The Monk:

A Romance

PREFACE

IMITATION OF HORACE

Ep. 20.—B. 1.

Methinks, Oh! vain ill-judging Book,

I see thee cast a wishful look,

Where reputations won and lost are

In famous row called Paternoster.

Incensed to find your precious olio

Buried in unexplored port-folio,

You scorn the prudent lock and key,

And pant well bound and gilt to see

Your Volume in the window set

Of Stockdale, Hookham, or Debrett.



Go then, and pass that dangerous bourn

Whence never Book can back return:

And when you find, condemned, despised,

Neglected, blamed, and criticised,

Abuse from All who read you fall,

(If haply you be read at all

Sorely will you your folly sigh at,

And wish for me, and home, and quiet.



Assuming now a conjuror’s office, I

Thus on your future Fortune prophesy:—

Soon as your novelty is o’er,

And you are young and new no more,

In some dark dirty corner thrown,

Mouldy with damps, with cobwebs strown,

Your leaves shall be the Book-worm’s prey;

Or sent to Chandler-Shop away,

And doomed to suffer public scandal,

Shall line the trunk, or wrap the candle!



But should you meet with approbation,

And some one find an inclination

To ask, by natural transition

Respecting me and my condition;

That I am one, the enquirer teach,

Nor very poor, nor very rich;

Of passions strong, of hasty nature,

Of graceless form and dwarfish stature;

By few approved, and few approving;

Extreme in hating and in loving;



Abhorring all whom I dislike,

Adoring who my fancy strike;

In forming judgements never long,

And for the most part judging wrong;

In friendship firm, but still believing

Others are treacherous and deceiving,

And thinking in the present aera

That Friendship is a pure chimaera:

More passionate no creature living,

Proud, obstinate, and unforgiving,

But yet for those who kindness show,

Ready through fire and smoke to go.



Again, should it be asked your page,

“Pray, what may be the author’s age?”

Your faults, no doubt, will make it clear,

I scarce have seen my twentieth year,

Which passed, kind Reader, on my word,

While England’s Throne held George the Third.



Now then your venturous course pursue:

Go, my delight! Dear Book, adieu!

M. G. L.

Hague,

Oct. 28, 1794.

ADVERTISEMENT

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

CHAPTER I.

——Lord Angelo is precise;

Stands at a guard with envy; Scarce confesses

That his blood flows, or that his appetite

Is more to bread than stone.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Segnor.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I never unveil in public, Segnor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Marquis de las Cisternas.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lorenzo smiled at the strength of her expressions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He said, and darted out of the Cathedral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Friend! we shall meet above!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who will be here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Agnes, by heaven!” cried Lorenzo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Stranger immediately dropped his Sword.

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

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

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

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

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

“The Condé d’Ossorio?”

“Exactly so, Marquis.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE GYPSY’S SONG

Come, cross my hand! My art surpasses

    All that did ever Mortal know;

Come, Maidens, come! My magic glasses

    Your future Husband’s form can show:



For ’tis to me the power is given

    Unclosed the book of Fate to see;

To read the fixed resolves of heaven,

    And dive into futurity.



I guide the pale Moon’s silver waggon;

    The winds in magic bonds I hold;

I charm to sleep the crimson Dragon,

    Who loves to watch o’er buried gold:



Fenced round with spells, unhurt I venture

    Their sabbath strange where Witches keep;

Fearless the Sorcerer’s circle enter,

    And woundless tread on snakes asleep.



Lo! Here are charms of mighty power!

    This makes secure an Husband’s truth

And this composed at midnight hour

    Will force to love the coldest Youth:



If any Maid too much has granted,

    Her loss this Philtre will repair;

This blooms a cheek where red is wanted,

    And this will make a brown girl fair!



Then silent hear, while I discover

    What I in Fortune’s mirror view;

And each, when many a year is over,

    Shall own the Gypsy’s sayings true.

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

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

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

THE GYPSY

“Lady! gentle Lady! Know,

I your future fate can show;

Give your hand, and do not fear;

Lady! gentle Lady! hear!”

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

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

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

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

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

THE GYPSY

“Your fortune? You are now so old,

Good Dame, that ’tis already told:

Yet for your money, in a trice

I will repay you in advice.

Astonished at your childish vanity,

Your Friends all tax you with insanity,

And grieve to see you use your art

To catch some youthful Lover’s heart.

Believe me, Dame, when all is done,

Your age will still be fifty one;

And Men will rarely take an hint

Of love, from two grey eyes that squint.

Take then my counsels; Lay aside

Your paint and patches, lust and pride,

And on the Poor those sums bestow,

Which now are spent on useless show.

Think on your Maker, not a Suitor;

Think on your past faults, not on future;

And think Time’s Scythe will quickly mow

The few red hairs, which deck your brow.

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

THE GYPSY

“Peace, Lady! What I said was true;

And now, my lovely Maid, to you;

Give me your hand, and let me see

Your future doom, and heaven’s decree.”

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

THE GYPSY

“Jesus! what a palm is there!

Chaste, and gentle, young and fair,

Perfect mind and form possessing,

You would be some good Man’s blessing:

But Alas! This line discovers,

That destruction o’er you hovers;

Lustful Man and crafty Devil

Will combine to work your evil;

And from earth by sorrows driven,

Soon your Soul must speed to heaven.

Yet your sufferings to delay,

Well remember what I say.

When you One more virtuous see

Than belongs to Man to be,

One, whose self no crimes assailing,

Pities not his Neighbour’s Failing,

Call the Gypsy’s words to mind:

Though He seem so good and kind,

Fair Exteriors oft will hide

Hearts, that swell with lust and pride!

Lovely Maid, with tears I leave you!

Let not my prediction grieve you;

Rather with submission bending

Calmly wait distress impending,

And expect eternal bliss

In a better world than this.

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

CHAPTER II.

Fòrse sé tu gustassi una sòl volta

La millésima parte délle giòje,

Ché gusta un còr amato riamando,

Diresti ripentita sospirando,

Perduto è tutto il tempo

Ché in amar non si spènde.

TASSO.

Hadst Thou but tasted once the thousandth part

Of joys, which bless the loved and loving heart,

Your words repentant and your sighs would prove,

Lost is the time which is not past in love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is there?” said Ambrosio at length.

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

“Enter! Enter, my Son!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is your Friend’s name?”

“Vincentio della Ronda.”

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

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

“Your attentions charm me, my Son.”

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

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

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

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

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

Here the Novice heaved an involuntary sigh.

“When was that once?” demanded the Abbot.

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

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

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

“Sufferings at your age, Rosario?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus saying, She hastened out of the Chapel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE

Whoe’er Thou art these lines now reading,

Think not, though from the world receding

I joy my lonely days to lead in

        This Desart drear,

That with remorse a conscience bleeding

        Hath led me here.



No thought of guilt my bosom sowrs:

Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;

For well I saw in Halls and Towers

        That Lust and Pride,

The Arch-Fiend’s dearest darkest Powers,

        In state preside.



I saw Mankind with vice incrusted;

I saw that Honour’s sword was rusted;

That few for aught but folly lusted;

That He was still deceiv’d, who trusted

        In Love or Friend;

And hither came with Men disgusted

        My life to end.



In this lone Cave, in garments lowly,

Alike a Foe to noisy folly,

And brow-bent gloomy melancholy

        I wear away

My life, and in my office holy

        Consume the day.



Content and comfort bless me more in

This Grot, than e’er I felt before in

A Palace, and with thoughts still soaring

        To God on high,

Each night and morn with voice imploring

        This wish I sigh.



“Let me, Oh! Lord! from life retire,

Unknown each guilty worldly fire,

Remorseful throb, or loose desire;

        And when I die,

Let me in this belief expire,

        ‘To God I fly’!”



Stranger, if full of youth and riot

As yet no grief has marred thy quiet,

Thou haply throw’st a scornful eye at

        The Hermit’s prayer:

But if Thou hast a cause to sigh at

        Thy fault, or care;



If Thou hast known false Love’s vexation,

Or hast been exil’d from thy Nation,

Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,

        And makes thee pine,

Oh! how must Thou lament thy station,

        And envy mine!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You had a Sister?”

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

“What were those sorrows?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, my Son?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matilda!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What shall I give you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are in spirits, Matilda!”

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

“What was that pleasure?”

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

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

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

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

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

She soon returned with it.

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

“What you please, Matilda.”

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

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

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

DURANDARTE AND BELERMA

Sad and fearful is the story

Of the Roncevalles fight;

On those fatal plains of glory

Perished many a gallant Knight.



There fell Durandarte; Never

Verse a nobler Chieftain named:

He, before his lips for ever

Closed in silence thus exclaimed.



“Oh! Belerma! Oh! my dear-one!

For my pain and pleasure born!

Seven long years I served thee, fair-one,

Seven long years my fee was scorn:



“And when now thy heart replying

To my wishes, burns like mine,

Cruel Fate my bliss denying

Bids me every hope resign.



“Ah! Though young I fall, believe me,

Death would never claim a sigh;

’Tis to lose thee, ’tis to leave thee,

Makes me think it hard to die!



“Oh! my Cousin Montesinos,

By that friendship firm and dear

Which from Youth has lived between us,

Now my last petition hear!



“When my Soul these limbs forsaking

Eager seeks a purer air,

From my breast the cold heart taking,

Give it to Belerma’s care.



Say, I of my lands Possessor

Named her with my dying breath:

Say, my lips I op’d to bless her,

Ere they closed for aye in death:



“Twice a week too how sincerely

I adored her, Cousin, say;

Twice a week for one who dearly

Loved her, Cousin, bid her pray.



“Montesinos, now the hour

Marked by fate is near at hand:

Lo! my arm has lost its power!

Lo! I drop my trusty brand!



“Eyes, which forth beheld me going,

Homewards ne’er shall see me hie!

Cousin, stop those tears o’er-flowing,

Let me on thy bosom die!



“Thy kind hand my eyelids closing,

Yet one favour I implore:

Pray Thou for my Soul’s reposing,

When my heart shall throb no more;



“So shall Jesus, still attending

Gracious to a Christian’s vow,

Pleased accept my Ghost ascending,

And a seat in heaven allow.”



Thus spoke gallant Durandarte;

Soon his brave heart broke in twain.

Greatly joyed the Moorish party,

That the gallant Knight was slain.



Bitter weeping Montesinos

Took from him his helm and glaive;

Bitter weeping Montesinos

Dug his gallant Cousin’s grave.



To perform his promise made, He

Cut the heart from out the breast,

That Belerma, wretched Lady!

Might receive the last bequest.



Sad was Montesinos’ heart, He

Felt distress his bosom rend.

“Oh! my Cousin Durandarte,

Woe is me to view thy end!



“Sweet in manners, fair in favour,

Mild in temper, fierce in fight,

Warrior, nobler, gentler, braver,

Never shall behold the light!



“Cousin, Lo! my tears bedew thee!

How shall I thy loss survive!

Durandarte, He who slew thee,

Wherefore left He me alive!”

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

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

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

She stopped, and was lost in her reflections.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She entered her cell, and closed the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled, and grasped his hand.

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

“Matilda!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III

——These are the Villains

Whom all the Travellers do fear so much.

————Some of them are Gentlemen

Such as the fury of ungoverned Youth

Thrust from the company of awful Men.

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

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

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

“Excuse me, my Lord,” said He with a distant air, “if I reply
somewhat coldly to your expressions of regard. A Sister’s honour is
involved in this affair: Till that is established, and the purport of your
correspondence with Agnes cleared up, I cannot consider you as my Friend. I am
anxious to hear the meaning of your conduct, and hope that you will not delay
the promised explanation.”

“First give me your word, that you will listen with patience and
indulgence.”

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

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

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

“Probably, you have already heard your Sister mention the name of
Alphonso d’Alvarada?”

“Never. Though I feel for Agnes an affection truly fraternal,
circumstances have prevented us from being much together. While yet a Child She
was consigned to the care of her Aunt, who had married a German Nobleman. At
his Castle She remained till two years since, when She returned to Spain,
determined upon secluding herself from the world.”

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

“Marquis, you wrong me. The intelligence, which I received at Naples,
shocked me extremely, and I hastened my return to Madrid for the express
purpose of preventing the sacrifice. The moment that I arrived, I flew to the
Convent of St. Clare, in which Agnes had chosen to perform her Noviciate. I
requested to see my Sister. Conceive my surprise when She sent me a refusal;
She declared positively, that apprehending my influence over her mind, She
would not trust herself in my society till the day before that on which She was
to receive the Veil. I supplicated the Nuns; I insisted upon seeing Agnes, and
hesitated not to avow my suspicions that her being kept from me was against her
own inclinations. To free herself from the imputation of violence, the Prioress
brought me a few lines written in my Sister’s well-known hand, repeating
the message already delivered. All future attempts to obtain a moment’s
conversation with her were as fruitless as the first. She was inflexible, and I
was not permitted to see her till the day preceding that on which She entered
the Cloister never to quit it more. This interview took place in the presence
of our principal Relations. It was for the first time since her childhood that
I saw her, and the scene was most affecting. She threw herself upon my bosom,
kissed me, and wept bitterly. By every possible argument, by tears, by prayers,
by kneeling, I strove to make her abandon her intention. I represented to her
all the hardships of a religious life; I painted to her imagination all the
pleasures which She was going to quit, and besought her to disclose to me, what
occasioned her disgust to the world. At this last question She turned pale, and
her tears flowed yet faster. She entreated me not to press her on that subject;
That it sufficed me to know that her resolution was taken, and that a Convent
was the only place where She could now hope for tranquillity. She persevered in
her design, and made her profession. I visited her frequently at the Grate, and
every moment that I passed with her, made me feel more affliction at her loss.
I was shortly after obliged to quit Madrid; I returned but yesterday evening,
and since then have not had time to call at St. Clare’s Convent.”

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

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

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

He then began his narrative in the following manner:—

HISTORY OF DON RAYMOND,

MARQUIS DE LAS CISTERNAS

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

On leaving Salamanca, at which University as I have since heard, you remained a
year after I quitted it, I immediately set out upon my Travels. My Father
supplied me liberally with money; But He insisted upon my concealing my rank,
and presenting myself as no more than a private Gentleman. This command was
issued by the counsels of his Friend, the Duke of Villa Hermosa, a Nobleman for
whose abilities and knowledge of the world I have ever entertained the most
profound veneration.

“Believe me,” said He, “my dear Raymond, you will hereafter
feel the benefits of this temporary degradation. ’Tis true, that as the
Condé de las Cisternas you would have been received with open arms; and your
youthful vanity might have felt gratified by the attentions showered upon you
from all sides. At present, much will depend upon yourself: You have excellent
recommendations, but it must be your own business to make them of use to you.
You must lay yourself out to please; You must labour to gain the approbation of
those, to whom you are presented: They who would have courted the friendship of
the Condé de las Cisternas will have no interest in finding out the merits, or
bearing patiently with the faults, of Alphonso d’Alvarada. Consequently,
when you find yourself really liked, you may safely ascribe it to your good
qualities, not your rank, and the distinction shown you will be infinitely more
flattering. Besides, your exalted birth would not permit your mixing with the
lower classes of society, which will now be in your power, and from which, in
my opinion, you will derive considerable benefit. Do not confine yourself to
the Illustrious of those Countries through which you pass. Examine the manners
and customs of the multitude: Enter into the Cottages; and by observing how the
Vassals of Foreigners are treated, learn to diminish the burthens and augment
the comforts of your own. According to my ideas, of those advantages which a
Youth destined to the possession of power and wealth may reap from travel, He
should not consider as the least essential, the opportunity of mixing with the
classes below him, and becoming an eyewitness of the sufferings of the
People.”

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

I followed the Duke’s advice; I was soon convinced of its wisdom.

I quitted Spain, calling myself by the assumed title of Don Alphonso
d’Alvarada, and attended by a single Domestic of approved fidelity. Paris
was my first station. For some time I was enchanted with it, as indeed must be
every Man who is young, rich, and fond of pleasure. Yet among all its gaieties,
I felt that something was wanting to my heart. I grew sick of dissipation: I
discovered, that the People among whom I lived, and whose exterior was so
polished and seducing, were at bottom frivolous, unfeeling and insincere. I
turned from the Inhabitants of Paris with disgust, and quitted that Theatre of
Luxury without heaving one sigh of regret.

I now bent my course towards Germany, intending to visit most of the principal
courts: Prior to this expedition, I meant to make some little stay at
Strasbourg. On quitting my Chaise at Luneville to take some refreshment, I
observed a splendid Equipage, attended by four Domestics in rich liveries,
waiting at the door of the Silver Lion. Soon after as I looked out of the
window, I saw a Lady of noble presence, followed by two female Attendants, step
into the Carriage, which drove off immediately.

I enquired of the Host, who the Lady was, that had just departed.

“A German Baroness, Monsieur, of great rank and fortune. She has been
upon a visit to the Duchess of Longueville, as her Servants informed me; She is
going to Strasbourg, where She will find her Husband, and then both return to
their Castle in Germany.”

I resumed my journey, intending to reach Strasbourg that night. My hopes,
however were frustrated by the breaking down of my Chaise. The accident
happened in the middle of a thick Forest, and I was not a little embarrassed as
to the means of proceeding.

It was the depth of winter: The night was already closing round us; and
Strasbourg, which was the nearest Town, was still distant from us several
leagues. It seemed to me that my only alternative to passing the night in the
Forest, was to take my Servant’s Horse and ride on to Strasbourg, an
undertaking at that season very far from agreeable. However, seeing no other
resource, I was obliged to make up my mind to it. Accordingly I communicated my
design to the Postillion, telling him that I would send People to assist him as
soon as I reached Strasbourg. I had not much confidence in his honesty; But
Stephano being well-armed, and the Driver to all appearance considerably
advanced in years, I believed I ran no danger of losing my Baggage.

Luckily, as I then thought, an opportunity presented itself of passing the
night more agreeably than I expected. On mentioning my design of proceeding by
myself to Strasbourg, the Postillion shook his head in disapprobation.

“It is a long way,” said He; “You will find it a difficult
matter to arrive there without a Guide. Besides, Monsieur seems unaccustomed to
the season’s severity, and ’tis possible that unable to sustain the
excessive cold....”

“What use is there to present me with all these objections?” said
I, impatiently interrupting him; “I have no other resource: I run still
greater risque of perishing with cold by passing the night in the
Forest.”

“Passing the night in the Forest?” He replied; “Oh! by St.
Denis! We are not in quite so bad a plight as that comes to yet. If I am not
mistaken, we are scarcely five minutes walk from the Cottage of my old Friend,
Baptiste. He is a Wood-cutter, and a very honest Fellow. I doubt not but He
will shelter you for the night with pleasure. In the meantime I can take the
saddle-Horse, ride to Strasbourg, and be back with proper people to mend your
Carriage by break of day.”

“And in the name of God,” said I, “How could you leave me so
long in suspense? Why did you not tell me of this Cottage sooner? What
excessive stupidity!”

“I thought that perhaps Monsieur would not deign to accept....”

“Absurd! Come, come! Say no more, but conduct us without delay to the
Wood-man’s Cottage.”

He obeyed, and we moved onwards: The Horses contrived with some difficulty to
drag the shattered vehicle after us. My Servant was become almost speechless,
and I began to feel the effects of the cold myself, before we reached the
wished-for Cottage. It was a small but neat Building: As we drew near it, I
rejoiced at observing through the window the blaze of a comfortable fire. Our
Conductor knocked at the door: It was some time before any one answered; The
People within seemed in doubt whether we should be admitted.

“Come! Come, Friend Baptiste!” cried the Driver with impatience;
“What are you about? Are you asleep? Or will you refuse a night’s
lodging to a Gentleman, whose Chaise has just broken down in the Forest?”

“Ah! is it you, honest Claude?” replied a Man’s voice from
within; “Wait a moment, and the door shall be opened.”

Soon after the bolts were drawn back. The door was unclosed, and a Man
presented himself to us with a Lamp in his hand. He gave the Guide an hearty
reception, and then addressed himself to me.

“Walk in, Monsieur; Walk in, and welcome! Excuse me for not admitting you
at first: But there are so many Rogues about this place, that saving your
presence, I suspected you to be one.”

Thus saying, He ushered me into the room, where I had observed the fire: I was
immediately placed in an Easy Chair, which stood close to the Hearth. A Female,
whom I supposed to be the Wife of my Host, rose from her seat upon my entrance,
and received me with a slight and distant reverence. She made no answer to my
compliment, but immediately re-seating herself, continued the work on which She
had been employed. Her Husband’s manners were as friendly as hers were
harsh and repulsive.

“I wish, I could lodge you more conveniently, Monsieur,” said He;
“But we cannot boast of much spare room in this hovel. However, a chamber
for yourself, and another for your Servant, I think, we can make shift to
supply. You must content yourself with sorry fare; But to what we have, believe
me, you are heartily welcome.” ——Then turning to his
wife—“Why, how you sit there, Marguerite, with as much tranquillity
as if you had nothing better to do! Stir about, Dame! Stir about! Get some
supper; Look out some sheets; Here, here; throw some logs upon the fire, for
the Gentleman seems perished with cold.”

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

However, in spite of her unwillingness, Marguerite began to prepare the supper,
while the Wood-man conversed gaily on different subjects. The Postillion, who
had been furnished with a bottle of spirits, was now ready to set out for
Strasbourg, and enquired, whether I had any further commands.

“For Strasbourg?” interrupted Baptiste; “You are not going
thither tonight?”

“I beg your pardon: If I do not fetch Workmen to mend the Chaise, How is
Monsieur to proceed tomorrow?”

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

To this I readily assented, telling the Postillion that my reaching Strasbourg
the next day an hour or two later would be perfectly immaterial. He thanked me,
and then leaving the Cottage with Stephano, put up his Horses in the
Wood-man’s Stable. Baptiste followed them to the door, and looked out
with anxiety.

“’Tis a sharp biting wind!” said He; “I wonder, what
detains my Boys so long! Monsieur, I shall show you two of the finest Lads,
that ever stept in shoe of leather. The eldest is three and twenty, the second
a year younger: Their Equals for sense, courage, and activity, are not to be
found within fifty miles of Strasbourg. Would They were back again! I begin to
feel uneasy about them.”

Marguerite was at this time employed in laying the cloth.

“And are you equally anxious for the return of your Sons?” said I
to her.

“Not I!” She replied peevishly; “They are no children of
mine.”

“Come! Come, Marguerite!” said the Husband; “Do not be out of
humour with the Gentleman for asking a simple question. Had you not looked so
cross, He would never have thought you old enough to have a Son of three and
twenty: But you see how many years ill-temper adds to you!—Excuse my
Wife’s rudeness, Monsieur. A little thing puts her out, and She is
somewhat displeased at your not thinking her to be under thirty. That is the
truth, is it not, Marguerite? You know, Monsieur, that Age is always a ticklish
subject with a Woman. Come! come! Marguerite, clear up a little. If you have
not Sons as old, you will some twenty years hence, and I hope, that we shall
live to see them just such Lads as Jacques and Robert.”

Marguerite clasped her hands together passionately.

“God forbid!” said She; “God forbid! If I thought it, I would
strangle them with my own hands!”

She quitted the room hastily, and went up stairs.

I could not help expressing to the Wood-man how much I pitied him for being
chained for life to a Partner of such ill-humour.

“Ah! Lord! Monsieur, Every one has his share of grievances, and
Marguerite has fallen to mine. Besides, after all She is only cross, and not
malicious. The worst is, that her affection for two children by a former
Husband makes her play the Step-mother with my two Sons. She cannot bear the
sight of them, and by her good-will they would never set a foot within my door.
But on this point I always stand firm, and never will consent to abandon the
poor Lads to the world’s mercy, as She has often solicited me to do. In
every thing else I let her have her own way; and truly She manages a family
rarely, that I must say for her.”

We were conversing in this manner, when our discourse was interrupted by a loud
halloo, which rang through the Forest.

“My Sons, I hope!” exclaimed the Wood-man, and ran to open the
door.

The halloo was repeated: We now distinguished the trampling of Horses, and soon
after a Carriage, attended by several Cavaliers stopped at the Cottage door.
One of the Horsemen enquired how far they were still from Strasbourg. As He
addressed himself to me, I answered in the number of miles which Claude had
told me; Upon which a volley of curses was vented against the Drivers for
having lost their way. The Persons in the Coach were now informed of the
distance of Strasbourg, and also that the Horses were so fatigued as to be
incapable of proceeding further. A Lady, who appeared to be the principal,
expressed much chagrin at this intelligence; But as there was no remedy, one of
the Attendants asked the Wood-man, whether He could furnish them with lodging
for the night.

He seemed much embarrassed, and replied in the negative; Adding that a Spanish
Gentleman and his Servant were already in possession of the only spare
apartments in his House. On hearing this, the gallantry of my nation would not
permit me to retain those accommodations, of which a Female was in want. I
instantly signified to the Wood-man, that I transferred my right to the Lady;
He made some objections; But I overruled them, and hastening to the Carriage,
opened the door, and assisted the Lady to descend. I immediately recognized her
for the same person whom I had seen at the Inn at Luneville. I took an
opportunity of asking one of her Attendants, what was her name?

“The Baroness Lindenberg,” was the answer.

I could not but remark how different a reception our Host had given these
newcomers and myself. His reluctance to admit them was visibly expressed on his
countenance, and He prevailed on himself with difficulty to tell the Lady that
She was welcome. I conducted her into the House, and placed her in the
armed-chair, which I had just quitted. She thanked me very graciously; and made
a thousand apologies for putting me to an inconvenience. Suddenly the
Wood-man’s countenance cleared up.

“At last I have arranged it!” said He, interrupting her excuses;
“I can lodge you and your suite, Madam, and you will not be under the
necessity of making this Gentleman suffer for his politeness.

We have two spare chambers, one for the Lady, the other, Monsieur, for you: My
Wife shall give up hers to the two Waiting-women; As for the Men-servants, they
must content themselves with passing the night in a large Barn, which stands at
a few yards distance from the House. There they shall have a blazing fire, and
as good a supper as we can make shift to give them.”

After several expressions of gratitude on the Lady’s part, and opposition
on mine to Marguerite’s giving up her bed, this arrangement was agreed
to. As the Room was small, the Baroness immediately dismissed her Male
Domestics: Baptiste was on the point of conducting them to the Barn which He
had mentioned when two young Men appeared at the door of the Cottage.

“Hell and Furies!” exclaimed the first starting back;
“Robert, the House is filled with Strangers!”

“Ha! There are my Sons!” cried our Host. “Why, Jacques!
Robert! whither are you running, Boys? There is room enough still for
you.”

Upon this assurance the Youths returned. The Father presented them to the
Baroness and myself: After which He withdrew with our Domestics, while at the
request of the two Waiting-women, Marguerite conducted them to the room
designed for their Mistress.

The two new-comers were tall, stout, well-made young Men, hard-featured, and
very much sun-burnt. They paid their compliments to us in few words, and
acknowledged Claude, who now entered the room, as an old acquaintance. They
then threw aside their cloaks in which they were wrapped up, took off a
leathern belt to which a large Cutlass was suspended, and each drawing a brace
of pistols from his girdle laid them upon a shelf.

“You travel well-armed,” said I.

“True, Monsieur;” replied Robert. “We left Strasbourg late
this Evening, and ’tis necessary to take precautions at passing through
this Forest after dark. It does not bear a good repute, I promise you.”

“How?” said the Baroness; “Are there Robbers
hereabout?”

“So it is said, Madame; For my own part, I have travelled through the
wood at all hours, and never met with one of them.”

Here Marguerite returned. Her Stepsons drew her to the other end of the room,
and whispered her for some minutes. By the looks which they cast towards us at
intervals, I conjectured them to be enquiring our business in the Cottage.

In the meanwhile the Baroness expressed her apprehensions, that her Husband
would be suffering much anxiety upon her account. She had intended to send on
one of her Servants to inform the Baron of her delay; But the account which the
young Men gave of the Forest rendered this plan impracticable. Claude relieved
her from her embarrassment. He informed her that He was under the necessity of
reaching Strasbourg that night, and that would She trust him with a letter, She
might depend upon its being safely delivered.

“And how comes it,” said I, “that you are under no
apprehension of meeting these Robbers?”

“Alas! Monsieur, a poor Man with a large family must not lose certain
profit because ’tis attended with a little danger, and perhaps my Lord
the Baron may give me a trifle for my pains. Besides, I have nothing to lose
except my life, and that will not be worth the Robbers taking.”

I thought his arguments bad, and advised his waiting till the Morning; But as
the Baroness did not second me, I was obliged to give up the point. The
Baroness Lindenberg, as I found afterwards, had long been accustomed to
sacrifice the interests of others to her own, and her wish to send Claude to
Strasbourg blinded her to the danger of the undertaking. Accordingly, it was
resolved that He should set out without delay. The Baroness wrote her letter to
her Husband, and I sent a few lines to my Banker, apprising him that I should
not be at Strasbourg till the next day. Claude took our letters, and left the
Cottage.

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

“Which chamber is it, Mother?” said Robert.

“The One with green hangings,” She replied; “I have just been
at the trouble of getting it ready, and have put fresh sheets upon the Bed; If
the Gentleman chooses to lollop and lounge upon it, He may make it again
himself for me.”

“You are out of humour, Mother, but that is no novelty. Have the goodness
to follow me, Monsieur.”

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

“You have got no light!” said Marguerite; “Is it your own
neck or the Gentleman’s that you have a mind to break?”

She crossed by me, and put a candle into Robert’s hand, having received
which, He began to ascend the staircase. Jacques was employed in laying the
cloth, and his back was turned towards me.

Marguerite seized the moment, when we were unobserved. She caught my hand, and
pressed it strongly.

“Look at the Sheets!” said She as She passed me, and immediately
resumed her former occupation.

Startled by the abruptness of her action, I remained as if petrified.
Robert’s voice, desiring me to follow him, recalled me to myself. I
ascended the staircase. My conductor ushered me into a chamber, where an
excellent wood-fire was blazing upon the hearth. He placed the light upon the
Table, enquired whether I had any further commands, and on my replying in the
negative, He left me to myself. You may be certain that the moment when I found
myself alone was that on which I complied with Marguerite’s injunction. I
took the candle, hastily approached the Bed, and turned down the Coverture.
What was my astonishment, my horror, at finding the sheets crimsoned with
blood!

At that moment a thousand confused ideas passed before my imagination. The
Robbers who infested the Wood, Marguerite’s exclamation respecting her
Children, the arms and appearance of the two young Men, and the various
Anecdotes which I had heard related, respecting the secret correspondence which
frequently exists between Banditti and Postillions, all these circumstances
flashed upon my mind, and inspired me with doubt and apprehension. I ruminated
on the most probable means of ascertaining the truth of my conjectures.
Suddenly I was aware of Someone below pacing hastily backwards and forwards.
Every thing now appeared to me an object of suspicion. With precaution I drew
near the window, which, as the room had been long shut up, was left open in
spite of the cold. I ventured to look out. The beams of the Moon permitted me
to distinguish a Man, whom I had no difficulty to recognize for my Host. I
watched his movements.

He walked swiftly, then stopped, and seemed to listen: He stamped upon the
ground, and beat his stomach with his arms as if to guard himself from the
inclemency of the season. At the least noise, if a voice was heard in the lower
part of the House, if a Bat flitted past him, or the wind rattled amidst the
leafless boughs, He started, and looked round with anxiety.

“Plague take him!” said He at length with impatience; “What
can He be about!”

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

I now heard the steps of one approaching. Baptiste went towards the sound; He
joined a man, whom his low stature and the Horn suspended from his neck,
declared to be no other than my faithful Claude, whom I had supposed to be
already on his way to Strasbourg. Expecting their discourse to throw some light
upon my situation, I hastened to put myself in a condition to hear it with
safety. For this purpose I extinguished the candle, which stood upon a table
near the Bed: The flame of the fire was not strong enough to betray me, and I
immediately resumed my place at the window.

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

“However,” added He, “my diligence at present shall make up
for my past delay.”

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

“His Servant boasted at the Inn, that the effects in his Chaise were
worth above two thousand Pistoles.”

Oh! how I cursed Stephano’s imprudent vanity!

“And I have been told,” continued the Postillion, “that this
Baroness carries about her a casket of jewels of immense value.”

“May be so, but I had rather She had stayed away. The Spaniard was a
secure prey. The Boys and myself could easily have mastered him and his
Servant, and then the two thousand Pistoles would have been shared between us
four. Now we must let in the Band for a share, and perhaps the whole Covey may
escape us. Should our Friends have betaken themselves to their different posts
before you reach the Cavern, all will be lost. The Lady’s Attendants are
too numerous for us to overpower them: Unless our Associates arrive in time, we
must needs let these Travellers set out tomorrow without damage or hurt.”

“’Tis plaguy unlucky that my Comrades who drove the Coach should be
those unacquainted with our Confederacy! But never fear, Friend Baptiste. An
hour will bring me to the Cavern; It is now but ten o’clock, and by
twelve you may expect the arrival of the Band. By the bye, take care of your
Wife: You know how strong is her repugnance to our mode of life, and She may
find means to give information to the Lady’s Servants of our
design.”

“Oh! I am secure of her silence; She is too much afraid of me, and fond
of her children, to dare to betray my secret. Besides, Jacques and Robert keep
a strict eye over her, and She is not permitted to set a foot out of the
Cottage. The Servants are safely lodged in the Barn; I shall endeavour to keep
all quiet till the arrival of our Friends. Were I assured of your finding them,
the Strangers should be dispatched this instant; But as it is possible for you
to miss the Banditti, I am fearful of being summoned to produce them by their
Domestics in the Morning.”

“And suppose either of the Travellers should discover your design?”

“Then we must poignard those in our power, and take our chance about
mastering the rest. However, to avoid running such a risque, hasten to the
Cavern: The Banditti never leave it before eleven, and if you use diligence,
you may reach it in time to stop them.”

“Tell Robert that I have taken his Horse: My own has broken his bridle,
and escaped into the Wood. What is the watch-word?”

“The reward of Courage.”

“’Tis sufficient. I hasten to the Cavern.”

“And I to rejoin my Guests, lest my absence should create suspicion.
Farewell, and be diligent.”

These worthy Associates now separated: The One bent his course towards the
Stable, while the Other returned to the House.

You may judge, what must have been my feelings during this conversation, of
which I lost not a single syllable. I dared not trust myself to my reflections,
nor did any means present itself to escape the dangers which threatened me.
Resistance, I knew to be vain; I was unarmed, and a single Man against Three:
However, I resolved at least to sell my life as dearly as I could. Dreading
lest Baptiste should perceive my absence, and suspect me to have overheard the
message with which Claude was dispatched, I hastily relighted my candle and
quitted the chamber. On descending, I found the Table spread for six Persons.
The Baroness sat by the fireside: Marguerite was employed in dressing a sallad,
and her Step-sons were whispering together at the further end of the room.
Baptiste having the round of the Garden to make, ere He could reach the Cottage
door, was not yet arrived. I seated myself quietly opposite to the Baroness.

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

In spite of all my endeavours to conceal it, my agitation was but too visibly
expressed upon my countenance. I was pale, and both my words and actions were
disordered and embarrassed. The young Men observed this, and enquired the
cause. I attributed it to excess of fatigue, and the violent effect produced on
me by the severity of the season. Whether they believed me or not, I will not
pretend to say: They at least ceased to embarrass me with their questions. I
strove to divert my attention from the perils which surrounded me, by
conversing on different subjects with the Baroness. I talked of Germany,
declaring my intention of visiting it immediately: God knows, that I little
thought at that moment of ever seeing it! She replied to me with great ease and
politeness, professed that the pleasure of making my acquaintance amply
compensated for the delay in her journey, and gave me a pressing invitation to
make some stay at the Castle of Lindenberg. As She spoke thus, the Youths
exchanged a malicious smile, which declared that She would be fortunate if She
ever reached that Castle herself. This action did not escape me; But I
concealed the emotion which it excited in my breast. I continued to converse
with the Lady; But my discourse was so frequently incoherent, that as She has
since informed me, She began to doubt whether I was in my right senses. The
fact was, that while my conversation turned upon one subject, my thoughts were
entirely occupied by another. I meditated upon the means of quitting the
Cottage, finding my way to the Barn, and giving the Domestics information of
our Host’s designs. I was soon convinced, how impracticable was the
attempt. Jacques and Robert watched my every movement with an attentive eye,
and I was obliged to abandon the idea. All my hopes now rested upon
Claude’s not finding the Banditti: In that case, according to what I had
overheard, we should be permitted to depart unhurt.

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

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

“But,” added He, “should any accident detain my noble Guests
longer than they at present intend, I hope to give them a better
treatment.”

The Villain! I well knew the accident to which He alluded; I shuddered at the
treatment which He taught us to expect!

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

“Come, come, Monsieur, cheer up!” said He; “You seem not
quite recovered from your fatigue. To raise your spirits, what say you to a
glass of excellent old wine which was left me by my Father? God rest his soul,
He is in a better world! I seldom produce this wine; But as I am not honoured
with such Guests every day, this is an occasion which deserves a Bottle.”

He then gave his Wife a Key, and instructed her where to find the wine of which
He spoke. She seemed by no means pleased with the commission; She took the Key
with an embarrassed air, and hesitated to quit the Table.

“Did you hear me?” said Baptiste in an angry tone.

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

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

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

The Banditti seemed alarmed at my action. Jacques half rose from his chair, put
his hand into his bosom, and I discovered the haft of a dagger. I returned to
my seat with tranquillity, and affected not to have observed their confusion.

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

Baptiste and Jacques exchanged looks of distrust.

“Perhaps,” said Robert, “the smell may be disagreeable to
you.”

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

“He must have drank sufficient,” said He to his Brother in a low
voice, while He reseated himself.

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

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

“So!” cried Baptiste, as I fell back in my chair; “At last He
sleeps! I began to think that He had scented our design, and that we should
have been forced to dispatch him at all events.”

“And why not dispatch him at all events?” enquired the ferocious
Jacques. “Why leave him the possibility of betraying our secret?
Marguerite, give me one of my Pistols: A single touch of the trigger will
finish him at once.”

“And supposing,” rejoined the Father, “Supposing that our
Friends should not arrive tonight, a pretty figure we should make when the
Servants enquire for him in the Morning! No, no, Jacques; We must wait for our
Associates. If they join us, we are strong enough to dispatch the Domestics as
well as their Masters, and the booty is our own; If Claude does not find the
Troop, we must take patience, and suffer the prey to slip through our fingers.
Ah! Boys, Boys, had you arrived but five minutes sooner, the Spaniard would
have been done for, and two thousand Pistoles our own. But you are always out
of the way when you are most wanted.

You are the most unlucky Rogues!”

“Well, well, Father!” answered Jacques; “Had you been of my
mind, all would have been over by this time. You, Robert, Claude, and myself,
why the Strangers were but double the number, and I warrant you we might have
mastered them. However, Claude is gone; ’Tis too late to think of it now.
We must wait patiently for the arrival of the Gang; and if the Travellers
escape us tonight, we must take care to waylay them tomorrow.”

“True! True!” said Baptiste; “Marguerite, have you given the
sleeping-draught to the Waiting-women?”

She replied in the affirmative.

“All then is safe. Come, come, Boys; Whatever falls out, we have no
reason to complain of this adventure. We run no danger, may gain much, and can
lose nothing.”

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

“Almighty God! They are lost!”

Luckily the Wood-man and his Sons were too much occupied by the arrival of
their Associates to attend to me, or the violence of my agitation would have
convinced them that my sleep was feigned.

“Open! Open!” exclaimed several voices on the outside of the
Cottage.

“Yes! Yes!” cried Baptiste joyfully; “They are our Friends
sure enough! Now then our booty is certain. Away! Lads, Away! Lead them to the
Barn; You know what is to be done there.”

Robert hastened to open the door of the Cottage.

“But first,” said Jacques, taking up his arms; “first let me
dispatch these Sleepers.”

“No, no, no!” replied his Father; “Go you to the Barn, where
your presence is wanted. Leave me to take care of these and the Women
above.”

Jacques obeyed, and followed his Brother. They seemed to converse with the
New-Comers for a few minutes: After which I heard the Robbers dismount, and as
I conjectured, bend their course towards the Barn.

“So! That is wisely done!” muttered Baptiste; “They have
quitted their Horses, that They may fall upon the Strangers by surprise. Good!
Good! and now to business.”

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

“Now! Now!” whispered Marguerite.

I opened my eyes. Baptiste stood with his back towards me. No one else was in
the room save Marguerite and the sleeping Lady. The Villain had taken a dagger
from the Cupboard and seemed examining whether it was sufficiently sharp. I had
neglected to furnish myself with arms; But I perceived this to be my only
chance of escaping, and resolved not to lose the opportunity. I sprang from my
seat, darted suddenly upon Baptiste, and clasping my hands round his throat,
pressed it so forcibly as to prevent his uttering a single cry. You may
remember that I was remarkable at Salamanca for the power of my arm: It now
rendered me an essential service. Surprised, terrified, and breathless, the
Villain was by no means an equal Antagonist. I threw him upon the ground; I
grasped him still tighter; and while I fixed him without motion upon the floor,
Marguerite, wresting the dagger from his hand, plunged it repeatedly in his
heart till He expired.

No sooner was this horrible but necessary act perpetrated than Marguerite
called on me to follow her.

“Flight is our only refuge!” said She; “Quick! Quick!
Away!”

I hesitated not to obey her: but unwilling to leave the Baroness a victim to
the vengeance of the Robbers, I raised her in my arms still sleeping, and
hastened after Marguerite. The Horses of the Banditti were fastened near the
door: My Conductress sprang upon one of them. I followed her example, placed
the Baroness before me, and spurred on my Horse. Our only hope was to reach
Strasbourg, which was much nearer than the perfidious Claude had assured me.
Marguerite was well acquainted with the road, and galloped on before me. We
were obliged to pass by the Barn, where the Robbers were slaughtering our
Domestics. The door was open: We distinguished the shrieks of the dying and
imprecations of the Murderers! What I felt at that moment language is unable to
describe!

Jacques heard the trampling of our Horses as we rushed by the Barn. He flew to
the Door with a burning Torch in his hand, and easily recognised the Fugitives.

“Betrayed! Betrayed!” He shouted to his Companions.

Instantly they left their bloody work, and hastened to regain their Horses. We
heard no more. I buried my spurs in the sides of my Courser, and Marguerite
goaded on hers with the poignard, which had already rendered us such good
service. We flew like lightning, and gained the open plains. Already was
Strasbourg’s Steeple in sight, when we heard the Robbers pursuing us.
Marguerite looked back, and distinguished our followers descending a small Hill
at no great distance. It was in vain that we urged on our Horses; The noise
approached nearer with every moment.

“We are lost!” She exclaimed; “The Villains gain upon
us!”

“On! On!” replied I; “I hear the trampling of Horses coming
from the Town.”

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

“Stay! Stay!” shrieked Marguerite; “Save us! For God’s
sake, save us!”

The Foremost, who seemed to act as Guide, immediately reined in his Steed.

“’Tis She! ’Tis She!” exclaimed He, springing upon the
ground; “Stop, my Lord, stop! They are safe! ’Tis my Mother!”

At the same moment Marguerite threw herself from her Horse, clasped him in her
arms, and covered him with Kisses. The other Cavaliers stopped at the
exclamation.

“The Baroness Lindenberg?” cried another of the Strangers eagerly;
“Where is She? Is She not with you?”

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

“God be thanked!” said He; “She has escaped unhurt.”

I interrupted his joy by pointing out the Brigands, who continued to approach.
No sooner had I mentioned them than the greatest part of the Company, which
appeared to be chiefly composed of soldiers, hastened forward to meet them. The
Villains stayed not to receive their attack: Perceiving their danger they
turned the heads of their Horses, and fled into the wood, whither they were
followed by our Preservers. In the mean while the Stranger, whom I guessed to
be the Baron Lindenberg, after thanking me for my care of his Lady, proposed
our returning with all speed to the Town. The Baroness, on whom the effects of
the opiate had not ceased to operate, was placed before him; Marguerite and her
Son remounted their Horses; the Baron’s Domestics followed, and we soon
arrived at the Inn, where He had taken his apartments.

This was at the Austrian Eagle, where my Banker, whom before my quitting Paris
I had apprised of my intention to visit Strasbourg, had prepared Lodgings for
me. I rejoiced at this circumstance. It gave me an opportunity of cultivating
the Baron’s acquaintance, which I foresaw would be of use to me in
Germany. Immediately upon our arrival the Lady was conveyed to bed; A Physician
was sent for, who prescribed a medicine likely to counteract the effects of the
sleepy potion, and after it had been poured down her throat, She was committed
to the care of the Hostess. The Baron then addressed himself to me, and
entreated me to recount the particulars of this adventure. I complied with his
request instantaneously; for in pain respecting Stephano’s fate, whom I
had been compelled to abandon to the cruelty of the Banditti, I found it
impossible for me to repose, till I had some news of him. I received but too
soon the intelligence, that my trusty Servant had perished. The Soldiers who
had pursued the Brigands returned while I was employed in relating my adventure
to the Baron. By their account I found that the Robbers had been overtaken:
Guilt and true courage are incompatible; They had thrown themselves at the feet
of their Pursuers, had surrendered themselves without striking a blow, had
discovered their secret retreat, made known their signals by which the rest of
the Gang might be seized, and in short had betrayed ever mark of cowardice and
baseness. By this means the whole of the Band, consisting of near sixty
persons, had been made Prisoners, bound, and conducted to Strasbourg. Some of
the Soldiers hastened to the Cottage, One of the Banditti serving them as
Guide. Their first visit was to the fatal Barn, where they were fortunate
enough to find two of the Baron’s Servants still alive, though
desperately wounded. The rest had expired beneath the swords of the Robbers,
and of these my unhappy Stephano was one.

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

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

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

“I was born in Strasbourg of respectable Parents; Their names I must at
present conceal: My Father still lives, and deserves not to be involved in my
infamy; If you grant my request, you shall be informed of my family name. A
Villain made himself Master of my affections, and to follow him I quitted my
Father’s House. Yet though my passions overpowered my virtue, I sank not
into that degeneracy of vice, but too commonly the lot of Women who make the
first false step. I loved my Seducer; dearly loved him! I was true to his Bed;
this Baby, and the Youth who warned you, my Lord Baron, of your Lady’s
danger, are the pledges of our affection. Even at this moment I lament his
loss, though ’tis to him that I owe all the miseries of my existence.

“He was of noble birth, but He had squandered away his paternal
inheritance. His Relations considered him as a disgrace to their name, and
utterly discarded him. His excesses drew upon him the indignation of the
Police. He was obliged to fly from Strasbourg, and saw no other resource from
beggary than an union with the Banditti who infested the neighbouring Forest,
and whose Troop was chiefly composed of Young Men of family in the same
predicament with himself. I was determined not to forsake him. I followed him
to the Cavern of the Brigands, and shared with him the misery inseparable from
a life of pillage. But though I was aware that our existence was supported by
plunder, I knew not all the horrible circumstances attached to my Lover’s
profession. These He concealed from me with the utmost care; He was conscious
that my sentiments were not sufficiently depraved to look without horror upon
assassination: He supposed, and with justice, that I should fly with
detestation from the embraces of a Murderer. Eight years of possession had not
abated his love for me; and He cautiously removed from my knowledge every
circumstance, which might lead me to suspect the crimes in which He but too
often participated. He succeeded perfectly: It was not till after my
Seducer’s death, that I discovered his hands to have been stained with
the blood of innocence.

“One fatal night He was brought back to the Cavern covered with wounds:
He received them in attacking an English Traveller, whom his Companions
immediately sacrificed to their resentment. He had only time to entreat my
pardon for all the sorrows which He had caused me: He pressed my hand to his
lips, and expired. My grief was inexpressible. As soon as its violence abated,
I resolved to return to Strasbourg, to throw myself with my two Children at my
Father’s feet, and implore his forgiveness, though I little hoped to
obtain it. What was my consternation when informed that no one entrusted with
the secret of their retreat was ever permitted to quit the troop of the
Banditti; That I must give up all hopes of ever rejoining society, and consent
instantly to accepting one of their Band for my Husband! My prayers and
remonstrances were vain. They cast lots to decide to whose possession I should
fall; I became the property of the infamous Baptiste. A Robber, who had once
been a Monk, pronounced over us a burlesque rather than a religious Ceremony: I
and my Children were delivered into the hands of my new Husband, and He
conveyed us immediately to his home.

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

“My nature was licentious and warm, but not cruel: My conduct had been
imprudent, but my heart was not unprincipled. Judge then what I must have felt
at being a continual witness of crimes the most horrible and revolting! Judge
how I must have grieved at being united to a Man who received the unsuspecting
Guest with an air of openness and hospitality, at the very moment that He
meditated his destruction. Chagrin and discontent preyed upon my constitution:
The few charms bestowed on me by nature withered away, and the dejection of my
countenance denoted the sufferings of my heart. I was tempted a thousand times
to put an end to my existence; But the remembrance of my Children held my hand.
I trembled to leave my dear Boys in my Tyrant’s power, and trembled yet
more for their virtue than their lives. The Second was still too young to
benefit by my instructions; But in the heart of my Eldest I laboured
unceasingly to plant those principles, which might enable him to avoid the
crimes of his Parents. He listened to me with docility, or rather with
eagerness. Even at his early age, He showed that He was not calculated for the
society of Villains; and the only comfort which I enjoyed among my sorrows, was
to witness the dawning virtues of my Theodore.

“Such was my situation, when the perfidy of Don Alphonso’s
postillion conducted him to the Cottage. His youth, air, and manners interested
me most forcibly in his behalf. The absence of my Husband’s Sons gave me
an opportunity which I had long wished to find, and I resolved to risque every
thing to preserve the Stranger. The vigilance of Baptiste prevented me from
warning Don Alphonso of his danger: I knew that my betraying the secret would
be immediately punished with death; and however embittered was my life by
calamities, I wanted courage to sacrifice it for the sake of preserving that of
another Person. My only hope rested upon procuring succour from Strasbourg: At
this I resolved to try; and should an opportunity offer of warning Don Alphonso
of his danger unobserved, I was determined to seize it with avidity. By
Baptiste’s orders I went upstairs to make the Stranger’s Bed: I
spread upon it Sheets in which a Traveller had been murdered but a few nights
before, and which still were stained with blood. I hoped that these marks would
not escape the vigilance of our Guest, and that He would collect from them the
designs of my perfidious Husband. Neither was this the only step which I took
to preserve the Stranger. Theodore was confined to his bed by illness. I stole
into his room unobserved by my Tyrant, communicated to him my project, and He
entered into it with eagerness. He rose in spite of his malady, and dressed
himself with all speed. I fastened one of the Sheets round his arms, and
lowered him from the Window. He flew to the Stable, took Claude’s Horse,
and hastened to Strasbourg. Had He been accosted by the Banditti, He was to
have declared himself sent upon a message by Baptiste, but fortunately He
reached the Town without meeting any obstacle. Immediately upon his arrival at
Strasbourg, He entreated assistance from the Magistrature: His Story passed
from mouth to mouth, and at length came to the knowledge of my Lord the Baron.
Anxious for the safety of his Lady, whom He knew would be upon the road that
Evening, it struck him that She might have fallen into the power of the
Robbers. He accompanied Theodore who guided the Soldiers towards the Cottage,
and arrived just in time to save us from falling once more into the hands of
our Enemies.”

Here I interrupted Marguerite to enquire why the sleepy potion had been
presented to me. She said that Baptiste supposed me to have arms about me, and
wished to incapacitate me from making resistance: It was a precaution which He
always took, since as the Travellers had no hopes of escaping, Despair would
have incited them to sell their lives dearly.

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

“Disgusted with a world,” She replied, “in which I have met
with nothing but misfortunes, my only wish is to retire into a Convent. But
first I must provide for my Children. I find that my Mother is no more,
probably driven to an untimely grave by my desertion! My Father is still
living; He is not an hard Man; Perhaps, Gentlemen, in spite of my ingratitude
and imprudence, your intercessions may induce him to forgive me, and to take
charge of his unfortunate Grand-sons. If you obtain this boon for me, you will
repay my services a thousand-fold!”

Both the Baron and myself assured Marguerite, that we would spare no pains to
obtain her pardon: and that even should her Father be inflexible, She need be
under no apprehensions respecting the fate of her Children. I engaged myself to
provide for Theodore, and the Baron promised to take the youngest under his
protection.

The grateful Mother thanked us with tears for what She called generosity, but
which in fact was no more than a proper sense of our obligations to her. She
then left the room to put her little Boy to bed, whom fatigue and sleep had
compleatly overpowered.

The Baroness, on recovering and being informed from what dangers I had rescued
her, set no bounds to the expressions of her gratitude. She was joined so
warmly by her Husband in pressing me to accompany them to their Castle in
Bavaria, that I found it impossible to resist their entreaties. During a week
which we passed at Strasbourg, the interests of Marguerite were not forgotten:
In our application to her Father we succeeded as amply as we could wish. The
good old Man had lost his Wife: He had no Children but this unfortunate
Daughter, of whom He had received no news for almost fourteen years. He was
surrounded by distant Relations, who waited with impatience for his decease in
order to get possession of his money. When therefore Marguerite appeared again
so unexpectedly, He considered her as a gift from heaven: He received her and
her Children with open arms, and insisted upon their establishing themselves in
his House without delay. The disappointed Cousins were obliged to give place.
The old Man would not hear of his Daughter’s retiring into a Convent: He
said that She was too necessary to his happiness, and She was easily persuaded
to relinquish her design. But no persuasions could induce Theodore to give up
the plan which I had at first marked out for him. He had attached himself to me
most sincerely during my stay at Strasbourg; and when I was on the point of
leaving it, He besought me with tears to take him into my service: He set forth
all his little talents in the most favourable colours, and tried to convince me
that I should find him of infinite use to me upon the road. I was unwilling to
charge myself with a Lad but scarcely turned of thirteen, whom I knew could
only be a burthen to me: However, I could not resist the entreaties of this
affectionate Youth, who in fact possessed a thousand estimable qualities. With
some difficulty He persuaded his relations to let him follow me, and that
permission once obtained, He was dubbed with the title of my Page. Having
passed a week at Strasbourg, Theodore and myself set out for Bavaria in company
with the Baron and his Lady. These Latter as well as myself had forced
Marguerite to accept several presents of value, both for herself, and her
youngest Son: On leaving her, I promised his Mother faithfully that I would
restore Theodore to her within the year.

I have related this adventure at length, Lorenzo, that you might understand the
means by which “The Adventurer, Alphonso d’Alvarada got introduced
into the Castle of Lindenberg.” Judge from this specimen how much faith
should be given to your Aunt’s assertions!

CHAPTER IV.

Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the Earth hide thee!

Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold!

Thou hast no speculation in those eyes

Which Thou dost glare with! Hence, horrible shadow!

Unreal mockery hence!

MACBETH.

Continuation of the History of Don Raymond.

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

That friendship was become to me by no means indifferent. At the Castle of
Lindenberg I beheld for the first time your Sister, the lovely Agnes. For me
whose heart was unoccupied, and who grieved at the void, to see her and to love
her were the same. I found in Agnes all that was requisite to secure my
affection. She was then scarcely sixteen; Her person light and elegant was
already formed; She possessed several talents in perfection, particularly those
of Music and drawing: Her character was gay, open, and good-humoured; and the
graceful simplicity of her dress and manners formed an advantageous contrast to
the art and studied Coquetry of the Parisian Dames, whom I had just quitted.
From the moment that I beheld her, I felt the most lively interest in her fate.
I made many enquiries respecting her of the Baroness.

“She is my Niece,” replied that Lady; “You are still
ignorant, Don Alphonso, that I am your Countrywoman. I am Sister to the Duke of
Medina Celi: Agnes is the Daughter of my second Brother, Don Gaston: She has
been destined to the Convent from her cradle, and will soon make her profession
at Madrid.”

(Here Lorenzo interrupted the Marquis by an exclamation of surprise.

“Intended for the Convent from her cradle?” said He; “By
heaven, this is the first word that I ever heard of such a design!”

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

He then resumed his narrative as follows.)

You cannot but be aware that your Parents were unfortunately Slaves to the
grossest superstition: When this foible was called into play, their every other
sentiment, their every other passion yielded to its irresistible strength.
While She was big with Agnes, your Mother was seized by a dangerous illness,
and given over by her Physicians. In this situation, Donna Inesilla vowed, that
if She recovered from her malady, the Child then living in her bosom if a Girl
should be dedicated to St. Clare, if a Boy to St. Benedict. Her prayers were
heard; She got rid of her complaint; Agnes entered the world alive, and was
immediately destined to the service of St. Clare.

Don Gaston readily chimed in with his Lady’s wishes: But knowing the
sentiments of the Duke, his Brother, respecting a Monastic life, it was
determined that your Sister’s destination should be carefully concealed
from him. The better to guard the secret, it was resolved that Agnes should
accompany her Aunt, Donna Rodolpha into Germany, whither that Lady was on the
point of following her new-married Husband, Baron Lindenberg. On her arrival at
that Estate, the young Agnes was put into a Convent, situated but a few miles
from the Castle. The Nuns to whom her education was confided performed their
charge with exactitude: They made her a perfect Mistress of many talents, and
strove to infuse into her mind a taste for the retirement and tranquil
pleasures of a Convent. But a secret instinct made the young Recluse sensible
that She was not born for solitude: In all the freedom of youth and gaiety, She
scrupled not to treat as ridiculous many ceremonies which the Nuns regarded
with awe; and She was never more happy than when her lively imagination
inspired her with some scheme to plague the stiff Lady Abbess, or the ugly
ill-tempered old Porteress. She looked with disgust upon the prospect before
her: However no alternative was offered to her, and She submitted to the decree
of her Parents, though not without secret repining.

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

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

“Be generous, Alphonso,” She said; “You possess my heart, but
use not the gift ignobly. Employ not your ascendancy over me in persuading me
to take a step, at which I should hereafter have to blush. I am young and
deserted: My Brother, my only Friend, is separated from me, and my other
Relations act with me as my Enemies. Take pity on my unprotected situation.
Instead of seducing me to an action which would cover me with shame, strive
rather to gain the affections of those who govern me. The Baron esteems you. My
Aunt, to others ever harsh proud and contemptuous, remembers that you rescued
her from the hands of Murderers, and wears with you alone the appearance of
kindness and benignity. Try then your influence over my Guardians. If they
consent to our union my hand is yours: From your account of my Brother, I
cannot doubt your obtaining his approbation: And when they find the
impossibility of executing their design, I trust that my Parents will excuse my
disobedience, and expiate by some other sacrifice my Mother’s fatal
vow.”

From the first moment that I beheld Agnes, I had endeavoured to conciliate the
favour of her Relations. Authorised by the confession of her regard, I
redoubled my exertions. My principal Battery was directed against the Baroness;
It was easy to discover that her word was law in the Castle: Her Husband paid
her the most absolute submission, and considered her as a superior Being. She
was about forty: In her youth She had been a Beauty; But her charms had been
upon that large scale which can but ill sustain the shock of years: However She
still possessed some remains of them. Her understanding was strong and
excellent when not obscured by prejudice, which unluckily was but seldom the
case. Her passions were violent: She spared no pains to gratify them, and
pursued with unremitting vengeance those who opposed themselves to her wishes.
The warmest of Friends, the most inveterate of Enemies, such was the Baroness
Lindenberg.

I laboured incessantly to please her: Unluckily I succeeded but too well. She
seemed gratified by my attention, and treated me with a distinction accorded by
her to no one else. One of my daily occupations was reading to her for several
hours: Those hours I should much rather have past with Agnes; But as I was
conscious that complaisance for her Aunt would advance our union, I submitted
with a good grace to the penance imposed upon me. Donna Rodolpha’s
Library was principally composed of old Spanish Romances: These were her
favourite studies, and once a day one of these unmerciful Volumes was put
regularly into my hands. I read the wearisome adventures of
“Perceforest,” “Tirante the White,” “Palmerin of
England,” and “the Knight of the Sun,” till the Book was on
the point of falling from my hands through Ennui. However, the increasing
pleasure which the Baroness seemed to take in my society, encouraged me to
persevere; and latterly She showed for me a partiality so marked, that Agnes
advised me to seize the first opportunity of declaring our mutual passion to
her Aunt.

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

“Ah! The Unfortunates!” cried the Baroness; “How say you,
Segnor? Do you think it possible for Man to feel an attachment so disinterested
and sincere?”

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

She interrupted me.

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

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

She withdrew not the hand which I held; But She turned from me, and covered her
face with the other.

“How can I refuse it you?” She replied; “Ah! Don Alphonso, I
have long perceived to whom your attentions were directed, but till now I
perceived not the impression which they made upon my heart.

At length I can no longer hide my weakness either from myself or from you. I
yield to the violence of my passion, and own that I adore you! For three long
months I stifled my desires; But grown stronger by resistance, I submit to
their impetuosity. Pride, fear, and honour, respect for myself, and my
engagements to the Baron, all are vanquished. I sacrifice them to my love for
you, and it still seems to me that I pay too mean a price for your
possession.”

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

“What means this silence?” said She in a trembling voice;
“Where is that joy which you led me to expect?”

“Forgive me, Segnora,” I answered, “if what necessity forces
from me should seem harsh and ungrateful: To encourage you in an error, which,
however it may flatter myself, must prove to you the source of disappointment,
would make me appear criminal in every eye. Honour obliges me to inform you
that you have mistaken for the solicitude of Love what was only the attention
of Friendship. The latter sentiment is that which I wished to excite in your
bosom: To entertain a warmer, respect for you forbids me, and gratitude for the
Baron’s generous treatment. Perhaps these reasons would not be sufficient
to shield me from your attractions, were it not that my affections are already
bestowed upon another. You have charms, Segnora, which might captivate the most
insensible; No heart unoccupied could resist them. Happy is it for me that mine
is no longer in my possession; or I should have to reproach myself for ever
with having violated the Laws of Hospitality. Recollect yourself, noble Lady;
Recollect what is owed by you to honour, by me to the Baron, and replace by
esteem and friendship those sentiments which I never can return.”

The Baroness turned pale at this unexpected and positive declaration: She
doubted whether She slept or woke. At length recovering from her surprise,
consternation gave place to rage, and the blood rushed back into her cheeks
with violence.

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

What raises her above Rodolpha?”

I endeavoured to lift her from her Knees.

“For God’s sake, Segnora, restrain these transports: They disgrace
yourself and me. Your exclamations may be heard, and your secret divulged to
your Attendants. I see that my presence only irritates you: permit me to
retire.”

I prepared to quit the apartment: The Baroness caught me suddenly by the arm.

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

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

Agitated and confused beyond expression I bent my steps towards the Garden. The
benignity with which the Baroness had listened to me at first raised my hopes
to the highest pitch: I imagined her to have perceived my attachment for her
Niece, and to approve of it. Extreme was my disappointment at understanding the
true purport of her discourse. I knew not what course to take: The superstition
of the Parents of Agnes, aided by her Aunt’s unfortunate passion, seemed
to oppose such obstacles to our union as were almost insurmountable.

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

“Oh! is it only you?” said She, raising her head; “You are no
Stranger, and I shall continue my occupation without ceremony. Take a Chair,
and seat yourself by me.”

I obeyed, and placed myself near the Table. Unconscious what I was doing, and
totally occupied by the scene which had just passed, I took up some of the
drawings, and cast my eye over them. One of the subjects struck me from its
singularity. It represented the great Hall of the Castle of Lindenberg. A door
conducting to a narrow staircase stood half open. In the foreground appeared a
Groupe of figures, placed in the most grotesque attitudes; Terror was expressed
upon every countenance.

Here was One upon his knees with his eyes cast up to heaven, and praying most
devoutly; There Another was creeping away upon all fours. Some hid their faces
in their cloaks or the laps of their Companions; Some had concealed themselves
beneath a Table, on which the remnants of a feast were visible; While Others
with gaping mouths and eyes wide-stretched pointed to a Figure, supposed to
have created this disturbance. It represented a Female of more than human
stature, clothed in the habit of some religious order. Her face was veiled; On
her arm hung a chaplet of beads; Her dress was in several places stained with
the blood which trickled from a wound upon her bosom. In one hand She held a
Lamp, in the other a large Knife, and She seemed advancing towards the iron
gates of the Hall.

“What does this mean, Agnes?” said I; “Is this some invention
of your own?”

She cast her eye upon the drawing.

“Oh! no,” She replied; “’Tis the invention of much
wiser heads than mine. But can you possibly have lived at Lindenberg for three
whole Months without hearing of the Bleeding Nun?”

“You are the first, who ever mentioned the name to me. Pray, who may the
Lady be?”

“That is more than I can pretend to tell you. All my knowledge of her
History comes from an old tradition in this family, which has been handed down
from Father to Son, and is firmly credited throughout the Baron’s
domains. Nay, the Baron believes it himself; and as for my Aunt who has a
natural turn for the marvellous, She would sooner doubt the veracity of the
Bible, than of the Bleeding Nun. Shall I tell you this History?”

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

“It is surprising that in all the Chronicles of past times, this
remarkable Personage is never once mentioned. Fain would I recount to you her
life; But unluckily till after her death She was never known to have existed.
Then first did She think it necessary to make some noise in the world, and with
that intention She made bold to seize upon the Castle of Lindenberg. Having a
good taste, She took up her abode in the best room of the House: and once
established there, She began to amuse herself by knocking about the tables and
chairs in the middle of the night. Perhaps She was a bad Sleeper, but this I
have never been able to ascertain. According to the tradition, this
entertainment commenced about a Century ago. It was accompanied with shrieking,
howling, groaning, swearing, and many other agreeable noises of the same kind.
But though one particular room was more especially honoured with her visits,
She did not entirely confine herself to it. She occasionally ventured into the
old Galleries, paced up and down the spacious Halls, or sometimes stopping at
the doors of the Chambers, She wept and wailed there to the universal terror of
the Inhabitants. In these nocturnal excursions She was seen by different
People, who all describe her appearance as you behold it here, traced by the
hand of her unworthy Historian.”

The singularity of this account insensibly engaged my attention.

“Did She never speak to those who met her?” said I.

“Not She. The specimens indeed, which She gave nightly of her talents for
conversation, were by no means inviting. Sometimes the Castle rung with oaths
and execrations: A Moment after She repeated her Paternoster: Now She howled
out the most horrible blasphemies, and then chaunted De Profundis, as orderly
as if still in the Choir. In short She seemed a mighty capricious Being: But
whether She prayed or cursed, whether She was impious or devout, She always
contrived to terrify her Auditors out of their senses. The Castle became
scarcely habitable; and its Lord was so frightened by these midnight Revels,
that one fine morning He was found dead in his bed. This success seemed to
please the Nun mightily, for now She made more noise than ever. But the next
Baron proved too cunning for her. He made his appearance with a celebrated
Exorciser in his hand, who feared not to shut himself up for a night in the
haunted Chamber. There it seems that He had an hard battle with the Ghost,
before She would promise to be quiet. She was obstinate, but He was more so,
and at length She consented to let the Inhabitants of the Castle take a good
night’s rest. For some time after no news was heard of her. But at the
end of five years the Exorciser died, and then the Nun ventured to peep abroad
again. However, She was now grown much more tractable and well-behaved. She
walked about in silence, and never made her appearance above once in five
years. This custom, if you will believe the Baron, She still continues. He is
fully persuaded, that on the fifth of May of every fifth year, as soon as the
Clock strikes One, the Door of the haunted Chamber opens. (Observe, that this
room has been shut up for near a Century.) Then out walks the Ghostly Nun with
her Lamp and dagger: She descends the staircase of the Eastern Tower; and
crosses the great Hall! On that night the Porter always leaves the Gates of the
Castle open, out of respect to the Apparition: Not that this is thought by any
means necessary, since She could easily whip through the Keyhole if She chose
it; But merely out of politeness, and to prevent her from making her exit in a
way so derogatory to the dignity of her Ghost-ship.”

“And whither does She go on quitting the Castle?”

“To Heaven, I hope; But if She does, the place certainly is not to her
taste, for She always returns after an hour’s absence. The Lady then
retires to her chamber, and is quiet for another five years.”

“And you believe this, Agnes?”

“How can you ask such a question? No, no, Alphonso! I have too much
reason to lament superstition’s influence to be its Victim myself.
However I must not avow my incredulity to the Baroness: She entertains not a
doubt of the truth of this History. As to Dame Cunegonda, my Governess, She
protests that fifteen years ago She saw the Spectre with her own eyes. She
related to me one evening how She and several other Domestics had been
terrified while at Supper by the appearance of the Bleeding Nun, as the Ghost
is called in the Castle: ’Tis from her account that I drew this sketch,
and you may be certain that Cunegonda was not omitted. There She is! I shall
never forget what a passion She was in, and how ugly She looked while She
scolded me for having made her picture so like herself!”

Here She pointed to a burlesque figure of an old Woman in an attitude of
terror.

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

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

“Stay a moment,” She replied; “I will show you a figure still
more ridiculous than Dame Cunegonda’s. If it pleases you, you may dispose
of it as seems best to yourself.”

She rose, and went to a Cabinet at some little distance. Unlocking a drawer,
She took out a small case, which She opened, and presented to me.

“Do you know the resemblance?” said She smiling.

It was her own.

Transported at the gift, I pressed the portrait to my lips with passion: I
threw myself at her feet, and declared my gratitude in the warmest and most
affectionate terms. She listened to me with complaisance, and assured me that
She shared my sentiments: When suddenly She uttered a loud shriek, disengaged
the hand which I held, and flew from the room by a door which opened to the
Garden. Amazed at this abrupt departure, I rose hastily from my knees. I beheld
with confusion the Baroness standing near me glowing with jealousy, and almost
choaked with rage. On recovering from her swoon, She had tortured her
imagination to discover her concealed Rival. No one appeared to deserve her
suspicions more than Agnes. She immediately hastened to find her Niece, tax her
with encouraging my addresses, and assure herself whether her conjectures were
well-grounded. Unfortunately She had already seen enough to need no other
confirmation. She arrived at the door of the room at the precise moment, when
Agnes gave me her Portrait. She heard me profess an everlasting attachment to
her Rival, and saw me kneeling at her feet. She advanced to separate us; We
were too much occupied by each other to perceive her approach, and were not
aware of it, till Agnes beheld her standing by my side.

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

“My suspicions then were just,” said She; “The Coquetry of my
Niece has triumphed, and ’tis to her that I am sacrificed. In one respect
however I am fortunate: I shall not be the only one who laments a disappointed
passion. You too shall know, what it is to love without hope! I daily expect
orders for restoring Agnes to her Parents. Immediately upon her arrival in
Spain, She will take the veil, and place an insuperable barrier to your union.
You may spare your supplications.” She continued, perceiving me on the
point of speaking; “My resolution is fixed and immoveable. Your Mistress
shall remain a close Prisoner in her chamber till She exchanges this Castle for
the Cloister. Solitude will perhaps recall her to a sense of her duty: But to
prevent your opposing that wished event, I must inform you, Don Alphonso, that
your presence here is no longer agreeable either to the Baron or Myself. It was
not to talk nonsense to my Niece that your Relations sent you to Germany: Your
business was to travel, and I should be sorry to impede any longer so excellent
a design. Farewell, Segnor; Remember, that tomorrow morning we meet for the
last time.”

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

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

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

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

I took it, and offered to carry it to my lips. She prevented me.

Her Husband was at the other end of the room, and out of hearing.

“Take care of yourself,” She continued; “My love is become
hatred, and my wounded pride shall not be unatoned. Go where you will, my
vengeance shall follow you!”

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

As my Chaise drove out of the Court, I looked up to the windows of your
Sister’s chamber. Nobody was to be seen there: I threw myself back
despondent in my Carriage. I was attended by no other servants than a Frenchman
whom I had hired at Strasbourg in Stephano’s room, and my little Page
whom I before mentioned to you. The fidelity, intelligence, and good temper of
Theodore had already made him dear to me; But He now prepared to lay an
obligation on me, which made me look upon him as a Guardian Genius. Scarcely
had we proceeded half a mile from the Castle, when He rode up to the
Chaise-door.

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

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

“Conceal yourself for the next fortnight in some neighbouring Village. My Aunt
will believe you to have quitted Lindenberg, and I shall be restored to
liberty. I will be in the West Pavilion at twelve on the night of the
thirtieth. Fail not to be there, and we shall have an opportunity of concerting
our future plans. Adieu.

“AGNES.”

At perusing these lines my transports exceeded all bounds; Neither did I set
any to the expressions of gratitude which I heaped upon Theodore. In fact his
address and attention merited my warmest praise. You will readily believe that
I had not entrusted him with my passion for Agnes; But the arch Youth had too
much discernment not to discover my secret, and too much discretion not to
conceal his knowledge of it. He observed in silence what was going on, nor
strove to make himself an Agent in the business till my interests required his
interference. I equally admired his judgment, his penetration, his address, and
his fidelity. This was not the first occasion in which I had found him of
infinite use, and I was every day more convinced of his quickness and capacity.
During my short stay at Strasbourg, He had applied himself diligently to
learning the rudiments of Spanish: He continued to study it, and with so much
success that He spoke it with the same facility as his native language. He past
the greatest part of his time in reading; He had acquired much information for
his Age; and united the advantages of a lively countenance and prepossessing
figure to an excellent understanding and the very best of hearts. He is now
fifteen; He is still in my service, and when you see him, I am sure that He
will please you. But excuse this digression: I return to the subject which I
quitted.

I obeyed the instructions of Agnes. I proceeded to Munich. There I left my
Chaise under the care of Lucas, my French Servant, and then returned on
Horseback to a small Village about four miles distant from the Castle of
Lindenberg. Upon arriving there a story was related to the Host at whose Inn I
descended, which prevented his wondering at my making so long a stay in his
House. The old Man fortunately was credulous and incurious: He believed all I
said, and sought to know no more than what I thought proper to tell him. Nobody
was with me but Theodore; Both were disguised, and as we kept ourselves close,
we were not suspected to be other than what we seemed. In this manner the
fortnight passed away. During that time I had the pleasing conviction that
Agnes was once more at liberty. She past through the Village with Dame
Cunegonda: She seemed in health and spirits, and talked to her Companion
without any appearance of constraint.

“Who are those Ladies?” said I to my Host, as the Carriage past.

“Baron Lindenberg’s Niece with her Governess,” He replied;
“She goes regularly every Friday to the Convent of St. Catharine, in
which She was brought up, and which is situated about a mile from hence.”

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

The long-expected, long-wished for night arrived. It was calm, and the Moon was
at the full. As soon as the Clock struck eleven I hastened to my appointment,
determined not to be too late. Theodore had provided a Ladder; I ascended the
Garden wall without difficulty; The Page followed me, and drew the Ladder after
us. I posted myself in the West Pavilion, and waited impatiently for the
approach of Agnes. Every breeze that whispered, every leaf that fell, I
believed to be her footstep, and hastened to meet her. Thus was I obliged to
pass a full hour, every minute of which appeared to me an age. The Castle Bell
at length tolled twelve, and scarcely could I believe the night to be no
further advanced. Another quarter of an hour elapsed, and I heard the light
foot of my Mistress approaching the Pavilion with precaution. I flew to receive
her, and conducted her to a seat. I threw myself at her feet, and was
expressing my joy at seeing her, when She thus interrupted me.

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

“We are now at the thirtieth of April. On the fifth day from this the
Visionary Nun is expected to appear. In my last visit to the Convent I provided
myself with a dress proper for the character: A Friend, whom I have left there
and to whom I made no scruple to confide my secret, readily consented to supply
me with a religious habit. Provide a carriage, and be with it at a little
distance from the great Gate of the Castle. As soon as the Clock strikes
“one,” I shall quit my chamber, drest in the same apparel as the
Ghost is supposed to wear. Whoever meets me will be too much terrified to
oppose my escape. I shall easily reach the door, and throw myself under your
protection. Thus far success is certain: But Oh! Alphonso, should you deceive
me! Should you despise my imprudence and reward it with ingratitude, the World
will not hold a Being more wretched than myself! I feel all the dangers to
which I shall be exposed. I feel that I am giving you a right to treat me with
levity: But I rely upon your love, upon your honour! The step which I am on the
point of taking, will incense my Relations against me: Should you desert me,
should you betray the trust reposed in you, I shall have no friend to punish
your insult, or support my cause. On yourself alone rests all my hope, and if
your own heart does not plead in my behalf, I am undone for ever!”

The tone in which She pronounced these words was so touching, that in spite of
my joy at receiving her promise to follow me, I could not help being affected.
I also repined in secret at not having taken the precaution to provide a
Carriage at the Village, in which case I might have carried off Agnes that very
night. Such an attempt was now impracticable: Neither Carriage or Horses were
to be procured nearer than Munich, which was distant from Lindenberg two good
days journey. I was therefore obliged to chime in with her plan, which in truth
seemed well arranged: Her disguise would secure her from being stopped in
quitting the Castle, and would enable her to step into the Carriage at the very
Gate without difficulty or losing time.

Agnes reclined her head mournfully upon my shoulder, and by the light of the
Moon I saw tears flowing down her cheek. I strove to dissipate her melancholy,
and encouraged her to look forward to the prospect of happiness. I protested in
the most solemn terms that her virtue and innocence would be safe in my
keeping, and that till the church had made her my lawful Wife, her honour
should be held by me as sacred as a Sister’s. I told her that my first
care should be to find you out, Lorenzo, and reconcile you to our union; and I
was continuing to speak in the same strain, when a noise without alarmed me.
Suddenly the door of the Pavilion was thrown open, and Cunegonda stood before
us. She had heard Agnes steal out of her chamber, followed her into the Garden,
and perceived her entering the Pavilion. Favoured by the Trees which shaded it,
and unperceived by Theodore who waited at a little distance, She had approached
in silence, and overheard our whole conversation.

“Admirable!” cried Cunegonda in a voice shrill with passion, while
Agnes uttered a loud shriek; “By St. Barbara, young Lady, you have an
excellent invention! You must personate the Bleeding Nun, truly? What impiety!
What incredulity! Marry, I have a good mind to let you pursue your plan: When
the real Ghost met you, I warrant, you would be in a pretty condition! Don
Alphonso, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for seducing a young ignorant
Creature to leave her family and Friends: However, for this time at least I
shall mar your wicked designs. The noble Lady shall be informed of the whole
affair, and Agnes must defer playing the Spectre till a better opportunity.
Farewell, Segnor— Donna Agnes, let me have the honour of conducting your
Ghost-ship back to your apartment.”

She approached the Sopha on which her trembling Pupil was seated, took her by
the hand, and prepared to lead her from the Pavilion.

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

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

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

In the meanwhile Theodore assisted me in carrying off my antiquated Prize. She
was hoisted over the wall, placed before me upon my Horse like a Portmanteau,
and I galloped away with her from the Castle of Lindenberg. The unlucky Duenna
never had made a more disagreeable journey in her life: She was jolted and
shaken till She was become little more than an animated Mummy; not to mention
her fright when we waded through a small River through which it was necessary
to pass in order to regain the Village. Before we reached the Inn, I had
already determined how to dispose of the troublesome Cunegonda. We entered the
Street in which the Inn stood, and while the page knocked, I waited at a little
distance. The Landlord opened the door with a Lamp in his hand.

“Give me the light!” said Theodore; “My Master is
coming.”

He snatched the Lamp hastily, and purposely let it fall upon the ground: The
Landlord returned to the Kitchen to re-light the Lamp, leaving the door open. I
profited by the obscurity, sprang from my Horse with Cunegonda in my arms,
darted up stairs, reached my chamber unperceived, and unlocking the door of a
spacious Closet, stowed her within it, and then turned the Key. The Landlord
and Theodore soon after appeared with lights: The Former expressed himself a
little surprised at my returning so late, but asked no impertinent questions.
He soon quitted the room, and left me to exult in the success of my
undertaking.

I immediately paid a visit to my Prisoner. I strove to persuade her submitting
with patience to her temporary confinement. My attempt was unsuccessful. Unable
to speak or move, She expressed her fury by her looks, and except at meals I
never dared to unbind her, or release her from the Gag. At such times I stood
over her with a drawn sword, and protested, that if She uttered a single cry, I
would plunge it in her bosom. As soon as She had done eating, the Gag was
replaced. I was conscious that this proceeding was cruel, and could only be
justified by the urgency of circumstances: As to Theodore, He had no scruples
upon the subject. Cunegonda’s captivity entertained him beyond measure.
During his abode in the Castle, a continual warfare had been carried on between
him and the Duenna; and now that He found his Enemy so absolutely in his power,
He triumphed without mercy. He seemed to think of nothing but how to find out
new means of plaguing her: Sometimes He affected to pity her misfortune, then
laughed at, abused, and mimicked her; He played her a thousand tricks, each
more provoking than the other, and amused himself by telling her that her
elopement must have occasioned much surprise at the Baron’s. This was in
fact the case. No one except Agnes could imagine what was become of Dame
Cunegonda: Every hole and corner was searched for her; The Ponds were dragged,
and the Woods underwent a thorough examination. Still no Dame Cunegonda made
her appearance. Agnes kept the secret, and I kept the Duenna: The Baroness,
therefore, remained in total ignorance respecting the old Woman’s fate,
but suspected her to have perished by suicide. Thus past away five days, during
which I had prepared every thing necessary for my enterprise. On quitting
Agnes, I had made it my first business to dispatch a Peasant with a letter to
Lucas at Munich, ordering him to take care that a Coach and four should arrive
about ten o’clock on the fifth of May at the Village of Rosenwald. He
obeyed my instructions punctually: The Equipage arrived at the time appointed.
As the period of her Lady’s elopement drew nearer, Cunegonda’s rage
increased. I verily believe that spight and passion would have killed her, had
I not luckily discovered her prepossession in favour of Cherry Brandy. With
this favourite liquor She was plentifully supplied, and Theodore always
remaining to guard her, the Gag was occasionally removed. The liquor seemed to
have a wonderful effect in softening the acrimony of her nature; and her
confinement not admitting of any other amusement, She got drunk regularly once
a day just by way of passing the time.

The fifth of May arrived, a period by me never to be forgotten! Before the
Clock struck twelve, I betook myself to the scene of action. Theodore followed
me on horseback. I concealed the Carriage in a spacious Cavern of the Hill, on
whose brow the Castle was situated: This Cavern was of considerable depth, and
among the peasants was known by the name of Lindenberg Hole. The night was calm
and beautiful: The Moonbeams fell upon the antient Towers of the Castle, and
shed upon their summits a silver light. All was still around me: Nothing was to
be heard except the night breeze sighing among the leaves, the distant barking
of Village Dogs, or the Owl who had established herself in a nook of the
deserted Eastern Turret. I heard her melancholy shriek, and looked upwards. She
sat upon the ride of a window, which I recognized to be that of the haunted
Room. This brought to my remembrance the story of the Bleeding Nun, and I
sighed while I reflected on the influence of superstition and weakness of human
reason. Suddenly I heard a faint chorus steal upon the silence of the night.

“What can occasion that noise, Theodore?”

“A Stranger of distinction,” replied He, “passed through the
Village today in his way to the Castle: He is reported to be the Father of
Donna Agnes. Doubtless, the Baron has given an entertainment to celebrate his
arrival.”

The Castle Bell announced the hour of midnight: This was the usual signal for
the family to retire to Bed. Soon after I perceived lights in the Castle moving
backwards and forwards in different directions. I conjectured the company to be
separating. I could hear the heavy doors grate as they opened with difficulty,
and as they closed again the rotten Casements rattled in their frames. The
chamber of Agnes was on the other side of the Castle. I trembled lest She
should have failed in obtaining the Key of the haunted Room: Through this it
was necessary for her to pass in order to reach the narrow Staircase by which
the Ghost was supposed to descend into the great Hall. Agitated by this
apprehension, I kept my eyes constantly fixed upon the window, where I hoped to
perceive the friendly glare of a Lamp borne by Agnes. I now heard the massy
Gates unbarred. By the candle in his hand I distinguished old Conrad, the
Porter. He set the Portal doors wide open, and retired. The lights in the
Castle gradually disappeared, and at length the whole Building was wrapt in
darkness.

While I sat upon a broken ridge of the hill, the stillness of the scene
inspired me with melancholy ideas not altogether unpleasing. The Castle which
stood full in my sight, formed an object equally awful and picturesque. Its
ponderous Walls tinged by the moon with solemn brightness, its old and
partly-ruined Towers lifting themselves into the clouds and seeming to frown on
the plains around them, its lofty battlements overgrown with ivy, and folding
Gates expanding in honour of the Visionary Inhabitant, made me sensible of a
sad and reverential horror. Yet did not these sensations occupy me so fully, as
to prevent me from witnessing with impatience the slow progress of time. I
approached the Castle, and ventured to walk round it. A few rays of light still
glimmered in the chamber of Agnes. I observed them with joy. I was still gazing
upon them, when I perceived a figure draw near the window, and the Curtain was
carefully closed to conceal the Lamp which burned there. Convinced by this
observation that Agnes had not abandoned our plan, I returned with a light
heart to my former station.

The half-hour struck! The three-quarters struck! My bosom beat high with hope
and expectation. At length the wished-for sound was heard. The Bell tolled
“One,” and the Mansion echoed with the noise loud and solemn. I
looked up to the Casement of the haunted Chamber. Scarcely had five minutes
elapsed, when the expected light appeared. I was now close to the Tower. The
window was not so far from the Ground but that I fancied I perceived a female
figure with a Lamp in her hand moving slowly along the Apartment. The light
soon faded away, and all was again dark and gloomy.

Occasional gleams of brightness darted from the Staircase windows as the lovely
Ghost past by them. I traced the light through the Hall: It reached the Portal,
and at length I beheld Agnes pass through the folding gates. She was habited
exactly as She had described the Spectre. A chaplet of Beads hung upon her arm;
her head was enveloped in a long white veil; Her Nun’s dress was stained
with blood, and She had taken care to provide herself with a Lamp and dagger.
She advanced towards the spot where I stood. I flew to meet her, and clasped
her in my arms.

“Agnes!” said I while I pressed her to my bosom,

Agnes! Agnes! Thou art mine!

Agnes! Agnes! I am thine!

In my veins while blood shall roll,

Thou art mine!

I am thine!

Thine my body! Thine my soul!

Terrified and breathless She was unable to speak: She dropt her Lamp and
dagger, and sank upon my bosom in silence. I raised her in my arms, and
conveyed her to the Carriage. Theodore remained behind in order to release Dame
Cunegonda. I also charged him with a letter to the Baroness explaining the
whole affair, and entreating her good offices in reconciling Don Gaston to my
union with his Daughter. I discovered to her my real name: I proved to her that
my birth and expectations justified my pretending to her Niece, and assured
her, though it was out of my power to return her love, that I would strive
unceasingly to obtain her esteem and friendship.

I stepped into the Carriage, where Agnes was already seated. Theodore closed
the door, and the Postillions drove away. At first I was delighted with the
rapidity of our progress; But as soon as we were in no danger of pursuit, I
called to the Drivers, and bad them moderate their pace. They strove in vain to
obey me. The Horses refused to answer the rein, and continued to rush on with
astonishing swiftness. The Postillions redoubled their efforts to stop them,
but by kicking and plunging the Beasts soon released themselves from this
restraint. Uttering a loud shriek, the Drivers were hurled upon the ground.
Immediately thick clouds obscured the sky: The winds howled around us, the
lightning flashed, and the Thunder roared tremendously. Never did I behold so
frightful a Tempest! Terrified by the jar of contending elements, the Horses
seemed every moment to increase their speed. Nothing could interrupt their
career; They dragged the Carriage through Hedges and Ditches, dashed down the
most dangerous precipices, and seemed to vye in swiftness with the rapidity of
the winds.

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

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

The Peasants complied with my request: All left me except Four, who made a
litter of boughs and prepared to convey me to the neighbouring Town. I enquired
its name. It proved to be Ratisbon, and I could scarcely persuade myself that I
had travelled to such a distance in a single night. I told the Countrymen that
at one o’clock that morning I had past through the Village of Rosenwald.
They shook their heads wistfully, and made signs to each other that I must
certainly be delirious. I was conveyed to a decent Inn and immediately put to
bed. A Physician was sent for, who set my arm with success. He then examined my
other hurts, and told me that I need be under no apprehension of the
consequences of any of them; But ordered me to keep myself quiet, and be
prepared for a tedious and painful cure. I answered him that if He hoped to
keep me quiet, He must first endeavour to procure me some news of a Lady who
had quitted Rosenwald in my company the night before, and had been with me at
the moment when the Coach broke down. He smiled, and only replied by advising
me to make myself easy, for that all proper care should be taken of me. As He
quitted me, the Hostess met him at the door of the room.

“The Gentleman is not quite in his right senses;” I heard him say
to her in a low voice; “’Tis the natural consequence of his fall,
but that will soon be over.”

One after another the Peasants returned to the Inn, and informed me that no
traces had been discovered of my unfortunate Mistress.

Uneasiness now became despair. I entreated them to renew their search in the
most urgent terms, doubling the promises which I had already made them. My wild
and frantic manner confirmed the bye-standers in the idea of my being
delirious. No signs of the Lady having appeared, they believed her to be a
creature fabricated by my over-heated brain, and paid no attention to my
entreaties. However, the Hostess assured me that a fresh enquiry should be
made, but I found afterwards that her promise was only given to quiet me. No
further steps were taken in the business.

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

That repose I wooed in vain. The agitation of my bosom chased away sleep.
Restless in my mind, in spite of the fatigue of my body, I continued to toss
about from side to side, till the Clock in a neighbouring Steeple struck
“One.” As I listened to the mournful hollow sound, and heard it die
away in the wind, I felt a sudden chillness spread itself over my body. I
shuddered without knowing wherefore; Cold dews poured down my forehead, and my
hair stood bristling with alarm. Suddenly I heard slow and heavy steps
ascending the staircase. By an involuntary movement I started up in my bed, and
drew back the curtain. A single rush-light which glimmered upon the hearth shed
a faint gleam through the apartment, which was hung with tapestry. The door was
thrown open with violence. A figure entered, and drew near my Bed with solemn
measured steps. With trembling apprehension I examined this midnight Visitor.
God Almighty! It was the Bleeding Nun! It was my lost Companion! Her face was
still veiled, but She no longer held her Lamp and dagger. She lifted up her
veil slowly. What a sight presented itself to my startled eyes! I beheld before
me an animated Corse. Her countenance was long and haggard; Her cheeks and lips
were bloodless; The paleness of death was spread over her features, and her
eyeballs fixed stedfastly upon me were lustreless and hollow.

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

The visionary Nun looked upon me for some minutes in silence: There was
something petrifying in her regard. At length in a low sepulchral voice She
pronounced the following words:

‘Raymond! Raymond! Thou art mine!

Raymond! Raymond! I am thine!

In thy veins while blood shall roll,

I am thine!

Thou art mine!

Mine thy body! Mine thy soul!——’

Breathless with fear, I listened while She repeated my own expressions. The
Apparition seated herself opposite to me at the foot of the Bed, and was
silent. Her eyes were fixed earnestly upon mine: They seemed endowed with the
property of the Rattlesnake’s, for I strove in vain to look off her. My
eyes were fascinated, and I had not the power of withdrawing them from the
Spectre’s.

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

‘Raymond! Raymond! Thou art mine!

Raymond! Raymond! I am thine! &c.—’

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

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

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

The fatigue of my body from not having slept on the former night, co-operating
with the strong opiates administered to me in profusion, at length procured me
that repose of which I was so much in need. I sank into a profound and tranquil
slumber, and had already slept for some hours, when the neighbouring Clock
rouzed me by striking “One”. Its sound brought with it to my memory
all the horrors of the night before. The same cold shivering seized me. I
started up in my bed, and perceived the Servant fast asleep in an armed-Chair
near me. I called him by his name: He made no answer. I shook him forcibly by
the arm, and strove in vain to wake him. He was perfectly insensible to my
efforts. I now heard the heavy steps ascending the staircase; The Door was
thrown open, and again the Bleeding Nun stood before me. Once more my limbs
were chained in second infancy. Once more I heard those fatal words repeated,

‘Raymond! Raymond! Thou art mine!

Raymond! Raymond! I am thine! &c.——’

The scene which had shocked me so sensibly on the former night, was again
presented. The Spectre again pressed her lips to mine, again touched me with
her rotting fingers, and as on her first appearance, quitted the chamber as
soon as the Clock told “Two.”

Even night was this repeated. Far from growing accustomed to the Ghost, every
succeeding visit inspired me with greater horror. Her idea pursued me
continually, and I became the prey of habitual melancholy. The constant
agitation of my mind naturally retarded the re-establishment of my health.
Several months elapsed before I was able to quit my bed; and when at length I
was moved to a Sopha, I was so faint, spiritless, and emaciated, that I could
not cross the room without assistance. The looks of my Attendants sufficiently
denoted the little hope, which they entertained of my recovery. The profound
sadness, which oppressed me without remission made the Physician consider me to
be an Hypochondriac. The cause of my distress I carefully concealed in my own
bosom, for I knew that no one could give me relief: The Ghost was not even
visible to any eye but mine. I had frequently caused Attendants to sit up in my
room: But the moment that the Clock struck “One,” irresistible
slumber seized them, nor left them till the departure of the Ghost.

You may be surprized that during this time I made no enquiries after your
Sister. Theodore, who with difficulty had discovered my abode, had quieted my
apprehensions for her safety: At the same time He convinced me that all
attempts to release her from captivity must be fruitless till I should be in a
condition to return to Spain. The particulars of her adventure which I shall
now relate to you, were partly communicated to me by Theodore, and partly by
Agnes herself.

On the fatal night when her elopement was to have taken place, accident had not
permitted her to quit her chamber at the appointed time. At length She ventured
into the haunted room, descended the staircase leading into the Hall, found the
Gates open as She expected, and left the Castle unobserved. What was her
surprize at not finding me ready to receive her! She examined the Cavern,
ranged through every Alley of the neighbouring wood, and passed two full hours
in this fruitless enquiry. She could discover no traces either of me or of the
Carriage. Alarmed and disappointed, her only resource was to return to the
Castle before the Baroness missed her: But here She found herself in a fresh
embarrassment. The Bell had already tolled “Two:” The Ghostly hour
was past, and the careful Porter had locked the folding gates. After much
irresolution She ventured to knock softly. Luckily for her, Conrad was still
awake: He heard the noise and rose, murmuring at being called up a second time.
No sooner had He opened one of the Doors, and beheld the supposed Apparition
waiting there for admittance, than He uttered a loud cry, and sank upon his
knees. Agnes profited by his terror. She glided by him, flew to her own
apartment, and having thrown off her Spectre’s trappings, retired to bed
endeavouring in vain to account for my disappearing.

In the mean while Theodore having seen my Carriage drive off with the false
Agnes, returned joyfully to the Village. The next morning He released Cunegonda
from her confinement, and accompanied her to the Castle. There He found the
Baron, his Lady, and Don Gaston, disputing together upon the Porter’s
relation. All of them agreed in believing the existence of Spectres: But the
Latter contended, that for a Ghost to knock for admittance was a proceeding
till then unwitnessed, and totally incompatible with the immaterial nature of a
Spirit. They were still discussing this subject when the Page appeared with
Cunegonda and cleared up the mystery. On hearing his deposition, it was agreed
unanimously that the Agnes whom Theodore had seen step into my Carriage must
have been the Bleeding Nun, and that the Ghost who had terrified Conrad was no
other than Don Gaston’s Daughter.

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

To this account my sudden disappearing gave but too great an air of
probability. Theodore, who could have contradicted the story, by Donna
Rodolpha’s order was kept out of her sight: What proved a still greater
confirmation of my being an Impostor, was the arrival of a letter from yourself
declaring that you had no sort of acquaintance with Alphonso d’Alvarada.
These seeming proofs of my perfidy, aided by the artful insinuations of her
Aunt, by Cunegonda’s flattery, and her Father’s threats and anger,
entirely conquered your Sister’s repugnance to a Convent. Incensed at my
behaviour, and disgusted with the world in general, She consented to receive
the veil. She past another Month at the Castle of Lindenberg, during which my
non-appearance confirmed her in her resolution, and then accompanied Don Gaston
into Spain. Theodore was now set at liberty. He hastened to Munich, where I had
promised to let him hear from me; But finding from Lucas that I had never
arrived there, He pursued his search with indefatigable perseverance, and at
length succeeded in rejoining me at Ratisbon.

So much was I altered, that scarcely could He recollect my features: The
distress visible upon his sufficiently testified how lively was the interest
which He felt for me. The society of this amiable Boy, whom I had always
considered rather as a Companion than a Servant, was now my only comfort. His
conversation was gay yet sensible, and his observations shrewd and
entertaining: He had picked up much more knowledge than is usual at his Age:
But what rendered him most agreeable to me, was his having a delightful voice,
and some skill in Music. He had also acquired some taste in poetry, and even
ventured sometimes to write verses himself. He occasionally composed little
Ballads in Spanish, his compositions were but indifferent, I must confess; yet
they were pleasing to me from their novelty, and hearing him sing them to his
guitar was the only amusement, which I was capable of receiving. Theodore
perceived well enough that something preyed upon my mind; But as I concealed
the cause of my grief even from him, Respect would not permit him to pry into
my secrets.

One Evening I was lying upon my Sopha, plunged in reflections very far from
agreeable: Theodore amused himself by observing from the window a Battle
between two Postillions, who were quarrelling in the Inn-yard.

“Ha! Ha!” cried He suddenly; “Yonder is the Great
Mogul.”

“Who?” said I.

“Only a Man who made me a strange speech at Munich.”

“What was the purport of it?”

“Now you put me in mind of it, Segnor, it was a kind of message to you;
but truly it was not worth delivering. I believe the Fellow to be mad, for my
part. When I came to Munich in search of you, I found him living at “The
King of the Romans,” and the Host gave me an odd account of him. By his
accent He is supposed to be a Foreigner, but of what Country nobody can tell.
He seemed to have no acquaintance in the Town, spoke very seldom, and never was
seen to smile. He had neither Servants or Baggage; But his Purse seemed
well-furnished, and He did much good in the Town. Some supposed him to be an
Arabian Astrologer, Others to be a Travelling Mountebank, and many declared
that He was Doctor Faustus, whom the Devil had sent back to Germany. The
Landlord, however told me, that He had the best reasons to believe him to be
the Great Mogul incognito.”

“But the strange speech, Theodore.”

“True, I had almost forgotten the speech: Indeed for that matter, it
would not have been a great loss if I had forgotten it altogether. You are to
know, Segnor, that while I was enquiring about you of the Landlord, this
Stranger passed by. He stopped, and looked at me earnestly.
“Youth!” said He in a solemn voice, “He whom you seek, has
found that which He would fain lose. My hand alone can dry up the blood: Bid
your Master wish for me when the Clock strikes, “One.”

“How?” cried I, starting from my Sopha. (The words which Theodore
had repeated, seemed to imply the Stranger’s knowledge of my secret)
“Fly to him, my Boy! Entreat him to grant me one moment’s
conversation!”

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

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

“I know your business,” said He, without giving me time to speak.

“I have the power of releasing you from your nightly Visitor; But this
cannot be done before Sunday. On the hour when the Sabbath Morning breaks,
Spirits of darkness have least influence over Mortals. After Saturday the Nun
shall visit you no more.”

“May I not enquire,” said I, “by what means you are in
possession of a secret which I have carefully concealed from the knowledge of
everyone?”

“How can I be ignorant of your distress, when their cause at this moment
stands beside you?”

I started. The Stranger continued.

“Though to you only visible for one hour in the twenty-four, neither day
or night does She ever quit you; Nor will She ever quit you till you have
granted her request.”

“And what is that request?”

“That She must herself explain: It lies not in my knowledge. Wait with
patience for the night of Saturday: All shall be then cleared up.”

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

“No one,” He replied, “is adequate to comprehending the
misery of my lot! Fate obliges me to be constantly in movement: I am not
permitted to pass more than a fortnight in the same place. I have no Friend in
the world, and from the restlessness of my destiny I never can acquire one.
Fain would I lay down my miserable life, for I envy those who enjoy the quiet
of the Grave: But Death eludes me, and flies from my embrace. In vain do I
throw myself in the way of danger. I plunge into the Ocean; The Waves throw me
back with abhorrence upon the shore: I rush into fire; The flames recoil at my
approach: I oppose myself to the fury of Banditti; Their swords become blunted,
and break against my breast: The hungry Tiger shudders at my approach, and the
Alligator flies from a Monster more horrible than itself. God has set his seal
upon me, and all his Creatures respect this fatal mark!”

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

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

Having said this He departed, leaving me in astonishment at the mysterious turn
of his manner and conversation.

His assurances that I should soon be relieved from the Apparition’s
visits produced a good effect upon my constitution. Theodore, whom I rather
treated as an adopted Child than a Domestic, was surprized at his return to
observe the amendment in my looks. He congratulated me on this symptom of
returning health, and declared himself delighted at my having received so much
benefit from my conference with the Great Mogul. Upon enquiry I found that the
Stranger had already past eight days in Ratisbon: According to his own account,
therefore, He was only to remain there six days longer. Saturday was still at
the distance of Three. Oh! with what impatience did I expect its arrival! In
the interim, the Bleeding Nun continued her nocturnal visits; But hoping soon
to be released from them altogether, the effects which they produced on me
became less violent than before.

The wished-for night arrived. To avoid creating suspicion I retired to bed at
my usual hour: But as soon as my Attendants had left me, I dressed myself
again, and prepared for the Stranger’s reception. He entered my room upon
the turn of midnight. A small Chest was in his hand, which He placed near the
Stove. He saluted me without speaking; I returned the compliment, observing an
equal silence. He then opened his Chest. The first thing which He produced was
a small wooden Crucifix: He sank upon his knees, gazed upon it mournfully, and
cast his eyes towards heaven. He seemed to be praying devoutly. At length He
bowed his head respectfully, kissed the Crucifix thrice, and quitted his
kneeling posture. He next drew from the Chest a covered Goblet: With the liquor
which it contained, and which appeared to be blood, He sprinkled the floor, and
then dipping in it one end of the Crucifix, He described a circle in the middle
of the room. Round about this He placed various reliques, sculls, thigh-bones
&c; I observed, that He disposed them all in the forms of Crosses. Lastly
He took out a large Bible, and beckoned me to follow him into the Circle. I
obeyed.

“Be cautious not to utter a syllable!” whispered the Stranger;
“Step not out of the circle, and as you love yourself, dare not to look
upon my face!”

Holding the Crucifix in one hand, the Bible in the other, He seemed to read
with profound attention. The Clock struck “One”! As usual I heard
the Spectre’s steps upon the Staircase: But I was not seized with the
accustomed shivering. I waited her approach with confidence. She entered the
room, drew near the Circle, and stopped. The Stranger muttered some words, to
me unintelligible. Then raising his head from the Book, and extending the
Crucifix towards the Ghost, He pronounced in a voice distinct and solemn,

“Beatrice! Beatrice! Beatrice!”

“What wouldst Thou?” replied the Apparition in a hollow faltering
tone.

“What disturbs thy sleep? Why dost thou afflict and torture this Youth?
How can rest be restored to thy unquiet Spirit?”

“I dare not tell!—I must not tell!—Fain would I repose in my
Grave, but stern commands force me to prolong my punishment!”

“Knowest Thou this blood? Knowest Thou in whose veins it flowed?

Beatrice! Beatrice! In his name I charge thee to answer me!”

“I dare not disobey my taskers.”

“Darest Thou disobey Me?”

He spoke in a commanding tone, and drew the sable band from his forehead. In
spite of his injunctions to the contrary, Curiosity would not suffer me to keep
my eyes off his face: I raised them, and beheld a burning Cross impressed upon
his brow. For the horror with which this object inspired me I cannot account,
but I never felt its equal! My senses left me for some moments; A mysterious
dread overcame my courage, and had not the Exorciser caught my hand, I should
have fallen out of the Circle.

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

“Yes!” She said at length; “I tremble at that
mark!—respect it!—I obey you! Know then, that my bones lie still
unburied: They rot in the obscurity of Lindenberg Hole. None but this Youth has
the right of consigning them to the Grave. His own lips have made over to me
his body and his soul: Never will I give back his promise, never shall He know
a night devoid of terror, unless He engages to collect my mouldering bones, and
deposit them in the family vault of his Andalusian Castle. Then let thirty
Masses be said for the repose of my Spirit, and I trouble this world no more.
Now let me depart! Those flames are scorching!”

He let the hand drop slowly which held the Crucifix, and which till then He had
pointed towards her. The apparition bowed her head, and her form melted into
air. The Exorciser led me out of the Circle. He replaced the Bible &c. in
the Chest, and then addressed himself to me, who stood near him speechless from
astonishment.

“Don Raymond, you have heard the conditions on which repose is promised
you. Be it your business to fulfil them to the letter. For me nothing more
remains than to clear up the darkness still spread over the Spectre’s
History, and inform you that when living, Beatrice bore the name of las
Cisternas. She was the great Aunt of your Grandfather: In quality of your
relation, her ashes demand respect from you, though the enormity of her crimes
must excite your abhorrence. The nature of those crimes no one is more capable
of explaining to you than myself: I was personally acquainted with the holy Man
who proscribed her nocturnal riots in the Castle of Lindenberg, and I hold this
narrative from his own lips.

“Beatrice de las Cisternas took the veil at an early age, not by her own
choice, but at the express command of her Parents. She was then too young to
regret the pleasures of which her profession deprived her: But no sooner did
her warm and voluptuous character begin to be developed than She abandoned
herself freely to the impulse of her passions, and seized the first opportunity
to procure their gratification. This opportunity was at length presented, after
many obstacles which only added new force to her desires. She contrived to
elope from the Convent, and fled to Germany with the Baron Lindenberg. She
lived at his Castle several months as his avowed Concubine: All Bavaria was
scandalized by her impudent and abandoned conduct. Her feasts vied in luxury
with Cleopatra’s, and Lindenberg became the Theatre of the most unbridled
debauchery. Not satisfied with displaying the incontinence of a Prostitute, She
professed herself an Atheist: She took every opportunity to scoff at her
monastic vows, and loaded with ridicule the most sacred ceremonies of Religion.

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

“The fatal night arrived. The Baron slept in the arms of his perfidious
Mistress, when the Castle-Bell struck “One.” Immediately Beatrice
drew a dagger from underneath the pillow, and plunged it in her
Paramour’s heart. The Baron uttered a single dreadful groan, and expired.
The Murderess quitted her bed hastily, took a Lamp in one hand, in the other
the bloody dagger, and bent her course towards the cavern. The Porter dared not
to refuse opening the Gates to one more dreaded in the Castle than its Master.
Beatrice reached Lindenberg Hole unopposed, where according to promise She
found Otto waiting for her. He received and listened to her narrative with
transport: But ere She had time to ask why He came unaccompanied, He convinced
her that He wished for no witnesses to their interview. Anxious to conceal his
share in the murder, and to free himself from a Woman, whose violent and
atrocious character made him tremble with reason for his own safety, He had
resolved on the destruction of his wretched Agent. Rushing upon her suddenly,
He wrested the dagger from her hand: He plunged it still reeking with his
Brother’s blood in her bosom, and put an end to her existence by repeated
blows.

“Otto now succeeded to the Barony of Lindenberg. The murder was
attributed solely to the fugitive Nun, and no one suspected him to have
persuaded her to the action. But though his crime was unpunished by Man,
God’s justice permitted him not to enjoy in peace his blood-stained
honours. Her bones lying still unburied in the Cave, the restless soul of
Beatrice continued to inhabit the Castle. Drest in her religious habit in
memory of her vows broken to heaven, furnished with the dagger which had drank
the blood of her Paramour, and holding the Lamp which had guided her flying
steps, every night did She stand before the Bed of Otto. The most dreadful
confusion reigned through the Castle; The vaulted chambers resounded with
shrieks and groans; And the Spectre, as She ranged along the antique Galleries,
uttered an incoherent mixture of prayers and blasphemies. Otto was unable to
withstand the shock which He felt at this fearful Vision: Its horror increased
with every succeeding appearance: His alarm at length became so insupportable
that his heart burst, and one morning He was found in his bed totally deprived
of warmth and animation. His death did not put an end to the nocturnal riots.
The bones of Beatrice continued to lie unburied, and her Ghost continued to
haunt the Castle.

“The domains of Lindenberg now fell to a distant Relation. But terrified
by the accounts given him of the Bleeding Nun (So was the Spectre called by the
multitude), the new Baron called to his assistance a celebrated Exorciser. This
holy Man succeeded in obliging her to temporary repose; But though She
discovered to him her history, He was not permitted to reveal it to others, or
cause her skeleton to be removed to hallowed ground. That Office was reserved
for you, and till your coming, her Ghost was doomed to wander about the Castle
and lament the crime which She had there committed. However, the Exorciser
obliged her to silence during his lifetime. So long as He existed, the haunted
chamber was shut up, and the Spectre was invisible. At his death which happened
in five years after, She again appeared, but only once on every fifth year, on
the same day and at the same hour when She plunged her Knife in the heart of
her sleeping Lover: She then visited the Cavern which held her mouldering
skeleton, returned to the Castle as soon as the Clock struck “Two,”
and was seen no more till the next five years had elapsed.

“She was doomed to suffer during the space of a Century. That period is
past. Nothing now remains but to consign to the Grave the ashes of Beatrice. I
have been the means of releasing you from your visionary Tormentor; and amidst
all the sorrows which oppress me, to think that I have been of use to you, is
some consolation. Youth, farewell! May the Ghost of your Relation enjoy that
rest in the Tomb, which the Almighty’s vengeance has denied to me for
ever!”

Here the Stranger prepared to quit the apartment.

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

On these points He for some time refused to satisfy me. At length overcome by
my entreaties, He consented to clear up the whole, on condition that I would
defer his explanation till the next day. With this request I was obliged to
comply, and He left me. In the Morning my first care was to enquire after the
mysterious Stranger. Conceive my disappointment when informed that He had
already quitted Ratisbon. I dispatched messengers in pursuit of him but in
vain. No traces of the Fugitive were discovered. Since that moment I never have
heard any more of him, and ’tis most probable that I never shall.”

(Lorenzo here interrupted his Friend’s narrative.

“How?” said He; “You have never discovered who He was, or
even formed a guess?”

“Pardon me,” replied the Marquis; “When I related this
adventure to my Uncle, the Cardinal-Duke, He told me that He had no doubt of
this singular Man’s being the celebrated Character known universally by
the name of “the wandering Jew.” His not being permitted to pass
more than fourteen days on the same spot, the burning Cross impressed upon his
forehead, the effect which it produced upon the Beholders, and many other
circumstances give this supposition the colour of truth. The Cardinal is fully
persuaded of it; and for my own part I am inclined to adopt the only solution
which offers itself to this riddle. I return to the narrative from which I have
digressed.”)

From this period I recovered my health so rapidly as to astonish my Physicians.
The Bleeding Nun appeared no more, and I was soon able to set out for
Lindenberg. The Baron received me with open arms. I confided to him the sequel
of my adventure; and He was not a little pleased to find that his Mansion would
be no longer troubled with the Phantom’s quiennial visits. I was sorry to
perceive that absence had not weakened Donna Rodolpha’s imprudent
passion. In a private conversation which I had with her during my short stay at
the Castle, She renewed her attempts to persuade me to return her affection.
Regarding her as the primary cause of all my sufferings, I entertained for her
no other sentiment than disgust. The Skeleton of Beatrice was found in the
place which She had mentioned. This being all that I sought at Lindenberg, I
hastened to quit the Baron’s domains, equally anxious to perform the
obsequies of the murdered Nun, and escape the importunity of a Woman whom I
detested. I departed, followed by Donna Rodolpha’s menaces that my
contempt should not be long unpunished.

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

About eight months ago I was returning to my Hotel in a melancholy humour,
having past the evening at the Play-House. The Night was dark, and I was
unaccompanied. Plunged in reflections which were far from being agreeable, I
perceived not that three Men had followed me from the Theatre; till, on turning
into an unfrequented Street, they all attacked me at the same time with the
utmost fury. I sprang back a few paces, drew my sword, and threw my cloak over
my left arm. The obscurity of the night was in my favour. For the most part the
blows of the Assassins, being aimed at random, failed to touch me. I at length
was fortunate enough to lay one of my Adversaries at my feet; But before this I
had already received so many wounds, and was so warmly pressed, that my
destruction would have been inevitable, had not the clashing of swords called a
Cavalier to my assistance. He ran towards me with his sword drawn: Several
Domestics followed him with torches. His arrival made the combat equal: Yet
would not the Bravoes abandon their design till the Servants were on the point
of joining us. They then fled away, and we lost them in the obscurity.

The Stranger now addressed himself to me with politeness, and enquired whether
I was wounded. Faint with the loss of blood, I could scarcely thank him for his
seasonable aid, and entreat him to let some of his Servants convey me to the
Hotel de las Cisternas. I no sooner mentioned the name than He profest himself
an acquaintance of my Father’s, and declared that He would not permit my
being transported to such a distance before my wounds had been examined. He
added that his House was hard by, and begged me to accompany him thither. His
manner was so earnest, that I could not reject his offer, and leaning upon his
arm, a few minutes brought me to the Porch of a magnificent Hotel.

On entering the House, an old grey-headed Domestic came to welcome my
Conductor: He enquired when the Duke, his Master, meant to quit the Country,
and was answered that He would remain there yet some months. My Deliverer then
desired the family Surgeon to be summoned without delay. His orders were
obeyed. I was seated upon a Sopha in a noble apartment; and my wounds being
examined, they were declared to be very slight. The Surgeon, however, advised
me not to expose myself to the night air; and the Stranger pressed me so
earnestly to take a bed in his House, that I consented to remain where I was
for the present.

Being now left alone with my Deliverer, I took the opportunity of thanking him
in more express terms, than I had done hitherto: But He begged me to be silent
upon the subject.

“I esteem myself happy,” said He, “in having had it in my
power to render you this little service; and I shall think myself eternally
obliged to my Daughter for detaining me so late at the Convent of St. Clare.
The high esteem in which I have ever held the Marquis de las Cisternas, though
accident has not permitted our being so intimate as I could wish, makes me
rejoice in the opportunity of making his Son’s acquaintance. I am certain
that my Brother in whose House you now are, will lament his not being at Madrid
to receive you himself: But in the Duke’s absence I am Master of the
family, and may assure you in his name, that every thing in the Hotel de Medina
is perfectly at your disposal.”

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

A Domestic now entered the room, and informed me that the Bravo whom I had
wounded discovered some signs of life. I desired that He might be carried to my
Father’s Hotel, and that as soon as He recovered his voice, I would
examine him respecting his reasons for attempting my life. I was answered that
He was already able to speak, though with difficulty: Don Gaston’s
curiosity made him press me to interrogate the Assassin in his presence, but
this curiosity I was by no means inclined to gratify. One reason was, that
doubting from whence the blow came, I was unwilling to place before Don
Gaston’s eyes the guilt of a Sister: Another was, that I feared to be
recognized for Alphonso d’Alvarada, and precautions taken in consequence
to keep me from the sight of Agnes. To avow my passion for his Daughter, and
endeavour to make him enter into my schemes, what I knew of Don Gaston’s
character convinced me would be an imprudent step: and considering it to be
essential that He should know me for no other than the Condé de las Cisternas,
I was determined not to let him hear the Bravo’s confession. I insinuated
to him, that as I suspected a Lady to be concerned in the Business, whose name
might accidentally escape from the Assassin, it was necessary for me to examine
the Man in private. Don Gaston’s delicacy would not permit his urging the
point any longer, and in consequence the Bravo was conveyed to my Hotel.

The next Morning I took leave of my Host, who was to return to the Duke on the
same day. My wounds had been so trifling that, except being obliged to wear my
arm in a sling for a short time, I felt no inconvenience from the night’s
adventure. The Surgeon who examined the Bravo’s wound declared it to be
mortal: He had just time to confess that He had been instigated to murder me by
the revengeful Donna Rodolpha, and expired in a few minutes after.

All my thoughts were now bent upon getting to the speech of my lovely Nun.
Theodore set himself to work, and for this time with better success. He
attacked the Gardener of St. Clare so forcibly with bribes and promises that
the Old Man was entirely gained over to my interests; and it was settled that I
should be introduced into the Convent in the character of his Assistant. The
plan was put into execution without delay. Disguised in a common habit, and a
black patch covering one of my eyes, I was presented to the Lady Prioress, who
condescended to approve of the Gardener’s choice. I immediately entered
upon my employment. Botany having been a favourite study with me, I was by no
means at a loss in my new station. For some days I continued to work in the
Convent Garden without meeting the Object of my disguise: On the fourth Morning
I was more successful. I heard the voice of Agnes, and was speeding towards the
sound, when the sight of the Domina stopped me. I drew back with caution, and
concealed myself behind a thick clump of Trees.

The Prioress advanced and seated herself with Agnes on a Bench at no great
distance. I heard her in an angry tone blame her Companion’s continual
melancholy: She told her that to weep the loss of any Lover in her situation
was a crime; But that to weep the loss of a faithless one was folly and
absurdity in the extreme. Agnes replied in so low a voice that I could not
distinguish her words, but I perceived that She used terms of gentleness and
submission. The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a young
Pensioner who informed the Domina that She was waited for in the Parlour. The
old Lady rose, kissed the cheek of Agnes, and retired. The newcomer remained.
Agnes spoke much to her in praise of somebody whom I could not make out, but
her Auditor seemed highly delighted, and interested by the conversation. The
Nun showed her several letters; the Other perused them with evident pleasure,
obtained permission to copy them, and withdrew for that purpose to my great
satisfaction.

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

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

I communicated my success to my Ally, the old Gardener: He pointed out an
hiding place where I might shelter myself till night without fear of a
discovery. Thither I betook myself at the hour when I ought to have retired
with my supposed Master, and waited impatiently for the appointed time. The
chillness of the night was in my favour, since it kept the other Nuns confined
to their Cells. Agnes alone was insensible of the inclemency of the Air, and
before eleven joined me at the spot which had witnessed our former interview.
Secure from interruption, I related to her the true cause of my disappearing on
the fatal fifth of May. She was evidently much affected by my narrative: When
it was concluded, She confessed the injustice of her suspicions, and blamed
herself for having taken the veil through despair at my ingratitude.

“But now it is too late to repine!” She added; “The die is
thrown: I have pronounced my vows, and dedicated myself to the service of
heaven. I am sensible, how ill I am calculated for a Convent. My disgust at a
monastic life increases daily: Ennui and discontent are my constant Companions;
and I will not conceal from you that the passion which I formerly felt for one
so near being my Husband is not yet extinguished in my bosom. But we must part!
Insuperable Barriers divide us from each other, and on this side the Grave we
must never meet again!”

I now exerted myself to prove that our union was not so impossible as She
seemed to think it. I vaunted to her the Cardinal-Duke of Lerma’s
influence at the Court of Rome: I assured her that I should easily obtain a
dispensation from her vows; and I doubted not but Don Gaston would coincide
with my views, when informed of my real name and long attachment. Agnes replied
that since I encouraged such an hope, I could know but little of her Father.
Liberal and kind in every other respect, Superstition formed the only stain
upon his character. Upon this head He was inflexible; He sacrificed his dearest
interests to his scruples, and would consider it an insult to suppose him
capable of authorising his daughter to break her vows to heaven.

“But suppose,” said I interrupting her; “Suppose that He
should disapprove of our union; Let him remain ignorant of my proceedings, till
I have rescued you from the prison in which you are now confined. Once my Wife,
you are free from his authority: I need from him no pecuniary assistance; and
when He sees his resentment to be unavailing, He will doubtless restore you to
his favour. But let the worst happen; Should Don Gaston be irreconcileable, my
Relations will vie with each other in making you forget his loss: and you will
find in my Father a substitute for the Parent of whom I shall deprive
you.”