is tolerably easy, 
 and your ear seems to be just. The perusal of your little 
 poem, upon the whole, gave me much pleasure ; and if it is 
 not asking too great a favour, I shall be highly obliged to 
 you for a copy.' 
 
 The youth's countenance immediately cleared up. He 
 perceived not the smile, half approving, half ironical, which 
 accompanied the request, and he promised the copy with 
 great readiness. The marquis withdrew to his chamber, 
 much amused by the instantaneous effect produced upon 
 Theodore's vanity by the conclusion of his criticism. He 
 threw himself upon his couch, sleep soon stole over him, 
 and his dreams presented him with the most flattering 
 pictures of happiness with Agnes. 
 
 On reaching the hotel de Medina, Lorenzo's first care 
 was to inquire for letters. He found several waiting for 
 him, but that which he sought was not amongst them. 
 
CHAPTER V 159 
 
 Leonella had found it impossible to write that evening: 
 however, her impatience to secure Don Christoval's heart, 
 on which she flattered herself with having made no slight 
 impression, permitted her not to pass another day without 
 informing him where she was to be found. On her return 
 from the Capuchin church, she had related to her sister, 
 with exultation, how attentive an handsome cavalier had 
 been to her, as also how his companion had undertaken to 
 plead Antonia's cause with the Marquis de las Cisternas. 
 Elvira received this intelligence with sensations very 
 different from those with which it was communicated. 
 She blamed her sister's imprudence, in confiding her 
 history to an absolute stranger, and expressed her fears 
 lest this inconsiderate step should prejudice the Marquis 
 against her. The greatest of her apprehensions she con- 
 cealed in her own breast. She had observed, with in- 
 quietude, that, at the mention of Lorenzo, a deep blush 
 spread itself over her daughter's cheek. The timid 
 Antonia dared not to pronounce his name : without 
 knowing wherefore, she felt embarrassed when he was 
 made the subject of discourse, and endeavoured to change 
 the conversation to Ambrosio. Elvira perceived the 
 emotions of this young bosom ; in consequence, she 
 insisted upon Leonella's breaking her promise to the 
 cavaliers. A sigh, which on hearing this order, escaped 
 from Antonia, confirmed the wary mother in her 
 resolution. 
 
 Through this resolution Leonella was determined to 
 break : she conceived it to be inspired by envy, and that 
 her sister dreaded her being elevated above her. — Without 
 imparting her design to any one, she took an opportunity 
 of despatching the following note to Lorenzo : it was 
 delivered to him as soon as he woke : 
 
 Doubtless, Segnor don Lorenzo, you have frequently accused me of 
 ingratitude and forgetf ulness ; but on the word of a virgin, it was out 
 of my power to perform my promise yesterday. I know not in what 
 words to inform you, how strange a reception my sister gave your 
 kind wish to visit her. She is an odd woman, with many good points 
 about her ; but her jealousy of me frequently makes her conceive 
 notions quite unaccountable. On hearing that your friend had paid 
 some little attention to me, she immediately took the alarm : she 
 blamed my conduct, and has absolutely forbidden me to let you know 
 our abode. My strong sense of gratitude for your kind offers of 
 service, and — shall I confess it ? — my desire to behold once more the 
 
160 THE MONK 
 
 too amiable Don Christoval, will not permit my obeying her injunc- 
 tions. I have, therefore, stolen a moment, to inform you that we 
 lodge in the Strada di San Jago, four doors from the Palace d'Albornos, 
 and nearly opposite to the barber's Miguel Coello. Inquire for Donna 
 Elvira Dalfa, since, in compliance with her father-in-law's order, my 
 sister continues to be called by her maiden name. At eight this 
 evening you will be sure of finding us : but let not a word drop which 
 may raise a suspicion of my having written this letter. Should you 
 see the Conde' d'Ossorio, tell him (I blush while I declare it) tell him 
 that his presence will be but too acceptable to the sympathetic 
 
 Leoneiaa. 
 
 The latter sentences were written in red ink, to express 
 the blushes of her cheek while she committed an outrage 
 upon her virgin modesty. 
 
 Lorenzo had no sooner perused this note than he set out 
 in search of Don Christoval. Not being able to find him 
 in the course of the day, he proceeded to Donna Elvira's 
 alone, to Leonella's infinite disappointment. The domestic 
 by whom he sent up his name having already declared his 
 lady to be at home, she had no excuse for refusing his 
 visit ; yet she consented to receive it with much reluctance. 
 That reluctance was increased by the changes which his 
 approach produced in Antonia's countenance ; nor was it 
 by any means abated when the youth himself appeared. 
 The symmetry of his person, animation of his features, 
 and natural elegance of his manners and address, convinced 
 Elvira that such a guest must be dangerous for her 
 daughter. She resolved to treat him with distant polite- 
 ness ; to decline his services with gratitude for the tender 
 of them ; and to make him feel, without offence, that his 
 future visits would be far from acceptable. 
 
 On his entrance he found Elvira, who was indisposed, 
 reclining upon a sofa ; Antonia sat by her embroidery 
 frame ; and Leonella, in a pastoral dress, held Monte-mayor's 
 Diana. In spite of her being the mother of Antonia, 
 Lorenzo could not help expecting to find in Elvira 
 Leonella's true sister, and the daughter of ' as honest a 
 painstaking shoemaker as any in Cordova ' ; a single glance 
 was sufficient to undeceive him : he beheld a woman whose 
 features, though impaired by time and sorrow, still bore 
 the marks of distinguished beauty ; a serious dignity 
 reigned upon her countenance, but was tempered by a 
 grace and sweetness which rendered her truly enchanting. 
 Lorenzo fancied that she must have resembled her daughter 
 
CHAPTER V 161 
 
 in her youth, and readily excused the imprudence of the 
 late Conde de las Cisternas. She desired him to be seated, 
 and immediately resumed her place upon the sofa. 
 
 Antonia received him with a simple reverence, and 
 continued her work ; her cheeks were suffused with 
 crimson, and she strove to conceal her emotion by leaning 
 over her embroidery frame : her aunt, also, chose to play 
 off her airs of modesty ; she affected to blush and tremble, 
 and waited with her eyes cast down to receive, as she 
 expected, the compliments of Don Christoval. Finding, 
 after some time, that no sign of his approach was given, 
 she ventured to look round the room, and perceived with 
 vexation that Medina was unaccompanied. Impatience 
 would not permit her waiting for an explanation; 
 interrupting Lorenzo, who was delivering Raymond's 
 message, she desired to know what was become of his 
 friend. 
 
 He, who thought it necessary to maintain himself in her 
 good graces, strove to console her under her disappointment, 
 by committing a little violence upon truth. 
 
 'Ah, Segnora ! ' he replied, in a melancholy voice, ' how 
 grieved, will he be at losing this opportunity of paying you 
 his respects ! A relation's illness has obliged him to quit 
 Madrid in haste : but on his return he will doubtless seize 
 the first moment with transport to throw himself at your 
 feet ! ' 
 
 As he said this, his eyes met those of Elvira : she 
 punished his falsehood sufficiently, by darting at him a 
 look expressive of displeasure and reproach. Neither did 
 the deceit answer his intention : vexed and disappointed, 
 Leonella rose from her seat, and retired in dudgeon to her 
 own apartment. 
 
 Lorenzo hastened to repair the fault which had injured 
 him in Elvira's opinion : he related his conversation with 
 the Marquis respecting her ; he assured her that Raymond 
 was prepared to acknowledge her for his brother's widow ; 
 and that, till it was in his power to pay his compliments 
 to her in person, Lorenzo was commissioned to supply his 
 place. This intelligence relieved Elvira from a heavy 
 weight of uneasiness : she had now found a protector for 
 the fatherless Antonia, for whose future fortunes she had 
 suffered the greatest apprehensions. She was not sparing 
 of her thanks to him who had interfered so generously in 
 
 L 
 
162 THE MONK 
 
 her behalf ; but still she gave bim no invitation to repeat 
 his visit. However, when upon rising to depart he 
 requested permission to inquire after her health occasionally, 
 the polite earnestness of his manner, gratitude for his 
 services, and respect for his friend the Marquis, would not 
 admit of a refusal. She consented reluctantly to receive 
 him ; he promised not to abuse her goodness, and quitted 
 the house. 
 
 Antonia was now left alone with her mother : a 
 temporary silence ensued ; both wished to speak upon the 
 same subject, but neither knew how to introduce it: the 
 one felt a bashfulness which sealed up her lips, and for 
 which she could not account ; the other feared to find her 
 apprehensions true, or to inspire her daughter with notions 
 to which she might be still a stranger. At length Elvira 
 began the conversation. 
 
 ' That is a charming young man, Antonia ; I am much 
 pleased with him. Was he long near you yesterday in the 
 cathedral ? ' 
 
 'He quitted me not for a moment while I staid in the 
 church ; he gave me his seat, and was very obliging and 
 attentive.' 
 
 'Indeed! Why then have you never mentioned his 
 name to me ? Your aunt launched out in praise of his 
 friend, and you vaunted Ambrosio's eloquence ; but neither 
 said a word of Don Lorenzo's person and accomplishments : 
 had not Leonella spoken of his readiness to undertake our 
 cause, I should not have known him to be in existence.' 
 
 She paused. Antonia coloured, but was silent. 
 
 ' Perhaps you judge him less favourably thari I do. In 
 my opinion his figure is pleasing, his conversation sensible, 
 and mannere engaging: still he may have struck you 
 differently: you may think him disagreeable, and — ' 
 
 ' Disagreeable ! Oh ! dear mother, how should I possibly 
 think him so ? I should be very ungrateful were I not 
 sensible of his kindness yesterday, and very blind if his 
 merits had escaped me : his figure is so graceful, so noble ! 
 his manners so gentle, yet so manly ! I never yet saw so 
 many accomplishments united in one person, and I doubt 
 whether Madrid can produce his equal.' 
 
 ' Why then were you so silent in praise of this phoenix 
 of Madrid ? Why was it concealed from me that bis society 
 had afforded you pleasure ? ' 
 
CHAPTER V 163 
 
 ' In truth I know not : you ask me a question which I 
 cannot resolve myself. I was on the point of mentioning 
 him a thousand times: his name was constantly on my 
 lips ; but when I would have pronounced it, I wanted 
 courage to execute my design : however, if I did not speak 
 of him, it was not that I thought of him the less.' 
 
 ' That I believe : but shall I tell you why you wanted 
 courage ? — it was because, accustomed to confide to me 
 your most secret thoughts, you knew not how to conceal, 
 yet feared to acknowledge, that your heart nourished a 
 sentiment which you were conscious I should disapprove. 
 Come hither to me, my child.' 
 
 Antonia quitted her embroidery frame, threw herself 
 upon her knees by the sofa, and hid her face in her 
 mother's lap. 
 
 ' Fear not, my sweet girl ! Consider me equally as your 
 friend and parent, and apprehend no reproof from me. I 
 have read the emotions of your bosom ; you are yet ill- 
 skilled in concealing them, and they could not escape my 
 attentive eye. This Lorenzo is dangerous to your repose ; 
 he has already made an impression upon your heart. 'Tis 
 true that I perceive easily that your affection is returned : 
 but what can be the consequences of this attachment? 
 You are poor and friendless, my Antonia ; Lorenzo is the 
 heir of the Duke of Medina Celi. Even should himself 
 mean honourably, his uncle never will consent to your 
 union; nor without that uncle's consent will I. By sad 
 experience I know what sorrow she must endure who 
 marries into a family unwilling to receive her. Then 
 struggle with your affection ; whatever pains it may cost 
 you, strive to conquer it. Your heart is tender and 
 susceptible ; it has already received a strong impression : 
 but when once convinced that you should not encourage 
 such sentiments, I trust that you have sufficient fortitude 
 to drive them from your bosom.' 
 
 Antonia kissed her hand, and promised implicit obedience, 
 Elvira then continued : 
 
 ' To prevent your passion from growing stronger, it will 
 be needful to prohibit Lorenzo's visits. The service which 
 he has rendered me permits not my forbidding them posi- 
 tively ; but unless I judge too favourably of his character, 
 he will discontinue them without taking offence, if I con- 
 fess to him my reasons, and throw myself entirely on his 
 
164 THE MONK 
 
 generosity : the next time that I see him, I will honestly 
 avow to him the embarrassment which his presence 
 occasions. How say you, my child ? — is not this measure 
 necessary ? ' 
 
 Antonia subscribed to everything without hesitation, 
 though not without regret. Her mother kissed her 
 affectionately, and retired to bed. Antonia followed her 
 example, and vowed so frequently never more to think of 
 Lorenzo, that till sleep closed her eyes she thought of 
 nothing else. 
 
 While this was passing at Elvira's, Lorenzo hastened to 
 rejoin the Marquis. — Everything was ready for the second 
 elopement of Agnes ; and at twelve the two friends, with 
 a coach and four, were at the garden-wall of the convent. 
 Don Raymond drew out his key, and unlocked the door. 
 They entered, and waited for some time in expectation of 
 being joined by Agnes. At length the Marquis grew im- 
 patient : beginning to fear that his second attempt would 
 succeed no better than the first, he proposed to reconnoitre 
 the convent. The friends advanced towards it. Every- 
 thing was still and dark. The prioress was anxious to 
 keep the story a secret, fearing lest the crime of one of its 
 members should bring disgrace upon the whole community, 
 or that the interposition of powerful relations should 
 deprive her vengeance of its intended victim. She took 
 care, therefore, to give the lover of Agnes no cause to 
 suppose that his design was discovered, and his mistress on 
 the point of suffering the punishment of her fault. The 
 same reason made her reject the idea of arresting the 
 unknown seducer in the garden : such a proceeding would 
 have created much disturbance, and the disgrace of her 
 convent would have noised about Madrid. She contented 
 herself with confining Agnes closely : as to the lover, she 
 left him at liberty to pursue his designs. What she had 
 expected was the result: the Marquis and Lorenzo waited 
 in vain till the break of day ; they then retired without 
 noise, alarmed at the failure of their plan, and ignorant of 
 the cause of its ill success. 
 
 The next morning Lorenzo went to the convent, and 
 requested to see his sister. The prioress appeared at the 
 gate with a melancholy countenance. She informed him 
 that for several days Agnes had appeared much agitated ; 
 that she had been pressed by the nuns in vain to reveal the 
 
CHAPTER V 165 
 
 cause, and apply to their tenderness for advice and consola- 
 tion ; that she had obstinately persisted in concealing the 
 cause of her distress ; but that on Thursday evening it had 
 produced so violent an effect upon her constitution, that 
 she had fallen ill, and was actually confined to her bed. 
 Lorenzo did not credit a syllable of this account: he 
 insisted upon seeing his sister ; if she was unable to come 
 to the grate, he desired to be admitted to her cell. The 
 prioress crossed herself! She was shocked at the very idea 
 of a man's profane eye pervading the interior of her holy 
 mansion, and professed herself astonished that Lorenzo 
 could think of such a thing. She told him that his request 
 could not be granted ; but that if he returned the next 
 day, she hoped that her beloved daughter would then be 
 sufficiently recovered to join him at the parlour grate. 
 With this answer Lorenzo was obliged to retire, unsatisfied, 
 and trembling for his sister's safety. 
 
 He returned the next morning at an early hour. ' Agnes 
 was worse; the physician had pronounced her to be in 
 imminent danger ; she was ordered to remain quiet ; and it 
 was utterly impossible for her to receive her brother's visit.' 
 Lorenzo stormed at this answer, but there was no resource. 
 He raved, he entreated, he threatened : no means were left 
 untried to obtain a sight of Agnes. His endeavours were 
 as fruitless as those of the day before, and he returned in 
 despair to the Marquis. On his side the latter had spared 
 no pains to discover what had occasioned his plot to fail. 
 Don Christoval, to whom the affair was now entrusted, 
 endeavoured to worm out the secret from the old porteress 
 of St. Clare, with whom he had formed an acquaintance ; 
 but she was too much upon her guard, and he gained from 
 her no intelligence. The Marquis was almost distracted, 
 and Lorenzo felt scarcely less inquietude. Both were 
 convinced that the purposed elopement must have been 
 discovered : they doubted not but the malady of Agnes 
 was a pretence, but they knew not by what means to 
 rescue her from the hands of the prioress. 
 
 Regularly every day did Lorenzo visit the convent : as 
 regularly was he informed that his sister rather grew worse 
 than better. Certain that her indisposition was feigned, 
 these accounts did not alarm him : but his ignorance of her 
 fate, and of the motives which induced the prioress to keep 
 her from him, excited the most serious uneasiness. He was 
 
166 THE MONK 
 
 still uncertain what steps he ought to take, when the 
 Marquis received a letter from the Cardinal-duke of Lerma. 
 It inclosed the Pope's expected bull, ordering that Agnes 
 should be released from her vows, and restored to her 
 relations. This essential paper decided at once the pro- 
 ceedings of her friends ; they resolved that Lorenzo should 
 carry it to the domina without delay, and demand that his 
 sister should be instantly given up to him. Against this 
 mandate, illness could not be pleaded : it gave her brother 
 the power of removing her instantly to the Palace de 
 Medina, and he determined to use that power on the 
 following day. 
 
 His mind relieved from inquietude respecting his sister, 
 and his spirits raised by the hope of soon restoring her to 
 freedom, he now had time to give a few moments to love 
 and to Antonia. At the same hour as on his former visit, 
 he repaired to Donna Elvira's. She had given orders for 
 his admission. As soon as he was announced, her daughter 
 retired with Leonella ; and when he entered the chamber 
 he found the lady of the house alone. She received him 
 with less distance than before, and desired him to place 
 himself near her upon the sofa. She then, without losing 
 time, opened her business, as had been agreed between 
 herself and Antonia. 
 
 ' You must not think me ungrateful, Don Lorenzo, or 
 forgetful how essential are the services which you have 
 rendered me with the Marquis. I feel the weight of my 
 obligations; nothing under the sun should induce my 
 taking the step to which I am now compelled, but the 
 interest of my child, of my beloved Antonia. My health 
 is declining ; God only knows how soon I may be summoned 
 before his throne. My daughter will be left without 
 parents, and should she lose the protection of the Cisternas 
 family, without friends: She is young and artless, 
 uninstructed in the world's perfidy, and with charms 
 sufficient to render her an object of seduction. Judge, 
 then, how I must tremble at the prospect before her ! — 
 judge how anxious I must be to keep her from their 
 society, who may excite the yet dormant passions of her 
 bosom. You are amiable, Don Lorenzo ; Antonia has a 
 susceptible, a loving heart, and is grateful for the favours 
 conferred upon us by your interference with the Marquis. 
 Your presence makes me tremble; I fear lest it should 
 
CHAPTER V 16; 
 
 inspire her with sentiments which may embitter the 
 remainder of her life, or encourage her to cherish hopes 
 in her situation unjustifiable and futile. Pardon me when 
 I avow my terrors, and let my frankness plead in my 
 excuse. I cannot forbid you my house, for gratitude 
 restrains me ; I can only throw myself upon your generosity, 
 and entreat you to spare the feelings of an anxious, of a 
 doting mother. Believe me when I assure you, that I 
 lament the necessity of rejecting your acquaintance : but 
 there is no remedy, and Antonia's interest obliges me to 
 beg you to forbear your visits. By complying with my 
 request, you will increase the esteem which I already feel 
 for you, and of which everything convinces me that you 
 are truly deserving.' 
 
 'Your frankness charms me', replied Lorenzo; 'you 
 shall find, that in your favourable opinion of me you were 
 not deceived ; yet I hope that the reasons now in my 
 power to allege will persuade you to withdraw a request 
 which I cannot obey without infinite reluctance. I love 
 your daughter, love her most sincerely ; I wish for no 
 greater happiness than to inspire her with the same 
 sentiments, and receive her hand at the altar as her 
 husband. 'Tis true, I am not rich myself; my father's 
 death has left me but little in my own possession ; but my 
 expectations justify my pretending to the Conde - de las 
 Cisternas's daughter.' 
 
 He was proceeding, but Elvira interrupted him. 'Ah, 
 Don Lorenzo ! You forget, in that pompous title, the 
 meanness of my origin. You forget that I have now 
 passed fourteen years in Spain, disavowed by my husband's 
 family, and existing upon a stipend barely sufficient for 
 the support and education of my daughter. Nay, I have 
 even been neglected by most of my own relations, who out 
 of envy affect to doubt the reality of my marriage. My 
 allowance being discontinued at my father-in-law's death, 
 I was reduced to the very brink of want. In this situation 
 I was found by my sister, who, amongst all her foibles, 
 possesses a warm, generous, and affectionate heart. She 
 aided me with the little fortune which my father left 
 her, persuaded me to visit Madrid, and has supported my 
 child and myself since our quitting Murcia. Then consider 
 not Antonio, as descended from the Conde de las Cisternas ; 
 consider her as a poor and unprotected orphan, as the 
 
168 THE MONK 
 
 grandchild of the tradesman Torribio Dalfa, as the needy 
 pensioner of that tradesman's daughter. Reflect upon the 
 difference between such a situation and that of the nephew 
 and heir of the potent Duke of Medina. I believe your 
 intentions to be honourable; but, as there are no hopes 
 that your uncle will approve of the union, I foresee that 
 the consequences of your attachment must be fatal to my 
 child's repose.' 
 
 ' Pardon me, Segnora ; you are misinformed if you 
 suppose the Duke of Medina to resemble the generality of 
 men. His sentiments are liberal and disinterested ; he 
 loves me well, and I have no reason to dread his forbidding 
 the marriage when he perceives that my happiness depends 
 upon Antonia. But supposing him to refuse his sanction 
 what have I still to fear ? My parents are no more ; my 
 little fortune is in my own possession ; it will be sufficient 
 to support Antonia, and I shall exchange for her hand 
 Medina's dukedom without one sign of regret.' 
 
 ' You are young and eager ; it is natural for you to 
 entertain such ideas. But experience has taught me to my 
 cost, that curses accompany an unequal alliance. I married 
 the Conde - de las Cisternas in opposition to the will of his 
 relations ; many a heart-pang has punished me for the im- 
 prudent step. Wherever we bent our course, a father's 
 execration pursued Gonzalvo. Poverty overtook us, and 
 no friend was near to relieve our wants. Still our mutual 
 affection existed, but, alas ! not without interruption. 
 Accustomed to wealth and ease,- s ill could my husband 
 support the transition to distress and indigence. He 
 looked back with repining to the comforts which he once 
 enjoyed. He regretted the situation which for my sake he 
 had quitted ; and, in moments when despair possessed his 
 mind, has reproached me with having made him the 
 companion of want and wretchedness. He has called me 
 his bane, the source of his sorrows, the cause of his destruc- 
 tion ! Ah, God ! he little knew how much keener were my 
 own heart's reproaches ! He was ignorant that I suffered 
 trebly ; for myself, for my children, and for him ! Tis 
 true that his anger seldom lasted long: his sincere affection 
 for me soon revived in hia heart ; and then his repentance 
 for the tears which he had made me shed tortured me 
 even more than his reproaches. He would throw himself 
 on the ground, implore my forgiveness in the most frantic 
 
CHAPTER V 169 
 
 terms, and loaded himself with curses for being the 
 murderer of my repose. Taught by experience, that a 
 union contracted against the inclinations of families on 
 either side must be unfortunate, I will save my daughter 
 from those miseries which I have suffered. Without your 
 uuclek -consent, while I live, she shall never be yours. 
 Undoubtedly he will disapprove of the union : his power 
 is immense, and Antonia shall not be exposed to his anger 
 and persecution.' 
 
 ' His persecution'! How easily may that be avoided ! 
 Let the worst happen, it is but quitting Spain. My wealth 
 may easily be realized. The Indian islands will offer us a 
 secure retreat. I have an estate, though not of value, in 
 Hispaniola ; thither will we fly ; and I shall consider it to 
 be my native country, if it gives me Antonia's undisturbed 
 possession.' 
 
 ' Ah, youth ! This is a fond, romantic vision. Gonzalvo 
 thought the same. He fancied that he could leave Spain 
 without regret ; but the moment of parting undeceived 
 him. You know not yet what it is to quit your 
 native land ; to quit it never to behold it more ! 
 You know not what it is to exchange the scenes 
 where you have passed your infancy, for unknown realms 
 and barbarous climates — to be forgotten, utterly, eternally 
 forgotton by the companions of your youth — to see your 
 dearest friends, the fondest objects of your affection, perish- 
 ing with diseases incidental to Indian atmospheres, and 
 find yourself unable to procure for them necessary assist- 
 ance ! I have felt all this ! My husband and two sweet 
 babes found their graves in Cuba : nothing would have 
 saved my young Antonia but my sudden return to Spain. 
 Ah, Don Lorenzo ! could you conceive what I suffered 
 during my absence — could you know how sorely I regretted 
 all that I left behind, and how dear to me was the 
 very name of Spain ! I envied the winds which blew 
 towards it: and when the Spanish sailor chanted some 
 well-known air as he passed my window, tears filled my 
 eyes while I thought upon my native land. Gonzalvo too 
 — my husband — ' 
 
 Elvira paused. Her voice faltered, and she concealed her 
 face with her handkerchief. After a short silence she rose 
 from the sofa, and proceeded : 
 
 ' Excuse my quitting you for a few moments ; the remem- 
 
170 THE MONK 
 
 brance of what I have suffered has much agitated me, and 
 I need to be alone. Till I return, peruse these lines. After 
 my husband's death I found them among his papers. Had 
 I known sooner that he entertained such sentiments, grief 
 would have killed me. He wrote these verses on his 
 voyage to Cuba, when his mind was clouded by sorrow, 
 and he forgot that he had a wife and children. What we 
 are losing ever seems to us the most precious. Gonzalvo 
 was quitting Spain for ever ; and therefore was Spain 
 dearer to his eyes than all else which the world contained. 
 Read them, Don Lorenzo ; they will give you some idea of 
 the feelings of a banished man.' 
 
 Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo's hand, and retired from 
 the chamber. The youth examined the contents, and 
 found them to be as follows : 
 
 THE EXILE 
 
 Farewell, oh, native Spain ! Farewell for ever ! 
 
 These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more ! 
 A mournful presage tells my heart that never 
 
 Gonzalvo'B steps again shall press thy shore. 
 
 Hush'd are the winds ; while soft the vessel, sailing 
 With gentle motion, ploughs th' unruffled main, 
 
 I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing, 
 And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain. 
 
 I see it yet ! Beneath yon blue clear heaven 
 Still do the spires, so well-belov'd, appear : 
 
 From yonder craggy point, the gale of even 
 Still wafts my native accent to mine ear. 
 
 Propp'd on some moss-crown'd rock, and gaily singing, 
 There in the sun his nets the fisher dries ; 
 
 Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing 
 Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes. 
 
 Ah, happy swain ! He waits th' accustomed hour, 
 When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky ; 
 
 Then gladly seeks his lov'd paternal bower, 
 And shares the feast his native fields supply. 
 
 Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him 
 With honest welcome and with smile sincere : 
 
 No threatening woes of present joys bereave him ; 
 No sigh his bosom owns — his cheek no tear. 
 
 Ah, happy swain ! Such bliss to me denying, 
 
 Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view ; 
 Me, who, from home and Spain an exile flying, 
 
 Bid all I value, all I love, adieu ! 
 
CHAPTER V 171 
 
 No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty 
 Sung by some mountain-girl, who tends her goats — 
 
 Some village-swain imploring amorous pity, 
 Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes 
 
 No more my arms a parent's fond embraces — 
 No more my heart domestic calm must know ! 
 
 Far from these joys, which sighs which memory traces, 
 To sultry skies and distant climes I go — 
 
 Where Indian suns engender new diseases, 
 Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way ; 
 
 To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases, 
 The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day. 
 
 But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver 
 
 To die by piecemeal in the bloom of age, 
 My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever, 
 
 And brain delirious with the day-star's rage, 
 
 Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever, 
 With many a bitter sigh, dear land ! from thee ; 
 
 To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever, 
 And feel that all ijtiy joys are torn from me ! 
 
 Ah, me ! How oft will fancy's spells, in slumber, 
 
 Recall my native country to my mind ! 
 How oft regret will bid me sadly number 
 
 Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind ! 
 
 Wild Murcia's vales and loved romantic bowers, 
 
 The river on whose banks a child I play'd, 
 My castle's ancient halls, its frowning towers, 
 
 Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade ; 
 
 Dream3 of the land where all my wishes centre, 
 Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know. 
 
 Full oft shall memory trace, my soul's tormentor, 
 And turn each pleasure past to present woe ! 
 
 But, lo ! The sun beneath the waves retires ; 
 
 Night speeds apace her empire to restore ; 
 Clouds from my sight obscure the village spires, 
 
 Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more. 
 
 Oh ! breathe not, winds ! Still be the water's motion ! 
 
 Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main ! 
 So when to-morrow's light shall gild the ocean, 
 
 Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain. 
 
 Vain is the wish ! My last petition scorning, 
 Fresh blows the gale, and high the billows swell : 
 
 Far shall we be before the break of morning ; 
 Oh then, for ever, native Spain, farewell ! 
 
172 THE MONK 
 
 Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines when 
 Elvira returned to him: the giving a free course to her 
 tears had relieved her, and her spirits had regained their 
 usual composure. 
 
 ' I have nothing more to say, my lord ', said she ; ' you 
 have heard my apprehensions, and my reasons for begging 
 you not to repeat your visits. I have thrown myself in 
 full confidence upon your honour : I am certain that you 
 will not prove my opinion of you to have been too 
 favourable.' 
 
 'But one question more, Segnora, and I leave you. 
 Should the Duke of Medina approve my love, would my 
 addresses be unacceptable to yourself and the fair 
 Antonia ? ' 
 
 ' I will be open with you, Don Lorenzo : there being 
 little probability of such a union taking place, I fear that 
 it is desired but too ardently by my daughter. You have 
 made an impression upon her young heart, which gives 
 me the most serious alarm: to prevent that impression 
 from growing stronger, I am obliged to decline your 
 acquaintance. For me, you may be sure that I should 
 rejoice at establishing my child so advantageously. 
 Conscious that my constitution, impaired by grief and 
 illness, forbids me to expect a long continuance in this 
 world, I tremble at the thought of leaving her under the 
 protection of a perfect stranger. The Marquis de las 
 Cisternas is totally unknown to me. He will marry : his 
 lady may look upon Antonia with an eye of displeasure, 
 and deprive her of her only friend. Should the duke, your 
 uncle, give his consent, you need not doubt obtaining mine 
 and my daughter's ; but, without his, hope not for ours. 
 At all events, whatever steps you may take, whatever may 
 be the duke's decision, till you know it, let me beg your 
 forbearing to strengthen, by your presence, Antonia's 
 prepossession. ( If the sanction of your relations authorizes 
 your addressing her as your wife, my doors fly open to 
 you : if that sanction is refused, be satisfied to possess my 
 esteem and gratitude, but remember that we must meet 
 no moreo 
 
 Lorenzo promised reluctantly to conform to this decree : 
 but he added, that he hoped soon to obtain that consent, 
 which would give him a claim to the renewal of their 
 acquaintance. He then explained to her why the Marquis 
 
CHAPTER V 173 
 
 had not called in person ; and made no scruple of confiding 
 to her his sister's history. He concluded by saying, ' that 
 he hoped to set Agnes at liberty the next day ; and that, 
 as soon as Don Raymond's fears were quieted upon tbis 
 subject, he would lose no time in assuring Donna Elvira of 
 his friendship and protection.' 
 
 The lady shook her head. ' I tremble for your sister ', 
 said she. ' I have heard many traits of the domina of St. 
 Clare's character, for a friend who was educated in the 
 same convent with her : she reported her to be haughty, 
 inflexible, superstitious, and revengeful. I have since 
 heard that she is infatuated with the idea of rendering her 
 convent the most regular in Madrid, and never forgave 
 those whose imprudence threw upon it the slightest stain. 
 Though naturally violent and severe, when her interests 
 require it, she well knows how to assume an appearance of 
 benignity. She leaves no means untried to persuade young 
 women of rank to become members of her community : 
 she is implacable when once incensed, and has too much 
 intrepidity to shrink at taking the most rigorous measures 
 for punishing the offender. Doubtless, she will consider 
 your sister's quitting the convent as a disgrace thrown 
 upon it ; she will use every artifice to avoid obeying the 
 mandate of his holiness ; and I shudder to think that 
 Donna Agnes is in the hands of this dangerous woman.' 
 
 Lorenzo now rose to take leave. Elvira gave him her 
 hand at parting, which he kissed respectfully ; and telling 
 her that he soon hoped for the permission to salute that of 
 Antonia, he returned to his hotel. The lady was perfectly 
 satisfied with the conversation which had passed between 
 them : she looked forward with satisfaction to the prospect 
 of his becoming her son-in-law ; but prudence bade her 
 conceal from her daughter's knowledge the flattering hopes 
 which herself now ventured to entertain. 
 
 Scarcely was it day, and already Lorenzo was at the 
 convent of St. Clare, furnished with the necessary mandate. 
 The nuns were at matins. He waited impatiently for the 
 conclusion of the service ; and at length the prioress 
 appeared at the parlour - grate. Agnes was demanded. 
 The old lady replied with a melancholy air, that the dear 
 child's situation grew hourly more dangerous ; that the 
 physicians despaired of her life : but that they had declared 
 the only chance for her recovery to consist in keeping her 
 
i 74 THE MONK 
 
 quiet, and not to permit those to approach her whose 
 presence was likely to agitate her. Not a word of all 
 this was believed by Lorenzo, any more than he credited 
 the expressions of grief and affection for Agnes with which 
 this account was interlarded. To end the business, he put 
 the Pope's bull into the hands of the domina, and insisted 
 that, ill or in health, his sister should be delivered to him 
 without delay. 
 
 The prioress received the paper with an air of humility ; 
 but no sooner had her eye glanced over the contents, than 
 her resentment baffled all the efforts of hypocrisy. A deep 
 crimson spread itself over her face, and she darted upon 
 Lorenzo looks of rage and menace. 
 
 ' This order is positive ', said she, in a voice of anger, 
 which she in vain strove to disguise ; ' willingly would I 
 obey it, but unfortunately it is out of my power.' 
 Lorenzo interrupted her by an exclamation of surprise. 
 ' I repeat it, Segnor, to obey this order is totally out of 
 my power. From tenderness to a brother's feelings, I 
 would have communicated the sad event to you by 
 degrees, and have prepared you to hear it with fortitude. 
 My measures are broken through : this order commands me 
 to deliver up to you the sister Agnes without delay ; I am, 
 therefore, obliged to inform you, without circumlocution, 
 that on Friday last she expired.' 
 
 Lorenzo started back with horror, and turned pale. A 
 moment's recollection convinced him that this assertion 
 must be false, and it restored him to himself. 
 
 ' You deceive me ! ' said he, passionately ; ' but five 
 minutes past you assured me that, though ill, she was 
 still alive. Produce her this instant ! See her I must and 
 will ; and every attempt to keep her from me will be 
 unavailing,' 
 
 ' You forget yourself, Segnor ; you owe respect to my 
 age, as well as my profession. Your sister is no more. If 
 I at first concealed her death, it was from dreading lest an 
 event so unexpected should produce on you too violent an 
 effect. In truth, I am but ill repaid for my attention. 
 And what interest, I pray you, should I have in detaining 
 her ? To know her wish of quitting our society is a suffi- 
 cient reason for me to wish her absence, and think her a 
 disgrace to the sisterhood of St. Clare : but she has for- 
 feited my affection in a manner yet more culpable. Her 
 
CHAPTER V 175 
 
 crimes were great ; and when you know the cause of her 
 death, you will doubtless rejoice, Don Lorenzo, that such a 
 wretch is no longer in existence. She was taken ill on 
 Thursday last, on returning from confession in the Capuchin 
 chapel : her malady seemed attended with strange circum- 
 stances ; but she persisted in concealing its cause. Thanks 
 to the Virgin, we were too ignorant to suspect it ! Judge 
 then what must have been our consternation, our horror, 
 when she was delivered the next day of a still-born child, 
 whom she immediately followed to the grave. How, 
 Segnor? — is it possible that your countenance expresses 
 no surprise, no indignation ? Is it possible that your 
 sister's infamy was known to you, and that still she 
 possessed your affection ? In that case you have no need 
 of my compassion. I can say nothing more, except repeat 
 my inability of obeying the orders of his holiness. Agnes 
 is no more ; and, to convince you that what I say is true, 
 I swear by our blessed Saviour that three days have passed 
 since she was buried.' 
 
 Here she kissed a small crucifix which hung at her 
 girdle : she then rose from her chair and quitted the 
 parlour. As she withdrew, she cast upon Lorenzo a 
 scornful smile. ' Farewell, Segnor ', said she ; ' I know 
 no remedy for this accident : I fear that even a second 
 bull from the Pope will not procure your sister's 
 resurrection.' 
 
 Lorenzo also retired, penetrated with affliction ; but 
 Don Raymond's, at the news of this evpnt, amounted to 
 madness : he would not be convinced that Agnes was 
 really dead ; and continued to insist that the walls of 
 St. Clare still confined her. No arguments could make 
 him abandon his hopes of regaining her. Every day some 
 fresh scheme was invented for procuring intelligence of 
 her, and all of them were attended with the same success. 
 
 On his part, Medina gave up the idea of ever seeing his 
 sister more ; yet he believed that she had been taken off 
 by unfair means. Under this persuasion he encouraged 
 Don Raymond's researches, determined, should he discover 
 the least warrant for his suspicions, to take a severe 
 vengeance upon the unfeeling prioress. The loss of his 
 sister affected him sincerely ; nor was it the least cause 
 of his distress that propriety obliged him for some time 
 to defer mentioning Antonia to the duke. In the mean- 
 
176 THE MONK 
 
 while his emissaries constantly surrounded Elvira's door. 
 He had intelligence of all the movements of his mistress. 
 As she never failed every Thursday to attend the sermon 
 in the Capuchin cathedral, he was secure of seeing her 
 once a week; though, in compliance with his promise, 
 he carefully shunned her observation. Thus two long 
 months passed away. Still no information was procured 
 of Agnes. fAll but the Marquis credited her death i)and 
 now Lorenzo determined to disclose his sentiments to 
 his uncle : he had already dropped some hints of his 
 intention to marry ; they had been as favourably received 
 as he could expect, and he harboured no doubt of the 
 success of his application. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 While in each other's arms entrano'd they lay, 
 They blessed the night, and curs'd the coming day. 
 
 — Lee 
 
 The burst of transport was passed : Ambrosio's lust was 
 satisfied. Pleasure fled, and shame usurped her seat in 
 his bosom. Confused and terrified at his weakness, he 
 drew himself from Matilda's arms ; his perjury presented 
 itself before him ; he reflected on the scene which had 
 just been acted, and trembled at the consequences of a 
 discovery ; he looked forward with horror ; his heart was 
 despondent, and became the abode of satiety and disgust : 
 he avoided the eyes of his partner in frailty. A melan- 
 choly silence prevailed, during which both seemed busied 
 with disagreeable reflections. 
 
 Matilda was the first to break it. She took his hand 
 gently, and pressed it to her burning lips. 
 
 ' Ambrosio ! ' she murmured, in a soft and trembling 
 voice. 
 
 The abbot started at the sound: he turned his eyes upon 
 Matilda's ; they were filled with tears ; her cheeks were 
 covered with blushes, and her supplicating looks seemed 
 to solicit his compassion. 
 
 'Dangerous woman!' said he; 'into what an abyss of 
 misery have you plunged me ! Should your sex be 
 discovered, my honour, nay, my life, must pay for the 
 pleasure of a few moments. Fool that I was, to trust 
 myself to your seductions ! What can now be done ? 
 How can my offence be expiated ? What atonement can 
 purchase the pardon of my crime ? Wretched Matilda ! 
 you have destroyed my quiet for ever ! ' 
 
 ' To me these reproaches, Ambrosio ! — to me, who have 
 sacrificed for you the world's pleasures, the luxury of 
 wealth, the delicacy of sex, my friends, my fortune, and 
 my fame ! What have you lost which I preserved ? 
 Have / not shared in your guilt ? Have you not shared 
 
 177 M 
 
j;8 THE MONK 
 
 in my pleasure ? Guilt, did I say ? In what consists ours, 
 unless in the opinion of an ill-judging world ? Let that 
 world be ignorant of them, and our joys become divine 
 and blameless ! — Unnatural were your vows of celibacy ; 
 man was not created for such a state : and were love a 
 crime, God never would have made it so sweet, so irre- 
 sistible ! Then banish those clouds from your brow, my 
 Ambrosio. Indulge in those pleasures freely, without 
 which live is a worthless gift. Cease to reproach me 
 with having taught you what is bliss, and feel equal 
 transports with the woman who adores you ! ' 
 
 As she spoke, her eyes were filled with a delicious 
 languor : her bosom panted : she twined her arms volup- 
 tuously round him, drew him towards her, and glued her 
 lips to his. Ambrosio again raged with desire : the die 
 was thrown ; his vows were already broken ; he had 
 already committed the crime, and why should he refrain 
 from enjoying its reward ? He clasped her to his breast 
 with redoubled ardour. No longer repressed by the sense 
 of shame, he gave a loose to his intemperate appetites; 
 while the fair wanton put every invention of lust in 
 practice, every refinement in the art of pleasure, which 
 might heighten the bliss of her possession and render her 
 lover's transports still more exquisite. Ambrosio rioted 
 in delights till then unknown to him. Swift fled the 
 night, and the morning blushed to behold him still 
 clasped in the embraces of Matilda. 
 
 Intoxicated with pleasure, the monk rose from the siren's 
 luxurious couch : he no longer reflected with shame upon 
 his incontinence or dreaded the vengeance of offended 
 Heaven : his only fear was lest death should rob him of 
 enjoyments, for which his long fast had only given a 
 keener edge to his appetite. Matilda was still under the 
 influence of poison ; and the voluptuous monk ^trembled 
 less for his preserver's life than his concubine's. ^Deprived 
 of her, he would not easily find another mistress with 
 whom he could indulge his passions so fully and so safe~lyj> 
 he therefore pressed her with earnestness to use the means""" 
 of preservation which she had declared to be in her 
 possession. 
 
 ' Yes ! ' replied Matilda ; ' since you have made me feel 
 that life is valuable, I will rescue mine at any rate. No 
 dangers shall appal me ; I will look upon the consequences 
 
CHAPTER VI 179 
 
 of my action boldly, nor shudder at the horrors which they 
 present; I will think my sacrifice scarcely worthy to 
 purchase your possession ; and remember, that a moment 
 passed in your arms in this world o'erpays an age of 
 punishment in the next. But before I take this step, 
 Ambrosio, give me your solemn oath never to inquire by 
 what means I shall preserve myself.' 
 
 He did so, in a manner the most binding. 
 
 ' I thank you, my beloved. This precaution is necessary ; 
 for, though you know it not, you are under the command 
 of vulgar prejudices. The business on which I must be 
 employed this night might startle you from its singularity, 
 and lower me in your opinion. Tell me, are you possessed 
 of the key of the low door on the western side of the 
 garden? ' 
 
 ' The door which opens into the burying-ground common 
 to us and the sisterhood of St. Clare ? I have not the key, 
 but can easily procure it.' 
 
 ' You have only this to do. Admit me into the burying- 
 ground at midnight. Watch while I descend into the 
 vaults of St. Clare, lest some prying eye should observe my 
 actions. Leave me there alone for an hour, and thatiifeJs 
 safe which I dedicate to your pleasures..... To prevent 
 ' creating" "su^picfon; " do riioTi visit me during the day. 
 Remember the key, and that I expect you before twelve. 
 Hark ! I hear steps approaching ! Leave me ; I will 
 pretend to sleep.' 
 
 The friar obeyed, and left the cell. As he opened the 
 door, Father Pablos made his appearance. 
 
 " I come ', said the latter, ' to inquire after the health of 
 my young patient.' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' replied Ambrosio, laying his finger upon his 
 lip ; ' speak softly ; I am just come from him : he has 
 fallen into a profound slumber, which doubtless will be of 
 service to him. Do not disturb him at present, for he 
 wis"hes to repose.' 
 
 Father Pablos obeyed, and, hearing the bell ring, 
 accompanied the abbot to matins. Ambrosio felt em- 
 barrassed as he entered the chapel. Guilt was new to 
 him, and he fancied that every eye could read the trans- 
 actions of the night upon his countenance. He strove to 
 pray : his bosom no longer glowed with devotion ; his 
 thoughts insensibly wandered to Matilda's secret charms. 
 
180 THE MONK 
 
 Butcvsthat he wanted in purity of heart, he supplied by 
 exterior sanctity. The better to cloke his transgression,"" 
 he redoubled his 'pretensions to the semblance of virtue, 
 and never appeared more devoted to Heaven than since he 
 had broken through his engagements. Thus did he 
 unconsciously add hypocrisy to perjury and incontinence : 
 he had fallen into the latter errors from yielding to 
 seduction almost irresistible ; but he was now guilty of a 
 voluntary -fault, by endeavouring to conceal those into 
 which another had betrayed him. 
 
 The matins concluded, Ambrosio retired to his cell. The 
 pleasures which he had just tasted for the first time were 
 still impressed upon his mind : his brain was bewildered, 
 and presented a confused chaos of remorse, voluptuousness, 
 inquietude, and fear ; he looked back with regret to that 
 peace of soul, that security of virtue, which till then had 
 been his portion : he had indulged in excesses whose very 
 idea but four-and-twenty hours before he had recoiled at 
 with horror; he shuddered at reflecting that a trifling 
 indiscretion on his part or on Matilda's would overturn 
 that fabric of reputation which it had cost him thirty 
 years to erect, and render him the abhorrence of that 
 people of whom he was then the idol. Conscience painted 
 to him in glaring colours his perjury and weakness ; 
 apprehension magnified to him the horrors of punishment ; 
 and he already fancied himself in the prisons of the 
 Inquisition. To these tormenting ideas succeeded Matilda's 
 beauty, and those delicious lessons, which once learned can 
 never be forgotten. A single glance thrown upon these 
 reconciled him with himself: he considered the pleasures 
 of the former night to have been purchased at an easy 
 price by the sacrifice of innocence and honour. Their very 
 remembrance filled his soul with ecstasy : he cursed his 
 foolish vanity, which had induced him to waste in obscurity 
 the bloom of life, ignorant of the blessings of love and 
 woman: he determined, at all events, to continue his 
 commerce with Matilda, and called every argument to his 
 aid which might confirm his resolution. He asked himself, 
 provided his irregularity was unknown, in what would his 
 fault consist, and what consequences he had to apprehend ? 
 By adhering strictly to every rule of his order save chastity, 
 he doubted not to retain the esteem of men, and even the 
 protection of Heaven ; he trusted easily to be forgiven so 
 
CHAPTER VI 181 
 
 slight and natural a deviation from his vows ; but he 
 forgot that, having pronounced those vows, incontinence, 
 in laymen the most venial of errors, became in his person 
 the most heinous of crimes. 
 
 Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind became 
 more easy : he threw himself upon his bed, and strove by 
 sleeping to recruit his strength, exhausted by his nocturnal 
 excesses. He awoke refreshed, and eager for a repetition 
 of his pleasures. Obedient to Matilda's order, he visited 
 not her cell during the day. Father Pablos mentioned in 
 the refectory, that Eosario had at length been prevailed 
 upon to follow his prescription, but that the medicine had 
 not produced the slightest effect, and that he believed no 
 mortal skill could rescue him from the grave. With this 
 opinion the abbot agreed, and affected to lament the 
 untimely fate of a youth, whose talents had appeared 
 so promising. 
 
 The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure 
 from the porter the key of the low door opening into the 
 cemetery. Furnished with this, when all was silent in the 
 monastery, he quitted his cell, and hastened to Matilda's. 
 She had left her bed, and was dressed before his arrival. 
 
 ' I have been expecting you with impatience,' said she ; 
 ' my life depends upon these moments. Have you the 
 key?' 
 
 ' I have.' 
 
 'Away then to the garden — we have no time to lose. 
 Follow me ! ' 
 
 She took a small covered basket from the table. Bearing 
 this in one hand, and the lamp, which was flaming upon 
 the hearth, in the other, she hastened from the cell. 
 Ambrosio followed her. Both maintained a profound 
 silence. She moved on with quick but cautious steps, 
 passed through the cloisters, and reached the western 
 side of the garden : her eyes flashed with a fire and 
 wildness which impressed the monk at once with awe 
 and horror. A determined desperate courage reigned upon 
 her brow : she gave the lamp to Ambrosio ; then taking 
 from him the key, she unlocked the low door, and entered 
 the cemetery. It was a vast and spacious square, planted 
 with yew trees ; half of it belonged to the abbey, the other 
 half was the property of the sisterhood of St. Clare, and 
 was protected by a roof of stone!) the division was marked 
 
182 THE MONK 
 
 by an iron railing, the wicket of which was generally left 
 unlocked. 
 
 Thither Matilda bent her course : she opened the wicket, 
 and sought for the door leading to the subterraneous vaults 
 where reposed the mouldering bodies of the votaries of St. 
 Clare. The night was perfectly dark ; neither moon nor 
 stars were visible. Luckily there was not a breath of 
 wind, and the friar bore his lamp in full security : by the 
 assistance of its beams, the door of the sepulchre was soon 
 discovered. It was sunk within the hollow of a wall, and 
 almost concealed by thick festoons of ivy hanging over it. 
 Three steps of rough - hewn stone conducted to it, and 
 Matilda was on the point of descending them when she 
 suddenly started back. 
 
 ' There are people in the vaults ! ' she whispered to the 
 monk ; ' conceal yourself till they are passed.' 
 
 She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent tomb, 
 erected in honour of the convent's foundress. Ambrosio 
 followed her example, carefully hiding his lamp, lest its 
 beams should betray them. But a few moments had 
 elapsed, when the door was pushed open leading to the 
 subterraneous caverns. Kays of light proceeded up the 
 staircase : they enabled the concealed spectators to observe 
 two females, dressed in religious habits, who seemed engaged 
 in earnest conversation. The abbot had no difficulty to 
 recognize the prioress of St. Clare in the first, and one of 
 the elder nuns in her companion. 
 
 ' Everything is prepared ', said the prioress ;' her fate 
 shall be decided to-morrow ; all her tears and sighs will be 
 unavailing. No ! — in five-and-twenty years that I have 
 been superior of this convent, never did I witness a 
 transaction more infamous ! ' 
 
 'You must expect much opposition to your will', the 
 other replied, in a milder voice ; ' Agnes has many friends 
 in the convent ; and in particular the Mother St. Ursula 
 will espouse her cause most warmly. In truth, she merits 
 to have friends ; and I wish I could prevail upon you to 
 consider her youth, and her peculiar situation. She seems 
 sensible of her fault ; the excess of her grief proves her 
 penitence ; and I am convinced that her tears flow more 
 from contrition than fear of punishment. Reverend 
 mother, would you be persuaded to mitigate the severity 
 of your sentence — would you but deign to overlook this 
 
CHAPTER VI 183 
 
 first transgression, I offer myself as the pledge of her 
 future conduct.' 
 
 ' Overlook it, say you, Mother Camilla ? You amaze me ! 
 What ! after disgracing me in the presence of Madrid's 
 idol, of the very man on whom I most wished to impress 
 an idea of the strictness of my discipline ? How despicable 
 must I have appeared to the reverend abbot ! No, mother, 
 no ! I never can forgive the insult. I cannot better con- 
 vince Ambrosio that I abhor such crimes, than by punishing 
 that of Agnes with all the rigour of which our severe laws 
 admit. Cease then your supplications ; they will all be 
 unavailing. My resolution is taken. To-morrow Agnes 
 shall be made a terrible example of my justice and 
 resentment.' 
 
 The Mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point, 
 but by this time the nuns were out of hearing. The 
 prioress unlocked the door which communicated with St. 
 Clare's chapel, and having entered with her companion, 
 closed it again after them. 
 
 Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the 
 prioress was thus incensed, and what connexion she could 
 have with Ambrosio. He related her adventure ; and he 
 added, that since that time his ideas having undergone a 
 thorough revolution, he now felt much compassion for the 
 unfortunate nun. 
 
 ' I design ', said he, ' to request an audience of the 
 domina to-morrow, and use every means of obtaining a 
 mitigation of her sentence.' 
 
 ' Beware of what you do ! ' interrupted Matilda ; ' your 
 sudden change of sentiment may naturally create surprise, 
 and may give birtb to suspicions which it is most our 
 interest to avoid. fEather redouble your outward austerity, 
 and thunder out menaces, against the errors of others, the 
 better to conceal your own. Abandon the nun to her fate,. 
 Your interfering might be dangerous, and her imprudence 
 merits to be punished :' she is unworthy to enjoy love's 
 pleasur§s v who has not wit enough to conceal them. But 
 in discussing this trifling subject, I waste moments which 
 are precious. The night flies apace, and much must be 
 done before morning. The nuns are retired; all is safe. 
 Give me the lamp, Ambrosio. I must descend alone into 
 these caverns : wait here, and if anyone approaches, warn 
 me by your voice ; but as you value your existence, 
 
1 84 THE MONK 
 
 presume not to follow me : your life would fall a victim to 
 your imprudent curiosity.' 
 
 Thus saying, she advanced towards the sepulchre, still 
 holding her lamp in one hand, and her little basket in the 
 other. She touched the door : it turned slowly upon its 
 grating hinges, and a narrow winding staircase of black 
 marble presented itself to her eyes. She descended it; 
 Ambrosio remained above, watching the faint beams of 
 the lamp, as they still receded down the stairs. They 
 disappeared, and he found himself in total darkness. 
 
 Left to himself, he could not reflect without surprise on 
 the sudden change in Matilda's character and sentiments. 
 But a few days had passed since she appeared the mildest 
 and softest of her sex, devoted to his will, and looking up 
 to him as to a superior being. Now she assumed a sort of 
 courage and manliness in her manners and^discours.e.Jmt 
 ill-calculated to please him.* She spoke no longer to 
 insinuate, but cominand : he found himself unable to cope 
 with her in argument, and was unwillingly obliged to 
 confess the superiority of her judgment. Every moment 
 convinced him of the astonishing powers of her mind ; but 
 what she gained in the opinion of the man, she lost with 
 interest in the affection of the lover. He regretted Rosario, 
 the fond, the gentle, and submissive; he grieved that 
 Matilda preferred the virtues of his sex to those of her 
 own ; and when he thought of her expressions respecting 
 the devoted nun, he 'could not help blaming them as cruel 
 and unfeminine. '/Pity is a sentiment so natural, so 
 appropriate ~to the^emale character, that it is scarcely a 
 merit for a woman to possess it ; but to be without it is a 
 grievous crime. Ambrosio could not easily forgive his. 
 mistress for being deficient in this amiable qualitO 
 however, though he blamed her insensibility, he felt Title* 
 truth of her observations ; and though he pitied sincerely 
 the unfortunate Agnes, he resolved to drop the idea of 
 interposing in her behalf. 
 
 Near an hour had elapsed since Matilda descended into 
 the caverns ; still she returned not. Ambrosio's curiosity 
 was excited. He drew near the staircase — he listened — all 
 was silent, except that at intervals he caught the sound 
 of Matilda's voice, as it wound along the subterraneous 
 passages, and was re-echoed by the sepulchre's vaulted 
 roofs. She was at too great a distance for him to 
 
CHAPTER VI 1S5 
 
 distinguish her words, and ere they reached him, they were 
 deadened in a low murmur. He longed to penetrate into 
 this mystery. He resolved to disobey her injunctions, and 
 follow her into the cavern. He advanced to the staircase ; 
 he had already descended some steps, when his courage 
 failed him. He remembered Matilda's menaces, if he 
 infringed her orders; and his bosom was filled with a 
 secret unaccountable awe. He returned up the stairs, 
 resumed his former station, and waited impatiently for the 
 conclusion of this adventure. 
 
 Suddenly he was sensible of a violent shock. An earth- 
 quake rocked the ground, the columns which supported 
 the roof under which he stood were so strongly shaken, 
 that every moment menaced him with its fall, and at the 
 same moment he heard a loud and tremendous burst of 
 thunder : it ceased, and his eyes being fixed upon the 
 staircase, he saw a bright column of light flash along the 
 caverns beneath. It was seen but for an instant. No 
 sooner did it disappear, than all was once more quiet and 
 obscure. Profound darkness again surrounded him, and 
 the silence of night was only broken by the whirring bat, 
 as she flitted slowly by him. 
 
 With every instant Ambrosio's amazement increased. 
 Another hour elapsed, after which the same light again 
 appeared, and was lost again as suddenly. It was ac- 
 companied by a strain of sweet but solemn music, which, 
 as it stole through the vaults below, inspired the monk 
 with mingled delight and terror. It had not long been 
 hushed, when he heard Matilda's steps upon the staircase. 
 She ascended from the cavern ; the most lively joy 
 animated her beautiful features. 
 
 ' Did you see anything ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Twice I saw a column of light Hash up the staircase.' 
 
 'Nothing else?' 
 
 * Nothing.' 
 
 ' The morning is on the point of breaking : let us retire 
 to the abbey, lest daylight should betray us.' 
 
 With a light step she hastened from the burying-ground. 
 She regained her cell, and the curious abbot still accom- 
 panied her. She closed the door, and disembarrassed 
 herself of lamp and basket. 
 
 ' I have succeeded ! ' she cried, throwing herself upon 
 his bosom ; ' succeeded beyond my fondest hopes ! I shall 
 
186 THE MONK 
 
 live, Ambrosio, shall live for you ! The step which I 
 shuddered at taking proves to me a source of joys inex- 
 pressible ! Oh that I dared communicate those joys to 
 you ! Oh that I were permitted to share with you my 
 power, and raise you as high above the level of your sex, 
 as one bold deed has exalted me above mine ! ' 
 
 ' And what prevents you, Matilda ? ' interrupted the 
 friar. ' Why is you business in the cavern made a secret ? 
 Do you think me undeserving of your confidence ? 
 Matilda, I must doubt the truth of your affection, while 
 you have joys in which I am forbidden to share.' 
 
 ' You reproach me with injustice : I grieve sincerely that 
 I am obliged to conceal from you my happiness : but I am 
 not to blame ; the fault lies not in me, but in yourself, my 
 Ambrosio. You are still too much the monk : your mind 
 is enslaved by the prejudices of education ; and superstition 
 might make you shudder at the idea of that which ex- 
 perience has taught me to prize and value. At present, 
 you are unfit to be trusted with a secret of such 
 importance ; but the strength of your judgment, and the 
 curiosity which I rejoice to see sparkling in your eyes, 
 make me hope that you will one day deserve my confidence. 
 Till that period arrives, restrain your impatience. 
 Remember that you have given me your solemn oath, 
 never to inquire into this night's adventures. I insist 
 upon your keeping this oath ; for though ', she added, 
 smiling, while she sealed his lips with a wanton kiss, 
 ' though I forgive your breaking your vows to Heaven, I 
 expect you to keep your vows to me.' 
 
 The friar returned the embrace, which had set his blood 
 on fire. The luxurious and unbounded excesses of the 
 former night were renewed, and they separated not till the 
 bell rang for matins. 
 
 The same pleasures were frequently repeated. The 
 monks rejoiced in the feigned Kosario's unexpected 
 recovery, and none of them suspected his real sex. The 
 abbot possessed his mistress in tranquillity, and perceiving 
 his frailty unsuspected, abandoned himself to his passions 
 in full security. Shame and remorse no longer tormented 
 him : frequent repetitions made him familiar with sin, and 
 his bosom became proof against the stings of conscience. 
 In these sentiments he was encouraged. by Matilda; but 
 she soon was aware that she had satiated her lover by the 
 
CHAPTER VI 18; 
 
 unbounded freedom of her caresses. Her charms becoming 
 accustomed to him, they ceased to excite the same desires 
 which at first they had inspired. The delirium of passion 
 being past, he had leisure to observe every trifling defect ; j 
 where none were to be found, satiety made him fancy 
 them. The monk was glutted with the fulness of pleasure, 
 t A week had scarcely elapsed before he - was wearied of his 
 paramour: his warm constitution still made him seek in 
 her arms the gratification of his lust; but, when the 
 moment of passion was over, he quitted her with disgust ; 
 and his humour, naturally inconstant, made him sigh 
 impatiently for variety.] 
 
 CPossession, which cloys man, only increases the affection 
 of women."] Matilda with every succeeding day grew more 
 attached to the friar. Since he had obtained her favours, 
 he was become dearer to her than ever, and she felt 
 grateful to him for the pleasures in which they had 
 equally been sharers. Unfortunately, as her passion grew 
 ardent, Ambrosio's grew cold ; the very marks of her 
 fondness excited his disgust, and its excess served to 
 extinguish the flame which already burned but feebly in 
 his bosom. Matilda could not but remark that her society 
 seemed to him daily less agreeable ; he was inattentive 
 while she spoke ; her musical talents, which she possessed 
 in perfection, had lost the power of amusing him ; or, if 
 he deigned to praise them, his compliments were evidently 
 forced and cold. He no longer gazed upon her with 
 affection, or applauded her sentiments with a lover's 
 partiality. This Matilda well perceived, and redoubled 
 her efforts to revive those sentiments which he once had 
 felt. She could not but fail, since he considered as 
 importunities the pains which she took to please him, and 
 was disgusted by the very means which she used to recall 
 the wanderer. Still, however, their illicit commerce con- 
 tinued ; but it was clear that he was led to her arms not by 
 love but the cravings of brutal appetite. His constitution 
 made a woman necessary to him, and Matilda was the only 
 one with whom he could indulge his passions safely. In 
 spite of her beauty, he gazed upon every other female 
 with more desire ; but, fearing that his hypocrisy should 
 be made public, he confined his inclinations to his own 
 breast. 
 
 It was by no means his nature to be timid: but his 
 
188 THE MONK 
 
 education had impressed his mind with fear so strongly, 
 that apprehension was now become part of his character. 
 Had his youth been passed in the world, he would have 
 shown himself possessed of many brilliant and manly 
 qualities. He was naturally enterprising, firm, and fearless; 
 he had a warrior's heart, and he might have shone^with 
 splendour at the head of an army. There was no want of 
 generosity in his nature : the wretched never failed to find 
 in him a compassionate auditor: his abilities were quick 
 and shining, and his judgment vast, solid, and decisive. 
 With such qualifications, he- would have been an ornament 
 to his country : that he possessed them, he had given proof 
 in his earliest infancy, and his parents had ) beheld his 
 dawning virtues with the fondest delight and admiration. 
 Unfortunately, while yet a child, he was deprived of those 
 parents. He fell into the power of a relation, whose only 
 wish about him was never to hear of him more : for that 
 purpose, he gave him in charge to his friend, the former 
 superior of the Capuchins. The abbot, a very monk, used 
 all his endeavours to persuade the boy that happiness 
 existed not without the walls of a convent. He suc- 
 ceeded fully. To deserve admittance into the order of 
 St. Francis was Ambrosio's highest ambition. His in- 
 structors carefully repressed those virtues, whose grandeur 
 and disinterestedness were ill suited to the cloister. 
 Instead of universal benevolence, he adopted a selfish par- 
 tiality for his own particular establishment : he was taught 
 to consider compassion for the errors of others as a crime 
 of the blackest dye ; the noble frankness of his temper 
 was exchanged for servile humility ; and in order to 
 break his natural spirit, the monks terrified his young mind, 
 by placing before him all the horrors with which super- 
 stition could furnish them ; they painted to him the 
 torments of the damned in colours the most dark, terrible, 
 and fantastic, and threatened him at the slightest fault 
 with eternal perdition. No wonder that his imagination, 
 constantly dwelling upon these fearful objects, should have 
 rendered his character timid and apprehensive. Add to 
 this, that his long absence from the great world, and total 
 unacquaintance with the common clangers of life, made 
 him form of them an idea far more dismal than the reality. 
 While the monks were busied in rooting out his virtues 
 and narrowing his sentiments, they allowed every vice 
 
CHAPTER VI 189 
 
 which had fallen to his share to arrive at full perfection. 
 He was suffered to be proud, vain, ambitious, and disdainful : 
 he was jealous of his equals, and despised all merit but his 
 own : he was implacable when offended, and cruel in his 
 revenge. Still, in spite of the pains taken to pervert them, 
 his natural good qualities would occasionally break through 
 the gloom cast over them so carefully. /At such times the 
 contest for superiority between his real and acquired 
 'character was striking and unaccountable to those un- 
 acquainted with his original disposition. He pronounced 
 the most severe sentences upon offenders, which, the 
 monjent after, compassion induced him to mitigate : he 
 undertook the most daring enterprizes, which the fear of 
 their consequences soon obliged him to abandon : his inborn 
 genius darted a brilliant light upon subjects the most 
 obscure, and almost instantaneously his superstition 
 replunged them in darkness more profound than that 
 from which they had just been rescued. His brother 
 monks, regarding him as a superior being, remarked not 
 this contradiction in their idol's conduct: they were per- 
 suaded that what he did must be right, and supposed him 
 to have good reasons for changing his resolutions. The 
 fact was, that the different sentiments with which educa- 
 tion and nature had inspired him were combating in his 
 bosom : it remained for his passions, which as yet no 
 opportunity had called into play, to decide the victory. 
 Unfortunately his passions were the very worst judges 
 to whom he could possibly have applied : his monastic 
 seclusion had till now been in his favour, since it gave him 
 no room for discovering his bad qualities. The superiority 
 of his talents raised him too far above his companions to 
 permit his being jealous of them : his exemplary piety, 
 persuasive eloquence, and pleasing manners, had secured 
 him universal esteem, and consequently he had no injuries 
 to revenge : his ambition was justified by his acknowledged 
 merit, and his pride considered as no more than proper 
 confidence. He never saw, much less conversed with the 
 other sex ; he was ignorant of the pleasures in women's 
 power to bestow ; and if he read, in the course of his 
 studies : 
 
 That men were fond, he smiled, and wondered how. 
 
 For a time, spare diet, frequent watching, and severe 
 
i go THE MONK 
 
 penance, cooled and repressed the natural warmth of his 
 constitution : but no sooDer did opportunity present itself, 
 no sooner did he catch a glimpse of joys to which he was 
 still a stranger, than religion's barriers were too feeble 
 to resist the overwhelming torrent of his desires. All 
 impediments yielded before the force of his temperament, 
 warm, sanguine, and voluptuous in the excess. As yet his 
 other passions lay dormant ; but they only needed to be 
 once awakened, to display themselves with violence as 
 great and irresistible. 
 
 He continued to be the admiration of Madrid. The 
 enthusiasm created by bis eloquence seemed rather to 
 increase than diminish. Every Thursday, which was the 
 only day when he appeared in public, the Capuchin 
 cathedral was crowded with auditors, and his discourse 
 was always received with the same approbation. He was 
 named confessor to all the chief families in Madrid ; and 
 no one was counted fashionable who was enjoined penance 
 by any other than Ambrosio. In his resolution of never 
 stirring out of his convent he still persisted. This circum- 
 stance created a still greater opinion of his sanctity and 
 self-denial. Above all, the women sang forth his praises 
 loudly, less influenced by devotion than by his noble 
 countenance, majestic air, and well-turned graceful figure. 
 The abbey-door was thronged with carriages from morniDg 
 to night; and the noblest and fairest dames of Madrid 
 confessed to the abbot their secret peccadilloes. The eyes 
 of the luxurious friar devoured their charms. Had his 
 penitents consulted these interpreters, he would have 
 needed no other means of expressing his desires. For his 
 misfortune, they were so strongly persuaded of his 
 continence, that the possibility of his harbouring indecent 
 thoughts never once entered their imaginations. The 
 climate's heat, 'tis well known, operates with no small 
 influence upon the constitutions of the Spanish ladies : but 
 the most abandoned would have thought it an easier task 
 to inspire with passion the marble statue of St. Francis, 
 than the cold and rigid heart of the immaculate Ambrosio. 
 
 On his part, the friar was little acquainted with the 
 depravity of the world : he suspected not that but few of 
 his penitents would have rejected his addresses. Yet had 
 he been better instructed on this head, the danger attending 
 such an attempt would have sealed up his lips in 6ilence. 
 
CHAPTER VI 191 
 
 He knew that it would be difficult for a woman to keep a 
 secret so strange and so important as his frailty ; and he 
 even trembled lest Matilda should betray him. Anxious to 
 preserve a reputation which was infinitely dear to him, 
 he saw all the risk of committing it to the power of some 
 vain giddy female ; and as the beauties of Madrid affected 
 only his senses without touching his heart, he forgot them 
 as soon as they were out of his sight. The danger of 
 discovery, the fear of being repulsed, the loss of reputation 
 — all these considerations counselled him to stifle his 
 desires ; and though he now felt for it the most perfect 
 indifference, he was necessitated to confine himself to 
 Matilda's person. 
 
 One morning, the confluence of penitents was greater 
 than usual. He was detained in the confessional chair till 
 a late hour. At length the crowd was despatched, and he 
 prepared to quit the chapel, when two females entered, and 
 drew near him with humility. They threw up their veils, 
 and the youngest entreated him to listen to her for a few 
 moments. The melody of her voice, of that voice to which 
 no man ever listened without interest, immediately caught 
 Ambrosio's attention. He stopped. The petitioner seemed 
 bowed down with affliction : her cheeks were pale, her eyes 
 dimmed with tears, and her hair fell in disorder over her 
 face and bosom. Still her countenance was so sweet, so 
 innocent, so heavenly, as might have charmed a heart less 
 susceptible than that which panted in the abbot's breast. 
 With more than usual softness of manner he desired her 
 to proceed, and heard her speak as follows, with an 
 emotion which increased every moment: 
 
 ' Revered father, you see an unfortunate threatened with 
 the loss of her dearest, of almost her only friend ! My 
 mother, my excellent mother, lies upon the bed of sick- 
 ness. A sudden and dreadful malady seized her last night, 
 and so rapid has been its progress, that the physicians 
 despair of her life. Human aid fails me ; nothing remains 
 for me but to implore the mercy of Heaven. Father, all 
 Madrid rings with the report of your piety and virtue. 
 Deign to remember my mother in your prayers : perhaps 
 they may prevail on the Almighty to spare her: and 
 should that be the case, I engage myself every Thursday 
 in the next three months to illuminate the shrine of St. 
 Francis in his honour.' 
 
192 THE MONK 
 
 ' So ! ' thought the monk ; ' here we have a second 
 Vincentio della Ronda. Rosario's adventure began thus ' ; 
 and he wished secretly that this might have the same 
 conclusion. 
 
 He acceded to the request. The petitioner returned him 
 thanks with every mark of gratitude, and then continued : 
 
 ' I have yet another favour to ask. We are strangers in 
 Madrid : my mother needs a confessor, and knows not to 
 whom she should apply. We understand that you never 
 quit the abbey, and, alas! my poor mother is unable to 
 come hither ! If you would have the goodness, reverend 
 father, to name a proper person, whose wise and pious 
 consolations may soften the agonies of my parent's death- 
 bed, you will confer an everlasting favour upon hearts not 
 ungrateful.' 
 
 With this petition also the monk complied. Indeed, 
 what petition would he have refused, if urged in such 
 enchanting accents ? The suppliant was so interesting — 
 her voice was so sweet, so harmonious! her very tears 
 became her, and her affliction seemed to add new lustre to 
 her charms. He promised to send to her a confessor that 
 same evening, and begged her to leave her address. The 
 companion presented him with a card on which it was 
 written, and then withdrew with the fair petitioner, who 
 pronounced before her departure a thousand benedictions 
 on the abbot's goodness. His eyes followed her out of the 
 chapel. It was not till she was out of sight that he 
 examined the card, on which he read the following words : 
 * Donna Elvira Dalfa, Strada di San Iago, four doors from 
 the Palace d'Albornos.' 
 
 The suppliant was no other than Antonia, and Leonella 
 was her companion. The latter had not consented without 
 difficulty to accompany her niece to the abbey : Ambrosio 
 had inspired her with such awe, that she trembled at the 
 very sight of him. Her fears had conquered even her 
 natural loquacity, and while in his presence she uttered 
 not a single syllable. 
 
 The monk retired to his cell, whither he was pursued 
 by Antoniois image. He felt a thousand new emotions 
 springing in his bosom, and he trembled to examine into 
 the cause which gave them birth. They were totally 
 different from those inspired by Matilda, when she first 
 declared her sex and her affection. He felt not the 
 
CHAPTER VI 193 
 
 provocation of lust; no voluptuous desires rioted in his bosom, 
 nor did a burning imagination picture to him the charms 
 which modesty had veiled from his eyes : on the contrary, 
 what he now felt was a mingled sentiment of tenderness, 
 admiration, and respect. A soft and delicious melancholy 
 infused itself into his soul, and he would not have 
 exchanged it for the most lively transports of joy. 
 Society now disgusted him : he delighted in solitude, 
 which permitted his indulging in visions of fancy : his 
 thoughts were all gentle, sad, and soothing ; and the whole 
 wide world presented him with no other object than 
 Antonia. 
 
 'Happy man !' he exclaimed, in his romantic enthusiasm, 
 ' happy man, who is destined to possess the heart of that 
 lovely girl ! What delicacy in her features ! what elegance 
 in her form ! how enchanting was the timid innocence of 
 her eyes ! and how different from the wanton expression, "") 
 the wild luxurious fire, which sparkles in Matilda's ! Oh, 
 sweeter must one kiss be, snatched from the rosy lips of 
 the first, than all the full and lustful favours bestowed so 
 freely by the second. Matilda gluts me with enjoyment 
 even to loathing, forces me to her arms, apes the harlot, 
 and glories in her prostitution. Disgusting ! Did she 
 know the inexpressible charm of modesty, how irresistibly 
 it enthrals the heart of man, how firmly it chains him to 
 the throne of beauty, she never would have thrown it off. 
 What would be too dear a price for this lovely girl's 
 affections ? What would I refuse to sacrifice, could I be 
 released from my vows, and permitted to declare my love 
 in the sight of earth and heaven? While I strove to 
 inspire her with tenderness, with friendship and esteem, 
 how tranquil and undisturbed would the hours roll away ! 
 Gracious God ! to see her blue downcast eyes beam upon 
 mine with timid fondness ! to sit for days, for years, 
 listening to that gentle voice ! to acquire the right of 
 obliging her, and hear the artless expressions of her 
 gratitude ! to watch the emotions of her spotless heart ! 
 to encourage each dawning virtue ! to share in her joy 
 when happy, to kiss away her tears when distressed, and 
 to see her fly to my arms for comfort and support ! Yes ; 
 if there is perfect bliss on earth, 'tis his lot alone who 
 becomes that angel's husband.' 
 
 While his fancy coined these ideas, he paced his cell 
 
 N 
 
tg4 THE MONtf 
 
 with a disordered air. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy ; 
 his head reclined upon his shoulder ; a tear rolled down 
 his cheek, while he reflected that the vision of happiness 
 for him Could never be realized. 
 
 ' She is lost to me ' he continued ; ' by marriage she 
 cannot be mine ; and to seduce such innocence, to use the 
 confidence reposed in me to work her ruin — oh ! it would 
 be a crime, blacker than yet the world ever witnessed ! 
 Fear not, lovely girl ! your virtue runs no risk from me. 
 Not for Indies would I make that gentle bosom know the 
 tortures of remorse.' 
 
 Again he paced his chamber hastily ; then stopping, his 
 eye fell upon the picture of his once-admired Madonna : he 
 tore it with indignation from the wall ; he threw it on the 
 ground, and spurned it from him with his foot: 'The 
 prostitute ! ' 
 
 Unfortunate Matilda ! Her paramour forgot that for 
 his sake alone she had forfeited her claim to virtue ; and 
 his only reason for despising her was that she had loved 
 him much too well. 
 
 He threw himself into a chair, which stood near the 
 table. He saw the card with Elvira's address. He took it 
 up, and it brought to his recollection his promise respecting 
 a confessor. He passed a few minutes in doubt ; but 
 Antonia's empire over him was already too much decided 
 to permit his making a long resistance to the idea which 
 struck him. He resolved to be the confessor himself. He 
 could leave the abbey unobserved without difficulty : by 
 wrapping up his head in his cowl, he hoped to pass through 
 the streets without being recognized : by taking these 
 precautions and by recommending secrecy to Elvira's 
 family, he doubted not to keep Madrid in ignorance that 
 he had broken his vow never to see the outside of the 
 abbey- walls. Matilda was the only person whose vigilance 
 he dreaded ; but by informing her at the refectory, that 
 during the whole of that day business would confine him 
 to his cell, he thought himself secure from her wakeful 
 jealousy. Accordingly, at the hours when the Spaniards 
 are generally taking their siesta, he ventured to quit the 
 abbey by a private door, the key of which was in his 
 possession. The cowl of his habit was thrown over his 
 face : from the heat of the weather the streets were almost 
 totally deserted : the monk met with few people, found 
 
CHAPTER VI 195 
 
 the Strada di San Iago, and arrived without accident at 
 Donna Elvira's door. He rang, was admitted, and 
 immediately ushered into an upper apartment. 
 
 It was here that he ran the greatest risk of a discovery. 
 Had Leonella been at home, she would have recognized 
 him directly. Her communicative disposition would never 
 have permitted her to rest, till all Madrid was informed 
 that Ambrosio had ventured out of the abbey, and visited 
 her sister. Fortune here stood the monk's friend. On 
 Leonella's return home, she found a letter instructing her 
 that a cousin was just dead, who had left what little he 
 possessed between herself and Elvira. To secure this 
 bequest, she was obliged to set out for Cordova without 
 losing a moment. Amidst all her foibles, her heart was 
 truly warm and affectionate, and she was unwilling to quit 
 her sister in so dangerous a state. But Elvira insisted 
 upon her taking the journey, conscious that, in her 
 daughter's forlorn situation, no increase of fortune, however 
 trifling, ought to be neglected. Accordingly Leonella left 
 Madrid, sincerely grieved at her sister's illness, and giving 
 some few sighs to the memory of the amiable but inconstant 
 Don Chrisfcoval. She was fully persuaded that at first she 
 had made a terrible breach in his heart ; but hearing 
 nothing more of him, she supposed that he had quitted the 
 pursuit, disgusted by the lowness of her origin, and know- 
 ing upon other terms than marriage he had nothing to 
 hope from such a dragon of virtue as she professed herself ; 
 or else, that being naturally capricious and changeable, the 
 remembrance of her charms had been effaced from the 
 Condi's heart by those of some newer beauty. Whatever 
 was the cause of her losing him, she lamented it sorely. 
 She strove in vain, as she assured everybody who was kind 
 enough to listen to her, to tear his image from her too 
 susceptible heart. She affected the airs of a love-sick 
 virgin, and carried them all to the most ridiculous excess. 
 She heaved lamentable sighs, walked with her arms folded, 
 uttered long soliloquies, and her discourse generally turned 
 upon some forsaken maid, who expired of a broken heart ! 
 Her fiery locks were always ornamented with a garland of 
 willow. Every evening she was seen straying upon the 
 banks of a rivulet by moonlight ; and she declared herself 
 a violent admirer of murmuring streams and nightingales : 
 
196 THE MONK 
 
 Of lonely haunts, and twilight groves, 
 Places which pale passion loves ! 
 
 Such was the state of Leonella's mind, when ohliged to 
 quit Madrid. Elvira was out of patience at all these 
 follies, and endeavoured at persuading her to act like a 
 reasonable woman. Her advice was thrown away : 
 Leonella assured her at parting, that nothing could make 
 her forget the perfidious Don Christoval. In this point 
 she was fortunately mistaken. An honest youth of 
 Cordova, journeyman to an apothecary, found that her 
 fortune would be sufficient to set him up in a genteel shop 
 of his own. In consequence of this reflection, he avowed 
 himself her admirer. Leonella was not inflexible ; the 
 ardour of his sighs melted her heart, and she soon consented 
 to make him the happiest of mankind. She wrote to 
 inform her sister of her marriage ; but, for reasons which 
 will be explained hereafter, Elvira never answered her 
 letter. 
 
 Ambrosio was conducted into the anti-chamber to that 
 where Elvira was reposing. The female domestic who 
 had admitted him left him alone, whilst she announced his 
 arrival to her mistress. Antonia, who had been by her 
 mother's bedside, immediately came to him. 
 
 ' Pardon me, father ', said she, advancing towards him ; 
 when recognizing his features, she stopped suddenly, and 
 uttered a cry of joy. 'Is it possible ?' she continued ; ' do 
 not my eyes deceive me ? Has the worthy Ambrosio 
 broken through his resolution, that he may soften the 
 agonies of the best of women ? What pleasure will this 
 visit give my mother! Let me not delay for a moment 
 the comfort which your piety and wisdom will afford her.' 
 
 Thus saying, she opened the chamber door, presented to 
 her mother her distinguished visitor, and, having placed 
 an armchair by the side of the bed, withdrew into another 
 apartment. 
 
 Elvira was highly gratified by this visit : her expectations 
 had been raised high by general report, but she found them 
 far exceeded. Ambrosio, endowed by Nature with powers 
 of pleasing, exerted them to the utmost, while conversing 
 with Antonia's mother. With persuasive evidence he 
 calmed every fear, and dissipated every scruple. He bade 
 her reflect on the infinite mercy of her Judge, despoiled 
 death of his darts and terrors, and taught her to view 
 
CHAPTER VI 19; 
 
 without shrinking the abyss of eternity, on whose brink she 
 then stood. Elvira was absorbed in attention and delight ; 
 while she listened to his exhortations, conBdence and com- 
 fort stole insensibly into her mind. She unbosomed to 
 him without hesitation her cares and apprehensions. The 
 latter respecting a future life he had already quieted ; and 
 he now removed the former, which she felt for the concerns 
 of this. She trembled for Antonia ; she had none to whose 
 care she could recommend her, save to the Marquis de las 
 Cisternas, and her sister Leonella. The protection of the 
 one was very uncertain ; and as to the other, though fond 
 of her niece, Leonella was so thoughtless and vain, as to 
 make her an improper person to have the sole direction of 
 a girl so young and ignorant of the world. The friar no 
 sooner learned the cause of her alarms, than he begged her 
 to make herself easy upon that head. He doubted not 
 being able to secure for Antonia a safe refuge in the house 
 of one of his penitents, the Marchioness of Villa Franca : 
 this was a lady of acknowledged virtue, remarkable for 
 strict principles and extensive charity. Should accident 
 deprive her of this resource, he engaged to procure Antonia 
 a reception in some respectable convent, that is to say, in 
 quality of boarder ; for Elvira had declared herself no friend 
 to a monastic life, and the monk was either candid or 
 complaisant enough to allow that her disapprobation was 
 not unfounded. 
 
 These proofs of the interest which he felt for her 
 completely won Elvira's heart. In thanking him, she 
 exhausted every expression which gratitude could furnish, 
 and protested, that now she should resign herself with 
 tranquillity to the grave. Ambrosio rose to take leave ; 
 he promised to return the next day at the same hour, but 
 requested that his visits might be kept secret. 
 
 ' I am unwilling ', said he, ' that my breaking through 
 a rule imposed by necessity should be generally known. 
 Had I not resolved never to quit my convent, except upon 
 circumstances as urgent as that which has conducted me 
 to your door, I should be frequently summoned upon in- 
 significant occasions ; that time would be engrossed by the 
 curious, the unoccupied, and the fanciful, which I now 
 pass at the bedside of the sick, in comforting the expiring 
 penitent, and clearing the passage to eternity from thorns.' 
 
 Elvira commended equally his prudence and compassion, 
 
198 THE MONK 
 
 promising to conceal carefully the honour of his visits. 
 The monk then gave her his benediction, and retired from 
 the chamber. 
 
 In the anti-room he found Antonia ; he could not refuse 
 himself the pleasure of passing a few moments in her 
 society. He bade her take comfort, for that her mother 
 seemed composed and tranquil, and he hoped that she 
 might yet do well. He inquired who attended her, and 
 engaged to send the physician of his convent to see her, 
 one of the most skilful in Madrid. He then launched out 
 in Elvira's commendation, praised her purity and fortitude 
 of mind, and declared that she had inspired him with the 
 highest esteem and reverence. Antonia's innocent heart 
 swelled with gratitude, joy danced in her eyes, where a 
 tear still sparkled. The hopes which he gave her of her 
 mother's recovery, the lively interest which he seemed to 
 feel for her, and the flattering way in which she was 
 mentioned by him, added to the report of his judgment 
 and virtue, and to the impression made upon her by his 
 eloquence, confirmed the favourable opinion with which 
 his first appearance had inspired Antonia. She replied 
 with diffidence, but without restraint : she feared not to 
 relate to him all her little sorrows, all her little fears and 
 anxieties ; and she thanked him for his goodness with all 
 the genuine warmth which favours kindle in a young and 
 innocent heart. Such alone knows how to estimate benefits 
 •at their full value. They who are conscious of mankind's 
 perfidy and selfishness ever receive an obligation with 
 apprehension and disgust: they suspect that some secret 
 motive must lurk behind it ; they express their thanks 
 with restraint and caution, and fear to praise a kind action 
 to its full extent, aware that on some future day a return 
 may be required. Not so Antonia — she thought the world 
 was composed only of those who resembled her ; and that 
 vice existed was to her still a secret. The monk had been 
 of service to her ; he said that he wished her well : she was 
 grateful for his kindness, and thought that no terms were 
 strong enough to be the vehicle of her thanks. With what 
 delight did Ambrosio listen to the declaration of her artless 
 gratitude ! The natural grace of her manners, the un- 
 equalled sweetness of her voice, her modest vivacity, her 
 unstudied elegance, her expressive countenance and intelli- 
 gent eyes, united to inspire him with pleasure and 
 
CHAPTER VI 199 
 
 admiration, while the solidity and correctness of her 
 remarks received additional beauty from the unaffected 
 simplicity of the language in which they were conveyed. 
 
 Ambrosio was at length obliged to tear himself from thia 
 conversation, which possessed for bim but too many charms. 
 He repeated to Antonia his wishes, that his visits should 
 not be made known, which desire she promised to observe. 
 He then quitted the house, while his enchantress hastened 
 to her mother, ignorant of the mischief which her beauty 
 had caused. She was eager to know Elvira's opinion of 
 the man whom she had praised in such enthusiastic terms, 
 and was delighted to find it equally favourable, if not even 
 more so than her own. 
 
 ' Even before he spoke ', said Elvira, ' I was prejudiced 
 in his favour ; the fervour of his exhortations, dignity of his 
 manner, and closeness of his reasoning, were very far from 
 inducing me to alter my opinion. His fine and full-toned 
 voice struck me particularly : but surely, Antonia, I have 
 heard it before - r it seemed— pediectly-fainiliar to my ear : 
 either I must have known the abbot in former times, or his 
 voice bears a wonderful resemblance to that of some other 
 to whom I have often listened. There were certain tones 
 which touched my very heart, and made me feel sensations 
 so singular, that I strive in vain to account for them.' 
 
 ' My dearest mother, it produced the same effect upon 
 me ; yet certainly neither of us ever heard his voice till 
 we came to Madrid. I suspect that what we attribute to 
 his voice really proceeds from his pleasant manners, which 
 forbid our considering him as a stranger. J know not why, 
 but I feel more at my .ease while conversing with him,w^ 
 than I usually do. with people who "are" unknown to me. 
 I feared not to repeat to him all~my childish "thoughts ; 
 and somehow I felt confident that he would hear my folly 
 with indulgence. Oh I I was not deceived in him : he 
 listened to me with such an air of kindness and attention ; 
 he answered me with such gentleness, such condescension ; 
 he did not call me an infant, and treat me with contempt, 
 as our cross old confessor at the castle used to do. I verily 
 believe, that if I had lived in Murcia a thousand years, I 
 never should have liked that fat old Father Dominic.' 
 
 ' I confess that Father Dominic had not the most pleasing 
 manners in the world ; but he was honest, friendly, and 
 well-meaning.' 
 
200 THE MONK 
 
 ' Ah ! my dear mother, those qualities are so common — ' 
 
 ' God grant, my child, that experience may not teach you 
 to think them rare and precious ! I have found them but 
 too much so. But tell me, Antonia, why is it impossible 
 for me to have seen the abbot before ? ' 
 
 ' Because, since the moment when he entered the abbey 
 he has never been on the outside of its walls. He told me 
 just now, that, from his ignorance of the streets, he had 
 some difficulty to find the Strada di San Iago, though so 
 near the abbey.' 
 
 ' All this is possible, and still I may have seen him before 
 he entered the abbey : in order to come out, it was rather 
 necessary that he should first go in.' 
 
 ' Holy Virgin ! as you say, that is very true. Oh ! but 
 might he not have been born in the abbey ? ' 
 
 Elvira smiled. ' Why, not very easily.' 
 
 ' Stay, stay ! Now I recollect how it was. He was put 
 into the abbey quite a child : the common people say that 
 he fell from heavenjand was sent as a present to the •< 
 Capuchins^Ta. v Tne"Vir^ ?n.' >, &5 
 
 ' That was very kind of her. And soT he— folL_fj»ga ^ \ 
 heasear Allium* ? — he must have had a terrible tumble?) V 1 
 
 ' Many do not credit this, and I fancy, my dear mother, 
 that I must number you among the unbelievers. Indeed, 
 as our landlady told my aunt, the general idea is, that his 
 parents, being poor, and unable to maintain him, left him 
 just born at the abbey-door : the late superior, from pure 
 charity, had him educated in the convent, and he proved 
 to be a model of virtue, and piety, and learning, and I 
 know not what else besides. In consequence, he was 
 first received as a brother of the order, and not long 
 ago was chosen abbot. However, whether this account 
 or the other is the true one, at least all agree that when 
 the monks took him under their care he could not speak ; 
 therefore you could not have heard his voice before he 
 entered the monastery, because at that time he had no 
 voice at all.' 
 
 ' Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very closely ; your 
 conclusions are infallible. I did not suspect you of being 
 so able a logician.' 
 
 " Ah ! you are mocking me : but so much the better — it 
 delights me to see you in spirits ; besides, you seem 
 tranquil and easy, and I hope that you will have no 
 
CHAPTER VI 201 
 
 more convulsions. Oh, I was sure the abbot's visit would 
 do you good ! ' 
 
 ' It has indeed done me good, my child. He has quieted 
 my mind upon some points which agitated me, and I 
 already feel the effects of his attention. My eyes grow 
 heavy, and I think I can sleep a little. Draw the curtains, 
 my Antonia : but if I should not wake before midnight, do 
 not sit up with me, I charge you.' 
 
 Antonia promised to obey her, and having received her 
 blessing, drew the curtains of the bed. She then seated 
 herself in silence at her embroidery frame, and beguiled 
 the hours with building castles in the air. Her spirits 
 were enlivened by the evident change for the better in 
 Elvira, and her fancy presented her with visions bright 
 and pleasing. In these dreams Ambrosio made no 
 despicable figure ; she thought of him with joy and 
 gratitude : but for every idea which fell to the friar's 
 share, at least two were unconsciously bestowed upon 
 Lorenzo. Thus passed the time, till the bell in the 
 neighbouring steeple of the Capuchin cathedral announced 
 the hour of midnight. Antonia remembered her mother's 
 injunctions, and obeyed them, though with reluctance. 
 She undrew the curtains with caution. Elvira was 
 enjoying a profound and quiet slumber: her cheek 
 glowed with health's returning colours : a smile declared 
 that her dreams were pleasant; and as Antonia bent 
 over her, she fancied that she heard her name pronounced. 
 She kissed her mother's forehead softly, and retired to her 
 chamber : there she knelt before a statue of St. Rosalia, 
 her patroness ; she recommended herself to the protection 
 of Heaven, and, as had been her custom from infancy, 
 concluded her devotions by chanting the following 
 stanzas : 
 
 MIDNIGHT HYMN 
 
 Now all is hushed ; the solemn chime 
 
 No longer swells the nightly gale : 
 Thy awful presence, hour sublime ! 
 
 With spotless heart once more I hail. 
 
 'Tis now the moment, still and dread, 
 When sorcerers use their baleful power ; 
 
 When graves give up their buried dead 
 To profit by the sanctioned hour. 
 
202 THE MONK 
 
 From guilt and guilty thoughts secure, 
 
 To duty and devotion true, 
 With bosom light and conscience pure, 
 
 Repose ! — thy gentle aid I woo. 
 
 Good angels, take my thanks, that still 
 The snares of vice I view with scorn ; 
 
 Thanks, that to-night as free from ill 
 I sleep, as when I woke at morn. 
 
 Yet may not my unconscious breast 
 Harbour some guilt, to me unknown ? 
 
 Some wish impure, which unreprest 
 You blush to see, and I to own ? 
 
 If such there be, in gentle dream 
 Instruct my feet to shun the snare ; 
 
 Bid truth upon my errors beam, 
 
 And deign to make me still your care. 
 
 Chase from my peaceful bed away 
 The witching spell, a foe to rest, 
 
 The nightly goblin, wanton fay, 
 
 The ghost in pain, and fiend unblest. 
 
 Let not the tempter in mine ear 
 Pour lessons of unhallowed joy ; 
 
 Let not the nightmare, wandering near 
 My couch, the calm of sleep destroy ; 
 
 Let not some horrid dream affright 
 
 With strange fantastic forms mine eyes ; 
 
 But rather bid some vision bright 
 Display the bliss of yonder skies. 
 
 Show me the crystal domes of heaven, 
 The worlds of light where angels lie ; 
 
 Show me the lot to mortals given, 
 Who guiltless live, who guiltless die. 
 
 Then show me how a seat to gain 
 Amidst those blissful realms of air ; 
 
 Teach me to shun each guilty stain, 
 And guide me to the good and fair. 
 
 So every morn and night, my voice 
 To heaven the grateful strain shall raise ; 
 
 In you as guardian powers rejoice, 
 Good angels ! and exalt your praise. 
 
 So will I strive, with zealous fire, 
 Each vice to shun, each fault correct ; 
 
 Will love the lessons you inspire, 
 And prize the virtues you protect. 
 
CHAPTER VI 203 
 
 Then when, at length, by high command, 
 
 My body seeks the grave's repose — 
 When death draws nigh with friendly hand, 
 
 My failing pilgrim-eyes to close — 
 
 Pleased that my soul escapes the wreck, 
 
 Sighless will I my life resign, 
 And yield to God my spirit back, 
 
 As pure as when it first was mine. 
 
 Having finished ber usual devotions, Antonia retired to 
 bed. Sleep soon stole over her senses ; and for several 
 hours she enjoyed that calm repose which innocence alone 
 can know, and for which many a monarch with pleasure 
 would exchange his crown. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 Ah ! how dark 
 These long-extending realms and rueful wastes, 
 Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night, 
 Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun 
 Was rolled together, or had tried its beams 
 Athwart the gloom profound ! The sickly taper, 
 By glimm'ring through thy low-brow'd misty vaults, 
 Furr'd round with mouldy damps and ropy slime, 
 Lets fall a supernumerary horror, 
 And only serves to make thy night more irksome ! 
 
 — Blair 
 
 Returned undiscovered to the abbey, Ambrosio's mind 
 w-as^ filled with the most pleasing images. He was\witi 
 fully blind to the danger of exposing himself to Antonta's 
 charms : he only remembered the pleasure which her 
 society had afforded him, and rejoiced in the prospect of 
 that pleasure being repeated. He failed not to profit by 
 Elvira's indisposition to obtain a sight of her daughter 
 every day. At first, he bounded his wishes to inspire 
 Antonia with friendship ; but no sooner was he convinced 
 that she felt that sentiment in its fullest extent, than his 
 aim became more decided, and his attentions assumed a 
 warmer colour. The innocent familiarity with which she 
 treated him encouraged his desires. Grown used to her 
 modesty, it no longer commanded the same respect and 
 awe ; he still admired it, but it only made him more 
 anxious to deprive her of that quality which formed her 
 principal charm. Warmth of passion, and natural pene- 
 tration, of which latter, unfortunately both for himself and 
 Antonia, he possessed an ample share, supplied a knowledge 
 of the arts of seduction. Ho easily distinguished the 
 emotions which were favourable to his designs, and seized 
 every means with avidity of infusing corruption into 
 Antonia's bosom. This he found no easy matter. Ex- 
 treme simplicity prevented her from perceiving the aim 
 to which the monk's insinuations tended ; but the ex- 
 cellent morals which she owed to Elvira's care, the solidity 
 
 204 
 
CHAPTER VII 205 
 
 and correctness of her understanding, and a strong sense 
 of what was right, implanted in her heart by nature, made 
 her feel that his precepts must be faulty. By a few simple 
 words she frequently overthrew the whole bulk of his 
 sophistical arguments, and made him conscious how weak 
 they were when opposed to virtue and truth. On such 
 occasions he took refuge in his eloquence ; he overpowered"^ 
 her with a torrent of philosophical paradoxes, to which, 
 not understanding them, it was impossible for her to 
 reply ; and thus, though he did not convince her that 
 his reasoning was just, he at least prevented her from 
 discovering it to be false. He perceived that her respect 
 for his judgment augmented daily, and doubted not with 
 time to bring her to the point desired. 
 
 He was not unconscious that his attempts were highly ., 
 criminal. He saw clearly the baseness of seducing the 
 innocent girl ; but his passion was too violent to permit 
 his abandoning his design. He resolved to pursue it, let 
 the consequences be what they might. He depended upon 
 finding Antonia in some unguarded moment ; and seeing 
 no other man admitted into her society, nor hearing*. any 
 mentioned, either by her or by Elvira, he imagined that 
 her young heart was still unoccupied. While he waited 
 for the opportunity of satisfying his unwarrantable lust, 
 every day increased his coldness for Matilda. Not a little 
 was this occasioned by the consciousness of his faults to 
 her. To hide them from her, he was not sufficiently 
 master of himself ; yet he dreaded lest, in a transport of 
 jealous rage, she should betray the secret on which his 
 character and even his life depended. Matilda could not 
 but remark his indifference : he was conscious that she 
 remarked it, and fearing her reproaches, shunned her 
 studiously. Yet, when he could not avoid her, her mild- 
 ness might have convinced him that he had nothing to 
 dread from her resentment. She had resumed the character 
 of the gentle interesting Rosario : she taxed him not with 
 ingratitude, but her eyes filled with involuntary tears, and 
 the soft melancholy of her countenance and voice uttered 
 complaints far more touching than words could have con- 
 veyed. Ambrosio was not unmoved by her sorrow, but, 
 unable to remove its cause, he forbore to show that it 
 affected him. As her conduct convinced him that he 
 needed not fear her vengeance, he continued to neglect 
 
206 THE MONK 
 
 her, and avoided her company with care. Matilda saw 
 that she in vain attempted to regain his affections, yet 
 she stifled the impulse of resentment, and continued to 
 treaLJier inconstant lover with her former fondness and 
 affection. 
 
 By degrees Elvira's constitution recovered itself. She 
 was no longer troubled with convulsions, and Antonia 
 ceased to tremble for her mother. Ambrosio beheld this 
 re-establishment with displeasure : he saw that Elvira's 
 knowledge of the world would not be the dupe of his 
 sanctified demeanour, and that she would easily perceive 
 his views upon her daughter. He resolved, therefore, 
 before she quitted her chamber, to try the extent of his ■ 
 influence over the innocent Antonia. 
 
 One evening, when he had found Elvira almost perfectly 
 restored to health, he quitted her earlier than was his usual 
 custom. Not finding Antonia in the anti-chamber, he 
 ventured to follow her to her own. It was only separated 
 from her mother's by a closet, in which Flora, the waiting- 
 woman, generally slept. Antonia sat upon a sofa with her 
 back towards the door, and read attentively. She heard 
 not his approach, till he had seated himself by her. She 
 started, and welcomed him with a look of pleasure ; then 
 rising, she would have conducted him to the sitting-room ; 
 but Ambrosio, taking her hand, obliged her by gentle 
 violence to resume her place. She complied without 
 difficulty : she knew not that there was more impro- 
 priety in conversing with him in one room than another. 
 She thought herself equally secure of his principles and 
 her own, and having replaced herself upon the sofa, she 
 began to prattle to him with her usual ease and vivacity. 
 He examined the book which she had been reading, and 
 had now placed upon the table. I t_was th e Bihlfi. ' TTr»w I ' 
 said the frjpr to himself 'Antonia reads the Bible, and is 
 
 ~ st ill so ignorant ? ' 
 
 Jbut, upon a turther inspection, he found that Elvira had 
 made exactly the same remark. That prudent mother, 
 while she admired the beauties of the sacred writings, was 
 convinced tha t, unrestricted, no readin g more improper 
 could be permTEEea a young wom an: Haliy Of the 
 
 'narratives can only tend to excite ideas the worst calculated 
 for a female breast : everything is called plainly and 
 roundly by its name, and the annals of a brothel would 
 
r M „„,«i. 
 
 jpf ^ CHAPTER VII 207 
 
 "scarcely furnish a greater choice of indecent expressions. 
 Yet this is the book whic h y"" n g wr.mon q, r p. reco mmended 
 'T o study, which is put into the han ds of children, able £0" 
 cbmprehena little more than those" passages of 'which they 
 had better remain ignorant, and which bdt Cod treqiMfitly 
 ihc aicul ates 1 thu livk i , h.1h i m l .n 1:1m ! jlill-ijlee | jiijir i jaaijiOh s. 
 Of"this was Jiivira so fully convinced, that she would'have-" 
 preferred putting into her daughter's hands Amadis de Gaul, 
 or The Valiant Champion, Tirante the White, and would < 
 sooner have authorized her studying the lewd exploits of 
 Don Oalaor, or the lascivious jokes of the Damsel Plazer di 
 mi vida. She had in consequence made two resolutions 
 respecting the Bible. The first was, that Antonia should 
 not read it till she was of an age to feel its beauties and 
 profit by its morality. The second, that it should be copied 
 out with her own hand, and\all improper passages either 
 altered or omittectjN^She had adhered to this determination, 
 and such was the Bible which Antonia was reading ; it 
 had been lately delivered to her, and she perused it with 
 an avidity, with a delight that was inexpressible. Ambrosio 
 perceived his mistake, and replaced the book upon the 
 table. 
 
 Antonia spoke of her mother's health with all the 
 enthusiastic joy of a youthful heart. ' I admire your filial 
 affection,' said the abbot ; ' it proves the excellence and 
 sensibility of your character : it promises a treasure to him 
 whom Heaven has destined to possess your affections. 
 The breast so capable of fondness for a parent, what will 
 it feel for a lover ? — nay, perhaps what feels it for 
 one even now ? Tell me, my lovely daughter, have you 
 known what it is to love ? Answer me with sincerity : 
 forget my habit, and consider me only as a friend.' 
 
 ' What it is to love ? ' said she, repeating his question. 
 ' Oh, yes ! undoubtedly ; I have loved many, many people.' 
 
 ' That is not what I mean. The love of which I speak 
 can be felt only for one. Have you never seen the man 
 whom you'wished to be your husband ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, no, indeed ! ' 
 
 This was an untruth, but she was unconscious of its 
 falsehood : she knew not the nature of her sentiments for 
 Lorenzo ; and never having seen him since his first visit 
 to Elvira, with every day his image grew less feebly im- 
 pressed upon her bosom ; besides, she thought of a husband 
 
208 THE MONK 
 
 with all a virgin's terror, and negatived the friar's demand 
 without a moment's hesitation. 
 
 ' And do you not long to see that man, Antonia ? Do 
 you feel no void in your heart which you fain would have 
 filled up ? Do you heave no sighs for the absence of some- 
 one dear to you, but who that someone is you know not ? 
 Perceive you not that what formerly could please has 
 charms for you no longer ? that a thousand new wishes, 
 new ideas, new sensations, have sprung in your bosom, 
 only to be felt, never to be described ? Or, while you fill 
 every other heart with passion, is it possible that your 
 own remains insensible and cold ? It cannot be ! That 
 melting eye, that blushing cheek, that enchanting volup- 
 tuous melancholy which at times overspreads your features 
 — all these marks belie your words : you love, Antonia, 
 and in vain would hide it from me.' 
 
 ' Father, you amaze me ! What is this love of which 
 you speak ? I neither know its nature, nor, if I felt it, 
 why I should conceal the sentiment.' 
 
 ' Have you seen no man, Antonia, whom, though never 
 seen before, you seemed long to have sought, whose form, 
 though a stranger's, was familiar to your eyes, the sound 
 of whose voice soothed you, pleased you, penetrated to 
 your very soul, in whose presence you rejoiced, for whose 
 absence you lamented, with whom your heart seemed to 
 expand, and in whose bosom, with confidence unbounded, 
 you reposed the cares of your own ? Have you not felt 
 all this, Antonia ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly I have : the first time that I saw you, I 
 felt it.' 
 
 < Ambrosio started. Scarcely dared he credit his hearing. 
 ' Me, Antonia ? ' he cried, his eyes sparkling with delight 
 and impatience, while he seized her hand, and pressed it 
 rapturously to his lips. ' Me, Antonia ? You felt these 
 sentiments for me ? ' 
 
 ' Even with more strength than you have described. 
 The very moment that I beheld you, I felt so pleased, so 
 interested ! I waited so eagerly to catch the sound of your 
 voice ; and, when I heard it, it seemed so sweet ! — it 
 spoke to me a language till then so unknown ! Methought 
 it told me a thousand things which I wished to hear ! It 
 seemed as if I had long known you ; as if I had a right to 
 your friendship, your advice, and your protection. I wept 
 
CHAPTER VII 209 
 
 when you departed, and longed for the time which should 
 restore you to my sight.' 
 
 ' Antonia, my charming Antonia ! ' exclaimed the 
 monk, and caught her to his bosom ; ' can I believe my 
 senses ? Repeat it to me, my sweet girl ! Tell me again 
 that you love me, that you love me truly and tenderly ! ' 
 
 ' Indeed I do ; let my mother be excepted, and the 
 world holds no one more dear to me.' 
 
 At this frank avowal, Ambrosio no longer possessed 
 himself ; wild with desire, he clasped the blushing trembler 
 in his arms. He fastened his lips greedily upon her's, 
 sucked in her pure delicious breath, violated with his bold 
 hand the treasures of her bosom, and wound around him 
 her soft and yielding limbs. Startled, alarmed, and con- 
 fused at his action, surprise at first deprived her of the 
 power of resistance. At length recovering herself, she 
 strove to escape from his embrace. 
 
 ' Father ! — Ambrosio ! ' she cried, ' release me, for God's 
 sake ! ' 
 
 But the licentious monk heeded not her prayers : he 
 persisted in his design, and proceeded to take still greater 
 liberties. Antonia prayed, wept, and struggled: terrified 
 to the extreme, though at what she knew not, she exerted 
 all her strength to repulse the friar, and was on the point 
 of shrieking for assistance, when the chamber door was 
 suddenly thrown open. Ambrosio had just sufficient 
 presence of mind to be sensible of his danger. Reluctantly 
 he quitted his prey, and started hastily from the couch. 
 Antonia uttered an exclamation of joy, flew towards the 
 door, and found herself clasped in the arms of her mother. 
 
 Alarmed at some of the abbot's speeches, which Antonia 
 had innocently repeated, Elvira resolved to ascertain the 
 truth of her suspicions. She had known enough of man-^ 
 kind not to be imposed upon by the monk's reputed virtue. 
 She reflected on several circumstances, which, though 
 trifling, on being put together seemed to authorize her 
 fears. His frequent visits, which, as far as she could see, 
 were confined to her family ; his evident emotion, whenever 
 she spoke of Antonia ; his being in the full prime and heat 
 of manhood ; and, above all, his pernicious philosophy, 
 communicated to her by Antonia, and which accorded but 
 ill with his conversation in her presence ; all these circum- 
 stances inspired her with doubts respecting the purity of 
 
210 THE MONK 
 
 Ambrosio's friendship. In consequence she resolved, when 
 he should next be alone with Antonia, to endeavour at 
 surprising him. Her plan had succeeded. 'Tis true, that 
 when she entered the room, he had already abandoned his 
 prey ; but the disorder- of her daughter's dress, and the 
 friar's countenance, sufficed to prove that her suspicions 
 were but too well founded. However, she was too prudent 
 to make those suspicions known. She judged, that to 
 unmask the impostor would be no easy matter, the public 
 being so much prejudiced in his favour : and having but 
 few friends, she thought it dangerous to make herself so 
 powerful an enemy. She affected, therefore, not to remark 
 his agitation, seated herself tranquilly upon the sofa, 
 assigned some trifling reason for having quitted her room 
 unexpectedly, and conversed on various subjects with 
 seeming confidence and ease. 
 
 Reassured by her behaviour, the monk began to recover 
 himself. He strove to answer Elvira without appearing 
 embarrassed ; but he was still too great a novice in 
 dissimulation, and he felt that he must look confused and 
 awkward. He soon broke off the conversation, and rose 
 to depart. What was his vexation when, on taking leave, 
 Elvira told him, in polite terms, that being now perfectly 
 re-established, she thought it an injustice to deprive others 
 of his company who might be more in need of it ! She 
 assured him of her eternal gratitude, for the benefit which 
 during her illness she had derived from his society and 
 exhortations ; and she lamented that her domestic affairs, 
 as well as the multitude of business which his situation 
 must of necessity impose upon him, would in future deprive 
 her of the pleasure of his visits. Though delivered in the 
 mildest language, this hint was too plain to be mistaken. 
 Still he was preparing to put in a remonstrance, when an 
 expressive look from Elvira stopped him short. He dared 
 not press her to receive him, for her manner convinced him 
 that he was discovered ; he submitted without reply, took 
 a hasty leave, and retired to the abbey, his heart filled 
 with rage and shame, with bitterness and disappointment. 
 
 Antonia's mind felt relieved by his departure ; yet she 
 could not help lamenting that she was never to see him 
 more. Elvira also felt a secret sorrow : she had received 
 too much pleasure from thinking him her friend not to 
 regret the necessity of changing her opinion; but her 
 
CHAPTER VII 211 
 
 mind was too much accustomed to the fallacy of worldly 
 friendships to permit her present disappointment to weigh 
 upon it long. She now endeavoured to make her daughter 
 aware of the risk which she had run ; but she was obliged 
 to treat the subject with caution, lest, in removing the 
 bandage of ip-noranne the vail nf innocence should be rent 
 away*. — She therefore contented herself with warning 
 Antonia to be upon her guard, and ordering her, should 
 the abbot persist in his visits, never to receive them but in 
 company. With this injunction Antonia promised to comply. 
 
 Ambrosio hastened to his cell. He closed the door after 
 him, and threw himself upon the bed in despair. The 
 impulse of desire, the stings of disappointment, the shame 
 of detection, and the fear of being publicly unmasked, 
 rendered his bosom a scene of the most horrible oonfusion. 
 He knew not what course to pursue.. Debarred the 
 presence of Antonia, he had no hopes of satisfying that 
 passion which was now become a part of his existence. 
 He reflected that his secret was in a woman's power ; he 
 trembled with apprehension when he beheld the precipice 
 before him, and with rage when he thought that, had it 
 not been for Elvira, he should now have possessed the 
 object of his desires. With/the direst imprecations he 
 vowed vengeance agaiHbL llUt jAa swore th at, cost what it 
 w ould, he still wouia possess Anronia. \ Stat'tlU^ fium the- 
 bed, he paced the V h_amber_ saty disoigaered steps, howled 
 with impotent fury, dashed himsel" 
 walls, and indulged all the transports of rage a<p! madness. 
 
 He was Still Under the inflkanc fl nf-^ »m!£ » rtnrm - frf 
 passions, when he heard a gentle knock at the door of 
 his cell. Conscious that his voice must have been heard, 
 he dared not refuse admittance to the importuner. He 
 strove to compose himself, and to hide his agitation. 
 Having in some degree succeeded, he drew back the bolt ; 
 the door opened, and Matilda appeared. 
 
 At this precise moment there was no one with whose 
 presence he could better have dispensed : he had not 
 sufficient command over himself to conceal his vexation. 
 He started back, and frowned. ' I am busy ' said he, in a 
 stern and hasty tone ; ' leave me.' 
 
 Matilda heeded him not : she again fastened the door, 
 and then advanced towards him with an air gentle and 
 supplicating. 
 
212 THE MONK 
 
 * Forgive me, Ambrosio ' said she ; ' for your own sake I 
 must not obey you. Fear no complaints from me ; I come 
 not to reproach you with your ingratitude. I pardon you 
 from my heart ; and since your love can no longer be mine, 
 I request the next best gift, your confidence and friendship. 
 We cannot force our inclinations : the little beauty which 
 you once saw in me has perished with its novelty ; and if 
 it can no longer excite desire, mine is the fault, not yours. 
 But why persist in shunning me ? Why such anxiety to 
 fly my presence ? You have sorrows, but will not permit 
 me to share them ; you have disappointments, but will not 
 accept my comfort ; you have wishes, but forbid my aiding 
 your pursuits. 'Tis of this which I complain, not of your 
 indifference to my person. I have given up the claims of 
 the mistress, but nothing shall prevail on me to give up 
 those of the friend.' 
 
 'Generous Matilda', he replied, taking her hand, 'how 
 far do you rise superior to the foibles of your sex ! Yes, 
 I accept your offer. I have need of an adviser, and a 
 confident: in you I find every needful quality united. 
 But to aid my pursuits — ah, Matilda ! it lies not in your 
 power ! ' 
 
 ' It lies in no one's power but mine, Ambrosio : your 
 secret is none to me ; your every step, your every action, 
 has been observed by my attentive eye. You love.' 
 
 ' Matilda ! ' 
 
 ' Why conceal it from me ? Fear not the little jealousy 
 which taints the generality of women — my soul disdains 
 so despicable a passion. You love, Ambrosio; Antonia 
 Dalfa is the object of your flame. I know every circum- 
 stance respecting your passion. Every conversation has 
 been repeated to me. I have been informed of your 
 attempt to enjoy Antonia's person, your disappointment, 
 and dismission from Elvira's house. You now despair of 
 possessing your mistress ; but I come to revive your hopes, 
 and point out the road to success.' 
 
 • To success ! — Oh, impossible ! ' 
 
 ' To those who dare, nothing is impossible. Rely upon 
 me, and you may yet be happy. The time is come, 
 Ambrosio, when regard for your comfort and tranquillity 
 compels me to reveal a part of my history, with which you 
 are still unacquainted. Listen, and do not interrupt me. 
 Should my confession disgust you, remember that, in 
 
CHAPTER VII 213 
 
 making it, my sole aim is to satisfy your wishes, and 
 restore that peace to your heart which at present has 
 abandoned it. I formerly mentioned that my guardian 
 was a man of uncommon knowledge. He took pains to 
 instil that knowledge into my infant mind. Among the 
 various sciences which curiosity had induced him to 
 explore, he neglected notj- h nt -JBttfaich by most is esteemed 
 impious, and by manj^eWmerican ^ speak of those arts 
 
 Which relate to the WaritL ftf ppiriiaK Hia iHwp wcpan-tioa 
 
 into causes and effects, his unwearied application to the 
 study of natural philosophy, his profound and unlimited 
 knowledge of the properties and virtues of every gem 
 which enriches the deep, of every herb which the earth 
 produces, at length procured him the distinction which he 
 had sought so long, so earnestly. His curiosity was fully 
 slaked, his ambition amply gratified. He gave laws to the 
 elements: he could reverse the order of Nature: his eye 
 read the mandates of futurity; and the infernal spirits^ 
 were submissive to his commands. Why shrink you from 
 me ? I understand that inquiring look. Your suspicions . 
 are right, though your terrors are unfounded. My 
 guardian concealed not from me his most precious 
 acquisition. Yet, had I never seen you, I should never 
 have exerted my power. Like you, I shuddered at the 
 thoughts of magic ; like you, I had formed a terrible idea 
 of the consequences of raising a demon. To preserve that 
 life which your love had taught me to prize, I had recourse 
 to means which I trembled at employing. You remember 
 that night which I passed in St. Clare's sepulchre. Then 
 was it that, surrounded by mouldering bodies, I dared to 
 jnystic rites, which summoned to my aid a 
 "fallen angel. )Judge what must have been my joy at 
 discoverm^-tBat my terrors were imaginary. I saw him 
 Ting at my frown ; and found that, instead of selling my 
 soul'to a master , my courage had purchased for myself a slave.' 
 ' Rash Matilna ! Wnat have you done ? You have 
 doomed yourself to endless perdition ; you have bartered 
 for momentary power eternal happiness ! If on witch- 
 craft depends the fruition of my desires, I renounce your 
 aid most absolutely. The consequences are too horrible. 
 I dote upon Antonia, but am not so blinded by lust as to 
 sacrifice for her enjoyment my existence both in this world 
 and in the next.' 
 
214 THE MONK 
 
 ' Ridiculous prejudices ! Oh, blush, Ambrosio, blush at 
 being subjected totheir dominion. Where is the risk of 
 accepting my offers ? What should induce my persuading 
 you to this step, except the wish of restoring you to 
 happiness and quiet ? If there is danger, it must fall upon 
 me. It is I who invoke the ministry of the spirits ; mine 
 therefore will be the crime, and yours the profit: but 
 danger there is none ; the enemy of mankind is my slave, 
 not my sovereign. Is there no difference between giving 
 and receiving laws, between serving and commanding? 
 Awake from your idle dreams, Ambrosio ! throw from you 
 these terrors, so ill suited to a soul like yours ; leave them 
 for common men, and dare to be happy ! Accompany me 
 this night to St. Clare's sepulchre ; there witness my 
 incantations, and Antonia is your own.' 
 
 ' To obtain her by such means, I neither can nor will. 
 Cease then to persuade me.forldar&not employ hell'sagency.' 
 
 ' You da/re not ? How have you Ta£CErvett~me ! 'i'ha"t 
 mind, which I esteemed so great and valiant, proves to be 
 feeble, puerile, and grovelling — a slave to vulgar errors, 
 and weaker than a woman's.' 
 
 ' What, though conscious of the dagger, wilfully shall I 
 expose myself to the seducer's arts ? Vihall I renounce for 
 ever my title to salvation ? Shall my eyes seek a sight 
 which I know will blast them ? <«No, no, Matilda ; I will 
 not ally myself with God's enemy/? 
 
 ' Are you then God's friend atTpresent ? Have you not 
 broken your engagements with him, renounced his service, 
 and abandoned yourself to the impulse of your passions ? 
 Are you not planning the destruction of innocence, the 
 ruin of a creature whom he formed in the mould of angels? 
 If not of demons, whose aid would you invoke to forward 
 this laudable design ? Will the seraphims protect it, 
 ' conduct Antonia to your arms, and sanction with their 
 ministry your illicit pleasures ? Absurd ! But I am not 
 deceived, Ambrosio ! It is not virtue which makes you 
 reject my offer ; you would accept it, but you dare not. 
 'Tis not the crime which holds your hand, but the punish- 
 ment ; 'tis not respect for God which restrains you, but 
 the terror of his vengeance ! Fain would you offend him 
 in secret, but you tremble to profess yourself his foe. Now 
 shame on the coward soul, which wants the courage neither 
 to be a firm friend, or an open enemy ! ' 
 
CHAPTER VII 215 
 
 ' To look upon guilt with horror, Matilda, is in itself a 
 merit : in this respect I glory to confess myself a coward. 
 Though my passions have made me deviate from her laws, 
 I stili feel in my heart an innate love of virtue. But it ill 
 becomes you to tax me with my perjury — you who first 
 seduced me to violate my vows, you who first roused my 
 sleeping vices, made me feel the weight of religion's chains, 
 and bade me be convinced that guilt had pleasures. Yet 
 though my principles have yielded to the force of tempera- 
 ment, I still have sufficient grace to shudder at sorcery, 
 and avoid a crime so monstrous, so unpardonable ! ' 
 
 ' Unpardonable, say you ? Where then is your constant 
 boast of the Almighty's infinite mercy ? Has he of late 
 set bounds to it ? Receives he no longer a sinner with joy? 
 You injure him, Ambrosio ; you will always have time to 
 repent, and he have goodness to forgive. Afford him a 
 glorious opportunity to exert that goodness: the greater 
 your crime, the greater his merit in pardoning. Away then 
 with these childish scruples ! be persuaded to your good, 
 and follow me to the sepulchre.' 
 
 ' Oh, cease, Matilda ! That scoffing tone, that bold and 
 impious language, is horrible in every mouth, but most so 
 in a woman's. Let us drop a conversation which excites 
 no other sentiments than horror and disgust. I will not follow 
 you to the sepulchre, or accept the services of your infernal 
 agents. Antonia shall be mine, but mine by human means.' 
 
 ' Then yours she will never be ! You are banished her 
 presence ; her mother has opened her eyes to your designs, 
 and she is now upon her guard against them. Nay, more, 
 she loves another ; a youth of distinguished merit possesses 
 Tier froa.rf. ; flnf) unless you interfere, a few days will make 
 Sr h is bride. T his intelligence was brought me by my 
 'invisible servahT9?sj<o whom I had recourse on first per- 
 siving your indifference. They watched your every 
 actre*Lrelated to me/ all that passed at Elvira's, and 
 inspirea~Uie w ith"*"tne idea of favouring your designs. 
 Their reports have been my only comfort. Though you 
 shunned my presence, all your proceedings were known to 
 me ; nay, I was constantly with you in some degree, 
 thanks to this most precious gift ! ' 
 
 With these words she drew from beneath her habit a 
 mirror of polished steel, the borders of which were marked 
 with various strange and unknown characters. 
 
216 THE MONK 
 
 ' Amidst all my sorrows, amidst all my regrets for your 
 coldness, I was sustained from despair by the virtues of 
 this talisman. On pronouncing certain words, the person 
 appears in it on whom the observer's thoughts are bent : 
 thus, though I was exiled from your sight, you, Ambrosio, 
 were ever present to mine.' 
 
 The friar's curiosity was strongly excited. ' What you 
 relate is incredible ! Matilda, are you not amusing yourself 
 with my credulity ? ' 
 
 ' Be your own eyes the judge.' 
 
 She put the mirror into his hand. Curiosity induced 
 him to take it, and love, to wish that Antonia might 
 appear. Matilda pronounced the magic words. Immedi- 
 ately a thick smoke rose from the characters traced upon 
 the borders, and spread itself over the surface. It dispersed 
 again gradually ; a confused mixture of colours and images 
 presented themselves to the friar's eyes, which at length 
 arranging^ themselves in their proper places, he beheld in 
 miniature Antonia's lovely form. 
 
 The scene was a small closet belonging to her apartment. 
 She was undressing to bathe herself. The long tresses of 
 her hair were already bound up. The amorous monk had 
 full opportunity to observe the voluptuous contours and 
 admirable symmetry of her person. She threw off her 
 last garment, and, advancing to the bath prepared for her, 
 put her foot into the water. It struck cold, and she drew 
 it back again. Though unconscious of being observed, an 
 inbred sense of modesty induced her to veil her charms ; 
 and she stood hesitating upon the brink, in the attitude of 
 the Venus de Medicis. At this moment a tame linnet flew 
 towards her, nestled its head between her breasts, and 
 nibbled them in wanton play. The smiling Antonia strove 
 in vain to shake off the bird, and at length raised her 
 hands to drive it from its delightful harbour. Ambrosio 
 could bear no more. His desires were worked up to 
 phrenzy. 
 
 ' I yield ! ' he cried, dashing the mirror upon the ground ; 
 ' Matilda, I follow you ! Do with me what you will ! ' 
 
 She waited not to hear his consent repeated. It was 
 already midnight. She flew to her cell, and soon returned 
 with her little basket and the key of the cemetery, which 
 had remained in her possession since her first visit to the 
 vaults. She gave the monk no time for reflection. 
 
CHAPTER VII 217 
 
 'Come', she paid, and took his hand; 'follow me. and 
 witness the effects of your resolve.' 
 
 This said, she drew him hastily along. They passed into 
 the burying - ground unobserved, opened the door of the 
 sepulchre, and found themselves at the head of the sub- 
 terraneous staircase. As yet the beams of the full moon 
 had guided their steps, but that resource now failed them. 
 Matilda had neglected to provide herself with a lamp. 
 Still holding Ambrosio's hand, she descended the marble 
 steps ; but the profound obscurity with which they were 
 overspread obliged them to walk slow and cautiously. 
 
 ' You tremble ', said Matilda to her companion ; ' fear not 
 — the destined spot is near.' 
 
 They reached the foot of the staircase, and continued to 
 proceed, feeling their way along the walls. On turning a 
 corner, suddenly they descried faint gleams of light, which 
 seemed burning at a distance. Thither they bent their 
 steps. The rays proceeded from a small sepulchral lamp 
 which flamed unceasingly before the statue of St. Clare. 
 It tinged with dim and cheerless beams the massy columns 
 which supported the roof, but was too feeble to dissipate 
 the thick gloom in which the vaults above were buried. 
 
 Matilda took the lamp. ' Wait for me ' said she to the 
 friar ; ' in a few moments I am here again.' 
 
 With these words she hastened into one of the passages 
 which branched in various directions from the spot, and 
 formed a sort of labyrinth. Ambrosio was now left alone. 
 Darkness the most profound surrounded him, and en- 
 couraged the doubts which began to revive in his bosom. 
 He had been hurried away by the delirium of the moment. 
 (The shame of betraying his terrors while in Matilda's 
 presence had induced him to repress them ; but, now that c . 
 he was abandoned to himself, they resumed their former 
 ascendancy^ He trembled at the scene which he was soon 
 to witness; He knew not how far the delusions of 
 magic might operate upon his mind : they possibly 
 might force him to some deed, whose commission would 
 make the breach between himself and Heaven irreparable. 
 In this fearful dilemma, he would have implored God's 
 assistance, but was conscious that he had forfeited all claim 
 to such protection. Gladly would he have returned to the 
 abbey ; but as he had passed through innumerable caverns 
 and winding passages, the attempt of regaining the stairs 
 
2i8 THE MONK 
 
 was hopeless. His fate was determined ; no possibility of 
 escape presented itself. He therefore combated his appre- 
 hensions, and called every argument to his succour which 
 might enable him to support the trying scene with fortitude. 
 He reflected that Antonia would be the reward of his 
 daring. He inflamed his imagination by enumerating her 
 charms. /He persuaded himself, thak«»as Matilda had 
 observed, Nje always should have CbTO 'Sufficient for 
 repentance jjand that, as he employed her assistance, not 
 that of denrons, the crime of sorcery c foflcL irot be laid to 
 his charge. He had read much respecting witchcraft ; he 
 understood that unless a formal act was signed, renouncing 
 his claim to salvation, Satan would have no power over 
 him. He was fully determined not to execute any such 
 act, whatever threats might be used, or advantages held 
 out to him. 
 
 Such were his meditations while waiting for Matilda. 
 They were interrupted by a low murmur, which seemed at 
 no great distance from him. He was startled — he listened. 
 Some minutes passed in silence, after which the murmur 
 was repeated. It appeared to be the groaning of one in 
 pain. In any other situation, the circumstance would only 
 have excited his attention and curiosity: in the present, 
 his predominant sensation was that of terror. His imagina- 
 tion totally engrossed by the ideas of sorcery and spirits, 
 he fancied that some unquiet ghost was wandering near 
 him ; or else that Matilda had fallen a victim to her pre- 
 sumption, and was perishing under the cruel fangs of the 
 demons. The noise seemed not to approach, but continued 
 to be heard at intervals. Sometimes it became more 
 audible — doubtless, as the sufferings of the person who 
 uttered the groans became more acute and insupportable. 
 Ambrosio now and then thought that he could distinguish 
 accents, and once in particular he was almost convinced 
 that he heard a faint voice exclaim : ' God, oh God ! No 
 hope ! No succour ! ' 
 
 Yet deeper groans followed these words : they died away 
 gradually, and universal silence prevailed. 
 
 ' What can this mean ? ' thought the bewildered monk. 
 
 At that moment an idea, which flashed into his mind, 
 almost petrified him with horror : he started, and shuddered 
 at himself. ' Should it be possible ! ' he groaned involun- 
 tarily; ' should it but be possible ! Oh.whatamonsteraml !' 
 
CHAPTER VII 219 
 
 He wished to resolve his doubts, and to repair his fault, 
 if it were not too late already. But these generous and 
 compassionate sentiments were soon put to flight by the 
 return of Matilda. He forgot the groaning sufferer, 
 and remembered nothing but the danger and embarrass- 
 ment of his own situation. The light of the returning 
 lamp gilded the walls, and in a few moments after Matilda 
 stood beside him. She had quitted her religious habit: 
 she was now clothed in a long sable robe, on which was 
 traced in gold embroidery a variety of unknown characters ;, 
 it was fastened by a girdle of precious stones, in which was 
 fixed a poinard. Her neck and arms were uncovered ; in 
 her hand she bore a golden wand ; her hair was loose, and 
 flowed wildly upon her shoulders ; her eyes sparkled with 
 terrific expression ; and her whole demeanour was calculated 
 to inspire the beholder with awe and admiration. 
 
 ' Follow me ! ' she said to the monk, in a low and solemn 
 voice ; ' all is ready.' 
 
 His limbs trembled while he obeyed her. She led him 
 through various narrow passages ; and on every side, as 
 they passed along, the beams of the lamp displayed none 
 but the most revolting objects ; sculls, bones, graves, and 
 images whose eyes seemed to glare on them with horror 
 and surprise. At length they reached a spacious cavern, 
 whose lofty roof the eye sought in vain to discover. A 
 profound obscurity hovered through the void ; damp 
 vapours struck cold to the friar's heart, and he listened 
 sadly to the blast while it howled along the lonely vaults. 
 Here Matilda stopped. She turned to Ambrosio. His 
 cheeks and lips were pale with apprehension. By a glance 
 of mingled scorn and anger, she reproved his pusillanimity, 
 but she spoke not. She placed the lamp upon the ground 
 near the basket. She motioned that Ambrosio should be 
 silent, and began the mysterious rites. She drew a circle 
 round him, another round herself ; and then, taking a small 
 phial from the basket, poured a few drops upon the ground 
 before her. She bent over the place, muttered some 
 indistinct sentences, and immediately a pale sulphurous 
 flame arose from the ground. It increased by degrees, and 
 at length spread its waves over the whole surface, the: 
 circles alone excepted in which stood Matilda and the 
 monk. It then ascended the huge columns of unhewn 
 stone, glided along the roof, and formed the cavern into 
 
220 THE MONK 
 
 an immense chamber, totally covered with blue trembling 
 fire. It emitted no heat: on the contrary, the extreme 
 dullness of the place seemed to augment with every 
 moment. Matilda continued her incantations ; at intervals 
 she took various articles from the basket, the nature and 
 name of most of which were unknown the friar: but 
 among the few which he distinguished, he particularly 
 observed three human fingers, and an Agnus Dei, which 
 she broke in pieces. She threw them all into the flames 
 which burned before her, and they were instantly 
 consumed. 
 
 The monk beheld her with anxious curiosity. Suddenly 
 she uttered a loud and piercing shriek. She appeared to 
 be seized with an excess of delirium ; she tore her hair, 
 beat her bosom, used the most frantic gestures, and, draw- 
 ing the poinard from her girdle, plunged it into her left 
 arm. The blood gushed out plentifully ; and as she stood 
 on the brink of the circle, she took care that it should fall 
 on the outside. The flames retired from the spot on which 
 the blood was pouring. A volume of dark clouds rose 
 slowly from the ensanguined earth, and ascended gradually 
 till it reached the vault of the cavern. At the same time 
 a clap of thunder was heard ; the echo pealed fearfully 
 along the subterraneous passages, and the ground shook 
 beneath the feet of the enchantress. 
 
 It was now that Ambrosio repented of his rashness. The 
 solemn singularity of the charm had prepared him for 
 something strange and horrible. He waited with fear for 
 the spirit's appearance, whose coming was announced by 
 thunder and earthquakes. He looked wildly around him, 
 expecting that some dreadful apparition would meet his 
 eyes, the sight of which would drive him mad. A cold 
 shivering seized his body, and he sunk upon one knee, 
 unable to support himself. 
 
 'He comes!' exclaimed Matilda, in a joyful accent. 
 
 Ambrosio started, and expected the demon with terror. 
 What was his surprise when, the thunder ceasing to roll, a 
 full strain of melodious music sounded in the air ! At the 
 same time the cloud disappeared, and he beheld a figure 
 more beautiful than fancy's pencil ever drew. It was a 
 youth, seemingly scarce eighteen, the perfection of whose 
 form and face was unrivalled. He was perfectly naked : 
 a bright star sparkled upon his forehead, two crimson 
 
CHAPTER VII 221 
 
 wings extended themselves from his shoulders, and his 
 silken locks were confined by a band of many-coloured 
 jfires, which played round his head, formed themselves into 
 a variety of figures, and shone with a brilliance far 
 surpassing that of precious stones. Circlets of diamonds 
 were fastened round his arms and ankles, and in his right 
 hand he bore a silver branch, imitating myrtle. His form 
 shone with dazzling glory : he was surrounded by clouds 
 of rose-coloured light ; and at the moment that he 
 appeared, a refreshing air breathed perfumes through the 
 cavern. Enchanted at a vision so contrary to his 
 expectations, Ambrosio gazed upon the spirit with delight 
 and wonder; yet, however. beautiful the figure, he could 
 not but remark a wildness 'in the demon's eyes, and a 
 mysterious melancholy impressed upon his features,? 
 betraying the fallen angel, and inspiring the spectators 
 with secret awe. 
 
 The music ceased. Matilda addressed herself to the 
 spirit ; she spoke in a language unintelligible to the monk, 
 and was answered in the same. She seemed to insist upon 
 something which the demon was unwilling to grant. He 
 frequently darted upon Ambrosio angry glances, and at 
 such times the friar's heart sank within him. Matilda 
 appeared to grow incensed ; she spoke in a loud and 
 commanding tone, and her gestures declared that she was 
 threatening him with her vengeance. Her menaces had 
 the desired effect. The spirit sank upon his knee, and 
 with a submissive air presented to her the branch of 
 myrtle. No sooner had she received it, than the music ' 
 was again heard; a thick cloud spread itself over the 
 apparition, the blue flames disappeared, and total obscurity 
 reigned through the cave. The abbot moved not from his 
 place : his faculties were all bound up in pleasure, anxiety, 
 and surprise. At length, the darkness dispersing, he 
 perceived Matilda standing near him in her religious habit, 
 with the myrtle in her hand. No traces remained of the 
 incantation, and the vaults were only illuminated by the , 
 faint rays of the sepulchral lamp. 
 
 'I have succeeded', said Matilda, 'though with morev 
 difficulty than I expected. T.i™iFp.r wlnni T summoned, 
 to my assistance, was at first unwilling to obey my 
 commands! t& enforce his compliance, I was constrained 
 to have recourse to my strongest charms. They have 
 
222 THE MONK 
 
 produced the desired effect, but I have engaged never 
 more to invoke his agency in your favour. Beware then 
 bow you employ an opportunity which never will return. 
 My magic arts will now be of no use to you : in future you 
 :an only hope for supernatural aid by invoking the demons 
 yourself, and accepting the conditions of their service. 
 This you will never do. You want strength of mind to 
 force them to obedience; and unless you pay their 
 sstablished price, they will not be your voluntary servants. 
 [n this one instance they consent to obey ; I offer you the 
 means of enjoying your mistress, and be careful not to lose 
 the opportunity. Receive this constellated myrtle : while 
 you bear this in your hand, every door will fly open to 
 you. It will procure j'ou access to-morrow night to 
 Antonia'a chamber: then breathe upon it thrice, pro- 
 nounce her name, and place it upon her pillow. A 
 deathlike slumber will immediately seize upon her, and 
 deprive her of the power of resisting your attempts. 
 Sleep will hold her till break of morning. In this state, 
 you may satisfy your desires without danger of being 
 discovered ; since, when daylight shall dispel the effects of 
 the enchantment, Antonia will perceive her dishonour but 
 be ignorant of the ravisher. Be happy then, my Ambrosio, 
 and let this service convince you that my friendship is 
 disinterested and pure. The night must be near expiring : 
 let us return to the abbey, lest our absence should create 
 surprise.' 
 
 The abbot received the talisman with silent gratitude. 
 His ideas were too much bewildered by the adventures of 
 the night to permit him to express his thanks audibly, or 
 indeed, as yet, to feel the whole value of her present. 
 Matilda took up her lamp and basket, and guided her 
 companion from the mysterious cavern. She restored 
 the lamp to its former place, and continued her route 
 in darkness, till she reached the foot of the staircase. 
 The first beams of the rising sun darting down it facili- 
 tated the ascent. Matilda and the abbot hastened 
 out of the sepulchre, closed the door after them, and 
 soon regained the abbey's western cloister. No one met 
 them, and they retired unobserved to their respective 
 cells. 
 
 The confusion of Ambrosio's mind now began to appease. 
 He rejoiced in the fortunate issue of his adventure, and, 
 
CHAPTER VII 223 
 
 reflecting upon the virtues of the myrtle, looked upon 
 Antonia as already in his power. Imagination retraced 
 to him those secret charms betrayed to him by the 
 enchanted mirror, and he waited with impatience for 
 the approach of midnight. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The crickets sing, and man's o'erlaboured sense 
 
 Repairs itself by rest : our Tarquin thus 
 
 Did softly press the rushes, ere he wakened 
 
 The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, 
 
 How bravely thou becom'st thy bed ! Fresh lily ! 
 
 And whiter than the sheets 1 
 
 — Cymbeline 
 
 All the researches of the Marquis de las Cisternas proved 
 vain : Agnes was lost to him for ever. Despair produced 
 so violent an effect upon his constitution, that the conse- 
 quence was a long and severe illness. This prevented him 
 from visiting Elvira, as he had intended ; and she heing 
 ignorant of the cause of his neglect, it gave her no trifling 
 uneasiness. His sister's death had prevented Lorenzo from 
 communicating to his uncle his designs respecting Antonia. 
 The injunctions of her mother forbade his presenting him- 
 self to her without the duke's consent ; and as she heard 
 no more of him or his proposals, Elvira conjectured that he 
 had either met with a better match, or had been commanded 
 to give up all thoughts of her daughter. Every day made 
 her more uneasy respecting Antonia's fate ; yet, while she 
 retained the abbot's protection, she bore with fortitude the 
 disappointment of her hopes with regard to Lorenzo and 
 the Marquis. That resource now failed her. She was 
 convinced that Ambrosio had meditated her daughter's 
 ruin ; and when she reflected that her death would leave 
 Antonia friendless and unprotected, in a world so base, so 
 perfidious, and depraved, her heart swelled with the bitter- 
 ness of apprehension. At such times, she would sit for 
 hours gazing upon the lovely girl, and seeming to listen to 
 her innocent prattle, while in reality her thoughts dwelt 
 upon the sorrows into which a moment would suffice to 
 plunge her. Then she would clasp her in her arms 
 suddenly, lean her head upon her daughter's bosom, and 
 bedew it with her tears. 
 An event was in preparation, which, had she known it, 
 
 224 
 
CHAPTER VIII 22$ 
 
 would have relieved her from her inquietude. Lorenzo 
 now waited only for a favourable opportunity to inform 
 the duke of his intended marriage : however, a circum- 
 stance, which occurred at this period, obliged him to delay 
 Ids explanation for a few days longer. 
 
 Don. Raymond's malady seemed to gain ground. Lorenzo 
 was constantly at his bedside, and treated him with a 
 tenderness truly fraternal. Both the cause and effects of 
 the disorder were highly afflicting to the brother of Agnes ; 
 yet Theodore's grief was scarcely less sincere. That 
 amiable boy quitted not his master for a moment, and 
 put every means in practice to console and alleviate his 
 sufferings. ,The Marquis had conceived so rooted an affec- 
 tion for his deceased mistress, that it was evident to all 
 that he never could survive her loss. Nothing could have 
 prevented him from sinking under his grief, but the per- 
 suasion of her being still alive, and in need of his assistance. 
 Though convinced of its falsehood, his attendants en- 
 couraged him in a belief which formed his only comfort. 
 He was assured daily, that fresh perquisitions were making 
 respecting the fate of Agnes ; stories were invented re- 
 counting the various attempts made to get admittance 
 into the convent ; and circumstances were related, which, 
 though they did not promise her absolute recovery, at 
 least were sufficient to keep his hopes alive. The Marquis 
 constantly fell into the most terrible excess of passion, 
 when informed of the failure of these supposed attempts. 
 Still he would not credit that the succeeding ones would 
 have the same fate, but flattered himself that the next 
 would prove more fortunate. 
 
 Theodore was the only one who exerted himself to 
 realize his master's chimeras. He was eternally busied 
 in planning schemes for entering the convent, or at least 
 of obtaining from the nuns some intelligence of Agnes. 
 To execute these schemes was the only inducement which 
 could prevail on him to quit Don Raymond. He became 
 a very Proteus, changing hte shape every day ; but all his 
 metamorphoses were to very little purpose. He regularly 
 returned to the Palace de las Cisternas, without any intelli- 
 gence to confirm his master's hopes. One day, he took it 
 into his head to disguise himself as a beggar ; he put a 
 patch over his left eye, took his guitar in hand, and posted 
 himself at the gate of the convent. 
 
 p 
 

 _" 226 THE MONK 
 
 ' fi 
 
 ' If Agnes is really confined in the convent ', thought he, 
 " and hears my voice, she will recollect it, and possibly may 
 find means to let me know that she is here.' 
 
 With this idea he mingled with a crowd of beggars who 
 assembled daily at the gate of St. Clare to receive soup, 
 which the nuns were accustomed to distribute at twelve 
 o'clock. -All were provided with jugs or bowls to carry it 
 away ; but as Theodore had no utensil of this kind, he 
 begged leave to eat his portion at the convent door. This 
 was granted without difficulty. His sweet voice, and, in 
 spite of his patched eye, his engaging countenance, won 
 the heart of the good old porteress, who, aided by a lay- 
 sister, was busied in serving to each his mess. Theodore 
 was bid to stay till the others should depart, and promised 
 that his request should then be granted. The youth desired 
 no better, since it was not to eat soup that he presented 
 himself at the convent. He thanked the porteress for her 
 permission, retired from the door, and, seating himself upon 
 a large stone, amused himself in tuning his guitar while 
 the beggars were served. 
 
 As soon as the crowd was gone, Theodore was beckoned 
 to the gate, and desired to come in. He obeyed with 
 infinite readiness, but affected great respect at passing 
 the hallowed threshold, and to be much daunted by the 
 presence of the reverend ladies. His feigned timidity 
 flatt ered the vanity of the nuns t _w ho endeavoured to 
 reassure bim. ine porteress took mm into her own little 
 parlour: in the meanwhile, the lay-sister went to the 
 kitchen, and soon returned with a double portion of soup, 
 of better quality than what was given to the beggars. His 
 hostess added some fruits and confections from her own 
 private store, and both encouraged the youth to dine 
 heartily. To all these attentions he replied with much 
 seeming gratitude, and abundance of blessings upon his 
 benefactresses. While he ate, the nuns admired the delicacy 
 of his features, the beauty of his hair, and the sweetness 
 and grace which accompanied all his actions. They 
 lamented to each other in whispers, that so charming a 
 youth should be exposed to the seductions of the 
 world, and agreed that he would be a worthy pillar 
 of the catholic church. They conqluded their conference 
 by resolving, that heaven would be rendered a real 
 service, if they entreated the priorese to intercede 
 
CHAPTER VIII 227 
 
 with Ambrosio for the beggar's admission into the order 
 of capuchins. 
 
 This being determined, the porteress, who was a person 
 of great influence in the convent, posted away in all haste 
 to the domina's cell. Here she made so flaming a narrative 
 of Theodore's merits, that the old lady grew curious to see 
 him ; accordingly the porteress was commissioned to convey 
 him to the parlour-grate. In the interim, the supposed 
 beggar was sifting the lay-sister with respect to the fate 
 of Agnes: her evidence only corroborated the domina's 
 assertions. She said that Agnes had been taken ill on 
 returning from confession, had never quitted her bed from 
 that moment, and that she had herself been present at the 
 funeral. She even attested having seen her dead body, 
 and assisted with her own hands in adjusting it upon the 
 bier. This account discouraged Theodore ; yet, as he had 
 pushed the adventure so far, he resolved to witness its 
 conclusion. 
 
 The porteress now returned, and ordered him to follow 
 her. He obeyed, and was conducted into the parlour, 
 where the lady prioress was already posted at the grate. 
 The nuns surrounded her, who all flocked with eagerness 
 to a scene which promised some diversion. Theodore 
 saluted them with profound respect, and his presence had 
 the power to smooth for a moment even the stern brow of 
 the superior. She asked several questions respecting his 
 parents, his religion, and what had reduced him to a state 
 of beggary. To these demands, his answers were perfectly 
 satisfactory and perfectly false. He was then asked his 
 opinion of a monastic life. He replied in terms of high 
 estimation and respect for it. Upon this the prioress told 
 him, that his obtaining an entrance into a religious order 
 was not impossible; that her recommendation would not 
 permit his poverty to be an obstacle ; and that, if she 
 found him deserving it, he might depend in future upon 
 her protection. Theodore assured her, that to merit her 
 favour would be his highest ambition ; and having ordered 
 him to return next day, when she would talk with him 
 further, the domina quitted the parlour. 
 
 The nuns, whom respect for the superior had till then 
 kept silent, now crowded all together to the grate, and 
 assailed the youth with a multitude of questions. He had 
 already examined each with attention. Alas ! Agnes waa 
 
228 THE MONK 
 
 not amongst them. The nuns heaped, question upon 
 question so thickly, that it was scarcely possible for him 
 to reply. One asked where he was born, since his accent 
 declared him to be a foreigner : another wanted to know 
 why he wore a patch upon his left eye : Sister Helena 
 inquired whether he had not a sister like him, because she 
 ■should like such a companion : and Sister Rachael was fully 
 persuaded that the brother would be the pleasanter com- 
 panion of the two. Theodore amused himself with relating 
 to the credulous nuns, for truths, all the strange stories 
 which his imagination could invent. He related to them 
 his supposed adventures, and penetrated every auditor with 
 astonishment, while he talked of giants, savages, shipwrecks, 
 and islands inhabited 
 
 By Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
 Do grow beneath their shoulders ; 
 
 with many other circumstances to the full as remarkable. 
 He said that he was born in Terra Incognita, was educated 
 at an Hottentot university, and had passed two years 
 among the Americans of Silesia. 
 
 ' For what regards the loss of my eye ', said he, ' it was 
 a just punishment upon me, for disrespect to the Virgin, 
 when I made my second pilgrimage to Loretto. I stood 
 near the altar in the miraculous chapel: the monks were 
 proceeding to array the statue in her best apparel. The 
 pilgrims were ordered to close their eyes during the 
 ceremony; but, though by nature extremely religious, 
 curiosity was too powerful. At the moment — I shall 
 penetrate you with horror, reverend ladies, when I reveal 
 my crime ! — at the moment that the monks were changing 
 her shift, I ventured to open my left eye, and gave a little 
 peep towards the statue. That look was my last! The 
 glory which surrounded the Virgin was too great to be 
 supported. I hastily shut my sacrilegious eye, and never 
 have been able to unclose it since.' 
 
 At the relation of this miracle, the nuns all crossed them- 
 selves, and promised to intercede with the blessed Virgin 
 for the recovery of his sight. They expressed their wonder 
 at the extent of his travels, and at the strange adventures 
 which he had met with at so early an age. They now 
 remarked his guitar, and inquired whether he was an 
 
CHAPTER VIII 229 
 
 adept in music. He replied with modesty, that it was not 
 for him to decide upon his talents, but requested permission 
 to appeal to them as judges. This was granted without 
 difficulty. 
 
 ' But at least ', said the old porteress, ' take care not to 
 sing anything profane.' 
 
 ' You may depend upon my discretion ' replied Theodore ; 
 ' you shall hear how dangerous it is for young women to 
 abandon themselves to their passions, illustrated by the 
 adventure of a damsel, who fell suddenly in love with an 
 unknown knight.' 
 
 ' But is the adventure true ? ' inquired the porteress. 
 
 ' Every word of it. It happened in Denmark ; and the 
 heroine was thought so beautiful, that she was known by 
 no other name than that of " the lovely maid." ' 
 • ' In Denmark, say you ? ' mumbled an old nun. ' Are not 
 the people all blacks in Denmark ? ' 
 
 ' By no means, reverend" lady ; they are of a delicate 
 pea-green, with flame-coloured hair and whiskers.' 
 
 ' Mother of God ! Pea-green ? ' exclaimed Sister Helena : 
 * oh ! 'tis impossible ! ' 
 
 ' Impossible ! ' said the porteress, with a look of con- 
 tempt and exultation : ' not at all ; when I was a young 
 woman, I remember seeing several of them myself.' 
 
 Theodore now put his instrument in proper order/' He 
 had read the story of a king of England whose prison was 
 discovered by a minstrelTpand he hoped that the same 
 scheme would enable him to discover Agnes, should she be 
 in the convent. He chose a ballad, which she had taught 
 him herself in the castle of Lindenberg : she might possibly 
 catch the sound, and he hoped to hear her reply to some of 
 the stanzas. His guitar was now in tune, and he prepared 
 to strike it. 
 
 ' But before I begin ', said he, ' it is necessary to inform 
 you, ladies, that this same Denmark is terribly invested by 
 sorcerers, witches, and evil spirits. Every element possesses 
 its appropriate demons. The woods are haunted by a 
 malignant power, called " The Erl, or Oak-King " : he it is 
 who blights the trees, spoils the harvest, and commands 
 the imps and goblins. He appears in the form of an old 
 man of majestic figure, with a golden crown, and long 
 white beard. His principal amusement is to entice young 
 children from their parents ; and as soon as he gets them 
 
230 THE MONK 
 
 into his cave, he tears them into a thousand pieces. The 
 fivers are governed by another fiend, called "The Water- 1 
 King " : his province is to agitate the deep, occasion ship- ^ 
 wrecks, and drag the drowning sailors beneath the waves. 
 Be wears the appearance of a warrior, and employs himself 
 in luring young virgins into his snare : what he does with 
 them, when he catches them in the water, reverend ladies, 
 I leave for you to imagine. " The Fire-King " seems to be 
 ei man all formed of flames: he raises the meteors and 
 wandering lights, which beguile travellers into ponds and 
 marshes ; and he directs the lightning where it may do 
 most mischief. The last of these elementary demons is 
 called " The Cloud-King" : his figure is that of a beautiful 
 youth, and he is distinguished by two large sable wings : 
 though his outside is so enchanting, he is not a bit better 
 disposed than the others. He is continually employed ir? 
 raising storms, tearing up forests by the roots, and blowing 
 castles and convents about the ears of their inhabitants. 
 The first has a daughter, who is queen of the elves and 
 fairies: the second has a mother, who is a powerful 
 enchantress. Neither of these ladies are worth more than 
 the gentlemen. I do not remember to have heard any 
 family assigned to the two other demons ; but at present 
 I have no business with any of them except the fiend of 
 the waters. He is the hero of my ballad ; but I thought 
 it necessary, before I began, to give you some account of 
 his proceedings.' 
 
 Theodore then played a short symphony, after which, 
 stretching his voice to its utmost extent, to facilitate 
 its reaching the ear of Agnes, he sung the following 
 stanzas : 
 
 THE WATER-KING 
 
 A DANISH BALLAD 
 
 With gentle murmur flowed the tide, 
 While, by the fragrant flowery side, 
 The lovely maid, with carols gay, 
 To Mary's church pursued her way. 
 
 The water-fiend's malignant eye 
 Along the banks beheld her hie ; 
 Straight to his mother-witch he sped, 
 And thus in suppliant accents said ; 
 
CHAPTER VIII 231 
 
 ' Oh, mother, mother ! Now advise 
 How I may yonder maid surprise ? — 
 Oh, mother, mother ! Now explain 
 How I may yonder maid obtain 1 ' 
 
 The witch, she gave him armour white , 
 She formed him like a gallant knight ; 
 Of water clear next made her hand 
 A steed, whose housings were of sand. 
 
 The water-king then swift he went ; 
 
 To Mary's church his steps he bent : 
 
 He bound his courser to the door, 
 
 And paced the churchyard three times four. 
 
 His courser to the door bound he, 
 And paced the churchyard four times three ; 
 Then hastened up the aisle, where all 
 TOie people flocked, both great and small. 
 
 The priest said, as the knight drew near : 
 ' And wherefore comes the white chief here 1 • 
 The lovely maid, she smiled aside : 
 ' Oh, would I were the white chief's bride 1 ' 
 
 He stepped o'er benches one and two : 
 ' Oh, lovely maid, I die for you ! ' 
 He stepped o'er benches two and three : 
 ' Oh, lovely maiden, go with me ! ' 
 
 Then sweet she smiled, the lovely maid ; 
 And, while she gave her hand, she said : 
 ' Betide me joy, betide me woe, 
 O'er hill, o'er dale, with thee I do.' 
 
 The priest their hands together joins : 
 They dance, while clear the moonbeam shines ; 
 And little thinks the maiden bright, 
 Her partner is the water-spright. 
 
 Oh, had some spirit deigned to sing, 
 ' Tour bridegroom is the water-king ! ' 
 The maid had fear and hate confessed, 
 And cursed the hand which then she pressed. 
 
 But nothing giving cause to think 
 How near she strayed to danger's brink, 
 Still on she went, and hand in hand 
 The lovers reached the yellow sand — 
 
 ' Ascend this steed with me, my dear ! 
 We needs must cross the streamlet here : 
 Ride boldly in — it is not deep : 
 fhe winds are hushed, the billows sleep.' 
 
232 THE MONK 
 
 Thus spoke the water-king. The maid 
 Her traitor-bridegroom's wish obeyed : 
 And soon she saw the courser lave 
 Delighted in his parent wave. 
 
 ' Stop, stop, my love ! The waters blue 
 E'en now my shrinking foot bedew.' 
 ' Oh, lay aside your fears, sweet heart ! 
 We now have reached the deepest part.' 
 
 ' Stop, stop, my love !— for now I see 
 The waters rise above my knee.' 
 ' Oh, lay aside your fears, sweet heart ! 
 We now have reached the deepest part.' 
 
 ' Stop, stop ! For God's sake, stop ! — for, oh 1 
 The waters o'er my bosom flow ! ' — 
 Scarce was the word pronounced, when knight 
 And courser vanished from her sight. 
 
 She shrieks, but shrieks in vain ; for high 
 The wild winds rising dull the cry ; 
 The fiend exults ; the billows dash, 
 And o'er their hapless victim wash. 
 
 Three times, while struggling with the stream, 
 The lovely maid was heard to scream ; 
 But when the tempest's rage was o'er, 
 The lovely maid was seen no more. 
 
 Warned by this tale, ye damsels fair, 
 To whom you give your love beware ! 
 Believe uot every handsome knight, 
 And dance not with the water-spright. 
 
 The youth ceased to sing. The nuns were delighted 
 with the sweetness of his voice, and masterly manner of 
 touching the instrument : but however acceptable this 
 applause would have been at any other time, at present 
 it was insipid to Theodore. His artifice had not succeeded. 
 He paused in vain between the stanzas ; no voice replied 
 to his, and he abandoned the hope of equalling Blondel. 
 
 The convent-bell now warned the nuns that it was time 
 to assemble in the refectory. They were obliged to quit 
 the grate : they thanked the youth for the entertainment 
 which his music had afforded them, and charged him to 
 return the next day. This he promised. The nuns, to 
 give him the greater inclination to, keep his word, told 
 him that he might always depend upon the convent for 
 his meals, and each of them made him some little present. 
 One gave him a box of sweetmeats ; another, an Agnus 
 
CHAPTER VIII 233 
 
 dei ; some brought reliques of saints, waxen images, and 
 consecrated crosses ; and others presented him with pieces 
 of those works in which the religious excel, such as 
 embroidery, artificial flowers, lace, and needlework. All 
 these he was advised to sell, in order to put himself in 
 better case ; and he was assured that it would be easy to 
 dispose of them, since the Spaniards hold the performances 
 of the nuns in high estimation. Having received these 
 gifts with seeming respect and gratitude, he remarked, 
 that, having no basket, he knew not how to convey them 
 away. Several of the nuns were hastening in search of 
 one, when they were stopped by the return of an elderly 
 woman, whom Theodore had not till then observed. Her 
 mild countenance and respectable air prejudiced him 
 immediately in her favour. 
 
 ' Ha ! ' said the porteress, ' here comes the mother St. 
 Ursula with a basket.' 
 
 The nun approached the grate, and presented the basket 
 to Theodore : it was of willow lined with blue satin, and 
 upon the four sides were painted scenes from the legend 
 of St. Genevieve. 
 
 ' Here is my gift ' said she, as she gave it into his hand. 
 ' Good youth, despise it not ; though its value seems 
 insignificant, it has many hidden virtues.' 
 
 She accompanied these words with an expressive look. 
 It was not lost upon Theodore. In receiving the present, 
 he drew as near the grate as possible. 
 
 ' Agnes ! ' she whispered, in a voice scarcely intelligible. 
 
 Theodore, however, caught the sound. He concluded 
 that some mystery was concealed in the basket, and his 
 heart beat with impatience and joy. At this moment the 
 domina returned. Her air was gloomy and frowning, and 
 she looked if possible more stern than ever. 
 
 ' Mother St. Ursula, I would speak with you in private. 
 
 The nun changed colour, and was evidently disconcerted. 
 ' With me ? ' she replied, in a faltering voice. 
 
 The domina motioned that she must follow her, and 
 retired. The Mother St. Ursula obeyed her. Soon after, 
 the refectory bell ringing a second time, the nuns quitted 
 the grate, and Theodore was left at liberty to carry off his 
 prize. Delighted that at length he had obtained some 
 intelligence for the Marquis, he flew rather than ran, till 
 he reached the Hotel de las Cisternas. In a few minutes 
 
234 THE MONK 
 
 he stood by his master's bed with the basket in his hand. 
 Lorenzo was in the chamber, endeavouring to reconcile 
 his friend to a misfortune which he felt himself but too 
 severely. Theodore related his adventure, and the hopes 
 which had been created by the Mother St. Ursula's gift. 
 The Marquis started from his pillow. That fire which 
 since the death of Agnes had been extinguished, now 
 revived in his bosom, and his eyes sparkled with the 
 eagerness of expectation. The emotions which Lorenzo's 
 countenance betrayed were scarcely weaker, and he waited 
 with inexpressible impatience for the solution of this 
 mystery. Raymond caught the basket from the hands 
 of his page : he emptied the contents upon the bed, and 
 examined them with minute attention. He hoped that a 
 letter would be found at the bottom. Nothing of the 
 kind appeared. The search was resumed, and still with 
 no better success. At length, Don Raymond observed, 
 that one corner of the blue satin lining was unripped : 
 he tore it open hastily, and drew forth a small scrap of 
 paper, neither folded nor sealed. It was addressed to the 
 Marquis de las Cisternas, and the contents were as follows : 
 
 Having recognised your page, I venture to send these few lines. 
 Procure an order from the Cardinal-duke for seizing my person, and 
 that of the domina ; but let it not be executed till Friday at midnight. 
 It is the festival of St. Clare ; there will be a procession of nuns by 
 torch-light, and I shall be among them. Beware not to let your 
 intention be known. Should a syllable be dropped to excite the 
 domina's suspicions, you will never hear of me more. Be cautious, 
 ^ if you prize the memory of Agnes, and wish to punish her assassins. 
 v I have that to tell will freeze your blood with horror. 
 
 St. Ursula. 
 
 No sooner had the Marquis read the note, than he fell 
 back upon his pillow, deprived of sense or motion. The 
 hope failed him which till now had supported his existence; 
 and these lines convinced him but too positively that Agnes 
 was indeed no more. Lorenzo felt this circumstance less 
 forcibly, since it had always been his idea that his sister 
 had perished by unfair means. When he found by the 
 Mother St. Ursula's letter how true were his suspicions, the 
 confirmation excited no other sentiment in his bosom than 
 a wish to punish the murderers as they deserved. It was 
 no easy task to recall the Marquis to himself. As soon as 
 be recovered his speech, he broke ov^t into execrations. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 235 
 
 against the assassins of his beloved, and vowed to take 
 upon them a signal vengeance. He continued to rave and 
 torment himself with impotent passion, till his constitution, 
 enfeebled by grief and illness, could support itself no 
 longer, and relapsed into insensibility. His melancholy 
 situation sincerely affected Lorenzo, who would willingly 
 have remained in the apartment of his friend ; but other 
 cares now demanded his presence. It was necessary to 
 procure the order for seizing the prioress of St. Clare. For 
 this purpose, having committed Raymond to the care of 
 the best physicians in Madrid, he quitted the Hotel de las 
 Cisternas, and bent his course towards the palace of the 
 Cardinal-duke. 
 
 His disappointment was excessive, when he found that 
 affairs of state had obliged the cardinal to set out for a 
 distant province. It wanted but five days to Friday ; yet, 
 by travelling day and night, he hoped to return in time 
 for the pilgrimage of St. Clare. In this he succeeded. He 
 found the Cardinal-duke, and represented to him the 
 supposed culpability of the prioress, as also the violent 
 effects which it had produced upon Don Raymond. He 
 could have used no argument so forcible as this last. Of 
 all his nephews, the Marquis was the only one to whom 
 the Cardinal-duke was sincerely attached : he perfectly 
 doted upon him ; and the prioress could have committed 
 no greater crime in his eyes, than to have endangered the 
 life of the Marquis. Consequently, he granted the order of 
 arrest without difficulty. He also -gave Lorenzo a letter to 
 a principal officer of the Kquisjijj&n, desiring him to see 
 his mandate executed. Furnished with these papers, 
 Medina hastened back to Madrid, which he reached on the 
 Friday, a few hours before dark. He found the Marquis 
 somewhat easier, but so weak and exhausted, that without 
 great exertion he could neither speak nor move. Having 
 passed an hour by his bedside, Lorenzo left him to com- 
 municate his design to his uncle, as also to give Don 
 Ramirez de Mello the cardinal's letter. The first was 
 petrified with horror, when he learned the fate of his 
 unhappy niece. He encouraged Lorenzo to punish her 
 assassins, and engaged to accompany him at night to St. 
 Clare's convent. Don Ramirez promised his firmest 
 support, and selected a band of trusty archers to prevent 
 opposition on the part of the populace, 
 
\ 
 
 236 THE MONK 
 
 But while Lorenzo was anxious to unmask one religious 
 hypocrite, he was unconscious of tha sorrows prepared for 
 him by another. Aided by Matilda's infernal agents, 
 Ambrosio had resolved upon the innocent Antonia's ruin. 
 The moment destined to be so fatal to her arrived. She 
 had taken leave of her mother for the night. As she kissed 
 her, she felt an unusual despondency infuse itself into her 
 bosom. She left her, and returned to her instantly, threw 
 herself into her maternal arms, and bathed her cheek with 
 tears. She felt uneasy at quitting her, and a secret 
 presentiment assured her that never must they meet again. 
 Elvira observed, and tried to laugh her out of this childish 
 prejudice. She chid her mildly for encouraging such 
 ungrounded sadness, and warned her how dangerous it was 
 to give way to such ideas. 
 
 To all her remonstrances she received no other answer, 
 than — 
 
 ' Mother, dear mother ! Oh, would to God it were 
 morning ! ' 
 
 Elvira, whose inquietude respecting her daughter was a 
 great obstacle to her perfect re-establishment, was still 
 labouring under the effects of her late severe illness. She 
 was this evening more than usually indisposed, and retired 
 to bed before her accustomed hour. Antonia withdrew 
 from her mother's chamber with regret, and, till the door 
 closed, kept her eyes fixed upon her with melancholy 
 expression. She retired to her own apartment : her heart 
 was filled with bitterness. It seemed to her that all her 
 prospects were blasted, and the world contained nothing 
 for which it was worth existing. She sank into a chair, 
 reclined her head upon her arm, and gazed upon the floor 
 with a vacant stare, while the most gloomy images floated 
 before her fancy. She was still in this state of insensibility, 
 when she was disturbed by hearing a strain of soft music 
 breathed beneath her window. She rose, drew near the 
 casement, and opened it to hear it more distinctly. Having 
 thrown her veil over her face, she ventured to look out. 
 By the light of the moon, she perceived several men below 
 with guitars and lutes in their hands; and, at a little 
 distance from them, stood another wrapped in his cloak, 
 whose stature and appearance bore a strong resemblance to 
 Lorenzo's. She was not deceived in this conjecture : it 
 was indeed Lorenzo himself, who, bound by his word not 
 
CHAPTER VIII 237 
 
 to present himself to Antonia without his uncle's consent, 
 endeavoured, by occasional serenades, to convince his 
 mistress that his attachment still existed. His stratagem 
 had not the desired effect. Antonia was far from supposing 
 that this nightly music was intended as a compliment to 
 her. She was too modest to think herself worthy such 
 attentions ; and, concluding them to be addressed to some 
 neighbouring lady, she grieved to find that they were 
 offered by Lorenzo. 
 
 The air which was played was plaintive and melodious. 
 It accorded with the state of Antonia's mind, and she 
 listened with pleasure. After a symphony of some length, 
 it was succeeded by the sound of voices, and Antonia 
 distinguished the following words : 
 
 SERENADE 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Oh, breathe in gentle strain, my lyre ! 
 
 'Tis here that beauty loves to rest : 
 Describe the pangs of fond desire, 
 
 Which rend a faithful lover's breast. 
 
 Song 
 
 In every heart to find a slave ; 
 
 In every soul to fix his reign ; 
 In bonds to lead the wise and brave ; 
 
 And make the captive kiss his chin : 
 Such is the power of Love ! — and oh ! 
 I grieve, so well Love's power to know 1 
 
 In sighs to pass the live-long day ; 
 
 To taste a short and broken sleep ; 
 For one dear object far away, 
 
 All others scorned to watch and weep ; 
 Such are the pains of Love ! — and oh ! 
 I grieve, so well Love's pains to know ! 
 
 To read consent in virgin eyes ; 
 
 To press the lip ne'er press'd till then ; 
 To hear the Bigh of transport rise, 
 
 And kiss, and kiss, and kiss again : 
 Such are thy pleasures, Love ! — but oh ! 
 When shall my heart thy pleasures know ? 
 
 Chorus 
 Now hush, my lyre ! My voice be still ! 
 
 Sleep, gentle maid ! May fond desire 
 With amorous thoughts thy visions fill, 
 
 Though still my voice, and hushed my lyre I 
 
238 THE MONK 
 
 The music ceased ; the performers dispersed, and silence 
 prevailed through the street Antonia quitted the window 
 with regret. She, as usual, recommended herself to the 
 protection of Saint Rosalia, said her accustomed prayers, 
 and retired to bed. Sleep was not long absent, and his 
 presence relieved her from her terrors and inquietude. 
 
 It was almost two o'clock before the lustful monk 
 ventured to bend his steps towards Antonia's dwelling. 
 It has been already mentioned, that the abbey was at 
 no great distance from the Strada di San Iago. He 
 reached the house unobserved. Here he stopped, and 
 hesitated for a moment. He reflected on the enormity of 
 the crime, the consequences of a discovery, and the proba- 
 bility, after what had passed, of Elvira's suspecting him to 
 be her daughter's ravish er. On the other hand, it was 
 suggested that she could dojjo more than suspect; that 
 no proofs of his guilt co«f6Ftre*V)roduced ; that it would 
 seem impossible for the/rape Jto have been committed, 
 without Antonia's knowlgg^wnen, where, or by whom ; 
 and finally, he believed that his fame was too firmly 
 established to be shaken by the unsupported accusations 
 of two unknown women. This latter argument was per- 
 fectly false. He knew not how uncertain is the air of 
 popular applause, and that a moment suffices to make him 
 to-day the detestation of the world, who yesterday was its 
 idol. The result of the monk's deliberations was, that he 
 should proceed in his enterprize. He ascended the steps 
 leading to the house. No sooner did he touch the door 
 with the silver myrtle, than it flew open, and presented 
 him with a free passage. He entered, and the door closed 
 after him of its own accord. . 
 
 Guided by the moonbeams, he proceeded up the' stair- 
 case with slow and cautious steps. He looked round him 
 every moment with apprehension and anxiety. He saw a 
 spy in every shadow, and heard a voice in every murmur 
 of the night-breeze. Consciousness of the guilty business 
 on which he was employed appalled his heart, and rendered 
 it more timid than a woman's. Yet still he proceeded. 
 He reached the door of Antonia's chamber. He stopped, 
 and listened. All was hushed within. The total silence 
 persuaded him that his intended victim was retired to 
 rest, and he ventured to lift up the latch. The door was 
 fastened, and resisted his efforts. But no sooner was it 
 
CHAPTER VII 239 
 
 touched by the talisman than the bolt flew back. The 
 ravisher stepped on, and found himself in the chamber, 
 where slept the innocent girl, unconscious how dangerous 
 a visitor was drawing near her couch. The door closed 
 after him, and the bolt shot again into its fastening. 
 
 Ambrosio advanced with precaution. He took care that 
 not a board should creak under his foot, and held in his 
 breath as he approached the bed. His first attention was 
 to perform the magic ceremony, as Matilda had charged 
 him : he breathed thrice upon the silver myrtle, pro- 
 nounced over it Antonia's name, and laid it upon her 
 pillow. The effects which it had already produced per- 
 mitted not his doubting its success in prolonging the 
 slumbers of his devoted mistress. No sooner was the 
 enchantment performed than he considered her to be 
 absolutely in hi3 power, and his eyes flashed with lust 
 and impatience. He now ventured to cast a glance upon 
 the sleeping beauty. A single lamp, burning before the 
 statue of Saint Rosalia, shed a faint light through the 
 room, and permitted him to examine all the charms of the 
 lovely object before him. The heat of the weather had 
 obliged her to throw off a part of the bed-clothes : those 
 which still covered her Ambrosio's insolent hand hastened 
 to remove. She lay with her cheek reclining upon an 
 ivory arm ; the other rested on the side of the bed with 
 graceful indolence. A few tresses of her hair had escaped 
 from beneath the muslin which confined the rest, and fell 
 carelessly over her bosom, as it heaved with slow and 
 regular suspiration. The warm air had spread her cheek 
 with higher colour than usual. A smile inexpressibly 
 sweet played round her ripe and coral lips, from which, 
 every now and then, escaped a gentle sigh or an half- 
 pronounced sentence. An air of enchanting innocence and 
 candour pervaded her whole form, and there was a sort of 
 modesty in her very nakedness, which added fresh stings 
 to the desires of the lustful monk. 
 
 He remained, for some moments, devouring those charms 
 with his eyes, which soon were to be subjected to his ill- 
 regulated passions. Her mouth, half opened, seemed to 
 solicit a kiss : he bent over her : he joined his lips to 
 hers, and drew in the fragrance of her breath with 
 rapture. This momentary pleasure increased his longing 
 for still greater. His desires were raised to that frantic 
 
240 THE MONK 
 
 height by which brutes are agitated. He resolved not to 
 delay for one instant longer the accomplishment of his 
 wishes, and hastily proceeded to tear off those garments 
 which impeded the gratification of his lust. 
 
 ' Gracious God ! ' exclaimed a voice behind him. ' Am I 
 not deceived ? Is not this an illusion ? ' 
 
 Terror, confusion, and disappointment accompanied 
 these words, as they struck Ambrosio's hearing. He 
 started, and turned towards it. Elvira stood at the door 
 of the chamber, and regarded the monk with looks of 
 surprise and detestation. 
 
 A frightfid_dream--h^d represented to her Antonia on 
 the verge of a precipice. She saw her trembling on the 
 brink : every moment seemed to threaten her fall, and 
 she heard her exclaim with shrieks : ' Save me, mother, 
 save me ! Yet a moment, and it will be too late.' Elvira 
 woke in terror. The vision had made too strong an 
 impression upon her mind to permit her resting till assured 
 of her daughter's safety. She hastily started from her 
 bed, threw on a loose night-gown, and, passing through 
 the closet in which slept the waiting - woman, reached 
 Antonia's chamber just in time to rescue her from the 
 grasp of the ravisher. 
 
 His shame and her amazement seemed to have petrified 
 into statues both Elvira and the monk : they remained 
 gazing upon each other in silence. The lady was the first 
 to recover herself : ' It is no dream ', she cried ; ' it is 
 really Ambrosio, who stands before me ; it is the man 
 whom Madrid esteems a saint, that I find at this late 
 hour near the couch of my unhappy child. Monster of 
 hypocrisy ! I already suspected your designs, but forbore 
 your accusation in pity to human frailty. Silence would 
 now be criminal. The whole city shall be informed of 
 your incontinence. I will unmask you, villain, and 
 convince the Church what a viper she cherishes in her 
 bosom.' 
 
 Pale and confused, the baffled culprit stood trembling 
 before her. He would fain have extenuated his offence, 
 but could find no apology for his conduct. He could 
 produce nothing but broken sentences, and excuses which 
 contradicted each other. Elvira was too justly incensed 
 to grant the pardon which he requested. She protested 
 that she would raise the neighbourhood, and make him an 
 
CHAPTER VIII 241 
 
 example to all future hypocrites. Then hastening to the 
 bed, she called to Antonia to wake ; and finding that her 
 voice had no effect, she took her arm and raised her 
 forcibly from the pillow. The charm operated too 
 powerfully : Antonia remained insensible ; and, on being 
 released by her mother, sank back upon the pillow. 
 
 ' This slumber cannot be natural ', cried the amazed 
 Elvira, whose indignation increased with every moment ; 
 ' some mystery is concealed in it. But tremble, hypocrite ! 
 All your villainy shall soon be unravelled. Help ! help ! ' 
 she exclaimed aloud. ' Within there ! Flora ! Flora ! ' 
 
 ' Hear me for one moment, lady ! ' cried the monk, 
 restored to himself by the urgency of the danger ; ' by all 
 that is sacred and holy, I swear that your daughter's 
 honour is still unviolated. Forgive my transgression ! 
 Spare me the shame of discovery, and permit me to regain 
 the abbey undisturbed. Grant me this request in mercy ! 
 I promise not only that Antonia shall be secure from 
 me in future, but that the rest of my life shall prove — ' 
 
 Elvira interrupted him abruptly. • Antonia secure from 
 you ! I will secure her. You shall betray no longer the 
 confidence of parents. Your iniquity shall be unveiled to 
 the public eye. All Madrid shall shudder at your perfidy, 
 your hypocrisy, and incontinence. What ho ! there ! 
 Flora! Flora! I say.' 
 
 While she spoke thus, the remembrance of Agnes struck 
 upon his mind. Thus had she sued to him for mercy, and 
 thus had he refused her prayer ! It was now his turn to 
 suffer, and he could not but acknowledge that his punish- 
 ment was just. In the meanwhile Elvira continued to call 
 Flora to her assistance ; but her voice was so choked with 
 passion, and the servant, who was buried in profound 
 slumber, was insensible to all her cries : Elvira dared not 
 go towards the closet in which Flora slept, lest the monk 
 should take that opportunity to escape. Such indeed was 
 his intention : he trusted that, could he reach the abbey 
 unobserved by any other than Elvira, her single testimony 
 would not suffice to ruin a reputation so well established 
 as his was in Madrid. With this idea he gathered up such 
 garments as he had already thrown off, and hastened 
 towards the door. Elvira was aware of his design ; she 
 followed him, and ere he could draw back the bolt seized 
 him by the arm, and detained him. 
 
 Q 
 
242 THE MONK 
 
 ' Attempt not to fly ! ' said she ; ' you quit not this room 
 without witnesses of your guilt.' 
 
 Ambrosio struggled in vain to disengage himself. Elvira 
 quitted Dot her hold, but redoubled her cries for succour. 
 The friar's danger grew more urgent; he expected every 
 moment to hear people assembling at her voice ; and, 
 worked up to madness by the approach of ruin, he adopted 
 a resolution equally desperate and savage. Turning round 
 suddenly, with one hand he grasped Elvira's throat so as 
 to prevent her continuing her clamour, and with the other 
 dashing her violently upon the ground, he dragged her 
 towards the bed. Confused by this unexpected attack, she 
 scarcely had power to strive at forcing herself from his 
 grasp ; while the monk, snatching the pillow from beneath 
 her daughter's head, covering with it Elvira's face, and 
 pressing his knee upon her stomach with all his strength, 
 endeavoured to put an end to her existence. He succeeded 
 but too well. Her natural strength increased by the 
 excess of anguish, long did the sufferer struggle to dis- 
 engage herself ; but in vain. The monk continued to 
 kneel upon her breast, witnessed without mercy the con- 
 vulsive trembling of her limbs beneath him, and sustained 
 with inhuman firmness the spectacle of her agonies, when 
 soul and body were on the point of separating. Those 
 agonies at length were over. She ceased to struggle for 
 life. The monk took off the pillow, and gazed upon her. 
 Her face was covered with a frightful blackness ; her limbs 
 moved no more ; the blood was chilled in her veins ; her 
 heart had forgotten to beat ; and her hands were stiff and 
 frozen. Ambrosio beheld before him that once noble*'and 
 majestic form, now become a corse — cold, senseless, and 
 disgusting. 
 
 This horrible act was no sooner perpetrated, than the 
 friar beheld the enormity of his crime. A cold dew flowed 
 over his limbs : his eyes closed ; he staggered to a chair, 
 and sank into it almost as lifeless as the unfortunate who 
 lay extended at his feet. From this state he was roused 
 by the necessity of flight, and the danger of being found 
 in Antonia's apartment. He had no desire to profit by the 
 execution of his cj;ime. Antonia now appeared to him an 
 object of disgust. A deadly cold had usurped the place 
 of that warmth which glowed in his bosom. No ideas 
 offered themselves to his mind but those of death and guilt, 
 
CHAPTER VIII 243 
 
 of present shame and future punishment. Agitated by 
 remorse and fear, he prepared for flight ; yet his terrors did 
 not s*o completely master his recollection, as to prevent his 
 taking the precaution necessary for his safety. He replaced 
 the pillow upon the bed, gathered up his garments, and, 
 with the fatal talisman in his hand, bent his unsteady 
 steps towards the door. Bewildered by fear, he fancied 
 that his flight was opposed by legions of phantoms. Where- 
 ever he turned, the disfigured corse seemed to lie in his 
 passage, and it was long before he succeeded in reaching 
 the door. The enchanted myrtle produced its former 
 effect : the door opened, and he hastened down the stair- 
 case. He entered the abbey unobserved ; and having shut 
 himself into his, cell, he abandoned his soul to the tortures 
 of unavailing remorse and terrors of impending detection. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 Tell us, ye dead, will none of you, in pity 
 
 To those you left behind, disclose the secret ? 
 
 Oh, that some courteous ghost would blab it out, 
 
 What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ! 
 
 I've heard, that souls departed have sometimes 
 
 Forewarn'd men of their deaths ; 'twas kindly done, 
 
 To knock, and give th' alarum. — Blair 
 
 Ambrosio shuddered at himself,- when he reflected on his 
 rapid advances in iniquity. The enormous crime which he 
 had just committed filled him with real horror. The 
 murdered Elvira was continually before his eyes, and his 
 guilt was already punished by the agonies of his conscience. 
 Time, however, considerably weakened these impressions : 
 one day passed away ; another followed it, and still not 
 the least suspicion was thrown upon him. Impunity 
 reconciled him to his guilt. He began to resume his 
 spirits; and as his fears of detection died- away, paid less 
 attention to the reproaches of remorse. Matilda exerted 
 herself to quiet his alarms. At the first intelligence of 
 Elvira's death, she seemed greatly affected, and joined the 
 monk in deploring the unhappy catastrophe of his 
 adventure : but when she found his agitation to be some- 
 what calmed, and himself better disposed to listen to her 
 arguments, she proceeded to mention his offence in milder 
 terms, and convince him that he was not so highly culpable 
 as he appeared to consider himself. She represented, that 
 he had only availed himself of the rights which Nature 
 allows to everyone, those of self-preservation : that either 
 Elvira or himself must have perished ; and that her in- 
 flexibility and resolution to ruin him had deservedly 
 marked her out for the victim. She next stated, that as 
 he had before rendered himself suspected to Elvira, it was 
 a fortunate event for him that her lips were closed by 
 death ; since, without this last adventure, her suspicions, if 
 made public, might have produced very disagreeable con- 
 sequences. He had, therefore, freed himself from an 
 
 244 
 
CHAPTER IX 245 
 
 enemy, to whom the errors of his conduct were sufficiently 
 known to make her dangerous, and who was the greatest 
 obstacle of his designs upon Antonia. Those designs she 
 encouraged him not to abandon. She assured him that, no 
 longer protected by her mother's watchful eye, the daughter 
 would fall an easy conquest ; and by praising and enumerat- 
 ing Antonia's charms, she strove to rekindle the desires of 
 the monk. In this endeavour she succeeded but too well. 
 
 As if the crimes into which his passion had seduced him 
 had only increased its violence, he longed more eagerly 
 than ever to enjoy Antonia. The same success in con- 
 cealing his present guilt, he trusted, would attend his 
 future. He was deaf to the murmurs of conscience, and 
 resolved to satisfy his desires at any price. He waited 
 only for an opportunity of repeating his former enterprize ; 
 but to produce that opportunity by the same means was 
 now impracticable. In the first transports of despair, he 
 liad dashed the enchanted myrtle into a thousand pieces. 
 CMatilda told him plainly, that he must expect no further 
 assistance from the infernal powers, unless he was willing 
 to subscribe to their established conditions.^ This Ambrosio 
 was determined not to do. He persuaded himself, that, 
 however great might be his iniquity, so long as he pre- 
 served his claim to salvation, he need not despair of pardon. 
 He therefore resolutely refused to enter into any bond or 
 compact with the fiends ; and Matilda, finding him obsti- 
 nate upon this point, forbore to press him further. She 
 exerted her invention to discover some means of putting 
 Antonia into the abbot's power : nor was it long before 
 that means presented itself. 
 
 While her ruin was thus meditating, the unhappy girl 
 herself suffered severely from the loss of her mother. 
 Every morning on waking, it was her first care to hasten 
 to Elvira's chamber. On that which followed Ambrosio's 
 fatal visit, she woke later than was her usual custom : of 
 this she was convinced by the abbey chimes. She started 
 from her bed, threw on a few loose garments hastily, and 
 was speeding to inquire how her mother had passed the 
 night, when her foot struck against something which lay 
 in her passage. She looked down. What was her horror 
 at recognizing Elvira's livid corse ! She uttered a loud 
 shriek, and threw herself upon the floor. She clasped 
 the inanimate form to her bosom, felt that it was dead- 
 
246 THE MONK 
 
 cold, and with a movement of disgust, of which she was 
 not the mistress, let it fall again from her arms. The cry 
 had alarmed Flora, who hastened to her assistance. The 
 sight which she beheld penetrated her with horror ; but 
 her alarm was more audible than Antonia's. She made 
 the house ring with her lamentations, while her mistress, 
 almost suffocated with grief, could only mark her distress 
 by sobs and groans. Flora's shrieks soon reached the ears 
 of the hostess, whose terror and surprise were excessive, 
 on learning the cause of this disturbance. A physician 
 was immediately sent for ; but, on the first moment of 
 beholding the corse, he declared that Elvira's recovery was 
 beyond the power of art. He proceeded, therefore, to give 
 his assistance to Antonia, who, by this time, was truly in 
 need of it. She was conveyed to bed, while the landlady 
 busied herself in giving orders for Elvira's burial. Dame 
 Jacintha was a plain good kind of woman, charitable, 
 generous, and devout ; but her intellects were weak, and 
 she was a miserable slave to fear and superstition. She 
 shuddered at the idea of passing the night in the same 
 house with a dead body. She was persuaded that Elvira's 
 ghost would appear to her, and no less certain that such a 
 visit would kill her with fright. From this persuasion, she 
 resolved to pass the night at a neighbour's, and insisted 
 that the funeral should take place the next day. St. 
 Clare's cemetery being the nearest, it was determined that 
 Elvira should be buried there. Dame Jacintha engaged to 
 defray every expence attending the burial. She knew not 
 in what circumstances Antonia was left; but from the 
 sparing manner in which the family had lived, she con- 
 cluded them to be indifferent : consequently she entertained 
 very little hope of ever being recompensed. But this con- 
 sideration prevented her not from taking care that the 
 interment was performed with decency, and from showing 
 the unfortunate Antonia all possible respect. 
 
 Nobody dies of mere grief ; of this Antonia was an 
 instance. Aided by her youth and healthy constitution, 
 she shook off the malady which her mother's death had 
 occasioned ; but it was not so easy to remove the disease 
 of her mind. Her eyes were constantly filled with tears ; 
 every trifle affected her, and she evidently nourished in 
 her bosom a profound and rooted melancholy. The 
 slightest mention of Elvira, the most trivial circumstance 
 
CHAPTER IX 247 
 
 recalling that beloved parent to her memory, was 
 sufficient to throw her into serious agitation. How much 
 would her grief have been increased, had she known the 
 agonies which terminated her mother's existence ! But of 
 this no one entertained the least suspicion. Elvira was 
 subject to strong convulsions : it was supposed that, aware 
 of their approach, she had dragged herself to her daughter's 
 chamber, in hopes of assistance ; that a sudden access of 
 her fits had seized her, too violent to be resisted by her 
 already enfeebled state of health; and that she had 
 expired ere she had time to reach the medicine which 
 generally relieved her, and which stood upon a shelf in 
 Antonia's room. This idea was firmly credited by the few 
 people who interested themselves about Elvira. Her 
 death was esteemed a natural event, and soon forgotten 
 by all, save by her who had but too much reason to 
 deplore her loss. 
 
 In truth, Antonia's situation was sufficiently embarrassing 
 and unpleasant. She was alone, in the midst of a dissipated 
 and expensive city ; she was ill provided with money, and 
 worse with friends. Her aunt Leonella was still at 
 Cordova, and she knew not her direction. Of the Marquis 
 de las Cisternas she heard no news. As to Lorenzo, she 
 had long given up the idea of possessing any interest in 
 his bosom. She knew not to whom she could address 
 herself, in her present dilemma. She wished to consult 
 Ambrosio, but she remembered her mother's injunctions to 
 shun him as much as possible ; and the last conversation 
 which Elvira had held with her upon the subject had given 
 her sufficient lights respecting his designs, to put her upon 
 her guard against him in future. Still all her mother's 
 warnings could not make her change her good opinion of 
 the friar. She continued to feel that his friendship and 
 society were requisite to her happiness ; she looked upon 
 his failings with a partial eye, and could not persuade 
 herself that he really had intended her ruin. However 
 Elvira had positively commanded her to drop his 
 acquaintance, and she had too much respect for her 
 orders to disobey them. 
 
 At length she resolved to address herself for advice and 
 protection to the Marquis de las Cisternas, as being her 
 nearest relation. She wrote to him, briefly stating her 
 desolate situation ; she besought him to compassionate his 
 
248 THE MONK 
 
 brother's child, to continue to her Elvira's pension, and to 
 authorize her retiring to his old castle in Murcia, which till 
 just now had been her retreat. Having sealed her letter, 
 she gave it to the trusty Flora, who immediately set out 
 to execute her commission. But Antonia was born under 
 an unlucky star. Had she made her application to the 
 Marquis but one day sooner — received as his niece, and 
 placed at the head of his family, she would have escaped 
 all the misfortunes with which she was now threatened. 
 Raymond had always intended to execute this plan : but 
 first, his hopes of making the proposal to Elvira through 
 the lips of Agnes, and afterwards his disappointment at 
 losing his intended bride, as well as the severe illness 
 which for some time had confined him to his bed, made 
 him defer from day to day the giving an asylum in his 
 house to his brother's widow. He had commissioned 
 Lorenzo to supply her liberally with money ; but Elvira, 
 unwilling to receive obligations from that nobleman, had 
 assured him that she needed no immediate pecuniary 
 assistance. Consequently, the Marquis did not imagine 
 that a trifling delay on his part would create any 
 embarrassment; and the distress and agitation of his 
 mind might well excuse his negligence. 
 
 Had he been informed that Elvira's death had left her 
 daughter friendless and unprotected, he would doubtless 
 have taken such measures as would have insured her from 
 every danger. But Antonia was not destined to be so 
 fortunate. The day on which she sent her letter to the 
 Palace de las Cisternas was that following Lorenzo's 
 departure from Madrid. The Marquis was in the first 
 paroxysms of despair, at the conviction that Agnes was 
 indeed no more : he was delirious ; and his life being in 
 danger, no one was suffered to approach him. Flora was 
 informed that he was incapable of attending to letters, and 
 that probably a few hours would decide bis fate. With 
 this unsatisfactory answer she was obliged to return to her 
 mistress, who now found herself plunged into greater 
 difficulties than ever. 
 
 Flora and Dame Jacintha exerted themselves to console 
 her. The latter begged her to make herself easy, for that 
 as long as she chose to stay with her she would treat her 
 like her own child. Antonia finding that the good woman 
 had taken a real affection for her, was somewhat comforted 
 
CHAPTER IX 249 
 
 by thinking that she had at least one friend in the world. 
 A letter was now brought to her, directed to Elvira. She 
 recognized Leonella's writing, and opening it with joy, 
 found a detailed account of her aunt's adventures at 
 Cordova. She informed her sister that ske had recovered 
 her legacy, had lost her heart, and had received in exchange 
 that of the most amiable of apothecaries, past, present, and 
 to come. She added, that she should be at Madrid on the 
 Tuesday night, and meant to have the pleasure of present- 
 ing her caro sposo in form. Though her nuptials were far 
 from pleasing Antonia, Leonella's speedy return gave her 
 niece much delight. She rejoiced in thinking that she 
 should .once imore be under a relation's care. She could 
 not but judge it to be highly improper for a young woman 
 to be, living among absolute strangers, with no one to 
 regulate her conduct, or protect her from the insults to 
 which, in her defenceless situation, she was exposed : she 
 therefore looked forward wuh impatience to the Tuesday 
 night. 
 
 It arrived. Antonia listened anxiously to the carriages 
 as they rolled along the street. None of them stopped, 
 and it grew late without Leonella's appearing. Still 
 Antonia resolved to sit up till her aunt's arrival ; and, in 
 spite of all her remonstrances, Dame Jacintha and Flora 
 insisted upon doing the same. The hours passed on slow 
 and tediously. Lorenzo's departure from Madrid had put 
 a stop to the nightly serenades : she hoped in vain to hear 
 the usual sound of guitars beneath her window. She took 
 up her own, and struck a few chords; but music that 
 evening had lost its charms for her, and she soon replaced 
 the instrument in its case. She seated herself at her 
 embroidery frame ; but nothing went right : the silks were 
 missing, the thread snapped every moment, and the needles 
 were so expert at falling that they seemed to be animated. 
 At length, a flake of wax fell from the taper which stood 
 near her upon a favourite wreath of violets ; this com- 
 pletely discomposed her ; she threw down her needle, and 
 quitted the frame. It was decreed that for that night 
 nothing should have the power of amusing her. She was 
 the prey of ennui, and employed herself in making fruitless 
 wishes for the arrival of her aunt. 
 
 As she walked with a listless air up and down the 
 chamber, the door caught her eye conducting to that 
 
2SO THE MONK 
 
 which had been her mother's. She remembered that 
 Elvira's little library was arranged there, and thought 
 that she might possibly find in it some book to amuse 
 her till Leonella should arrive. Accordingly she took her 
 taper from the table, passed through the little closet, and 
 entered the adjoining apartment. As she looked around 
 her, the sight of this room brought to her recollection a 
 thousand painful ideas. It was the first time of her 
 entering it since her mother's death. The total silence 
 prevailing through the chamber, the bed despoiled of its 
 furniture, the cheerless hearth where stood an extinguished 
 lamp, and a few dying plants in the window, which since 
 Elvira's loss had been neglected, inspired Antonia with a 
 melancholy awe. The gloom of night gave strength to 
 this sensation. She placed her light upon the table, and 
 sunk into a large chair, in which she had seen her mother 
 seated a thousand and a thousand times. She was never 
 to see her seated there again ! Tears unbidden streamed 
 down her cheek, and she abandoned herself to the sadness 
 which grew deeper with every moment. 
 
 Ashamed of her weakness, she at length rose from her 
 seat ; she proceeded to seek for what had brought her to 
 this melancholy scene. The small collection of books was 
 arranged upon several shelves in order. Antonia examined 
 them without finding anything likely to interest her, till 
 she put her hand upon a volume of old Spanish ballads. 
 She read a few stanzas of one of them. They excited her 
 curiosity. She took down the book, and seated herself 
 to peruse it with ease. She trimmed the taper, which 
 now drew towards its end, and then read the following 
 ballad : 
 
 ALONZO THE BRAVE, AND FAIR IMOGINE 
 
 A warrior so bold and a virgin so bright 
 
 Convers'd, as they sat on the green ; 
 They gaz'd on each other with tender delight : 
 Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight, 
 
 The maid's was the Fair Imogine. 
 
 ' And oh ', said the youth, ' since to-morrow I go 
 
 To fight in a far distant land, 
 Your tears for my absence soon leaving to flow, 
 Some other will court you, and you will bestow 
 
 On a wealthier suitor your hand.' 
 
CHAPTER IX 251 
 
 ' Oh, hush these suspicions ! ' Fair Imogine said, 
 
 ' Offensive to love and to me I 
 For, if you be living or if you be dead, 
 1 swear by the Virgin, that none in your stead 
 
 Shall husband of Imogine be ! 
 
 ' If e'er I, by lust or by wealth led aside, 
 
 Forget my Alonzo the Brave, 
 God grant, that, to punish my falsehood and pride, 
 Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side, 
 May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride, 
 
 And bear me away to the grave ! ' 
 
 To Palestine hastened the hero so bold ; 
 
 His love she lamented him sore : 
 But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when behold, 
 A baron all covered with jewels and gold 
 
 Arrived at Fair Imogine 's door. 
 
 His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain, 
 
 Soon made her untrue to her vows : 
 He dazzled her eyes ; he bewildered her brain ; 
 He caught her affections so light and so vain, 
 
 And carried her home as his spouse. 
 
 And now had the marriage been blest by the priest ; 
 
 The revelry now was begun : 
 The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast ; 
 Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased, 
 
 When the bell of the castle told — ' one ! ' 
 
 Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found 
 
 That a stranger was placed at her side : 
 His air was terrific ; he uttered no sound ; 
 He spoke not, he moved not, he looked not around, 
 
 But earnestly gazed on the bride. 
 
 His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height ; 
 
 His armour was sable to view : 
 All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight ; 
 The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in affright ; 
 
 The lights in the chamber burned blue 1 
 
 His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay ; 
 
 The guests sat in silence and fear. 
 At length spoke the bride, while she trembled : ' I pray, 
 Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, 
 
 And deign to partake of our cheer.' 
 
 The lady is silent : the stranger complies : 
 
 His vizor he slowly unclosed : 
 Oh God ! — what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes ! 
 What words can express her dismay and surprise, 
 
 When a skeleton's head was exposed ! 
 
252 THE MONK 
 
 All present then uttered a terrified shout, 
 
 All turned with disgust from the scene : 
 The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out, 
 And sported his «yes and his temples about, 
 
 While the spectre addressed Imogine : 
 
 'Behold me, thou false one ! Behold me ! ' he cried ; 
 
 Remember Alonzo the Brave ! 
 God grant that, to punish thy falsehood and pride, 
 My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side, 
 Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, 
 
 And bear thee away to the grave ! ' 
 
 Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound, 
 
 While loudly she shrieked in dismay ; 
 Then sank with his prey through the wide-yawning ground : 
 Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found, 
 
 Or the spectre who bore her away. 
 
 Not long lived the baron ; and none, since that time, 
 
 To inhabit the castle presume ; 
 For chronicles tell that, by order sublime, 
 There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime, 
 
 And mourns her deplorable doom. 
 
 At midnight four times in each year does her spright, 
 
 When mortals in slumber are bound, 
 Array'd in her bridal apparel of white, 
 Appear in the hall with the Skeleton-Knight, 
 
 And shriek as he whirls her around. 
 
 While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, 
 
 Dancing round them the spectres are seen : 
 Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave 
 They howl : ' To the health of Alonzo the Brave, 
 And his consort, the False Imogine ! ' 
 
 The perusal of this story was ill-calculated to dispel 
 Antonia's melancholy. \ She liad naturally a strong 
 inclination to the marvellous^ and her nurse, who 
 believed firmly in apparitions, had related to her, when 
 an infant, so many horrible adventures of this kind, that 
 all Elvira's attempts had failed to eradicate their 
 impressions from her daughter's mind. A-ntonia still 
 nourished a supHrstitious~prejudie8---in.^hfir_..bosom : she 
 was often susceptible of terrors, which, when she dis- 
 covered their natural and insignificant cause, made her 
 blush at her own weakness. With such a turn of mind, 
 the adventure which she had just been reading sufficed 
 to give her apprehensions the alarm. The hour and the 
 
CHAPTER IX 253 
 
 scene combined to authorize them. It was the dead of 
 night ; she was alone, and in the chamber once occupied 
 by her deceased mother. The weather was comfortless 
 and stormy ; the wind howled around the house, the doors 
 rattled in their frames, and the heavy rain pattered 
 against the windows. No other sound was heard. The 
 taper, now burned down to the socket, sometimes flaring 
 upwards, shot a gloom of light through the room ; 
 then sinking again, seemed upon the point of expiring. 
 Antonia's heart throbbed with agitation ; her eyes 
 wandered fearfully over the objects around her, as the 
 trembling flame illuminated them at intervals. She 
 attempted to rise from her seat, but her limbs trembled 
 so violently that she was unable to proceed. She then 
 called Flora, who was in a room at no great distance ; but 
 agitation choked her voice, and her cries died away in 
 hollow murmurs. 
 
 She passed some minutes in this situation, after which 
 her terrors began to diminish. She strove to recover 
 herself, and acquire strength enough to quit the room. 
 Suddenly she fancied that she heard a low sigh drawn 
 near her. This idea brought back her former weakness. 
 She had already raised herself from her seat, and was on 
 the point of taking the lamp from the table. The 
 imaginary noise stopped her; she drew back her hand, 
 and supported herself upon the back of a chair. Sho 
 listened anxiously, but nothing more was heard. 
 
 ' Gracious God ! ' she said to herself, ' what could be that 
 sound ? Was I deceived, or did I really hear it ? ' 
 
 Her reflections were interrupted by a voice at the door 
 scarcely audible ; it seemed as if somebody was whispering. 
 Antonia's alarm increased ; yet the bolt she knew to be 
 fastened, and this idea in some degree reassured her. 
 Presently the latch was lifted up softly, and the door 
 moved with caution backwards and forwards. Excess of 
 terror now supplied Antonia with that strength of which 
 she had till then been deprived. She started from her 
 place, and made towards the closet door, whence she might 
 soon have reached the chamber where she expected to find 
 Flora and Dame Jacintha. Scarcely had she reached the 
 middle of the room, when the latch was lifted up a second 
 time. An involuntary movement obliged her to turn her 
 head. Slowly and gradually the door turned upon its 
 
254 THE MONK 
 
 hinges, and standing upon the threshold, she beheld a tall 
 thin figure, wrapped in a white shroud which covered it 
 from head to foot. 
 
 This vision arrested her feet ; she remained as if petri- 
 fied in the middle of the apartment. The stranger with 
 measured and solemn steps drew near the table. The 
 dying taper darted a blue- and melancholy flame, as the 
 figure advanced towards it. Over the table was fixed a 
 small clock ; the hand of it was upon the stroke of three. 
 The figure stopped opposite to the clock ; it raised its right 
 arm, and pointed to the hour, at the same time looking 
 earnestly upon Antonia, who waited for the conclusion of 
 this scene, motionless and silent. 
 
 The figure remained in this posture for some moments. 
 The clock struck. When the sound had ceased, the stranger 
 advanced yet a few steps nearer Antonia. 
 
 'Yet three days', said a voice, faint, hollow, and 
 sepulchral ; ' yet three days, and we meet again ! ' 
 
 Antonia shuddered at the words. ' We meet again ? ' she 
 pronounced at length with difficulty. 'Where shall we 
 meet ? Whom shall I meet ? ' 
 
 The figure pointed to the ground with one hand, and 
 with the other raised the linen which covered its face. 
 
 ' Almighty Gpd ! — my mother ! ' 
 
 Antonia shrieked and fell lifeless upon the floor. 
 
 Dame Jacinth a, who was at work in a neighbouring 
 chamber, was alarmed by the cry: Flora was just gone 
 downstairs to fetch fresh oil for the lamp by which they 
 had been sitting. Jacintha therefore hastened alone to 
 Antonia's assistance, and great was her amazement to find 
 her extended upon the floor. She raised her in her arms, 
 conveyed her to her apartment, and placed her upon the 
 bed, still senseless. She then proceeded to bathe her 
 temples, chafe her hands, and use all possible means of 
 bringing her to herself. With some difficulty she 
 succeeded. Antonia opened her eyes, and looked round 
 her wildly. 
 
 ' Where is she ? ' she cried, in a trembling voice. ' Is she 
 gone ? Am I safe ? Speak to me ! Comfort me ! Oh, 
 speak to me, for God's sake!' 
 
 ' Safe ! — from whom, my child ? ' replied the astonished 
 Jacintha. ' What alarms you ? Of whom are you afraid V 
 
 ' In three days ! She told me that we should meet in 
 
CHAPTER IX 25s 
 
 three days ; I heard her say it ! I saw her, Jacintha, 
 I saw her but this moment ! ' 
 
 She threw herself upon Jacintha's bosom. 
 
 ' You saw her ! — Saw whom ? ' 
 
 ' My mother's ghost I ' 
 
 ' Christ Jesus ! ' cried Jacintha ; and starting from the 
 bed, let fall Antonia upon the pillow, and fled in 
 consternation out of the room. 
 
 As she hastened downstairs, she met Flora ascending 
 them. ' Go to your mistress, Flora ' said she. ' Here are 
 rare doings ! Oh, I am the most unfortunate woman alive ! 
 My house is filled with ghosts and dead bodies, and the 
 Lord knows what besides ; yet I am sure nobody likes 
 such company less than I do. But go your way to Donna 
 Antonia, Flora, and let me go mine.' 
 
 Thus saying, she continued her course to the street 
 door, which she opened ; and without allowing herself 
 time to throw on her veil, she made the best of her way 
 to the Capuchin Abbey. In the meanwhile, Flora hastened 
 to her lady's chamber, equally surprised and alarmed at 
 Jacintha's consternation. She found Antonia lying upon 
 the bed, insensible. She used the same means for her 
 recovery that Jacintha had already employed ; but rinding 
 that her mistress only recovered from one fit into another, 
 she sent in all haste for a physician. While expecting his 
 arrival, she undressed Antonia, and conveyed her to bed. 
 
 Heedless of the storm, terrified almost out of her senses, 
 Jacintha ran through the streets, and stopped not till she 
 reached the gate of the abbey. She rang loudly at the 
 bell ; and as soon as the porter appeared, she desired 
 permission to speak to the superior. Ambrosio was then 
 conferring with Matilda upon the means of procuring 
 access to Antonia. The cause of Elvira's death remaining 
 unknown, he was convinced that crimes were not so 
 swiftly followed by punishment as his instructors the 
 monks had taught him, and as till then he had himself 
 believed. This persuasion made him resolve upon Antonia's 
 ruin, for the enjoyment of whose person dangers and diffi- 
 culties only seemed to have increased his passion. The 
 monk had already made one attempt to gain admission to 
 her pretence ; but Flora had refused him in such a manner 
 as to convince him that all future endeavours must be 
 vain. Elvira had confided her suspicions to that trusty 
 
256 THE MONK 
 
 servant: she had desired her never to leave Ambrosio 
 alone with her daughter, and, if possible, to prevent their 
 meeting altogether. Flora promised to obey her, and had 
 executed her orders to the very letter. Ambrosio's visits 
 had been rejected that morning, though Antonia was 
 ignorant of it. He saw that to obtain a sight of his 
 mistress by open means was out of the question ; and both 
 himself and -Matilda had consumed the night, in en- 
 deavouring to invent some plan, whose event might be 
 more successful. Such was their employment, when a 
 lay-brother entered the abbot's cell, and informed him that 
 a woman, calling herself Jacintha Zuniga, requested 
 audience for a few minutes. 
 
 Ambrosio was by no means disposed to grant the 
 petition of his visitor. He refused it positively, and bade 
 the lay-brother tell the stranger to return the next day. 
 Matilda interrupted him : ' See this woman,' said she in 
 a low voice ; I have my reasons.' 
 
 The abbot obeyed her, and signified that he would go to 
 the parlour immediately. With this answer the lay-brother 
 withdrew. As soon as they were alone, Ambrosio inquired 
 why Matilda wished him to see this Jacintha. 
 
 ' She is Antonia's hostess ', replied Matilda ; * she may 
 possibly be of use to you ; but let us examine her, and 
 learn what brings her hither.' 
 
 They proceeded together to the parlour, where Jacintha 
 was already waiting for the abbot. She had conceived a 
 great opinion of his piety and virtue ; and supposing him 
 to have much influence over the Devil, thought that it 
 must be an easy matter for him to lay Elvira's ghost in 
 the Red Sea. Filled with this persuasion, she had hastened 
 to the abbey. As soon as she saw the monk enter the 
 parlour, she dropped upon her knees, and began her story 
 as follow : 
 
 ' Oh, reverend father ! — such an accident ! — such an 
 adventure ! I know not what course to take ; and unless 
 you can help me, I shall certainly go distracted. Well, to 
 be sure, never was woman so unfortunate as myself ! All 
 in my power to keep clear of such abomination have I 
 done, and yet that all is too little. What signifies my 
 telling my beads four times a day, and observing every, 
 fast prescribed by the calendar ? What signifies my 
 having made three pilgrimages to St. James of Compostella, 
 
CHAPTER IX 257 
 
 and purchased as many pardons from the pope as would 
 buy off Cain's punishment ? Nothing prospers with me ! 
 all goes wrong, and God only knows whether anything 
 will ever go right again ! Why now, be your holiness the 
 judge — My lodger dies in convulsions : out of pure kind- 
 ness, I bury her at my own expense — not that she is any 
 relation of mine, or that I shall be benefited a single pistole 
 by her death : I got nothing by it, and therefore you 
 know, reverend father, that her living or dying was just 
 the same to me. But that is nothing to the purpose : to 
 return to what I was saying — I took care of her funeral, 
 had everything performed decently and properly, and put 
 myself to expense enough, God knows ! And how do you 
 think the lady repays me for my kindness ? Why, truly, 
 by refusing to sleep quietly in her comfortable deal coffin, 
 as a peaceable well-disposed spirit ought, to do ; and 
 coming to plague me, who never wish to set eyes on her 
 again. Forsooth, it well becomes her to go racketing 
 about my house at midnight, popping into her daughter's 
 room through the keyhole, and frightening the poor child 
 out of her wits ! Though she be a ghost, she might be 
 more civil than to bolt into a person's house who likes her 
 company so little. But as for mo, reverend father, the 
 plain state of the case is this : if she walks into my house 
 I must walk out of it, for I cannot abide such visitors — 
 not I. Thus you see, your sanctity, that without your 
 assistance I am ruined and undone for ever. I shall be 
 obliged to quit my house : nobody will take it when 'tis 
 known that she haunts it ; and then I shall find myself in 
 a fine situation. Miserable woman that I am ! What 
 shall I do ? What will become of me ? ' 
 
 Here she wept bitterly, wrung her hands, and begged to 
 know the abbot's opinion of her case. 
 
 ' In truth, good woman' , replied he, ' it will be difficult 
 for me to relieve you, without knowing what is the matter 
 with you. You have forgotten to tell me what has 
 happened, and what it is you want.' 
 
 ' Let me die' , cried Jacintha, ' but your sanctity is in 
 the right. This then is the fact, stated briefly : A lodger of 
 mine is lately dead ; a very good sort of woman, that I 
 must needs say for her, as far as my knowledge of her 
 went, though that was not a great way. She kept me too 
 much at a distance ; for indeed she was given to be upon 
 
 R 
 
258 THE MONK 
 
 the high ropes, and whenever I ventured to speak to her, 
 she had a look with her which always made me feel a 
 little queerish — God forgive me for saying so ! However, 
 though she was more stately than needful, and affected to 
 A look down upon me (though, if I am well informed, I come 
 ' of as good parents as she could do for her ears, for her father 
 was a shoemaker at Cordova, and mine was a hatter at 
 Madrid — aye, and a very creditable hatter too, let me tell 
 you) ; yet, for all her pride, she was a quiet, well-behaved 
 body, and I never wish to have a better lodger. This 
 makes me wonder the more at her not sleeping quietly in 
 her grave ; but there was no trusting to people in this 
 world. For my part, I never saw her do amiss, except on 
 the Friday before her death. To be sure, I was then much 
 scandalized by seeing her eat the wing of a chicken. 
 " How, Madonna Flora ! " quoth I (Flora, may it please your 
 reverence, is the name of thewaiting-maid) — "how, Madonna 
 Flora!" quoth I, "does your mistress eat flesh upon Fridays? 
 Well ! well ! See the event, and then remember that Dame 
 Jacintha warned you of it!" These were my very 
 words ; but, alas ! I might as well have held my tongue. 
 Nobody minded me ; and Flora, who is somewhat pert and 
 snappish (more is the pity, say I), told me, that there was 
 no more harm in eating a chicken than the egg from which 
 it came — nay, she even declared, that if her lady added a 
 slice of bacon, she would not be an inch nearer damnation. 
 God protect us ! a poor, ignorant, sinful soul ! I protest 
 to your holiness, I trembled to hear such blasphemies, and 
 expected every moment to see the ground open and swallow 
 herup, chickenand all; for you must know, worshipful father, 
 that while she talked thus, she held the plate in her hand 
 on which lay the identical roast fowl: and a fine bird it 
 was, that I must say for it — done to a turn, for I super- 
 intended the cooking of it myself. It was a little Gallician 
 of my own raising, may it please your holiness, and the 
 flesh was as white as an eggshell, as indeed Donna Elvira 
 told me herself. "Dame Jacintha", said she, very good- 
 humouredly, though to say the truth she was always very 
 polite to me — ' 
 
 Here Ambrosio's patience failed him. Eager to know 
 Jacintha's business, in which Antonia seemed to be con- 
 cerned, he was almost distracted while listening to the 
 rambling of this prosing old woman. He interrupted her, 
 
CHAPTER IX 259 
 
 and protested that if she did not immediately tell her story 
 and have done with it, he should quit the parlour, and 
 leave her to get out of her difficulties by herself. This 
 had the desired effect. Jacintha related her business in as 
 few words as she could manage ; but her account was so 
 prolix, that Ambrosio had need of his patience to bear him 
 to the conclusion. 
 
 ' And so, your reverence' , said she, after relating Elvira's 
 death and burial, with all their circumstances — 'and so, 
 your reverence, upon hearing the shriek, I put away my 
 work, and away posted I to Donna Antonia's chamber. 
 Finding nobody there, I passed on to the next : but I must 
 own I was a little timorous at going in, for this was the very 
 room where Donna Elvira used to sleep. . However, in I 
 went, there lay the young lady at full length upon the 
 floor, as cold as a stone, and as white as a sheet. I was 
 surprised at this, as your holiness may well suppose : but, 
 oh me ! how I shook, when I saw a great tall figure at my 
 elbow, whose head touched the ceiling! The face was 
 Donna Elvira's, I must confess ; but out of its mouth came 
 clouds of fire ; its arms were loaded with heavy chains, 
 which it rattled piteously, and every hair on its head was 
 a serpent as big as my arm. At this I was frightened 
 enough, and began to say my Ave-Maria ; but the ghost, 
 interrupting me, uttered three loud groans, and roared out 
 in a terrible voice : " Oh, that chicken's wing ! my poor 
 soul suffers for it." As soon as she had said this, the ground 
 opened, the spectre sank down ; I heard a clap of thunder, 
 and the room was filled with a smell of brimstone. When 
 I recovered from my fright, and had brought Donna 
 Antonia to herself, who told me that she had cried out 
 upon seeing her mother's ghost (and well might she cry, poor 
 soul ! had I been in her place, I should have cried ten times 
 louder), it directly came into my head, that if anyone had 
 power to quiet this spectre, it must be your reverence. So 
 hither I came in all diligence, to beg that you will sprinkle 
 my house with holy water, and lay the apparition in the 
 Red Sea.' 
 
 Ambrosio stared at this strange story, which he could 
 not credit. ' Did Donna Antonia also see the ghost ? ' said 
 he. 
 
 ' As plain as I see you, reverend father.' 
 
 Ambrosio paused for a moment. Here was an oppor- 
 
260 THE MONK 
 
 tunity offered him of gaining access to Anfconia, but he 
 hesitated to employ it. sOie reputation which he enjoyed 
 in Madrid was still dear to him ; and a inp.fi b e had Inst, the 
 reality of v irtue , it appeared-an i f . itn n nmfolanrm wan h nnn ma 
 more valuable . >He was conscious that publicly to break 
 tKrough the rule never to quit the abbey precincts would 
 derogate much from his supposed austerity: in visiting 
 Elvira, he had always taken care to keep his features 
 concealed from the domestics; except by the lady, her 
 daughter, and the faithful Flora, he was known in the 
 family by no other name than that of Father Jerome. 
 Should he comply with Jacintha's request, and accompany 
 her to her house, he knew that the violation of his rule 
 could not be kept a secret. However, his eagerness to see 
 Antonia obtained the victory ; he even hoped that the 
 singularity of this adventure would justify him in the 
 eyes of Madrid : but whatever might be the consequences, 
 he resolved to profit by the opportunity which chance 
 had presented to him. An expressive look from Matilda 
 confirmed him in this resolution. 
 
 ' Good woman ', said he to Jacintha, ' what you tell me 
 is so extraordinary, that I can scarcely credit your 
 assertions: however, I will comply with your request. 
 To-morrow, after matins, you may expect me at your 
 house ; I will then examine into what I can do for you, 
 and if it is in my power, will free you from this unwelcome 
 visitor. Now then go home, and peace be with you ! ' 
 
 ' Home ! ' exclaimed Jacintha ; ' I go home ! Not I, by 
 my troth ! except under your protection, I set no foot of 
 mine within the threshold. God help me ! The ghost may 
 meet me upon the stairs, and whisk me away with her to 
 the Devil ! Oh, that I had accepted young Melchior fiasco's 
 offer ! Then I should have had somebody to protect me ; 
 but now I am a lone woman, and meet with nothing but 
 crosses and misfortunes. Thank Heaven, it is not yet too 
 late to repent ! There is Simon Gonzalez will have me any 
 day of the week, and if I live till daybreak, 1 will marry 
 him out off hand. A husband I will have, that is deter- 
 mined, for now this ghost is once in my house, I shall be 
 frightened out of my wits to sleep alone. But, for God's 
 sake, reverend father, come with me now ! I shall have no 
 rest till the house is purified, or the poor young lady either. 
 The dear girl ! — she is in a piteous taking ; I left her in 
 
CHAPTER IX 261 
 
 strong convulsions, and I doubt she will not easily recover 
 her fright.' 
 
 The friar started, and interrupted her hastily. ' In con- 
 vulsions, say you ? Antonia in convulsions ! Lead on, good 
 woman ; I follow you this moment.' 
 
 Jacintha insisted upon his stopping to furnish himself 
 with the vessel of holy water. With this request he 
 complied. Thinking herself safe under his protection, 
 should a legion of ghosts attack her, the old woman 
 returned the monk a profusion of thanks, and they 
 departed together for the Strada di San Iago. 
 
 So strong an impression had the spectre made upon 
 Antonia, that for the first two or three hours the physician 
 declared her life to be in danger. The fits at length 
 becoming less frequent, induced him to alter his opinion : 
 he said that to keep her quiet was all that was necessary, 
 and he ordered a medicine to be prepared which would 
 tranquillize her nerves, and procure her that repose which 
 at present she much wanted. The sight of Ambrosio, who 
 now appeared with Jacintha at her bedside, contributed 
 essentially to compose her ruffled spirits. Elvira had not 
 sufficiently explained herself upon the nature of his 
 designs, to make a girl so ignorant of the world as her 
 daughter aware how dangerous was his acquaintance. At 
 this moment, when, penetrated with horror at the scene 
 which had just passed, and dreading to contemplate the 
 ghost's prediction, her mind had need of all the succours 
 of friendship and religion, Antonia regarded the abbot with 
 an eye doubly partial. That strong prepossession in his 
 favour still existed, which she had felt for him at first 
 sight; she fancied, yet knew not wherefore, that his 
 presence was a safeguard to her from every danger, insult, 
 or misfortune. She thanked him gratefully for his visit, 
 and related to him the adventure which had alarmed her 
 so seriously. 
 
 The abbot strove to reassure her, and convince her that 
 the whole had been a deception of her over-heated fancy. 
 The solitude in which she had passed the evening, the gloom 
 of night, the book which she had been reading, and the 
 room in which she sat, were all calculated to place before 
 her such a vision. He treated the idea of ghosts with 
 ridicule, and produced strong arguments to prove the 
 fallacy of such a system. His conversation tranquillized 
 
262 THE MONK 
 
 and comforted her, but did not convince her. She could 
 not believe that the spectre had been a mere creature of 
 her imagination : every circumstance was impressed upon 
 her mind too forcibly to permit her nattering herself with 
 such an idea. She persisted in asserting that she had really 
 seen her mother's ghost, had heard the period of her dis- 
 solution announced, and declared that she never should 
 quit her bed alive. Ambrosio advised her against en- 
 couraging these sentiments, and then quitted her chamber, 
 having promised to repeat his visit on the morrow. 
 Antonia received this assurance with every mark of joy ; 
 but the monk easily perceived that he was not equally 
 acceptable to her attendant. Flora obeyed Elvira's injunc- 
 tions with the most scrupulous observance ; she examined 
 with an anxious eye every circumstance likely in the least 
 to prejudice her young mistress, to whom she had been 
 attached for many years ; she was a native of Cuba, had 
 followed Elvira to Spain, and loved the young Antonia 
 with a mother's affection. Flora quitted not the room for 
 a moment while the abbot remained there : she watched 
 his every word, his every look, his every action. He saw 
 that her suspicious eye was always fixed upon him, and 
 conscious that his designs would not bear inspection so 
 minute, he felt frequently confused and disconcerted. He 
 was aware that she doubted the purity of his intentions — 
 that she would never leave him alone with Antonia; and his 
 mistress defended by the presence of this vigilant observer, 
 he despaired of finding the means to gratify his passion. 
 
 As he quitted the house, Jacintha met him, and begged 
 that some masses might be sung for the repose of Elvira's 
 soul, which she doubted not was suffering in purgatory. 
 
 He promised not to forget her request ; but he perfectly 
 gained the old woman's heart, by engaging to watch during 
 the whole of the approaching night in the haunted chamber. 
 Jacintha could find no terms sufficiently strong to express 
 her gratitude, and the monk departed, loaded with her 
 benedictions. 
 
 It was broad day when he returned to the abbey. His 
 first care was to communicate what had passed to his 
 confidant. He felt too sincere a passion for Antonia, to 
 have heard unmoved the prediction of her speedy death, 
 and he shuddered at the idea of losing an object so dear to 
 him. Upon this head Matilda reassured him. She con- 
 
CHAPTER IX 263 
 
 firmed the arguments which himself had already used : 
 she declared Antonia to have been deceived by the 
 wandering of her brain, by the spleen which oppressed 
 her at the moment, and by the natural turn of her mind 
 to superstition and the marvellous. As to Jacintha's 
 account, the absurdity refuted itself. The abbot hesitated 
 not to believe that she had fabricated the whole story, 
 either confused by terror, or hoping to make him comply 
 more readily with her request. % Having overruled the 
 monk's apprehensions, Matilda continued thus : 
 
 ' The prediction and the ghost are equally false/ but it 
 
 must be your care, Ambrosio, to verify the first. ((Antonia 
 
 within three days must indeed be dead to the world, but 
 
 she must live for you.) Her present illness, and this fancy 
 
 which she had taken into her head, will colour a plan 
 
 which I have long meditated, but which was impracticable 
 
 without your procuring access to Antonia. She shall be 
 
 yours, not for a single night, but for ever : all the vigilance 
 
 of her duenna shall not avail her; you shall riot unrestrained 
 
 in the charms of your mistress. This very day must the 
 
 scheme be put in execution, for you have no time to lose. 
 
 The nephew of the Duke of Medina Celi prepares to demand 
 
 Antonia for his bride ; in a few days she will be Temoved 
 
 to the palace of her relation, the Marquis de las Cisternas, 
 
 and there she will be secure from your attempts. Thus, 
 
 during your absence, have I been informed by my spies, 
 
 who are ever employed in bringing me intelligence for your 
 
 service. Now then, listen to me: There is a juice extracted 
 
 from certain herbs known but to few, which brings on the 
 
 person who drinks it the exact image of death. Let this 
 
 be administered to Antonia : you may easily find means to, ' 
 
 pour a few drops into her medicine. The effect will be 
 
 throwing her into strong convulsions for an hour ; after 
 
 which her blood will gradually cease to flow, and heart to 
 
 beat ; a mortal paleness will spread itself over her features, 
 
 and she will appear a corpse to every eye. She has no 
 
 friends about her : you may charge yourself unsuspected 
 
 with the superintendence of her funeral, and cause her to 
 
 be buried in the vaults of St. Clare. Their solitude and 
 
 easy access render these caverns favourable to your designs. 
 
 Give Antonia the soporific draught this evening; eight-and- 
 
 forty hours after she has drank it, life will revive in her 
 
 bosom. She will then be absolutely in your power ; she 
 
 V kfl/ 
 
264 THE MONK 
 
 will find all resistance unavailing, and necessity will compel 
 her to receive you in her arms.' 
 
 ' Antonia will be in my power ! ' exclaimed the monk. 
 'Matilda, you transport me. At length then, happiness 
 will be mine ; and that happiness will be Matilda's gift — 
 will be the gift of friendship ! I shall clasp Antonia in 
 my arms, far from every prying eye, from every tormenting 
 intruder ! I shall sigh out my soul upon her bosom — shall 
 teach her young heart the first rudiments of pleasure, and 
 revel uncontrolled in the endless variety of her charms ! 
 And shall this delight indeed be mine ? Shall I give the 
 reins to my desires, and gratify every wild, tumultuous 
 wish ? Oh, Matilda ! how can I express to you my 
 gratitude ? ' 
 
 ' By profiting by my counsels. Ambrosio, I live but to 
 serve you ; your interest and happiness are equally mine : 
 be your person Antonia's, but to your friendship and your 
 heart I still assert my claim. Contributing to yours forms 
 now my only pleasure. Should my exertions procure the 
 gratification of your wishes, I shall consider my trouble to 
 be amply repaid. But let us lose no time : the liquor of 
 which I spoke is only to be found in St. Clare's laboratory. 
 Hasten then to the prioress, request of her admission to 
 the laboratory, and it will not be denied. There is a closet 
 at the lower end of the great room, filled with liquids of 
 different colours and qualities ; the bottle in question 
 stands by itself upon the third shelf on the left ; it 
 contains a greenish liquor : fill a small phial with it when 
 you are unobserved, and Antonia is your own.' 
 
 The monk hesitated not to adopt this infamous plan. 
 His desires, but too violent before, had acquired fresh 
 vigour from the sight of Antonia. As he sat by her 
 bedside, accident had again betrayed to him some of those 
 charms on which his eyes had dwelt with such delight on 
 the night of Elvira's murder. Sometime her white and 
 polished arm was displayed in arranging the pillow ; 
 sometimes a sudden movement discovered part of her 
 swelling bosom ; but wherever the new-found charm pre- 
 sented itself, there rested the friar's gloating eyes. Scarcely 
 could he master himself sufficiently to conceal his desires 
 from Antonia and her vigilant duenna. Inflamed by the 
 remembrance of these beauties, he entered into Matilda's 
 scheme without hesitation. 
 
CHAPTER IX 265 
 
 No sooner were matins over than he bent his course 
 towards the convent of St. Clare; his arrival threw 
 the whole sisterhood into the utmost amazement. The 
 prioress was sensible of the honour done her convent by his 
 paying it his first visit, and strove to express her gratitude 
 by every possible attention. He was paraded through the 
 garden, shown all the relics of saints and martyrs, and 
 treated with as much respect and distinction as had he 
 been the Pope himself. On his part, Ambrosio received 
 the domina's civilities very graciously, and strove to 
 remove her surprise at his having broken through his 
 resolution. He stated that among his penitents, illness 
 prevented many from quitting their houses. These were 
 exactly the people who most needed his advice and the 
 comforts of religion. Many representations had been 
 made to him upon this account, and though highly 
 repugnant to his own wishes, he had found it absolutely 
 necessary for the service of Heaven to change his 
 determination, and quit his beloved retirement. The 
 prioress applauded his zeal in his profession, and his 
 charity towards mankind; she declared that Madrid was 
 happy in possessing a man so perfect and irreproachable. 
 In such discourse the friar at length reached the 
 laboratory; he found the closet — the bottle stood in the 
 place which Matilda had described, and the monk seized 
 an opportunity to fill his phial unobserved with the 
 soporific liquid. Then, having partaken of a collation in 
 the refectory, he retired from the convent, pleased with 
 the success of his visit, and leaving the nuns delighted by 
 the honour conferred upon them. 
 
 He waited till evening before he took the road to 
 Antonia's dwelling. Jacintha welcomed him with transport, 
 and besought him not to forget his promise to pass the 
 night in the haunted chamber : that promise he now 
 repeated. He found Antonia tolerably well, but still 
 harping upon the ghost's prediction. Flora moved not 
 from her lady's bed, and by symptoms yet stronger than on 
 the former night, testified her dislike to the abbot's 
 presence : still Ambrosio affected not to observe them. 
 The physician arrived while he was conversing with 
 Antonia. It was dark already ; lights were called for, 
 and Flora was compelled to descend for them herself. 
 However, as she left a third person in the room, and 
 
266 THE MONK 
 
 expected to be absent but a few minutes, she believed that 
 she risked nothing in quitting her post. No sooner had 
 she left the room, than Ambrosio moved towards the table, 
 on which stood Antonia's medicine : it was placed in a 
 recess of the window. The physician, seated in an arm- 
 chair, and employed in questioning his patient, paid no 
 attention to the proceedings of the monk. Ambrosio 
 seized the opportunity ; he drew out the fatal phial, and 
 let a few drops fall into the medicine ; he then hastily 
 left the table, and returned to the seat which he had 
 quitted. When Flora made her appearance with lights, 
 everything seemed to be exactly as she had left it. 
 
 The physician declared that Antonia might quit her 
 chamber the next day with perfect safety. He recom- 
 mended her following the same prescription which on the 
 night before had procured her a refreshing sleep. Flora 
 replied that the draught stood ready upon the table ; he 
 advised the patient to take it without delay, and then 
 retired. Flora poured the medicine into a cup, and 
 presented it to her mistress. At that moment Ambrosio's 
 courage failed him. Might not Matilda have deceived 
 him ? Might not jealousy have persuaded her to destroy 
 her rival, and substitute poison in the room of an opiate ? 
 This idea appeared so reasonable, that he was on the 
 point of preventing her from swallowing the medicine. 
 His resolution was adopted too late ; the cup was already 
 emptied, and Antonia restored it into Flora's hands. No 
 remedy was now to be found ; Ambrosio could only 
 expect the moment impatiently destined to decide upon 
 Antonia's life or death, upon his own happiness or despair. 
 
 Dreading to create suspicion by his stay, or betray 
 himself by his mind's agitation, he took leave of his 
 victim, and withdrew from the room. Antonia parted 
 from him with less cordiality than on the former night. 
 Flora had represented to her mistress that to admit his 
 visits was to disobey her mother's orders ; she described to 
 her his emotion on entering the room and the fire which 
 sparkled in his eyes while he gazed upon her. This had 
 escaped Antonia's observation, but not her attendant's, 
 who, explaining the monk's designs and their probable 
 consequences in terms much clearer than Elvira's, though 
 not quite so delicate, had succeeded in alarming her young 
 lady, and persuading her to treat him more distantly than 
 
CHAPTER IX 267 
 
 she had done hitherto. The idea of obeying her mother's 
 ■will at once determined Antonia. Though she grieved at 
 losing his society, she conquered herself sufficiently to 
 receive the monk with some degree of reserve and coldness. 
 She thanked him with respect and gratitude for his 
 former visits, but did not invite his repeating them in 
 future. It now was not the friar's interest to solicit 
 admission to her presence, and he took leave of her as if 
 not designing to return. Fully persuaded that the 
 acquaintance which she dreaded was now at an end, Flora 
 was so much worked upon by his easy compliance that she 
 began to doubt the justice of her suspicions. As she 
 lighted him downstairs, she thanked him for having 
 endeavoured to root out from Antonia's mind her 
 superstitious terrors of the spectre's prediction : she added, 
 that as he seemed interested in Donna Antonia's welfare, 
 should any change take place in her situation, she would 
 be careful to let him know it. The monk, in replying, 
 took pains to raise his voice, hoping that Jacintha would 
 hear it. In this he succeeded : as he reached the foot of 
 the stairs with his conductress, the landlady failed not to 
 make her appearance. 
 
 'Why, surely you are not going away, reverend father ?' 
 cried she. ' Did you not promise to pass the night in the 
 haunted chamber ? Christ Jesus ! I shall be left alone with 
 the ghost, and a fine pickle I shall be in by morning ! Do 
 all I could, say all I could, that obstinate old brute, Simon 
 Gonzalez, refused to marry me to-day, and before to-morrow 
 comes I suppose I shall be torn to pieces by the ghosts and 
 goblins, and devils, and what not ! For God's sake, your 
 holiness, do not leave me in such a woeful condition ! On 
 my bended knees I beseech you to keep your promise ; 
 watch this night in the haunted chamber ; lay the apparition 
 in the Red Sea, and Jacintha remembers you in her prayers 
 to the last day of her existence ! ' 
 
 This request Ambrosio expected and desired ; yet he 
 affected to raise objections, and to seem unwilling to keep 
 his word. He told Jacintha that the ghost existed nowhere 
 but in her own brain, and that her insisting upon his 
 staying all night in the house was ridiculous and useless. 
 Jacintha was obstinate ; she was not to be convinced, and 
 pressed him so urgently not to leave her a prey to the 
 Devil, that at length he granted her request. All this 
 
268 THE MONK 
 
 show of resistance imposed not upon Flora, who was 
 naturally of a suspicious temper. She suspected the monk 
 to be acting a part very contrary to his own inclinations, 
 and that he wished for no better than to remain where he 
 was. She even went so far as to believe that Jacintha was 
 in his interest ; and the poor old woman was immediately 
 set down as no better than a procuress. While she 
 applauded herself for having penetrated into this plot 
 against her lady's honour, she resolved in secret to render 
 it fruitless. 
 
 --' So then ', said she to the abbot, with a look half satirical 
 and half indignant, 'so then you mean to stay here to- 
 night ? Do so, in God's name ! Nobody will prevent you. 
 Sit up to watch for the ghost's arrival ; I shall sit up too, 
 and the Lord grant that I may see nothing worse than a 
 ghost! I quit not Donna Antonia' s bedside during this 
 blessed night. Let me see anyone dare to enter the room, 
 and, be he mortal or immortal, be he ghost, devil, or man, 
 I warrant his repenting that ever he crossed the threshold.' 
 This hint was sufficiently strong, and Ambrosio under- 
 stood its meaning. But instead of showing that he 
 perceived her suspicions, he replied mildly, that he 
 approved the duenna's precautions, and advised her to 
 persevere in her intention. This, she assured him faith- 
 fully, that he might depend upon her doing. Jacintha 
 then conducted him into the chamber where the ghost had 
 appeared, and Flora returned to her lady's. 
 
 Jacintha opened the door of the haunted room with a 
 ti'embling hand ; she ventured to peep in, but the wealth 
 of India would not have tempted her to cross the threshold. 
 She gave the taper to the monk, wished him well through 
 the adventure, and hastened to be gone. Ambrosio entered. 
 He bolted the door, placed the light upon the table, and 
 seated himself in the chair, which on the former night had 
 sustained Antonia. In spite of Matilda's assurances that 
 the spectre was a mere creation of fancy, his mind was 
 impressed with a certain mysterious horror. He in vain 
 endeavoured to shake it off. The silence of the night, the 
 story of the apparition, the chamber wainscotted with dark 
 oak panels, the recollection which it brought with it of 
 the murdered Elvira, and his incertitude respecting the 
 nature of the drops given by him to Antonia, made him 
 feel uneasy at his present situation. But he thought 
 
CHAPTER IX 269 
 
 much less of the spectre than of the poison. Should he 
 have destroyed the only object which rendered life 
 dear to him — should the ghost's prediction prove true 
 — should Antonia in three days be no more, and he 
 the wretched cause of her death — the supposition 
 was too horrible to dwell upon. He drove away 
 these dreadful images, and as often they presented 
 themselves again before him. Matilda had assured him 
 that the effects of the opiate would be speedy. He 
 listened with fear, yet with eagerness, expecting to hear 
 some disturbance in the adjoining chamber. All was still 
 silent. He concluded that the drops had not begun to 
 operate. Great was the stake for which he now played ; 
 a moment would suffice to decide upon his misery or 
 happiness. Matilda had taught him the means of ascer- 
 taining that life was not extinct for ever : upon this assay 
 depended all his hopes. With every instant his impatience 
 redoubled ; his terrors grew more lively, his anxiety more 
 awake. Unable to bear this state of incertitude, he en- 
 deavoured to divert it by substituting the thoughts of 
 others for his own. The books, as was before mentioned, 
 were ranged upon shelves near the table : this stood 
 exactly opposite to the bed, which was placed in an 
 alcove near the closet door. Ambrosio took down a 
 volume, and seated himself by the table ; but his attention 
 wandered from the pages before him. Antonia's image, 
 and that of the murdered Elvira, persisted to force them- 
 selves before his imagination. Still he continued to read, 
 though his eyes ran over the characters without his mind 
 being conscious of their import. 
 
 Such was his occupation, when he fancied that he heard 
 a footstep ; he turned his head, but nobody was to be seen. 
 He resumed his book ; but in a few minutes after the 
 same noise was repeated, and followed by a rustling noise 
 close behind him. He now started from his seat, and, 
 looking round him, perceived the closet door standing half 
 unclosed : on his first entering the room, he had tried to 
 open it, but found it bolted on the inside. 
 
 ' How is this ? ' said he to himself; ' how comes this 
 door unfastened ? ' 
 
 He advanced towards it ; he pushed it open, and looked 
 into the closet : no one was there. While he stood irreso- 
 lute, he thought that he distinguished a groaning in the 
 
2;o THE MONK 
 
 adjacent chamber ; it was Antonia's, and he supposed that 
 the drops began to take effect. But upon listening more 
 attentively, he found the noise to be caused by Jacintha, 
 who had fallen asleep by the lady's bedside, and was 
 snoring most lustily. Ambrosio drew back, and returned 
 to the other room, musing upon the sudden opening of the 
 closet door, for which he strove in vain to account. 
 
 He paced the chamber up and down in silence. At 
 length he stopped, and the bed attracted his attention. 
 The curtain of the recess was but half drawn. He sighed 
 involuntarily. 
 
 ' That bed' , said he, in a low voice, ' that bed was 
 Elvira's ! There has she passed many a quiet night, for 
 she was good and innocent. How sound must have been 
 her sleep ! — and yet now she sleeps sounder ! Does she 
 indeed sleep ? — Oh, God grant that she may ! What if 
 she rose from her grave at this sad and silent hour ? what 
 if she broke the bonds of the tomb, and glided angrily 
 before my blasted eyes ? — Oh, I never could support the 
 sight ! Again to see her form distorted by dying agonies, 
 her blood-swollen veins, her livid countenance, her eyes 
 bursting from their sockets with pain ! — to hear her 
 speak of future punishment — menace me with Heaven's 
 vengeance — tax me with the crimes I have committed — 
 with those I am going to commit ! — Great God ! what is 
 that?' 
 
 As he uttered these words, his eyes, which were fixed 
 upon the bed, saw the curtain shaken gently backwards 
 and forwards. The apparition was recalled to his mind, 
 and he almost fancied that he beheld Elvira's visionary 
 form reclining upon the bed. A few moments' consideration 
 sufficed to reassure him. 
 
 ' It was only the wind ', said he, recovering himself. 
 
 Again he paced the chamber ; but an involuntary 
 movement of awe and inquietude constantly led his eye 
 towards the alcove. He drew near it with irresolution. 
 He paused before he ascended the few steps which led to 
 it. He put out his hand thrice to remove the curtain, and 
 as often drew it back. 
 
 ' Absurd terrors ! ' he cried at length, ashamed of His 
 own weakness. 
 
 Hastily he mounted the steps, when a figure, dressed in 
 white, started from the alcove, and, gliding by him, made 
 
CHAPTER IX 271 
 
 with precipitation towards the closet. Madness and despair 
 now supplied the monk with that courage of which he had, 
 till then, been destitute. He flew down the steps, pursued 
 the apparition, and attempted to grasp it. 
 
 ' Ghost, or devil, I hold you ! ' he exclaimed, and seized 
 the spectre by the arm. 
 
 ' Oh ! Christ Jesus ! ' cried a shrill voice ; ' holy father, 
 how you gripe me ! I protest that I mean no harm ! ' 
 
 This address, as well as the arm which he held, convinced 
 the abbot that the supposed ghost was substantial flesh 
 and blood. He drew the intruder towards the table, and, 
 holding up the light, discovered the features of — Madonna 
 Flora ! 
 
 Incensed at having been betrayed by this trifling cause 
 into fears so ridiculous, he asked her sternly what business 
 had brought her to that chamber ? Flora, ashamed at being 
 found out and terrified at the severity of Ambrosio's looks, 
 fell upon her knees, and promised to make a full confession. 
 
 ' I protest, reverend father,' said she, ' that I am quite 
 grieved at having disturbed you ; nothing was further 
 from my intention. I meant to get out of the room as 
 quietly as I got in; and had you been ignorant that I 
 watched you, you know it would have been the same thing 
 as if I had not watched you at all. To be sure I did very 
 wrong in being a spy upon you — that I cannot deny. But, 
 Lord ! your reverence, how can a poor weak woman resist 
 curiosity ? Mine was so strong to know what you were 
 doing, that I could not but try to get a little peep without 
 anybody knowing anything about it. So with that I left 
 old Dame Jacintha sitting by my lady's bed, and I ventured 
 to steal into the closet. Being unwilling to interrupt you, 
 I contented myself at first with putting my eye to the 
 keyhole ; but, as I could see nothing by this means, I 
 undrew the bolt, and while your back was turned to the 
 alcove, I whipped me in softly and silently. Here I lay 
 snug behind the curtain till your reverence found me out, 
 and seized me ere I had time to regain the closet door. 
 This is the whole truth, I assure you, holy father ; and I 
 beg your pardon a thousand times for my impertinence.' 
 
 During this speech the abbot had time to recollect 
 himself ; he was satisfied with reading the penitent spy a 
 lecture upon the dangers of curiosity, and the meanness of 
 the action in which she had been just discovered. Flora 
 
272 THE MONK 
 
 declared herself fully persuaded that she had done wrong ; 
 she promised never to be guilty of the same fault again, 
 and was retiring very humble and contrite to Antonia's 
 chamber, when the closet door was suddenly thrown open, 
 and in rushed Jacintha, pale and out of breath. 
 
 ' Oh, father, father ! ' she cried, in a voice almost choked 
 with terror ; ' what shall I do ? What shall I do ? Here is 
 a fine piece of work ! Nothing but misfortunes ! — nothing 
 but dead people, and dying people ! Oh, I shall go 
 distracted ! I shall go distracted ! ' 
 
 ' Speak, speak ! ' cried Flora and the monk, at the same 
 time : ' what has happened ? what is the matter ? ' 
 
 'Oh, I shall have another corpse in my house! Some 
 witch has certainly cast a spell upon it, upon me, and upon 
 all about me ! Poor Donna Antonia ! There she lies in just 
 such convulsions as killed her mother ! The ghost told her 
 true — I am sure the ghost told her true ! ' 
 
 Flora ran, or rather flew to her lady's chamber. Ambrosio 
 followed her, his bosom trembling with hope and apprehen- 
 sion. They found Antonia as Jacintha had described, torn 
 by racking convulsions, from which they in vain endeavoured 
 to relieve her. The monk despatched Jacintha to the abbey, 
 in all haste, and commissioned her to bring Father Pablos 
 back with her, without losing a moment. 
 
 ' I will go for him ', replied Jacintha, ' and tell him to 
 come hither ; but as to bringing him myself, I shall do no 
 such thing. I am sure that the house is bewitched, and 
 burn me if ever I set foot in it again.' 
 
 With this resolution she set out for the monastery, and 
 delivered to Father Pablos the abbot's orders. She then 
 betook herself to the house of old Simon Gonzalez, whom 
 she resolved never to quit till she had made him her 
 husband, and his dwelling her own. 
 
 Father Pablos had no sooner beheld Antonia, than he 
 pronounced her incurable. The convulsions continued for 
 an hour ; during that time her agonies were much milder 
 than those which her groans created in the abbot's heart. 
 Her every pang seemed a dagger in his bosom ; and he 
 cursed himself a thousand times for having adopted so 
 barbarous a project. The hour being expired, by degrees 
 the fits became less frequent, and Antonia less agitated. 
 She felt that her dissolution was approaching, and that 
 nothing could save her. 
 
CHAPTER IX 273 
 
 ' Worthy Ambrosio ', she said, in a feeble voice, while 
 she pressed his hand to her lips, ' I am now at liberty to 
 express how grateful is my heart for your attention and 
 kindness. I am upon the bed of death — yet an hour, and 
 I shall be no more ; I may therefore acknowledge, without 
 restraint, that to relinquish your society was very painful 
 to me : but such was the will of a parent — and I dared not 
 disobey. I die without repugnance ; there are few who 
 will lament my leaving them — there are few whom I 
 lament to leave. Among those few, I lament for none 
 more than for yourself ; but we shall meet again, 
 Ambrosio — we shall one day meet in heaven ; there shall 
 our friendship be renewed, and my mother shall view it 
 with pleasure.' 
 
 She paused. The abbot shuddered when she mentioned 
 Elvira. Antonia imputed his emotion to pity and concern 
 for her. 
 
 ' You are grieved for me, father ', she continued ; ' ah, 
 sigh not for my loss ! I have no crimes to repent, at least 
 none of which I am conscious; and I restore my soul 
 without fear to him from whom I received it. I have but 
 few requests to make ; yet let me hope that what few I 
 have shall be granted. Let a solemn mass be said for my 
 soul's repose, and another for that of my beloved mother — 
 not that I doubt her resting in her grave ; I am now con- 
 vinced that my reason wandered, and the falsehood of the 
 ghost's prediction is sufficient to prove my error. But 
 everyone has some failing; my mother may have had 
 hers, though I knew them not. I therefore wish a mass 
 to be celebrated for her repose, and the expense may be 
 defrayed by the little wealth of which I am possessed. 
 Whatever may then remain, I bequeath to my Aunt 
 Leonella. When I am dead, let the Marquis de las 
 Cisternas know that his brother's unhappy family can no 
 longer importune him. But disappointment makes me 
 unjust: they tell me that he is ill, and perhaps, had it 
 been in his power, he wished to have protected me. Tell 
 him, then, father, only that I am dead, and that if he had 
 any faults to me, I forgave him from my heart. This 
 done, I have nothing more to ask for than your prayers. 
 Promise to remember my request, and I shall resign my 
 life without a pang or sorrow.' 
 Ambrosio engaged to comply with her desires, and pro- 
 
274 THE MONK 
 
 ceeded to give her absolution. Every moment announced 
 the approach of Antonia's fate : her sight failed, her heart 
 beat sluggishly, her fingers stiffened and grew cold, and at 
 two in the morning she expired without a groan. As soon 
 as the breath had forsaken her body, Father Pablos retired, 
 sincerely affected at the melancholy scene. On her part, 
 Flora gave way to the most unbridled sorrow. Far 
 different concerns employed Ambrosio ; he sought for the 
 pulse, whose throbbing, so Matilda had assured him, would 
 prove Antonia's death but temporary. He found it — he 
 pressed it — it palpitated beneath his hand, and his heart 
 was filled with ecstasy. However, he carefully concealed 
 his satisfaction at the success of his plan. He assumed a 
 melancholy air, and addressing himself to Flora, warned 
 her against abandoning herself to fruitless sorrow. Her 
 tears were too sincere to permit her listening to his 
 counsels, and she continued to weep unceasingly. The 
 friar withdrew, first promising to give orders himself 
 about the funeral, which, out of consideration for Jacintha, 
 as he pretended, should take place with all expedition. 
 Plunged in grief for the loss of her beloved mistress, Flora 
 scarcely attended to what he said. Ambrosio hastened to 
 command the burial. He obtained permission from the 
 prioress that the corpse should be deposited in St. Clare's 
 sepulchre ; and on the Friday morning, every proper and 
 needful ceremony being performed, Antonia's body was 
 committed to the tomb. 
 
 On the same day Leonella arrived at Madrid, intending 
 to present her young husband to Elvira. Various circum- 
 stances had obliged her to defer her journey from Tuesday 
 to Friday; and she had no opportunity of making this 
 alteration in her plans known to her sister. As her heart 
 was truly affectionate, and as she had ever entertained a 
 sincere regard for Elvira and her daughter, her surprise at 
 hearing of their sudden and melancholy fate was fully 
 equalled by her sorrow and disappointment. Ambrosio 
 sent to inform her of Antonia's bequest : at her solicitation 
 he promised, as soon as Elvira's trifling debts were dis- 
 charged, to transmit to her the remainder. This being 
 settled, no other business detained Leonella in Madrid, and 
 she returned to Cordova with all diligence. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 Oh, could I worship aught beneath the skies, 
 That earth hath seen, or fancy could devise, 
 Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, 
 Built by no mercenary vulgar hand, 
 "With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair, 
 As ever dressed a bank or scented summer air. 
 
 — Cowpeb 
 
 His whole attention bent upon bringing to justice the 
 assassins of his sister, Lorenzo little thought how severely 
 his interest was suffering in another quarter. As was 
 before mentioned, he returned not to Madrid till the 
 evening of that day on which Antonia was buried. 
 Signifying to the grand inquisitor the order of the 
 cardinal-duke (a ceremony not to be neglected when a 
 member of the church was to be arrested publicly), 
 communicating his design to his uncle and Don Ramirez, 
 and assembling a troop of attendants sufficient to prevent 
 opposition, furnished him with full occupation during the 
 few hours preceding midnight. Consequently he had no 
 opportunity to inquire about his mistress, and was 
 perfectly ignorant both of her death and her mother's. 
 
 The Marquis was by no means out of danger: his 
 delirium was gone, but had left him so much exhausted, 
 that the physicians declined pronouncing upon the conse- 
 quences likely to ensue* As for Raymond himself, he 
 wished for nothing more earnestly than to join Agnes in 
 the grave. Existence was hateful to him : he saw nothing 
 in the world deserving his attention ; and he hoped to hear 
 that Agnes was revenged, and himself given over in the 
 same moment. 
 
 Followed by Raymond's ardent prayers for success, 
 Lorenzo was at the gates of St. Clare a full hour before 
 the time appointed by the Mother St. Ursula. He was 
 accompanied by his uncle, by Don Ramirez de Mello, and 
 a party of chosen archers. Though in considerable 
 numbers, their appearance created no surprise: a great 
 
 275 
 
276 THE MONK 
 
 crowd was already assembled before the convent doors, in 
 order to witness the procession. It was naturally supposed 
 that Lorenzo and his attendants were conducted thither 
 by the same design. The Duke of Medina being recog- 
 nized, the people drew back, and made way for his party 
 to advance. Lorenzo placed himself opposite to the great 
 gate, through which the pilgrims were to pass. Convinced 
 that the prioress could not escape him, he waited patiently 
 for her appearance, which she was expected to make 
 exactly at midnight. 
 
 The nuns were employed in religious duties established 
 in honour of St. Clare, and to which no profane was ever 
 admitted. The chapel windows were illuminated. As 
 they stood on the outside, the auditors heard the full 
 swell of the organ, accompanied by a chorus of female 
 voices, rise upon the stillness of the night. This died 
 away, and was succeeded by a single strain of harmony : 
 it was the voice of her who was destined to sustain in 
 the procession the character of St. Clair. For this office 
 the most beautiful virgin of Madrid was always selected, 
 and she upon whom the choice fell esteemed it as the 
 highest of honours. While listening to the music, whose 
 melody distance only seemed to render sweeter, the 
 audience was wrapped up in profound attention. Universal 
 silence prevailed through the crowd, and every heart was 
 filled with reverence for religion — every heart but Lorenzo's. 
 Conscious that among those who chanted the praises of 
 their God so sweetly, there were some who cloaked with 
 devotion the foulest sins, their hymns inspired him with 
 detestation at their hypocrisy. He had long obs erved with 
 disapprobation and co ntempt the_^ supe^Eiioii— which 
 governed^ Madrid's '".inhabitants. His good sense had 
 pointed out to him the artifices of the monks, and the 
 gross absurdity of their miracles, wonders, and suppositious 
 relics. He blushed to see his countrymen the dupes of 
 deceptions so ridiculous, and only wished for an oppor- 
 tunity to free them from their monkish fetters. That 
 opportunity, so long desired in vain, was at length pre- 
 sented to him. He resolved not to let it slip, but to set 
 before the people, in glaring colours , how enormous w ere 
 the abuses but t oo frequently practise ? in monasteries, and 
 now umustly public ebluem was LesXuwed indiscriminately 
 upon all who wore a religious habit. He longed for the " 
 
CHAPTER X 277 
 
 moment destined to unmask the hypocrites, and convince 
 his countrymen that a sanctified exterior does not always 
 hide a virtuous heart. 
 
 The service lasted till midnight was announced by the 
 convent bell. That sound being heard, the music ceased ; 
 the voices died away softly, and soon after the lights 
 disappeared from the chapel windows. Lorenzo's heart 
 beat high, when he found the execution of his plan to be 
 at hand. From the natural superstition of the people, he 
 had prepared himself for some resistance : but he trusted 
 that the Mother St. Ursula would bring good reasons to 
 justify his proceeding. He had force with him to repel 
 the first impulse of the populace, till his arguments should 
 be heard. His only fear was lest the domina, suspecting 
 his design, should have spirited away the nun on whose 
 deposition everything depended. Unless the Mother St. 
 Ursula should be present, he could only accuse the prioress 
 upon suspicion; and this reflection gave him some little 
 apprehension for the success of his enterprise. The 
 tranquillity which seemed to reign through the convent in 
 some degree reassured him : still he expected the moment 
 eagerly when the presence of his ally should deprive him 
 of the power of doubting. 
 
 The abbey of Capuchins was only separated from the 
 convent by the garden and cemetery. The monks had been 
 invited to assist at the pilgrimage. They now arrived, 
 marching two by two, with lighted torches in their hands, 
 and chanting hymns in honour of St. Clare. Father 
 Pablos was at their head, the abbot having excused himself 
 from attending. The people made way for the holy train, 
 and the friars placed themselves in ranks on either side of 
 the great gates. A few minutes sufficed to arrange the 
 order of the procession. This being settled, the convent 
 doors were thrown open, and again the female chorus 
 sounded in full melody. First appeared a band of 
 choristers. As soon as they had passed, the monks fell in, 
 two by two, and followed with steps slow and measured : 
 next came the novices; they bore no tapers, as did the 
 professed, but moved on, with eyes bent downwards, and 
 seemed to be occupied by telling their beads. To them 
 succeeded a young and lovely girl, who represented St. 
 Lucia ; she held a golden basin, in which were two eyes ; 
 her own were covered by a velvet bandage, and she was 
 
278 THE MONK 
 
 conducted by another nun, habited as an angel. She was 
 followed by St. Catherine, a palm branch in one hand, a 
 flaming sword in the other : she was robed in white, and 
 her brow was ornamented with a sparkling diadem. After 
 her appeared St. Genevieve, surrounded by a number of 
 imps, who putting themselves into grotesque attitudes, 
 drawing her by the robe, and sporting round her with 
 antic gestures, endeavoured to distract her attention from 
 the book on which her eyes were constantly fixed. These 
 merry devils greatly entertained the spectators, who 
 testified their pleasure by repeated bursts of laughter. 
 The prioress had been careful to select a nun whose 
 disposition was naturally solemn and saturnine. She had 
 every reason to be satisfied with her choice : the drolleries 
 of the imps were entirely thrown away, and St. Genevieve 
 moved on without discomposing a muscle. 
 
 Each of these saints were separated from the other by 
 a band of choristers, exalting her praise in their hymns, 
 but declaring her to be very much inferior to St. Clare, 
 the convent's avowed patroness. These having passed, a 
 long train of nuns appeared, bearing, like the choristers, 
 each a burning taper. Next came the relics of St. Clare, 
 inclosed in vases equally precious for their materials and 
 workmanship : but they attracted not Lorenzo's attention. 
 The nun who bore the heart occupied him entirely. 
 According to Theodore's description, he doubted not her 
 being the Mother St. Ursula. She seemed to look round 
 with anxiety : as he stood foremost in the rank by which 
 the procession passed, her eye caught Lorenzo's. A flush 
 of joy overspread her till then pallid cheek. She turned 
 to her companion eagerly. 
 
 ' We are safe ', he heard her whisper ; ' 'tis her brother.' 
 His heart being now at ease, Lorenzo gazed with tran- 
 quillity upon the remainder of the show. Now appeared 
 its mo3t brilliant ornament; it was a machine fashioned 
 like a throne, rich with jewels, and dazzling with light. 
 It rolled onwards, upon concealed wheels, and was guided 
 by several lovely children dressed as seraphs. The summit 
 was covered with silver clouds, upon which reclined the 
 most beautiful form that eyes ever witnessed. It was a 
 damsel representing St. Clare : her dress was of inestimable 
 price, and round her head a wreath of diamonds formed an 
 artificial glory : but all these ornaments yielded to the 
 
CHAPTER X 279 
 
 lustre of her charms. As she advanced, a murmur of 
 delight ran through the crowd. Even Lorenzo confessed 
 secretly that he never beheld more perfect beauty ; and 
 had not his heart been Antonia's, it must have fallen a 
 sacrifice to this enchanting girl. As it was, he considered 
 her only as a fine statue : she obtained from him no tribute 
 save cold admiration ; and when she had passed him, he 
 thought of her no more. 
 
 ' Who is she ? ' asked a bystander, in Lorenzo's hearing. 
 
 'One whose beauty you must often have heard celebrated. 
 Her name is Virginia de Villa Franca : she is a pensioner 
 of St. Clare's convent, a relation of the prioress, and has 
 been selected with justice as the ornament of the procession.' 
 
 The throne moved onwards. It was followed by the 
 prioress herself : she marched at the head of the remaining 
 nuns with a devout and sanctified air, and closed the 
 procession. She moved on slowly ; her eyes were raised 
 to heaven ; her countenance, calm and tranquil, seemed 
 abstracted from all sublunary things, and no feature 
 betrayed her secret pride at displaying the pomp and 
 opulence of her convent. She passed along, accompanied 
 by the prayers and benedictions of the populace : but how 
 great was the general confusion and surprise, when Don 
 Ramirez, starting forward, challenged her as his prisoner ! 
 
 For a moment amazement held the domina silent and 
 immovable ; but no sooner did she recover herself, than 
 she exclaimed against sacrilege and impiety, and called 
 upon the people to rescue a daughter of the Church. They 
 were eagerly preparing to obey her, when Don Ramirez, 
 protected by the archers from their rage, commanded 
 them to forbear, and threatened them with the severest 
 vengeance of the Inquisition. At that dreaded word every 
 arm fell, every sword shrunk back into its scabbard : the 
 prioress herself turned pale, and trembled. The general 
 silence convinced her that she had nothing to hope but 
 from innocence ; and she besought Don Ramirez, in a 
 faltering voice, to inform her of what crime she was 
 accused. 
 
 ' That you shall know in time,' replied he ; ' but first I 
 must secure the Mother St. Ursula.' 
 
 ' The Mother St. Ursula ! ' repeated the domina faintly. 
 
 At this moment casting her eyes round, she saw Lorenzo 
 and the duke, who had followed Don Ramirez;, 
 
280 THE MONK 
 
 ' Ah, great God ! ' she cried, clasping her hands together 
 with a frantic air — ' I am betrayed ! ' 
 
 ' Betrayed ! ' replied St. Ursula, who now arrived, con- 
 ducted by some of the archers, and followed by the nun her 
 companion in the procession : 'not betrayed, but discovered. 
 In me recognize your accuser : you know not how well I am 
 instructed in your guilt. — Segnor ', she continued, turning 
 to Don Ramirez, ' I commit myself to your custody. I 
 charge the prioress of St. Clare with murder, and stake my 
 life for the justice of my accusation ! ' 
 
 A general cry of surprise was uttered by the whole 
 audience, and an explanation was loudly demanded. The 
 trembling nuns, terrified at the noise and universal 
 confusion, had dispersed, and fled different ways. Some 
 regained the convent — others sought refuge in the dwellings 
 of their relations — and many, only sensible of their present 
 danger, and anxious to escape from the tumult, ran 
 through the streets, and wandered they knew not whither. 
 The lovely Virginia was one of the first to fly ; and in 
 order that she might be better seen and heard, the people 
 desired that St. Ursula should harangue them from the 
 vacant throne. The nun complied : she ascended the 
 glittering machine, and then addressed the surrounding 
 multitude as follows: 
 
 'However strange and unseemly may appear my 
 conduct, when considered to be adopted by a female and 
 a nun, necessity will justify it most fully. A secret, a 
 horrible secret weighs heavy upon my soul : no rest can 
 be mine till I have revealed it to the world, and satisfied 
 that innocent blood which calls from the grave for 
 vengeance. Much have I dared, to gain this opportunity 
 of lightening my conscience. Had I failed in my attempt 
 to reveal the crime — had the domina but suspected that 
 the mystery was known to me, my ruin was inevitable. 
 Angels, who watch unceasingly over those who deserve 
 their favour, have enabled me to escape detection. I am 
 now at liberty to relate a tale, whose circumstances will 
 freeze every honest soul with horror y Mine is the task to 
 ren d the veil from hypocrisy, and shoV miggM UflH'l V' A ^T^~ 
 " to what dangers t> "> W0™ a " rs. sYpngftiTj who fnjlfi nnrlgr 
 'the sway of a m onasti c tyrant. J 
 
 1 Am6ng the VdtaftGs bi St."Clare none was more lovely, 
 none more gentle than Agnes de Medina. I knew her 
 
CHAPfER X 281 
 
 well ; she entrusted to me every secret of her heart : I 
 was her friend and confidante, and I loved her with sincere 
 affection. Nor was I singular in my attachment; her 
 piety unfeigned, her willingness to oblige, and her angelic 
 disposition, rendered her the darling of all that was estim- 
 able in the convent. The prioress herself, proud, scrupulous, 
 and forbidding, could not refuse Agnes that tribute of 
 approbation which she bestowed upon no one else. Every 
 one has some fault — alas ! Agnes had her weakness ; she 
 violated the laws of our order, and incurred the inveterate 
 hate of the unforgiving domina. St. Clare's rules are 
 severe ; but grown antiquated and neglected, many of late 
 years have either been forgotten, or changed by universal 
 consent into milder punishments. The penance adjudged 
 to the crime of Agnes was most cruel, most inhuman. The 
 law had been long exploded : alas ! it still existed, and the 
 revengeful prioress now determined to revive it. This law 
 decreed that the offender should be plunged into a private 
 dungeon, expressly constituted to hide from the world fori 
 ever the victim of cruelty and tyrannic superstition. In 
 this dreadful abode she was to lead a perpetual solitude, 
 deprived of all society, and believed to be dead by those 
 whom affection might have prompted to attempt her rescue. 
 Thus was she to languish out the remainder of her days, 
 with no other food than bread and water, and no other 
 comfort than the free indulgence of her tears.' 
 
 The indignation created by this account was so violent, 
 as for some moments to interrupt St. Ursula's narrative. 
 When the disturbance ceased, and silence again prevailed 
 through the assembly, she continued her discourse, while 
 at every word the domina's countenance betrayed her 
 increasing terrors. 
 
 ' A council of the twelve elder nuns was called : I was of 
 the number. The prioress, in exaggerated colours, described 
 the offence of Agnes, and scrupled not to propose the revival 
 of this almost forgotten law. To the shame of our sex be 
 it spoken that, either so absolute was the domina's will in 
 the convent or so much had disappointment, solitude, and 
 self-denial hardened their hearts and soured their tempers, 
 this barbarous proposal was assented to by nine voices out 
 of the twelve. I was not one of the nine. Frequent 
 opportunities had convinced me of the virtues of Agnes, 
 and I loved and pitied her most sincerely. The Mothers 
 
282 THE MONK 
 
 Bertha and Cornelia joined my party ; we made the 
 strongest opposition possible, and the superior found her- 
 self compelled to change her intention. In spite of the 
 majority in her favour, she feared to break with us openly. 
 She knew that, supported by the Medina family, our forces 
 would be too strong for her to cope with ; and she also 
 knew that, after being once imprisoned, and supposed 
 dead, should Agnes be discovered, her ruin would be 
 inevitable ; she therefore gave up her design, though with 
 much reluctance. She demanded some days to reflect upon 
 a mode of punishment which might be agreeable to the 
 whole community ; and she promised, that as soon as her 
 resolution was fixed, the same council should be again 
 summoned. Two days passed away ; on the evening of 
 the third it was announced, that on the next day Agnes 
 should be examined ; and that, according to her behaviour 
 onthatoccasion,herpunishmentshould be eitherstrengthened 
 or mitigated. 
 
 " On the night preceding this examination, I stole to the 
 cell of Agnes, at an hour when I supposed the other nuns 
 to be buried in sleep. I comforted her to the best of my 
 power ; I bade her take courage, told her to rely upon the 
 support of her friends, and taught her certain signs, by 
 which I might instruct her to answer the domina's ques- 
 tions by an assent or negative. Conscious that her enemy 
 would strive to confuse, embarrass, and daunt her, I feared 
 her being ensnared into some confession prejudicial to her 
 interest. Being anxious to keep my visit secret, I staid 
 with Agnes but a short time. I bade her not to let her 
 spirits be cast down. I mingled my tears with those which 
 streamed down her cheek, embraced her fondly, and was 
 on the point of retiring, when I heard the sound of steps 
 approaching the cell. I started back. A curtain which 
 veiled a large crucifix offered me a retreat, and I hastened 
 to place myself behind it. The door opened. The prioress 
 entered, followed by four other nuns. They advanced 
 towards the bed of Agnes. The superior reproached her 
 with her errors in the bitterest terms. She told her, that 
 she was a disgrace to the convent, that she was resolved to 
 deliver the world and herself from such a monster, and 
 commanded her to drink the contents of a goblet now 
 presented to her by one of the nuns. Aware of the fatal 
 properties of the liquor, and trembling to find herself upon 
 
CHAPTER X 283 
 
 the brink of eternity, the unhappy girl strove to excite the 
 domina's pity by the most affecting prayers. She sued 
 for life in terms which might have melted the heart of a 
 fiend. She promised to submit patiently to any punish- 
 ment, to shame, imprisonment, and torture, might she but 
 be permitted to live ! — oh, might she but live another 
 month, or week, or day ! Her merciless enemy listened to 
 her complaints unmoved : she told her, that at first she 
 meant to have spared her life, and that, if she had altered 
 her intention, she bad to thank the opposition of her 
 friends. She continued to insist upon her swallowing the 
 poison : she bade her recommend herself to the Almighty's 
 mercy, not to hers ; and assured her that in an hour she 
 would be numbered with the dead. Perceiving that it was 
 vain to implore this unfeeling woman, she attempted to 
 spring from her bed, and call for assistance : she hoped, if 
 she could not escape the fate announced to her, at least to 
 have witnesses of the violence committed. The prioress 
 guessed her design : she seized her forcibly by the arm, 
 and pushed her back upon her pillow ; at the same time 
 drawing a dagger, and placing it at the breast of the 
 unfortunate Agnes, she protested that if she uttered a 
 single cry, or hesitated a single moment to drink the 
 poison, she would pierce her heart that instant. Already 
 half dead with fear, she could make no further resistance. 
 The nun approached with the fatal goblet; the domina 
 obliged her to take it, and swallow the contents. She 
 drank, and the horrid deed was accomplished. The nuns 
 then seated themselves round the bed ; they answered her 
 groans with reproaches — they interrupted with sarcasms 
 the prayers in which she recommended her parting soul to 
 mercy — they threatened her with Heaven's vengeance, and 
 eternal perdition — they bade her despair of pardon, and 
 strewed with yet sharper thorns death's painful pillow. 
 Such were the sufferings of this young unfortunate, till 
 released by fate from the malice of her tormentors. She 
 expired in horror of the past — in fears for the future ; and 
 her agonies were such as must have amply gratified the 
 hate and vengeance of her enemies. As soon as her victim 
 ceased to breathe, the domina retired, and was followed by 
 her accomplices. 
 
 ' It was now that I ventured from my concealment. I 
 dared not to assist my unhappy friend, aware that without 
 
284 THE MONK 
 
 preserving her, I should only have brought on myself the 
 same destruction. Shocked and terrified beyond expression 
 at this horrid scene, scarcely had I sufficient strength to 
 regain my cell. As I reached the door of that of Agnes, I 
 ventured to look towards the bed on which lay her lifeless 
 body, once so lovely and so sweet. I breathed a prayer for 
 her departed spirit, and vowed to revenge her death by the 
 shame and punishment of her assassins. With danger and 
 difficulty I have kept my oath. I unwarily dropped some 
 words at the funeral of Agnes, while thrown off my guard 
 by excessive grief, which alarmed the guilty conscience of 
 the prioress. My every action was observed — my every 
 step was traced : I was instantly surrounded by the 
 superior's spies. It was long before I could find means 
 of conveying to the unhappy girl's relations an intimation 
 of my secret. It was given out that Agnes had expired 
 suddenly: this account was credited not only by her friends 
 in Madrid, but even by those within the convent. The 
 poison had left no marks upon her body ; no one suspected 
 the true cause of her death, and it remained unknown to 
 all, save the assassins and myself. 
 
 ' I have no more to say ; for what I have already said, I 
 will answer with my life. I repeat, that the prioress is a 
 murderess ; that she has driven from the world — perhaps 
 from heaven, an unfortunate, whose offence was light and 
 venial ; that she has abused the power entrusted to her 
 hands, and has been a tyrant, a barbarian, and an hypocrite, 
 I also accuse the four nuns, Violante, Camilla, Alix, and 
 Mariana, as being her accomplices, and equally criminal.' 
 
 Here St. Ursula ended her narrative. It created horror 
 and surprise throughout ; but when she related the 
 inhuman murder of Agnes, the indignation of the mob 
 was so audibly testified, that it was scarcely possible to 
 hear the conclusion. This confusion increased with every 
 moment. At length a multitude of voices exclaimed, that 
 the prioress should be given up to their fury. To this Don 
 Ramirez positively refused to consent. Even Lorenzo bade 
 the people remember, that she had undergone no trial, and 
 advised them to leave her punishment to the Inquisition. 
 All representations were fruitless ; the disturbance grew 
 still more violent, and the populace more exasperated. In 
 vain did Ramirez attempt to convey his prisoner out of the 
 throng : wherever he turned, a band of rioters barred his 
 
CHAPTER X 285 
 
 passage, and demanded her being delivered over to them 
 more loudly than before. Ramirez ordered his attendants 
 to cut their way through the multitude. Oppressed by- 
 numbers, it was impossible to draw their swords. He 
 threatened the mob with the vengeance of the Inquisition : 
 but in this moment of popular frenzy, even this dreadful 
 name had lost its effect. Though regret for his sister made 
 him look upon the prioress, Lorenzo could not help pitying 
 a woman in a situation so terrible : but in spite of all his 
 exertions, and those of the duke, of Don Ramirez and the 
 archers, the people continued to press onwards. They 
 forced a passage through the guards who protected their 
 destined victim, dragged her from her shelter, and pro- 
 ceeded to take upon her a most] summary and cruel 
 vengeance. Wild with terror, and scarcely knowing what 
 she said, the wretched woman shrieked for a moment's 
 mercy : she protested that she was innocent of the death 
 of Agnes, and could clear herself from the suspicion beyond 
 the power of doubt. The rioters heeded nothing but the 
 gratification of their barbarous vengeance. They refused 
 to listen to her : they showed her every sort of insult, 
 loaded her with mud and filth, and called her by the most 
 opprobrious appellations. They^tore her one from another, 
 and each new tormenter was more savage than the former. 
 They stifled with howls and execrations her shrill cries for 
 mercy, and dragged her through the streets, spurning her, 
 trampling her, and treating her with every species of 
 cruelty which hate or vindictive fury could invent. At 
 length, a flint, aimed by some well-directing hand, struck 
 her full upon the temple. She sank upon the ground 
 bathed in blood, and in a few minutes terminated her 
 miserable existence. Yet, though she no longer felt their 
 insults, the rioters still exercised their impotent rage upon 
 her lifeless body. They beat it, trod upon it, and ill-used 
 it, till it became no more than a mass of flesh, unsightly, 
 shapeless, and disgusting. 
 
 Unable to prevent this shocking event, Lorenzo and his 
 friends had beheld it with the utmost horror ; but they 
 were roused from their compelled inactivity on hearing 
 that the mob were attacking the convent of St. Clare. 
 The incensed populace, confounding the innocent with the 
 guilty, had resolved to sacrifice all the nuns of that order 
 to their rage, and not to leave one stone of the building 
 
286 . THE MONK 
 
 upon another. Alarmed at this intelligence, they hastened 
 to the convent, resolved to defend it if possible, or at least 
 to rescue the inhabitants from the fury of the rioters. 
 Most of the nuns had fled, but a few still remained in 
 their habitation. Their situation was truly dangerous. 
 However, as they had taken the precaution of fastening 
 the inner gates, with this assistance Lorenzo hoped to repel 
 the mob, till Don Ramirez should return to him with a more 
 sufficient force. 
 
 Having been conducted by the former disturbance to the 
 distance of some streets from the convent, he did not 
 immediately reach it. When he arrived, the throng sur- 
 rounding it was so excessive as to prevent his approaching 
 the gates. In the interim, the populace besieged the 
 building with persevering rage : they battered the walls, 
 threw lighted torches in at the windows, and swore that 
 by break of day not a nun of St. Clare's order should be 
 left alive. Lorenzo had just succeeded in piercing his way 
 through the crowd, when one of the gates was forced open; 
 the rioters poured into the interior part of the building, 
 where they exercised their vengeance upon everything 
 which found itself in their passage. They broke the 
 furniture into pieces, tore down the pictures, destroyed 
 the relics, and in their hatred of her servant, forgot all 
 respect to the saint. Some employed themselves in 
 searching out the nuns, others in pulling down parts of 
 convent, and others again in setting fire to the pictures 
 and valuable furniture which it contained. These latter 
 produced the most decisive desolation. Iiideed the conse- 
 quences of their action were more sudden than themselves 
 had expected or wished. The flames rising from the 
 burning piles caught part of the building, which being 
 old and dry, the conflagration spread with rapidity from 
 room to room. The walls were soon shaken by the 
 devouring element : the columns gave way, the roofs 
 came tumbling down upon the rioters, and crushed many 
 of them beneath their weight. Nothing was to be heard 
 but shrieks and groans. The convent was wrapped in 
 flames, and the whole presented a scene of devastation 
 and horror. 
 
 Lorenzo was shocked at having been the cause, however 
 innocent, of this frightful disturbance ; he endeavoured to 
 repair his fault by protecting the helpless inhabitants of 
 
CHAPTER X 287 
 
 the convent. He entered it with the mob, and exerted 
 himself to repress the prevailing fury, till the sudden and 
 alarming progress of the flames compelled him to provide 
 for his own safety. The people now hurried out as eagerly 
 as they had before thronged in; but their numbers 
 clogging up the doorway, and the fire gaining upon them 
 rapidly, many of them perished ere they had time to effect 
 their escape. Lorenzo's good fortune directed him to a 
 small door in a farther aisle of the chapel. The bolt was 
 already undrawn : he opened the door, and found himself 
 at the foot of St. Clare's sepulchre. 
 
 Here he stopped to breathe. The duke and some of his 
 attendants had followed him, and thus were in security for 
 the present. They now consulted what steps they should 
 take to escape from this scene of disturbance ; but their 
 deliberations were considerably interrupted by the sight of 
 volumes of fire rising from amidst the convent's massy 
 walls, by the noise of some heavy arch tumbling down 
 in ruins, or by the mingled shrieks of the nuns and 
 rioters, either suffocating in the press, perishing in 
 the flames, or crushed beneath the weight of the falling 
 mansion. 
 
 Lorenzo inquired whither the wicket led ? He was 
 answered, to the garden of the Capuchins; and it was 
 resolved to explore an outlet upon that side. Accordingly 
 the duke raised the latch, and passed into the adjoining 
 cemetery. The attendants followed without ceremonyi 
 Lorenzo being the last, was also on the point of quitting 
 the colonnade, when he saw the door of the sepulchre 
 opened softly. Someone looked out, but on perceiving 
 strangers, uttered a loud shriek, started back again, and 
 flew down the marble stairs. 
 
 ' What can this mean ? ' cried Lorenzo ; ' here is some 
 mystery concealed. Follow me without delay ! ' 
 
 Thus saying, he hastened into the sepulchre, and pursued 
 the person, who continued to fly before him. The duke 
 knew not the cause of this exclamation, but supposing that 
 he had good reasons for it, followed him without hesitation. 
 The others did the same, and the whole party soon arrived 
 at the foot of the stairs. The upper door having been left 
 open, the neighbouring flames darted from above a sufficient 
 light to enable Lorenzo's catching a glance of the fugitive 
 running through the long passages and distant vaults ; but 
 
288 THE MONK 
 
 when a sudden turn deprived him of this assistance, total 
 darkness succeeded, and he could only trace the object of 
 his inquiry by the faint echo of retiring feet. The pursuers 
 were now compelled to proceed with caution: as well as 
 they could judge, the fugitive also seemed to slacken pace, 
 for they heard the steps follow each other at longer 
 intervals. They at length were bewildered by the 
 labyrinth of passages, and dispersed in various directions. 
 Carried away by his eagerness to clear up this mystery, 
 and to penetrate into which he was impelled by a move- 
 ment secret and unaccountable, Lorenzo heeded not this 
 circumstance till he found himself in total solitude. The 
 noise of footsteps had ceased, all was silent around, and no 
 clue offered itself to guide him to the flying person. He 
 stopped to reflect on the means most likely to aid his 
 pursuit. He was persuaded that no common cause would 
 have induced the fugitive to seek that dreary place at an 
 hour so unusual ; the cry which he had heard seemed 
 uttered in a voice of terror, and he was convinced that 
 some mystery was attached to this event. After some 
 minutes passed in hesitation, he continued to proceed, 
 feeling his way along the walls of the passage. He had 
 already passed some time in this slow progress, when he 
 descried a spark of light glimmering at a distance. Guided 
 by this observation, and having drawn his sword, he bent 
 his steps towards the place whence the beam seemed to be 
 emitted. 
 
 It proceeded from the lamp which flamed before St. 
 Clare's statue. Before it stood several females, their white 
 garments streaming in the blast, as it howled along the 
 vaulted dungeons. Curious to know what had brought 
 them together in this melancholy spot, Lorenzo drew near 
 with precaution. The strangers seemed earnestly engaged 
 in conversation. They heard not Lorenzo's steps, and he 
 approached unobserved, till he could hear their voices 
 distinctly. 
 
 ' I protest ', continued she who was speaking when he 
 arrived, and to whom the rest were listening with great 
 attention, ' I protest that I saw them with my own eyes. 
 I flew down the steps, they pursued me, and I escaped 
 falling into their hands with difficulty. Had it not been 
 for the lamp, I should never have found you.' 
 
 ' And what could bring them hither ? ' said another, in 
 
CHAPTER X 289 
 
 a trembling voice ; ' do you think that they were looking 
 for us ? ' 
 
 ' God grant that my fears may be false ! ' rejoined the 
 first ; • but I doubt they are murderers ! If they discover 
 us, we are lost ! As for me, my fate is certain. My affinity 
 to the prioress will be a sufficient crime to condemn me ; 
 and though till now these vaults have afforded me a 
 retreat — ' 
 
 Here looking up, her eye fell upon Lorenzo, who bad 
 continued to approach slowly. 
 
 ' The murderers ! ' she cried. 
 
 She started away from the statue's pedestal, on which 
 she had been seated, and attempted to escape by flight. 
 Her companions at the same moment uttered a terrified 
 scream, while Lorenzo arrested the fugitive by the arm. 
 Frightened and desperate, she sank upon her knees before 
 him. 
 
 ' Spare me ! ' she exclaimed ; ' for Christ's sake, spare me ! 
 I am innocent — indeed I am ! ' 
 
 While she spoke, her voice was almost choked with fear. 
 The beams of the lamp darting full upon her face, which 
 was unveiled, Lorenzo recognized the beautiful Virginia de 
 Villa Franca. He hastened to raise her from the ground, 
 and besought her to take courage. He promised to protect 
 her from the rioters, assured her that her retreat was still 
 a secret, and that she might depend upon his readiness to 
 defend her to the last drop of his blood. During this con- 
 versation, the nuns had thrown themselves into various 
 attitudes : one knelt, and addressed herself to Heaven ; 
 another hid her face in the lap of her neighbour ; some 
 listened motionless with fear to the discourse of the 
 supposed assassin ; while others embraced the statue of 
 St. Clare, and implored her protection with frantic cries. 
 On perceiving their mistake, they crowded round Lorenzo, 
 and heaped benedictions on him by dozens. He found that, 
 on hearing the threats of the mob, and terrified by the 
 cruelties which from the convent towers they had seen 
 inflicted on the superior, many of the pensioners and nuns 
 had taken refuge in the sepulchre. Among the former was 
 to be reckoned the lovely Virginia ; nearly related to the 
 prioress, she had more reason than the rest to dread the 
 rioters, and now besought Lorenzo earnestly not to abandon 
 her to their rage. Her companions, most of whom were 
 
290 THE MONK 
 
 women of noble family, made the same request, which he 
 readily granted : he promised not to quit them till he had 
 seen each of them safe in the arms of her relations ; but he 
 advised their deferring to quit the sepulchre for some time 
 longer, when the popular fury should be somewhat calmed, 
 and the arrival of military force have dispersed the 
 multitude. 
 
 ' Would to God ', cried Virginia, ' that I were already 
 safe in my mother's embraces ! How say you, Segnor ? 
 Will it be long ere we may leave this place ? Every 
 moment that I pass here, I pass in torture.' 
 
 ' I hope, not long ', said he ; ' but till you can proceed 
 with security, this sepulchre will prove an impenetrable 
 asylum. Here you run no risk of a discovery, and I would 
 advise your remaining quiet for the next two or three 
 hours.' 
 
 ' Two or three hours ! ' exclaimed Sister Helena ; ' if I 
 stay another hour in this vault, I shall expire with fear. 
 Not the wealth of worlds should bribe me to undergo again 
 what I have suffered since my coming hither. Blessed 
 Virgin ! — to be in this melancholy place in the middle of 
 night, surrounded by the mouldering bodies of my deceased 
 companions, and expecting every moment to be torn in 
 pieces by their ghosts, who wander about me, and complain, 
 and groan, and wail in accents that make my blood run 
 cold ! Christ Jesus ! it is enough to drive me to 
 madness ! ' 
 
 ' Excuse me ', replied Lorenzo, ' if I am surprised that, 
 while menaced by real woes, you are capable of yielding to 
 imaginary dangers. These terrors are puerile and ground- 
 less : combat them, holy sister. I have promised to guard 
 you from the rioters, but against the attacks of superstition 
 you must depend for protection upon yourself. The idea 
 of ghosts is ridiculous in the extreme : and if you continue 
 to be swayed by ideal terrors — ' 
 
 ' Ideal ! ' exclaimed the nuns with one voice ; ' why, we 
 heard it ourselves, Segnor — everyone of us heard it ! It 
 was frequently repeated, and it sounded every time more 
 melancholy and deep. You will never persuade me that 
 we could all have been deceived. Not we, indeed ; no, no : 
 had the noise been merely created by fancy — ' 
 
 ' Hark ! hark ! ' interrupted Virginia, in a voice of terror. 
 ' God preserve us ! there it is again.' 
 
CHAPTER X 291 
 
 The nuns clasped their hands together, and sank upon 
 their knees. Lorenzo looked round him eagerly, and was 
 on the point of yielding to the fears which already had 
 possessed the women. Universal silence prevailed. He 
 examined the vault, but nothing was to be seen. He now 
 prepared to address the nuns, and ridicule their childish 
 apprehensions, when his attention was arrested by a deep 
 and long-drawn groan. 
 
 ' What was that ? ' he cried, and started. 
 
 ' There, Segnor ! ' said Helena ; ' now you must be 
 convinced. You have heard the noise yourself; now 
 judge whether our terrors are imaginary. Since we have 
 been here, that groaning has been repeated almost every 
 five minutes. Doubtless it proceeds from some soul in 
 pain, who wishes to be prayed out of purgatory : but none 
 of us dare ask it the question. As for me, were I to see an 
 apparition, the fright, I am very certain, would kill me out 
 of hand.' 
 
 As she said this, a second groan was heard yet more 
 distinctly. The nuns crossed themselves, and hastened to 
 repeat their prayers against evil spirits. Lorenzo listened 
 attentively. He even thought that he could distinguish 
 sounds, as of one speaking in complaint, but distance 
 rendered them inarticulate. The noise seemed to come 
 from the midst of the small vault in which he and the 
 nuns then were, and which a multitude of passages branch- 
 ing out in various directions formed into a sort of star. 
 Lorenzo's curiosity, which was ever awake, made him 
 anxious to solve this mystery. He desired that silence 
 might be kept. The nuns obeyed him. All was hushed, 
 till the general stillness was again disturbed by the groan- 
 ing, which was repeated several times successively. He 
 perceived it to be most audible, when, upon following the 
 sound, he was conducted close to the shrine of St. Clare. 
 
 ' The noise comes from hence ', said he ; ' whose is this 
 statue ? ' 
 
 Helena, to whom he addressed the question, paused for 
 a moment. Suddenly she clapped her hands together. 
 ' Aye 1 ' cried she, ' it must be so. I have discovered the 
 meaning of these groans.' 
 
 The nuns crowded round her, and besought her eagerly, 
 to explain herself. She gravely replied, that for time 
 immemorial the statue had been famous for performing 
 
292 THE MONK 
 
 miracles. From this she inferred, that the saint was 
 concerned at the conflagration of a convent which she 
 protected, and expressed her grief by audible lamentations. 
 Not having equal faith in the miraculous saint, Lorenzo 
 did not think this solution of the mystery quite so satisfac- 
 tory as the nuns, who subscribed to it without hesitation. 
 In one point, 'tis true, that he agreed with Helena. He 
 suspected that the groans proceeded from the statue : the 
 more he listened, the more was he confirmed in this idea. 
 He drew nearer to the image, designing to inspect it more 
 closely ; but perceiving his intention, the nuns besought 
 him for God's sake to desist, since, if he touched the statue, 
 his death was inevitable. 
 
 ' And in what consists the danger ? ' said he. 
 ' Mother of God, in what ? ' replied Helena, ever eager to 
 relate a miraculous adventure ; ' if you had only heard the 
 hundredth part of those marvellous stories . about this 
 statue, which the domina used to recount ! She assured us 
 often and often, that, if we only dared to lay a finger upon 
 it, we might expect the most fatal consequences. Among 
 other things, she told us that a robber having entered these 
 vaults by night, he observed yonder ruby, whose value is 
 inestimable. Do you see it, Segnor ? it sparkles upon the 
 third finger of the hand in which she holds a crown of 
 thorns. This jewel naturally excited the villain's cupidity : 
 he resolved to make himself master of it. For this purpose 
 he ascended the pedestal ; he supported himself by grasping 
 the saint's right arm, and extended his own towards the 
 ring. What was his surprise, when he saw the statue's 
 hand raised in a posture of menace, and heard her lips 
 pronounce his eternal perdition ! Penetrated with awe 
 and consternation, he desisted from his attempt, and 
 prepared to quit the sepulchre. In this he also failed. 
 Flight was denied him. He found it impossible to dis- 
 engage the hand which rested upon the right arm of the 
 statue. In vain did he struggle ; he remained fixed to 
 the image, till the insupportable and fiery anguish which 
 darted itself through his veins compelled his shrieking for 
 assistance. The sepulchre was now filled with spectators. 
 The villain confessed his sacrilege, and was only released 
 by the separation of his hand from his body. It has 
 remained ever since fastened to the image. The robber 
 turned hermit, and led ever after an exemplary life. But 
 
CHAPTER X 293 
 
 yet the saint's decree was performed ; and tradition says, 
 that he continues to haunt this sepulchre, and implores St. 
 Clare's pardon with groans and lamentations. Now I think 
 of it, those which we have just heard may very possibly 
 have been uttered by the ghost of this sinner : but of this 
 I will not be positive. All that I can say is, that since 
 that time no one has ever dared to touch the statue. Then 
 do not be foolhardy, good Segnor ! For the love of Heaven 
 give up your design, nor expose yourself unnecessarily to 
 certain destruction ! ' 
 
 Not being convinced that this destruction would be so 
 certain as Helena seemed to think it, Lorenzo persisted in 
 his resolution. The nuns besought him to desist, in piteous 
 terms, and even pointed out the robber's hand, which was 
 in effect still visible upon the arm of the statue. This 
 proof, as they imagined, must convince him. It was very 
 far from doing so ; and they were greatly scandalized, 
 when he declared his suspicion that the dried and 
 shrivelled fingers had been placed there by order of the 
 prioress. In spite of their prayers and threats, he 
 approached the statue. He sprang over the iron rails 
 which defended it, and the saint underwent a thorough 
 examination. The image at first appeared to be of stone, 
 but proved on further inspection to be formed of no more 
 solid materials than coloured wood. He shook it, and 
 attempted to move it ; but it appeared to be of a piece 
 with the base which it stood upon. He examined it over 
 and over ; still no clue guided him to the solution of this 
 mystery, for which the nuns were become equally solicitous, 
 when they saw that he touched the statue with impunity. 
 He paused, and listened : the groans were repeated at 
 intervals, and he was convinced of being in the spot 
 nearest to them. He mused upon this singular event, and 
 ran over the statue with inquiring eyes. Suddenly they 
 rested upon the shrivelled hand. It struck him, that so 
 particular an injunction was not given without cause, 
 not to touch the arm of the image. He again ascended 
 the pedestal ; he examined the object of his attention, and 
 discovered a small knob of iron concealed between the 
 saint's shoulder and what was supposed to have been the 
 hand of the robber. This observation delighted him. He 
 applied his fingers to the knob, and pressed it down forcibly. 
 Immediately a rumbling noise was heard within the statue, 
 
294 THE MONK 
 
 as if a chain tightly stretched was flying back. Startled 
 at the sound, the timid nuns started away, prepared to 
 hasten from the vault at the first appearance of danger. 
 All remaining quiet and still, they again gathered round 
 Lorenzo, and beheld his proceedings with anxious curiosity. 
 
 Finding that nothing followed this discovery, he 
 descended. As he took his hand from the saint, she 
 trembled beneath his touch. This created new terrors in 
 the spectators, who believed the statue to be animated. 
 Lorenzo's ideas upon the subject were widely different. 
 He easily comprehended that the noise which he had 
 heard was occasioned by his having loosened a chain 
 which attached the image to its pedestal. He once more 
 attempted to move it, and succeeded without much 
 exertion. He placed it upon the ground, and then 
 perceived the pedestal to be hollow, and covered at the 
 opening with a heavy iron grate. 
 
 This excited such general curiosity, that the Sisters forgot 
 both their real and imaginary dangers. Lorenzo proceeded 
 to raise the grate, in which the nuns assisted him to the 
 utmost of their strength. The attempt was accomplished 
 with little difficulty. A deep abyss now presented itself 
 before them, whose thick obscurity the eye strove in vain 
 to pierce. The rays of the lamp were too feeble to be of 
 much assistance. Nothing was discernible, save a flight of 
 rough, unshapen steps, which sank into the yawning gulf, 
 and were soon lost in darkness. The groans were heard 
 no more ; but all believed them to have ascended from this 
 cavern. As he bent over it, Lorenzo fancied that he 
 distinguished something bright twinkling through the 
 gloom. He gazed attentively upon the spot where it 
 showed itself, and was convinced that he saw a small spark 
 of light, now visible, now disappearing. He communicated 
 this circumstance to the nuns : they also perceived the 
 spark ; but when he declared his intention to descend into 
 the cave, they united to oppose his resolution. All their 
 remonstrances could not prevail on him to alter it. None 
 of them had courage enough to accompany him ; neither 
 could he think of depriving them of the lamp. Alone, 
 therefore, and in darkness, he prepared to pursue his 
 design, while the nuns were contented to offer up prayers 
 for his success and safety. 
 
 The steps were so narrow and uneven, that to descend 
 
CHAPTER X 295 
 
 them was like walking down the side of a precipice. The 
 obscurity by which he was surrounded rendered his footing 
 insecure. He was obliged to proceed with great caution, 
 lest he should miss the steps, and fall into the gulf below 
 him. This he was several times on the point of doing. 
 However, he arrived sooner upon solid ground than he had 
 expected. He now found that the thick darkness and 
 impenetrable mists which reigned through the cavern had 
 deceived him into the belief of its being much more pro- 
 found than it proved upon inspection. He reached the 
 foot of the stairs unhurt: he now stopped, and looked 
 round for the spark which had before caught his attention. 
 He sought in vain : all was dark and gloomy. He listened 
 for the groans; but his ear caught no sound except the 
 distant murmur of the nuns above, as in low voices they 
 repeated their Ave-Marias. He stood irresolute to which 
 side he should address his steps. At all events, he deter- 
 mined to proceed : he did so, but slowly, fearful lest, 
 instead of approaching, he should be retiring from the 
 object of his search. The groans seemed to announce one 
 in pain, or at least in sorrow, and he hoped to have the 
 power of relieving the mourner's calamities. A plaintive 
 tone, sounding at no great distance, at length reached his 
 hearing : he bent his course joyfully towards it. It became 
 more audible as he advanced; and he soon beheld again 
 the spark of light, which a low projecting wall had hitherto 
 concealed from him. 
 
 It proceeded from a small lamp which was placed on a 
 heap of stones, and whose faint and melancholy rays served 
 rather to point out than dispel the horrors of a narrow 
 gloomy dungeon, formed in one side of the cavern ; it also 
 showed several other recesses of similar construction, 
 but whose depth was buried in obscurity. Coldly played 
 the light upon the damp walls, whose dew-stained surface 
 gave back a feeble reflection. A thick and pestilential fog 
 clouded the height of the vaulted dungeon. As Lorenzo 
 advanced, he felt a piercing chillness spread itself through 
 his veins. The frequent groans still engaged him to move 
 forwards. He turned towards them, and by the lamp's 
 glimmering beams beheld, in a corner of this loathsome 
 abode, a creature stretched upon a bed of straw, so wretched, 
 so emaciated, so pale, that he doubted to think her woman, 
 She was half naked : her long dishevelled hair fell in dis- 
 
296 THE MONK 
 
 order over her face, and almost entirely concealed it. One 
 wasted arm hung listlessly upon a tattered rug, which 
 covered her convulsed and shivering limhs : the other was 
 wrapped round a small bundle, and held it closely to her 
 bosom. A large rosary lay near her : opposite to her was 
 a crucifix, on which she bent her sunk eyes fixedly ; and by 
 her side stood a basket and a small earthen pitcher. 
 
 Lorenzo stopped ; he was petrified with horror. He 
 gazed upon the miserable object with disgust and pity. 
 He trembled at the spectacle ; he grew sick at heart : his 
 strength failed him, and his limbs were unable to support 
 his weight. He was obliged to lean against the low wall 
 which was near him, unable to go forward or to address 
 the sufferer. She cast her eyes towards the staircase ; the 
 wall concealed Lorenzo, and she observed him not. 
 
 ' No one comes ! ' she at length murmured. 
 
 As she spoke, her voice was hollow, and rattled in her 
 throat ; she sighed bitterly. 
 
 ' No one comes ! ' she repeated ; ' no, they have forgotten 
 me ! They will come no more ! ' 
 
 She paused for a moment ; then continued mournfully : 
 ' Two days ! Two long, long days, and yet no food ! 
 And yet no hope, no comfort ! Foolish woman ! How 
 can I wish to lengthen a life so wretched ? Yet such a 
 death ! Oh God, to perish by such a death ! To linger 
 out such ages in torture ! Till now, I knew not what it 
 was to hunger ! Hark ! — No ! no one comes : they will 
 come no more ! ' 
 
 She was silent. She shivered, and drew the rug over 
 her naked shoulders. 
 
 " I am very cold ; I am still unused to the damps of this 
 dungeon. 'Tis strange ! But no matter ; colder shall I 
 soon be, and yet not feel it. I shall be cold, cold as thou 
 art ! ' 
 
 She looked at the bundle, which lay upon her breast. 
 She bent over it, and kissed it : then drew back hastily, 
 and shuddered with disgust. 
 
 ' It was once so sweet ! It would have been so lovely, 
 so like him ! I have lost it for ever ! How a few days 
 have changed it ! I should not know it again myself. 
 Yet it is dear to me — God ! how dear ! I will forget 
 what it is — I will only remember what it was, and love 
 it as well as when it was so sweet ! so lovely ! so like 
 
CHAPTER X 297 
 
 him !^ I thought that I had wept away all my tears, but 
 here is one still lingering.' 
 
 She wiped her eyes with a tress of her hair. She put 
 out her hand for the pitcher, and reached it with difficulty. 
 She cast into it a look of hopeless inquiry. She sighed, 
 and replaced it upon the ground. 
 
 ' Quite a void ! Not a drop ! — not one drop left to 
 cool my scorched-up burning palate! Now would I give 
 treasures for a draught of water ! — And they are God's 
 servants who make me suffer thus ! They think themselves 
 holy, while they torture me like fiends ! They are cruel * 
 and unfeeling : and 'tis they who bid me repent ; and 'tis 
 they who threaten me with eternal perdition ! Saviour ! 
 Saviour ! you think not so ! ' 
 
 She again fixed her eyes upon the crucifix, took her 
 rosary, and, while she told her beads, the quick motion of 
 her lips declared her to be praying with fervency. 
 
 While he listened to her melancholy accents, Lorenzo's 
 sensibility became yet more violently affected. The first 
 sight of such misery had given a sensible shock to his 
 feelings; but that being past, he now advanced towards 
 the captive. She heard his steps, and uttering a cry of 
 ioy, dropped the rosary. 
 
 ' Hark ! hark ! hark ! ' she cried ; ' someone comes ! ' 
 
 She strove to raise herself, but her strength was unequal 
 to the attempt ; she fell back, and as she sank again upon 
 the bed of straw, Lorenzo heard the rattling of heavy 
 chains. He still approached, while the prisoner thus 
 continued : 'Is it you, Camilla ? You are come then at 
 last ! Oh, it was time ! I thought that you had forsaken 
 me ; that I was doomed to perish of hunger. Give me to 
 drink, Camilla, for pity's sake ! I am faint with long 
 fasting, and grown so weak that I cannot raise myself 
 from the ground. Good Camilla, give me to drink, lest I 
 expire before you.' 
 
 Fearing that surprise in her enfeebled state might be 
 fatal, Lorenzo was at a loss how to address her. 
 
 ' It is not Camilla ', said he at length, speaking in a slow 
 and gentle voice. 
 
 ' Who is it then ? ' replied the sufferer ; ' Alix, perhaps, 
 or Violante ? My eyes are grown so dim and feeble that I 
 cannot distinguish your features; but, whichever it is, if 
 your breast is sensible of the least compassion, if you are 
 
298 THE MONK 
 
 not more cruel than wolves and tigers, take pity on my 
 sufferings. You know that I am dying for want of 
 sustenance. This is the third day since these lips have 
 received nourishment. Do you bring me food ? Or come 
 you only to announce my death, and learn how long I have 
 yet to exist in agony ? ' 
 
 ' You mistake my business ', replied Lorenzo ; ' I am no 
 emissary of the cruel prioress. I pity your sorrows, and 
 come hither to relieve them.' 
 
 ' To relieve them ? ' repeated the captive ; ' said you to 
 relieve them ? ' 
 
 At the same time starting from the ground, and support- 
 ing herself upon her hands, she gazed upon the stranger 
 earnestly. 
 
 ■ ' Great God ! Is it no illusion ? A man ! Speak ! 
 Who are you ? What brings you hither ? Come you to 
 save me, to restore me to liberty, to life and light ? Oh, 
 speak ! speak quickly, lest I encourage a hope whose 
 disappointment will destroy me ! ' 
 
 ' Be calm ! ' replied Lorenzo, in a voice soothing and 
 compassionate ; ' the domina, of whose cruelty you complain, 
 has already paid the forfeit of her offences ; you have 
 nothing more to fear from her. A few minutes will 
 restore you to liberty and the embraces of your friends, 
 from whom you have been secluded. You may rely upon 
 my protection. Give me your hand, and be not fearful. 
 Let me conduct you where you may receive those attentions 
 which your feeble state requires.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, yes, yes ! ' cried the prisoner, with an exulting 
 shriek ; ' there is God, then, and a just one ! Joy ! joy ! I 
 shall once more breathe the fresh air, and view the light 
 of the glorious sunbeams ! I will go with you, stranger ! 
 I will go with you ! Oh ! Heaven will bless you for pitying 
 an unfortunate ! But this, too, must go with me ', she 
 added, pointing to the small bundle, which she still clasped 
 to her bosom, ' I cannot part with this. I will bear it 
 away: it shall convince the world how dreadful are the 
 abodes so falsely termed religious. Good stranger, lend 
 me your hand to rise ; I am faint with want, and sorrow, 
 and sickness, and my strength has quite forsaken me ! So, 
 that is well ! ' 
 
 As Lorenzo stooped to raise her, the beams of the lamp 
 struck full upon his face, 
 
CHAPTER X 299 
 
 ' Almighty God ! ' she exclaimed ; ' is it possible ? — That 
 look ! those features ! — Oh, yes ! it is, it is — ' 
 
 She extended her arms to throw them round him, but 
 her enfeebled frame was unable to sustain the emotions 
 which agitated her bosom. She fainted, and again sank 
 upon the bed of straw. 
 
 Lorenzo was surprised at her last exclamation. He 
 thought that he had before heard such accents as her 
 hollow voice had just formed ; but where, he could not 
 remember. He saw, that in her dangerous situation 
 immediate physical aid was absolutely necessary, and he 
 hastened te convey her from the dungeon. He was at first 
 prevented from doing so by a strong chain fastened round 
 the prisoner's body, and fixing her to the neighbouring 
 wall. However, his natural strength being aided by 
 anxiety to relieve the unfortunate, he soon forced out the 
 staple to which one end of the chain was attached : then 
 taking the captive in his arms, he bent his course towards 
 the staircase. The rays of the lamp above, as well as the 
 murmur of female voices, guided his steps. He gained the 
 stairs, and in a few minutes after arrived at the iron 
 grate. 
 
 The nuns, during his absence, had been terribly tormented 
 by curiosity and apprehension. They were equally sur- 
 prised and delighted on seeing him suddenly emerge from 
 the cave. Every heart was filled with compassion for the 
 miserable creature whom he bore in his arms. While the 
 nuns, and Virginia in particular, employed themselves in 
 striving to recall her to her senses, Lorenzo related in few 
 words the manner of his finding her. He then observed to 
 them, that by this time the tumult must have been quelled, 
 and that he could now conduct them to their friends with- 
 out danger. All were eager to quit the sepulchre. Still, 
 to prevent all possibility of ill-usage, they besought 
 Lorenzo to venture out first alone, and examine whether 
 the coast was clear. With this request he complied. 
 Helena offered to conduct him to the staircase ; and they 
 were on the point of departing, when a strong light flashed 
 from several passages upon the adjacent walls. At the 
 same time, steps were heard of people approaching hastily, } 
 and whose number seemed to be considerable. The nuns * 
 were greatly alarmed at this circumstance ; they supposed 
 their retreat to be discovered, and the rioters to be 
 
300 THE MONK 
 
 advancing in pursuit of them. Hastily quitting the 
 prisoner, who remained insensible, they crowded round 
 Lorenzo, and claimed his promise to protect them. 
 Virginia alone forgot her own danger by striving to 
 relieve the sorrows of another. She supported the 
 sufferer's head upon her knees, bathing her temples with 
 rose-water, chafing hef cold hands, and sprinkling her face 
 with tears which were drawn from her by compassion. 
 The strangers approaching nearer, Lorenzo was enabled 
 to dispel the fears of the suppliants. His name, pro- 
 nounced by a number of voices, among which he 
 distinguished the duke's, pealed along the vaults, and 
 convinced him that he was the object of their search. 
 He communicated this intelligence to the nuns, who 
 received it with rapture. A few moments after confirmed 
 his idea. Don Ramirez as well as the duke appeared, 
 followed by attendants with torches. They had been 
 seeking him through the vaults, in order to let him know 
 that the mob was dispersed, and the riot entirely over. 
 Lorenzo recounted briefly his adventure in the cavern, and 
 explained how much the unknown was in want of medical 
 assistance. He besought the duke to take charge of her, 
 as well as of the nuns and pensioners. 
 
 'As for me', said he, 'other cares demand my attention. 
 While you with one half of the archers convey these ladies 
 to their respective homes, I wish the other half to be left 
 with me. I will examine the cavern below, and pervade 
 the most secret recesses of the sepulchre. I cannot rest 
 till convinced that yonder wretched victim was the only 
 one confined by superstition in these vaults.' 
 
 The duke applauded his intention. Don Ramirez offered 
 to assist him in his inquiry, and his proposal was accepted 
 with gratitude. The nuns having made their acknow- 
 ledgments to Lorenzo, committed themselves to the care 
 of his uncle, and were conducted from the sepulchre. 
 Virginia requested that the unknown might be given to 
 her in charge, and promised to let Lorenzo know, whenever 
 she was sufficiently recovered to accept his visits. In truth, 
 she made this promise more from consideration for herself, 
 than for either Lorenzo or the captive. She had witnessed 
 his politeness, gentleness, and intrepidity, with sensible 
 emotion. She wished earnestly to preserve his acquaint- 
 ance ; and in addition to the sentiments of pity which the 
 
CHAPTER X 301 
 
 prisoner excited, she hoped that her attention to this 
 unfortunate would raise her a degree in the esteem of 
 Lorenzo. She had no occasion to trouble herself upon this 
 head. The kindness already displayed by her, and the 
 tender concern which she had shown for the sufferer, had 
 gained her an exalted place in his good graces. While 
 occupied in alleviating the captive's sorrows, the nature 
 of her employment adorned her with new charms, and 
 rendered her beauty a thousand times more interesting. 
 Lorenzo viewed her with admiration and delight : he con- 
 sidered her as a ministering angel descended to the aid of 
 afflicted innocence ; nor could his heart have resisted her 
 attractions, had it not been steeled by the remembrance of 
 Antonia. 
 
 The duke now conveyed the nuns in safety to the 
 dwellings of their respective friends. The rescued prisoner 
 was still insensible, and gave no signs of life, except by 
 occasional groans. She was borne upon a sort of litter. 
 Virginia, who was constantly by the side of it, was appre- 
 hensive that, exhausted by long abstinence, and shaken by 
 the sudden change from bonds and darkness to liberty and 
 light, her frame would never get the better of the shock. 
 Lorenzo and Don Ramirez still remained in the sepulchre. 
 After deliberating upon their proceedings, it was resolved 
 that, to prevent losing time, the archers should be divided 
 into two bodies : that with one, Don Ramirez should 
 examine the cavern, while Lorenzo, with the other, might 
 penetrate into the further vaults. This being arranged, 
 and his followers being provided with torches, Don Ramirez 
 advanced to the cavern. He had already descended some 
 steps, when he heard people approaching hastily from the 
 interior part of the sepulchre. This surprised him, and he 
 quitted the cave precipitately. 
 
 ' Do you hear footsteps ? ' said Lorenzo. ' Let us bend 
 our course towards them. 'Tis from this side that they 
 seem to proceed.' 
 
 At that moment a loud and piercing shriek induced him 
 to quicken his steps. 
 
 ' Help ! help ! for God's sake ! ' cried a voice, whose 
 melodious tone penetrated Lorenzo's heart with terror. 
 
 He flew towards the cry with the rapidity of lightning, 
 and was followed by Ramirez with equal swiftness. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 Great Heaven ! how frail thy creature man is made ! 
 
 How by himself insensibly betrayed ! 
 
 In our own strength unhappily secure, 
 
 Too little cautious of the adverse power, 
 
 On pleasure's flowery brink we idly stray, 
 
 Masters as yet of our returning~way : 
 
 Till the strong gusts of raging passion rise, 
 
 Till the dire tempest mingles earth and skies, 
 
 And, swift into the boundless ocean borne, 
 
 Our foolish confidence too late we mourn ! 
 
 Round our devoted heads the billows beat, 
 
 And from our troubled view the lessening lands retreat. 
 
 — Pbiok 
 
 All this while Ambrosio was unconscious of the dreadful 
 scenes which were passing so near. The execution of his 
 designs upon Antonia employed his every thought. 
 Hitherto he was satisfied with the success of his plans. 
 Antonia had drank the opiate, was buried in the vaults of 
 St. Clare, and absolutely in his disposal. Matilda, who was 
 well acquainted with the nature and effects of the soporific 
 medicine, had computed that it would not cease to operate 
 till one in the morning. For that hour he waited with 
 impatience. The festival of St. Clare presented him with a 
 favourable opportunity of consummating his crime. He 
 was certain that the friars and nuns would be engaged in 
 the procession, and that he had no cause to dread an inter- 
 ruption : from appearing himself at the head of the monks, 
 he had desired to be excused. He doubted not, that, being 
 beyond the reach of help, cut off from all the world, and 
 totally in his power, Antonia would comply with his 
 desires. The affection which she had ever expressed for 
 him warranted this persuasion : but he resolved, that should 
 she prove obstinate, no consideration whatever should pre- 
 vent him from enjoying her. Secure from a discovery, he 
 shuddered not at the idea of employing force ; or, if he felt 
 any repugnance, it arose not from a principle of shame or 
 compassion, but from his feeling for Antonia the most 
 
 302 
 
CHAPTER XI 303 
 
 sincere and ardent affection, and wishing to owe her favours 
 to no one but herself. 
 
 The monks quitted the abbey at midnight. Matilda was 
 among the choristers, and led the chant. Ambrosio was 
 left by himself, and at liberty to pursue his own inclina- 
 tions. Convinced that no one remained behind to watch 
 his motions, or disturb his pleasures, he now hastened to 
 the western aisles. His heart beating with hope not un- 
 mingled with anxiety, he crossed the garden, unlocked the 
 door which admitted him into the cemetery, and in a few 
 minutes he stood before the vaults. Here he paused : he 
 looked round him with suspicion, conscious that his business 
 was unfit for any other eye. As he stood in hesitation, he 
 heard the melancholy shriek of the screech-owl : the wind < 
 rattled loudly against the windows of the adjacent convent, i 
 and, as the current swept by him, bore with it the faint 
 notes of the chant of choristers. He opened the door 
 cautiously, as if fearing to be overheard : he entered, and 
 closed it again after him. Guided by his lamp, he threaded 
 the long passages, in whose windings Matilda had instructed 
 him, and reached the private vault which contained his 
 sleeping mistress. 
 
 Its entrance was by no means easy to discover ; but this 
 was no obstacle to Ambrosio, who at the time of Antonia's 
 funeral had observed it too carefully to be deceived. He 
 found the door, which was unfastened, pushed it open, and 
 descended into the dungeon. He approached the humble 
 tomb in which Antonia reposed. He had provided himself 
 with an iron crow and a pick-axe ; but this precaution was 
 unnecessary. The grate was slightly fastened on the out- 
 side : he raised it, and, placing the lamp upon its ridge, 
 bent silently over the tomb. By the side of three putrid i 
 half-corrupted bodies lay the sleeping beauty. A lively 
 red, the forerunner of returning animation, had already 
 spread itself over her cheeks; and, as wrapped in her 
 shroud she reclined upon her funeral bier, she seemed to 
 smile at the images of death around her. While he gazed 
 upon their rotting bones and disgusting figures, who perhaps 
 were once as sweet and lovely, Ambrosio thought upon 
 Elvira, by him reduced to the same state. As the memory 
 of that horrid act glanced upon his mind, it was clouded 
 with a gloomy horror ; yet it served but to strengthen his 
 resolution to destroy Antonia's honour. 
 
304 THE MONK 
 
 ' For your sake, fatal beauty ', murmured the monk, while 
 gazing on his devoted prey, 'for your sake have I com- 
 mitted this murder and soLi myself to eternal tortures. 
 Now you are jn my poweif the produce of my guilt will 
 at least be mineS Hope not that your prayers breathed in 
 tones of unequalled melody, your bright eyes filled with 
 tears, and your hands lifted in supplication, as when seek- 
 ing in penitence the Virgin's pardon — hope not that your 
 moving innocence, your beauteous grief, or all your suppliant 
 arts, shall ransom you from my embraces. Before the 
 break of day, mine you must, and mine you shall be ! ' 
 
 He lifted her, still motionless, from the tomb : he seated 
 himself upon a bank of stone, and, supporting her in his 
 arms, watched impatiently for the symptoms of returning 
 animation. Scarcely could he command his passion suffici- 
 ently to restrain himself from enjoying her while yet 
 insensible. His natural lust was increased in ardour by 
 the difficulties which had opposed his satisfying it, as also 
 by his long abstinence from woman; since, from the 
 moment of resigning her claim to his love, Matilda had 
 exiled him from her arms for ever. 
 
 ' I am no prostitute, Ambrosio ', had she told him, when, 
 in the fulness of his lust, he-demanded her favours with 
 more than usual earnestness ; \J am now no more than your 
 friend, and will not be your mistress) Cease then to solicit 
 my complying with desires which insult me. While your 
 heart was mine, I gloried in your embraces. Those happy 
 times are past; my person is become indifferent to you, 
 and 'tis necessity, not love, which makes you seek my 
 enjoyment. I cannot yield to a request so humiliating to 
 my pride.' 
 
 Suddenly deprived of pleasures, the use of which had 
 made them an absolute want, the monk felt this restraint 
 severely. Naturally addicted to the gratification of the 
 senses, in the full vigour of manhood and heat of blood, 
 he had suffered his temperament to acquire such ascendancy 
 thafhis lust was become madness."} Of his fondness for 
 AntWa none but the grosser particles remained ; he longed 
 for the possession of her person ; and even the gloom of 
 the vault, the surrounding silence, and the resistance which 
 he expected from her, seemed to give a fresh edge to his 
 fierce and unbridled desires. 
 
 Gradually he felt the bosom, which rested against his, 
 
CHAPTER XI 305 
 
 glow with returning warmth. Her heart throbbed again, 
 her blood flowed swifter, and her lips moved. At length 
 she opened her eyes; but, still oppressed and bewildered 
 by the effects of the strong opiate, she closed them again 
 immediately. Ambrosio watched her narrowly, nor per- 
 mitted a movement to escape him. Perceiving that she 
 was fully restored to existence, he caught her in rapture 
 to his bosom, and closely pressed his lips to hers. The 
 suddenness of his action sufficed to dissipate the fumes 
 which obscured Antonia's reason. She hastily raised 
 herself, and cast a wild look round her. The strange 
 images which presented themselves on every side con- 
 tributed to confuse her. She put her hand to her head, 
 as if to settle her disordered imagination. At length she 
 took it away, and threw her eyes through the dungeon a 
 second time : they fixed on the abbot's face. 
 
 ' Where am I ? ' she said abruptly. * How came I here ? 
 Where is my mother ? Methought I saw her ! Oh ! a 
 dream, a dreadful dream told me — But where am I ? 
 Let me go ! I cannot stay here ! ' 
 
 She attempted to rise, but the monk prevented her. 
 
 1 Be calm, lovely Antonia ! ' he replied ; ' no danger is 
 near you ; confide in my protection. Why do you gaze on 
 me so earnestly ? Do you not know me ? Not know your 
 friend, Ambrosio ? ' 
 
 ' Ambrosio ! my friend ! — Oh ! yes, yes, I remember — 
 But why am I here ? Who has brought me ? Why are 
 you with me ? — Oh ! Flora bade me beware ! — Here~&i?e— 
 nothing but graves, and tombs, and skeletons ! This place 
 frightens me ! Good Ambrosio, take me away from it, for 
 it recalls my fearful dream ! Methought I was dead, and 
 laid in my grave ! Good Ambrosio, take me from hence ! 
 — Will you not ? Oh ! will you not ? — Do not look on me 
 thus ! — Your flaming eyes terrify me ? — Spare me, father ! 
 Oh ! spare me, for God's sake ! ' 
 
 ' Why these terrors, Antonia?' rejoined the abbot, folding 
 her in his arms, and covered her bosom with kisses which 
 she in vain struggled to avoid. ' What fear you from me 
 — from one who adores you ? What matters it where you 
 are ? This sepulchre seems to me love's bower. This 
 gloom is the friendly night of mystery, which he spreads 
 over our delights ! Such do I think it, and such must my 
 Antonia. Yes, my sweet girl, yes ! Your veins shall glow 
 
 u 
 
306 THE MONK 
 
 with the fire which circles in mine, and my transports 
 shall be doubled by your sharing them ! ' 
 
 While he spoke thus, he repeated his embraces, and 
 permitted himself the most indecent liberties. Even 
 Antonia's ignorance was not proof against the freedom of 
 his behaviour. She was sensible of her danger, forced 
 herself from his arms, and, her shroud being her only 
 garment, she wrapped it closely round her. 
 
 ' Unhand me, father ! ' she cried, her honest indignation 
 tempered by alarm at her unprotected position. ' Why 
 have you brought me to this place? Its appearance 
 freezes me with horror ! Convey me from hence, if you 
 have the least sense of pity and humanity ! Let me return 
 to the house, which I have quitted I know not how ; but 
 stay here one moment longer, I neither will nor ought.' 
 
 Though the monk was somewhat startled by the resolute 
 tone in which this speech was delivered, it produced upon 
 him no other effect than surprise.. He caught her hand, 
 forced her upon his knee ; and, gazing upon her with 
 gloating eyes, he thus replied to her : 
 
 'Compose yourself, Antonia. Resistance is unavailing, 
 and I need disavow my passion for you no longer. You 
 are imagined dead ; society is for ever lost to you. I 
 possess you here alone ; you are absolutely in my power, 
 and I burn with desires which I must either gratify or 
 die ; but I would owe my happiness to yourself. My 
 lovely girl ! My adorable Antonia ! let me instruct you 
 _ ie4°y s *o which you are still a stranger, and teach you to 
 feel those pleasures in my arms which I must soon enjoy 
 in yours. Nay, this struggling is childish ', he continued, 
 seeing her repel his caresses, and endeavour to escape from 
 his grasp ; ' no aid is near ; neither heaven nor earth shall 
 save you from my embraces. Yet why reject pleasures so 
 sweet, so rapturous ? No one observes us : our commerce 
 will be a secret to all the world. Love and opportunity 
 invite your giving loose to your passions. Yield to them, 
 my Antonia ! Yield to them, my lovely girl ! Throw 
 your arms thus fondly round me ; join your lips thus 
 closely to mine ! Amidst all her gifts has Nature denied 
 her most precious, the sensibility of pleasure ? Oh, 
 impossible ! Every feature, look, and motion, declares you 
 formed to bless, and to be blessed yourself ! Turn not on 
 me those supplicating eyes; consult your own charms; 
 
CHAPTER XI 307 
 
 they will tell you that I am proof against entreaty. 
 Can I relinquish these limbs so white, so soft, so 
 delicate ! — these swelling breasts, round, full, and elastic ! 
 — these lips fraught with such inexhaustible sweetness ? 
 Can I relinquish these treasures, and leave them to 
 another's enjoyment ? No, Antonia ! — never, never ! I 
 swear it by this kiss ! — and this ! — and this ! ' 
 
 "With every moment the friar's passion became more 
 ardent, and Antonia's terror more intense. She struggled 
 to disengage herself from his arms. Her exertions were 
 unsuccessful ; and, finding that Ambrosio's conduct became 
 still freer, she shrieked for assistance with all her strength. 
 The aspect of the vault, the pale glimmering of the lamp, 
 the surrounding obscurity, the sight of the tomb, and the 
 objects of mortality which met her eyes on either side, / 
 were ill calculated to inspire her with those emotions by 
 which the friar was agitated. Even his caresses terrified 
 her from their fury, and created no other sentiment than 
 fear. On the contrary, her alarm, her evident disgust, and 
 incessant opposition, seemed only to inflame the monk's 
 desires, and supply his brutality with additional strength. 
 Antonia's shrieks were unheard ; yet she continued them, 
 nor abandoned her endeavours to escape till, exhausted 
 and out of breath, she sank from his arms upon her knees, 
 and once more had recourse to prayers and supplications. 
 This attempt had no better success than the former. On 
 the contrary, taking advantage of her situation, the 
 ravisher threw himself by her side. He clasped her to 
 his bosom almost lifeless with terror and faint with 
 struggling. He stifled her cries with kisses, treated her 
 with the rudeness of an unprincipled barbarian, proceeded 
 from freedom to freedom, and, in the violence of his lustful 
 delirium, wounded and bruised her tender limbs. Heedless 
 of her tears, cries, and entreaties, he gradually made 
 himself master of her person, and desisted not from his 
 prey till he had accomplished his crime and the dishonour^/ 
 of Antonia. 
 
 Scarcely had he succeeded in his design than he 
 shuddered at himself and the means by which it was 
 effected. The very excess of his former eagerness to possess 
 Antonia now contributed to inspire him with disgust ; and \ 
 a secret impulse made him feel how base and unmanly was 
 the crime which he had just committed. He started 
 
308 THE MONK 
 
 hastily from her arms. She, who so lately had been the 
 object of his adoration, now raised no other sentiment in 
 his heart than aversion and rage. He turned away from 
 her ; or, if his eyes rested upon her figure involuntarily, it 
 was only to dart upon her looks of hate. The unfortunate 
 had fainted ere the completion of her disgrace: she only 
 recovered life to be sensible of her misfortune. She 
 remained stretched upon the earth in silent despair ; the 
 tears chased each other slowly down her cheeks, and her 
 bosom heaved with frequent sobs. Oppressed with grief, 
 she continued for some time in this state of torpidity. At 
 length she rose with difficulty, and, dragging her feeble 
 steps towards the door, prepared to quit the dungeon. 
 
 The sound of her footsteps roused the monk from his 
 sullen apathy. Starting from the tomb against which he 
 reclined, while his eyes wandered over the images of cor- 
 ruption contained in it, he pursued the victim of his 
 brutality, and soon overtook her. He seized her by the 
 arm, and violently forced her back into the dungeon. 
 
 ' Whither go ye ? ' he cried, in a a stern voice ; ' return 
 this instant ! ' 
 
 Antonia trembled at the fury of his countenance. 
 
 ' What would you more ? ' she said, with timidity ; ' is not 
 my ruin completed ? Am I not undone, undone for ever ! 
 Is not your cruelty contented, or have I yet more to suffer ? 
 Let me depart: let me return to my home, and weep 
 unrestrained my shame and my affliction ! ' 
 
 ' Return to your home ! ' repeated the monk, with bitter 
 and contemptuous mockery ; then suddenly his eyes flashing 
 with passion : ' What ! That you may denounce me to the 
 world — that you may proclaim me a hypocrite, a ravisher, 
 a betrayer, a monster of cruelty, lust, and ingratitude? 
 No, no, no ! I know well the whole weight of my offences 
 — well, that your complaints would be too just, and my 
 crimes too notorious ! You shall not from hence to tell 
 Madrid that I am a villain ; that my conscience is loaded 
 with sins, which make me despair of Heaven's pardon. 
 Wretched girl ! you must stay here with me — here, amidst 
 these lonely tombs, these images of death, these rotting, 
 loathsome, corrupted bodies! Here shall you stay and 
 witness my sufferings — witness what it is to feel the 
 horrors of despondency, and breathe the last groan in 
 blasphemy and curses ! — And whom am I to thank for 
 
CHAPTER XI 309 
 
 this ? What seduced me into crimes, whose bare remem- 
 brance makes me shudder ? Fatal witch ! — was it not thy 
 beauty ? Have you not plunged my soul in shame ? Have 
 you not made me a perjured hypocrite, aravisher.an assassin ! 
 Nay, a,t this moment, does not that angel look bid me 
 despair of God's forgiveness ? Oh ! when I stand before 
 his judgment-throne, that look will suffice to damn me ! 
 You will tell my Judge that you were happy, till I saw 
 you; that you were innocent till I polluted you! You 
 will come with those tearful eyes, those cheeks pale and 
 ghastly, those hands lifted in supplication, as when you 
 sought from me that mercy which I gave not ! Then will 
 my perdition be certain ! Then will come your mother's 
 ghost, and will hurl me down into the dwellings of fiends, 
 and flames, and furies, and everlasting torments ! And 
 'tis you who will accuse me ! 'tis you who will cause my 
 eternal anguish ! — you, wretched girl ! you ! you ! ' 
 
 As he thundered out these words, he violently grasped 
 Antonia's arm, and spurned the earth with delirious fury. 
 
 Supposing his brain to be turned, Antonia sank in terror 
 upon her knees ; she lifted up her hands, and her voice 
 almost died away ere she could give it utterance. 
 
 ' Spare me ! spare me ! ' she murmured, with difficulty. 
 
 ' Silence ! ' cried the friar madly, and dashed her upon 
 the ground. 
 
 He quitted her, and paced the dungeon with a wild and 
 disordered air. His eyes rolled fearfully : Antonia trem- 
 bled whenever she met their gaze. He seemed to meditate 
 on something horrible, and she gave up all hopes of escaping 
 from the sepulchre with life. Yet in harbouring this idea 
 she did him injustice. Amidst the horror and disgust to 
 which his soul was a prey, pity for his victim still held a 
 place in it. The storm of passion once over, he would have 
 given worlds, had he possessed them, to have restored to 
 her that innocence of which his unbridled lust had deprived 
 her. Of the desires which had urged him to the crime, no 
 trace was left in his bosom. The wealth of India would 
 not have tempted him to a second enjoyment of her person. 
 His nature seemed to revolt at the very idea, and fain 
 would he have wiped from his memory the scene which 
 had just passed. As his gloomy rage abated, in proportion 
 did his compassion augment for Antonia. He stopped, and 
 would have spoken to her words of comfort ; but he knew 
 
310 THE MONK 
 
 not from whence to draw them, and remained gazing upon 
 her with mournful wildness. Her situation seemed so 
 hopeless, so woe-begone, as to baffle mortal power to 
 relieve her. What could he do for her ? Her peace of 
 mind was lost, her honour irreparably ruined. She was 
 cut off for ever from society, nor dared he give her back to 
 it. He was conscious that, were she to appear in the world 
 again, his guilt would be revealed, and his punishment 
 inevitable. To one so laden with crimes death came armed 
 with double terrors. Yet, should he restore Antonia to 
 light and stand the chance of her betraying him, how 
 miserable a prospect would present itself before her ! She 
 could never hope to be creditably established ; she would 
 be marked with infamy, and condemned to sorrow and 
 solitude for the remainder of her existence. What was the 
 alternative ? A resolution far more terrible for Antonia, 
 but which at least would insure the abbot's safety. He 
 determined to leave the world persuaded of her death, and 
 to retain her a captive in this gloomy prison. There he 
 proposed to visit her every night, to bring her food, to 
 / profess his penitence, and mingle his tears with hers. The 
 monk felt that this resolution was unjust and cruel ; but it 
 was his only means to prevent Antonia from publishing 
 his guilt and her own infamy. Should he release her, he 
 could not depend upon her silence. His offence was too 
 flagrant to permit his hoping for her forgiveness. Besides, 
 her reappearing would excite universal curiosity, and the 
 violence of her affliction would prevent her from concealing 
 its cause: he determined, therefore, that Antonia should 
 remain a prisoner in the dungeon. 
 
 He approached her with confusion painted on his 
 countenance. He raised her from the ground — her hand 
 trembled as he took it, and he dropped it again as if he 
 had touched a serpent. Nature seemed to recoil at the 
 touch. He felt himself at once repulsed from and attracted 
 towards her, yet could account for neither sentiment. 
 There was something in her look which penetrated him 
 with horror ; and though his understanding was still 
 ignorant of it, conscience pointed out to him the whole 
 extent of his crime. In hurried accents, yet the gentlest 
 he could find, while his eye was averted, and his voice 
 \ scarcely audible, he strove to console her under a misfortune 
 which now could not be avoided. He declared himself 
 
CHAPTER XI 311 
 
 sincerely penitent, and that he would gladly shed a drop 
 of his blood for every tear which his barbarity had forced 
 from her. Wretched and hopeless, Antonia listened to him 
 in silent grief ; but when he announced her confinement in 
 the sepulchre, that dreadful doom, to which even death 
 seemed preferable, roused her from her insensibility at 
 once. To linger out a life of misery in a narrow, loathsome 
 cell, known to exist by no human being save her ravisher, 
 surrounded by mouldering corpses, breathing the pestilential 
 air of corruption, never more to behold the light, or drink 
 the pure gale of heaven — the idea was more terrible than 
 she could support ; it conquered even her abhorrence of 
 the friar. Again she sank upon her knees ; she besought 
 his compassion in terms the most pathetic and urgent: 
 she promised, would he but restore her to liberty, to 
 conceal her injuries from the world ; to assign any reasons 
 for her reappearance which he might judge proper ; and in 
 order to prevent the least suspicion from falling upon him, 
 she offered to quit Madrid immediately. Her entreaties 
 were so urgent as to make a considerable impression upon 
 the monk. He reflected, that as her person no longer 
 excited his desires, he had no interest in keeping her con- 
 cealed as he had at first intended ; that he was adding a 
 fresh injury to those which she had already suffered ; and 
 that, if she adhered to her promises, whether she was 
 confined or at liberty, his life and reputation were equally 
 secure. On the other hand, he trembled lest, in her 
 affliction, Antonia should unintentionally break her engage- 
 ment, or that her excessive simplicity and ignorance of 
 deceit should permit someone more artful to surprise her 
 secret. However well-founded were these apprehensions, 
 compassion, and a sincere wish to repair his fault as much 
 as possible, solicited his complying with the prayers of his 
 suppliant. The difficulty of colouring Antonia's unexpected 
 return to life, after her supposed death and public interment, 
 was the only point which kept him irresolute. He was 
 still pondering on the means of removing this obstacle, 
 when he heard the sound of feet approaching with precipi- 
 tation. The door of the vault was thrown open, and 
 Matilda rushed in, evidently much confused and terrified. 
 On seeing a stranger enter, Antonia uttered a cry of joy; 
 but her hopes of receiving succour from him were soon 
 dissipated. The supposed novice, without expressing the 
 
312 THE MONK 
 
 least surprise at finding a woman alone with the monk, in 
 so strange a place, and at so late an hour, addressed him 
 thus, without losing a moment : 
 
 ' What is to be done, Ambrosio ? We are lost, unless 
 some speedy means is found of dispelling the rioters. 
 Ambrosio, the convent of St. Clare is on fire ; the prioress 
 has fallen a victim to the fury of the mob. Already is the 
 abbey menaced with a similar fate. Alarmed at the threats 
 of the people, the monks seek for you everywhere. They 
 imagine that your authority alone will suffice to calm this 
 disturbance. No one knows what is become of you, and 
 ■ your absence creates universal astonishment and despair. 
 I profited by the confusion, and fled hither to warn you of 
 the danger.' 
 
 ' This will soon be remedied ', answered the abbot ; ' I 
 will hasten back to my cell : a trivial reason will account 
 *" for my having been missed.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! ' rejoined Matilda : ' the sepulchre is filled 
 , with archers. Lorenzo de Medina, with several officers of 
 the Inquisition, searches through the vaults, and pervades 
 every passage. You will be intercepted in your flight ; 
 your reasons for being at this late hour in the sepulchre 
 will be examined ; Antonia will be found, and then you 
 are undone for ever ! ' 
 
 ' Lorenzo de Medina ! — officers of the Inquisition ! What 
 brings them here ? Seek they for me ? — Am I then 
 suspected ? — oh ! speak, Matilda ! answer me in pity ! ' 
 
 ' As yet they do not think of you ; but I fear that they 
 will ere long. Your only chance of escaping their notice 
 rests upon the difficulty of exploring this vault. The door 
 is artfully hidden ; haply it may not be observed, and we 
 may remain concealed till the search is over.' 
 
 ' But Antonia — should the inquisitors draw near, and her 
 cries be heard — ' 
 
 " Thus I remove that danger ! ' interrupted Matilda. 
 
 At the same time drawing a poniard, she rushed upon 
 her devoted prey. 
 
 ' Hold ! hold ! ' cried Ambrosio, seizing her hand, and 
 wresting from it the already lifted weapon. ' What would 
 you do, cruel woman ? The unfortunate has already 
 suffered but too much, thanks to your pernicious counsels ! 
 Would to God that I had never followed them ! Would to 
 God that I had never seen your face ! ' 
 
CHAPTER XI 313 
 
 Matilda darted upon him a look of scorn. ' Absurd ! ' 
 she exclaimed, with an air of passion and majesty, which 
 impressed the monk with awe. ' After robbing her of all 
 that made it dear, can you fear to deprive her of a life so 
 miserable ? But 'tis well ! Let her live to convince you 
 of your folly. I abandon you to your evil destiny ! I 
 disclaim your alliance ! Who trembles to commit so 
 insignificant a crime deserves not my protection. Hark ! 
 hark, Ambrosio ! hear you not the archers ? They come, 
 and your destruction is inevitable ! ' 
 
 At this moment the abbot heard the sound of distant 
 voices. He flew to close the door, on whose concealment 
 his safety depended, and which Matilda had neglected to 
 fasten. Ere he could reach it, he saw Antonia glide 
 suddenly by him, rush through the door, and fly towards* ' 
 the noise with the swiftness of an arrow. She had listened 
 attentively to Matilda: she heard Lorenzo's name mentioned, 
 and resolved to risk everything to throw herself under his 
 protection. The door was open. The sounds convinced 
 her that the archers could be at no great distance. She 
 mustered up her little remaining strength, rushed by the 
 monk ere he perceived her design, and bent her course 
 rapidly towards the voices. As soon as he recovered from 
 his first surprise, the abbot failed not to pursue her. In 
 vain did Antonia redouble her speed, and stretch every 
 nerve to the utmost. Her enemy gained upon her every 
 moment : she heard his steps close after her, and felt the 
 heat of his breath glow upon her neck. He overtook her 
 — he twisted his hands in the ringlets of her streaming 
 hair, and attempted to drag her back with him to the 
 dungeon. Antonia resisted with all her strength. She 
 folded her arms round a pillar which supported the roof, 
 and shrieked loudly for assistance. In vain did the monk 
 strive to threaten her to silence. 
 
 ' Help ! ' she continued to exclaim ; ' help ! help, for 
 God's sake ! ' 
 
 Quickened by her cries, the sound of footsteps was heard 
 approaching. The abbot expected every moment to see 
 the inquisitors arrive. Antonia still resisted, and he now 
 enforced her silence by means the most horrible and in- 
 human. He still grasped Matilda's dagger ; without , 
 allowing himself a moment's reflection, he raised it, and 1 
 plunged it twice in the bosom of Antonia. She shrieked, 
 
314 THE MONK 
 
 and sank upon the ground. The monk endeavoured to 
 bear her away with him, but she still embraced the pillar 
 firmly. At that instant the light of approaching torches 
 flashed upon the walls. Dreading a discovery, Ambrosio 
 was compelled to abandon his victim, and hastily fled back 
 to the vault, where he had left Matilda. 
 
 He fled not unobserved. Don Ramirez happening to 
 arrive the first, perceived a female bleeding upon the 
 ground, and a man flying from the spot, whose confusion 
 betrayed him for the murderer. He instantly pursued the 
 fugitive, with some part of the archers, while the others 
 remained with Lorenzo, to protect the wounded stranger. 
 They raised her, and supported her in their arms. She 
 had fainted from excess of pain, but soon gave signs of 
 returning life. She opened her eyes ; and on lifting up 
 her head, the quantity of fair hair fell back, which till 
 then had obscured her features. 
 
 ' God Almighty, it is Antonia ! ' 
 
 Such was Lorenzo's exclamation, while he snatched her 
 from the attendant's arms, and clasped her in his own. 
 
 Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poniard had 
 answered but too well the purpose of its employer. The 
 wounds were mortal, and Antonia was conscious that she 
 never could recover. Yet the few moments which remained 
 for her were moments of happiness. The concern ex- 
 pressed upon Lorenzo's countenance, the frantic fondness 
 of his complaints, and his earnest inquiries respecting her 
 wounds, convinced her beyond a doubt that his affections 
 were her own. She would not be removed from the vaults, 
 fearing lest motion should only hasten her death : and she 
 was unwilling to lose those moments which she passed in 
 receiving proofs of Lorenzo's love, and assuring him of her 
 own. She told him that, had she still been undefiled, she 
 might have lamented the loss of life ; but that, deprived 
 of honour, and branded with shame, death was to her a 
 blessing : she could not have been his wife ; and that hope 
 being denied her, she resigned herself to the grave, without 
 one sigh of regret. She bade him take courage, conjured 
 him not to abandon himself to fruitless sorrow, and de- 
 clared that she mourned to leave nothing in the whole 
 world but him. While every sweet accent increased 
 rather than lightened Lorenzo's grief, she continued to 
 converse with him till the moment of dissolution. Her 
 
CHAPTER XI 315 
 
 voice grew faint, and scarcely audible ; a thick cloud 
 spread itself over her eyes — her heart beat slow and 
 irregular, and every instant seemed to announce that 
 her fate was near at hand. 
 
 She lay, her head reclining upon Lorenzo's bosom, and 
 her lips still murmuring to him words of comfort. She 
 was interrupted by the convent bell, as, tolling at a distance, 
 it struck the hour. Suddenly Antonia's eyes sparkled with 
 celestial brightness — her frame seemed to have received 
 new strength and animation. „ She started from her lover's 
 arms. 'pViiTYMmvisfe-rw, iWCLo /"V^M" t 
 
 ' Three o'clock ! ' she cried. ' Mothe r, I c ome f ' 
 
 Sue clasped her hands, and sank lileless upon the ground. 
 Lorenzo, in agony, threw himself beside her. He tore his 
 hair, beat his breast, and refused to be separated from the 
 corpse. At length, his force being exhausted, he suffered 
 himself to be led from the vault, and was conveyed to the 
 Palace de Medina, scarcely more alive than the unfortunate 
 Antonia. 
 
 In the meanwhile, though closely pursued, Ambrosio 
 succeeded in regaining the vault. The door was already 
 fastened when Don Ramirez arrived, and much time elapsed 
 ere the fugitive's retreat was discovered. But nothing can 
 resist perseverance. Though so artfully concealed, the 
 door could not escape the vigilance of the archers. They 
 forced it open, and entered the vault, to the infinite dis- 
 may of Ambrosio and his companion. The monk's confusion, 
 his attempt to hide himselfjhisja^aiflight, and the blood 
 sprinkled upon his cloth^sTleft no r oomT»i 4 ft ubt his being 
 Antonia's murderer, /cut when he was recognr&^d for the 
 immaculate Ambrose, ' the man of holiness' , the\ idol of 
 Madrid, the facultiesW the spectators were champa up in 
 surprise, and scarcely cauldthey persuadeJhjOHlJielves that 
 what they saw was no visToli. ' ■Th^aBbot strove not to 
 vindicate himself, but preserved a sullen silence. He was 
 secured and bound. The same precaution was taken with 
 Matilda. Her cowl being removed, the delicacy of her 
 features and profusion of her golden hair betrayed her sex ; 
 and this incident created fresh amazement. The dagger 
 was also found in the tomb, where the monk had thrown 
 it ; and the dungeon having undergone a thorough search, 
 the two culprits were conveyed to the prisons of the 
 Inquisition. 
 
316 THE MONK 
 
 Don Ramirez took care that the populace should remain 
 ignorant both of the crimes and profession of the captives. 
 He feared a repetition of the riots, which had followed the 
 apprehending the prioress of St. Clare. He contented him- 
 self with stating to the Capuchins the guilt of their superior. 
 To avoid the shame of a public accusation, and dreading a 
 popular fury, from which they had already saved their 
 abbey with much difficulty, the monks readily permitted 
 the inquisitors to search their mansion without noise. No 
 fresh discoveries were made. The effects found in the 
 abbot's and Matilda's cells were seized, and carried to the 
 Inquisition, to be produced in evidence. Everything else 
 remained in its former position, and order and tranquillity 
 once more prevailed through Madrid. 
 
 St. Clare's convent was completely ruined by the united 
 ravages of the mob and conflagration. Nothing remained 
 of it but the principal walls, whose thickness and solidity 
 had preserved them from the flames. The nuns who had 
 belonged to it were obliged, in consequence, to disperse 
 themselves into other societies : but the prejudice against 
 them ran high, and the superiors were very unwilling to 
 to admit them. However, most of them being related to 
 families the most distinguished for their riches, birth, and 
 power, the several convents were compelled to receive them, 
 though they did it with a very ill grace. This prejudice 
 was extremely false and unjustifiable. After a close in- 
 vestigation, it was proved that all in the convent were 
 persuaded of the death of Agnes, except the four nuns, 
 whom St. Ursula had pointed out. These had fallen 
 victims to the popular fury, as had also several who were 
 perfectly innocent and unconscious of the whole affair 
 Blinded by resentment, the mob had sacrificed every nun 
 who fell into their hands ; they who escaped were entirely 
 indebted to the Duke de Medina's prudence and moderation. 
 Of this they were conscious, and felt for that nobleman a 
 ise of gratitude. 
 
 VirginiaVas not the most sparing of her thanks ; she 
 " led eqj ^flly to make a proper return for his attentions, 
 and to obtain the good graces of Lorenzo's uncle. In this 
 she easily succeeded. The duke beheld her beauty with 
 wonder and admiration ; and while his eyes were enchanted 
 with her form, the sweetness of her manners, and her 
 tender concern for the suffering nun, prepossessed his heart 
 
CHAPTER XI 317 
 
 in tier favour. This Virginia had discernment enough to per- 
 ceive, and she redoubled her attention to the invalid. 
 When he parted from her at the door of her father's palace, 
 the duke entreated permission to inquire occasionally after 
 her health. His request was readily granted; Virginia 
 assured him that the Marquis de Villa Franca would be 
 proud of an opportunity to thank him in person for the 
 protection afforded to her. They now separated — he en- 
 chanted with her beauty and gentleness, and she much 
 pleased with him, and more with his nephew. 
 
 On entering the palace, Virginia's first care was to 
 summon the family physician, and take care of her unknown 
 charge. Her mother hastened to share with her the 
 charitable office. Alarmed by the riots, and trembling for 
 his daughter's safety, who was his only child, the Marquis 
 had flown to St. Clare's convent, and was still employed 
 in seeking her. Messengers were now despatched on all 
 sides, to inform him that he would find her safe at his 
 hotel, and desire him to hasten thither immediately. His 
 absence gave Virginia liberty to bestow her whole attention 
 upon her patient ; and though much disordered herself by 
 the adventures of the night, no persuasion could induce her 
 to quit the bedside of the sufferer. Her constitution being 
 much enfeebled by want and sorrow, it was some time 
 before the stranger was restored to her senses. She found 
 great difficulty in swallowing the medicines prescribed to 
 her ; but this obstacle being removed, she easily conquered 
 her disease, which proceeded from nothing but weakness. 
 The attention which was paid her, the wholesome food, to 
 which she had been long a stranger, and her joy at being 
 restored to liberty, to society, and, as she dared to hope, to 
 love — all this combined to her speedy re-establishment. 
 From the first moment of knowing her, her melancholy 
 situation, her sufferings almost unparalleled, had engaged 
 the affections of her amiable hostess. Virginia felt for her 
 the most lively interest : but how was she delighted when, 
 her guest being sufficiently recovered to relate her history, 
 she recognized in the captive nun the sister of Lorenzo. 
 
 This victim of monastic cruelty was indeed no other than 
 the unfortunate Agnes. During her abode in the convent, 
 she had been well known to Virginia ; but her emaciated 
 form, her features altered by affliction, her death universally 
 credited, and her overgrown and matted hair, which hung 
 
318 THE MONK 
 
 over her face and bosom in disorder, at first had prevented 
 her being recollected. The prioress had put every artifice 
 in practice to induce Virginia to take the veil; for the 
 heiress of Villa Franca would have been no despicable 
 acquisition. Her seeming kindness and unremitted atten- 
 tion so far succeeded, that her young relation began to 
 think seriously upon compliance. 
 
 Better instructed in the disgust and ennui of a monastic 
 life, Agnes had penetrated the designs of the domina. She 
 trembled for the innocent girl, and endeavoured to make 
 her sensible of her error. She painted in their true colours 
 the numerous inconveniences attached to a convent, the 
 continued restraint, the low jealousies, the petty intrigues, 
 the servile court and gross flattery expected by the 
 superior. She then bade Virginia reflect on the brilliant 
 prospect which presented itself before her. The idol of 
 her parents, the admiration of Madrid, endowed by nature 
 and education with every perfection of person and mind, 
 she might look forward to an establishment the most 
 fortunate. Her riches furnished her with the means of 
 exercising, in their fullest extent, charity and benevolence, 
 those virtues so dear to her ; and her stay in the world 
 would enable her discovering objects worthy her protection, 
 which could not be done in the seclusion of a convent. 
 
 Her persuasions induced Virginia to lay aside all thoughts 
 of the veil : but another argument, not used by Agnes Jiad 
 more weight with her than all the others put together. TShe 
 had seen Lorenzo when he visited his sister at the gpatep 
 his person pleased her, and her conversations with Agnes 
 generally used to terminate in some question about her 
 brother. She, who doted upon Lorenzo, wished for no 
 better than an opportunity to trumpet out his praise. She 
 spoke of him in terms of rapture; and, to convince her 
 auditor how just were his sentiments, how cultivated his 
 mind, and elegant his expressions, she showed her at 
 different times the letters which she received from him. 
 She soon perceived that from these communications the 
 heart of her young friend had imbibed impressions which 
 she was far from intending to give, but was truly happy 
 to discover. She could not have wished her brother a 
 more desirable union : heiress of Villa Franca, virtuous, 
 affectionate, beautiful, and accomplished, Virginia seemed 
 calculated to make him happy. She sounded her brother 
 
CHAPTER XI 319 
 
 upon the subject, though without mentioning names or 
 circumstances. He assured her, in his answers, that his 
 heart and hand were totally disengaged, and she thought 
 that upon these grounds she might proceed without danger. 
 She in consequence endeavoured to strengthen the dawning 
 passion of her friend. Lorenzo was made the constant 
 topic of her discourse ; and the avidity with which her 
 auditor listened, the sighs which frequently escaped from 
 her bosom, and the eagerness with which, upon any 
 digression, she brought back the conversation to the 
 subject whence it had wandered, sufficed to convince Agnes 
 that her brother's addresses would be far from disagreeable. 
 She at length ventured to mention her wishes to the duke. 
 Though a stranger to the lady herself, he knew enough of 
 her situation to think her worthy his nephew's hand. It 
 was agreed between him and his niece, that she should 
 insinuate the idea to Lorenzo, and she only waited his 
 return to Madrid to propose her friend to him as his bride. 
 The unfortunate events which took place in the interim 
 prevented her from executing her design. Virginia wept 
 her loss sincerely, both as a companion, and as the only 
 person to whom she could speak of Lorenzo. Her passion 
 continued to prey upon her heart in secret, and she had 
 always determined to confess her sentiments to her 
 mother, when accident once more threw their object in her 
 way. The sight of him so near her, his politeness, his 
 compassion, his intrepidity, had combined to give new- 
 ardour to her affection. When she now found her friend 
 and advocate restored to her, she looked upon her as a gift 
 from heaven ; she ventured to cherish the hope of being 
 united to Lorenzo, and resolved to use with him his sister's 
 influence. 
 
 Supposing that before her death Agnes might possibly 
 have made the proposal, the duke had placed all his 
 nephew's hints of marriage to Virginia's account ; conse- 
 quently he gave them the most favourable reception. On 
 returning to his hotel, the relation given him of Antonia's 
 death, and Lorenzo's behaviour on the occasion, made 
 evident his mistake. He lamented the circumstances ; but 
 the unhappy girl being effectually out of the way, he 
 trusted that his designs would yet be executed. 'Tis true 
 that Lorenzo's situation just then ill suited him for a 
 bridegroom. His hopes disappointed at the moment when 
 
320 THE MONK 
 
 he expected to realize them, and the dreadful and sudden 
 death of his mistress, had effected him very severely. The 
 duke found him upon the bed of sickness. His attendants 
 expressed serious apprehensions for his life ; but the 
 uncle entertained not the same fears. He^was of opinion, 
 and not unwisely, that ' men have died, and worms have 
 ate them, but not for love ! ' He therefore flattered 
 himself, that however deep might be the impression made 
 upon his nephew's heart, time and Virginia would be able 
 to efface it. He now hastened to the afflicted youth, and 
 endeavoured to console him ; he sympathized in his 
 distress, but encouraged him to resist the encroachments of 
 despair. He allowed, that he could not but feel shocked 
 at an event so terrible, nor could he blame his sensibility ; 
 but he besought him not to torment himself with vain 
 regrets, and rather to struggle with affliction, and preserve ■ 
 his life, if not for his own sake, at least for the sake of 
 those who were fondly attached to him. While he laboured 
 much to make Lorenzo forget Antonia's loss, the duke 
 paid his court assiduously to Virginia, and seized every 
 opportunity to advance his nephew's interest in her heart. 
 
 It may easily be expected that Agnes was not long 
 without inquiring after Don Raymond. She was shocked 
 to hear the wretched situation to which grief had induced 
 him-; yet she could not help exulting secretly, when she 
 reflected that his illness proved the sincerity of his love. 
 The duke undertook the office himself of announcing to 
 the invalid the happiness which awaited him. Though he 
 omitted no precaution to prepare him for such an event, at 
 this sudden change from despair to happiness, Raymond's 
 transports were so violent, as nearly to have proved fatal 
 to him. These once passed, the tranquillity of his mind, 
 the assurance of felicity, and above all, the presence of 
 Agnes (who was no sooner re-established by the care of 
 Virginia and the marchioness, than she hastened to attend 
 her lover), soon enabled him to overcome the effects of his 
 late dreadful malady. The calm of his soul communicated 
 itself to his body, and he recovered with such rapidity as 
 to create universal surprise. 
 
 Not so Lorenzo. Antonia's death, accompanied with 
 such terrible circumstances, weighed upon his mind 
 heavily. He was worn down to a shadow ; nothing could 
 give him pleasure. He was persuaded with difficulty to 
 
CHAPTER XI 321 
 
 swallow nourishment sufficient for the support of life, and 
 a consumption was apprehended. The society of Agnes 
 formed his only comfort. Though accident had never 
 permitted their being much together, he entertained for 
 her a sincere friendship and attachment. Perceiving how 
 necessary she was to him, she seldom quitted his chamber. 
 She listened to his complaints with unwearied attention, 
 and soothed him by the gentleness of her manners, and by 
 sympathizing with his distress. She still inhabited the 
 Palace de Villa Franca, the possessors of which treated her 
 with marked affection. The duke had intimated to the 
 Marquis his wishes respecting Virginia. The match was 
 unexceptionable : Lorenzo was heir to his uncle's immense 
 property, and was distinguished in Madrid for his agreeable 
 person, extensive knowledge, and propriety of conduct. 
 Add to this, that the marchioness had discovered how 
 strong was her daughter's prepossession in his favour. 
 
 In consequence the duke's proposal was accepted without 
 hesitation. Every precaution was taken to induce Lorenzo's 
 seeing the lady with those sentiments which she so well 
 merited to excite. In her visits to her brother, Agnes was 
 frequently accompanied by the marchioness ; and as soon 
 as he was able to move into his anti-chamber, Virginia, 
 under her mother's protection, was sometimes permitted to 
 express her wishes for his recovery. This she did with 
 such delicacy, the manner in which she mentioned Antonia 
 was so tender and soothing, and when she lamented her 
 rival's melancholy fate, her bright eyes shone so beautiful 
 through her tears, that Lorenzo could not behold or listen 
 to her without emotion. His relations, as well as the lady, 
 perceived that with every day her society seemed to give 
 him fresh pleasure, and that he spake of her in terms of 
 stronger admiration. However, they prudently kept their 
 observations to themselves ; no word was dropped which 
 might lead him to suspect their designs; they continued 
 their former conduct and attention, and left time to ripen 
 into a warmer sentiment the friendship which he already 
 felt for Virginia. 
 
 In the meanwhile her visits became more frequent ; and 
 latterly there was scarce a day of which she did not pass 
 some part by the side of Lorenzo's couch. He gradually 
 regained his strength, but the progress of his recovery was 
 slow and doubtful One evening he seemed to be in better 
 
 x 
 
322 THE MONK 
 
 spirits than usual ; Agnes and her lover, the duke, Virginia, 
 and her parents, were sitting round him. He now, for the 
 first time, entreated his sister to inform him how she had 
 escaped the effects of the poison which St. Ursula had seen 
 her swallow. Fearful of recalling those scenes to his mind 
 in which Antonia had perished, she had hitherto concealed 
 from him the history of her sufferings. As he now started 
 the subject himself, and thinking that perhaps the narrative 
 of her sorrows might draw him from the contemplation of 
 those on which he dwelt too constantly, she immediately 
 complied with his request. The rest of the company had 
 already heard her story ; but the interest which all present 
 felt for its heroine made them anxious to hear it repeated. 
 The whole society seconding Lorenzo's entreaties, Agnes 
 obeyed. She first recounted the discovery which had 
 taken place in the abbey chapel, the domina's resentment, 
 and the midnight scene, of which St. Ursula had been a 
 concealed witness. Though the nun had already described 
 this latter event, Agnes now related it more circumstantially, 
 and at large. After which she proceeded in her narrative 
 as follows : 
 
 CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF AGNES DE MEDINA 
 
 ' My supposed death was attended with the greatest 
 agonies. Those moments which I believed my last were 
 embittered by the domina's assurances that I could not 
 escape perdition ; and as my eyes closed, I heard her rage 
 exhale itself in curses on my offence. The horror of this 
 situation, of a death-bed from which hope was banished, of 
 a sleep from which I was only to wake to find myself the 
 prey of flames and furies, was more dreadful than I can 
 describe. When animation revived in me, my soul was 
 still impressed with these terrible ideas. I looked round 
 with fear, expecting to behold the ministers of Divine 
 vengeance. For the first hour, my senses were so bewildered, 
 and my brain so dizzy, that I strove in vain to arrange 
 the strange images which floated in wild confusion before 
 me. If I endeavoured to raise myself from the ground, 
 the wandering of my head deceived me. Everything 
 around me seemed to rock, and I sank once more upon the 
 earth. My weak and dazzled eyes were unable to bear a 
 nearer approach to a gleam of light, which I saw trembling 
 
CHAPTER XI 323 
 
 above me. I was compelled to close them again, and 
 remain motionless in the same posture. 
 
 ' A full hour elapsed, before I was sufficiently myself to 
 examine the surrounding objects. When I did examine 
 them, what terror filled my bosom ! I found myself 
 extended upon a sort of wicker couch. It had six handles 
 to it, which doubtless had served the nuns to convey me 
 to my grave. I was covered with a linen cloth, several 
 faded flowers were strewn over me. On one side lay a 
 small wooden crucifix ; on the other a rosary of large 
 beads. Four low narrow walls confined me. The top was 
 also covered, and in it was fitted a small grated door, 
 through which was admitted the little air that circulated 
 in this miserable place. A faint glimmering of light, which 
 streamed through the bars, permitted me to distinguish the 
 surrounding horrors. I was oppressed by a noisome 
 suffocating smell, and perceiving that the grated door was 
 unfastened, I thought that I might possibly effect my 
 escape. As I raised myself with this design, my hand 
 rested upon something soft: I grasped it, and advanced 
 towards the light. Almighty God ! what was my disgust 
 — my consternation! In spite of its putridity, and the 
 worms which preyed upon it, I perceived a corrupted 
 human head, and recognized the features of a nun who had 
 died some months before. I threw it from me, and sank 
 almost lifeless upon my bier. 
 
 ' When my strength returned, this circumstance, and the 
 consciousness of being surrounded by the loathsome and 
 mouldering bodies of my companions, increased my desire 
 to escape from my fearful prison. I again moved towards 
 the light. The grated door was within my reach. I 
 lifted it without difficulty: probably it had been left 
 unclosed, to facilitate my quitting the dungeon. Aiding 
 myself by the irregularity of the walls, some of whose 
 stones projected beyond the rest, I contrived to ascend 
 them, and drag myself out of my prison. I now found 
 myself in a vault tolerably spacious. Several tombs, 
 similar in appearance to that whence I had just escaped, 
 were ranged along the sides in order, and seemed to be 
 considerably sunk within the earth. A sepulchral lamp 
 was suspended from the roof by an iron chain, and shed a 
 gloomy light through the dungeon. Emblems of death 
 were seen on every side: skulls, shoulder-blades, thigh- 
 
324 THE MONK 
 
 bones, and other relics of mortality, were scattered upon 
 the dewy ground. Each tomb was ornamented with a 
 large crucifix, and in one corner stood a wooden statue of 
 St. Clare. To these objects I at first paid no attention : a 
 door, the only outlet from the vault, had attracted my 
 eyes. I hastened towards it, having wrapped my winding- 
 sheet closely round me. I pushed against the door, and to 
 my inexpressible terror found that it was fastened on the 
 outside. 
 
 ' I guessed immediately that the prioress, mistaking the 
 nature of the liquor which she had compelled me to drink, 
 instead of poison had administered a strong opiate. From 
 this I concluded that, being to all appearance dead, I had 
 received the rites of burial; and that, deprived of the 
 power of making my existence known, it would be my 
 fate to expire of hunger. This idea penetrated me with 
 horror, not merely for my own sak*e, but that of the 
 innocent creature who still lived within my bosom. I 
 again endeavoured to open the door, but it resisted all my 
 efforts. I stretched my voice to the extent of its compass, 
 and shrieked for aid. I was remote from the hearing of 
 everyone. No friendly voice replied to mine. A profound 
 and melancholy silence prevailed through the vault, and I 
 despaired of liberty. My long abstinence from food now 
 began to torment me. The tortures which hunger inflicted 
 on me were the most painful and insupportable': yet they 
 seemed to increase with every hour which passed over my 
 head. Sometimes I threw myself upon the ground, and 
 rolled upon it wild and desperate : sometimes starting up, 
 I returned to the door, again strove to force it open, and 
 repeated my fruitless cries for succour. Often Mas I on 
 the point of striking my temple against the sharp corner 
 of some monument, dashing out my brains, and thus 
 terminating my woes at once. But still the remembrance 
 of my baby vanquished my resolution. I trembled at a 
 deed which equally endangered my child's existence and 
 my own. Then would I vent my anguish in loud excla- 
 mations and passionate complaints ; and then again, my 
 strength failing me, silent and hopeless I would sit me 
 upon the base of St. Clare's statue, fold my arms, and 
 abandon myself to sullen despair. Thus passed several 
 wretched hours. Death advanced towards me with rapid 
 strides, and I expected that every succeeding moment 
 
CHAPTER XI 3^5 
 
 would be that of my dissolution. Suddenly a neighbouring 
 tomb caught my eye: a basket stood upon it, which till 
 then I had not observed. I started from my seat : I made 
 towards it as swiftly as my exhausted frame would permit. 
 How eagerly did I seize the basket, on finding it to obtain 
 a loaf of coarse bread, and a small bottle of water. 
 
 • I threw myself with avidity upon these humble aliments. 
 They had to all appearance been placed in the vault for 
 several days. The bread was hard, and the water tainted : 
 yet never did I taste food to me so delicious. When the 
 cravings of appetite were satisfied, I busied myself with 
 conjectures upon this new circumstance. I debated whether 
 the basket had been placed there with a view to my 
 necessity. Hope answered my doubts in the affirmative. 
 Yet who could guess me to be in need of such assistance ? 
 If my existence was known, why was I detained in this 
 gloomy vault ? If J was kept a prisoner, what meant the 
 ceremony of committing me to the tomb ? Or, if I was 
 doomed to perish with hunger, to whose pity was I 
 indebted for provisions placed within my reach ? A 
 friend would not have kept my dreadful punishment a 
 secret : neither did it seem probable that an enemy would 
 have taken pains to supply me with the means of 
 existence. Upon the whole, I was inclined to think 
 that the domina's designs upon my life had been 
 discovered by some one of my partisans in the con- 
 vent, who had found means to substitute an opiate for 
 poison; that she had furnished me with food to support 
 me, till she could effect my delivery; and that she was 
 then employed in giving intelligence to my relations of my 
 danger, and pointing out a way to release me from captivity. 
 Yet why then was the quality of my provisions so coarse ? 
 How could my friend have entered the vault without the 
 domina's knowledge ? and if she had entered, why was the 
 door fastened so carefully ? These reflections staggered 
 me : yet still this idea was the most favourable to my 
 hopes, and I dwelt upon it in preference. 
 
 'My meditations were interrupted by the sound of 
 distant footsteps. They approached, but slowly. Rays of 
 light now darted through the crevices of the door. Un- 
 certain whether the persons who advanced came to relieve 
 me, or were conducted by some other motive to the vault, 
 I failed not to attract their notice by loud cries for help. 
 
326 THE MONK 
 
 Still the sounds drew near. The light grew stronger. At 
 length with inexpressible pleasure I heard the key 
 turning in the lock. Persuaded that my deliverance was 
 at hand, I flew towards the door with a shriek of joy. It 
 opened : but all my hopes of escape died away, when the 
 prioress appeared, followed by the same four nuns who 
 had been witnesses of my supposed death. They bore 
 torches in their hands, and gazed upon me in fearful 
 silence. 
 
 'I started back in terror. The domina descended into 
 the vault, as did also her companions. She bent upon me 
 a stern, resentful eye, but expressed no surprise at finding 
 me still living. She took the seat which I had just quitted. 
 The door was again closed, and the nuns ranged themselves 
 behind their superior, while the glare of their torches, 
 dimmed by the vapours and dampness of the vault, 
 gilded with cold beams the surrounding monuments. For 
 some moments all preserved a dead and solemn silence. I 
 stood at some distance from the prioress. At length she 
 beckoned me to advance. Trembling at the severity of her 
 aspect, my strength scarce sufficed me to obey her. I drew 
 near, but my limbs were unable to support their burthen. 
 I sank upon my knees, I clasped my hands, and lifted them 
 up to her for mercy, but had no power to articulate a 
 syllable. 
 
 ' She gazed upon me with angry eyes. 
 
 ' " Do I see a penitent, or a criminal ? " she said at 
 length ; " are those hands raised in contrition for your 
 crimes, or in fear of meeting their punishment ? Do those 
 tears acknowledge the justice of your doom, or only solicit 
 mitigation of your sufferings ? I fear me, 'tis the latter." 
 
 ' She paused, but kept her eye still fixed upon mine. 
 
 * " Take courage ", she continued ; " I wish not for your 
 death, but your repentance. The draught which I 
 administered was no poison, but an opiate. My intention 
 in deceiving you was to make you feel the agonies of a 
 guilty conscience, had death overtaken you suddenly, while 
 your crimes were still unrepented. You have suffered 
 those agonies ; I have brought you to be familiar with the 
 sharpness of death, and I trust that your momentary 
 anguish will prove to you an eternal benefit. It is not my 
 design to destroy your immortal soul, or bid you seek the 
 grave, burthened with the weight of sins unexpiated. No, 
 
CHAPTER XI 327 
 
 daughter, far from it ; I will purify you with wholesome 
 chastisement, and furnish you with full leisure for con- 
 trition and remorse. Hear then my sentence : the ill-judged 
 zeal of your friends delayed its execution, but cannot now 
 prevent it. All Madrid believes you to be no more ; your 
 relations are thoroughly persuaded of your death, and the 
 nuns your partisans have assisted at your funeral. Your 
 existence can never be suspected : I have taken such pre- 
 cautions as must render it an impenetrable mystery. Then 
 abandon all thoughts of a world from which you are 
 eternally separated, and employ the few hours which are 
 allowed you in preparing for the next." 
 
 ' This exordium led me to expect something terrible. I 
 trembled, and would have spoken to deprecate her wrath ; 
 but a motion of the domina commanded me to be silent. 
 She proceeded : 
 
 '"Though of late years unjustly neglected, and now 
 opposed by many of our misguided sisters — whom Heaven 
 convert ! — it is my intention to revive the laws of our 
 order in their full force. That against incontinence is 
 severe, but no more than so monstrous an offence demands. 
 Submit to it, daughter, without resistance ; you will find 
 the benefit of patience and resignation in a better life than 
 this. Listen then to the sentence of St. Clare. — Beneath 
 these vaults there exist prisons, intended to receive such 
 criminals as yourself : artfully is their entrance concealed, 
 and she who enters them must resign all hopes of liberty. 
 Thither must you now be conveyed. Food shall be supplied 
 you, but not sufficient for the indulgence of appetite : you 
 shall have just enough to keep together body and soul, and 
 its quality shall be the simplest and coarsest. Weep, 
 daughter, weep, and moisten your bread with your tears : 
 God knows that you have ample cause for sorrow ! 
 Chained down in one of these secret dungeons, shut out 
 from the world and light for ever, with no comfort but 
 religion, no society but repentance ; thus must you groan 
 away the remainder of your days. Such are St. Clare's 
 orders ; submit to them without repining. Follow me ! " 
 
 'Thunderstruck at this barbarous decree, my little 
 remaining strength abandoned me. I answered only by 
 falling at her feet, and bathing them with tears. The 
 domina, unmoved by my affliction, rose from her seat with 
 a stately air : she repeated her commands in an absolute 
 
328 THE MONK 
 
 tone ; but my excessive faintness made me unable to obey 
 her. Mariana and Alix raised me from the ground, and 
 carried me forwards in their arms. The prioress moved 
 on, leaning on Violante, and Camilla preceded her with a 
 torch. Thus passed our sad procession along the passages, 
 m silence only broken by my sighs and groans. We 
 stopped before the principle shrine of St. Clare. The 
 statue was removed from its pedestal, though how I knew 
 not. The nuns afterwards raised an iron grate, till then 
 concealed by the image, and let it fall on the other side 
 with a loud crash. The awful sound, repeated by the 
 vaults above and the caverns below me, roused me from 
 the despondent apathy in which I had been plunged. I 
 looked before me: an abyss presented itself to my 
 affrighted eyes, and a steep and narrow staircase, whither 
 my conductors were leading me. I shrieked, and started 
 back. I implored compassion, rent the air with my cries, 
 and summoned both heaven and earth to my assistance. 
 In vain ! I was hurried down the staircase, and forced into 
 one of the cells which lined the cavern's sides. 
 
 ' My blood ran cold as I gazed upon this melancholy 
 abode. The cold vapours hovering in the air, the walls 
 green with damp, the bed of straw so forlorn and comfort- 
 less, the chain destined to bind me for ever to my prison, 
 and the reptiles of every description, which, as the torches 
 advanced towards them, I descried hurrying to their retreats, 
 struck my heart with terrors almost too exquisite for 
 nature to bear. Driven by despair to madness, I burst 
 suddenly from the nuns who held me ; I threw myself 
 upon my knees before the prioress, and besought her 
 mercy in the most passionate and frantic terms. 
 
 ' " If not on me ", said I, " look at least with pity on that 
 innocent being, whose life is attached to mine ! Great is 
 my crime, but let not my child suffer for it ! My baby 
 has committed no fault. Oh, spare me for the sake of my 
 unborn offspring, whom, ere it tastes life, your severity 
 dooms to destruction ! " 
 
 ' The prioress drew back hastily ; she forced her habit 
 from my grasp, as if my touch had been contagious. 
 
 ' " What ! " she exclaimed, with an exasperated air ; 
 " what ! dare you plead for the produce of your shame ? 
 Shall a creature be permitted to live, conceived in guilt so 
 monstrous ? Abandoned woman, speak for him no more ! 
 
CHAPTER XI 329 
 
 Better that the wretch should perish than live : begotten 
 in perjury, incontinence, and pollution, it cannot fail to" 
 prove a prodigy of vice. Hear me, thou guilty ! Expect 
 no mercy from me, either for yourself or brat. Rather 
 pray that death may seize you before you produce it ; or, 
 if it must see the light, that its eyes may immediately be 
 closed again for ever ! No aid shall be given you in your 
 labour ; bring your offspring into the world yourself, feed 
 it yourself, nurse it yourself, bury it yourself : God grant 
 that the latter may happen soon, lest you receive comfort 
 from the fruit of your iniquity ! " 
 
 ' This inhuman speech, the threats which it contained, 
 the dreadful sufferings foretold to me by the domina, and 
 her prayers for my infant's death, on whom, though unborn, 
 I already doted, were more than my exhausted frame could 
 support. Uttering a deep groan, I fell senseless at the feet 
 of my unrelenting enemy. I know not how long I re- 
 mained in this situation ; but I imagine that some time 
 must have elapsed before my recovery, since it sufficed the 
 prioress and her nuns to quit the cavern. When my senses 
 returned, I found myself in silence and solitude ; I heard 
 not even the retiring footsteps of my persecutors. All was 
 hushed, and ^all was dreadful ! I had been thrown upon 
 the bed of straw : the heavy chain which I had already 
 eyed with terror was wound around my waist, and 
 fastened me to the wall. A lamp glimmering with dull 
 melancholy rays through my dungeon, permitted my 
 distinguishing all its horrors. It was separated from the 
 cavern by a low and irregular wall of stone. A large 
 chasm was left open in it, which formed the entrance, for 
 door there was none. A leaden crucifix was in front of my 
 straw couch. A tattered rug lay near me, as did also a 
 chaplet of beads ; and not far from me stood a pitcher of 
 water, and a wicker basket, containing a small loaf, and a 
 bottle of oil to supply my lamp. 
 
 ' With a despondent eye did I examine this scene of 
 suffering : when I reflected that I was doomed to pass in it 
 the remainder of my days, my heart was rent with bitter 
 anguish. I had once been taught to look forward to a 
 lot so different ! At one time my prospects had appeared 
 so bright, so flattering ! Now all was lost to me. Friends, 
 comfort, society, happiness — in one moment I was deprived 
 of all. Dead to the world, dead to pleasure, I lived to 
 
330 THE MONK 
 
 nothing but the sense of misery. How fair did that world 
 seem to me, from which I was for ever excluded ! How 
 many loved objects did it contain, whom I never should 
 behold again! As I threw a look of terror round my 
 prison, as I shrunk from the cutting wind which howled 
 through my subterraneous dwelling, the change seemed so 
 striking, "so abrupt, that I doubted its reality. That the 
 Duke de Medina's niece, that the destined bride of the 
 Marquis de las Cisternas, one bred up in affluence, related 
 to the noblest family in Spain, and rich in a multitude of 
 affectionate friends — that she should in one month become 
 a captive, separated from the world for ever, weighed down 
 with chains, and reduced to support life with the coarsest 
 aliments — appeared a change so sudden and incredible, 
 that I believed myself the sport of some frightful vision. 
 Its continuance convinced me of my mistake with but too 
 much certainty. Every morning I looked for some relief 
 from my sufferings ; every morning my hopes were dis- 
 appointed. At length I abandoned all idea of escaping ; I 
 resigned myself to my fate, and only expected liberty, 
 when she became the companion of death. 
 
 ' My mental anguish, and the dreadful scenes in which I 
 had been an actress, advanced the period of my labour. In 
 solitude and misery, abandoned by all, unassisted by art, 
 uncomforted by friendship, with pangs which if witnessed 
 would have touched the hardest heart, was I delivered of 
 my wretched burden. It came alive into the world ; but I 
 knew not how to treat it, or by what means to preserve its 
 existence. I could only bathe it with tears, warm it in my 
 bosom, and offer up prayers for its safety. I was soon 
 deprived of this mournful employment : the want of 
 proper attendance, my ignorance how to nurse it, the bitter 
 cold of the dungeon, and the unwholesome air which in- 
 flated its lungs, terminated my sweet babe's short and 
 painful existence. It expired in a few hours after its birth, 
 and I witnessed its death with agonies which beggar all 
 description. 
 
 ' But my grief was unavailing. My infant was no more ; 
 nor could all my sighs impart to its little tender frame 
 the breath of a moment. I rent my winding-sheet, and 
 wrapped in it my lovely child. I placed it on my bosom, 
 its soft arm folded round my neck, and its pale cold cheek 
 resting upon mine. Thus did its lifeless limbs repose, while 
 
CHAPTER XI 331 
 
 I covered it with kisses, talked to it, wept, and moaned 
 over it without remission day or night. Camilla entered 
 my prison regularly once every twenty-four hours, to bring 
 me food. In spite of her flinty nature, she could not 
 behold this spectacle unmoved. She feared that grief so 
 excessive would at length turn my brain ; and in truth, I 
 was not always in my proper senses. From a principle of 
 compassion, she urged me to permit the corpse to be buried ; 
 but to this I never would consent. I vowed not to part 
 with it while I had life : its presence was my only comfort, 
 and no persuasion could induce me to give it up. It soon 
 became a mass of putridity, and to every eye was a loath- 
 some and disgusting object — to every eye but a mother's. 
 In vain did human feelings bid me recoil from this emblem 
 of mortality with repugnance. I withstood, and vanquished 
 that repugnance. I persisted in holding my infant to my 
 bosom, in lamenting it, loving it, adoring it ! Hour after 
 hour have I passed upon my sorry couch, contemplating what 
 had once been my child. I endeavoured to retrace its 
 features through the livid corruption with which they were 
 overspread. During my confinement, this sad occupation 
 was my only delight ; and at that time worlds should not 
 have bribed me to give it up. Even when released from 
 my prison, I brought away my child in my arms. The 
 representations of my two kind friends — [Here she took 
 the hands of the marchioness and Virginia, and pressed 
 them alternately to her lips] — at length persuaded me to 
 resign my unhappy infant to the grave. Yet I parted 
 from it with reluctance. However, reason at length pre- 
 vailed; I suffered it to be taken from me, and it now 
 reposes in consecrated ground. 
 
 4 1 before mentioned, that regularly once a day Camilla 
 brought me food. She sought not to embitter my sorrows 
 with reproach. She bade me, 'tis true, resign all hopes of 
 liberty and worldly happiness ; but she encouraged me to 
 bear with patience my temporary distress, and advised me 
 to draw comfort from religion. My. situation evidently 
 affected her more than she ventured to express ; but she 
 believed that to extenuate my fault would make me less 
 anxious to repent it. Often while her lips painted the 
 enormity of my guilt in glaring colours, her eyes betrayed 
 how sensible she was to my sufferings. In fact, I am 
 certain that none of my tormentors (for the three Other 
 
332 THE MONK 
 
 , nuns entered my prison occasionally) were so much 
 actuated by the spirit of oppressive cruelty, as by the 
 idea that to afflict my body was the only way to preserve 
 my soul. Nay, even this persuasion might not have had 
 such weight with them, and they might have thought my 
 punishment too severe, had not their good dispositions 
 been repressed by blind obedience to their superior. Her 
 resentment existed in full force. My project of elopement 
 having been discovered by the abbot of the Capuchins, she 
 supposed herself lowered in his opinion by my disgrace, 
 and in consequence her hate was inveterate. She told the 
 nuns, to whose custody I was committed, that my fault 
 was of the most heinous nature, that no sufferings could 
 equal the offence, and that nothing could save me from 
 eternal perdition but punishing my guilt with the utmost 
 severity. The superior's word is an oracle to but too many 
 of a convent's inhabitants. The nuns believed whatever 
 the prioress chose to assert : though contradicted by reason 
 and charity, they hesitated not to admit the truth of her 
 arguments. They followed her injunctions to the very 
 letter, and were fully persuaded, that to treat me with 
 lenity, or to show the least pity for my woes, would be a 
 direct means to destroy my chance for salvation. 
 
 ' Camilla being most employed about me, was particularly 
 charged by the prioress to treat me with harshness. In 
 compliance with these orders, she frequently strove to 
 convince me how just was my punishment, and how 
 enormous was my crime. She bade me think myself too 
 happy in saving my soul by mortifying my body, and even 
 threatened me sometimes with eternal perdition. Yet, as 
 I before observed, she always concluded by words of en- 
 couragement and comfort ; and, though uttered by Camilla's 
 lips, I easily recognized the domina's expressions. Once, 
 and once only, the prioress visited me in my dungeon. 
 She then treated me with the most unrelenting cruelty. 
 She loaded me with reproaches, taunted me with my 
 frailty ; and, when I implored her mercy, told me to ask 
 it of Heaven, since I deserved none on earth. She even 
 gazed upon my lifeless infant without emotion ; and when 
 she left me, I heard her charge Camilla to increase the 
 hardships of my captivity. Unfeeling woman ! — But let 
 me check my resentment : she has expiated her errors by 
 her sad and unexpected death. Peace be with her! and 
 
CHAPTER XI 333 
 
 may her crimes be forgiven in heaven, as I forgive her my 
 sufferings on earth ! 
 
 'Thus did I drag on a miserable existence. Far from 
 growing familiar with my prison, I beheld it every moment 
 with new horror. The cold seemed more piercing and 
 bitter, the air more thick and pestilential. My frame 
 became weak, feverish, and emaciated. I was unable to 
 rise from the bed of straw, and exercise my limbs in the 
 narrow limits to which the length of my chain permitted 
 me to move. Though exhausted, faint, and weary, I 
 trembled to profit by the approach of sleep. My slumbers 
 were constantly interrupted by some obnoxious insect ' 
 crawling over me. Sometimes I felt the bloated toad, 
 hideous and pampered with the poisonous vapours of the 
 dungeon, dragging his loathsome length along my bosom : 
 sometimes the quick cold lizard roused me, leaving his^ 
 slimy track upon my face, and entangling itself in the 
 tresses of my wild and matted hair. Often have I at : - 
 waking found my fingers ringed with the long worma-y 
 which bred in the corrupted flesh of my infant. At such *' 
 times, I shrieked with terror and disgust; and while I 
 shook off the reptile, trembled with all a woman's 
 weakness. 
 
 'Such was my situation when Camilla was suddenly 
 taken ill. A dangerous fever, supposed to be infectious, 
 confined her to her bed. Everyone, except the lay-sister 
 appointed to nurse her, avoided her with caution, and feared 
 to catch the disease. She was perfectly delirious, and by 
 no means capable of attending to me. The domina, and 
 the nuns admitted to the mystery, had latterly entirely 
 given me over to Camilla's care. In consequence, they 
 busied themselves no more about me ; and occupied by 
 preparing for the approaching festival, it is more than 
 probable that I never once entered into their thoughts. 
 Of the reason of Camilla's negligence I have been informed 
 since my release by the Mother St. Ursula. At that time 
 I was very far from suspecting its cause. On the contrary, 
 I waited for my gaoler's appearance at first with impa- 
 tience and afterwards with despair. One day passed 
 away; another followed it; the third arrived. Still no 
 Camilla! still no food! I knew the lapse of time byvthe 
 wasting of my lamp, to feed which, fortunately a week's 
 supply°of oil had been left me. I supposed, either that 
 
334 THE MONK 
 
 the nuns had forgotten me, or that the domina had 
 ordered them to let me perish. The latter idea seemed 
 the most probable : yet so natural is the love of life, that 
 I trembled to find it true. Though embittered by every 
 species of misery, my existence was still dear to me, and I 
 dreaded to lose it. Every succeeding minute proved to me 
 that I must abandon all hopes of relief. I was become an 
 absolute skeleton: my eyes already failed me, and my 
 limbs were beginning to stiffen. I could only express my 
 anguish, and the pangs of that hunger which gnawed my 
 heart-strings, by frequent groans, whose melancholy sound 
 the vaulted roof of the dungeon re-echoed. I resigned 
 myself to my fate : I already expected the moment of 
 dissolution, when my guardian-angel — when my beloved 
 brother arrived in time to save me. My sight, grown dim 
 and feeble, at first refused to recognize him : and when I 
 did distinguish his features, the sudden burst of rapture 
 was too much for me to bear. I was overpowered by the 
 swell of joy at once more beholding a friend, and that a 
 friend so dear to me. Nature could not support my 
 emotions, and took her refuge in insensibility. 
 
 ' You already know what are my obligations to the 
 family of Villa Franca. But what you cannot know is 
 the extent of my gratitude, boundless as the excellence of 
 my benefactors. Lorenzo ! Raymond ! names so dear to 
 me ! teach me to bear with fortitude this sudden transition 
 from misery to bliss. So lately a captive, oppressed with 
 chains, perishing with hunger, hidden from the light, 
 excluded from society, hopeless, neglected, and, as I feared, 
 forgotten — suffering every inconvenience of cold and want : 
 now restored to life and liberty, enjoying all the comforts 
 of affluence and ease, surrounded by those who are most 
 loved by me, and on the point of becoming his bride who 
 has long been wedded to my heart, my happiness is so 
 exquisite, so ^perfect, that scarcely can my brain sustain 
 the weight. «One only wish remains ungratified : it is to 
 see my brother in his former health, and. to know that 
 Antonia's memory is buried in her grave J> Granted this 
 prayer, I have nothing more to desire. I trust that my 
 past sufferings have purchased from Heaven the pardon of 
 my momentary weakness. That I have offended, offended 
 greatly and grievously, I am fully conscious ; but let not 
 my husband, because he once conquered my virtue, doubt 
 
CHAPTER XI 335 
 
 the propriety of my future conduct. I have been frail and 
 full of error ; but I yielded not to the warmth of con- 
 stitution. Raymond, affection for you betrayed me. I 
 was too confident of my strength : but I depended no less 
 on your honour than my own. I had vowed never to see 
 you more. Had it not been for the consequences of that 
 unguarded moment, my resolution had been kept. Fate 
 willed it otherwise, and I cannot but rejoice at its decree. 
 Still my conduct has been highly blamable ; and while I 
 attempt to justify myself, I blush at recollecting my im- 
 prudence. Let me then dismiss the ungrateful subject ; 
 first assuring you, Raymond, that you shall have no cause 
 to repent our union, and that, the more culpable have 
 been the errors of your mistress, the more exemplary shall 
 be the conduct of your wife.' 
 
 Here Agnes ceased : and the Marquis replied to her 
 address in terms equally sincere and affectionate. Lorenzo 
 expressed his satisfaction at the prospect of being so closely 
 connected with a man for whom he had ever entertained 
 the highest esteem. The Pope's bull had fully and 
 effectually released Agnes from her religious engagements. 
 The marriage was therefore celebrated as soon as the 
 needful preparations had been made; for the Marquis 
 wished to have the ceremony performed with all possible 
 splendour and publicity. This being over, and the bride 
 having received the compliments of Madrid, she departed 
 with Don Raymond for his castle in Andalusia. Lorenzo 
 accompanied them as did also the Marchioness de Villa 
 Franca and her lovely daughter. It is needless to say that 
 Theodore was of the party, and it would be impossible to 
 describe his joy at his master's marriage. Previous to his 
 departure, the Marquis, to atone in some measure for his 
 past neglect, made some inquiries relative to Elvira. Find- 
 ing that she, as well as her daughter, had received many 
 services from Leonella and Jacintha, he showed his respect 
 to the memory of his sister-in-law, by making the two 
 women handsome presents. Lorenzo followed his example. 
 Leonella was highly flattered by the attentions of noblemen 
 so distinguished, and Jaci n tha Wp««pd t.hfl hnnr -an nrTiinh 
 her house wa s bewitched. 
 
 ' On her side, Agues faffed not to reward her convent 
 friends. The worthy Mother St. Ursula, to whom she 
 
336 THE MONK 
 
 owed her liberty, was named, at her request, superintendent 
 of ' The Ladies of Charity '. This was one of the best and 
 most opulent societies throughout Spain. Bertha and 
 Cornelia, not choosiDg to quit their friend, were appointed 
 to principal charges in the same establishment. As to the 
 nuns who had aided the domina in persecuting Agnes; 
 Camilla, being confined by illness to her bed, had perished 
 in the flames which consumed St. Clare's convent. Mariana, 
 Alix, and Violante, as well as two more, had fallen victims 
 to the popular rage. The three others who had in council 
 supported the domina's sentence were severely reprimanded, 
 and banished to religious houses in obscure and distant 
 provinces. Here they languished away a few years, 
 ashamed of their former weakness, and shunned by their 
 companions with aversion and contempt. 
 
 Nor was the fidelity of Flora permitted to go unrewarded. 
 Her wishes being consulted, she declared herself impatient 
 to revisit her native land. In consequence, a passage was 
 procured for her to jCuba, where she arrived in safety, 
 loaded with the presents of Raymond and Lorenzo. 
 
 The debts of gratitude discharged, Agnes was at liberty 
 to pursue her favourite plan. Lodged in the same house, 
 Lorenzo and Virginia were eternally together. The more 
 he saw of her, the more was he convinced of her merit. 
 On her part, she laid herself out to please ; and not to 
 succeed was for her impossible. Lorenzo witnessed with 
 admiration her beautiful person, elegant manners, innumer- 
 able talents, and sweet disposition. He was also much 
 flattered by her prejudice in his favour, which she had not 
 sufficient art to conceal. However, his sentiments partook 
 not of that ardent character which had marked his affection 
 for Antonia : the image of that lovely and unfortunate girl 
 still lived in his heart, and baffled all Virginia's efforts to 
 displace it. Still, when the duke proposed to him the 
 match, which he wished so earnestly to take place, his 
 nephew did not reject the offer. The urgent supplication 
 of his friends, and the lady's merit, conquered his repug- 
 nance to entering into new engagements. He proposed 
 himself to the Marquis de Villa Franca, and was accepted 
 with joy and gratitude. Virginia became his wife, nor did 
 she ever give him cause to repent his choice. His esteem 
 increased for her daily. Her unremitted endeavours to 
 please him could not but succeed. His affection assumed 
 
CHAPTER XI 337 
 
 stronger and warmer colours. Antonia's image was gradu- 
 ally effaced from his bosom, and Virginia became sole 
 mistress of that heart, which she well deserved to possess 
 without a partner. 
 
 The remaining years of Raymond and Agnes, of Lorenzo 
 and Virginia, were happy as can be those allotted to 
 mortals, born to be the prey of grief, and sport of disap- 
 pointment. The exquisite sorrows with which they had 
 been afflicted made them think lightly of every succeeding 
 woe. They had felt the sharpest darts in misfortune's 
 quiver; those which remained appeared blunt in com- 
 parison. Having weathered Fate's heaviest storms, they 
 looked calmly upon its terrors ; or, if ever they felt afflic- 
 tion's casual gales, they seemed to them gentle as zephyrs 
 which breathe over summer seas. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 He was a fell despightful fiend : 
 Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below : 
 By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancour keened : 
 Of man, alike of good or bad, the foe. 
 
 —Thomson 
 
 On the day following Antonia's death, all Madrid was a 
 scene of consternation and amazement. An archer who 
 had witnessed the adventure in the sepulchre had indis- 
 creetly related the circumstances of the murder: he had 
 also named the perpetrator. The confusion was without 
 example which this intelligence raised among the devotees. 
 Most of them disbelieved it, and went themselves to the 
 abbey to ascertain the fact. Anxious to avoid the shame 
 to which their superior's ill conduct exposed the whole 
 brotherhood, the monks assured the visitors that Ambrosio 
 was prevented from receiving them as usual by nothing 
 but illness. This attempt was unsuccessful. The same 
 excuse being repeated day after day, the archer's story 
 gradually obtained confidence. The abbot's partisans 
 abandoned him: no one entertained a doubt of his 
 guilt ; and they who before had been the warmest in 
 his praise were now the most vociferous in his con- 
 demnation. 
 
 While his innocence or guilt was debated in Madrid 
 with the utmost acrimony, Ambrosio was a prey to the 
 pangs of conscious villainy, and the terrors of punishment 
 impending over him. When he looked back to the 
 eminence on which he had lately stood, at peace with 
 the world and with himself, scarcely could he believe 
 that he was indeed the culprit, whose crimes and whose 
 fate he trembled to consider. ^Rijt. a. fp.w wqaWH^had 
 elapsed since he was pure and virtuous, courted by the 
 wisest and noblest in Madrid, and regarded by the people 
 with a reverence that approached idolatry. He now saw 
 himself stained with the most loathed and monstrous sins, 
 the object of universal execration, a prisoner of the holy 
 
 338 
 
CHAPTER XII 339 
 
 office, and probably doomed to perish in tortures the most 
 severe. He could not hope to deceive his judges : the 
 proofs of his guilt were too strong. His being in the 
 sepulchre at so late an hour, his confusion at the discovery, 
 the dagger which in his first alarm he owned had been con- 
 cealed by him, and the blood which had spurted upon his 
 habit from Antonia's wound, sufficiently marked him out 
 for the assassin. He waited with agony for the day of 
 examination. He had no resource to comfort him in his 
 distress. Religion could not inspire him with fortitude. 
 If he read the books of morality which were put into his 
 hands, he saw in them nothing but the enormity of his 
 offences. If he attempted to pray, he recollected that he 
 deserved not Heaven's protection, and believed his crimes 
 so monstrous as to exceed even God's infinite goodness. 
 For every other sinner he thought there might be hope, 
 but for him there could be none. Shuddering at the past, 
 anguished by the present, and dreading the future, thus 
 passed he the few days preceding that which was marked 
 for his trial. 
 
 That day arrived. At nine in the morning his prison- 
 door was unlocked, and his gaoler entering, commanded* 
 him to follow him. He obeyed with trembling. He 
 was conducted into a spacious hall hung with black cloth. 
 At the table sat three grave, stern-looking men, also 
 habited in black : one was the grand inquisitor, whom 
 the importance of this cause had induced to examine into 
 it himself. At a smaller table at a little distance sat the 
 secretary, provided with all necessary implements for 
 writing. Ambrosio was beckoned to advance, and take 
 his station at the lower end of the table. As his eye 
 glanced downwards, he perceived various iron instruments 
 lying scattered upon the floor. Their forms were unknown 
 to him, but apprehension immediately guessed them to be 
 engines of torture. He turned pale, and with difficulty 
 prevented himself-lrom sinking upon the ground. 
 
 Profound silence prevailed, except when the inquisitors 
 whispered a few words among themselves mysteriously. 
 Near an hour passed away, and with every second of it 
 Ambrosio's fears grew more poignant. At length a small 
 door, opposite to that by which he had entered the hall, 
 grated heavily upon its hinges. _ An officer appeared, and 
 was immediately followed by the beautiful Matilda. Her 
 
340 THE MONK 
 
 hair hung about her face wildly ; her cheeks were pale, 
 and her eyes sunk and hollow. She threw a melancholy 
 look upon Ambrosio : he replied by one of aversion and 
 reproach. She was placed opposite to him. A bell then 
 sounded thrice. It was the signal for opening the court, 
 iand the inquisitors entered upon their office. 
 J In these trials, neither the accusation is mentioned, nor 
 I the name of the accuser. The prisoners are only asked, 
 whether they will confess. If they reply that, having no 
 crime, they can make no confession, they are put to the 
 torture without delay. This is repeated at intervals, either 
 till the suspected avow themselves culpable, or the persever- 
 ance of the examinants is worn out and exhausted : but 
 without a direct acknowledgment of their guilt, the in- 
 quisition never pronounces the final doom of its prisoners. 
 In general, much time is suffered to elapse without their 
 being questioned ; but Ambrosio's trial had been hastened 
 on account of a solemn auto da fi which would take place 
 in a few days, and in which the inquisitors meant this 
 distinguished culprit to perform a part, and give a striking 
 testimony of their vigilance. 
 
 The abbot was not merely accused of rape and murder ; 
 the crime of sorcery was laid to his charge, as well as to 
 Matilda's : she had been seized as an accomplice in Antonia's 
 assassination. On searching her cell, various suspicious 
 books and instruments were found, which justified the 
 accusation brought against her. To criminate the monk, 
 the constellated mirror was produced, which Matilda had 
 accidentally left in his chamber. The strange figures 
 engraved upon it caught the attention of Don Ramirez, 
 while searching the abbot's cell ; in consequence, he carried 
 it away with him. It was shown to the grand inquisitor, 
 who, having considered it for some time, took off a small 
 golden cross which hung at his girdle, and laid it upon the 
 mirror: instantly a loud noise was heard, resembling a 
 clap of thunder, and the steel shivered into a thousand 
 pieces. This circumstance confirmed the suspicion of the 
 monk's having dealt in magic. It was even supposed, that 
 his former influence over the minds of the people was 
 entirely to be ascribed to witchcraft, 
 t Determined to make him confess not only the crimes 
 which he had committed, but those also of whjch he was 
 innocent, the inquisitors began their examination Though 
 
CHAPTER XII 341 
 
 dreading the tortures, as he yet more dreaded death, which 
 would consign him to eternal torments, the abbot asserted 
 his purity in a voice bold and resolute. Matilda followed 
 his example, but spoke with fear and trembling. Having 
 in vain exhorted him to confess, the inquisitors ordered the 
 monk to be put to the question. The decree was imme- 
 diately executed. Ambrosio suffered the most excruciating 
 pangs that ever were invented by human cruelty. Yet so 
 dreadful is death, when guilt accompanies it, that he had 
 sufficient fortitude to persist in his disavowal. His agonies 
 were redoubled in consequence ; nor was he released till, 
 fainting from excess of pain, insensibility rescued him from 
 the hands of his tormentors. 
 
 Matilda was next ordered to the torture ; but, terrified 
 by the sight of the friar's sufferings, her courage totally 
 deserted her. She sank upon her knees, acknowledged 
 her corresponding with infernal spirits, and that she had 
 witnessed the monk's assassination of Antonia ; but as to 
 the crime of sorcery, she declared herself the sole criminal, 
 and Ambrosio perfectly innocent. The latter assertion met 
 with no credit. The abbot had recovered his senses in 
 time to hear the confession of his accomplice : but he was 
 too much enfeebled by what he had already undergone, to 
 be capable at that time of sustaining new torments. He 
 was commanded back to his cell, but first informed, that, 
 as soon as he had gained strength sufficient, he must 
 prepare himself for a second examination. The inquisitors 
 hoped that he would then be less hardened and obstinate. 
 To Matilda it was announced, that she must expiate her 
 crime in fire on the approaching auto da fe. All 
 her tears and entreaties could procure no mitigation 
 of her doom, and she was dragged by force from the 
 hall of trial. 
 
 Returned to his dungeon, the sufferings of Ambrosio's 
 body were far more supportable than those of his mind. 
 His dislocated limbs, the nails torn from his hands and 
 feet, and his fingers mashed and broken by the pressure of 
 screws, were far surpassed in anguish by the agitation of 
 his soul and vehemence of his terrors. He saw that, guilty 
 or innocent, his judges were bent upon condemning him. 
 The remembrance of what his denial had already cost him 
 terrified him at the idea of being again applied to the 
 question, and almost engaged him to confess his crimes, 
 
342 THE MONK 
 
 Then again the consequences of his confession flashed 
 before him, and rendered him once more irresolute. His 
 death would be inevitable; and that a death the most 
 dreadful. He had listened to Matilda's doom, and doubted 
 not that a similar was reserved for him. He shuddered at 
 the approaching auto da fi t at the idea of perishing in 
 flames, and only escaping from endurable torments to pass 
 into others more subtile and everlasting. With affright 
 did he bend his mind's eye on the space beyond the grave ; 
 nor could hide from himself how justly he ought to dread 
 Heaven's vengeance. In this labyrinth, of terrors, fain 
 would he have taken his refuge in the gloom of atheism ; 
 fain would he have denied the soul's immortality ; have 
 persuaded himself that, when his eyes once closed, they 
 would never more open, and that the same moment would 
 annihilate his soul and body. Even this resource was 
 refused to him. To permit his being blind jto the fallacy 
 of this belief, his knowledge was too extensive, his under- 
 standing too solid and just. (He could not help feeling the 
 existence nf a. (lr>d. > Those "truths, once his comfort, now ' 
 "presented themselves before him in the clearest light ; but 
 they only served to drive him to distraction. They 
 destroyed his ill-grounded hopes of escaping punishment ; 
 and, dispelled by the irresistible brightness of truth and 
 conviction, philosophy's deceitful vapours faded away like 
 a dream. 
 
 In anguish almost too great for mortal frame tol)ear, he 
 expected the time when he was again to be examined. He 
 busied himself in planning ineffectual schemes for escaping 
 both present and future punishment. Of the first, there 
 was no possibility ; "of the second, despair made him neglect 
 the only means. While reason forced him to acknowledge 
 a God's existence, conscience made him doubt the infinity 
 of his goodness. He disbelieved that a sinner like himself 
 could find mercy. He had not been deceived into error ; 
 ignorance could furnish him with no excuse. He had seen 
 vice in her true colours. Before he committed his crimes, 
 he had computed every scruple of their weight, and yet he 
 had committed them. 
 
 ' Pardon ! ' he would cry in an excess of frenzy ; ' oh ! 
 there can be none for me ! ' 
 
 Persuaded of this, instead of humbling himself in 
 penitence, of deploring his guilt, and employing his few 
 
CHAPTER XII 343 
 
 remaining hours in deprecating Heaven's wrath, he 
 abandoned himself to the transports of desperate rage:, 
 he sorrowed for the punishment of his crimes, not their 
 commission ; and exhaled his bosom's anguish in idle sighs, 
 in vain lamentations, in blasphemy and despair. As the 
 few beams of day which pierced through the bars of his 
 prison window gradually disappeared, and their place was 
 supplied by the pale and glimmering lamp, he felt his 
 terrors redouble, and his ideas became more gloomy, more 
 solemn, more despondent. He dreaded the approach of 
 sleep. No sooner did his eyes close, wearied with tears 
 and watching, than the dreadful visions seemed to be 
 realized on which his mind had dwelt during the day. 
 He found himself in sulphurous realms and burning 
 caverns, surrounded by fiends appointed his tormentors, 
 and who drove him through a variety of tortures, each 
 of which was more dreadful than the former. Amidst 
 these dismal scenes wandered the ghosts of Elvira and 
 her daughter. They reproached him with their deaths, 
 recounted his crimes to the demons, and urged them to 
 inflict torments of cruelty yet more refined. Such were 
 the pictures which floated before his eyes in sleep : they 
 vanished not till his repose was disturbed by excess of 
 agony. Then would he start from the ground on which 
 he had stretched himself, his brows running down with 
 cold sweat, his eyes wild and frenzied ; and he only 
 exchanged the terrible certainty for surmises scarcely 
 more supportable. He paced his dungeon with disordered 
 steps ; he gazed with terror upon the surrounding 
 darkness, and often did he cry : 
 
 ' Oh, fearful is night to the guilty ! ' 
 
 The day of his second examination was at hand. He 
 had been compelled to swallow cordials, whose virtues 
 were calculated to restore his bodily strength, and enable 
 him to support the question longer. On the night pre- 
 ceding this dreaded day, his fears for the morrow permitted 
 him not to sleep. His terrors were so violent as nearly to 
 annihilate his mental powers. He sat like one stupefied 
 near the table on which his lamp was burning dimly. 
 Despair chained up his faculties in idiotism, and he re- 
 mained for some hours unable to speak or move, or indeed 
 to think, 
 
344 THE MONK 
 
 ' Look up, Ambrosio ! ' said a voice, in accents well known 
 to him. 
 
 The monk started, and raised his melancholy eyes. 
 Matilda stood before him. She had quitted her religious 
 habit. She now wore a female dress, at once elegant and 
 splendid ; a profusion of diamonds blazed upon her robes, 
 and her hair was confined by a coronet of roses. In her 
 right hand she held a small book ; a lively expression of 
 pleasure beamed upon her countenance — but still it was 
 mingled with a wild imperious majesty, which inspired 
 the monk with awe, and repressed in some measure his 
 transports at seeing her. 
 
 ' You here, Matilda ! ' he at length exclaimed ; ' how 
 have you gained entrance ? Where are your chains ? 
 What means this magnificence, and the joy which 
 sparkles in your eyes ? Have our judges relented ? Is 
 there a chance of my escaping ? Answer me for pity, 
 and tell me what I have to hope or fear.' 
 
 ' Ambrosio ! ' she replied, with an air of commanding 
 dignity, ' I have baffled the Inquisition's fury : I am free ; 
 a few moments will place kingdoms between these dungeons 
 and me ; yet I purchase my liberty at a dear, at a dreadful, 
 price ! Dare you pay the same, Ambrosio ? Dare you 
 spring without fear over the bounds which separate men 
 from angels ? You are silent ; you look upon me with 
 eyes of suspicion and alarm : I read your thoughts, and 
 confess their justice. Yes, Ambrosio, I have sacrificed all 
 for life and liberty. I am no longer a candidate for 
 heaven ! I have renounced God's service, and am enlisted 
 beneath the banners of his foes ! The deed is past recall ; 
 yet, were it in my power to go back, I would not. Oh, 
 my friend, to expire in such torments ! to die amidst 
 curses and execrations ! to bear the insults of an exas- 
 perated mob ! to be exposed to all the mortifications of 
 shame and infamy ! who can reflect without horror on 
 such a doom ? Let me then exult in my exchange. I 
 have sold distant and uncertain happiness for present and 
 secure. I have preserved a life, which otherwise I had 
 lost in torture ; and I have obtained the power of pro- 
 curing every bliss which can make that life delicious ! 
 The infernal spirits obey me as their sovereign ; by their 
 aid shall my days be passed in every refinement of luxury 
 and voluptuousness. I will enjoy unrestrained the gratifi- 
 
CHAPTER XII 345 
 
 cation of my senses ; every passion shall be indulged even 
 to satiety ; then will I bid my servants invent new pleasures, 
 to revive and stimulate my glutted appetites ! I go im- 
 patient to exercise my newly-gained dominion : I pant to 
 be at liberty. Nothing should hold me one moment longer 
 in this abhorred abode, but the hope of persuading you to 
 follow my example. Ambrosio, I still love you ; our 
 mutual guilt and danger have rendered you dearer to 
 me than ever, and I would fain save you from impending 
 destruction. Summon then your resolution to your aid, 
 and renounce for immediate and certain benefits the hopes 
 of a salvation difficult to obtain, and perhaps altogether 
 erroneous. Shake off the prejudice of vulgar souls ; 
 abandon a God who has abandoned you, and raise yourself 
 to the level of superior beings ! ' 
 
 She paused for the monk's reply : he shuddered while 
 he gave it. 
 
 'Matilda', he said, after a long silence, in a low and 
 unsteady voice, ' what price gave you for liberty ? ' 
 
 She answered him firm and dauntless. 
 
 ' AmbrosiOjjt \ras-iny -seal ! ' 
 
 ' Wretched woman ! What have you done ? Pass but 
 a few years, and how dreadful will be your sufferings ! ' 
 
 'Weak man! Pass but this night, and how dreadful 
 will be your own ! po you remember what you have 
 already endured ? to-morrow you must bear torments 
 doubly exquisite. Do you remember the horrors of a fiery 
 punishment ? In two days you must be led a victim to the 
 stake ! What then will become of you ? Still dare you 
 hope for pardon ? Still are you beguiled with visions of 
 salvation ? Think upon your crimes ! Think upon your 
 lust, your perjury, inhumanity, and hypocrisy! Think 
 upon the innocent blood which cries to the throne of God 
 for vengeance ! and then hope for mercy — then dream of 
 heaven, and sigh for worlds of light, and realms of peace 
 and pleasure ! Absurd ! Open your eyes, Ambrosio, and 
 be prudent. Hell is your lot ; you are doomed to eternal 
 perdition; nought lies beyond your grave, but a gulf of 
 devouring flames. And will you then speed towards that 
 hell ? Will you clasp that perdition in your, arms ere 'tis 
 needful? Will you plunge into those flames while you 
 still have the power to shun them? 'Tis a madman's 
 action. No, no, Ambrosio, let us for a while fly from 
 
346 THE MONK 
 
 Divine vengeance. Be advised by me ; purchase, by one 
 moment's courage, the bliss of years ; enjoy the present, 
 and forget that a future lags behind.' 
 
 ' Matilda, your coansels are dangerous ; I dare not, I will 
 not follow them; /l must not give up my claim to salva- 
 tion. Monstrous are my crimes ; but God is merciful, and 
 I will not despair of pardon^? 
 
 ' Is such your resolution ? I have no more to say. I 
 speed to joy and liberty, and abandon you to death and 
 eternal torments ! ' 
 
 'Yet stay one moment, Matilda! You command the 
 infernal demons : you can force open these prison-doors ; you 
 can release me from these chains which weigh me down. 
 Save me, I conjure you, and bear me from these fearful 
 abodes ! ' 
 
 'You ask the only boon beyond my power to bestow. 
 I am forbidden to assist a churchman and a partisan of 
 God. Renounce those titles, and command me.' 
 
 ' I will not sell my soul to perdition.' 
 
 ' Persist in your obstinacy, till you find yourself at the 
 stake: then will you repent your error, and sigh for 
 escape when the moment is gone by. I quit you. Yet 
 ere the hour of death arrives, should wisdom enlighten 
 you, listen to the means of repairing your present fault. 
 I leave with you this book. Read the four first lines of 
 the seventh page backwards. The spirit, whom you have 
 already once beheld, will immediately appear to you. If 
 you are wise, we shall meet again; if not, farewell for 
 ever ! ' 
 
 She let the book fall upon the ground. A cloud of blue 
 fire wrapped itself round her. She waved her hand to 
 Ambrosio, and disappeared. The momentary glare which 
 the flames poured through the dungeon, on dissipating 
 suddenly, seemed to have increased its natural gloom. 
 The solitary lamp scarcely gave light sufficient to guide 
 the monk to a chair. He threw himself into his seat, 
 folded his arms, and, leaning his head upon the table, 
 sank into reflections perplexing and unconnected. 
 
 He was still in this attitude, when the opening of the 
 prison-door roused him from his stupor. He was sum- 
 moned to appear before the grand inquisitor. He rose, and 
 followed his gaoler with painful steps. He was led into 
 the same hall, placed before the same examiners, and was 
 
CHAPTER XII 347 
 
 again interrogated whether he would confess. He replied as 
 before, that, having no crimes, he could acknowledge none. 
 But when the executioners prepared to put him to the ques- 
 tion, when he saw the engines of torture, and remembered 
 the pangs which they had already inflicted, his resolution 
 failed him entirely. Forgetting the consequences, and only 
 anxious to escape the terrors of the present moment, he 
 made an ample confession. He disclosed every circum- 
 stance of his guilt, and owned not merely the crimes with 
 which he was charged, but those of which he had never 
 been suspected. Being interrogated as to Matilda's flight, 
 which had created much confusion, he confessed that she 
 had sold herself to Satan, and that she was indebted to 
 sorcery for her escape. He still assured his judges, that 
 for his own part he had never entered into any compact 
 with the infernal spirits ; but the threat of being tortured 
 made him declare himself to be a sorcerer and heretic, and 
 whatever other title the inquisitors chose to fix upon him. 
 In consequence of this avowal, his sentence was immediately 
 pronounced. He was ordered to prepare himself to perish 
 in the auto da fe, which was to be solemnized at twelve 
 o'clock that night. This hour was chosen, from the idea, 
 that the horror of the flames being heightened by the 
 gloom of midnight, the execution would have a greater 
 effect upon the mind of the people. 
 
 Ambrosio, rather dead than alive, was left alone in his 
 dungeon. The moment in which this terrible decree was 
 pronounced had nearly proved that of his dissolution. He 
 looked forward to the morrow with despair, and his terrors 
 increased with the approach of midnight. Sometimes he 
 was buried in gloomy silence ; at others he raved with 
 delirious passion, wrung his hands, and cursed the hour 
 when he first beheld the light. In one of these moments 
 his eye rested upon Matilda's mysterious gift. His trans- 
 ports of rage were instantly suspended. He looked 
 earnestly at the book ; he took it up, but immediately 
 threw it from him with horror. He walked rapidly up 
 and down his dungeon — then stopped, and again fixed his 
 eyes on the spot where the book had fallen. He reflected 
 that here at least was a resource from the fate which he 
 dreaded. He stooped, and took it up a second time. He 
 remained for some time trembling and irresolute ; he 
 longed to try the charm, yet feared its consequences. The 
 
348 THE MONK 
 
 recollection of his sentence at length fixed his indecision. 
 He opened the volume; but his agitation was so great, 
 that he at first sought in vain for the page mentioned by 
 Matilda. Ashamed of himself, he called all his courage to 
 his aid. He turned to the seventh leaf: he began to read 
 it aloud ; but his eyes frequently wandered from the book, 
 while he anxiously cast them round in search of the spirit, 
 whom he wished, yet dreaded to behold. Still he persisted 
 in his design ; and with a voice unassured, and frequent 
 interruptions, he contrived to finish the four first lines of 
 the page. 
 
 They were in a language whose import was totally 
 unknown to him. Scarce had he pronounced the last 
 word, when the effects of the charm were evident. A loud 
 burst of thunder was heard, the prison shook to its very 
 foundations, a blaze of lightning flashed through the cell, 
 and in the next moment, borne upon sulphurous whirlwinds, 
 Lucifer stood before him a second time. But he came not 
 as when, at Matilda's summons, he borrowed the seraph's 
 form to deceive Ambrosio. He appeared in all that ugli- 
 ness which, since his fall from heaven, had been his portion. 
 His blasted limbs still bore marks of the Almighty's 
 thunder. A swarthy darkness spread itself over his 
 gigantic form : his hands and feet were armed with long 
 talons. Fury glared in his eyes, which might have struck 
 the bravest heart with terror. Over his huge shoulders 
 waved two enormous sable wings ; and his hair was supplied 
 by living snakes, which twined themselves round his brows 
 with frightful hissings. In one hand he held a roll of 
 parchment, and in the other an iron pen. Still the 
 lightning flashed around him, and the thunder with 
 repeated bursts seemed to announce the dissolution of 
 Nature. 
 
 Terrified at an apparition so different from what he 
 had expected, Ambrosio remained gazing upon the fiend, 
 deprived of the power of utterance. The thunder had 
 ceased to roll : universal silence reigned through the 
 dungeon. 
 
 ' For what am I summoned hither ? ' said the demon, in 
 a voice which sulphurous fogs had damped to hoarseness. 
 
 At the sound, Nature seemed to tremble. A violent 
 earthquake rocked the ground, accompanied by a fresh 
 burst of thunder, louder and more appalling than the first. 
 
CHAPTER XII 349 
 
 Ambrosio was long unable to answer the demon's 
 demand. 
 
 'I am condemned to die', he said with a faint voice, 
 his blood running cold while he gazed upon his dreadful 
 visitor. ' Save me ! bear me from hence ! ' 
 
 ' Shall the reward of my services be paid me ? Dare 
 you embrace my cause ? Will you be mine, body and soul ? 
 Are you prepared to renounce Him who made you, and Him 
 who died for you ? Answer but ' Yes ! ' and Lucifer is - 
 your slave." 
 
 ' Will no less price content you ? Can nothing satisfy 
 you but my eternal ruin ? Spirit, you ask too much Yet 
 convey me from this dungeon — be my servant for one 
 hour, and I will be yours for a thousand years. Will not 
 this offer suffice ? ' 
 
 ' It will not. I must have your soul — must have it 
 mine, and mine for ever.' 
 
 ' Insatiate demon ! I will not doom myself to endless 
 torments ; I will not give up my hopes of being one day 
 pardoned.' 
 
 ' You will not ! On what chimera rest, then, your hopes ? 
 Short-sighted mortal ! Miserable wretch ! Are you not 
 guilty ? Are you not infamous in the eyes of men and 
 angels ? Can such enormous sins be forgiven ? Hope 
 you to escape my power ? Your fate is already pronounced. 
 The eternal has abandoned you. Mine you are marked in 
 the book of destiny, and mine you must and shall be.' 
 
 ' Fiend ! 'tis false ! Infinite is the Almighty's mercy, 
 and the penitent shall meet His forgiveness. My crimes 
 are monstrous, but I will not despair of pardon. Haply, 
 when they have received due chastisement — ' 
 
 ' Chastisement ! Was purgatory meant for guilt like 
 yours ? Hope you that your offences shall be bought off 
 by pi'ayers of superstitious dotards and droning monks ? 
 Ambrosio, be wise. Mine you must be. You are doomed 
 to flames, but may shun them for the present. Sign this 
 parchment: I will bear you from hence, and you may 
 pass your remaining years in bliss and liberty. Enjoy 
 your existence: indulge in every pleasure to which 
 appetite may lead you. But from the moment that it 
 quits your body, remember that your soul belongs to me, 
 and that I will not be defrauded of my right.' 
 
 The monk was silent : but his looks declared that the 
 
350 THE MONK 
 
 tempter's words were not thrown away. He reflected on 
 the conditions proposed with horror. On the other hand, 
 he believed himself doomed to perdition, and that, by- 
 refusing the demon's succour, he only hastened tortures 
 which he never could escape. The fiend saw that his 
 resolution was shaken. He renewed his instances, and 
 endeavoured to fix the abbot's indecision. He described 
 the agonies of death in the most terrific colours ; and he 
 worked so powerfully upon Ambrosio's despair and fears, 
 that he prevailed upon him to receive the parchment. 
 He then struck the iron pen which he held into a vein of 
 the monk's left hand. It pierced deep, and was instantly 
 filled with blood : yet Ambrosio felt no pain from the 
 wound. The pen was put into his hand : it trembled. 
 The wretch placed the parchment on the table before him, 
 and prepared to sign it. Suddenly he held his hand : he 
 started away hastily, and threw the pen upon the table. 
 
 'What am I doing?' he cried. Then turning to the 
 fiend with a desperate air : ' Leave me ! Begone ! I will 
 not sign the parchment.' 
 
 ' Fool ! ' exclaimed the disappointed demon, darting 
 looks so furious as penetrated the friar's soul with horror. 
 ' Thus am I trifled with ? Go, then ! Rave in agony, 
 expire in tortures, and then learn the extent of the 
 Eternal's mercy ! But beware how you make me again 
 your mock ! Call me no more, till resolved to accept my 
 offers. Summon me a second time to dismiss me thus idly, 
 and these talons shall rend you into a thousand pieces. 
 Speak yet again : will you sign the parchment ? ' 
 
 ' I will not. Leave me. Away ! ' 
 
 Instantly the thunder was heard to roll horribly ; once 
 more the earth trembled with violence : the dungeon 
 resounded with loud shrieks, and the demon fled with 
 blasphemy and curses. 
 
 At first the monk rejoiced at having resisted the 
 seducer's arts, and obtained a triumph over mankind's 
 enemy ; but as the hour of punishment drew near, his 
 former terrors revived in his heart ; their momentary 
 repose seemed to have given them fresh vigour ; the 
 nearer that the time approached, the more did he dread 
 appearing before the throne of God: he shuddered to 
 think how soon he must be plunged into eternity — how 
 soon meet the eyes of his Creator, whom he had so 
 
CHAPTER XII 3Si 
 
 grievously offended. The bell announced midnight: it 
 was the signal for being led to the stake. As he listened 
 to the first stroke, the blood ceased to circulate in the 
 abbot's veins; he heard death and torture murmured in 
 each succeeding sound: he expected to see the archers 
 entering his prison: and as the bell forbore to toll, he 
 seized the magic volume in a fit of despair. He opened it, 
 turned hastily to the seventh page, and as if fearing to 
 allow himself a moment's thought, ran over the fatal lines 
 with rapidity. 
 
 Accompanied by his former terrors, Lucifer again stood 
 before the trembler. 
 
 'You have summoned me', said the fiend. 'Are you 
 determined to be wise ? Will you accept my conditions ? 
 You know them already. Renounce your claim to 
 salvation, make over to me your soul, and I bear you from 
 this dungeon instantly. Yet is it time. Resolve, or it 
 will be too late. Will you sign the parchment ? ' 
 
 ' I must — Fate urges me — I accept yourjjpnditions.' ^ 
 
 ' Sign the parchment ', replied the demon, in an exulting 
 tone. 
 
 The contract and the bloody pen still lay upon the table. 
 Ambrosio drew near it. He prepared to sign his name. A 
 moment's reflection made him hesitate. 
 
 ' Hark ! ' cried the tempter ; ' they come — be quick. Sign 
 the parchment, and I bear you from hence this moment.' 
 
 In effect, the archers were heard approaching, appointed 
 to lead Ambrosio to the stake. The sound encouraged the 
 monk in his resolution. 'What is the import of this 
 writing ? ' said he. 
 
 'It makes your soul over to me for ever, and without 
 reserve.' 
 
 ' What am I to receive in exchange ? ' 
 
 ' My protection, and release from this dungeon. Sign it, 
 and this instant I bear you away.' 
 
 Ambrosio took up the pen. He set it to the parchment. 
 Again his courage failed him ; he felt a pang of terrors 
 at his heart, and once more threw the pen upon the table. 
 
 ' Weak and puerile ! ' cried the exasperated fiend. ' Away 
 with this folly ! Sign the writing this instant, or I sacrifice 
 you to my rage.' 
 
 At this moment the bolt of the outward door was drawn 
 back. The prisoner heard the rattling of chains : the heavy 
 
352 THE MONK 
 
 bar fell ; the archers were on the point of entering. Worked 
 up to frenzy by the urgent danger, shrinking from the 
 approach of death, terrified by the demon's threats, and 
 seeing no other means to escape destruction, the wretched 
 monk complied. He signed the fatal contract, and gave it 
 hastily into the evil spirit's hands, whose eyes, as he received 
 the gift, glared with malicious rapture. 
 
 ' Take it ! ' said the God-abandoned man. ' Now then, 
 save me ! snatch me from hence ! ' 
 
 ' Hold ! Do you freely and absolutely renounce your 
 Creator and His Son?' 
 'I do! I do!' 
 
 ' Do you make over your soul to me for ever ? ' 
 ' For ever ! ' 
 
 ' Without reserve or subterfuge ? without future appeal 
 to the Divine Mercy ? ' 
 
 The last chain fell from the door of the prison. The 
 key was heard turning in the lock. Already the iron door 
 grated heavily upon its rusty hinges. 
 
 ' I am yours for ever, and irrevocably ! ' cried the monk, 
 wild with terror ; ' I abandon all claim to salvation. I own 
 no power but yours. Hark ! hark ! they come ! Oh 
 save me ! bear me away ! ' 
 
 ' I have triumphed ! You are mine past reprieve, and I 
 fulfil my promise.' 
 
 While he spoke, the door unclosed. Instantly the demon 
 grasped one of Ambrosio's arms, spread his broad pinions, 
 and sprang with him into the air. The roof opened as they 
 soared upwards, and closed again when they had quitted 
 the dungeon. 
 
 In the meanwhile, the gaoler was thrown into the utmost 
 surprise by the disappearance of his prisoner. Though 
 neither he nor the archers were in time to witness the 
 monk's escape, a sulphurous smell prevailing through the 
 prison sufficiently informed them by whose aid he had 
 been liberated. They hastened to make their report to the 
 grand inquisitor. The story, how a sorcerer had been 
 carried away by the Devil, was soon noised about Madrid ; 
 and for some days the whole city was employed in discuss- 
 ing the subject. Gradually it ceased to be the topic of 
 conversation. Other adventures arose, whose novelty 
 engaged universal attention, and Ambrosio was soon for- 
 gotten as totally as if he never had existed. While this 
 
CHAPTER XII 3S3 
 
 was passing, the monk, supported by his infernal guide, 
 traversed the air with the rapidity of an arrow, and a few 
 moments^placed him upon a precipice's brink, the steepest 
 in SierraliIorena>v. 
 
 Though rescued fr$Jm the Inquisition, Ambrosio as yet was 
 insensible of the blessings of liberty. The damning contract 
 weighed heavy upon his mind ; and the scenes in which he 
 had been a principal actor had left behind them such 
 impressions as rendered his heart the seat of anarchy and 
 confusion. The objects now before his eyes, and which the * 
 full moon sailing through clouds permitted him to examine, \ 
 were ill calculated to inspire that calm of which he stood 
 so much in need. The disorder of his imagination was 
 increased by the wildness of the surrounding scenery — by 
 the gloomy caverns and steep rocks, rising above each other, 
 and dividing the passing clouds ; solitary clusters of trees, 
 scattered here and there, among whose thick -twined * 
 branches the wind of night sighed hoarsely and mourn- 
 fully ; the shrill cry of mountain eagles, who had built 
 their nests among these lonely deserts ; the stunning roar 
 of torrents, as swelled by late rains they rushed violently 
 down tremendous precipices, and the dark waters of a 
 silent sluggish stream, which faintly reflected the moon- 
 beams, and bathed the rock's base on which Ambrosio 
 stood. The abbot cast round him a look of terror. 
 His infernal conductor was still by his side, and eyed 
 him with a look of mingled malice, exultation, and 
 contempt. 
 
 ' Whither have you brought me ? ' said the monk at 
 length, in a hollow, trembling voice. ' Why am I placed 
 in this melancholy scene ? Bear me from it quickly ! 
 Carry me to Matilda ! ' 
 
 The fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in 
 silence. Ambrosio could not sustain his glance ; he turned 
 away his eyes, while thus spoke the demon : 
 
 ' I have him then in my power ! This model of piety ! 
 thi3 being without reproach ! this mortal who placed his 
 puny virtues on a level with those of angels ! He is mine 
 irrevocably, eternally mine ! Companions of my suffer- 
 ings ! denizens of hell ! how grateful will be my present ! ' 
 
 He paused — then addressed himself to the monk : 
 ' Carry you to Matilda I ' he continued, repeating 
 Ambrosio's words: 'Wretch! you shall soon be with 
 
354 THE MONK 
 
 her ! You well deserve a place near her, for 'hell boasts 
 no miscreant more guilty than yourself. Hark, Ambrosio ! 
 while I unveil your crimes ! You have shed the blood of 
 two innocents ; Antonia and Elvira perished by your 
 i hand. That Antonia whom you violated was your sister ! 
 | that Elvira^— _whom — ■you-.aMtfdeyed-'- 'gav&^'you -bisthj 
 j Tremble, abandoned hypocrite, inhuman parricide, in- 
 i cestuous ravisher ! Tremble at the extent of your 
 j offences ! And you it was who thought yourself proof 
 i against temptation, absolved from human frailties, and 
 free from error and vice ! Is pride, then, a virtue ? Is 
 inhumanity no fault ? Know, vain man ! that I long have 
 marked you^f or my prey : I watched the movements of 
 your heart ;(l saw that you were virtuous from vanity, 
 not principle^and I seized the fit moment of seductfon. 
 I observed yolir blind idolatry of the Madonna's picture.^ I 
 bade a subordinate but crafty spirit assume a similar form, 
 and you eagerly yielded to the blandishments of MatildaS 
 Your pride was gratified by her flattery ; your lust only 
 needed an opportunity to break forth ; you ran into the 
 snare blindly, and scrupled not to commit a crime which 
 you blamed in another with unfeeling severity. It was I 
 who threw Matilda in your way ; it was I who gave you 
 entrance to Antonia's chamber ; it was I who caused the 
 dagger to be given you which pierced your sister's bosom, 
 and it was I who warned Elvira in dreams of your designs 
 upon her daughter, and thus, by preventing your profiting 
 by her sleep, compelled you to add rape as well as incest to 
 ihe catalogue of your crimes. Hear, hear, Ambrosio! 
 N^Had you resisted me one minute longer, you had saved 
 1 your body and soul. The guards whom youheard at your 
 , prison-door came to signify your pardon^ But I had 
 1 already triumphed : my plots had already succeeded. 
 Scarcely could I propose crimes so quick as you per- 
 formed them. You are mine, and Heaven itself cannot 
 rescue you from my power. Hope not that your penitence 
 will make void our contract. Here is your bond signed 
 with your blood ; you have given up your claim to mercy, 
 and nothing can restore to you the rights which you have 
 foolishly resigned. Believe you that your secret thoughts 
 escaped me ? No, no— I read them all ! You trusted that 
 you should still have time for repentance. I saw your 
 artifice, knew its falsity, and rejoiced in deceiving the 
 
CHAPTER XII 355 
 
 deceiver ! You are mine Jbeyond reprieve : I burn 
 to possess ,.my right, and( alive you quit not these 
 mountains.' j ^ 
 
 During the demon's speech, Ambrosio had been 
 stupefied by terror and surprise. This last declaration 
 roused him. 
 
 ' Not quit these mountains alive ! ' he exclaimed. 
 * Perfidious ! what mean you ? Have you forgotten our 
 contract?' 
 
 The fiend answered by a malicious laugh, 
 
 * Our contract ! Have I not performed my part ? What 
 more did I promise than to save you from your prison ? 
 Have I not done so ? Are you not safe from the Inquisi- 
 tion — safe from all but from me ? Fool that you were, to 
 confide yourself to a devil ! Why did you not stipulate 
 for life, and power, and pleasure ? — then all would have 
 been granted : now, your reflections come too late. 
 Miscreant ! prepare for death ; you have not many hours 
 to live ! ' 
 
 On hearing this sentence, dreadful were the feelings of 
 the devoted wretch ! He sank upon his knees, and raised 
 his hands towards heaven. 
 
 The fiend read his intention, and prevented it. ' What ! ' 
 he cried, darting at him a look of fury ; ' dare you still 
 implore the Eternal's mercy ? Would you feign penitence, 
 and again act an hypocrite's part ? Villain ! resign your 
 hopes of pardon. Thus I secure my prey.' 
 
 As he said this, darting his talons into the monk's shaven 
 crown, he sprang with him from the rock. The caves and 
 mountains rang with Ambrosio's shrieks. The demon 
 continued to soar aloft, till reaching a dreadful height, he 
 released the sufferer. Headlong fell the monk through the 
 airy waste : the sharp point of rock received him, and he 
 rolled from precipice to precipice, till, bruised and mangled, 
 he rested on the river's banks. Instantly a violent storm 
 arose : the winds in fury rent up rocks and forests : the 
 sky was now black with clouds, now sheeted with fire : 
 the rain fell in torrents ; it swelled the stream ; the waves 
 overflowed their banks; they reached the spot where 
 Ambrosio lay, and, when they abated, carried with them 
 into the river the corpse of the despairing monk. 
 
356 THE MONK 
 
 Haughty lady, why shrunk you back when yon poor 
 frail one drew near ? Was the air infected by her errors ? 
 Was your purity soiled by her passing breath ? Ah, lady ! 
 smooth that insulting brow : stifle the reproach just burst- 
 ing from your scornful lip : wound not a soul that bleeds 
 already ! She has suffered, suffers still. Her air is gay, 
 but her heart is broken ; her dress sparkles, but her bosom 
 groans. 
 
 - Lady, to look with mercy on the conduct of others is a 
 virtue no less than to look with severity on your own. 
 
 FINIS 
 
 Printed by Cowan Sf Co. , Limited, Perth.