NEDL TRANSFER
HN 4 EKF 7


ROBITATEM
VIAS
QUAM DIVITI
FROM THE LIBRARY OF
LOUIS FRANCIS PECK
-
---
---
-
This book belongs to a collection
of Lewisiana from the library of
Louis F. Peck. A portion of this
collection is kept together as a
unit and assigned to this location
in the Deposit Library.
--
..
HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY








COLLECTION
OF ANCIENT AND MODERN
BRITISH
NOVELS AND ROMANCES.
VOL. XXXV.
.. THE MONK.


66 P-202
PRINTED BY J. SMITH, 10, RUE MONTMORENCY.


THE MONK,
A ROMANCE.
BY
M. G. LEWIS, ESQ., M. P.
PRINTED VERBATIM FROM THE FIRST LONDON EDITION.
Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas,
Nocturnos lemures, portentaque.
HORAT.
Dreams, magic terrors, spells of mighty power,
Witches, and ghosts who rove at midnight hour.

PARIS,
BAUDRY'S FOREIGN LIBRARY,
RUE DU COQ, NEAR THE LOUVRE.
SOLD ALSO BY THEOPHILE BARROIS, JUN., RUE RICHELIEU; TRUCHY, BOULEVARD
DES ITALIENS; AMYOT, RUE DE LA PAIX; LIBRAIRIE DES ETRANGERS, 55,
RUE NEUVE-SAINT-AUGUSTIN; AND FRENCH AND ENGLISH LIBRARY,
RUE VIVIENNE.
1832.


(HARTML i
UNIVELITY
LIBRARY
JUN 20 1969


ADVERTISEMENT.
Tak 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 Duran-
darte is translated from some stanzas to be found in a col-
lection 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.


TABLE OF THE POETRY.
Page
27
PREPACE, Imitation of Horace. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Gipsy's Song.........
Inscription in an Hermitage. . . ...
Durandarte and Beleria..
Love and Age. . . . . .
The Exile . ., ....
Midnight Hymn . . . . . . .
The Water-King. . . . . . . . . .
Serenade . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Alonzo the Brave and Fair Imogine. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . .
. . . . .
193
282


PREFAGE.
IMITATION OF HORACE.
Ep. 20.-B. I.
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,


yu
PREFACE.
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!
i
Bat should you meet with approbation,
And some one find an inclination
To ask, by natural transition,
Respecting mo 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 judgments never long,
And for the most part judging wrong ;
In friendship firm, but still believing
Others are treacherous and deceiving,
And thinking in the present ära
That friendship is a pure chimæra :
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,
6 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.


THE MONK.
CHAPTER I.
Lord Angelo is precise ;
Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses
That his blood flows, or that his appetite
Is more to bread than stone.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
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 as-
sembled 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,


THE MONK.
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 with-
out 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 as-
sembly. 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 new-
comers, on entering the church, looked round in vain for
places.
However, the old woman continued to move forwards. In
vain were exclamations of displeasure vented against her from
all sides : in vain was she addressed with—“I assure you,
Signora, there are no places here.”—“I beg, Signora, that
you will not crowd me so intolerably.”—“ Signora, 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, pro-
fiting by the exertions of her conductress.
“ Holy Virgin!” exclaimed the old woman in a tone of dis-
appointment, 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


THE MONK.
backs against the seventh column from the pulpit. Both were
young, and richly habited. Hearing this appeal to their po-
liteness 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 cu-
riosity 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 Hamadriad.
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 with-
out much difficulty, accepted the offer, and seated herself :


THE MONK.
the young one followed her example, but made no other com-
pliment 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 en-
deavoured to draw off the old woman's attention from her lo-
vely 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 re-
markable.”
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, Signor."
“Do you intend making a stay of any length ?”
- Yes, Signor.”
“ 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


THE MONK.
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, Signor."
“ And where is the harm, I pray you P” 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 won-
derful alarm! Blessed Maria! Here is a fuss and a bustle
about a chit's face! Come, come, child! Uncover it! I war-
rant 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 iminediately.
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 pre-
sented 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 se-
veral 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 ring-
lets; her neck was full and beautiful in the extreme; her hand


THE MONK.
and arm were formed with the most perfect symmetry; her
mild blue eyes seemed an heaven of sweetness, and the crystal
in which they moved sparkled with all the brilliance of
diamonds. She appeared to be scarcely fifteen; an arch
smile playing round her mouth, declared her to be possessed
of liveliness, which excess of timidity at present repressed.
She looked round her with a bashful glance; and whenever
her eyes accidentally met Lorenzo's, she dropped them hastily
upon her rosary; her cheek was immediately suffused with
blushes, and she began to tell her beads; though her manner
evidently showed that she knew not what she was about.
· Lorenzo gazed upon her with mingled surprise and ad-
miration; 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.” 66 And has so little sense?” said Don
Christoval, with feigned astonishment, “ How very extraor-
dinary!"
“Very true, signor. 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 pre-
tensions, 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, signor, 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.


THE MONK.
Holy St. Paul! How he stormed on finding that she had
escaped him, had joined her husband, and that they had em-
barked 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 pains-taking 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, Signora!".
“Oh! shocking! and a man so totally devoid of taste!
Why, would you believe it, Signor ? when I attempted to
pacify him, he cursed me for a witch, and wished that, to pu-
nish 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! Signor, you are really too polite. However,
I am heartily glad that the Conde was of a different way of
thinking. A mighty pretty piece of business, to be sure, Elvira
has made of it! After broiling and stewing in the Indies for
thirteen long years, her husband dies, and she returns to
Spain, without a house to hide her head, or money to procure
her one! This Antonia was then but an infant, and her only
remaining child. She found that her father-in-law had mar-
ried again, that he was irreconcileable to the Conde, and that
his second wife had produced him a son, who is reported to be
a very fine young man. The old Marquis refused to see my
sister or her child; but sent her word that, on condition of
never hearing any more of her, he would assign her a small
pension, and she might live in an old castle which he possessed
in Murcia. This had been the favourite habitation of his eldest
son; but, since his flight from Spain, the old Marquis could


.
THE MONK.
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! Signor, 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, Signora !" 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, Signora, 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 pº


THE MONK.
." The Marquis de las Cisternas.”
.“ I know him intimately well. He is not at present in Ma-
drid, 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 sa-
tisfaction was much more loud and audible. Indeed, as her
niece was generally silent in her company, she thought it in-
cumbent upon her to talk enough for both: this she managed
without difficulty, for she very seldom found herself deficient
in words.
• " Oh, Signor!" 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 man-
ners ? Mercy on me! I shall never be able to make this girl
any thing like a person of good breeding. But pray, Signor,”
she continued, addressing herself to Don Christoval, “ inform
me, why such a crowd is assembled to-day in this cathedral.”
“ Can you possibly be ignorant, that Ambrosio, Abbot of
this monastery, pronounces a sermon in this church every
Thursday? All Madrid rings with his praises. As yet he has
preached but thrice; but all who have heard him are so de-
lighted 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! Signor, till yesterday I never had the good fortune


10
THE MONK.
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 Am-
brosio 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 at-
tended 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, Signor, 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 pa-
rents. He was educated in the monastery, where he has re-
mained ever since. He early showed a strong inclination for
study and retirement; and as soon as he was of a proper age,
he pronounced his vows. No one has ever appeared to claim
him, or clear up the mystery which conceals his birth; and the
monks, who find their account in the favour which is shown
to their 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 be-
longs, 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 as-
sembles to hear. His knowledge is said to be the most pro-
found, 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


THE MONK.
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 ques-
tion! Fye, child, fye! these are not fit subjects for young wo-
men 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 de-
prived his cheek of colour. Tranquillity reigned upon his
smooth unwrinkled forehead; and content, expressed upon
every feature, seemed to announce the man equally unac-
quainted with cares and crimes. He bowed himself with hu-
mility 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


THE MONK.
at length the Friar spoke, the sound of his voice seemed to pe-
netrate 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 in-
sensible to religion's merits, were still enchanted with Am-
brosio'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 punishment, 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 eter-
nal 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 audi-
tors 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 con-
cluded, 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


THE MONK.
13
crowded round him, loaded him with blessings, threw them-
selves 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. Who-
ever became possessor of a bead, preserved it as a sacred relic;
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 fea-
ture. Dwelt she also in his heart ?
Antonia's eyes followed him with anxiety. As the door
closed after him, it seemed to her as she had lost some one
essential to her happiness. A tear stole in silence down her
cheek.
.6. He is separated from the world !” said she to herself ;
“ perhaps, I shall never see him more!"
As she wiped away the tear, Lorenzo obseryed her action.
“ Are you satisfied with our orator ?” said he; “ or do you
think that Madrid over-rates his talents ?”
Antonia's heart was so filled with admiration for the Monk,
that she eagerly seized the opportunity of speaking of him:
besides, as she now no longer considered Lorenzo as an ab-
solute 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.


14
THE MONK.
“You are young, and just entering into life,”, said he :
“your heart, new to the world, and full of warmth and sensi-
bility, 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! Signor,” replied Antonia, “ the misfortunes of my
parents have already placed before me but too many sad ex-
amples 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. Am-
brosio's character is perfectly without reproach ; and a man
who has passed the whole of his life within the walls of a con-
vent, 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 faci-
litating 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.”
“ Signor, you delight me by this assurance! It encourages
me to indulge my prepossession in his favour; and you know


THE MONK.
15
not with what pain I should have repressed the sentiment! Ah!
dearest aunt, entreat my mother to choose him for our con-
fessor.”
“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 already to eat them.”
“ You are right, Signora,” 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 dis-
interested 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?”
"O Christ! Signor,” 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 scru-
pulous 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, Signora.”-
“Oh! Signor, 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 Signor, press me no further if you love me!
I shall consider your obedience as a proof of your affection;
you shall hear from me to-morrow, and so farewell. But
pray, cavaliers, may I not enquire your names ?”


16
THE MONK.
“My friend's,” replied Lorenzo, “is the Conde d'Ossorio,
and mine Lorenzo de Medina.”
6 '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, ca-
valiers. Signor Conde, let me entreat you to moderate the
excessive ardour of your passion. However, to prove 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 biding her
farewell; she returned the compliment, and hastily with-
drew.
“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 awalking 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 to be past all endurance, that I shall probably so-
licit you to carry on your amours still further.”


THE MONK.
17
" 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 pains-taking
shoemaker as any in Cordova’? ”
“ You forgot, that she is also the granddaughter of the
late Marquis de las Cisternas ; but without disputing about
birth and titles, I must assure you, that I never beheld a
woman so interesting as Antonia.”
“ Very possibly; but you cannot mean to marry her p”.
" Why not, my dear Conde ? I shall have wealth enough
for both of us, and you know that my uncle thinks liberally
upon the subject. From what I have seen of Raymond de las
Cisternas, I am certain that he will readily acknowledge An-
tonia 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 Ma-
drid, 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


18
THE MONK.
now pursue my first intention, and probably pass the evening
with my sister at the parlour-grate.”
6 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 en-
deavour 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 heartburning.”
“How, Conde ?” said Lorenzo, in an angry voice; “ do
you suppose me base enough to have mfluenced 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 ca-
tastrophe for the present, I shall make a retreat, and leave you
master of the field. Farewell, my knight of Mount Ætna !
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 judg-
ment!"
The night was now fast advancing. The lamps were not


THE MONK.
19
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 moon-
beams darting into the church through painted windows,
tinged the fretted roofs and massy pillars with a thousand va-
rious shades of light and colours. Universal silence prevailed
around, only interrupted by the occasional closing of doors in
the adjoining abbey. I hely
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 op-
pose his wishes; and a thousand changing visions floated be-
fore his fancy, sad 'tis true, but not unpleasing Sleep insen-
sibly 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 Capu-
chins; but it was no longer dark and solitary. Multitudes of
silver lamps shed splendour from the vaulted roofs ; accom-
panied 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 mo-
desty.
Half hoping, half fearing, Lorenzo gazed upon the scene
before him. Sudden the door leading to the abbey unclosed;
and he saw, attended by a long train of monks, the preacher
2*


20
THE MONK.
advance to whom he had just listened with so much admira-
tion. 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 con-
cealment. 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 be-
tween 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 be-
took themselves to flight, shrieking fearfully; the lamps were
extinguished, the altar sunk down, and in its place appeared
an abyss vomiting forth clouds of flame. Uttering a loud
and terrible cry, the monster plunged into the gulf, and in
his fall attempted to drag Antonia with him. He strove in
vain.--Animated by supernatural powers, she disengaged
herself from his embrace; but her white robe was left in his
possession. Instantly a wing of brilliant splendour spread it-
self from either of Antonia's arms. She darted upwards, and
while ascending, cried to Lorenzo, “ Friend ! we shall meet
above !"


THE MONK.
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 sunk upon the ground.
When he awoke, he found himself extended upon the pave-
ment 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 hiin 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 at-
tention 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 care-
fully 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 ca-
thedral; and it was this very circumstance which made Lo-
renzo 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 cau-
tion.—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.


22
THE MONK.
“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 cu-
riosity. 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 vio-
lence, that both were nearly overturned by the concussion.
Lorenzo put his hand to his sword.
- How now, Signor?” said he; " what mean you by this
rudeness ?”
“Ha! is it you, Medina P” replied the new comer, whom
Lorenzo by his voice now recognized for Don Christoval.
6 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 ask-
ing 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


THE MONK.
23
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 mo-
ments. 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!
Observe, and be convinced.”
“ Good!” said Lorenzo to himself; “I may possibly dis-
cover to whom the vows are addressed of this mysterious
stranger."
Scarcely had Don Christoval ceased to speak, when the
Domina of St. Clare appeared, followed by a long procession
of nuns. Each upon entering the church took off her veil.
The prioress crossed her hands upon her bosom, and made
a profound reverence as she passed the statue of St. Francis,
the patron of this cathedral. The nuns followed her example,
and several moved onwards without having satisfied Lorenzo's
curiosity. He almost began to despair of seeing the mystery
cleared up, when, in paying her respects to St. Francis, one
of the nuns happened to drop her rosary. As she stooped to
pick it up, the light flashed full in her face. At the same mo-
ment 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.”


24
THE MONK.
“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 P” 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, Signor 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 pre-
paring 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


THE MONK.
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 Conde 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 asto-
nish 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 no-
blemen 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 phenix of politeness ; so gallant! so well bred! so sen-
sible, and so pathetic! Well! if ever man can prevail upon
me to break my vow never to marry, it will be that Don


26
THE MONK.
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 Conde ? And when I pre-
sented 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 Chris-
toval had kissed the same hand; but as she drew conclusions
from it somewhat different from her aunt's, she was wise
enough to hold her tongue. As this is the only instance
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 op-
posite 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 per-
ceived 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 ar-
ranged, yet not entirely without taste. Her head was covered
with a kind of turban ornamented with wine-leaves and wild
flowers. She seemed much sunburnt, and her complexion
was of a deep olive; her eyes looked fiery and strange; and
in her hand she bore a long black rod, with which she at in-
tervals 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 mo-
ment's pause she sung the following ballad :-


THE MONK.
THE GIPSY'S SONG.
COME, cross my hand! My art surpasses
All thât 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.
Lol here are charms of mighty power!
This makes secure an husband's truth;
And this, composed at midnight hour,
Will force to love the coldest youth.
If any maid too much has granted,
Her loss this philtre will repair.
This blooms a cheek where red is wanted,
And this will make a brown girl fair;
Then silent hear, while I discover
What I in fortune's mirror view;
And each, when many a year is over,
Shall own the Gipsy's sayings true.
“Dear aunt !” said Antonia, when the stranger had finished,
“is she not mad ?”.
“ Mad? Not she, child; she is only wicked. She is a
gipsy, a sort of vagabond, whose sole occupation is to run
about the country telling lies, and pilfering from those who
come by their money honestly. Out upon such vermin! If
I were king of Spain, every one of them should be burnt
alive, who was found in my dominions after the next three
weeks.”


28
THE MONK.
These words were pronounced so audibly, that they reached
the gipsy'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 GIPSY.
“ Lady, gentle lady I 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 false-
hoods."
“No matter; let me at least hear what she has to say. Do,
my dear aunt, oblige me, I beseech you!"
“Well, well! Antonia, since you are so bent upon the
thing- Here, good woman, you shall see the hands of
both of us.—There is money for you, and now let me hear
my fortune.”
As she said this, she drew off her glove, and presented her
hand. The gipsy looked at it for a moment, and then made
this reply:-
THE GIPSY.
“ 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,


THE MONK.
29
And on the poor those sums bestow,
Which now are spent on useless show.
Think on your Maker, not a suitor;
Think on your past faults, not on future:
And think Time's scythe will quickly mow
The few red hairs which deck your brow.
The audience rang with laughter during the gipsy's ad-
dress; and—“ fifty-one,-squinting eyes,—red hair,-paint
and patches,”_-etc. 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 contemp-
tuous smile : at length she made her a short answer, and
then turned to Antonia.
THE GIPSY.
“ 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 gipsy, who, having gazed
upon it for some time with a mingled expression of pity
and astonishment, pronounced her oracle in the following
words:-
THE GIPSY.
“ 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. ;


30
THE MONK.
When you one more virtuous see
Than belongs to man to be,
One whose self no crimes assailing,
Pities not his neighbour's failing,
Call the gipsy's words to mind :
Though he seem so good and kind,
Fair exteriors oft will hide
Hearts that swell with lust and pride.
Lovely maid, with tears I leave you.
Let not my prediction grieve you:
Rather, with snbmission bending,
Calmly wait distress impending,
And expect eternal bliss
In a better world than this.
! Having said this, the gipsy again whirled herself round
thrice, and then hastened out of the street with frantic ges-
ture. The crowd followed her; and Elvira's door being now
unembarrassed, Leonella entered the house, out of humour
with the gipsy, with her niece, and with the people; in short,
with every body but herself and her charming cavalier. The
gipsy's predictions had also considerably affected Antonia;
but the impression soon wore off, and in a few hours she
had forgotten the adventure, as totally as had it never taken
place.


THE MONK.
CHAPTER II.
Fòrse sé tu gustassi una sòl volta
La millésima a parte delle gioje,
Ché gusta un còr amato riamando,
Diresti ripentita sospirando,
Perduto è tutto il tempo
Ché in amar non si spende.
Tasso.
Hadst thou but tasted once the thousandth part
Of joys, which bless the loved and loving heart,
Your words repentant and your sighs would prove,
Lost is the time which is not passed in love.
The monks having attended their Abbot to the door of
his cell, he dismissed them with an air of conscious superi-
ority, 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 enthu-
siasm 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 ex-
ultation; 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 or-
deal 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


32
THE MONK.
vain. I see no one but myself possessed of such resolution.
Religion cannot boast Ambrosio's equal! How powerful an
effect did my discourse produce upon its auditors! How they
crowded round me! How they loaded me with benedictions,
and pronounced me the sole uncorrupted pillar of the church!
What then now is left for me to do? Nothing, but to watch
as carefully over the conduct of my brethren, as I have hi-
therto 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 tempt-
ation, and expose myself to the seduction of luxury and de-
sire. Should I meet in that world which I am constrained
to enter, some lovely female-lovely as you—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 ado-
ration. 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


THE MONK.
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 pas-
sions dead in my bosom? have I not freed myself from the
frailiy of mankind ? Fear not, Ambrosio! Take confidence
in the strength of your virtue. Enter boldly into the world,
to whose failings you are superior; reflect that you are now
exempted from humanity's defects, and 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 recognized, 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 on the subject he pre-
served a profound silence. A stranger, whose rich habit and
magnificent equipage declared him to be of distinguished rank,


34
THE MONK.
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 repaid the youth's attentions by instructing
him in various sciences; the novice received his lessons with
docility; Ambrosio was every day more charmed with the vi-
vacity of his genius, the simplicity of his manners, and the
rectitude of his heart; in short, he loved him with all the af-
fection 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 qur thrice-blessed St. Francis deign to listen to my in-
tercession! What have you in your basket, Rosario ?”


THE MONK.
35
Affew 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 aban-
doned the world and its delights for ever: nothing now re-
mains, 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
3*


36
THE MONK.
conduct justified this fear? Know me better, Rosario, and
think me worthy of your confidence. What are your suf-
ferings ? 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 igno-
miny."
“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 re-
ceived 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 con-
fessional 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 exhor-
tations, 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 ele-
gance of her figure, carelessly permitted a letter to fall from
her bosom. She was retiring, unconscious of her loss. Am-
brosio 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 in-
yoluntarily read the first words. He started back with sur-


TAE MONK.
37
prise.—The nun had turned round on hearing his voice: she
perceived her letter in his hand, and, uttering a shriek of ter-
ror, 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 to-
gether 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 mean while, the Abbot read the following lines:-
“ All is ready for your escape, my dearest Agnes! At
twelve to-morrow night I shall expect to find you at the gar-
den-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 con-
ceal my frailty! The remainder of my life shall be employed


38
THE MONK.
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 accom-
plice. 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, Ray-
mond 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 pu-
nishment which the laws of St. Clare assign to unfortunates
like myself, is most severe and cruel.-Worthy, worthy fa-
ther! 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 un-
susceptible! Pity me, most reverend! Restore my letter,
nor doom me to inevitable destruction!"
“Your boldness confounds me.--Shall I conceal your
crime-1, whom you have deceived by your feigned con-


THE MONK.
39
fession? No, daughter, no. I will render you a more essen-
tial service. I will rescue you from perdition, in spite of
yourself. Penance and mortification shall expiate your of-
fence, 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 Do-
mina ? 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 ma-
lignity.
“ 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


40
THE MONK.
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 van-
quished? Coward! you have fled from it, not opposed se-
duction. But the day of trial will arrive. Oh! then, when
you yield to impetuous passions; when you feel that man is
weak, and born to err; when, shuddering, you look back
upon your crimes, and solicit, with terror, the mercy of your
God, oh! in that fearful moment think upon me, think upon
your cruelty! think upon Agnes, and despair of pardon.”
As she uttered these last words, her strength was ex-
hausted, and she sunk 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 emo-
tion. A secret pang at his heart made him feel that he had
treated this unfortunate with too great severity. He there-
fore 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 !"


THE MONK.
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 ex-
cited 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
honey-suckles. 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 con-
structed of roots of trees, and the interstices filled up with
moss and ivy. Seats of turf were placed on either side, and
a natural cascade fell from the rock above. Buried in him-
self, the Monk approached the spot. The universal calm had
communicated itself to his bosom, and a voluptuous tranquil-
lity spread languor through his soul.
He reached the hermitage, and was entering to repose
himself, when he stopped on perceiving it to be already oc-
cupied.—Extended upon one of the banks lay a man in a me-
lancholy posture. His head was supported upon his arm,
and he seemed lost in meditation. The Monk drew nearer,
and recognised Rosario : he watched him in silence, and en-
tered not the hermitage. After some minutes the youth raised
his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the opposite wall.


42
THE MONK.
“ 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 beloved! O God! what a blessing
would misanthropy be to me!”
" That is a singular thought, Rosario,” said the Abbot, en-
tering 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 him-
self 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 moon-beams
permitted my reading them; and oh! how I envy the feelings
of the writer!"
As he said this, he pointed to a marble tablet fixed against
the opposite wall: on it were engraved the following lines :-
INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE.
Whoe'er thou art these lines now reading,
Think not, though from the world receding,
I joy my lonely days to lead in
This desert drear,
That with remorse a conscience bleeding
Hath led me here.
No thought of guilt my bosom sours:
Free-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.


THE MONK.
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 deceived, who trusted.
In love or friend;
And bither 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.
This rock my shield when storms are blowing ;
The limpid streamlet yonder flowing
Supplying drink; the earth bestowing
My simple food;
But few enjoy the calm I know in
This desert rude.
Content and comfort bless me more in
This grot, than e'er I felt before in
A palace : and with thoughts still soaring
To God on high,
Each night and morn with voice imploring
This wish I sigh :
“Let me, O 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 Hermrit'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!


44
THE MONK.
“Were it possible," said the Friar, “ for man to be so to-
tally wrapped up in himself as to live in absolute seclusion
from human nature, and could yet feel the contented tran-
quillity 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 orna-
ment 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 com-
panion ? 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 weari-
ness. He looks round, and finds himself alone in the uni-
verse: 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,


THE MONK.
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 mo-
rtastic institution. It secludes man from the temptations of
vice; it procures that leisure necessary for the proper ser-
vice of the Supreme; it spares him the mortification of wit-
nessing 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 happi-
ness of your situation? Reflect upon it for a moment. This
abbey is become your asylum : your regularity, your gentle-
ness, 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 so-
ciety, 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-


46
THE MONK.
“ 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. Am-
brosio 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 de-
meanour 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 re-
clined 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 P”.
“ 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


THE MONK.
47
wisdom solid, wonderful, and glorious, might have warmed
the bosom of the most insensible. My sister saw him, and
dared to love, though she never dared to hope.”
“ If her love was so well bestowed, what forbade her to
hope the obtaining of its object ?”
“ Father, before he knew her, Julian had already plighted
his vows to a bride most fair, most heavenly! Yet still my
sister loved, and for the husband's sake, she doted upon the
wife. One morning she found means to escape from our fa-
ther'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 in-
gratiate 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 Ju-
lian's person, she ambitioned but a share of his heart. In an
unguarded moment she confessed her affection. What was
the return? Doting upon his wife, and believing that a look
of pity bestowed upon another was a theft from what he owed
to her, he drove Matilda from his presence: he forbade her
ever again appearing before him. His severity broke her
heart: she returned to her father's, and in a few months after
was carried to her grave.”
“Unhappy girl! Surely her fate was too severe, and Ju-
lian 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"


48
THE MONK.
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 inabi-
lity to repress them. I--! I have no friend! The whole
wide world cannot furnish an heart that is willing to partici-
pate 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 se-
verity ? 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 as-
sume 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 de-
clare 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 re-assure 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


THE MONK.
49
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 him-
self 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 if they had been touched by the rod of
some magician. "At length, recovering from his confusion,
the Monk quitted the grotto, and sped with precipitation
towards the abbey. His action did not escape the suppliant.
She sprang from the ground; she hastened to follow him,
overtook him, threw herself in his passage, and embraced his
knees. Ambrosio strove in vain to disengage himself from
her grasp.
“Do not fly me!" she cried. “Leave me not abandoned to
the impulse of despair! Listen, while I excuse my impru-
dence; 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, em-
harrassed, and irresolute, he found himself incapable of pro-
nouncing a syllable, and remained in silence gazing upon


50
THE MONK.
Matilda. This gave her an opportunity to continue her ex-
planation, 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 pol-
luted by my presence, and that you may grant me your com-
passion without trespassing against your vows.”—She seated
herself. Ambrosio, scarcely conscious of what he did, fol-
lowed 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 pos-
sessions. 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 under-
standing 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 preju-
dice: 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


THE MONK.
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, neglect-
ful of his charge! Then was it that I first beheld you: you
supplied the Superior's place, absent from illness. You can-
not 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 medi-
tations. 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 dis-
appointed. 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 as-
sisted me to support the vexations of life. The morning dis-
pelled these pleasing visions : I awoke, and found myself
separated from you by barriers which appeared insurmount-
able. Time seemed only to increase the strength of my pas-
sion: 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 re-
ceived into the monastery, and succeeded in gaining your
esteem.
“Now, then, I should have felt completely happy, had not
my quiet been disturbed by the fear of detection. The plea-
4*


52
THE MONK.
sure 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 sur-
vive 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! Am-
brosio, 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 sen-
timents combated in Ambrosio's bosom. Surprise at the sin-
gularity 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 be-
came less bewildered; he was immediately sensible of the ex-
treme 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 per-
mission 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—-"


THE MONK.
53
.."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 com-
passion, your friendship, and esteem. Surely my request is
not unreasonable.”
“But, reflect, lady! reflect, only for a moment, on the im-
propriety of my harbouring a woman in the abbey, and that
too a woman who confesses that she loves me. It must not
be. The risk of your being discovered is too great; and I
will not expose myself to so dangerous a temptation.”
“ Temptation, say you? Forget that I am a woman, and
it no longer exists : consider me only as a friend; as an un-
fortunate, whose happiness, whose life, depends upon your
protection. Fear not, lest I should ever call to your remem-
brance, that love, the most impetuous, the most unbounded,
has induced me to disguise my sex; or that instigated by
desires, offensive to your vows and my own honour, I should
endeavour to seduce you from the path of rectitude. No,
Ambrosio! learn to know me better: I love you for your vir-
tues: 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 froin 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 pre-
sence; remember your promise, and authorise my stay."
“Impossible, Matilda! your interest commands me to re-
fuse 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


THE MONK.
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 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 to-morrow.”
“ To-morrow, Ambrosio ? to-morrow? Oh! surely you
cannot mean it! you cannot resolve on driving me to despair!
you cannot have the cruelty——"
“You have heard my decision, and it must be obeyed: the
laws of our order forbid your stay: it would be perjury to
conceal that a woman is within these walls, and my vows will
oblige me to declare your story to the community. You must
from hence. I pity you, but can do no more.”
He pronounced these words in a faint and trembling voice;
then, rising from his seat, he would have hastened towards
the monastery. Uttering a loud shriek, Matilda followed,
and detained him.
“ Stay yet one moment, Ambrosio! hear me yet speak one
word!”
“I dare not listen. Release me: you know my resolu-
tion."
“But one word! but one last word, and I have done!”
“ Leave me. Your entreaties are in vain: you must from
hence to-morrow.”
“Go then, barbarian! But this resource is still left me.”


THE MONK.
55
As she said this, she suddenly drew a poniard. She rent
open her garment, and placed the weapon's point against her
bosom.
“ Father, I will never quit these walls alive."
* Hold! hold, Matilda! what would you do?"
"You are determined, so am I: the moment that you leave
me, I plunge this steel in my heart.” .
“Holy St. Francis ! Matilda, have you your senses ? Do
you know the consequences of your action ? that suicide is
the greatest of crimes ? that you destroy your soul ? that you
lose your claim to salvation ? that you prepare for yourself
everlasting torments.”
“I care not, I care not,” she replied passionately: “either
your hand guides me to paradise, or my own dooms me to
perdition. Speak to me, Ambrosio! Tell me that you will
conceal my story; that I shall remain your friend and your
companion, or this poniard drinks my blood.”
As she uttered these last words, she lifted her arm, and
made a motion as if to stab herself. The Friar's eyes fot-
lowed 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 moon-beams 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, faltering voice; “I can
resist no longer! Stay then, enchantress! stay for my de-
struction !
He said; and, rushing from the place, he hastened towards
the monastery: he regained his couch, distracted, irresolute
and confused.
He found it impossible for some time to arrange his ideas.


56
THE MONK.
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, neces-
sitated his obliging her to quit the abbey: but, on the other
hand, such powerful reasons authorised 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 risk,” said he to himself, “by authorising
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 licentious-
ness, would she so long have concealed it in her own bosom?
Would she not have employed some means to procure its gra-
tification? She has done quite the contrary; she strove to
keep me in ignorance of her sex; and nothing but the fear
of detection, and my instances, would have compelled her to
reveal the secret: she has observed the duties of religion not
less strictly than myself: she has made no attempt to rouse
my slumbering passions, nor has she ever conversed with me
till this night on the subject of love. Had she been desirous
to gain my affections, not my esteem, she would not have
concealed from me her charms so carefully: at this very mo-
ment I have never seen her face; yet certainly that face must
be lovely, and her person beautiful, to judge by her-hy
what I have seen.”


THE MONK.
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 en-
treated 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 af-
fectionately, 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 be-
fore 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 re-
membrance of his dreams: scarcely was he less ashamed
when he reflected on his reasons of the former night, which
induced him to authorise Matilda's stay. The cloud was now
dissipated which had obscured his judgment; he shuddered
when he beheld his arguments blazoned in their proper co-
lours, 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? Be-
come sensible of his danger, awakened from his dream of


58
THE MONK.
confidence, he resolved to insist on her departing without
delay: he began to feel that he was not proof against tempta-
tion; and that, however Matilda might restrain herself within
the bounds of modesty, he was unable to contend with those
passions from which he safely 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 ab-
sent, 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 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 sum-
moning 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 friend-
ship, 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 both
of surprise and of sorrow.
“ Be calm, my friend! my Rosario! still let me call you by
that name so dear to me: our separation is unavoidable;
I blush to own how sensibly it affects me. But yet it must be


THE MONK.
59
so; I feel myself incapable of treating you with indifference;
and that very conviction obliges me to insist upon your de-
parture. 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 compel me to quit the monastery? Can you
have the heart to drive me from you? and have I not re-
ceived your solemn oath to the contrary ?”
“ I will not compel you to quit the monastery; you have
received my solemn oath to the contrary: but yet, when I
throw myself upon your generosity; when I declare to you
the embarrassments in which your presence involves me,
will you not release me from that oath ? Reflect upon the
danger of a discovery; upon the opprobrium in which such an
event would plunge me: reflect, that my honour and reputa-
tion 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 reputa-
tion 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 be-
coming the victim of remorse! Your heart has already felt
the anguish of hopeless love: oh! then, if you really value


60
THE MONK.
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 submit-
ting to a decree which cuts me to the very heart. Take back
your promise., I will quit the monastery this very day. I
have a relation, abbess of a convent in Estramadura : to her
will I bend my steps, and shut myself from the world for ever.
Yet tell me, father, shall I bear your good wishes with me to
my solitude? Will you sometimes abstract your attention
from heavenly objects to bestow a thought upon me?"...
.« Ah! Matilda, I fear that I shall think on you 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 ap-
proached the bush, and stopped to pluck one of the roses.
Suddenly he uttered a piercing cry, started back hastily, and


THE MONK.
67
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:
6 concealed among the roses—a serpent—"
Here the pain of his wound became so exquisite that na-
ture was unable to bear it: his senses abandoned him, and he
sunk 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 Am-
brosio, 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 imme-
diately 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 his 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 bed-side.
. “ 'Tis as I feared,” said he; “ there is no hope.”
“ No hope!” exclaimed the monks with one voice; " say
you, no hope ?"


62
THE MONK.
" From the sudden effects, I suspected that the Abbot was
stung by a cientipedoro* : the venom which you see upon my
lancet confirms my idea. He cannot live three days.”
“ And can no possible remedy be found ?” enquired Ro-
sario.
.“ 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 in-
dulging 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 per-
ceptible; and had not the orifice still been visible, Pablos might
have doubted that there had ever been a wound.
He communicated this intelligence to his brethren: their
delight was only equalled by their surprise. From the 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
* The cientipedoro is supposed to be a native of Caba, and to have been
brought into Spain from that Island in the vessel of Columbus.


THE MONK.
63
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 in-
terrupted Ambrosio's slumbers.
The monks immediately crowded round his bed, and ex-
pressed their satisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was
perfectly in his senses, and free from every complaint, except
feeling weak and languid. Pablos gave him a strengthening
medicine, and advised his keeping his bed for the two suc-
ceeding 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 ex-
ample, and the Abbot and Rosario were left without ob-
servers.
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 babit.
“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 unex-
ampled through my whole life.”
• What was that pleasure ?".


61
THE MONK.
" What I must conceal from all, but most from you."
“ But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Ma-
tilda- "
“ 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 fa-
mous 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 chanted the following ballad, to an air at once simple
and melodious:-
DURANDARTE AND BELERMA.
Sad and fearful is the story
of the Roncevalles fight;
On those fatal plains of glory
Perished many a gallant knight.
There fell Durandarte: never
Verse a nobler chieftain named:


THE MONK.
He, before his lips for ever
Clos'd in silence, thus exclaimed:
“Oh! Belerma! Oh! my dear one,
For my pain and pleasure born,
Seven long years I serv'd 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 clos’d for aye in death :
“ Twice a week, too, how sincerely
I ador'd her, cousin, say;
Twice a week, for one who dearly
Lov'd her, cousin, bid her pray.
“ Montesinos, now the hour
Mark'd by fate is near at hand:
Lo! my arm has lost its power!
Lo! I drop my trusty brand.
“ Eyes, which forth beheld me going,
Homewards ne'er shall see me hie :
Cousin, stop those tears o'erflowing,
Let me on thy bosom die.
“ Thy kind hand my eyelids closing,
Yet one favour I implore :
Pray thou for my soul's reposing,
When my heart shall throb no more.
er


THE MONK.
“ So shall Jesus, still attending,
Gracious to a Christian's vow,
Pleas'd accept my ghost ascending,
And a seat in heaven allow.”
Thus spoke gallant Durandarte ;
Soon his brave heart broke in twain.
Greatly joy'd 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
Cat 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


THE MONK.
67
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. Am-
brosio dared to look on her but once: that glance sufficed to
convince him, how dangerous was the presence of this se-
ducing 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 passed since I was dear to him; he esteemed me,
and my heart was satisfied: now, oh! now, how cruelly is
my situation changed! He looks on me with suspicion: he
bids me leave him, leave him for ever. Oh! you, my saint,


68
THE MONK.
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 hiin,” 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 enjoy-
ing. 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 dis-
tance 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 oppo-
site to the bed.
“ Happy, happy image!” Thus did she address the beau-
tiful 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


THE MONK.
69
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 Ma-
dona! Would he but say, that were he not already affianced
to the church, he would not have despised Matilda! Oh! let
me nourish that fond idea. Perhaps he may yet acknow-
ledge that he feels for me more than pity, and that affection
like mine might well have deserved a return. Perhaps he
may own thus much when I lie on my death-bed.—He then
need not fear to infringe his vows, and the confession of his
regard will soften the pangs of dying. Would I were sure
of this! Oh! how earnestly should I sigh for the moment of
dissolution!”
Of this discourse the Abhot lost not a syllable: and the
tone in which she pronounced these last words pierced to his
heart. Involuntarily he raised himself froin his pillow.
“ Matilda !” he said in a troubled voice; “ Oh! my Ma-
tilda!"
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 ex-
quisite proportion of features, the same profusion of golden
hair, the same rosy lips, heavenly eyes, and majesty of coun-
tenance adorned Matilda! Uttering an exclamation of sur-
prise, Ambrosio sunk back upon his pillow, and doubted whe-
ther the object before him was mortal or divine.
Matilda seemed penetrated with confusion. She remained
motionless in her place, and supported herself upon her in-
strument. 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 un-


70
THE MONK.
steady 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 eye-witness of the transports which its beauty ex-
cited 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 re-
solved to drive me from you? The few hours of life which


THE MONK.
yet remain for me, may I not pass them in your presence ?
Oh! speak, Ambrosio, and tell me that I may stay."
This speech gave the Abbot an opportunity of recollecting
himself. He was conscious, that, in the present disposition of
his mind, avoiding her society was his only refuge from the
power of this enchanting woman.
“ Your declaration has so much astonished me,” said he,
“ that I am at present incapable of answering you. Do not
insist upon a reply, Matilda ; leave me to myself, I have need
to be alone.”
“ I obey you; but, before I go, promise not to insist upon
my quitting the abbey immediately.”
“ Matilda, reflect upon your situation ; reflect upon the
consequences of your stay: our separation is indispensable,
and we must part.”
But not to-day, father! Oh! in pity, not to-day !"
“ You press me too hard; but I cannot resist that tone
of supplication. Since you insist upon it, 1 yield to your
prayer; I consent to your remaining here a sufficient time
to prepare, in some measure, the brethren for your de-
parture; 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 so-
lemnity: “ 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,


THE MONK.
seemed likely to obtain the victory: the success was assured,
when that presumption wbich formed the ground-work of
his character came to Matilda's assistance. The Monk re-
flected, 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 ex-
cite his passions ; whereas Ambrosio’s danger proceeded from
a mere mortal woman, fearful and modest, whose apprehen-
sions of his yielding were not less violent than his own.
“ Yes,” said he, “ the unfortunate shall stay ; I have no-
thing 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 en-
quire after the Abbot's health. She seemed fearful of con-
versing 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


THE MONK.
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 oppor-
tunity 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 com-
pliments on his recovery, when the hell 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 Ma-
tilda 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 desi-
rous 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 in-
telligence, though on the preceding day she had been so
anxious to obtain the permission.


74
THE MONK.
“ 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 ge-
nerosity; 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 curé my
malady. Farewell, father! Remember me in your prayers
to-morrow, while I shall remember you in heaven.”
She entered her cell, and closed the door.
The Abbot dispatched to her the physician without losing
a moment, and waited his report impatiently; but Father Pa-
blos 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 tranquil-
lity of the hour, inspired the Friar's mind with sadness; he
thought upon Matilda's beauty and affection; upon the plea-
sures 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 doubt-
less she would succeed in extinguishing her passion, and seek
for happiness in the arms of one more fortunate. He shud-
dered at the void which her absence would leave in his
bosom; he looked with disgust on the monotony of a con-


THE MONK.
vent, 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 en-
quire 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-4"
“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 sus-
pected! 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 en-
deavouring 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 con-
fidence 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.


76
TIIE MONK.
" 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 sacri-
ficed 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.”
66 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 mo-
ment 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 sunk 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 io preserve Ambrosio! And is there indeed no remedy,
Matilda ? And is there indeed no hope ? Speak to me,
oh! speak to me! Tell me that you have still the means of
life!”
“Be comforted, my only friend! Yes, I have still the
means of life in my power; but it is a means which I dare
not employ; it is dangerous; it is dreadful! Life would be
purchased at too dear a rate-unless it were permitted me to
live for you.”


THE MONK.
“ 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!"
5 Ambrosio, it must not be. When I thought thus, I de-
ceived 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 de-
votion 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 com-
passion: 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!"


THE MONK.
“ 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 fasci-
nated, he withdrew it not, and felt her heart throb under it.
“Feel this heart, father! It is yet the seat of honour,
truth, and chastity: if it beats to-morrow, it must fall a prey
to the blackest crimes. Oh, let me then die to-day! Let
me die while I yet deserve the tears of the virtuous. Thus
will I expire!”—(She reclined her head upon his shoulder;
her golden hair poured itself over his chest.)—“Folded in
your arms, I shall sink to sleep; your hand shall close my
eyes for ever, and your lips receive my dying breath. And
will you not sometimes think of me? Will you not some-
times 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 pry-
ing 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 tempta-
tion? 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 sunk upon
her bosom.


THE MONK.
79
CHAPTER III.
- These are the villains
Whom all the travellers do fear so much.
- Some of them are gentlemen,
Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth
Thrust from the company of awful men.
Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.
The Marquis and Lorenzo proceeded to the hotel in silence.
The former employed himself in calling every circumstance
to his mind, which related might give Lorenzo's the most
favourable idea of his connexion with Agnes. The latter,
justly alarmed for the honour of his family, felt embarrassed
by the presence of the Marquis : the adventure which he had
just witnessed forbade his treating him as a friend; and An-
tonia'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.”


80
THE MONK.
“ First give me your word, that you will listen with pa-
tience 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 your-
self. 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
inore 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 fra-
ternal, 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
- 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 re-
ceived 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 no-
viciate. I requested to see my sister.—Conceive my sur-
prise, 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 MONK.
81
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 re-
turned 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
of Alphonso d'Alvarada ?”
“Pardon me: my aunt wrote me word, that an adven-
turer 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 disap-
peared on the day that the elopement was to have taken


THE MONK.
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 lat-
ter.”
“In this I easily recognise Donna Rodolpha's perfidious
character. Every word of this account is stamped with
marks of her malice, of her falsehood, of her talents for mis-
representing 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 ex-
pressions 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


THE MONK.
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 Conde de las Cisternas, you would
have been received with open arms, and your youthful va-
nity 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 ap-
probation of those to whom you are presented: they who
would have courted the friendship of the Conde de las Cis-
ternas 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 con-
siderable 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 cot-
tages ; and, by observing how the vassals of foreigners are
treated, learn to diminish the burdens and augment the com-
forts, of your own.—According to my ideas of those advan-
tages which a youth destined to the possession of power and
wealth may reap from travel, he should not consider as the
least essential, the opportunity of mixing with the classes below
him, and becoming an eye-witness of the sufferings of the peo-
ple.”
6 *


THE MONK.
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 uninterest-
ing.
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 do-
mestic 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 se-
ducing, 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, fol-
lowed by two female attendants, step into the carriage, which
drove off immediately.
I enquired of the host who the lady was that had just de-
parted.
- A German baroness, monsieur, of great rank and for-
tune; she has been upon a visit to the Duchess of Longue-
ville, as her servants informed me. She is going to Stras-
bourg, where she will find her husband, and then both return
to their castle in Germany."
I resumed my journey, intending to reach Strasbourg that


THE MONK.
85
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 pass-
ing 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 com-
municated 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, consi-
derably advanced in years, I believed I ran no risk of losing
my baggage.
Luckily, as I then thought, an opportunity presented it-
self of passing the night more agreeably than I expected.
On mentioning my design of proceeding by myself to Stras-
bourg, 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 objec-
tions ?” said I, impatiently interrupting him : “ I have no
other resource; I run still greater risk of perishing with cold
by passing the night in the forest.”
“ Passing the night in the forest ?” he replied. « Oh, by
St. Denis! we are not in 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 mean time, I


86
THE MONK.
can take the saddle-horse, ride to Strasbourg, and be back
with proper people to amend 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 ac-
cept-"
“ Absurd! Come, come; say no more, but conduct us with-
out delay to the woodman's cottage.”
He obeyed, and we moved onwards : the horses con-
trived, with some difficulty, to drag the shattered vehicle after
us. My servant was become almost speechless, and I began
to feel the effects of the cold myself before we reached the
wished-for cottage. It was a small but neat building: as we
drew near it, I rejoiced at observing through the window the
blaze of a comfortable fire. Our conductor knocked at the
door: it was some time before any one answered; the
people within seemed in doubt whether we should be ad-
mitted.
“ Come, come, friend Baptiste !" cried the driver with im-
patience, “ 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 un-
closed, and a man presented himself to us with a lamp in his
Land: he gave the guide an hearty reception, and then ad-
dressed himself to me:
- Wall in. monsieur; walk in, and welcome. Excuse me
Da adming you at first; but there are so many ragnes
art this pase that, saving your presence, I suspecied you
T
ayng. be ushered me into the room where I had
ed the fire. I was immediately placed in an easy chair,


THE MONK.
87
which stood close to the hearth. A female, whom I supposed
to be the wife of my host, rose from her seat upon my en-
trance, 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 pro-
ceeded to execute his commands with every mark of unwilling-
ness. Her countenance had displeased me on the first mo-
ment of my examining it: yet, upon the whole, her features
were handsome unquestionably ; but her skin was sallow, and
her person thin and meagre : a louring gloom overspread her
countenance, and it bore such visible marks of rancour and
ill-will, as could not escape being noticed by the most in-
attentive observer : her every look and action expressed dis-
content 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 con-
ceived 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


THE MONK.
seemed to offer an ample apology for the leanness of his
wife's. From the wrinkles on his brow, I judged him to be
turned of sixty; but he bore his years well, and seemed still
hearty and strong. The wife could not be more than thirty,
but in spirits and vivacity she was infinitely older than the
husband.
However, in spite of her unwillingness, Marguerite began
to prepare the supper, while the woodman conversed gaily on
different subjects. The postillion, who had been furnished
with a bottle of spirits, was now ready to set out for Stras-
bourg, and enquired whether I had any further commands.
“ For Strasbourg ?” interrupted Baptiste; “ you are not
going thither to-night ?”.
“ I beg your pardon : if I do not fetch workmen to mend
the chaise, how is monsieur to proceed to-morrow ?”
“ That is true, as you say, I had forgotten the chaise.
Well, but, Claude, you may at least eat your supper here ?
That can make you lose very little time; and monsieur looks
too kind-hearted to send you out with an empty stomach on
such a bitter cold night as this is.”
To this I readily assented, telling the postillion that my
reaching 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 stepped in shoe of leather; the
eldest is three-and-twenty, the second a year younger; their
equals for sense, courage, and activity, are not to be found
within fifty miles of 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.
cy:


THE MONK.
89
“ 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 ques-
tion : 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 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 woodman how much I
pitied him for being chained for life to a partner of such ill-
humour.
“Ah, Lord! monsieur, everyone has his share of grievances,
and Marguerite has fallen to mine. Besides, after all, she is
only cross, and not malicious: the worst is, that 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.


90
THE MONK.
“My sons, I hope!” exclaimed the woodman, and ran to
open the door.
The halloo was repeated. We now distinguished the
trampling of horses; and, soon after, a carriage, attended by
several cavaliers, stopped at the cottage door. One of the
horsemen enquired how far they were still from Strasbourg.
As he addressed himself to me, I answered 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 fa-
tigued 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 atten-
dants asked the woodman 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 al-
ready in possession of the only spare apartments in his house.
On hearing this, the gallantry of my nation would not permit
me to retain those accommodations of which a female was
in want. I instantly signified to the woodman, that I trans-
ferred 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 recog-
nised her for the same person whom I had seen at the inn at
Luneville. I took an opportunity of asking one of her atten-
dants what was her name?
“ The Baroness Lindenberg," was the answer.
I.could not but remark how different a reception our host
had given these new-comers and myself. His reluctance to
admit them was visibly expressed on his countenance; and
he prevailed on himself with difficulty to tell the lady that she
was welcome. I conducted her into the house, and placed her
in the arm-chair which I had just quitted. She thanked me
very graciously, and made a thousand apologies for putting


THE MONK.
,
91
me to an inconvenience. Suddenly the woodman's coun-
tenance cleared up.
"At last I have arranged it!” said he, interrupting her ex-
cuses. “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 a few yards distant 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, “Ro-
bert, 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 pre-
sented 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 de-
signed 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


THE MONK.
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 here-
about ?”
“ 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 step-sons 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 con-
jectured them to be enquiring our business in the cottage.
In the meanwhile, the Baroness expressed her apprehen-
sions that her husband would be suffering much anxiety upon
her account. She had intended to send on one of her ser-
vants to inform the Baron of her delay; but the account which
the young men gave of the forest rendered this plan imprac-
ticable. Claude relieved her from her embarrassment: he in-
formed 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 ap-
prehension 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


THE MONK.
93
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 let-
ters, and left the cottage.
The lady declared herself much fatigued by the journey:
besides having come from some distance, the drivers had con-
trived 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 wait-
ing-women was immediately summoned; she appeared with a
light, and the Baroness followed her up stairs. The cloth was
spreading in the chamber were 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 were 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 stair-
case.
“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


THE MONK.
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, 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, Mar-
guerite'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 corre-
spondence which frequently exists between banditti and pos-
tillions; 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 some one 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 recognise 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


THE MONK.
95
lower part of the house, if a bat flitted past him, or the wind
rattled amidst the leafless boughs, he started, and looked
round with anxiety.
“Plague take him !” said he at length with extreme im-
patience; “ 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 di-
rectly under it. I suppose that, during my momentary ab-
sence, the woodman had been blaming Claude for tardiness,
since when I returned to the window the latter was endea-
vouring 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 equal with us in our
prizes, your own interest will make you use all possible dili-
gence. '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 staid away. The


THE MONK.
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 be-
taken themselves to their different posts before you reach the
cavern, all will he lost. The lady's attendants are too nu-
merous for us to overpower them.--Unless our associates
arrive in time, we must needs let these travellers set out to-
morrow without damage or hurt.”
“ 'Tis plaguy unlucky that my comrades who drove the
coach should be those unacquainted with our confederacy!
But never fear, friend Baptiste : an hour will bring me to the
cavern; it is now but ten o'clock, and by twelve you may
expect the arrival of the band. By the by, 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 by their domestics to produce
them in the morning.”
“ And suppose either of the travellers should discover your
design ?”
“ Then we must poniard those in our power, and take our
chance about mastering the rest. However, to avoid running
such a risk, hasten to the cavern ; the banditti never leave
it before eleven, and if you use diligence you may reach it
in time to stop them.”
6 Tell Robert that I have taken his horse; my own has


THE MONK.
97
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 per-
ceive my absence, and suspect me to have overheard the
message with 'which Claude was dispatched, I hastily re-
lighted my candle and quitted the chamber.' On descending,
I found the table spread for six persons. The Baroness sat
by the fireside; Marguerite was employed in dressing a salad,
and her step-sons were 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 ar-
rived. 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 ap-
pear to me! What before seemed gloom and sullenness, I
now found to be disgust at her associates, and compassion for
my danger. I looked up to her as to my only resource : yet
knowing her to be watched by her husband with a suspicious
eye, I could place but little reliance on the exertions of her
goodwill.
In spite of all my endeavours to conceal it, my agitation
was but too visibly expressed upon my countenance. I was
pale, and both my words and actions were disordered and em-


98
THE MONK.
barrassed. 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. Whe-
ther 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 imme-
diately : God knows, that I little thought at that moment of
ever seeing it! She replied to me with great ease and polite-
ness, 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 ma-
licious 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 infor-
mation of our host's designs. I was soon convinced how im-
practicable 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


THE MONK.
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 pre-
sented 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 ob-
tained. 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 Baro-
ness, at the upper end; and the place next to him was left
for his wife. She soon entered the room, and placed before
us a plain but comfortable peasant's repast. Our host thought
it necessary to apologize for the poorness of the supper : “ he
had not been apprised of our coming; he could only offer us
such fare as had been intended for his own family.”
“But,” added he, “should any accident detain my noble
guests longer than they at present intend, I hope to give them
a better treatment.”
The villain! I well knew the accident to which he alluded.
I shuddered at the treatment which he taught us to expect.
My companion in danger seemed entirely to have got rid of
her chagrin at being delayed. She laughed, and conversed
with the family, with 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


100
THE MONK.
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 em-
barrassed 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 hus-
band. I suspected that this liquor was not presented to us
without design, and I watched Marguerite's movements with
inquietude. She was employed in rinsing some small horn
goblets. As she placed them before Baptiste, she saw that
my eye was fixed upon her; and at the moment when she
thought herself unobserved by the banditti, she motioned to
me with her head not to taste the liquor. She then resumed
her place..
In the meanwhile, our host had drawn the cork, and, filling
two of the goblets, offered them to the lady and myself. She
at first made some objections, but the instances of Baptiste
were so urgent, that she was obliged to comply. Fearing to
excite suspicion, I hesitated not to take the goblet presented
to me. By its smell and colour, I guessed it to be champaign;
but some grains of powder floating upon the top convinced me
that it was not unadulterated. However, I dared not to ex-
press 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 op-
portunity, unperceived, of emptying the liquor into the vase.
The banditti seemed alarmed at my action. Jacques half


THE MONK.
101
rose from his chair, put his hand into his bosom, and I disco-
vered the haft of a dagger. I returned to my seat with tran-
quillity, and affected not to have observed their confusion.
“You have not suited my taste, honest friend,” said I, ad-
dressing myself to Baptiste: “I never can drink champaign
without its producing a violent illness. I swallowed a few
mouthfuls ere I was aware of its quality, and fear that I shall
suffer for my imprudence.”
Baptiste and Jacques exchanged looks of distrust.
“ Perhaps,” said Robert, “the smell may be disagreeable
to you ?"
He quitted his chair, and removed the goblet. I observed,
that he examined whether it was nearly empty.
“He must have 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 asto-
nishment, and I saw that the banditti were frequently whisper-
ing 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


102
THE MONK.
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 to-night, 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, Ro-
bert, Claude, and myself—why the strangers were but double
the number, and I warrant you we might have mastered them.
However, Claude is gone; 'tis too late to think of it now.
We must wait patiently for the arrival of the gang; and if
the travellers escape us to-night, we must take care to way-
lay them to-morrow.”
“True! true!” said Baptiste; “ Marguerite, have you given
the sleeping-draught to the waiting-women ?”
She replied in the affirmative.
“All then is safe. Come, come, boys; whatever falls out,


THE MONK.
103
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 com-
passionate Marguerite exclaim, in the accents of despair,
“ Almighty God! they are lost.”
Luckily the woodman and his sons were too much occu-
pied 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
in a distant part of the room, and unlock it. At this moment
I felt myself shaken gently.
“ Now! now!" whispered Marguerite. ·


104
THE MONK.
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 cup-
board, 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 re-
solved not to lose the opportunity. I sprang from my seat,
darted suddenly upon Baptiste, and, clasping my hands round
his throat, pressed 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, wrest-
ing 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 Ba-
roness 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. Mar-
guerite 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 impre-
cations of the murderers. What I felt at that moment lan-
guage is unable to describe.


THE MONK.
· 105
Jacques heard the trampling of our horses, as we rushed
by the barn. He flew to the door with a burning torch in
his hand, and easily recognized the fugitives.
“ Betrayed ! betrayed !” he shouted to his companions.
Instantly they left their bloody work, and hastened to re-
gain their horses. We heard no more. I buried my spurs
in the sides of my courser, and Marguerite goaded on hers
with the poniard which had already rendered us such good
service. We flew like lightning, and gained the open plains.
Already was Strasbourg steeple in sight, when we heard the
robbers pursuing us. Marguerite looked back, and distin-
guished our followers descending a small hill at no great dis-
tance. 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 stran-
gers 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.


1J6
THE WOSK
God be thanked sand be," she has escaped unhurt."
I interrupted his joy by pointing out the brigands, who con-
tinued to approach. No sooner bad I mentioned them, than
the greatest part of the company, which appeared to be ebiefly
composed of soldiers, bastened forward to meet them. The
villains staid not to receive their attack Perceiving their dan-
gar, 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, pro-
posed 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 com-
mitted 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 com-
pelled to abandon to the cruelty of the banditti, I found it im-
possible for me to repose till I had some news of him. I re-
ceived but too soon the intelligence that my trusty servant had
perished. The soldiers who had pursued the brigands, re-
turned 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


THE MONK.
107
had thrown themselves at the feet of their pursuers, had sur-
rendered themselves without striking a blow, had discovered
their secret retreat, made known their signals by which the
rest of the gang might be seized, and, in short, had betrayed
every mark of cowardice and baseness. By this means the
whole of the band, consisting of nearly 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 over-
take us, had neglected to visit the cottage ; in consequence,
the soldiers found the two waiting-women unhurt, and buried
in the same deathlike 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 conjec-
tures respecting the birth of this little unfortunate,' when Mar-
guerite 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 be-
sought 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


108
THE MONK.'
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 over-
powered my virtue, I sunk 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 dis-
grace 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 beg-
gary than an union with the banditti who infested the neigh-
bouring 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 in-
separable 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 .em-
braces 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 sus-
pect 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.


THE MONK.
109
“One fatal night he was brought back to the cavern, co-
vered 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 Stras-
bourg, to throw myself, with my two children, at my father's
feet, and implore his forgiveness, though I little hoped to ob-
tain it. What was my consternation when informed, that no
one entrusted with the secret of their retreat was ever per-
mitted to quit the troop of the banditti ; that I must give up
all hopes of ever rejoining society, and consent instantly to ac-
cept 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 infa-
mous Baptiste. A robber, who had once been a monk, pro-
nounced over us a burlesque rather than a religious cere-
mony: 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 stifte 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 pa-
tience; 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 opportuni-
ties of witnessing the barbarity of his nature, to doubt his
fulfilling his oath to the very letter. Sad experience had con-
vinced me of the horrors of my situation. My first lover had


110
THE MONK.
carefully concealed them from me; Baptiste rather rejoiced
in opening my eyes to the cruelties of his profession, and
strove to familiarize me with blood and slaughter.
“My nature was licentious and warm, but not cruel: my
conduct had been imprudent, but my heart was not unprin-
cipled. Judge, then, what I must have felt at being a con-
tinual 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 con-
stitution; the few charms bestowed on me hy nature withered
away, and the dejection of my countenance denoted the suf-
ferings 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 un-
ceasingly to plant those principles which might enable him to
avoid the crimes of his parents. He listened to me with do-
cility, 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 ab-
sence 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


THE MONK.
INI
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 up stairs 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 es-
cape 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 un-
observed 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 magistrates: his story passed from mouth
to mouth, and at length came to the knowledge of my lord
the Baron. Anxious for the safety of his lady, who he knew
would be upon the road that evening, it struck him that she
might have fallen into the power of the robbers. He accom-
panied Theodore, who guided the soldiers towards the cot-
tage, 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 incapa-
citate me from making resistance; it was a precaution which
he always took, since, as the travellers had no hopes of es-
caping, despair would have incited them to sell their lives
dearly.
The Baron then desired: Marguerite to inform him what


112
THE MONK.
were her present plans. I joined him in declaring my readi-
ness 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 un-
timely grave by my desertion. My father is still living. He
is not a hard man. Perhaps, gentlemen, in spite of my in-
gratitude 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 ser-
vices 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 appre-
hensions respecting the fate of her children. I engaged my-
self 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 obli-
gations to her. She then left the room to put her little boy to
bed, whom fatigue and sleep had completely overpowered.
The Baroness on recovering, and being informed from what
dangers I had rescued her, set no bounds to the expressions of
her gratitude. She was joined so warmly by her husband in
pressing me to accompany them to their castle in Bavaria, that
I found it impossible to resist their entreaties. During a
week, which we passed at Strasbourg, the interests of Mar-
guerite 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 four-
teen years. He was surrounded by distant relations, who
waited with impatience for his decease, in order to get posses-
sion of his money. When therefore Marguerite appeared


THE MONK.
113
again so unexpectedly, he considered her as a gift from Hea-
ven. 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 designs. But
no persuasions could induce Theodore to give up the plan
which I had at first marked out for him. He had attached
himself to me most sincerely during my stay at 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 con-
vince me that I should find him of infinite use to me upon the
road. I was unwilling to charge myself with a lad scarcely
turned of thirteen, who I knew could only be a burthen to
me; however, I could not resist the entreaties of this affec-
tionate 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 com-
pany 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 Al-
phonso d'Alvarada got introduced into the castle of Linden-
berg.” Judge from this specimen, how much faith should be
given to your aunt's assertions.


114
THE MONK.
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 passed a great part of his life without stirring beyond the
precincts of his own domains, and consequently his manners
were far from being the most polished; but he was hearty,
good-humoured, and friendly. His attention to me was all
that I could wish, and I had every reason to be satisfied with
his behaviour. His ruling passion was hunting, which he
had brought himself to consider as a serious occupation ;
and, when talking over some remarkable chace, he treated
the subject with as much gravity as if it had been a battle on
which the fate of two kingdoms was depending. I happened
to be a tolerable sportsman : soon after my arrival at Lin-
denberg, 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 indif-
ferent. 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


THE MONK.
115
love her were the same. I found in Agnes all that was re-
quisite to secure my affection. She was then scareely sixteen;
her person light and elegant, was already formed; she pos-
sessed several talents in perfection, particularly those of music
and drawing : her character was gay, open, and good-hu-
moured; and the graceful simplicity of her dress and manners
formed an advantageous contrast to the art and studied co-
quetry of the Parisian dames, whom I had just quitted.-From
the moment that I beheld her, I felt the most lively interest
in her fate. I made many inquiries respecting her of the
Baroness. . .
“She is my niece," replied that lady; " you are still
ignorant, Don Alphonso, that I am your 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 pro-
fession 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 unfor-
tunately 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 de-
8*


116
THE MONK.
dicated 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, per-
formed their charge with exactitude: they made her a per-
fect mistress of many accomplishments, 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 dis-
gust 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 per-


THE MONK.
117
mitted 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 fa-
vour: 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 ascen-
dancy 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, re-
members that you rescued her from the hands of murderers,
and wears with you alone the appearance of kindness and be-
nignity. 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 ap-
probation : and when they find the impossibility of executing
their design, I trust that my parents will excuse my disa
obedience, and expiate by some other sacrifice my mother's
fatal vow.”


118
THE MONK.
From the first moment that I beheld Agnes, I had en-
deavoured to conciliate the favour of her relations. Autho-
rised 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 ob-
scured 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 Lin-
denberg.
I laboured incessantly to please her: unluckily I succeeded
but too well. She seemed gratified by my attention, and
treated me with a distinction accorded by her to no one else.
One of my daily occupations was reading to her for several
hours: those hours I should much rather have passed with
Agnés; 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 weari-
some 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.


THE MONK.
119
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 con-
gratulating 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 ?”.
6 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 p"
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 Al-
phonso, 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 growing 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 pos-
session."


120
THE MONK.
RE
She paused for an answer.-Judge, Lorenzo, what must
have been my confusion at this discovery. I at once saw
all the magnitude of this obstacle, which I had myself raised
to my happiness. The Baroness had placed those atten-
tions 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: 1 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 con-
straint. 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 en-
courage you in an error, which, however it may flatter my-
self, 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 senti-
ment is that which I wished to excite in your bosom: to en-
tertain 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 an-
other. 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 vio-
lated the laws of hospitality. Recollect yourself, noble lady!
recollect what is owed by you to honour, by me to the Baron,


THE MONK.
121
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 vio-
lence.
“ 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 P” said she in a menacing
tone; “ I will know her name, and when I know it ——!
She is some one in my power; you entreated my favour, my
protection! Let me but find her, let me but know who dares
to rob me of your heart, and she shall suffer every torment
which jealousy and disappointment can inflict. Who is she?
Answer me this moment. Hope not to conceal her from my
vengeance! Spies shall be set over you; every step, every
look shall be watched; your eyes will discover my rival; I
shall know her; and when she is found, tremble, Alphonso,
for her and for yourself.”
As she uttered these last words, her fury mounted to such
a pitch as to stop her powers of respiration. She panted,
groaned, and at length fainted away. As she was falling I
caught her in my arms, and placed her upon a sofa. Then


122
THE MONK.
hastening to the door, I summoned her women to her assis-
tance; I committed her to their care, and seized the oppor-
tunity 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 disap-
pointment at understanding the true purport of her discourse.
I knew not what course to take : the superstition of the pa-
rents of Agnes, aided by her aunt's unfortunate passion, seemed
to oppose such obstacles to our union as were almost insur-
mountable.
As I passed by a low parlour, the windows of which looked
into the garden, through the door which stood half open I ob-
served Agnes seated at a table. She was occupied in draw-
ing, and several unfinished sketches were scattered round her.
I entered, still undetermined whether I should acquaint her
with the declaration of the Baroness.
“Oh! is it only you ?" said she, raising her head : “ You
are no stranger, and I shall continue my occupation without
ceremony. Take a chair, and seat yourself by me.”
I obeyed, and placed myself near the table. Unconscious
what I was doing, and totally occupied by the scene which
had just passed, I took up some of the drawings, and cast my
eyes over them. One of the subjects struck me from its sin-
gularity. It represented the great hall of the Castle of Lin-
denberg. A door conducting to a narrow staircase stood half
open. In the foreground appeared a group of figures, placed
in the most grotesque attitudes; terror was expressed upon
every countenance. Here was one upon his knees, with his
eyes cast up to heaven, and praying most devoutly; there, an-
other 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


THE MONK.
123
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 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 in-
vention of your own ?”
She cast her eyes upon the drawing.
“Oh! no,” she replied; “'tis the invention of much wiser
heads than mine. But can you possibly have lived at Lin-
denberg 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 Lin-
denberg. Having a good taste, she took up her abode in the
best room of the house; and once established there, she be-


124
THE MONK.
gan 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 at-
tention.
“ 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 chanted De pro-
fundis 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 him-
self up for a night in the haunted chamber. There it seems
that he had a hard battle with the ghost before she would
promise to be quiet. She was obstinate, but he was more


THE MONK.
125
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. How-
ever, 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 per-
suaded, 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 ghostship.”..
“ 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 ab-
sence.—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 incredu-
lity 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 se-
veral 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


126
THE MONK.
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 : un-
locking 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 band which I held, and flew from the
room by a door which opened to the garden. Amazed at
this abrupt departure, I rose hastily from my knees. I beheld
with confusion the Baroness standing near me, glowing with
jealousy, and almost choked with rage. On recovering from
her swoon, she had tortured her imagination to discover her
concealed rival. No one appeared to deserve her suspicions
more than Agnes. She immediately hastened to find her niece,
tax her with encouraging my addresses, and assure herself
whether her conjectures were well-grounded. Unfortunately


THE MONK.
127
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 oc-
cupied 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 in-
superable barrier to your union. You may spare your sup-
plications.” She continued, perceiving me on the point of
speaking : “My resolution is fixed and immovable. Your
mistress shall remain a close prisoner in her chamber, till she
exchanges this castle for the cloister. Solitude will perhaps
recall her to a sense of her duty: but to prevent your op-
posing 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 ex-
cellent a design. Farewell, Segnor; remember, that to-
morrow morning we meet for the last time.”
Having said this, she darted upon me a look of pride, con-
tempt, and malice, and quitted the apartment. I also re-
tired 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 im-


128
THE MONK.
possible for me to make a longer stay at the castle of Lin-
denberg. Accordingly, I the next day announced my imme-
diate 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 inter-
fere 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 be-
come 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, intelli-
gence, and good temper of Theodore had already made him
dear to me; but he now prepared to lay an obligation on me,


THE MONK.
129
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 neigh-
bouring village. My aunt will believe you have quitted Lin-
denberg, 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 se-
cret, 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


130°
THE MONK.
his interference. I equally admired his judgment, his pene-
tration, 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 conti-
nued to study it, and with so much success, that he spoke it
with the same facility as his native language. He passed the
greatest part of his time in reading.--He had acquired much
information for his age; and united the advantages of a lively
countenance and prepossessing figure to an excellent under-
standing 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 Mu-
nich : there I left my chaise under the care of Lucas, my
French servant, and then returned on horseback to a small
village about four miles distant from the castle of Lindenberg.
Upon arriving there, a story was related to the host at whose
inn I alighted, which prevented his wondering at my making
so long a stay in his house. The old man, fortunately, was
credulous and incurious : he believed all I said, and sought
to know no more than what I thought proper to tell him.
Nobody was with me but Theodore: both were disguised;
and as we kept ourselves close, we were not suspected to be
other than what we seemed. In this manner the fortnight
passed away. During that time I had the pleasing conviction
that Agnes was once more at liberty. She passed through
the village with Dame Cunegonda : she seemed in good health
and spirits, and talked to her companion without any appear-
ance of constraint.
Who are those ladies ?” said I to my host, as the carriage
in Lindenberg's niece, with her governess,” he re-
he goes regularly every Friday to the convent of St.


THE MONK.
131
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 dis-
guise, I had been recognized. I bowed profoundly. She re-
turned the compliment by a slight inclination of the head, as
if made to one inferior, and looked another way till the car-
riage 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 farther 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 re-
9*


132
THE MONK.
solution! 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 con-
sented to supply me with a religious habit. Provide a car-
riage, 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, dressed in the same apparel as the ghost
is supposed to wear.—Whoever meets me will be too much
terrified to oppose my escape: I shall easily reach the door,
and throw myself under your protection. Thus far success is
certain : but, oh! Alphonso, should you deceive me! Should
you despise my imprudence, and reward it with ingratitude,
the world will not hold a being more wretched than myself!
I feel all the dangers to which I shall be exposed. I feel
that I am giving you a 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 re-
posed 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 un-
done 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 car-
riage at the village; in which case, I might have carried off
Agnes that very night. Such an attempt was now impracti-
cable; neither carriage nor horses were to be procured
nearer than Munich, which was distant from Lindenberg two


THE MONK.
133
good days' journey. I was therefore obliged to chime in with
her plan, which, in truth, seemed well arranged.—Her dis-
guise 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 pas-
sion, while Agnes uttered a loud shriek.“ By St. Barbara,
young lady, you have an excellent invention! You must per-
sonate the bleeding nun, truly? What impiety! What in-
credulity! 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 to a better opportunity. Farewell, Segnor.--
Donna Agnes, let me have the honour of conducting your
ghostship back to your apartment.”


131
THE MONK.
She approached the sofa on which her trembling pupil
was seated, took her by the hand, and prepared to lead her
from the pavilion.
I detained her, and strove by entreaties, soothing, pro-
mises, and flattery, to win her to my party; but, finding all
that I could say of no avail, I abandoned the vain attempt.
“ Your obstinacy must be its own punishment,” said I;
“ but one resource remains to save Agnes and myself, and I
shall not hesitate to employ it."
Terrified at this menace, she again endeavoured to quit the
pavilion ; but I seized her by the wrist, and detained her
forcibly. At the same moment Theodore, who had followed
her into the room, closed the door, and prevented her escape.
I took the veil of Agnes ; I threw it round the duenna's head,
who uttered such piercing shrieks that, in spite of our distance
from the castle, I dreaded their being heard. At length I
succeeded in gagging her so completely, that she could not
produce a single sound. Theodore and myself, with some
culty, 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 ; bade her remember that, on the fifth of May, I
should be 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
fied back to her apartment in disorder and confusion.
In the mean while Theodore assisted me in carrying off my
antiquated prize. She was hoisted over the wall, placed be-
fore 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 MONK.
133
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 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 per-
suade her submitting with patience to her temporary confine-
ment. 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. Cune-
gonda'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


136
THE MONK.
the other; and amused himself by telling her, that her elope-
ment must have occasioned much surprise at the Baron's.
This was in fact the case. No one, except Agnes, could ima-
gine 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 passed away five days,
during which I had prepared every thing necessary for my
enterprise.—On quitting Agnes, I had made it my first busi-
ness 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 Rosen-
wald. He obeyed my instructions punctually; the equipage
arrived at the time appointed. As the period of her lady's
elopement drew nearer, Cunegonda’s rage increased. I verily
believe, that spite and passion would have killed her, had I
not luckily discovered her prepossession in favour of cherry-
brandy. With this favourite liquor she was plentifully sup-
plied, and, Theodore always remaining to guard her, the gag
was occasionally removed. The liquor seemed to have a won-
derful 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 for-
gotten! 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 con-
siderable depth, and, among the peasants, was known by the
name of Lindenberg Hole. The night was calm and beau-
tiful : the moonbeams fell upon the ancient towers of the
castle, and shed upon their summits a silver light. All was still


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137
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 de-
serted eastern turret. I heard her melancholy shriek, and
looked upwards : she sat upon the ridge of a window, which
I recognized to be that of the 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 to-day in his way to the castle : he is reported to
be the father of Donna Agnes. Doubtless the Baron has given
an entertainment to celebrate his arrival.” .
The castle bell announced the hour of midnight. This
was the usual signal for the family to retire to bed. Soon
after I perceived lights in the castle, moving backwards and
forwards in different directions. I conjectured the company
to be 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 gra-
dually disappeared, and at length the whole building was
wrapt in darkness.
While I sat upon a broken ridge of the hill, the stillness of


138
THE MONK.
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, over-
grown with ivy; and folding gates, expanding in honour of
the visionary inhabitant, made me sensible of a sad and re-
verential 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 ven-
tured 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 observa-
tion 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 passed by them. I traced the
light through the hall; it reached the portal, and at length I
beheld Agnes pass through the folding gates. She was ha-
bited exactly as she had described the spectre. A chaplet
of beads hung upon her arm; her head was enveloped in a


THE MONK.
139
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
dropped her lamp and dagger, and sunk upon my bosom in
silence. I raised her in my arms, and conveyed her to the car-
riage. 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 pro-
gress; but as soon as we were in no danger of pursuit, I called
to the drivers, and bade them moderate their pace. They
strove in vain to obey me; the horses refused to answer the
rein, and continued to rush on with astonishing swiftness.
The postillions redoubled their efforts to stop them; but, by
kicking and plunging, the beasts soon released themselves
from this restraint. Uttering a loud shriek, the drivers were
hurled upon the ground. Iminediately thick clouds obscured
the sky: the winds howled around us, the lightning flashed,


140
THE MONK.
and the thunder roared tremendously. Never did I behold so
frightful a tempest! Terrified by the jar of contending ele-
ments, the horses seemed every moment to increase their
speed. Nothing could interrupt their career; they dragged
the carriage through hedges and ditches, dashed down the
most dangerous precipices, and seemed to vie in swiftness
with the rapidity of the winds.
All this while my companion lay motionless in my arms.
Truly alarmed by the magnitude of the danger, I was in vain
attempting to recall her to her senses, when a loud crash an-
nounced that a stop was put to our progress in the most dis-
agreeable 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 completely,
that my senses forsook me, and I lay without animation on the
ground.
I probably remained for some time in this situation, since,
when I opened my eyes it was broad daylight. Several pea-
sants 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 as-
sured 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 ob-
serving the fragments of my carriage, and by hearing the
groans of a horse, the only one of the four which remained
alive: the other three lay dead by my side. Nobody was
near me when they came up, and much time had been lost
before they succeeded in recovering me. Uneasy beyond ex-
pression 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


THE MONK.
141
fall, my arm being dislocated hung useless by my side; and
my left was shattered so terribly, that I never expected to re-
cover 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 passed
through the village of Rosenwald. They shook their heads
wistfully, and made signs to each other that I must certainly
be delirious. I was conveyed to a decent inn, and immedi-
ately 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 pre-
pared for a tedious and painful cure. I answered him, that
if he hoped to keep me quiet, he must first endeavour to pro-
cure 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 tone of voice; 6 'tis the natural conse-
quence 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 unfor-
tunate 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 bystanders in the idea of my
being delirious. No signs of the lady having appeared, they
believed her to be a creature fabricated by my overheated
brain, and paid no attention to my entreaties. However, the


142
THE MONK.
hostess assured me, that a fresh enquiry should be made; but
I found afterwards that her promise was only given to quiet
ine. 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 jour-
ney, my purse was amply furnished: besides, my equipage
proved me to be of distinction, and in consequence all pos-
sible attention was paid to 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 be-
lieved 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 re-
pose.
That repose I wooed in vain. The agitation of my bosom
chased away sleep.—Restless in my mind, in spite of the fa-
tigue 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 stair-
case. By an involuntary movement I started up in my bed,
and drew back the curtain. A single rush-light, which glim-
mered upon the hearth, shed a faint gleam through the apart-
ment, which was hung with tapestry. The door was thrown
open with violence. A figure entered, and drew near my
bed with soleinn measured steps. With trembling appre-
hension 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


THE MONK.
143
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 eye-balls, fixed stedfastly upon me, were
lustreless and hollow.
I gazed upon the spectre with horror too great to be de-
scribed. 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 iinpotence, and I remained in
the same attitude inanimate as a statue.
The visionary nun looked upon me for some minutes in si-
lence: there was something petrifying in her regard. At
length in a low sepulchral voice, she pronounced the follow-
ing 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 pro-
perty of the rattlesnake’s, for I strove in vain to look off her.
My eyes were fascinated, and I had not the power of with-
drawing them from the spectre's.
In this attitude she remained for a whole long hour with-
out 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 cover-
ture, and, pressing her cold lips to mine, again repeated,
“ Raymond! Raymond! Thou art mine!
Raymond ! Raymond! I am thine !" &c. -
-


144
THE MONK.
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
sunk lifeless upon my pillow.
The adjoining room was only separated from mine by a
thin partition ; it was occupied by the host and his wife: the
former was roused by my groan, and immediately hastened
to my chamber; the hostess soon followed him. With some
difficulty they succeeded in restoring me to my senses, and
immediately sent for the physician, who arrived in all dili-
gence. 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 aug-
mented 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 cir-
cumstance so strange should gain credit. I was very uneasy
about Agnes. I knew not what she would think at not find-
ing me at the rendezvous, and dreaded her entertaining sus-
picions of my fidelity. However, I depended upon Theo-
dore'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 noc-


THE MONK.
145
turnal 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 cham-
ber.
The fatigue of my body, from not having slept on the for-
mer 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 sunk into a profound and
tranquil slumber, and had already slept for some hours, when
the neighbouring clock roused me by striking “one." Its
sound brought with it to my memory all the horrors of the
night before. The same cold shivering seized me. I started
up in my bed, and perceived the servant fast asleep in an arm-
chair near me. I called him by his name: he made no an-
swer. 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 secondinfancy:
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."
Every night was this repeated. Far from growing accus-
tomed to the ghost, every succeeding visit inspired me with
greater horror. Her idea pursued me continually, and I be-
came the prey of habitual melancholy. The constant agita-
tion of my mind naturally retarded the re-establishment of my
health. Several months elapsed before I was able to quit
10


146
THE MONK.
my bed; and when, at length, I was moved to a sofa, I was
so faint, spiritless, and emaciated, that I could not cross the
room without assistance. The looks of my attendants suffi-
ciently denoted the little hope which they entertained of my
recovery. The profound sadness which oppressed me with-
out remission, made the physician consider me to be an hypo-
chondriac. 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 surprised that during this time I made no en-
quiries 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 ad-
venture, which I shall now relate to you, were partly com-
municated to me by Theodore, and partly by Agnes herself.
On the fatal night when her elopement was to have taken
place, accident had not permitted her to quit her chamber at
the appointed time. At length she ventured into the haunted
room, descended the staircase leading into the hall, found the
gates open as she expected, and left the castle unobserved.
What was her surprise at not finding me ready to receive her!
She examined the cavern, ranged through every alley of the
neighbouring wood, and passed two full hours in this fruitless
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 al-
ready 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


THE MONK.
147
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 sunk 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 con-
finement, 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 ex-
istence 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 the subject, when the page ap-
peared 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 ter-
rified Conrad was no other than Don Gaston's daughter.
The first surprise which this discovery occasioned being
over, the Baroness resolved to make it of use in persuading
her niece to take the veil. Fearing lest so advantageous an
establishment for his daughter should induce Don Gaston to re-
nounce 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 know-
ledge 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
10*


18
THE MONK.
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 oc-
casioned by a false report, and that it by no means suited my
circumstances to marry a woman without fortune or expecta-
tions.
To this account my sudden disappearing gave but too great
an air of probability. Theodore, who could have contra-
dicted 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 re-
ceive the veil. She passed another month at the castle of
Lindenberg, during which my non-appearance confirmed her
in her resolution, and then accompanied Don Gaston into
Spain. Theodore was now set at liberty. He hastened to
Munich, where I had promised to let him hear from me ; but
finding from Lucas that I never arrived there, he pursued his
search with indefatigable perseverance, and at length suc-
ceeded in joining 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 so-
ciety of this amiable boy, whom I had always considered
rather as a companion than a servant, was now my only com-
fort. His conversation was gay, yet sensible, and his obser-
vations shrewd and entertaining. He had picked up much
more knowledge than is usual at his age; but what rendered


THE MONK.
149
him most agreeable to me, was his having a delightful voice,
and no mean skill in music. He had also acquired some
taste in poetry, and even ventured sometimes to write verses
himself. He frequently 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 sofa, plunged in reflec-
tions 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 be-
lieve 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 nor baggage ; but his purse seemed
well furnished, and he did much good in the town. Some
supposed him to be an Arabian astrologer, others to be a tra-
velling 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 ”.


150
THE MONK.
“True, I had almost forgotten the speech : indeed, for that,
matter, it would not have been a great loss if I had for-
gotten 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 sofa. (The words
which Theodore had repeated, seemed to imply the stranger's
knowledge of my secret). “Fly to him, my boy! Entreat him
to grant me one moment's conversation.”
Theodore was surprised at the vivacity of my manner :
however, he asked no questions, but hastened to obey me.
I waited his return impatiently. But a short space of time
had elapsed, when he again appeared, and ushered the ex-
pected 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 some-
thing in his look, which, the moment that I saw him, inspired
me with a secret awe, not to say horror. He was dressed
plainly, his hair was unpowdered, and a band of black velvet
which encircled his forehead, spread over his features an ad-
ditional gloom. His countenance wore the marks of profound
melancholy, his step was slow, and his manner grave, stately,
and solemn,
He saluted ine 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 dark-
ness have least influence over mortals. After Saturday the
nun shall visit you no more."


THE MONK.
151
“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 every one ?"
" How can I be ignorant of your distresses, when their
cause at this moment stands beside you ?"
I started. The stranger continued.
“ Though to you only visible for one hour in the twenty-
four, neither day nor 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 know-
ledge. 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 va-
riety of his information. I remarked to him, that having tra-
velled, 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 move-
ment; 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 ban-
ditti ; 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


152
THE MONK.
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, de-
spair, 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 de-
testation. 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 Sa-
turday. 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. Theo-
dore, whom I rather treated as an adopted child than a domes-
tic, was surprised at his return to observe the amendment in
my looks.— He congratulated me on this symptom of return-
ing health, and declared himself delighted at my having re-
ceived so much benefit from my conference with the Great
Mogul. Upon enquiry I found that the stranger had already
passed eight days in Ratisbon. According to his own account,
therefore, he was only to remain there six days longer. Sa-
turday was still at the distance of three. Oh! with what im-
patience 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 pro-
duced on me became less violent than before.
The wished-for night arrived. To avoid creating suspi-
cion, I retired to bed at my usual hour. But as soon as
my attendants had left me, I dressed myself again, and pre-
pared for the stranger's reception. He entered my room
upon the turn of midnight. A small chest was in his hand,


THE MONK.
153
which he placed near the stove. He saluted me without
speaking; I returned the compliment, observing an equal
silence. He then opened the chest. The first thing which
he produced was a small wooden crucifix; he sunk 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 dip-
ping in it one end of the crucifix, he described a circle in the
middle of the room. Round about this he placed various re-
licks, skulls, thigh-bones, etc. 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 stran-
ger : “ 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 pro-
nounced, 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! Hain would I repose in
my grave, but stern commands force me to prolong my pu-
nishment!"


154
THE MONK.
“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 injunction 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! I
respect it! I obey you! Know then, that my bones lie still
unburied : they rot in the obscurity of Lindenberg-hole. None
but this youth has the right of consigning them to the grave.
-- His own lips have made over to me his body and his
soul: never will I give back his promise; never shall be
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 re-
pose 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, etc. in the
chest, and then addressed himself to me, who stood near him
speechless from astonishment.
"Don Raymond, you have heard the conditions on which


THE MONK.
155
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 in-
form 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 abhor-
rence. 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 ob-
stacles 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 scanda-
lized by her imprudent 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 her-
self an atheist: she took every opportunity to scoff at her mo-
nastic vows, and loaded with ridicule the most sacred cere-
monies 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
ļimbs. She was not of a humour to keep her inclinations


156
THE MONK.
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 re-
sided 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 posi-
tively, 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 her
pillow, and plunged it in her paramour's heart. The Baron
uttered a single dreadful groan, and expired. The murderess
quitted her bed hastily, took a lamp in one hand, in the other
the bloody dagger, and bent her course towards the cavern.
The porter dared not to refuse opening the gates to one more
dreaded in the castle than its master. Beatrice reached Lin-
denberg-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 vio-
lent 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 ex-
istence by repeated blows.


THIE MONK.
157
“ 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 per-
mitted him not to enjoy in peace his blood-stained honours.
Her bones lying still unburied in the cave, the restless soul of
Beatrice continued to inhabit the castle. Dressed in her reli-
gious habit, in memory of her vows broken to heaven, fur-
nished with the dagger which had drank the blood of her
paramour, and holding the lamp which had guided her flying
steps, every night did she stand before the bed of Otto. The
most dreadful confusion reigned through the castle. The
vaulted chambers resounded with shrieks and groans; and
the spectre, as she ranged along the antique galleries, uttered
an incoherent mixture of prayers and blasphemies. Otto
was unable to withstand the shock which he felt at this fearful
vision: its horrors increased with every succeeding appear-
ance. 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 rela-
tion. 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 per
mitted to reveal it to others, or cause her skeleton to be re-
moved 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,


158
THE MONK.
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 a prey
to yet greater respecting yourself. Deign to inform me to
whom I am under such real obligations. You mention cir-
cumstances long past, and people long dead : you were per-
sonally acquainted with the exorciser, who, by your own ac-
count, has been deceased near a century. How am I to ac-
count 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 dis-
patched 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."


THE MONK.
159
(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 cha-
racter 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, gave 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 quinquennial visits. I was sorry to perceive, that
absence had not weakened Donna Rodolpha's imprudent pas-
sion. In a private conversation which I had with her during
my short stay at the castle, she renewed her attempts to per-
suade 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 me-
naces, 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


160
THE MONK.
Lindenberg. I arrived in my native country without any ac
cident, 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 inasses said which she had required. Nothing now hin-
dered 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 mis-
tress 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 per-
suasions to remain with her were fruitless : he quitted her
a second time, and followed me to Madrid. He exerted him-
self to the utmost in forwarding my search: but our united
endeavours were unattended by success. The retreat which
concealed Agnes remained an impenetrable mystery, and I
began to abandon all hopes of recovering her.
About eight months ago I was returning to my hotel in a
melancholy humour, having passed the evening at the play-
house. The night was dark, and I was unaccompanied.
Plunged in reflections which were far from being agreeable,
I perceived not that three men had followed me from the
theatre, till, on turning into an unfrequented street, they
all attacked me at the same time with the utmost fury. I
sprang back a few paces, drew my sword, and threw my
cloak over my left arm. The obscurity of the night was in
my favour. For the most part the blows of the assassins,
being aimed at random, failed to touch me. I at length was
fortunate enough to lay one of my adversaries at my feet :


THE MONK.
161
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 bravos 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 professed himself an acquaintance of my father's, and de-
clared 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 accom-
pany him thither. His manner was so earnest, that I could
not reject his offer; and, leaning upon his arm, a few mi-
nutes 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 sofa in a no-
ble 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 oppor-
tunity 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


162
THE MONK.
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 acci-
dent has not permitted our being so intimate as I could wish,
makes me rejoice in the opportunity of making his son's ac-
quaintance. 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 surprise, Lorenzo, at discovering, in the person
of my preserver, Don Gaston de Medina. It was only to be
equalled by my secret satisfaction at the assurance that Agnes
inhabited the convent of St. Clare. This latter sensation was
not a little weakened, when, in answer to my seemingly indif-
ferent 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 ob-
stacle, and that, without difficulty, I should obtain for my mis-
tress a dispensation from her vows. Buoyed up with this
hope, I calmed the uneasiness of my bosom; and I redoubled
my endeavours to appear grateful for the attention, and
pleased with the society of Don Gaston.
A domestic now entered the room, and informed me that
the bravo whom I had wounded, discovered some signs of
life. I desired that he might be carried to my father's hotel,
and said that, as soon as he recovered his voice, I would ex-
amine 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. An-
other was, that I feared to be recognized for Alphonso d'Alva-


THE MONK.
163
rada, and precautions taken in consequence to keep me from
the sight of Agnes. To avow my passion for his daughter,
and endeavour to make him enter into my schemes, what I
knew of Don Gaston's character convinced me would be an
imprudent step; and considering it to be essential that he
should know me for no other than the Conde de las Cisternas,
I was determined not to let him hear the bravo's confession.
I insinuated to him, that as I suspected a lady to be con-
cerned 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 converse
with 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 set-
tled that I should be introduced into the convent in the cha-
racter of his assistant. The plan was put into execution with-
out 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
11*


164
THE MONK.
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 con-
versation was interrupted by the arrival of a young pensioner,
who informed the Domina that she was waited for in the
parlour. The old lady rose, kissed the cheek of Agnes, and
retired. The new-comer remained. Agnes spoke much to
her in praise of somebody whom I could not make out; but
her auditor seemed highly delighted, and interested by the
conversation. The nun showed her several letters: the other
perused them with evident pleasure, obtained permission to
copy them, and withdrew for that purpose to my great satis-
faction.
No sooner was she out of sight, than I quitted my con-
cealment. Fearing to alarm my lovely mistress, I drew near
her gently, intending to discover myself by degrees. But who
for a moment can deceive the eyes of love? She raised her
head at my approach, and recognized me, in spite of my dis-
guise, at a single glance. She rose hastily from her seat with
an exclamation of surprise, and attempted to retire; but I fol-
lowed her, detained her, and entreated to be heard. Per-
suaded of my falsehood, she refused to listen to me, and or-
dered 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, be-
yond the power of doubt, that my passion had been pure and


THE MONK.
165
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 sup-
posed 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 my-
self at the hour when I ought to have retired with my sup-
posed 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 insen-
sible 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 evi-
dently much affected by my narrative. When it was con-
cluded, 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 calcu-
lated 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 for-
merly felt for one so near being my husband, is not yet ex-
tinguished in my bosom: but we must part! Insuperable


166
THE MONK.
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 at-
tachment: 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 con-
sider 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 assis-
tance; 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 irreconcilable, my relations
will vie with each other in making you forget his loss; and
you will find in my father a substitute for the parent of whom
I shall deprive you.”
“Don Raymond,” replied Agnes, in a firm and resolute
voice, “I love my father: he has treated me harshly in this
one instance; but I have received from him, in every other,
so many proofs of love, that his affection is become necessary
to my existence. Were I to quit the convent, he never would
forgive me; nor can I think that, on his death-bed, he would
leave me his curse, without shuddering at the very idea.
Besides, I am conscious myself, that my vows are binding.
Wilfully did I contract my engagement with heaven: I cannot
break it without a crime. Then banish from your mind the


THE MONK.
167
idea of our being ever united. I am devoted to religion; and
however I may grieve at our separation, I would oppose ob-
stacles myself, to what I feel would render me guilty.”
I strove to overrule these ill-grounded scruples. We
were still disputing upon the subject, when the convent-bell
summoned the nuns to matins. Agnes was obliged to attend
them; but she left me not till I had compelled her to pro-
mise, that on the following night she would be at the same
place at the same hour. These meetings continued for se-
veral weeks uninterrupted : and 'tis now, Lorenzo, that I
must implore your indulgence. Reflect upon our situation,
our youth, our long attachment. Weigh all the circum-
stances which attended our assignations, and you will confess
the temptation to have been irresistible: you will even pardon
me when I acknowledge that, in an unguarded moment, the
honour of Agnes was sacrificed to my passion.”
[Lorenzo's eyes sparkled with fury; a deep crimson spread
itself over his face: he started from his seat, and attempted to
draw his sword. The Marquis was aware of his movement,
and caught his hand: he pressed it affectionately:
“ My friend! my brother! hear me to the conclusion! Till
then restrain your passion; and be at least convinced, that if
what I have related is criminal, the blame must fall upon me,
and not upon your sister.”
Lorenzo suffered himself to be prevailed upon by Don Ray-
mond's entreaties : he resumed his place, and listened to the
rest of the narrative with a gloomy and impatient countenance.
The Marquis thus continued :)
Scarcely was the first burst of passion past, when Agnes,
recovering herself, started from my arms with horror. She
called me infamous seducer, loaded me with the bitterest re-
proaches, and beat her bosom in all the wildness of delirium.
Ashamed of my imprudence, I with difficulty found words to
excuse myself. I endeavoured to console her: I threw my-
self at her feet, and entreated her forgiveness. She forced


168
THE MONK.
her hand from me, which I had taken and would have pressed
to my lips.
“ Touch me not!" she cried, with a violence which ter-
rified me. “Monster of perfidy and ingratitude, how have
I been deceived in you! I looked upon you as my friend, my
protector: I trusted myself in your hands with confidence,
and, relying upon your honour, thought that mine ran no
risk: and 'tis by you, whom I adored, that I am covered with
infamy! 'Tis by you that I have been seduced into breaking
my vows to God, that I am reduced to a level with the basest
of my sex! Shame upon you, villain, you shall never see
me more !"
She started from the bank on which she was seated. I
endeavoured to detain her: but she disengaged herself from
me with violence, and took refuge in the convent.
I retired, filled with confusion and inquietude. The next
morning I failed not, as usual, to appear in the garden ; but
Agnes was nowhere to be seen. At night I waited for her
at the place where we generally met. I found no better suc-
cess. Several days and nights passed away in the same
manner. At length I saw my offended mistress cross the
walk, on whose borders I was working : she was accom-
panied by the same young pensioner, on whose arm she
seemed, from weakness, obliged to support herself. She
looked upon me for a moment, but instantly turned her head
away. I waited her return; but she past on to the convent
without paying any attention to me, or the penitent looks with
which I implored her forgiveness.
As soon as the nuns were retired, the old gardener joined
with a sorrowful air.
“ Segnor,” said he, “ it grieves me to say, that I can be
no longer of use to you; the lady whom you used to meet has
just assured me, that if I admitted you again into the garden,
she would discover the whole business to the lady Prioress.
She bade me tell you also, that your presence was an insult,


THE MONK.
169
and that, if you still possess the least respect for her, you will
never attempt to see her more. Excuse me then for inform-
ing you that I can favour your disguise no longer. Should
the Prioress be acquainted with my conduct, she might not be
contented with dismissing me her service: out of revenge,
she might accuse me of having profaned the convent, and
cause me to be thrown into the prisons of the Inquisition.”
Fruitless were my attempts to conquer his resolution. He
denied me all future entrance into the garden; and Agnes
persevered in neither letting me see or hear from her. In
about a fortnight after, a violent illness which had seized my
father obliged me to set out for Andalusia. I hastened thither,
and, as I imagined, found the Marquis at the point of death.
Though, on its first appearance, his complaint was declared
mortal, he lingered out several months; during which, my
attendance upon him in his malady, and the occupation of
settling his affairs after his decease, permitted not my quitting
Andalusia. Within these four days I returned to Madrid,
and, on arriving at my hotel, I there found this letter waiting
for me.
(Here the Marquis unlocked a drawer of a cabinet; he took
out a folded paper, which he presented to his auditor. Lo-
renzo opened it, and recognized his sister's hand. The con-
tents were as follows:-
“ Into what an abyss of misery have you plunged me!
Raymond, you force me to become as criminal as yourself.
I had resolved never to see you more ; if possible, to forget
you ; if not, only to remember you with hate. A being, for
whom I already feel a mother's tenderness, solicits me to par-
don my seducer, and apply to his love for the means of pre-
servation. Raymond, your child lives in my bosom. I trem-
ble at the vengeance of the Prioress. I tremble much for
myself, yet more for the innocent creature whose existence
depends upon mine. Both of us are lost, should my situation


170
THE MONK.
be discovered. Advise me, then, what steps to take, but seek
not to see me. The gardener, who undertakes to deliver this,
is dismissed, and we have nothing to hope from that quarter.
The man engaged in his place is of incorruptible fidelity.
The best means of conveying to me your answer, is by con-
cealing it under the great statue of St. Francis, which stands
in the Capuchin cathedral ; thither I go every Thursday to
confession, and shall easily have an opportunity of securing
your letter. I hear that you are now absent from Madrid.
Need I entreat you to write the very moment of your return?
I will not think it. Ah! Raymond! mine is a cruel situation!
Deceived by my nearest relations, compelled to embrace a
profession the duties of which I am ill calculated to perform,
conscious of the sanctity of those duties, and seduced into
violating them by one whom I least suspected of perfidy, I am
now obliged, by circumstances, to choose between death and
perjury. Woman's timidity, and maternal affection, permit
me not to balance in the choice. I feel all the guilt into
which I plunge myself when I yield to the plan which you be-
fore proposed to me. My poor father's death, which has
taken place since we met, has removed one obstacle. He
sleeps in his grave, and I no longer dread his anger. But
from the anger of God, oh! Raymond! who shall shield me?
Who can protect me against my conscience, against myself ?
I dare not dwell upon these thoughts; they will drive me
mad. I have taken my resolution. Procure a dispensation
from my vows. I am ready to fly with you. Write to me,
my husband! Tell me that absence has not abated your
love! Tell me that you will rescue from death your unborn
child, and its unhappy mother. I live in all the agonies of
terror. Every eye which is fixed upon me, seems to read my
secret and my shame. And you are the cause of those
agonies! Oh! when my heart first loved you, how little
did it suspect you of making it feel such pangs!
" AGNES."


THE MONK.
171
Having perused the letter, Lorenzo restored it in silence.
The Marquis replaced it in the cabinet, and then proceeded:]
Excessive was my joy at reading this intelligence, so ear-
nestly desired, so little expected. My plan was soon arranged. -
When Don Gaston discovered to me his daughter's retreat,
I entertained no doubt of her readiness to quit the convent:
I had, therefore, entrusted the Cardinal-Duke of Lerma with
the whole affair, who immediately busied himself in obtaining
the necessary bull. Fortunately, I had afterwards neglected
to stop his proceedings. Not long since I received a letter
from him, stating that he expected daily to receive the order
from the court of Rome. Upon this I would willingly have
relied; but the Cardinal wrote me word, that I must find
some means of conveying Agnes out of the convent, unknown
to the Prioress. He doubted not but this latter would be
much incensed by losing a person of such high rank from her
society, and consider the renunciation of Agnes as an insult to
her house. He represented her as a woman of a violent and
revengeful character, capable of proceeding to the greatest
extremities. It was therefore to be feared lest, by confining
Agnes in the convent, she should frustrate my hopes, and ren-
der the Pope's mandate unavailing. Influenced by this con-
sideration, I resolved to carry off my mistress, and conceal
her till the arrival of the expected bull in the Cardinal-Duke's
estate. He approved of my design, and professed himself
ready to give a shelter to the 'fugitive. I next caused the
new gardener of St. Clare to be seized privately, and confined
in my hotel. By this means I became master of the key to
the garden door, and I had now nothing more to do than pre-
pare Agnes for the elopement. This was done by the letter
which you saw me deliver this evening. I told her in it, that
I should be ready to receive her at twelve to-morrow night ;
that I had secured the key of the garden, and that she might
depend upon a speedy release.
You have now, Lorenzo, heard the whole of my long nar-
rative. I have nothing to say in my excuse, save that my


172
THE MONK.
intentions towards your sister have been ever the most ho-
nourable: that it has always been, and still is, my design to
make her my wife; and that I trust, when you consider these
circumstances, our youth, and our attachment, you will not
only forgive our momentary lapse from virtue, but will aid me
in repairing my faults to Agnes, and securing a lawful title to
her person and her heart.
CHAPTER V.
O you! Whom Vanity's light bark conveys
On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of Praise,
With what a shifting gale your course you ply,
For ever sunk too low, or borne too high!
Who pants for glory finds but short repose ;
A breath revives him, and a breath o’erthrows.
POPE.
Here the Marquis concluded his adventures. Lorenzo, be-
fore he could determine on his reply, passed some moments
in reflection. At length he broke silence.
“Raymond,” said he, taking his hand,“ strict honour would
oblige me to wash off in your blood the stain thrown upon
my family; but the circumstances of your case forbid me to
consider you as an enemy. The temptation was too great to
be resisted. 'Tis the superstition of my relations which has
occasioned these misfortunes, and they are more the offenders
than yourself and Agnes. What has passed between you can-
not be recalled, but may yet be repaired by uniting you to my
sister. You have ever been, you still continue to be, my
dearest, and indeed my only friend. I feel for Agnes the
truest affection, and there is no one on whom I would bestow
her more willingly than on yourself. Pursue, then, your de-


THE MONK.
173
sign. I will accompany you to-morrow night, and conduct
her myself to the house of the Cardinal. My presence will be
a sanction for her conduct, and prevent her incurring blame
by her flight from the convent.”
The Marquis thanked him in terms by no means deficient
in gratitude. Lorenzo then informed him, that he had nothing
more to apprehend from Donna Rodolpha's enmity. Five
months had already elapsed since, in an access of passion, she
broke a blood-vessel, and expired in the course of a few
hours. He then proceeded to mention the interests of An-
tonia. The Marquis was much surprised at hearing of this
new relation. His father had carried his hatred of Elvira to
the grave, and had never given the least hint that he knew
what was become of his eldest son's widow. Don Raymond
assured his friend, that he was not mistaken in supposing him
ready to acknowledge his sister-in-law, and her amiable
daughter. The preparations for the elopement would not
permit his visiting them the next day; but in the meanwhile
he desired Lorenzo to assure them of his friendship, and to
supply Elvira, upon his account, with any sums which she
might want. This the youth promised to do, as soon as her
abode should be known to him. He then took leave of his
future brother, and returned to the palace de Medina.
The day was already on the point of breaking when the
Marquis retired to his chamber. Conscious that his narrative
would take up some hours, and wishing to secure himself
from interruption on returning to the hotel, he ordered his
attendants not to sit up for him; consequently, he was some-
what surprised, on entering his anteroom, to find Theodore
established there. The page sat near a table with a pen in
his hand, and was so totally occupied by his employment, that
he perceived not his lord's approach. The Marquis stopped
to observe him. Theodore wrote a few lines, then paused,
and scratched out a part of the writing; then wrote again,
smiled, and seemed highly pleased with what he had been


174
THE MONK.
about. At last he threw down his pen, sprang from his chair,
and clapped his hands together joyfully.
“ There it is !” cried he aloud : “now they are charming !"
His transports were interrupted by a laugh from the
Marquis, who suspected the nature of his employment.
“What is so charming, Theodore ?”
The youth started, and looked round: he blushed, ran to
the table, seized the paper on which he had been writing, and
concealed it in confusion.
“Oh! my lord, I knew not that you were so near me.
Can I be of use to you ? Lucas is already gone to bed.”
“I shall follow his example when I have given my opinion
of your verses.”
“ My verses, my lord ?”
“ Nay, I am sure that you have been writing some, for
nothing else could have kept you awake till this time of the
morning. Where are they, Theodore ? I shall like to see
your composition.”
Theodore's cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson : he
longed to show his poetry, but first chose to be pressed
for it.
.“ Indeed, my lord, they are not worthy your attention."
“Not these verses, which you just now declared to be so
charming ? Come, come, let me see whether our opinions
are the same. I promise that you shall find in me an in-
dulgent critic."
The boy produced his paper with seeming reluctance; but
the satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes
betrayed the vanity of his little bosom. The Marquis smiled
while he observed the emotions of an heart as yet but little
skilled in veiling its sentiment. He seated himself upon a
sofa. Theodore, while hope and fear contended on his an-
xious countenance, waited with inquietude for his master's
decision, while the Marquis read the following lines :


THE MONK.
175
LOVE AND AGE.
The night was dark; the wind blew cold;
Anacreon, grown morose and old,
Sat by his fire, and fed the cheerful fame:
Sudden the cottage-door expands,
And, lo! before bim Cupid stands,
Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name.
“What! is it thou ?” the startled sire
In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire
With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek:
“Wouldst thou again with amorous rage
Inflame my bosom ? Steeled by age,
Vain boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak.
“What seek you in this desert drear?
No smiles or sports inhabit here ;
Ne'er did these vallies witness dalliance sweet ;
Eternal winter binds the plains,
Age in my house despotic reigns;
My garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat.
“Begone, and seek the blooming bower,
Where some ripe virgin courts thy power,
Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed;
On Damon's amorous breast repose;
Wanton on Chloe's lip of rose,
Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head.
“Be such thy haunts! These regions cold
Avoid ! Nor think grown wise and old
This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear;
Remembering that my fairest years
By thee were marked with sighs and tears,
I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare.
“I have not yet forgot the pains
I felt while bound in Julia's chains :
The ardent flames with which my bosom burned;
The nights I passed deprived of rest;
The jealous pangs which racked my breast ;
My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned.


176
THE MONK. :
“ Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more!
Fly from my peaceful cottage-door!
No day, no hour, no moment shalt thou stay.
I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts,
Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts :
Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!"-
“ Does age, old man, your wits confound ?”
Replied the offended god, and frowned :
[His frown was sweet as is the virgin's smile!)
Do you to me these words address ?
To me, who do not love you less,
Though you my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile !
“If one proud fair you chanced to find,
At hundred other nymphs were kind,
Whose smiles might well for Julia's frowns atone:
But such is man! his partial hand
Unnumbered favours writes on sand,
But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.
“ Ingrate! Who led you to the wave,
An noon where Lesbia loved to lave ?
Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay?
And who, when Celia shrieked for aid,
Bade you with kisses hush the maid ?
What other was't than Love, Oh! false Anacreon, say !
“Then you could call me Gentle boy !
''My only bliss! my source of joy!
Then you could prize me dearer than your soul !
Could kiss, and dance me on your knees;
And swear, not wine itself would please,
Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl!
Must those sweet days return no more ?
Must I for aye your loss deplore,
Banished your heart, and from your favour driven ?
Ah! no ; my fears that smile denies;
That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes
Declare me ever dear, and all my faults forgiven.
“ Again beloved, esteemed, caressed,
Cupid shall in thine arms be pressed,
Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep:
My torch thine age-struck heart shall warm;
My hand pale winter's rage disarm,
And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep."


THE MONK.
A feather now of golden hue
He smiling from his pinion drew;
This to the poet's hand the boy commits;
And straight before Anacreon's eyes
The fairest dreams of fancy rise,
And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits.
His bosom glows with amorous fire;
Eager he grasps the magic lyre;
Swift o'er the tuneful chords his fingers move:
The feather plucked from Cupid's wing
Sweeps the too-long neglected string,
While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of love.
Soon as that name was heard, the woods
Shook off their snows; the melting floods
Broke their cold chains, and winter fled away.
Once more the earth was decked with flowers ;
Mild zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers;
High towered the glorious sun, and poured the blaze of day.
Attracted by the harmonious sound,
Sylvans and fauns the cot surround,
And curious crowd the minstrel to behold :
The wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove ;
Eager they run; they list, they love,
And, while they hear the strain, forget the man is old.
Cupid, to nothing constant long,
Perched on the harp attends the song,
Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes :
Now on the poet's breast reposes,
Now twines his hoary locks with roses,
Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.
Then thus Anacreon-"I no more
At other shrines my vows will pour,
Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire ;
From Phoebus or the blue-eyed maid
· Now shall my verse request no aid,
For Love alone shall be the patron of my lyre.
In lofty strain of earlier days,
I spread the king's or hero's praise,
And struck the martial chords with epic fire: .
But farewell, hero! farewell, king!
Your deeds my lips no more shall sing,
For Love alone shall be the subject of my lyre.
12
.


179
THE MONK.
The Marquis returned the paper with a smile of encou-
ragement.
“ Your little poem pleases me much," said he: “however,
you must not count my opinion for any thing. I am no
judge of verses, and for my own part never composed more
than six lines in my life: those six produced so unlucky an
effect, that I am fully resolved never to compose another.
But I wander from my subject. I was going to say that you
cannot employ your time worse than in making verses. An
author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal
whom every body is privileged to attack; for though all are
not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge
them. A bad composition carries with it its own punish-
ment—contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and
entails upon its author a thousand mortifications: he finds
himself assailed by partial and ill-humoured criticism: one
man finds fault with the plan, another with the style, a third
with the precept which it strives to inculcate; and they who
cannot succeed in finding fault with the book, employ them-
selves in stigmatizing its author. They maliciously rake out
from obscurity every little circumstance which may throw
ridicule upon his private character or conduct, and aim at
wounding the man since they cannot hurt the writer. In
short, to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose your-
self to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappoint-
ment. Whether you write well or ill, be assured that you
will not escape from blame. Indeed this circumstance con-
tains a young author's chief consolation: he remembers that
Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjust and envious critics,
and he modestly conceives himself to be exactly in their
predicament. But I am conscious that all these sage ob-
servations are thrown away upon you. Authorship is a
mania, to conquer which no reasons are sufficiently strong;
and you might as easily persuade me not to love, as I per-
suade you not to write. However, if you cannot help
being occasionally seized with a poetical paroxysm, take at


THE MONK.
179
least the precaution of communicating your verses to none
but those whose partiality for you secures their approba-
tion.”
“Then, my lord, you do not think these lines tolerable ?"
said Theodore, with an humble and dejected air.
“You mistake my meaning. As I said before, they have
pleased me much: but my regard for you makes me partial,
and others might judge them less favourably. I must still
remark, that even my prejudice in your favour does not blind
me so much as to prevent my observing several faults. For
instance, you make a terrible conſusion of metaphors; you
are too apt to make the strength of your lines consist more
in the words than sense; some of the verses seem intro-
duced only in order to rhyme with others; and most of the
best ideas are borrowed from other poets, though possibly
you are unconscious of the theft yourself. These faults may
occasionally be excused in a work of length; but a short
poem must be correct and perfect.
“ All this is true, Segnor; but you should consider that I
only write for pleasure.”
“ Your defects are the less excusable. Their incorrect-
ness may be forgiven, who work for money, who are obliged
to complete a given task in a given time, and are paid accord-
ing to the bulk, not value of their productions. But in those
whom no necessity forces to turn author, who merely write
for fame, and have full leisure to polish their compositions,
faults are unpardonable, and merit the sharpest arrows of
criticism.”
The Marquis rose from the sofa; the page looked dis-
couraged and melancholy; and this did not escape his mas-
ter's observation.
“However,” added he, smiling, “I think that these lines
do you no discredit. Your versification is tolerably easy,
and your ear seems to be just. The perusal of your little
poem upon the whole gave me much pleasure; and if it is
12*


180
THE MONK.
not asking too great a favour, I shall be highly obliged to you
for a copy."
The youth's countenance immediately cleared up. He per-
ceived not the smile, half approving, half ironical, which ac-
companied the request, and he promised the copy with great
readiness. The Marquis withdrew to his chamber, much
amused by the instantaneous effect produced upon Theodore's
vanity by the conclusion of his criticism. He threw himself
upon his couch, sleep soon stole over him, and his dreams
presented him with the most flattering pictures of happiness
with Agnes.
On reaching the hotel de Medina, Lorenzo's first care was
to enquire for letters. He found several waiting for him ;
but that which he sought was not amongst them. Leonella
had found it impossible to write that evening. However, her
impatience to secure Don Christoval's heart, on which she
flattered herself with having made no slight impression, per-
mitted her not to pass another day without informing him
where she was to be found. On her return from the Ca-
puchin-church, she had related to her sister, with exultation,
how attentive a handsome cavalier had been to her; as also
how his companion had undertaken to plead Antonia's cause
with the Marquis de las Cisternas. Elvira received this in-
telligence with sensations very different from those with which
it was communicated. She blamed her sister's imprudence
in confiding her history to an absolute stranger, and expressed
her fears lest this inconsiderate step should prejudice the
Marquis against her. The greatest of her apprehensions she
concealed in her own breast. She had observed, with in-
quietude, that at the mention of Lorenzo a deep blush spread
itself over her daughter's cheek. The timid Antonia dared
not to pronounce his name. Without knowing wherefore,
she felt embarrassed when he was made the subject of dis-
course, and endeavoured to change the conversation to Am-
brosio. Elvira perceived the emotions of this young bosom :


THE MONK.
181
in consequence, she insisted upon Leonella's breaking her
promise to the cavaliers. A sigh, which on hearing this or-
der escaped from Antonia, confirmed the wary mother in her
resolution.
Through this resolution Leonella was determined to break;
she conceived it to be inspired by envy, aud that her sister
dreaded her being elevated above her. Without imparting
her design to any one, she took an opportunity of dispatching
the following note to Lorenzo : it was delivered to him as
soon as he woke :-
“ Doubtless, Segnor Don Lorenzo, you have frequently
accused me of ingratitude and forgetfulness : but on the word
of a virgin it was out of my power to perform my promise
yesterday. I know not in what words to inform you, how
strange a reception my sister gave your kind wish to visit her.
She is an odd woman, with many good points about her;
but her jealousy of me frequently makes her conceive notions
quite unaccountable. On hearing that your friend had paid
some little attention to me, she immediately took the
alarm : she blamed my conduct, and has absolutely forbidden
me to let you know our abode. My strong sense of gratitude
for your kind offers of service, and—-—shall I confess it ?
my desire to behold once more the too amiable Don Chris-
toval, will not permit my obeying her injunctions. I have
therefore stolen a moment to inform you, that we lodge in the
strada di San Jago, four doors from the palace d’Albornos,
and nearly opposite to the barber's Miguel Coello. Enquire
for Donna Elvira Dalfa, since, in compliance with her father-
in-law's order, my sister continues to be called by her maiden
name. At eight this evening you will be sure of finding us :
but let not a word drop, which may raise a suspicion of my
having written this letter. Should you see the Conde D'Os-
sorio, tell him--I blush while I declare it- tell him that
his presence will be but too acceptable to the sympathetic
“ LEONELLA.”


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THE MONK.
The latter sentences were written in red ink, to express the
blushes of her cheek while she committed an outrage upon
her virgin modesty.
Lorenzo had no sooner perused this note, than he set out
in search of Don Christoval. Not being able to find him in
the course of the day, he proceeded to Donna Elvira's alone,
to Leonella's infinite disappointment. The domestic by whom
he sent up his name having already declared his lady to be at
home, she had no excuse for refusing his visit : yet she con-
sented to receive it with much reluctance. That reluctance
was increased by the changes which his approach produced
in Antonia's countenance ; nor was it by any means abated,
when the youth himself appeared. The symmetry of his
person, animation of his features, and natural elegance of his
manners and address, convinced Elvira that such a guest
must be dangerous for her daughter. She resolved to treat
him with distant politeness, to decline his services with grati-
tude for the tender of them, and to make him feel, without
offence, that his future visits would be far from acceptable.
On his entrance he found Elvira, who was indisposed, re-
clining upon a sofa ; Antonia sat by her embroidery fraine ;
and Leonella, in a pastoral dress, held“ Montemayor's
Diana.” In spite of her being the another of Antonia, Lo-
renzo could not help expecting to find in Elvira Leonella's
true sister, and the daughter of “ as honest a pains-taking
shoemaker as any in Cordova.” A single glance was sufficient
to undeceive him. He beheld a woman whose features, though
impaired by time and sorrow, still bore the marks of distin-
guished beauty : a serious dignity reigned upon her coun-
tenance, but was tempered by a grace and sweetness which ren-
dered her truly enchanting. Lorenzo fancied that she must
have resembled her daughter in her youth, and readily excused
the imprudence of the late Conde de las Cisternas. She de-
sired him to be seated, and immediately resumed her place
upon the sofa.
Antonia received him with a simple reverence, and con-


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183
tinued her work: her cheeks were suffused with crimson, and
she strove to conceal her emotion by leaning over her em-
broidery frame. Her aunt also chose to play off her airs of
modesty: she affected to blush and tremble, and waited with
her eyes cast down to receive, as she expected, the compli-
ments of Don Christoval. Finding, after some time, that no
sign of his approach was given, she ventured to look round
the room, and perceived with vexation that Medina was un-
accompanied. Impatience would not permit her waiting for
an explanation : interrupting Lorenzo, who was delivering
Raymond's message, she desired to know what was become
of his friend.
He, who thought it necessary to maintain himself in her
good graces, strove to console her under her disappointment
by committing a little violence upon truth.
« Ah ! Segnora,” he replied in a melancholy voice, “ how
grieved will he be at losing this opportunity of paying you his
respects ! A relation's illness has obliged him to quit Madrid
in haste: but on his return he will doubtless seize the first
moment with transport to throw himself at your feet!"
As he said this, his eyes met those of Elvira: she punished
his falsehood sufficiently by darting at him a look expressive
of displeasure and reproach. Neither did the deceit answer
his intention. Vexed and disappointed, Leonella rose from
her seat, and retired in dudgeon to her own apartment.
Lorenzo hastened to repair the fault which had injured him
in Elvira's opinion. He related his conversation with the
Marquis respecting her: he assured her that Raymond was
prepared to acknowledge her for his brother's widow; and
that, till it was in his power to pay his compliments to her in
person, Lorenzo was commissioned to supply his place. This
intelligence relieved Elvira from a heavy weight of uneasiness :
she had now found a protector for the fatherless Antonia, for
whose future fortunes she had suffered the greatest appre-
hensions. She was not sparing of her thanks to him, who
had interfered so generously in her behalf; but still she gave


184
THE MONK.
him no invitation to repeat his visit. However, when upon
rising to depart he requested permission to enquire after her
health occasionally, the polite earnestness of his manner, gra-
titude for his services, and respect for his friend the Marquis,
would not admit of a refusal. She consented reluctantly to
receive him: he promised not to abuse her goodness, and
quitted the house.
Antonia was now left alone with her mother: a temporary
silence ensued. Both wished to speak upon the same subject,
but neither knew how to introduce it. The one felt a bash-
fulness which sealed up her lips, and for which she could not
account; the other feared to find her apprehensions true, or
to inspire her daughter with notions to which she might be
still a stranger. At length Elvira began the conversation.
“ That is a charming young man, Antonia; I am much
pleased with him. Was he long near you yesterday in the
çathedral ?”
" He quitted me not for a moment while I staid in the
church : he gave me his seat, and was very obliging and at-
tentive.”
“ Indeed! Why then have you never inentioned his name
to me? Your aunt launched out in praise of his friend, and
you vaunted Ambrosio's eloquence : but neither said a word
of Don Lorenzo's person and accomplishments. Had not
Leonella spoken of his readiness to undertake our cause, I
should not have known him to be in existence."
She paused. Antonia coloured, but was silent.
“ Perhaps you judge him less favourably than I do. In my
opinion, his figure is pleasing, his conversation sensible, and
manners engaging. Still he may have struck you differently:
you may think him disagreeable, and __”.
“Disagreeable? Oh! dear mother, how should I possibly
think him so ? I should be very ungrateful were I not sen-
sible of his kindness yesterday, and very blind if his merits
had escaped me. His figure is so graceful, so noble! His
manners so gentle, yet so manly! I never yet saw so many


THE MONK.
185
accomplishments united in one person, and I doubt whether
Madrid can produce his equal."
“Why then were you so silent in praise of this phoenix of
Madrid ? Why was it concealed from me, that his society
had afforded you pleasure?”
“In truth, I know not : you ask me a question which I
cannot resolve myself. I was on the point of mentioning him
a thousand times; his name was constantly on my lips : but
when I would have pronounced it, I wanted courage to exe-
cute my design. However, if I did not speak of him, it was
not that I thought of him the less."
"That I believe. But shall I tell you why you wanted
courage? It was because, accustomed to confide to me your
most secret thoughts, you knew not how to conceal, yet feared
to acknowledge, that your heart nourished a sentiment which
you were conscious I should disapprove. Come hither to me,
my child.”
Antonia quitted her embroidery frame, threw herself upon
her knees by the sofa, and hid her face in her mother's
lap.
“Fear not, my sweet girl! Consider me equally as your
friend and parent, and apprehend no reproof from me. I
have read the emotions of your bosom; you are yet ill skilled
in concealing them, and they could not escape my atten-
tive eye. This Lorenzo is dangerous to your repose; he has
already made an impression upon your heart. 'Tis true that
I perceive easily that your affection is returned : but what
can be the consequences of this attachment ? You are poor
and friendless, my Antonia; Lorenzo is the heir of the Duke
of Medina Celi. Even should himself mean honourably, his
uncle never will consent to your union; nor, without that
uncle's consent, will I. By sad experience I know what sor-
row she must endure, who marries into a family unwilling to
receive her. Then struggle with your affection : whatever
pains it may cost you, strive to conquer it. Your heart is
tender and susceptible : it has already received a strong im-


186
THE MONK.
CO
pression; but when once convinced that you should not en-
courage such sentiments, I trust that you have sufficient for-
titude to drive them from your bosom."
Antonia kissed her hand, and promised implicit obedience.
Elvira then continued—-
- To prevent your passion from growing stronger, it will
be needful to prohibit Lorenzo's visits. The service which
he has rendered me permits not my forbidding them posi-
tively; but unless I judge too favourably of his character, he
will discontinue them without taking offence, if I confess to
him my reasons, and throw myself entirely on his generosity.
The next time that I see him, I will honestly avow to him
the embarrassment which his presence occasions. How say
you, my child ? Is not this measure necessary ?"
Antonia subscribed to everything without hesitation,
though not without regret. Her mother kissed her affec-
tionately, and retired to bed. Antonia followed her example,
and vowed so frequently never more to think of Lorenzo,
that till sleep closed her eyes she thought of nothing else.
While this was passing at Elvira's, Lorenzo hastened to
rejoin the Marquis. Every thing was ready for the second
elopement of Agnes ; and at twelve the two friends with a
coach and four were at the garden-wall of the convent. Don
Raymond drew out his key, and unlocked the door. They
entered, and waited for some time in expectation of being
joined by Agnes. At length the Marquis grew impatient: be-
ginning to fear that his second attempt would succeed no
better than the first, he proposed to reconnoitre the convent,
The friends advanced towards it. Every thing was still and
dark. The Prioress was anxious to keep the story a secret,
fearing lest the crime of one of its members should bring
disgrace upon the whole community, or that the interposition
of powerful relations should deprive her vengeance of its
intended victim. She took care, therefore, to give the lover
of Agnes no cause to suppose that his design was discovered,
and his mistress on the point of suffering the punishment of


THE MONK.
187
her fault. The same reason made her reject the idea of ar-
resting the unknown seducer in the garden; such a proceed-
ing would have created much disturbance, and the disgrace
of her convent would have been noised about Madrid. She
contented herself with confining Agnes closely : as to the
lover, she left him at liberty to pursue his designs. What
she had expected was the result. The Marquis and Lorenzo
waited in vain till the break of day: they then retired with-
out noise, alarmed at the failure of their plan, and ignorant
of the cause of its ill success.
The next morning Lorenzo went to the convent, and re-
quested to see his sister. The Prioress appeared at the
grate with a melancholy countenance. She informed him
that for several days Agnes had appeared much agitated;
that she had been pressed by the nuns in vain to reveal the
cause, and apply to their tenderness for advice and conso-
lation; that she had obstinately persisted in concealing the
cause of her distress ; but that on Thursday evening it had
produced so violent an effect upon her constitution, that she
had fallen ill, and was actually confined to her bed. Lorenzo
did not credit a syllable of this account; he insisted upon
seeing his sister; if she was unable to come to the grate, he
desired to be admitted to her cell. The Prioress crossed her-
self! she was shocked at the very idea of a man's profane
eye pervading the interior of her holy mansion, and professed
herself astonished that Lorenzo could think of such a thing.
She told him that his request could not be granted; but that,
if he returned the next day, she hoped that her beloved
daughter would then be sufficiently recovered to join him at
the parlour grate. With this answer Lorenzo was obliged
to retire, unsatisfied, and trembling for his sister's safety.
He returned the next morning at an early hour. “Agnes
was worse; the physician had pronounced her to be in im-
minent danger; she was ordered to remain quiet, and it was
utterly impossible for her to receive her brother's visit.” Lo-
renzo stormed at this answer, but there was no resource.


188
THE MONK.
He raved, he entreated, he threatened; no means were left
untried to obtain a sight of Agnes. His endeavours were as
fruitless as those of the day before, and he returned in de-
spair to the Marquis. On his side, the latter had spared no
pains to discover what had occasioned his plot to fail. Don
Christoval, to whom the affair was now entrusted, en-
deavoured to worm out the secret from the old porteress of
St. Clare, with whom he had formed an acquaintance; but
she was too much upon her guard, and he gained from her
no intelligence. The Marquis was almost distracted, and
Lorenzo felt scarcely less inquietude. Both were convinced
that the purposed elopement must have been discovered :
they doubted not but the malady of Agnes was a pretence,
but they knew not by what means to rescue her from the
hands of the Prioress.
Regularly every day did Lorenzo visit the convent: as re-
gularly was he informed that his sister rather grew worse
than better. Certain that her indisposition was feigned,
these accounts did not alarm him : but his ignorance of her
fate, and of the motives which induced the Prioress to keep
her from him, excited the most serious uneasiness. He was
still uncertain what steps he ought to take, when the Marquis
received a letter from the Cardinal-Duke of Lerma. It in-
closed the pope's expected bull, ordering that Agnes should
be released from her vows, and restored to her relations.
This essential paper decided at once the proceedings of her
friends; they resolved that Lorenzo should carry it to the Do-
mina without delay, and demand that his sister should be
instantly given up to him.- Against this mandate illness could
not be pleaded : it gave her brother the power of removing
her instantly to the palace de Medina, and he determined to
use that power on the following day.
His mind relieved from inquietude respecting his sister,
and his spirits raised by the hope of soon restoring her to
freedom, he now had time to give a few moments to love and
to Antonia. At the same hour as on his former visit, he re-


THE MONK.
189
paired to Donna Elvira's. She had given orders for his ad-
mission. As soon as he was announced, her daughter retired
with Leonella; and when he entered the chamber, he found
the lady of the house alone. She received him with less
distance than before, and desired him to place himself near
her upon the sofa. She then, without losing time, opened her
business, as had been agreed between herself and Antonia.
“You must not think me ungrateful, Don Lorenzo, or
forgetful how essential are the services which you have ren-
dered me with the Marquis. I feel the weight of my obliga-
tions : nothing under the sun should induce my taking the
step to which I am now compelled, but the interest of my
child, of my beloved Antonia. My health is declining ; God
only knows how soon I may be summoned before his throne.
My daughter will be left without parents, and, should she
lose the protection of the Cisternas family, without friends.
She is young and artless, uninstructed in the world's perfidy,
and with charms sufficient to render her an object of seduc-
tion. Judge, then, how I must tremble at the prospect be-
fore her! Judge, how anxious I must be to keep her from
their society, who may excite the yet dormant passions of her
bosom. You are amiable, Don Lorenzo; Antonia has a sus-
ceptible, a loving heart, and is grateful for the favours con-
ferred upon us by your interference with the Marquis. Your
presence makes me tremble : I fear lest it should inspire her
with sentiments which may embitter the remainder of her
life, or encourage her to cherish hopes in her situation un-
justifiable and futile. Pardon me, when I avow my terrors,
and let my frankness plead in my excuse. I cannot forbid
you my house, for gratitude restrains me; I can only throw
myself upon your generosity, and entreat you to spare the
feelings of an anxious, of a doting mother. Believe me,
when I assure you, that I lament the necessity of rejecting
your acquaintance; but there is no remedy, and Antonia's in-
terest obliges me to beg you to forbear your visits. By com-


190
THE MONK.
plying with my request, you will increase the esteem which
I already feel for you, and of which every thing convinces me
that you are truly deserving."
“ Your frankness charms me," replied Lorenzo: “You
shall find, that in your favourable opinion of me you were not
deceived; yet I hope that the reasons now in my power to
allege, will persuade you to withdraw a request which I can-
not obey without infinite reluctance. I love your daughter,
love her most sincerely; I wish for no greater happiness than
to inspire her with the same sentiments, and receive her hand
at the altar as her husband. 'Tis true I am not rich myself,
my father's death has left me but little in my own possession;
but my expectations justify my pretending to the Conde de las
Cisternas' daughter.”
He was proceeding, but Elvira interrupted him--
“Ah! Don Lorenzo, you forget in that pompous title the
meanness of my origin. You forget that I have now passed
fourteen years in Spain, disavowed by my husband's family,
and existing upon a stipend barely sufficient for the support
and education of my daughter. Nay, I have even been neg-
lected by most of my own relations, who, out of envy, affect
to doubt the reality of my marriage. My allowance being
discontinued at my father-in-law's death, I was reduced to
the very brink of want. In this situation I was found by my
sister, who, amongst all her foibles, possesses a warm, gene-
rous, and affectionate heart. She aided me with the little
fortune which my father left her, persuaded me to visit Ma-
drid, and has supported my child and myself since our quit-
ting Murcia. Then, consider not Antonia as descended from
the Conde de las Cisternas: consider her as a poor and un-
protected orphan, as the grandchild of the tradesman Tor-
ribio Dalfa, as the needy pensioner of that tradesman's
daughter. Reflect upon the difference between such a situation
and that of the nephew and heir of the potent Duke of Me-
dina. I believe your intentions to be honourable; but as


THE MONK.
191
there are no hopes that your uncle will approve of the union,
I foresee that the consequences of your attachment must be
fatal to my child's repose.”
" Pardon me, Segnora ; you are misinformed if you sup-
pose the Duke of Medina to resemble the generality of men.
His sentiments are liberal and disinterested; he loves me
well, and I have no reason to dread his forbidding the mar-
riage, when he perceives that my happiness depends upon
Antonia. But supposing him to refuse his sanction, what
have I still to fear? My parents are no more; my little for-
tune is in my own possession; it will be sufficient to support
Antonia, and I shall exchange for her hand Medina's duke-
dom without one sigh of regret.”
“You are young and eager; it is natural for you to enter-
tain such ideas. But experience has taught me to my cost,
that curses accompany an unequal alliance. I married the
Conde de las Cisternas in opposition to the will of his rela-
tions ; many a heart-pang has punished me for the impru-
dent step. Wherever we bent our course, a father's execration
pursued Gonzalvo. Poverty overtook us, and no friend was
near to relieve our wants. Still our mutual affection existed,
but, alas! not without interruption. Accustomed to wealth
and ease, ill could my husband support the transition to dis-
tress and indigence. He looked back with repining to the
comforts which he once enjoyed. He regretted the situation
which for my sake he had quitted ; and, in moments when
despair possessed his mind, has reproached me with having
made him the companion of want and wretchedness. He has
called me his bane! the source of his sorrows, the cause of
his destruction! Ah! God! he little knew how much keener
were my own heart's reproaches! He was ignorant that I
suffered trebly, for myself, for my children, and for him! 'Tis
true that his anger seldom lasted long : his sincere affection
for me soon revived in his heart, and then his repentance
for the tears which he had made me shed, tortured me
even more than his reproaches. He would throw him-


192
THE MONK.
self on the ground, implore my forgiveness in the most
frantic terms, and load himself with curses for being the
murderer of my repose. Taught by experience, that an
union contracted against the inclinations of families on either
side must be unfortunate, I will save my daughter from those
miseries which I have suffered. Without your uncle's con-
sent, while I live, she never shall be yours. Undoubtedly he
will disapprove of the union; his power is immense, and
Antonia shall not be exposed to his anger and persecution.”
“His persecution ? How easily may that be avoided! Let
the worst happen, it is but quitting Spain. My wealth may
easily be realised. The Indian islands will offer us a secure
retreat. I have an estate, though not of value, in Hispaniola:
thither will we fly, and I shall consider it to be my native
country, if it gives me Antonia's undisturbed possession.”
“ Ah! youth, this is a fond, romantic vision. Gonzalvo
thought the same. He fancied that he could leave Spain
without regret; but the moment of parting undeceived him.
You know not yet what it is to quit your native land: to quit
it, never to behold it more! You know not what it is to ex-
change the scenes where you have passed your infancy, for
unknown realms and barbarous climates !-to be forgotten,
utterly, eternally forgotten by the companions of your youth !
-to see your dearest friends, the fondest objects of your
affection, perishing with diseases incidental to Indian atmos-
pheres, and find yourself unable to procure for them neces-
sary assistance! I have felt all this! My husband and two
sweet babes found their graves in Cuba: nothing would have
saved my young Antonia, but my sudden return to Spain.
Ah! Don Lorenzo, could you conceive what I suffered during
my absence! Could you know how sorely I regretted all
that I left behind, and how dear to me was the very name of
Spain! I envied the winds which blew towards it: and when
the Spanish sailor chanted some well-known air as he passed
my window, tears filled my eyes, while I thought upon my
native land. Gonzalvo too--my husband ——”


THE MONK..
193
Elvira paused. Her voice faltered, and she concealed her
face with her handkerchief. After a short silence she rose
from the sofa, and proceeded --
“Excuse my quitting you for a few moments: the remem-
brance of what I have suffered has much agitated me, and I
need to be alone. Till I return, peruse these lines. After
my husband's death I found them among his papers. Had
I known sooner that he entertained such sentiments, grief
would have killed me. He wrote the verses on his voyage
to Cuba, when his mind was clouded by sorrow, and he for-
got that he had a wife and children. What we are losing
ever seems to us the most precious. Gonzalvo was quit-
ting Spain for ever, and therefore was Spain dearer to his
eyes than all else which the world contained. Read them,
Don Lorenzo, they will give you some idea of the feelings of a
banished man.”
Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo's hand, and retired from
the chamber. The youth examined the contents, and found
them to be as follows:
THE EXILE.
Farewell, oh native Spain! farewell for ever!
These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more:
A mournful presage tells my heart, that never
Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore.
Hushed are the winds; while soft the vessel sailing
With gentle motion ploughs the unruffled main,
I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing,
And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.
I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear heaven
Still do the spires, so well-beloved, appear.
From yonder craggy point the gale of even
Still wafts my native accents to mine ear.
Propp'd on some moss-crown'd rock, and gaily singing,
There in the sun his nets the fisher dries;
Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing
Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.
13


194
THE MONK.
Ah! happy swain! he waits the accustomed hour,
When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky;
Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,
And shares the feast his native fields supply.
Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him
With honest welcome and with smile sincere:
No threatening woes of present joys bereave him ;
No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.
Ah! happy swain! such bliss to me denying,
Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view;
Me, who, from home and Spain an exile flying,
Bid all I value, all I love, adieu. .
No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty
Sung by some mountain-girl, who tends her goats,
Some village-swain imploring amorous pity,
Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes.
No more my arms a parent's fond embraces,
No more my heart domestic calm must know;
Far from these joys, with sighs which memory traces,
To sultry skies and distant climes I go.
Where Indian suns engender new diseases,
Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way;
To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases,
The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day.
But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver,
To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age,
My boiling blood drunk by insatiate fever,
And brain delirious with the day-star's rage,
Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever,
With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee;
To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever,
And feel that all thy joys are torn from me!
Ah me! how oft will fancy's spells, in slumber, ;
Recall my native country to my mind!
How oft regret will bid me sadly number
Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind!
Wild Murcia's vales and loved romantic bowers,
The river on whose banks a child I played,
My castle's ancient halls, its frowning towers,
Each much regretted wood, and well-known glade;


THE MONK.
195
Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,
Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know,
Full oft shall memory trace, my soul's tormentor,
And turn each pleasure past to present woe.
But, lo! the sun beneath the waves retires :
Night speeds apace her empire to restore;
Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires,
Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.
Oh! breathe not, winds! Still be the water's motion:
Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main !
So, when to-morrow's light shall gild the ocean,
Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.
Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning,
Fresh blows the gale, and high the billows swell:
Far shall we be before the break of morning :
Oh! then, for ever, native Spain, farewell!
Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines, when Elvira
returned to him : the giving a free course to her tears had re-
lieved her, and her spirits had regained their usual compo-
sure.
“I have nothing more to say, my lord,” said she ; “you
have heard my apprehensions, and my reasons for begging
you not to repeat your visits. I have thrown myself in full
confidence upon your honour. I am certain that you will not
prove my opinion of you to have been too favourable.”
“But one question more, Segnora, and I leave you. Should
the Duke of Medina approve my love, would my addresses be
unacceptable to yourself and the fair Antonia ?”
“I will be open with you, Don Lorenzo: there being little
probability of such an union taking place, I fear that it is de-
sired but too ardently by my daughter. You have made an
impression upon her young heart which gives me the most
serious alarm: to prevent that impression from growing
stronger, I am obliged to decline your acquaintance. For me,
you may be sure that I should rejoice at establishing my child
so advantageously. Conscious that my constitution, impaired
by grief and illness, forbids me to expect a long continuance
13*


196
THE MONK.
in this world, I tremble at the thought of leaving her under
the protection of a perfect stranger. The Marquis de las Cis-
ternas is totally unknown to me. He will marry: his lady
may look upon Antonia with an eye of displeasure, and de-
prive her of her only friend. Should the Duke, your uncle,
give his consent, you need not doubt obtaining mine and my
daughter's; but, without his, hope not for ours. At all events,
whatever steps you may take, whatever may be the Duke's
decision, till you know it, let me beg your forbearing to
strengthen, by your presence, Antonia's prepossession. If the
sanction of your relations authorises your addressing her as
your wife, my doors fly open to you. If that sanction is re-
fused, be satisfied to possess my esteem and gratitude, but
remember that we must meet no more.”
Lorenzo promised reluctantly to conform to this decree:
but he added, that he hoped soon to obtain that consent,
which would give him a claim to the renewal of their acquain-
tance. He then explained to her why the Marquis had not
called in person; and made no scruple of confiding to her his
sister's history. He concluded by saying, “that he hoped to
set Agnes at liberty the next day: and that, as soon as Don
Raymond's fears were quieted upon this subject, he would
lose no time in assuring Donna Elvira of his friendship and
protection."
The lady shook her head.
“I tremble for your sister," said she; “ I have heard many
traits of the Domina of St. Clare's character from a friend who
was educated in the same convent with her : she reported her
to be haughty, inflexible, superstitious, and revengeful. I
have since heard, that she is infatuated with the idea of ren-
dering her convent the most regular in Madrid, and never
forgave those whose imprudence threw upon it the slightest
stain. Though naturally violent and severe when her inte-
rests require it, she well knows how to assume an appearance
of benignity. She leaves no means untried to persuade young
women of rank to become members of her community: she


[, THE MONK.
197
is implacable when once incensed, and has too much intrepi-
dity to shrink at taking the most rigorous measures for pu-
nishing the offender. Doubtless she will consider your sister's
quitting the convent as a disgrace thrown upon it: she will
use every artifice to avoid obeying the mandate of his Holiness,
and I shudder to think that Donna Agnes is in the hands of
this dangerous woman.”
Lorenzo now rose to take leave. Elvira gave him her hand
at parting, which he kissed respectfully; and, telling her that
he soon hoped for the permission to salute that of Antonia, he
returned to his hotel. The lady was perfectly satisfied with
the conversation which had passed between them: she looked
forward with satisfaction to the prospect of his becoming her
son-in-law; but prudence bade her conceal from her daugh-
ter's knowledge the flattering hopes which herself now ven-
tured to entertain.
Scarcely was it day, and already Lorenzo was at the con-
vent of St. Clare, furnished with the necessary mandate. The
nuns were at matins. He waited impatiently for the conclu-
sion of the service; and at length the Prioress appeared at
the parlour grate. Agnes was demanded. The old lady
replied with a melancholy air, that the dear child's situation
grew hourly more dangerous: that the physicians despaired
of her life; but that they had declared the only chance for
her recovery to consist in keeping her quiet, and not to per-
mit those to approach her whose presence was likely to agi-
tate her. Not a word of all this was believed by Lorenzo,
any more than he credited the expressions of grief and affec-
tion for Agnes with which this account was interlarded. To
end the business, he put the Pope's bull into the hands of the
Domina, and insisted that, ill or in health, his sister should be
delivered to him without delay.
The Prioress received the paper with an air of humility;
but no sooner had her eye glanced over the contents than
her resentment baffled all the efforts of hypocrisy. A deep


198
THE MONK.
crimson spread itself over her face, and she darted upon Lo-
renzo looks of rage and menace.
“ This order is positive,” said she, in a voice of anger,
which she in vain strove to disguise: “willingly would I
obey it, but, unfortunately, it is out of my power.”
Lorenzo interrupted her by an exclamation of surprise.
“I repeat, Segnor, to obey this order is totally out of my
power. From tenderness to a brother's feelings, I would
have communicated the sad event to you by degrees, and have
prepared you to hear it with fortitude. My measures are
broken through: this order commands me to deliver up to you
the sister Agnes without delay; I am, therefore, obliged to
inform you, without circumlocution, that on Friday last she
expired.”
Lorenzo started back with horror, and turned pale. A mo-
ment's recollection convinced him that this assertion must be
false, and it restored him to himself.
- You deceive me!” said he, passionately: “ but five mi-
nutes past you assured me that, though ill, she was still alive.
Produce her this instant! See her I must and will; and
every attempt to keep her from me will be unavailing."
“ You forget yourself, Segnor: you owe respect to my age
as well as my profession. Your sister is no more. If I at
first concealed her death, it was from dreading lest an event
so unexpected should produce on you too violent an effect. In
truth, I am but ill repaid for my attention. And what interest,
I pray you, should I have in detaining her? To know her
wish of quitting our society is a sufficient reason for me to
wish her absence, and think her a disgrace to the sisterhood
of St. Clare: but she has forfeited my affection in a manner
yet more culpable. Her crimes were great; and when you
know the cause of her death, you will doubtless rejoice, Don
Lorenzo, that such a wretch is no longer in existence. She
was taken ill on Thursday last on returning from confession in
the Capuchin chapel : her malady seemed attended with


THE MONK.
199
strange circumstances; but she persisted in concealing its
cause. Thanks to the Virgin, we were too ignorant to suspect
it! Judge then what must have been our consternation, our
horror, when she was delivered the next day of a still-born
child, whom she immediately followed to the grave. How,
Segnor? Is it possible that your countenance expresses no
surprise, no indignation ? Is it possible that your sister's in-
famy was known to you, and that still she possessed your
affection ? In that case, you have no need of my compassion.
I can say nothing more, except repeat my inability of obeying
the orders of his Holiness. Agnes is no more: and, to con-
vince you that what I say is true, I swear by our blessed Sa-
viour, that three days have passed since she was buried.”
Here she kissed a small crucifix which hung at her girdle :
she then rose from her chair, and quitted the parlour. As she
withdrew, she cast upon Lorenzo a scornful smile.
“ Farewell, Segnor,” said she; “I know no remedy for
this accident. I fear that even a second bull from the Pope
will not procure your sister's resurrection.”
Lorenzo also retired, penetrated with affliction : but Don
Raymond's, at the news of this event, amounted to madness :
he would not be convinced that Agnes was really dead; and
continued to insist that the walls of St. Clare still confined
her. No arguments could make him abandon his hopes of
regaining her. Every day some fresh scheme was invented
for procuring intelligence of her, and all of them were at-
tended with the same success.
On his part, Medina gave up the idea of ever seeing his
sister more; yet he believed that she had been taken off by
unfair means. Under this persuasion, he encouraged Don
Raymond's researches, determined, should he discover the
least warrant for his suspicions, to take a severe vengeance
upon the unfeeling Prioress. The loss of his sister affected
him sincerely: nor was it the least cause of his distress, that
propriety obliged him for some time to defer mentioning An-
tonia to the Duke. In the meanwhile, his emissaries con-


200
THE MONK.
stantly surrounded Elvira's door. He had intelligence of all
the movements of his mistress. As she never failed every
Thursday to attend the sermon in the Capuchin cathedral, he
was secure of seeing her once a week; though, in compliance
with his promise, he carefully shunned her observation.
Thus two long months passed away. Still no information
was procured of Agnes. All but the Marquis credited her
death: and now Lorenzo determined to disclose his senti-
ments to his uncle: he had already dropped some hints of
his intention to marry: they had been as favourably received
as he could expect; and he harboured no doubt of the suc-
cess of his application.
CHAPTER VI.
While in each other's arms entranced they lay,
They blessed the night, and cursed the coming day.
LEE.
The burst of transport was passed : Ambrosio's lust was
satisfied. Pleasure fled, and shame usurped her seat in his
bosom. Confused and terrified at his weakness, he drew him-
self from Matilda's arms: his perjury presented itself before
him : he reflected on the scene which had just been acted,
and trembled at the consequences of a discovery: he looked
forward with horror : his heart was despondent, and became
the abode of satiety and disgust: he avoided the eyes of his
partner in frailty. A melancholy silence prevailed, during
which both seemed busy with disagreeable reflections.
Matilda was the first to break it. She took his hand gently,
and pressed it to her burning lips.


THE MONK.
201
" Ambrosio !” she murmured, in a soft and trembling
voice.
The Abbot started at the sound: he turned his eyes upon
Matilda's; they were filled with tears; her cheeks were covered
with blushes, and her supplicating looks seemed to solicit his
compassion.
“ Dangerous woman!” said he ; “ into what an abyss of
misery have you plunged me! Should your sex be discovered,
my honour, nay, my life must pay for the pleasure of a few
moments. Fool that I was, to trust myself to your seduc-
tions! What can now be done? How can my offence be
expiated? What atonement can purchase the pardon of my
crime ? Wretched Matilda, you have destroyed my quiet for
ever !”
“ To me these reproaches, Ambrosio ? to me, who have
sacrificed for you the world's pleasures, the luxury of wealth,
the delicacy of sex, my friends, my fortune, and my fame ?
What have you lost which I preserved ? Have I not shared
in your guilt ? Have you not shared in my pleasure? Guilt,
did I say? In what consists ours, unless in the opinion of an
ill-judging world ? Let that world be ignorant of them, and
our joys become divine and blameless! Unnatural were your
vows of celibacy; man was not created for such a state: and
were love a crime, God never would have made it so sweet
and so irresistible! Then banish those clouds from your brow,
my Ambrosio. Indulge in those pleasures freely, without
which life is a worthless gift. Cease to reproach me with
having taught you what is bliss, and feel equal transports with
the woman who adores you !"
As she spoke, her eyes were filled with a delicious languor :
her bosom panted; she twined her arms voluptuously round
him, drew him towards her, and glued her lips to his. . Am-
brosio again raged with desire: the die was thrown: his vows
were already broken: he had already committed the crime,
and why should he refrain from enjoying its reward? He


202
THE MONK.
clasped her to his breast with redoubled ardour. No longer
repressed by the sense of shame, he gave a loose to his in-
temperate appetites ; while the fair wanton put every inven-
tion of lust in practice, every refinement in the art of pleasure,
which might heighten the bliss of her possession, and render
her lover's transports still more exquisite. Ambrosio rioted
in delights till then unknown to him. Swift fled the night,
and the morning blushed to behold him still clasped in the
embraces of Matilda.
Intoxicated with pleasure, the Monk rose from the syren's
luxurious couch: he no longer reflected with shame upon his
incontinence, or dreaded the vengeance of offended heaven:
his only fear was lest death should rob him of enjoyments, for
which his long fast had only given a keener edge to his appe-
tite. Matilda was still under the influence of poison; and the
voluptuous Monk trembled less for his preserver's life than his
concubine's. Deprived of her, he would not easily find an-
other mistress with whom he could indulge his passions so
fully, and so safely; he therefore pressed her with earnestness
to use the means of preservation which she had declared to
be in her possession.
“ Yes !” replied Matilda ; " since you have made me feel
that life is valuable, I will rescue mine at any rate. No dan-
gers shall appal me: I will look upon the consequences of my
action boldly, nor shudder at the horrors which they present:
I will think my sacrifice scarcely worthy to purchase your
possession; and remember, that a moment passed in your
arms in this world, overpays an age of punishment in the
next. But before I take this step, Ambrosio, give me your
solemn oath never to enquire by what means I shall preserve
myself.”
He did so, in a manner the most binding.
“ I thank you, my beloved. This precaution is necessary;
for, though you know it not, you are under the command of
vulgar prejudices. The business on which I must be employed


THE MONK.
203
this night might startle you, from its singularity, and lower me
in your opinion. Tell me, are you possessed of the key of
the low door on the western side of the garden ?”
“The door which opens into the burying-ground common
to us and the sisterhood of St. Clare ? I have not the key,
but can easily procure it.”
“ You have only this to do. Admit me into the burying-
ground at midnight.—Watch while I descend into the vaults
of St. Clare, lest some prying eye should observe my actions.
Leave me there alone for an hour, and that life is safe which
I dedicate to your pleasures. To prevent creating suspicion,
do not visit me during the day. Remember the key, and that
I expect you before twelve. Hark! I hear steps approaching!
Leave me; I will pretend to sleep.”
The Friar obeyed, and left the cell. As he opened the door,
Father Pablos made his appearance.
“I come,” said the latter, “ to enquire after the health of
my young patient.”
“ Hush !” replied Ambrosio, laying his finger upon his lip;
“speak softly; I am just come from him : he has fallen into
a profound slumber, which doubtless will be of service to
him. Do not disturb him at present, for he wishes to repose.”
Father Pablos obeyed, and, hearing the bell ring, accom-
panied the Abbot to matins. Ambrosio felt embarrassed as he
entered the chapel. Guilt was new to him, and he fancied
that every eye could read the transactions of the night upon
his countenance. He strove to pray: his bosom no longer
glowed with devotion ; his thoughts insensibly wandered to
Matilda's secret charms. But what he wanted in purity of
heart, he supplied by exterior sanctity. The better to cloak
his transgression, he redoubled his pretensions to the sem-
blance of virtue, and never appeared more devoted to heaven
than since he had broken through his engagements. Thus
did he unconsciously add hypocrisy to perjury and incon-
tinence: he had fallen into the late errors from yielding to


204
THE MONK.
seduction almost irresistible: but he was now guilty of a vo-
luntary fault, by endeavouring to conceal those into which
another had betrayed himn.
The matins concluded, Ambrosio retired to his cell. The
pleasures which he had just tasted for the first time were still
impressed upon his mind : his brain was bewildered, and pre-
sented a confused chaos of remorse, voluptuousness, in-
quietude, and fear: he looked back with regret to that peace
of soul, that security of virtue, which till then had been his
portion : he had indulged in excesses whose very idea, but
four-and-twenty hours before, he had recoiled at with horror :
he shuddered at reflecting that a trifling indiscretion on his
part, or on Matilda's, would overturn that fabric of reputation
which it had cost him thirty years to erect, and render him
the abhorrence of that people of whom he was then the idol.
Conscience painted to him in glaring colours his perjury
and weakness; apprehension magnified to him the horrors
of punishment, and he already fancied himself in the prisons
of the Inquisition. To these tormenting ideas succeeded Ma-
tilda's beauty, and those delicious lessons, which once learnt
can never be forgotten. A single glance thrown upon these
reconciled him with himself: he considered the pleasures of
the former night to have been purchased at an easy price by
the sacrifice of innocence and honour. Their very remem-
brance filled his soul with ecstasy: he cursed his foolish va-
nity, which had induced him to waste in obscurity the bloom
of life, ignorant of the blessings of love and woman ; he de-
termined, at all events, to continue his commerce with Ma-
tilda, and called every argument to his aid which might
confirm his resolution : he asked himself, provided his irre-
gularity was unknown, in what would his fault consist, and
what consequences he had to apprehend? By adhering
strictly to every rule of his order save chastity, he doubted
not to retain the esteem of men, and even the protection of
heaven : he trusted easily to be forgiven so slight and natural


THE MONK.
205
a deviation from his vows; but he forgot that, having pro-
nounced those vows, incontinence, in laymen the most venial
of errors, became in his person the most heinous of crimes.
Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind became
more easy; he threw himself upon his bed, and strove by
sleeping to recruit his strength, exhausted by his nocturnal ex-
cesses. He awoke refreshed, and eager for a repetition of
his pleasures. Obedient to Matilda's order, he visited not
her cell during the day. Father Pablos mentioned in the re-
fectory, that Rosario had at length been prevailed upon to
follow his prescription; but that the medicine had not pro-
duced the slightest effect, and that he believed no mortal skill
could rescue him from the grave. With this opinion the Ab-
bot agreed, and affected to lament the untimely fate of a youth
whose talents had appeared so promising.
The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure
from the porter the key of the low door opening into the ce-
metery. Furnished with this, when all was silent in the mo-
nastery, he quilted his cell, and hastened to Matilda's. She
had left her bed, and was dressed before his arrival..
“ I have been expecting you with impatience,” said she;
“my life depends upon these moments. Have you the key ?”
“I have.”
“Away then to the garden. We have no time to lose.
Follow me!"
She took a small covered basket from the table. Bearing
this in one hand, and the lamp, which was flaming upon the
hearth, in the other, she hastened from the cell. Ambrosio
followed her. Both maintained a profound silence. She
moved on with quick but cautious steps, passed through the
cloisters, and reached the western side of the garden: her eyes
flashed with a fire and wildness which impressed the Monk
at once with awe and horror. A determined desperate cou-
rage reigned upon her brow: she gave the lamp to Ambrosio ;
then taking from him the key, she unlocked the low door, and
entered the cemetery. It was a vast and spacious square,


206
THE MONK.
planted with yew-trees; half of it belonged to the abbey, the
other half was the property of the sisterhood of St. Clare, and
was protected by a roof of stone: the division was marked
by an iron railing, the wicket of which was generally left un-
locked.
Thither Matilda bent her course: she opened the wicket,
and sought for the door leading to the subterraneous vaults
where reposed the mouldering bodies of the votaries of St.
Clare. The night was perfectly dark; neither moon nor
stars were visible. Luckily there was not a breath of wind,
and the Friar bore his lamp in full security: by the assistance
of its beams, the door of the sepulchre was soon discovered.
It was sunk within the hollow of a wall, and almost con-
cealed by thick festoons of ivy hanging over it. Three steps
of rough-hewn stone conducted to it, and Matilda was on the
point of descending them, when she suddenly started back.
“There are people in the vaults !” she whispered to the
Monk; “ conceal yourself till they are passed."
She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent tomb,
erected in honour of the convent's foundress. Ambrosio fol-
lowed her example, carefully hiding his lamp, lest its beams
should betray them. But a few moments had elapsed when
the door was pushed open leading to the subterraneous ca-
verns. Rays of light proceeded up the staircase: they
enabled the concealed spectators to observe two females
dressed in religious habits, who seemed engaged in earnest
conversation. The Abbot had no difficulty to recognize the
Prioress of St. Clare in the first, and one of the elder nuns
in her companion.
“Every thing is prepared,” said the Prioress : “ her fate
shall be decided to-morrow; all her tears and sighs will be
unavailing. No! In five-and-twenty years that I have been
superior of this convent, never did I witness a transaction
more infamous!"
“ You must expect much opposition to your will,” the
other replied in a milder voice: “ Agnes has many friends in


THE MONK.
207
the convent, and in particular the mother St. Ursula will
espouse her cause most warmly. In truth, she merits to have
friends, and I wish I could prevail upon you to consider her
youth, and her peculiar situation. She seems sensible of her
fault; the excess of her grief proves her penitence, and I am
convinced that her tears flow more from contrition than fear
of punishment. · Reverend mother, would you be persuaded
to mitigate the severity of your sentence; would you but deign
to overlook this first transgression ; I offer myself as the
pledge of her future conduct.”
“Overlook it, say you? Mother Camilla, you amaze me!
What? after disgracing me in the presence of Madrid's idol,
of the very man on whom I most wished to impress an idea
of the strictness of my discipline? How despicable must I
have appeared to the reverend Abbot! No, mother, no!
I never can forgive the insult. I cannot better convince Am-
brosio that I abhor such crimes, than by punishing that of Agnes
with all the rigour of which our severe laws admit. Cease
then your supplications, they will all be unavailing. My re-
solution is taken. To-morrow Agnes shall be made a ter-
rible example of my justice and resentment.”
The mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point, but
by this time the nuns were out of hearing. The Prioress un-
locked the door which communicated with St. Clare's chapel,
and having entered with her companion, closed it again after
them.
Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the
Prioress was thus incensed, and what connexion she could
have with Ambrosio. He related her adventure; and he
added, that since that time his ideas having undergone a
thorough revolution, he now felt much compassion for the un-
fortunate nun.
“I design,” said he, “to request an audience of the Do-
mina to-morrow, and use every means of obtaining a mitiga-
tion of her sentence.”
“ Beware of what you do,” interrupted Matilda ; “your


208
THE MONK.
sudden change of sentiment may naturally create surprise,
and may give birth to suspicions which it is most our interest
to avoid. Rather redouble your outward austerity, and
thunder out menaces against the errors of others, the better
to conceal your own. Abandon the nun to her fate. Your
interfering might be dangerous, and her imprudence merits
to be punished : she is unworthy to enjoy love's pleasures,
who has not wit enough to conceal them. But in discussing
this trifling subject, I waste moments which are precious.
The night flies apace, and much must be done before morn-
ing. The nuns are retired, all is safe. Give me the lamp,
Ambrosio, I must descend alone into these caverns: wait
here, and if any one approaches, warn me by your voice; but
as you value your existence, presume not to follow me; your
life would fall a victim to your imprudent curiosity.”
Thus saying, she advanced towards the sepulchre, still
holding her lamp in one hand, and her little basket in the
other. She touched the door, it turned slowly upon its
grating hinges, and a narrow winding staircase of black
marble presented itself to her eyes. She descended it; Am-
brosio remained above, watching the faint beams of the lamp,
as they still receded down the stairs. They disappeared, and
he found himself in total darkness.
Left to himself, he could not reflect without surprise on the
sudden change in Matilda's character and sentiments. But
a few days had passed, since she appeared the mildest and
softest of her sex, devoted to his will, and looking up to him
as to a superior being. Now she assumed a sort of courage
and manliness in her manners and discourse, but ill calculated
to please him. She spoke no longer to insinuate, but com-
mand: he found himself unable to cope with her in argument,
and was unwillingly obliged to confess the superiority of her
judgment. Every moment convinced him of the astonishing
powers of her mind: but what she gained in the opinion of
the man, she lost with interest in the affection of the lover.
He regretted Rosario, the fond, the gentle, and submissive;


THE MONK.
209
he grieved that Matilda preferred the virtues of his sex to
those of her own; and when he thought of her expressions
respecting the devoted nun, he could not help blaming them
as cruel and unfeminine. Pity is a sentiment so natural, so
appropriate to the female character, that it is scarcely.a merit
for a woman to possess it; but to be without it, is a grievous
crime. Ambrosio could not easily forgive his mistress for
being deficient in this amiable quality : however, though he
blamed her insensibility, he felt the truth of her observations;
and though he pitied sincerely the unfortunate Agnes, he re-
solved to drop the idea of interposing in her behalf.
Near an hour had elapsed since Matilda descended into the
caverns; still she returned not. Ambrosio's curiosity was
excited. He drew near the staircase—he listened—all was
silent, except that at intervals he caught the sound of Ma-
tilda's voice, as it wound along the subterraneous passages,
and was re-echoed by the sepulchre’s vaulted roofs. She
was at too great a distance for him to distinguish her words,
and ere they reached hiin, they were deadened into a low
murmur. He longed to penetrate into this mystery. He re-
solved to disobey her injunctions, and follow her into the
cavern. He advanced to the staircase; he had already de-
scended some steps, when his courage failed him. He remem-
bered Matilda's menaces if he infringed her orders, and his
bosom was filled with a secret unaccountable awe. He re-
turned up the stairs, resumed his former station, and waited
impatiently for the conclusion of this adventure...
Suddenly he was sensible of a violent shock. An earth-
quake rocked the ground; the columns which supported the
roof under which he stood, were so strongly shaken, that
every moment menaced him with its fall, and at the same
moment he heard a loud and tremendous burst of thunder ;
it ceased, and his eyes being fixed upon the staircase, he
saw a bright column of light flash along the caverns beneath.
It was seen but for an instant. No sooner did it disappear,
than all was once more quiet and obscure. Profound dark-
14


210
THE MONK.
ness again surrounded him, and the silence of night was only
broken by the whirring bat as she flitted slowly by him.
With every instant Ambrosio's amazement increased. An-
other hour elapsed, after which the saine light again appear-
ed, and was lost again as suddenly. It was accompanied
by a strain of sweet but solemn music, which, as it stole
through the vaults below, inspired the Monk with mingled
delight and terror. It had not long been hushed, when he
heard Matilda's steps upon the staircase. She ascended
from the cavern; the most lively joy animated her beautiful
features.
“ Did you see any thing ?” she asked.
“ Twice I saw a column of light flash up the staircase.”
“ Nothing else ?”
- Nothing."
“ The morning is on the point of breaking : let us retire to
the abbey, lest daylight should betray us.”
With a light step she hastened from the burying-ground.
She regained her cell, and the curious Abbot still accompanied
her. She closed the door, and disembarrassed herself of her
lamp and basket.
“I have succeeded !" she cried, throwing herself upon his
bosom; “succeeded beyond my fondest hopes! I shall live,
Ambrosio, shall live for you! the step, which I shuddered at
taking, proves to me a source of joys inexpressible! Oh!
that I dared communicate those joys to you! Oh! that I were
permitted to share with you my power, and raise you as high
above the level of your sex, as one bold deed has exalted me
above mine!"
“ And what prevents you, Matilda ?” interrupted the Friar.
“ Why is your business in the cavern made a secret ?" Do
you think me 'undeserving of your confidence ? Matilda, I
must doubt the truth of your affection, while you have joys
in which I am forbidden to share.”
“You reproach me with injustice; I grieve sincerely that I
am obliged to conceal from you my happiness : but I am not
U
.


THE MONK.
211
to blame; the fault lies not in me, but in yourself, my Am-
brosio. You are still too much the monk; your mind is en-
slaved by the prejudices of education; and superstition might
make you shudder at the idea of that which experience has
taught me to prize and value. At present you are unfit to be
trusted with a secret of such importance; but the strength of
your judgment, and the curiosity which I rejoice to see spark-
ling in your eyes, make me hope that you will one day
deserve my confidence. Till that period arrives, restrain
your impatience. Remember that you have given me your
solemn oath, never to inquire into this night's adventures. I
insist upon your keeping this oath; for, though,” she added
smiling, while she sealed his lips with a wanton kiss, “though
I forgive your breaking your vows to Heaven, I expect you to
keep your vows to me.”
The Friar returned the embrace, which had set his blood
on fire. The luxurious and unbounded excesses of the former
night were renewed, and they separated not till the bell rang
for matins.
The same pleasures were frequently repeated. The monks
rejoiced in the feigned Rosario's unexpected recovery, and
none of them suspected his real sex. The Abbot possessed
his mistress in tranquillity, and, perceiving his frailty unsus-
pected, abandoned himself to his passions in full security.
Shame and remorse no longer tormented him. Frequent
repetitions made him familiar with sin, and his bosom became
proof against the stings of conscience. In these sentiments
he was encouraged by Matilda; but she soon was aware that
she had satiated her lover by the unbounded freedom of her
caresses. Her charms becoming accustomed to him, they
ceased to excite the same desires which at first they had in-
spired. The delirium of passion being past, he had leisure to
observe every trifling defect ; where none were to be found,
satiety made hin fancy them. The Monk was glutted with
the fullness of pleasure. A week had scarcely elapsed, before
he was wearied of his parainour: his warm constitution still
14 *


212
THE MONK.
made him seek in her arms the gratification of his lust. But
when the moment of passion was over, he quitted her with
disgust, and his humour, naturally inconstant, made him sigh
impatiently for variety.
Possession, which cloys man, only increases the affection of
women. Matilda with every succeeding day grew more at-
tached to the Friar. Since he had obtained her favours, he
was become dearer to her than ever, and she felt grateful to
him for the pleasures in which they had equally been sharers.
Unfortunately as her passion grew ardent, Ambrosio's grew
cold; the very marks of her fondness excited his disgust, and
its excess served to extinguish the flame which already
burnt but feebly in his bosom. Matilda could not but remark
that her society seemed to him daily less agreeable ; he was
inattentive while she spoke; her musical talents, which she
possessed in perfection, had lost the power of amusing him ;
or if he deigned to praise them, his compliments were evi-
dently forced and cold. He no longer gazed upon her with
affection, or applauded her sentiments with a lover's partiality.
This Matilda well perceived, and redoubled her efforts to re-
vive those sentiments which he once had felt. She could not
but fail, since he considered as importunities, the pains which
she took to please him, and was disgusted by the very means
which she used to recall the wanderer. Still, however, their
illicit commerce continued; but it was clear that he was led
to her arms, not by love, but the cravings of brutal appetite.
His constitution made a woman necessary to him, and Ma-
tilda was the only one with whom he could indulge his pas-
sions safely. In spite of her beauty, he gazed upon every
other female with more desire; but fearing that his hypocrisy
should be made public, he confined his inclinations to his own
breast. .
It was by no means his nature to be timid: but his edu-
cation had impressed his mind with fear so strongly, that ap-
prehension was now become part of his character. Had his
youth been passed in the world, he would have shown himself


THE MONK.
.
213
possessed of many brilliant and manly qualities. He was
naturally enterprising, firm, and fearless : he had a warrior's
heart, and he might have shone with splendour at the head of
an army. There was no want of generosity in his nature:
the wretched never failed to find in him a compassionate au-
ditor: his abilities were quick and shining, and his judgment
vast, solid, and decisive. With such qualifications he would
have been an ornament to his country: that he possessed
them, he had given proofs in his earliest infancy, and his
parents had beheld his dawning virtues with the fondest de-
light and admiration. Unfortunately, while yet a child, he
was deprived of those parents. He fell into the power of a
relation, whose only wish about him was never to hear of him
more ; for that purpose he gave him in charge to his friend,
the former superior of the Capuchins. The Abbot, a very
monk, used all his endeavours to persuade the boy that hap-
piness existed not without the walls of a convent. He suc-
ceeded fully. To deserve admittance into the order of St.
Francis was Ambrosio's highest ambition. His instructors
carefully repressed those virtues, whose grandeur and disin-
terestedness were ill-suited to the cloister. Instead of uni-
versal benevolence, he adopted a selfish partiality for his own
particular establishment : he was taught to consider compas-
sion for the errors of others as a crime of the blackest dye:
the noble frankness of his temper was exchanged for servile
humility; and in order to break his natural spirit, the monks
terrified his young mind, by placing before him all the hor-
rors with which superstition could furnish them: they painted
to him the torments of the damned in colours the most dark,
terrible and fantastic, and threatened him at the slightest fault
with eternal perdition. No wonder that his imagination, con-
stantly dwelling upon these fearful objects, should have ren-
dered his character timid and apprehensive. Add to this,
that his long absence from the great world, and total unac-
quaintance with the common dangers of life, made him form
of them an idea far more dismal than the reality. While the


214
THE MONK.
monks were busied in rooting out his virtues, and narrowing
his sentiments, they allowed every vice which had fallen to his
share to arrive at full perfection. He was suffered to be
proud, vain, ambitious, and disdainful; he was jealous of his
equals, and despised all merit but his own: he was implaca-
ble when offended, and cruel in his revenge. Still, in spite
of the pains taken to pervert them, his natural good qualities
would occasionally break through the gloom cast over them
so carefully. At such times the contest for superiority between
his real and acquired character was striking and unaccount-
able to those unacquainted with his original disposition. He
pronounced the most severe sentences upon offenders, which
the moment after compassion induced him to mitigate: he
undertook most daring enterprises, which the fear of their
consequences soon obliged him to abandon : his inborn genius
darted a brilliant light upon subjects the most obscure; and
almost instantaneously his superstition replunged them in
darkness more profound than that from which they had just
been rescued. His brother monks, regarding him as a supe-
rior being, remarked not this contradiction in their idol's con-
duct. They were persuaded that what he did must be right,
and supposed him to have good reasons for changing his re-
solutions. The fact was, that the different sentiments with
which education and nature had inspired him, were combating
in his bosom: it remained for his passions, which as yet no
opportunity had called into play, to decide the victory. Un-
fortunately his passions were the very worst judges to whom
he could possibly have applied. His monastic seclusion had
till now been in his favour, since it gave him no room for dis-
covering his bad qualities. The superiority of his talents
raised him too far above his companions to permit his being
jealous of them ; his exemplary piety, persuasive eloquence,
and pleasing manners had secured him universal esteem, and
consequently he had no injuries to revenge : his ambition was
justified by his acknowledged merit, and his pride considered
as no more than proper confidence. He never saw, much


THE MONK.
215
less conversed with the other sex: he was ignorant of the
pleasures in woman's power to bestow ; and if he read in the
course of his studies,
“ That men were fond, he smiled, and wondered how."
For a time spare diet, frequent watching, and severe pe-
nance cooled and repressed the natural warmth of his con-
stitution : but no sooner did opportunity present itself, no
sooner did he catch a glimpse of joys to which he was still a
stranger, than religion's barriers were too feeble to resist the
overwhelming torrent of his desires. All impediments yielded
before the force of his temperament, warm, sanguine, and
voluptuous in the excess. As yet his other passions lay dor-
mant; but they only needed to be once awakened, to display
themselves with violence as great and irresistible.
He continued to be the admiration of Madrid. The enthu-
siasm created by his eloquence seemed rather to increase than
diminish. Every Thursday, which was the only day when
he appeared in public, the Capuchin cathedral was crowded
with auditors, and his discourse was always received with the
same approbation. He was named confessor to all the chief
families in Madrid; and no one was counted fashionable who
was enjoined penance by any other than Ambrosio. In his re-
solution of never stirring out of his convent he still persisted.
This circumstance created a still greater opinion of his sanc-
tity and self-denial. Above all, the women sang forth his praises
loudly, less influenced by devotion than by his noble counte-
nance, majestie air, and well-turned graceful figure. The
abbey door was thronged with carriages from morning to
night; and the noblest and fairest dames of Madrid confessed
to the Abbot their secret peccadilloes. The eyes of the luxu-
rious Friar devoured their charms. Had his penitents con-
sulted those interpreters, he would have needed no other
means of expressing his desires. For his misfortune, they
were so strongly persuaded of his continence, that the possibi-


216
THE MONK.
lity of his harbouring indecent thoughts never once entered
their imaginations. The climate's heat, 'tis well known, ope-
rates with no small influence upon the constitutions of the
Spanish ladies : but the most abandoned would have thought
it an easier task to inspire with passion the marble statue of
St. Francis, than the cold and rigid heart of the immaculate
Ambrosio.
On his part, the Friar was little acquainted with the de-
pravity of the world : he suspected not that but few of his pe-
nitents would have rejected his addresses. Yet had he been
better instructed on this head, the danger attending such an
attempt would have sealed up his lips in silence. He knew
that it would be difficult for a woman to keep a secret so strange
and so important as his frailty; and he even trembled, lest
Matilda should betray him. Anxious to preserve a reputation
which was infinitely dear to him, he saw all the risk of com-
mitting it to the power of some vain giddy female; and as the
beauties of Madrid affected only his senses without touching
his heart, he forgot them as soon as they were out of his sight.
The danger of discovery, the fear of being repulsed, the loss of
reputation; all these considerations counselled him to stifle his
desires; and though he now felt for it the most perfect indif-
ference, he was necessitated to confine himself to Matilda's
person.'
One morning, the confluence of penitents was greater than
usual. He was detained in the confessional chair till a late
hour. At length the crowd was dispatched, and he prepared
to quit the chapel, when two females entered, and drew near
him with humility. They threw up their veils, and the
youngest entreated him to listen to her for a few moments.
The melody of her voice, of that voice to which no man ever
listened without interest, immediately caught Ambrosio's at-
tention. He stopped. The petitioner seemed bowed down
with affliction : her cheeks were pale, her eyes dimmed with
tears, and her hair fell in disorder over her face and bosom.
Still her countenance was so sweet, so innocent, so heavenly,


THE MONK.
217
as might have charmed a heart less susceptible than that
which panted in the Abbot's breast. With more than usual
softness of manner he desired her to proceed, and heard her
speak as follows, with an emotion which increased every
moment.
• “Reverend father, you see an unfortunate threatened with
the loss of her dearest, of almost her only friend! My mo-
ther, my excellent mother, lies upon the bed of sickness. A
sudden and dreadful malady seized her last night, and so
rapid has been its progress that the physicians despair of her
life. Human aid fails me: nothing remains for me but to im-
plore the mercy of Heaven, Father, all Madrid rings with
the report of your piety and virtue, Deign to remember my
mother in your prayers: perhaps they may prevail on the
Almighty to spare her; and should that be the case, I engage
myself every Thursday in the next three months to illuminate
the shrine of St. Francis in his honour.”
“So!” thought the monk; “here we have a second Vin-
centio della Ronda. Rosario's adventure began thus;" and
he wished secretly that this might have the same conclusion.
He acceded to the request. The petitioner returned him
thanks with every mark of gratitude, and then continued:
“I have yet another favour to ask. We are strangers in
Madrid: my mother needs a confessor, and knows not to
whom she should apply. We understand that you never quit
the abbey, and, alas! my poor mother is unable to come
hither! If you would have the goodness, reverend father,
to name a proper person, whose wise and pious consolations
may soften the agonies of my parent's death-bed, you will
confer an everlasting favour upon hearts not ungrateful.”
With this petition also the Monk complied. Indeed, what
petition would he have refused, if urged in such enchanting
accents ? The suppliant was so interesting! Her voice was
so sweet, so harmonious! Her very tears became her, and
her affliction seemed to add new lustre to her charms. He
promised to send to her a confessor that same evening, and


218
THE MONK.
begged her to leave her address. The companion presented
him with a card on which it was written, and then withdrew
with the fair petitioner, who pronounced before her de-
parture a thousand benedictions on the Abbot's goodness.
His eyes followed her out of the chapel. It was not till she
was out of sight that he examined the card, on which he read
the following words:
" Donna Elvira Dalfa, strada di San lago, four doors from
the palace d’Albornos.”
The suppliant was no other than Antonia, and Leonella
was her companion. The latter had not consented without
difficulty to accompany her niece to the abbey: Ambrosio
had inspired her with such awe, that she trembled at the
very sight of him. Her fears had conquered even her natural
loquacity, and while in his presence she uttered not a single
syllable.
The Monk retired to his cell, whither he was pursued by
Antonia's image. He felt a thousand new emotions springing
in his bosom, and he trembled to examine into the cause which
gave them birth. They were totally different from those in-
spired by Matilda, when she first declared her sex and her
affection. He felt not the provocation of lust; no voluptuous
desires rioted in his bosom ; nor did a burning imagination
picture to him the charms which modesty had veiled from his
eyes. On the contrary, what he now felt was a mingled sen-
timent of tenderness, admiration, and respect. A soft and de-
licious melancholy infused itself into his soul, and he would
not have exchanged it for the most lively transports of joy.
Society now disgusted him : he delighted in solitude, which
permitted his indulging the visions of fancy: his thoughts
were all gentle, sad, and soothing; and the whole wide world
présented him with no other object than Antonia.
“ Happy man!” he exclaimed in his romantic enthusiasın,
“happy man, who is destined to possess the heart of that
lovely girl! what delicacy in her features ! what elegance in
her form! how enchanting was the timid innocence of her


THE MONK,
219
eyes! and how different from the wanton expression, the
wild luxurious fire, which sparkles in Matilda's! Oh! sweeter
must one kiss be, snatched from the rosy lips of the first, than
all the full and lụstful favours bestowed so freely by the se-
cond. Matilda gluts me with enjoyment, even to loathing,
forces me to her arms, apes the harlot, and glories in her
prostitution. Disgusting! Did she know the inexpressible
charm of modesty, how irresistibly it enthrals the heart of
man, how firmly it chains him to the throne of beauty, she
never would have thrown it off. What would be too dear
a price for this lovely girl's affections ? What would I re-
fuse to sacrifice, could I be released from my vows, and per-
mitted to declare my love in the sight of earth and heaven ?
While I strove to inspire her with tenderness, with friendship
and esteem, how tranquil and undisturbed would the hours
roll away! Gracious God! to see her blue downcast eyes
beam upon mine with timid fondness! to sit for days, for
years, listening to that gentle voice! to acquire the right of
obliging her, and hear the artless expressions of her gratitude!
to watch the emotions of her spotless heart! to encourage
each dawning virtue! to share in her joy when happy, to kiss
away her tears when distressed, and to see her fly to my arms
for comfort and support! Yes; if there is perfect bliss on
earth, 'tis his lot alone who becomes that angel's husband.”
While his fancy coined these ideas, he paced his cell with
a disordered air. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy: his
head reclined upon his shoulder: a tear rolled down his
cheek, while he reflected that the vision of happiness for him
could never be realized.
“ She is lost to me!” he continued, “ by marriage she
cannot be mine : and to seduce such innocence, to use the
confidence reposed in me to work her ruin--Oh! it would
be a crime, blacker than yet the world ever witnessed ! Fear
not, lovely girl! your virtue runs no risk from me. Not for
Indies would I make that gentle bosom know the tortures of
remorse.”


2:20
THE MONK.
Again he paced his chamber hastily. Then stopping, his
eye fell upon the picture of his once-admired Madona. He
tore it with indignation from the wall : he threw it on the
ground, and spurned it from him with his foot.
“ The prostitute!"
Unfortunate Matilda! her paramour forgot, that for his sake
alone she had forfeited her claim to virtue; and his only
reason for despising her was, that she had loved him much
too well.
He threw himself into a chair, which stood near the table.
He saw the card with Elvira's address. He took it up, and
it brought to his recollection his promise respecting a con-
fessor. He passed a few minutes in doubt : but Antonia's em-
pire over him was already too much decided, to permit his
making a long resistance to the idea which struck him. He
resolved to be the confessor himself. He could leave the
abbey unobserved without difficulty: by wrapping up his
head in his cowl, he hoped to pass through the streets without
being recognised: by taking these precautions, and by re-
commending secrecy to Elvira's family, he doubted not to
keep Madrid in ignorance that he had broken his vow never
to see the outside of the abbey-walls. Matilda was the only
person whose vigilance he dreaded :, but by informing her at
the refectory, that during the whole of that day business
would confine him to his cell, he thought himself secure
from her wakeful jealousy. Accordingly at the hour when
the Spaniards are generally taking their siesta, he ventured
to quit the abbey by a private door, the key of which was in
his possession. The cowl of his habit was thrown over his
face: from the heat of the weather the streets were almost
totally deserted : the Monk met with few people, found the
strada di San Iago, and arrived without accident at Donna
Elvira’s door. He rang; was admitted, and immediately
ushered into an upper apartment.
It was here that he ran the greatest risk of a discovery.
Had Leonella been at home, she would have recognised him


THE MONK.
221
directly. Her communicative disposition would never have
permitted her to rest, till all Madrid was informed that Am-
brosio had ventured out of the abbey, and visited her sister.
Fortune here stood the Monk's friend. On Leonella's return
home, she found a letter instructing her, that a cousin was
just dead, who had left what little he possessed between her-
self and Elvira. To secure this bequest, she was obliged to
set out for Cordova without losing a moment. Amidst all her
foibles, her heart was truly warm and affectionate, and she
was unwilling to quit her sister in so dangerous a state. But
Elvira insisted upon her taking the journey, conscious that
in her daughter's forlorn situation, no increase of fortune,
however trifling, ought to be neglected. Accordingly Leonella
left Madrid, sincerely grieved at her sister's illness, and giving
some few sighs to the memory of the amiable but inconstant
Don Christoval. She was fully persuaded, that at first she
had made a terrible breach in his heart: but hearing nothing
more of him, she supposed that he had quitted the pursuit,
disgusted by the lowness of her origin, and knowing upon
other terms than marriage he had nothing to hope from such
a dragon of virtue as she professed herself; or else, that
being naturally capricious and changeable, the remembrance
of her charms had been effaced from the Conde's heart by
those of some newer beauty. Whatever was the cause of her
losing him, she lamented it sorely. She strove in vain, as
she assured every body who was kind enough to listen to
her, to tear his image from her too susceptible heart. She
affected the airs of a love-sick virgin, and carried them all to
the most ridiculous excess. She heaved lamentable sighs,
walked with her arms folded, uttered long soliloquies, and
her discourse generally turned upon some forsaken maid,
who expired of a broken heart! Her fiery locks was always
ornamented with a garland of willow. Every evening she
was seen straying upon the banks of a rivulet by moonlight;
and she declared herself a violent admirer of murmuring
streams and nightingales,
t


222
THE MONK.
“Of lonely haunts, and twilight groves,
Places which pale passion loves !”
Such was the state of Leonella's mind when obliged to quit
Madrid. Elvira was out of patience at all these follies, and
endeavoured at persuading her to act like a reasonable woman.
Her advice was thrown away: Leonella assured her at part-
ing, that nothing could make her forget the perfidious Don
Christoval. In this point she was fortunately mistaken. An
honest youth of Cordova, journeyman to an apothecary, found
that her fortune would be sufficient to set him up in a gen-
teel shop of his own. In consequence of this reflection, he
avowed himself her admirer. Leonella was not inflexible ;
the 'ardour of his sighs melted her heart, and she soon con-
sented to make him the happiest of mankind. She wrote to
inform her sister of her marriage ; but for reasons which will
be explained hereafter, Elvira never answered her letter.
Ambrosio was conducted into the antechamber to that
where Elvira was reposing. The female domestic who had
admitted him, left him alone, while she announced his arrival
to her mistress. Antonia, who had been by her mother's
belside, immediately came to him.'
“Pardon me, father,” said she, advancing towards him ;
when renognising his features, she stopped suddenly, and ut-
tered a cry of joy. “Is it possible ?” she continued, “ do not
my eyes deceive ine? Has the worthy Ambrosio broken
through his resolution, that he may soften the agonies of the
best of women ? What pleasure will this visit give my mo-
ther! Let me not delay for a moment the comfort which
your piety and wisdom will afford her."
Thus saying, she opened the chamber door, presented to
her mother her distinguished visitor, and having placed an
arm-chair by the side of the bed, withdrew into another
apartinent.
Elvira was highly gratified by this visit: her expectations
had been raised high by general report, but she found them


THE MONK.
223
far exceeded. Ambrosio, endowed by nature with powers of
pleasing, exerted them to the utmost while conversing with
Antonia's mother. With persuasive eloquence he calmed
every fear, and dissipated every scruple. He bid her reflect
on the infinite mercy of her judge, despoiled death of his
darts and terrors, and taught her to view without shrinking
the abyss of eternity, on whose brink she then stood. Elvira
was absorbed in attention and delight; while she listened to
his exhortations, confidence and comfort stole insensibly into
her mind. She unbosomed to him without hesitation her
cares and apprehensions. The latter respecting a future life
he had already, quieted, and he now removed the former,
which she felt for the concerns of this. She treinbled for An-
tonia : she had none to whose care she could recommend her,
save to the Marquis de las Cisternas, and her sister Leonella.
The protection of the one was very uncertain; and as to the
other, though fond of her niece, Leonella was so thoughtless
and vain, as to make her an improper person to have the sole
direction of a girl so young and ignorant of the world. The
Friar no sooner learned the cause of her alarms, than he
begged her to make herself easy upon that head. He doubted
not being able to secure for Antonia a safe refuge in the
house of one of his penitents, the Marchioness of Villa-Fran-
ca: this was a lady of acknowledged virtue, remarkable for
strict principles and extensive charity. Should accident de-
. prive her of this resource, he engaged to procure Antonia a
reception in some respectable convent, that is to say, in quality
of boarder; for Elvira had declared herself no friend to a
monastic life, and the Monk was either candid or complai-
sant enough to allow that her disapprobation was not un-
founded
The proofs of the interest which he felt for her, completely
won Elvira's heart. In thanking him, she exhausted every
expression which gratitude could furnish, and protested, that
now she should resign herself with tranquillity to the grave.
Ambrosio rose to take leave; he promised to return the next


224
THE MONK.
day at the same hour, but requested that his visits might be
kept secret.
"I am unwilling," said he,“ that my breaking through a rule
imposed by necessity, should be generally known. Had I not
resolved never to quit my convent, except upon circumstances
as urgent as that which has conducted me to your door, I
should be frequently summoned upon insignificant occasions;
that time would be engrossed by the curious, the unoccupied,
and the fanciful, which I now pass at the bedside of the sick,
in comforting the expiring penitent, and clearing the passage
to eternity from thorns."
Elvira commended equally his prudence and compassion,
promising to conceal carefully the honour of his visits. The
Monk then gave her his benediction, and retired from the
chamber.
In the anteroom he found Antonia; he could not refuse
himself the pleasure of passing a few moments in her society.
He bid her take comfort, for that her mother seemed com-
posed and tranquil, and he hoped that she might yet do well.
He enquired who attended her, and engaged to send the phy-
sician of his convent to see her, one of the most skilful in Ma-
drid. He then launched out in Elvira's commendation,
praised her purity and fortitude of mind, and declared that
she had inspired him with the highest esteem and reverence.
Antonia's innocent heart swelled with gratitude, joy danced
in her eyes, where a tear still sparkled. The hopes which he
gave her of her mother's recovery, the lively interest which
he seemed to feel for her, and the flattering way in which she
was mentioned by him, added to the report of his judgment
and virtue, and to the impression made upon her by his elo-
quence, confirmed the favourable opinion with which his first
appearance had, inspired Antonia. She replied with diffi-
dence, but without restraint: she feared not to relate to him
all her little sorrows, all her little fears and anxieties; and she
thanked him for his goodness with all the genuine warmth
which favours kindle in a young and innocent heart. Such


THE MONK.
2:25
alone knows how to estimate benefits at their full value.
They who are conscious of mankind's perfidy and selfishness,
ever receive an obligation with apprehension and distrust;
they suspect that some secret motive must lurk behind it;
they express their thanks with restraint and caution, and fear
to praise a kind action to its full extent, aware that on some
future day a return may be required. Not so Antonia-she
thought the world was composed only of those who resem-
bled her, and that vice existed was to her still a secret. The
Monk had been of service to her; he said that he wished her
well; she was grateful for his kindness, and thought that no
terms were strong enough to be the vehicle of her thanks.
With what delight did Ambrosio listen to the declaration of
her artless gratitude! The natural grace of her manners,
the unequalled sweetness of her voice, her modest vivacity,
her unstudied elegance, her expressive countenance and in-
telligent eyes, united to inspire him with pleasure and admi-
ration; while the solidity and correctness of her reinarks
received additional beauty from the unaffected simplicity of
the language in which they were conveyed.
Ambrosio was at length obliged to tear himself from this
conversation, which possessed for him but too many charms.
He repeated to Antonia his wishes, that his visits should not
be made known, which desire she promised to observe. He
then quitted the house, while his enchantress hastened to her
mother, ignorant of the mischief which her beauty had caused.
She was eager to know Elvira's opinion of the man whom she
had praised in such enthusiastic terms, and was delighted to
find it equally favourable, if not even more so, than her own.
“ Even before he spoke,” said Elvira, “ I was prejudiced
in his favour: the fervour of his exhortations, dignity of his
manner, and closeness of his reasoning, were very far from
inducing me to alter my opinion. His fine and full-toned
voice struck me particularly; but surely Antonia, I have heard
it before. It seemed perfectly familiar to my ear; either I
must have known the Abbot in former times, or his voice bears
15


226
THE MONK.
a wonderful resemblance to that of some other, to whom I
have often listened. There were certain tones which touched
my very heart, and made me feel sensations so singular that I
strive in vain to account for them.”
“My dearest mother, it produced the same effect upon me;
yet certainly neither of us ever heard his voice till we came to
Madrid. I suspect that what we attribute to his voice, really
proceeds from his pleasant manners, which forbid our con-
sidering him as a stranger. I know not why, but I feel more
at my ease while conversing with him, than I usually do with
people who are unknown to me. I feared not to repeat to
him all my childish thoughts ; and somehow I felt confident
that he would hear my folly with indulgence. Oh! I was not
deceived in him ; he listened to me with such an air of kind-
ness and attention ; he answered me with such gentleness,
such condescension : he did not call me an infant, and treat
me with contempt, as our cross old confessor at the castle used
to do. I verily believe, that if I had lived in Murcia a thou-
sand years, I never should have liked that fat old father Do-
minic !”
“I confess, that Father Dominic had not the most pleasing
manners in the world : but he was honest, friendly, and well-
meaning."
“Ah! my dear mother, those qualities are so common-_"
“God grant, my child, that experience may not teach you to
think them rare and precious : I have found them but too.
much so. But tell me, Antonia, why is it impossible for me to
have seen the Abbot before ?”
“ Because since the moment when he entered the abbey,
he has never been on the outside of its walls. He told me
just now, that from his ignorance of the streets, he had some
difficulty to find the strada di San Iago, though so near the
abbey."
“ All this is possible, and still I may have seen him before
he entered the abbey : in order to come out, it was rather ne-
cessary that he should first go in.”


THE MONK.
227
Holy virgin ! as you say, that is very true.-Oh ! But
might he not have been born in the abbey ?”
Elvira smiled.
• Why, not very easily.”
- Stay, stay! Now I recollect how it was. He was put
into the abbey quite a child; the common people say, that he
fell from heaven, and was sent as a present to the Capuchins
by the Virgin."
“ That was very kind of her. And so he fell from heaven,
Antonia ? He must have had a terrible tumble.”
“ Many do not credit this , and I fancy, my dear mother,
that I must number you among the unbelievers. Indeed, as
our landlady told my aunt, the general idea is, that his parents,
being poor, and unable to maintain him, left him just born at
the abbey-door ; the late superior, from pure charity, had
him educated in the convent, and he proved to be a model of
virtue, and piety, and learning, and I know not what else be-
sides. In consequence, he was first received as a brother of
the order, and not long ago was chosen Abbot. However,
whether this account or the other is the true one--at least all
agree, that when the monks took him under their care, he
could not speak; therefore you could not have heard his
voice before he entered the monastery, because at that time
he had no voice at all.” .
“ Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very closely; your
conclusions are infallible. I did not suspect you of being so
able a logician.”
“ Ah! you are mocking me; but so much the better. It
delights me to see you in spirits ; besides you seem tranquil
and easy, and I hope that you will have no more convulsions.
Oh! I was sure the Abbot's visit would do you good.”
“ It has indeed done me good, my child. He has quieted
my mind upon some points which agitated me, and I already
feel the effects of his attention. My eyes grow heavy, and I
think I can sleep a little. Draw the curtains, my Antonia :
15 *


228
THE MONK.
but if I should not wake before midnight, do not sit up with
me, I charge you."
Antonia promised to obey her; and having received her
blessing, drew the curtains of the bed. She then seated her-
self in silence at her embroidery frame, and beguiled the
hours with building castles in the air. Her spirits were en-
livened by the evident change for the better in Elvira, and
her fancy presented her with visions bright and pleasing. In
these dreams Ambrosio made no despicable figure. She
thought of him with joy and gratitude; but for every idea
which fell to the Friar's share, at least two were uncon-
sciously bestowed upon Lorenzo. Thus passed the time till
the bell in the neighbouring steeple of the Capuchin cathedral
announced the hour of midnight. Antonia remembered her
mother's injunctions, and obeyed them, though with reluc-
tance. She undrew the curtains with caution. Elvira was
enjoying a profound and quiet slumber; her cheek glowed
with health's returning colours: a smile declared that her
dreams were pleasant, and as Antonia bent over her, she fan-
cied that she heard her name pronounced. She kissed her
mother's forehead softly, and retired to her chamber; there
she knelt before a statue of St. Rosalia, her patroness ; she
recommended herself to the protection of heaven, and, as had
been her custom from infancy, concluded her devotions by
chaunting the following stanzas :
MIDNIGHT HYMN.
Now all is hush'd; the solemn chime
No longer swells the nightly gale :
Thy awful presence, hour sublime,
With spotless heart once more I hail.
'Tis now the moment still and dread,
When sorcerers use their baleful power;
When graves give up their buried dead
To profit by the sanctioned hour.


THE MONK.
229
From guilt and guilty thoughts secure,
To duty and devotion true,
With bosom light and conscience pure,
Repose ! thy gentle aid I woo.
Good angels ! take my thanks, that stilk
The snares of vice I view with scorn;
Thanks, that to-night as free from ill
I sleep, as when I woke at morn.
Yet may not my unconscious breast
Harbour some guilt to me unknown?
Some wish impure, which unreprest
You blush to see, and I to own?
If such there be, in gentle dream
Instruct my feet to shun the snare;
Bid truth upon my errors beam,
And deign to make me still your care.
Chase from my peaceful bed away,
The witching spell, a foe to rest,
The nightly goblin, wanton fay,
The ghost in pain, and fiend unblest.
Let not the tempter in mine ear
Pour lessons of unhallowed joy;
Let not the night-mare, wandering near
My couch, the calm of sleep destroy.
Let not some horrid dream affright
With strange fantastic forms mine eyes;
But rather bid some vision bright
Display the bliss of yonder skies;
Show me the crystal domes of heaven,
The worlds of light where angels lie; the
Show me the lot to mortals given, men det
Who guiltless live, who guiltless die.
i l

Then show me how a seat to gain
Amidst those blissful realms of air;
Teach me to shun each guilty stain,
And guide me to the good and fair.
2191
vinte
Bir
So ev'ry morn and night my voice yeibito da
To heaven the grateful strain shall raise;
In you as guardian powers rejoice,
Good angels! and exalt your praise.
other child
praise. 10


230
THE MONK.
So wilt I strive, with zealous fire,
Each vice to shun, each fault correct :
Will love the lessons you inspire,
And prize the virtues you protect.
Then when at length, by high command,
My body seeks the grave's repose,
When death draws nigh with friendly hand,
My failing pilgrim eyes to close :
Pleas'd that my soul has 'scap'd the wreck,
Sighless will I my life resign,
And yield to God my spirit back,
As pure as when it first was mine.
Having finished her usual devotions, Antonia retired to bed.
Sleep soon stole over her senses; and for several hours she
enjoyed that calm repose which innocence alone can know,
and for which many a monarch with pleasure would exchange
his crown.
CHAPTER VII.
-Ah how dark
These long-extended realms and rueful vastes;
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,
Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun
Was rolled together, or had tried its beams
Athwart the gloom profound! The sickly taper,
By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults
Furred round with mouldy damps and ropy slime,
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make thy night more irksome!
BLAIR.
RETURNED undiscovered to the abbey, Ambrosio's mind was
filled with the most pleasing images. He was wilfully blind
to the danger of exposing himself to Antonia's charms: he


THE MONK.
231
only remembered the pleasure which her society had afforded
him, and rejoiced in the prospect of that pleasure being
repeated. He failed not to profit by Elvira's indisposition
to obtain a sight of her daughter every day. At first he
bounded his wishes to inspire Antonia with friendship: but
no sooner was he convinced that she felt that sentiment in its
fullest extent, than his aim became more decided, and his at-
tentions assumed a warmer colour. The innocent familiarity
with which she treated him, encouraged his desires. Grown
used to her modesty, it no longer commanded the same re-
spect and awe: he still admired it, but it only made him more
anxious to deprive her of that quality which formed her prin-
cipal charın. Warmth of passion, and natural penetration,
of which latter, unfortunately both for himself and Antonia,
he possessed as ample share, supplied a knowledge of the arts
of seduction. He easily distinguished the emotions which
were favourable to his designs, and seized every means with
avidity of infusing corruption into Antonia's bosom. This he
found no easy matter. Extreme simplicity prevented her from
perceiving the aim to which the Monk's insinuations tended;
but the excellent morals which she owed to Elvira's care, the
solidity and correctness of her understanding, and a strong
sense of what was right, implanted in her heart by nature,
made her feel that his precepts must be faulty. By a few
simple words she frequently overthrew the whole bulk of his
sophistical arguments, and made him conscious how weak
they were when opposed to virtue and truth. On such oc-
casions he took refuge in his eloquence; he overpowered her
with a torrent of philosophical paradoxes, to which, not un-
derstanding them, it was impossible for her to reply; and thus,
though he did not convince her that his reasoning was just, he
at least prevented her from discovering it to be false. He
perceived that her respect for his judgment augmented daily,
and doubted not with time to bring her to the point de-
sired.
He was not unconscious that his attempts were highly cri-


232
THE MONK.
minal. He saw clearly the baseness of seducing the innocent
girl; but his passion was too violent to permit his abandon-
ing his design. He resolved to pursue it, let the conse-
quences be what they might. He depended upon finding An-
tonia in some unguarded moment; and seeing no other man
admitted into her society, nor hearing any mentioned either by
her or by Elvira, he imagined that her young heart was still
unoccupied. While he waited for the opportunity of satisfy-
ing his unwarrantable lust, every day increased his coldness
for Matilda. Not a little was this occasioned by the con-
sciousness of his faults to her. To hide them from her, he was
not sufficiently master of himself; yet he dreaded lest, in a
transport of jealous rage, she should betray the secret, on
which his character and even his life depended. Matilda
could not but remark his indifference: he was conscious that
she remarked it, and, fearing her reproaches, shunned her
studiously. Yet, when he could not avoid her, her mildness
might have convinced him that he had nothing to dread from
her resentment. She had resumed the character of the gentle
interesting Rosario : she taxed him not with ingratitude; but
her eyes filled with involuntary tears, and the soft melancholy
of her countenance and voice, uttered complaints far more
touching than words could have conveyed. Ambrosio was
not unmoved by her sorrow; but unable to remove its cause,
he forbore to show that it affected him. As her conduct con-
vinced him that he needed not fear her vengeance, he con-
tinued to neglect her, and avoided her company with care.
Matilda saw that she in vain attempted to regain his affections,
yet she stified the impulse of resentment, and continued to
treat her inconstant lover with her former fondness and af-
fection.
By degrees Elvira's constitution recovered itself. She was
no longer troubled with convulsions, and Antonia ceased to
tremble for her mother. Ambrosio beheld this reestablish-
ment with displeasure. He saw that Elvira's knowledge of
the world would not be the dupe of his sanctified demeanour,


THE MONK.
233
and that she would easily perceive his views upon her
daughter. He resolved, therefore, before she quitted her
chamber, to try the extent of his influence over the innocent
Antonia.
One evening, when he had found Elvira almost perfectly
restored to health, he quitted her earlier than was his usual
custom. Not finding Antonia in the antechamber, he ven-
tured to follow her to her own. It was only separated from
her mother's by a closet, in which Flora, the waiting-woman,
generally slept. Antonia sat upon a sofa with her back to-
wards the door, and read attentively. She heard not his ap-
proach, till he had seated himself by her. She started, and
welcomed him with a look of pleasure; then rising, she would
have conducted him to the sitting-room; but Ambrosio,
taking her hand, obliged her by gentle violence to resume
her place. She complied without difficulty: she knew not
that there was more impropriety in conversing with him in
one room than another. She thought herself equally secure
of his principles and her own; and having replaced herself
upon the sofa, she began to prattle to him with her usual ease
and vivacity.
He examined the book which she had been reading, and
had now placed upon the table. It was the Bible.
... “How!” said the Friar to himself, “ Antonia reads the
Bible, and is still so ignorant ?”
But, upon a further inspection, he found that Elvira had
made exactly the same remark. That prudent mother, while
she admired the beauties of the sacred writings, was con-
vinced that, unrestricted, no reading more improper could be
permitted a young woman. Many of the narratives can only
tend to excite ideas the worst calculated for a female breast :
every thing is called plainly and roundly by its name; and the
annals of a brothel would scarcely furnish a greater choice
of indecent expressions. Yet this is the book which young
women are recommended to study, which is put into the
hands of children, able to comprehend little more than those


231
THE MONK.
passages of which they had better remain ignorant, and
which but too frequently inculcates the first rudiments of vice,
and gives the first alarm to the still sleeping passions. Of this
was Elvira so fully convinced, that she would have preferred
putting into her daughter's hands “ Amadis de Gaule," or
“ The Valiant Champion, Tirante the White;" and would
sooner have authorised her studying the lewd exploits of
“Don Galaor,” or the lascivious jokes of the “ Damsel Plazer
di mi vida.” She had in consequence made two resolutions
respecting the Bible. The first was, that Antonia should not
read it till she was of an age to feel its beauties, and profit
by its morality. The second, that it should be copied out
with her own hand, and all improper passages either altered
or omitted. She had adhered to this determination, and
such was the Bible which Antonia was reading : it had been
lately delivered to her, and she perused it with an avidity,
with a delight that was inexpressible. Ambrosio perceived
his mistake, and replaced the book upon the table.
Antonia spoke of her mother's health with all the enthu-
siastic joy of a youthful heart.
“I admire your filial affection,” said the Abbot; "it proves
the excellence and sensibility of your character; it promises
a treasure to him whom Heaven has destined to possess your
affections. The breast so capable of fondness for a parent,
what will it feel for a lover? Nay, perhaps, what feels it for
one even now? Tell me, my lovely daughter, have you
known what it is to love ? Answer me with sincerity: forget
my habit, and consider me only as a friend."
“ What it is to love ?” said she, repeating his question.
“Oh! yes, undoubtedly; I have loved many, many people."
“ That is not what I mean. The love of which I speak
can be felt only for one. Have you never seen the man whom
you wished to be your husband ?”
“Oh! no, indeed!”
This was an untruth, but she was unconscious of its false-
hood : she knew not the nature of her sentiments for Lo-


THE MONK.
235
renzo; and never having seen him since his first visit to El-
vira, with every day his image grew less feebly impressed
upon her bosom: besides, she thought of a husband with all
a virgin's terror, and negatived the Friar's demand without a
moment's hesitation.
“ And do you not long to see that man, Antonia ? Do you
feel no void in your heart, which you fain would have filled
up ? Do you heave no sighs for the absence of some one
dear to you, but who that some one is you know not ? Per-
ceive you not that what formerly could please, has charms
for you no longer ? that a thousand new wishes, new ideas,
new sensations, have sprung in your bosom, only to be felt,
never to be described ? Or, while you fill every other heart
with passion, is it possible that your own remains insensible
and cold ? It cannot be! That melting eye, that blushing
cheek, that enchanting voluptuous melancholy which at times
overspreads your features—all these marks belie your words :
you love, Antonia, and in vain would hide it from me.”
“ Father, you amaze me! What is this love of which you
speak ? I neither know its nature, nor, if I felt it, why
I should conceal the sentiment.”
“ Have you seen no man, Antonia, whom, though never
seen before, you seemed long to have sought ? whose form,
though a stranger's, was familiar to your eyes ? the sound
of whose voice soothed you, pleased you, penetrated to your
very soul ? in whose presence you rejoiced, for whose absence
you lamented ? with whom your heart seemed to expand,
and in whose bosom, with confidence unbounded, you re-
posed the cares of your own ? Have you not felt all this,
Antonia ?”
“Certainly I have: the first time that I saw you, I felt it.”
Ambrosio started. Scarcely dared he credit his hearing.
“ Me, Antonia P” he cried, his eyes sparkling with delight
and impatience, while he seized her hand, and pressed it rap-
turously to his lips. “Me, Antonia ? you felt these sentiments
for me ?”


THE MONK
- Even with more strength than you kave described The
very moment that I bebeld you. I felt so pleased, so interested!
I waited so eagerly to catch the sound of your rouce, and.
wbea I beard it, it seemed so sweet! it spoke to me a las-
guage till then so unknown! Mahought it told me a thousand
thics which I wished to hear! It seemed as if I had long
koond you; as if I had a right to your frieadship your
advice, and your protection. I wept when you departed.
and longed for the time which should restore you to my
- Anionia! my charming Antonia!" exclaimed the Monk,
and caught ber to his bosom: “Can I bebere my senses?
Repeat it to me, my sweet girl! Tell me again that pou love
me, that you love me truls and tenderly!
-- Indeed, I do: let my mother be excepted, and the world
bolds no one more dear to me."
At this frank arowal Ambrosio no longer possessed him-
self: wild with desire, he casped the blushing tremblar in
his arms. He fastened his lips greedily upon bers, socked in
her pure delicious breath, violated with his bold hand the
treasures of ber bosom, and round around him ber soft and
velding limbs. Startled, alarmed, and confused at his action,
surprise at first deprived her of the power of resistance. At
length recovering berself, she strove to escape from his em-
brace.
-- Faiber!-Ambrosio!" she cried: -release me, for God's
sake.
But the licentious Monk heeded not ber prayers: he per-
sisted in his design, and proceeded to take still greater liber-
ties. Antonia praved, wept, and strugded: terrified to the
extreme, though at what she knew not, she exerted all her
strength to repulse the Friar, and was on the point of shrieb-
ing for assistance, when the chamber-door was suddenly
thrown open. Ambrosio had just sufficient presence of mind
to be sensible of his darger. Reluctantly he quitted his pres,
and started hastils from the couch. Antonia uttered an es-


THE MONK.
237
clamation of joy, flew towards the door, and found herself
clasped in the arms of her mother.
Alarmed at some of the Abbot's speeches, which Antonia
had innocently repeated, Elvira resolved to ascertain the truth
of her suspicions. She had known enough of mankind, not
to be imposed upon by the Monk's reputed virtue. She re-
flected on several circumstances, which, though trifling, on
being put together seemed to authorize her fears. His fre-
quent visits, which, as far as she could see, were confined to
her family; his evident emotion, whenever she spoke of An-
tonia ; his being in the full prime and heat of manhood; and
above all, his pernicious philosophy communicated to her by
Antonia, and which accorded but ill with his conversation in
her presence; all these circumstances inspired her with doubts
respecting the purity of Ambrosio's friendship. In conse-
quence, she resolved, when he should next be alone with
Antonia, to endeavour at surprising him. Her plan had suc-
ceeded. 'Tis true, that when she entered the room, he had
already abandoned his prey; but the disorder of her daugh-
ter's dress, and the shame and confusion stamped upon the
Friar's countenance, sufficed to prove that her suspicions
were but too well founded. However, she was too prudent
to make those suspicions known. She judged, that to un-
mask the impostor would be no easy matter, the public being
so much prejudiced in his favour : and having but few friends,
she thought it dangerous to make herself so powerful an
enemy. She affected therefore not to remark his agitation,
seated herself tranquilly upon the sofa, assigned some tri-
fling reason for having quitted her room unexpectedly, and
conversed on various subjects with seeming confidence and
ease.
Reassured by her behaviour, the Monk began to recover
himself. He strove to answer Elvira without appearing em-
barrassed : but he was still too great a novice in dissimula-
tion, and he felt that he must look confused and awkward.
He soon broke off the conversation, and rose to depart.


238
THE MONK.
What was his vexation when, on taking leave, Elvira told
him, in polite terms, that being now perfectly reestablished,
she thought it an injustice to deprive others of his company
who might be more in need of it! She assured him of her
eternal gratitude, for the benefit which during her illness she
had derived from his society and exhortations : and she la-
mented that her domestic affairs, as well as the multitude of
business which his situation must of necessity impose upon
him, would in future deprive her of the pleasure of his visits.
-Though delivered in the mildest language, this hint was
too plain to be mistaken. Still he was preparing to put in
a remonstrance, when an expressive look from Elvira stopped
him short. He dared not press her to receive him, for her
manner convinced him that he was discovered: he submitted
without reply, took an hasty leave, and retired to the abbey,
his heart filled with rage and shame, with bitterness and
disappointment.
Antonia's mind felt relieved by his departure ; yet she could
not help lamenting that she was never to see him more. El-
vira ,also felt a secret sorrow: she had received too much
pleasure from thinking him her friend, not to regret the ne-
cessity of changing her opinion; but her mind was too much
accustomed to the fallacy of worldly friendships to permit her
present disappointment to weigh upon it long. She now
endeavoured to make her daughter aware of the risk which
she had run : but she was obliged to treat the subject with
caution, lest in removing the bandage of ignorance, the veil
of innocence should be rent away. She therefore contented
herself with warning Antonia to be upon her guard, and or-
dering her, should the Abbot persist in his visits, never to re-
ceive them but in company. With this injunction Antonia
promised to comply
Ambrosio hastened to his cell. He closed the door after
him, and threw himself upon the bed in despair. The im-
pulse of desire, the stings of disappointment, the shame of de-
tection, and the fear of being publicly unmasked, rendered


THE MONK.
239
his bosom a scene of the most horrible confusion. He knew
not what course to pursue. Debarred the presence of An-
tonia, he had no hopes of satisfying that passion which was
now become a part of his existence. He reflected that his
secret was in a woman's power: he trembled with appre-
hension when he beheld the precipice before him, and with
rage when he thought that, had it not been for Elvira, he
should now have possessed the object of his desires. With
the direst imprecations he vowed vengeance against her: he
swore that, cost what it would, he still would possess An-
tonia. Starting from the bed, he paced the chamber with
disordered steps, howled with impotent fury, dashed himself
violently against the walls, and indulged in all the transports
of rage and madness.
He was still under the influence of this storm of passions,
when he heard a gentle knock at the door of his cell. Con-
scious that his voice must have been heard, he dared not re-
fuse admittance to the importuner. He strove to compose
himself, and to hide his agitation. Having in some degree
succeeded, he drew back the bolt: the door opened, and
Matilda appeared.
At this precise moment there was no one with whose pre-
sence he could better have dispensed. He had not sufficient
command over himself to conceal his vexation. He started
back and frowned.
"I am busy,” said he in a stern and hasty tone; “ leave
me.”
Matilda heeded him not; she again fastened the door, and
then advanced towards him with an air gentle and suppli-
cating.
“Forgive me, Ambrosio,” said she; “for your own sake
I must not obey you. Fear no complaints from me; I come
not to reproach you with your ingratitude. I pardon you
from my heart; and since your love can no longer be mine, I
request the next best gift, your confidence and friendship.
We cannot force our inclinations: the little beauty which


240
THE MONK.
you once saw in me has perished with its novelty; and if it
can no longer excite desire, mine is the fault, not yours. But
why persist in shunning me? why such anxiety to fly my
presence? You have sorrows, but will not permit me to
share them; you have disappointments, but will not accept
my comfort; you have wishes, but forbid my aiding your pur-
suits. 'Tis of this which I complain, not of your indifference
to my person. I have given up the claims of the mistress,
but nothing shall prevail on me to give up those of the
friend."
“Generous Matilda !” he replied, taking her hand, “how
far do you rise superior to the foibles of your sex! Yes, I
accept your offer. I have need of an adviser, and a con-
fident: in you I find every needful quality united. But to
aid my pursuits—–Ah! Matilda! it lies not in your power!"
" It lies in no one's power but mine, Ambrosio-your secret
is none to me : your every step, your every action has been
observed by my attentive eye. You love."
“ Matilda !"
" Why conceal it from me ? Fear not the little jealousy
which taints the generality of women : my soul disdains so
despicable a passion. You love, Ambrosio ; Antonia Dalfa is
the object of your flame. I know every circumstance re-
specting your passion. Every conversation has been repeated
to me. I have been informed of your attempt to enjoy An-
tonia's person, your disappointment and dismission from El-
vira's house. You now despair of possessing your mistress ;
but I come to revive your hopes, and point out the road to
success.”
“ To success ? Oh! impossible.”
“ To those who dare, nothing is impossible. Rely upon
me, and you may yet be happy. The time is come, Ambrosio,
when regard for your comfort and tranquillity compels me to
reveal a part of my history, with which you are still unac-
quainted. Listen, and do not interrupt me. Should my con-
fession disgust you, remember that in making it, my sole aim


THE MONK.
241
is to satisfy your wishes, and restore that peace to your heart
which at present has abandoned it. I formerly mentioned,
that my guardian was a man of uncommon knowledge. He
took pains to instil that knowledge into my infant mind.'
Among the various sciences which curiosity had induced him
to explore, he neglected not that which by most is esteemed
impious, and by many chimerical: I speak of those arts which
relate to the world of spirits. His deep researches into causes
and effects, his unwearied application to the study of natural
philosophy, his profound and unlimited knowledge of the pro-
perties and virtues of every gem which enriches the deep, of
every herb which the earth produces, at length procured him
the distinction which he had sought so long, so earnestly.
His curiosity was fully flaked, his ambition amply gratified.
He gave laws to the elements : he could reverse the order of
nature : his eyes read the mandates of futurity, and the infer-
nal spirits were submissive to his commands. Why shrink
you from me? I understand that inquiring look. Your sus-
picions are right, though your terrors are unfounded. My
guardian concealed not from me his most precious acquisition.
Yet, had I never seen you, I should never have exerted my
power. Like you, I shuddered at the thoughts of magic.
Like you, I had formed a terrible idea of the consequences of
raising a demon. To preserve that life which your love had
taught me to prize, I had recourse to means which I trembled
at employing. You remember that night which I passed in
St. Clare's sepulchre ? Then was it that, surrounded by
mouldering bodies, I dared to perform those mystic rites,
which summoned to my aid a fallen angel. Judge what must
have been my joy at discovering that my terrors were ima-
ginary. I saw the demon obedient to my orders : I saw him
trembling at my frown; and found that, instead of selling my
soul to a master, my courage had purchased for myself a
slave." " , ..
“ Rash Matilda! What have you done? You have
doomed yourself to endless perdition; you have bartered for
16


242
THE MONK.
momentary power eternal happiness! If on witchcraft de-
pends the fruition of my desires, I renounce your aid most ab-
solutely. The consequences are too horrible. I dote upon
Antonia, but am not so blinded by lust, as to sacrifice for her
enjoyment my existence both in this world and in the next.”
“ Ridiculous prejudices! Oh! blush Ambrosio, blush at
being subjected to their dominion. Where is the risk of ac-
cepting my offers ? What should induce my persuading you
to this step, except the wish of restoring you to happiness and
quiet? If there is danger, it must fall upon me. It is I who
invoke the ministry of the spirits: mine therefore will be the
crime, and yours the profit; but danger there is none. The
enemy of mankind is my slave, not my sovereign. Is there
no difference between giving and receiving laws, between
serving and commanding ? Awake from your idle dreams.
Ambrosio ! throw from you these terrors so ill suited to a
soul like yours ; leave them for common men, and dare to
be happy! Accompany me this night to St. Clare's sepul-
chre; there witness my incantations, and Antonia is your
own.”
“ To obtain her by such means, I neither can nor will.
Cease then to persuade me, for I dare not employ hell's
agency."
“ You dare not ? How have you deceived me! That
mind which I esteemed so great and valiant, proves to be
feeble, puerile, and grovelling,—a slave to vulgar errors, and
weaker than a woman's.”
• What? Though conscious of the danger, wilfully shall
I expose myself to the seducer's arts ? Shall I renounce for
ever my title to salvation ? Shall my eyes seek a sight which
I know will blast them ? No, no, Matilda, I will not ally
myself with God's enemy."
“ Are you then God's friend at present ? Have you not
broken your engagements with him, renounced his service
and abandoned yourself to the impulse of your passions ?
Are you not planning the destruction of innocence, the ruin


THE MONK.
243
of a creature whom he formed in the mould of angels? If
not of demons, whose aid would you invoke to forward this
laudable design ? Will the seraphims protect it, conduct
Antonia to your arms, and sanction with their ministry your
illicit pleasures ? Absurd ! But I am not deceived, Ambro-
sio ! It is not virtue which makes you reject my offer; you
would accept it, but you dare not. 'Tis not the crime which
holds your hand, but the punishment ; 'tis not respect for
God which restrains you, but the terror of his vengeance !
Fain would you offend him in secret, but you tremble to pro-
fess yourself his foe. Now shame on the coward soul, which
wants the courage either to be a firm friend, or an open
enemy !"
“ To look upon guilt with horror, Matilda, is in itself a
merit : in this respect I glory to confess myself a coward.
Though my passions have made me deviate from her laws, I
still feel in my heart an innate love of virtue. But it ill be-
comes you to tax me with my perjury; you who first seduced
me to violate my vows; you who first roused my sleeping
vices, made me feel the weight of religion's chains, and bade
me be convinced that guilt had pleasures. Yet though my
principles have yielded to the force of temperament, I still
have sufficient grace to shudder at sorcery, and avoid a crime
so monstrous, so unpardonable !".
“Unpardonable, say you? Where then is your constant
boast of the Almighty's infinite mercy ? Has he of late set
bounds to it? Receives he no longer a sinner with joy ?
You injure him, Ambrosio ; you will always have time to re-
pent, and he have goodness to forgive. Afford him a glorious
opportunity to exert that goodness: the greater your crime,
the greater his merit in pardoning. Away then with these
childish scruples ; be persuaded to your good, and follow me
to the sepulchre.”
“Oh! cease, Matilda! That scoffing tone, that bold and
impious language is horrible in every mouth, but most so in
a woman's. Let us drop a conversation, which excites no
16*


214
THE MONK.
other sentiments than horror and disgust. I will not follow
you to the sepulchre, or accept the services of your infernal
agents. Antonia shall be mine, but mine by human means.”
" Then yours she will never be! You are banished her
presence: her mother has opened her eyes to your designs,
and she is now upon her guard against them. Nay, more, she
loves another; a youth of distinguished merit possesses her
heart; and unless you interfere, a few days will make her his
bride. This intelligence was brought me by my invisible ser-
vants, to whom I had recourse on first perceiving your indif-
ference. They watched your every action, related to me all
that passed at Elvira's, and inspired me with the idea of fa-
vouring your designs. Their reports have been my only
comfort. Though you shunned my presence, all your pro-
ceedings were known to me; nay, I was constantly with you
in some degree, thanks to this most precious gift!"
With these words she drew from beneath her habit a mir-
ror of polished steel, the borders of which were marked with
various strange and unknown characters.
“ Amidst all my sorrows, amidst all my regrets for your
coldness, I was sustained from despair by the virtues of this
talisman. On pronouncing certain words, the person appears
in it on whom the observer's thoughts are bent: thus, though
I was exiled from your sight, you, Ambrosio, were ever pre-
sent to mine."
The Friar's curiosity was strongly excited.
“What you relate is incredible! Matilda, are you not amus-
ing yourself with my credulity ?”
“Be your own eyes the judge.”
She put the mirror into his hand. Curiosity induced him
to take it, and love, to wish that Antonia might appear. Ma-
tilda pronounced the magic words. Immediately a thick
smoke rose from the characters traced upon the borders, and
spread itself over the surface. It dispersed again gradually;
a confused mixture of colours and images presented them-
selves to the Friar's eyes, which at length arranging themselves


THE MONK.
245
in their proper places, he beheld in miniature Antonia's love-
ly form.
The scene was a small closet belonging to her apartment.
She was undressing to bathe herself. The long tresses of her
hair were already bound up. The amorous Monk had full
opportunity to observe the voluptuous contours and admi-
rable symmetry of her person. She threw off her last garment,
and, advancing to the bath prepared for her, put her foot into
the water. It struck cold, and she drew it back again. Though
unconscious of being observed, an inbred sense of modesty
induced her to veil her charms: and she stood hesitating upon
the brink, in the attitude of the Venus de Medicis. At this
moment a tame linnet flew towards her, nestled its head be-
tween her breasts, and nibbled them in wanton play. The
smiling Antonia strove in vain to shake off the bird, and at
length raised her hands to drive it from its delightful harbour.
Ambrosio could bear no more. His desires were worked up
to frenzy.
“I yield !” he cried, dashing the mirror upon the ground:
“ Matilda, I follow you! Do with me what you will !"
She waited not to hear his consent repeated. It was al-
ready midnight. She flew to her cell, and soon returned with
her little basket and the key of the cemetery, which had re-
mained in her possession since her first visit to the vaults.
She gave the Monk no time for reflection.
“Come!” she said, and took his hand ; “ folow me, and
witness the effects of your resolve.”
This said, she drew him hastily along. They passed into
the burying-ground unobserved, opened the door of the se-
pulchre, and found themselves at the head of the subter-
raneous staircase. As yet the beams of the full moon had
guided their steps, but that resource now failed them. Ma-
tilda had neglected to provide herself with a lamp. Still
holding Ambrosio's hand, she descended the marble steps; but
the profound obscurity with which they were overspread,
obliged them to walk slow and cautiously.


246
THE MONK.
“ You tremble!” said Matilda to her companion; “ fear
not, the destined spot is near.”
They reached the foot of the staircase, and continued to
proceed, feeling their way along the walls. On turning a
corner, suddenly they descried faint gleams of light, which
seemed burning at a distance. Thither they bent their steps.
The rays proceeded from a small sepulchral lamp, which
flamed unceasingly before the statue of St. Clare. It tinged
with dim and cheerless beams the massy columns which sup-
ported the roof, but was too feeble to dissipate the thick gloom
in which the vaults above were buried.
Matilda took the lamp.
“Wait for me!" said she to the Friar; “ in a few moments
I am here again.”
With these words she hastened into one of the passages
which branched in various directions from this spot, and
formed a sort of labyrinth. Ambrosio was now left alone.
Darkness the most profound surrounded him, and encouraged
the doubts which began to revive in his bosom. He had
been hurried away by the delirium of the moment. The
shame of betraying his terrors, while in Matilda's presence,
had induced him to repress them; but, now that he was aban-
doned to himself, they resumed their former ascendency. He
trembled at the scene which he was soon to witness. He
knew not how far the delusions of magic might operate upon
his mind: they possibly might force him to some deed, whose
commission would make the breach between himself and
Heaven irreparable. In this fearful dilemma, he would have
implored God's assistance, but was conscious that he had
forfeited all claim to such protection. Gladly would he have
returned to the abbey; but as he had passed through innu-
merable caverns and winding passages, the attempt of re-
gaining the stairs was hopeless. His fate was determined ;
no possibility of escape presented itself. He therefore com-
bated his apprehensions, and called every argument to his
succour, which might enable him to support the trying scene


THE MONK.
247
with fortitude. He reflected, that Antonia would be the re-
ward of his daring. He inflamed his imagination by enume-
rating her charms. He persuaded himself, that, as Matilda
had observed, he always should have time sufficient for re-
pentance; and that, as he employed her assistance, not that
of demons, the crime of sorcery could not be laid to his
charge. He had read much respecting witchcraft; he un-
derstood that, unless a formal act was signed renouncing his
claim to salvation, Satan would have no power over him. He
was fully determined not to execute any such act, whatever
threats might be used, or advantages held out to him.
Such were his meditations while waiting for Matilda. They
were interrupted by a low murmur, which seemed at no
great distance from him. He was startled—he listened.
Some minutes passed in silence, after which the murmur was
repeated. It appeared to be the groaning of one in pain. In
any other situation, this circumstance would only have ex-
cited his attention and curiosity. In the present, his predo-
minant sensation was that of terror. His imagination totally
engrossed by the ideas of sorcery and spirits, he fancied that
some unquiet ghost was wandering near him; or else that
Matilda had fallen a victim to her presumption, and was pe-
rishing under the cruel fangs of the demons. The noise
seemed not to approach, but continued to be heard at inter-
vals. Sometimes it became more audible-doubtless, as the
sufferings of the person who uttered the groans became more
acute and insupportable. Ambrosio now and then thought
that he could distinguish accents, and once in particular he
was almost convinced that he heard a faint voice exclaim,
“God! Oh God! No hope! No succour!"
Yet deeper groans followed these words : they died away
gradually, and universal silence again prevailed.
“ What can this mean P” thought the bewildered Monk.
At that moment an idea which flashed into his mind, al-
most petrified him with horror. He started, and shuddered
at himself.


248
THE MONK.
“Should it be possible!”—he groaned involuntarily ;
“ should it but be possible! Oh! what a monster am I!”
He wished to resolve his doubts, and to repair his fault, if
it were not too late already. But these generous and com-
passionate sentiments were soon put to flight by the return of
Matilda. He forgot the groaning sufferer, and remembered
nothing but the danger and embarrassment of his own situa-
tion. The light of the returning lamp gilded the walls, and
in a few moments after Matilda stood beside him. She had
quitted her religious habit : she was now clothed in a long
sable robe, on which was traced in gold embroidery a variety
of unknown characters: it was fastened by a girdle of pre-
cious stones, in which was fixed a poniard. Her neck and
arms were uncovered; in her hand she bore a golden wand;
her hair was loose, and flowed wildly upon her shoulders ;
her eyes .sparkled with terrific expression; and her whole
demeanour was calculated to inspire the beholder with awe
and admiration.
“Follow me!” she said to the Monk in a low and solemn
voice; “ all is ready!”
His limbs trembled while he obeyed her. She led him
through various narrow passages ; and on every side, as they
passed along, the beams of the lamp displayed none but the
most revolting objects ; sculls, hones, graves, and images
whose eyes seemed to glare on them with horror and sur-
prise. At length they reached a spacious cavern, whose lofty
roof the eye sought in vain to discover. A profound obscu-,
rity hovered through the void ; damp vapours struck cold to
the Friar's heart; and he listened sadly to the blast while it
howled along the lonely vaults. Here Matilda stopped. She
turned to Ambrosio. His cheeks and lips were pale with
apprehension. By a glance of mingled scorn and anger she
reproved his pusillanimity, but she spoke not. She placed
the lamp upon the ground near the basket. She motioned
that Ambrosio should be silent, and began the mysterious
rites. She drew a circle round him, another round herself ;


THE MONK.
249
and then taking a small phial from the basket, poured a few
drops upon the ground before her. She bent over the place,
muttered some indistinct sentences, and immediately a pale
sulphurous flame arose from the ground. It increased by
degrees, and at length spread its waves over the whole sur-
face, the circles alone excepted in which stood Matilda and
the Monk. It then ascended the huge columns of unhewn
stone, glided along the roof, and formed the cavern into an
immense chamber totally covered with blue trembling fire.
It emitted no heat : on the contrary, the extreme chillness of
the place seemed to augment with every moment. Matilda
continued her incantations ; at intervals she took various ar-
ticles from the basket, the nature and name of most of which
were unknown to the Friar : but among the few which he
distinguished, he particularly observed three human fingers,
and an agnus dei which she broke in pieces. She threw them
all into the flames which burned before her, and they were
instantly consumed. '
The Monk beheld her with anxious curiosity. Suddenly
she uttered a loud and piercing shriek. She appeared to be
seized with an access of delirium; she tore her hair, beat her
bosom, used the most frantic gestures, and, drawing the po-
niard from her girdle, plunged it into her left arm. The blood
gushed out plentifully; and, as she stood on the brink of the
circle, she took care that it should fall on the outside. The
flames retired from the spot on which the blood was pouring.
A volume of dark clouds rose slowly from the ensanguined
earth, and ascended gradually till it reached the vault of the
cavern. At the same time a clap of thunder was heard, the
echo pealed fearfully along the subterraneous passages, and
the ground shook beneath the feet of the enchantress.
It was now that Ambrosio repented of his rashness. The
solemn singularity of the charm had prepared him for some-
thing strange and horrible. He waited with fear for the spirits
appearance, whose coming was announced by thunder and
earthquakes. He looked wildly around him, expecting that


250
THE MONK.
some dreadful apparition would meet his eyes, the sight of
which would drive him mad. A cold shivering seized his body,
and he sunk upon one knee, unable to support himself.
“He comes!” exclaimed Matilda in a joyful accent.
Ambrosio started, and expected the demon with terror.
What was his surprise when, the thunder ceasing to roll, a
full strain of melodious music sounded in the air! At the
same time the cloud disappeared, and he beheld a figure more
beautiful than fancy's pencil ever drew. It was a youth
seemingly scarce eighteen, the perfection of whose form and
face was unrivalled. He was perfectly naked : a bright star
sparkled upon his forehead, two crimson wings extended them-
selves from his shoulders, and his silken locks were confined
by a band of many coloured fires, which played round his head,
formed themselves into a variety of figures, and shone with a
brilliance far surpassing that of precious stones. Circlets of
diamonds were placed round his arms and ankles, and in his
right hand he bore a silver branch imitating myrtle. His form
shone with dazzling glory: he was surrounded by clouds of
rose-coloured light, and at the moment that he appeared, a
refreshing air breathed perfumes through the cavern. En-
chanted at a vision so contrary to his expectations, Ambrosio
gazed upon the spirit with delight and wonder; yet, however
beautiful the figure, he could not but remark a wildness in the
demon's eyes, and a mysterious melancholy impressed upon
his features, betraying the fallen angel, and inspiring the spec-
tators with secret awe.
The music ceased. Matilda addressed herself to the spirit;
she spoke in a language unintelligible to the Monk, and was
answered in the same. She seemed to insist upon something
which the demon was unwilling to grant. He frequently
darted upon Ambrosio angry glances, and at such times the
Friar's heart sank within him. Matilda appeared to grow in-
censed; she spoke in a loud and commanding tone, and her
gestures declared that she was threatening him with her ven-
geance. Her menaces had the desired effect. The spirit sank


THE MONK.
251
upon his knee, and with a submissive air presented to her the
branch of myrtle.— No sooner had she received it, than the
music was again heard; a thick cloud spread itself over the
apparition; the blue flames disappeared, and total obscurity
reigned through the cave. The Abbot moved not from his
place: his faculties were all bound up in pleasure, anxiety, and
surprise. At length the darkness dispersing, he perceived
Matilda standing near him in her religious habit, with the
myrtle in her hand. No traces remained of the incantation,
and the vaults were only illuminated by the faint rays of the
sepulchral lamp.
“I have succeeded," said Matilda, “though with more
difficulty than I expected. Lucifer, whom I summoned to
my assistance, was at first unwilling to obey my commands:
to enforce his compliance, I was constrained to have recourse
to my strongest charms. They have produced the desired
effect, but I have engaged never more to invoke his agency
in your favour. Beware then how you employ an opportu-
nity that never will return. My magic arts will now be of
no use to you: in future you can only hope for supernatural
aid by invoking the demons yourself, and accepting the con-
ditions of their service. This you will never do. You want
strength of mind to force them to obedience ; and unless you
pay their established price, they will not be your voluntary
servants. In this one instance they consent to obey you; I
offer you the means of enjoying your mistress, and be careful
not to lose the opportunity. Receive this constellated myrtle :
while you bear this in your hand every door will fly open to
you. It will procure you access to-morrow night to Antonia's
chamber: then breathe upon it thrice, pronounce her name,
and place it upon her pillow. A death-like slumber will im-
mediately seize upon her, and deprive her of the power of
resisting your attempts. Sleep will hold her till break of
morning. In this state you may satisfy your desires without
danger of being discovered; since, when day-light shall dispel
the effects of the enchantment, Antonia will perceive her dis-


252
THE MONK.
honour, but be ignorant of the ravisher. Be happy then, my
Ambrosio, and let this service convince you that my friend-
ship is disinterested and pure. The night must be near
expiring: let us return to the abbey, lest our absence should
create surprise.”
The Abbot received the talisman with silent gratitude. His
ideas were too much bewildered by the adventures of the
night, to permit his expressing his thanks audibly, or indeed
as yet to feel the whole value of her present. Matilda took
up her lamp and basket, and guided her companion from the
mysterious cavern. She restored the lamp to its former place,
and continued her route in darkness till she reached the foot
of the staircase.— The first beams of the rising sun darting
down it facilitated the ascent. Matilda and the Abbot hastened
out of the sepulchre, closed the door after them, and soon
regained the abbey's western cloister. No one met them, and
they retired unobserved to their respective cells.
The confusion of Ambrosio's mind now began to appease.
He rejoiced in the fortunate issue of his adventure, and, re-
flecting upon the virtues of the myrtle, looked upon Antonia
as already in his power. Imagination retraced to him those
secret charms betrayed to him by the enchanted mirror, and
he waited with impatience for the approach of midnight.


THE MONK,
253
.
.
• CHAPTER VIII.
The crickets sing, and man's o’erlaboured sense
Repairs itself by rest : our Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes, ere he wakened
The chastity he wounded.-Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom’st thy bed! Fresh lily!
And whiter than the sheets!
CYMBELINE.
All the researches of the Marquis de las Cisternas proved
vain. Agnes was lost to him for ever. Despair produced so
violent an effect upon his constitution, that the consequence
was a long and severe illness. This prevented him from vi-
siting Elvira, as he had intended; and she being ignorant of
the cause of his neglect, it gave her no trifling uneasiness.
His sister's death had prevented Lorenzo from communicating
to his uncle his designs respecting Antonia. The injunctions
of her mother forbade his presenting himself to her without
the Duke's consent : and as she heard no more of him or his
proposals, Elvira conjectured that he had either met with a
better match, or had been commanded to give up all thoughts
of her daughter. Every day made her more uneasy respect-
ing Antonia's fate; yet while she retained the Abbot's protec-
tion, she bore with fortitude the disappointment of her hopes
with regard to Lorenzo and the Marquis. That resource now
failed her. She was convinced that Ambrosio had meditated
her daughter's ruin; and when she reflected that her death
would leave Antonia friendless and unprotected in a world so
base, so perfidious and depraved, her heart swelled with the


254
THE MONK.
bitterness of apprehension. At such times she would sit for
hours gazing upon the lovely girl, and seeming to listen to her
innocent prattle, while in reality her thoughts dwelt upon the
sorrows into which a moment would suffice to plunge her.
Then she would clasp her in her arms suddenly, lean her head
upon her daughter's bosom, and bedew it with her tears.
An event was in preparation, which had she known it, would
have relieved her from her inquietude. Lorenzo now waited.
only for a favourable opportunity to inform the Duke of his
intended marriage : however, a circumstance, which occurred
at this period, obliged him to delay his explanation for a few
days longer.
Don Raymond's malady seemed to gain ground. Lorenzo
was constantly at his bedside, and treated him with a tender-
ness truly fraternal. Both the cause and effects of the dis-
order were highly afflicting to the brother of Agnes; yet
Theodore's grief was scarcely less sincere. That amiable boy
quitted not his master for a moment, and put every means in
practice to console and alleviate his sufferings. The Marquis
had conceived so rooted an affection for his deceased mistress,
that it was evident to all that he never could survive her loss.
Nothing could have prevented him from sinking under his
grief, but the persuasion of her being still alive, and in need
of his assistance. Though convinced of its falsehood, his at-
tendants encouraged him in a belief which formed his only
comfort. He was assured daily that fresh perquisitions were
making respecting the fate of Agnes; stories were invented
recounting the various attempts made to get admittance into
the convent; and circumstances were related, which, though
they did not promise her absolute recovery, at least were suf-
ficient to keep his hopes alive. The Marquis constantly fell
into the most terrible excess of passion, when informed of
the failure of these supposed attempts. Still he would not
credit that the succeeding ones would have the same fate, but
flattered himself that the next would prove more fortunate.
Theodore was the only one who exerted himself to realize


THE MONK.
255
as the only inducence of Agnes.
his master's chimeras. He was eternally busied in planning
schemes for entering the convent, or at least of obtaining
from the nuns some intelligence of Agnes. To execute these
schemes was the only inducement which could prevail on him
to quit Don Raymond. He became the very Proteus, chang-
ing his shape every day; but all his metamorphoses were to
very little purpose. He regularly returned to the palace de
las Cisternas without any intelligence to confirm his master's
hopes. One day he took it into his head to disguise himself
as a beggar; he put a patch over his left eye, took his guitar
in hand, and posted himself at the gate of the convent.
“If Agnes is really confined in the convent,” thought he,
" and hears my voice, she will recollect it, and possibly may
find means to let me know that she is here."
With this idea he mingled with a crowd of beggars who
assembled daily at the gate of St. Clare to receive soup,
which the nuns were accustomed to distribute at twelve
o'clock. All were provided with jugs or bowls to carry it
away; but as Theodore had no utensil of this kind, he begged
leave to eat his portion at the convent door. This was
granted without difficulty. His sweet voice, and, in spite of
his patched eye, his engaging countenance, won the heart of
the good old porteress, who, aided by a lay-sister, was busied
in serving to each his mess. Theodore was bid to stay till
the others should depart, and promised that his request
should then be granted. The youth desired no better, since
it was not to eat soup that he presented himself at the con-
vent. He thanked the porteress for her permission, retired
from the door, and, seating himself upon a large stone,
amused himself in tuning his guitar while the beggars were
served.
As soon as the crowd was gone, Theodore was beckoned
to the gate, and desired to come in. He obeyed with in-
finite readiness, but affected great respect at passing the hal-
lowed threshold, and to be much daunted by the presence
of the reverend ladies. His feigned timidity flattered the


256
THE MONK.
vanity of the nuns, who endeavoured to reassure him. The
porteress took him into her own little parlour: in the mean-
while, the lay-sister went to the kitchen, and soon returned
with a double portion of soup of a better quality than what
was given to the beggars. His hostess added some fruits
and confections from her own private store, and both en-
couraged the youth to dine heartily. To all these attentions
he replied with much seeming gratitude, and abundance of
blessings upon his benefactresses. While he ate, the nuns
admired the delicacy of his features, the beauty of his hair,
and the sweetness and grace which accompanied all his
actions. They lamented to each other in whispers, that so
charming a youth should be exposed to the seductions of the
world, and agreed that he would be a worthy pillar of the
Catholic Church. They concluded their conference by re-
solving, that Heaven would be rendered a real service, if they
entreated the Prioress to intercede with Ambrosio for the
beggar's admission into the order of Capuchins.
This being determined, the porteress, who was a person
of great influence in the convent, posted away in all haste to
the Domina's cell. Here she made so flaming a narrative of
Theodore's merits, that the old lady grew curious to see him.
Accordingly the porteress was commissioned to convey him
to the parlour-grate. In the interim, the supposed beggar
was sifting the lay-sister with respect to the fate of Agnes :
her evidence only corroborated the Domina’s assertions. She
said, that Agnes had been taken ill on returning from confes-
sion, and had never quitted her bed from that moment, and
that she had herself been present at the funeral. She even
attested having seen her dead body, and assisted with her
own hands in adjusting it upon the bier. This account dis-
couraged Theodore; yet, as he had pushed the adventure so
far, he resolved to witness its conclusion. .
The porteress now returned, and ordered him to follow
her. He obeyed, and was conducted into the parlour, where
the lady Prioress was already posted at the grate. The nuns


THE MONK.
257
surrounded her, who all flocked with eagerness to a scene
which promised some diversion. Theodore saluted them
with profound respect, and his presence had the power to
smooth for a moment even the stern brow of the Superior.
She asked several questions respecting his parents, his re-
ligion, and what had reduced him to a state of beggary. To
these demands his answers were perfectly satisfactory and
perfectly false. He was then asked his opinion of a monastic
life. He replied in terms of high estimation and respect for
it. Upon this the Prioress told him, that his obtaining an
entrance into a religious order was not impossible; that her
recommendation would not permit his poverty to be an ob-
stacle: and that, if she found him deserving it, he might depend
in future upon her protection. Theodore assured her, that
to merit her favour would be his highest ambition; and having
ordered him to return next day, when she would talk with
him further, the Domina quitted the parlour.
The nuns, whom respect for the Superior had till then kept
silent, now crowded all together to the grate, and assailed the
youth with a multitude of questions. He had already exa-
mined each with attention. Alas! Agnes was not amongst them.
The nuns heaped question upon question so thickly, that it
was scarcely possible for him to reply. One asked where he
was born, since his accent declared him to be a foreigner:
another wanted to know why he wore a patch upon his left
eye: Sister Helena enquired whether he had not a sister like
him, because she should like such a companion : and Sister
Rachael was fully persuaded that the brother would be the
pleasanter companion of the two. Theodore amused himself
with relating to the credulous nuns, for truths, all the strange
stories which his imagination could invent. He related to
them his supposed adventures, and penetrated every auditor
with astonishment, while he talked of giants, savages, ship-
wrecks, and islands inhabited
“ By antropophagi, and men whose heads
“Do grow beneath their shoulders,”
17


Ꮪ
THE MONK.
with many other circumstances to the full as remarkable. He
said that he was born in Terra Incognita, was educated at an
Hottentot university, and had passed two years among the
Americans of Silesia.
“For what regards the loss of my eye,” said he, “it was a
just punishment upon me, for disrespect to the Virgin, when
I made my second pilgrimage to Loretto. I stood near the altar
in the miraculous chapel; the monks were proceeding to array
the statue in her best apparel. The pilgrims were ordered
to close their eyes during this ceremony ; but though by na-
ture extremely religious, curiosity was too powerful. At the
moment--I shall penetrate you with horror, reverend
ladies, when I reveal my crime!---At the moment that
the monks were changing her shift, I ventured to open my left
eye, and gave a little peep towards the statue. That look was
my last! The glory which surrounded the Virgin was too
great to be supported. I hastily shut my sacrilegious eye,
and never have been able to unclose it since!"
At the relation of this miracle the nuns all crossed them-
selves, and promised to intercede with the blessed Virgin for
the recovery of his sight.. They expressed their wonder at
the extent of his travels, and at the strange adventures which
he had met with at so early an age. They now remarked his
guitar, and enquired whether he was an adept in music. He
replied with modesty, that it was not for him to decide upon
his talents, but requested permission to appeal to them as
judges. This was granted without difficulty.
“But at least,” said the old porteress, “ take care not to
sing any thing profane."
“You may depend upon my discretion,” replied Theodore;
“ you shall hear how dangerous it is for young women to
abandon themselves to their passions, illustrated by the ad-
venture of a damsel, who fell suddenly in love with an un-
known knight.”
“But is the adventure true ?” enquired the porteress.
Every word of it. It happened in Denmark; and the


THE MONK.
259
heroine was thought so beautiful, that she was known by no
other name but that of “ the lovely maid.”
“ In Denmark, say you ?” mumbled an old nun: “are not
the people all blacks in Denmark?”.
“By no means, reverend lady; they are of a delicate pea-
green, with flame-coloured hair and whiskers."
" Mother of God! Pea-green !” exclaimed Sister Helena :
“Oh! 'tis impossible !"
“ Impossible !” said the porteress, with a look of contempt
and exultation: “not at all : when I was a young woman, I
remember seeing several of them myself.”
Theodore now put his instrument in proper order. He had
read the story of a king of England, whose prison was dis-
covered by a minstrel; and he hoped that the same scheme
would enable him to discover Agnes, should she be in the
convent. He chose a ballad, which she had taught him her-
self in the Castle of Lindenberg: she might possibly catch the
sound, and he hoped to hear her replying to some of the
stanzas. His guitar was now in tune, and he prepared to
strike it.
: “But, before I begin,” said he, “it is necessary to inform
you, ladies, that this same Denmark is terribly infested by
sorcerers, witches, and evil spirits. Every element possesses
its appropriate demons. The woods are haunted by a ma-
lignant power, called “The Erl, or Oak-King:' he it is who
blights the trees, spoils the harvest, and commands the imps
and goblins. He appears in the form of an old man of ma-
jestic figure, with a golden crown, and a very long white
beard. His principal amusement is to entice young children
from their parents; and as soon as he gets them into his
cave, he tears them into a thousand pieces. The rivers are
governed by another fiend, called “The Water-King:' his.
province is to agitate the deep, occasion shipwrecks, and drag
the drowning sailors beneath the waves. He wears the appear-
ance of a warrior, and employs himself in luring young
virgins into his snare: what he does with them, when he
17 *


260
THE MONK.
catches them in the water, reverend ladies, I leave for you to
imagine. The Fire-King' seems to be a man all formed of
flames : he raises the meteors and wandering lights, which
beguile travellers into ponds and marshes, and he directs the
lightning where it may do most mischief. The last of these
elementary demons is called “The Cloud-King;' his figure is
that of a beautiful youth, and he is distinguished by two large
sable wings: though his outside is so enchanting, he is not a
bit better disposed than the others. He is continually em-
ployed in raising storms, tearing up forests by the roots, and
blowing castles and convents about the ears of their inha-
bitants. The first has a daughter who is queen of the elves
and fairies : the second has a mother, who is a powerful en-
chantress. Neither of these ladies are worth more than the
gentlemen. I do not remember to have heard any family
assigned to the two other demons, but at present I have no
business with any of them except the Fiend of the Waters.
He is the hero of my ballad; but I thought it necessary, be-
fore I began, to give you some account of his proceedings."
Theodore then played a short symphony; after which,
stretching his voice to its utmost extent, to facilitate its reach-
ing the ear of Agnes, he sung the following stanzas :
THE WATER-KING.
A DANISH BALLAD.
With gentle murmur flowed the tide,
While by the fragrant flowery side
The lovely maid, with carols gay,
To Mary's church pursued her way.
The Water-Fiend's malignant eye
Along the banks beheld her hie;
Straight to his mother-witch he sped,
And thus in suppliant accents said:
“Oh! mother! mother. now advise,
How I may yonder maid surprise :
Oh! mother! mother! now explain,'
How I may yonder maid obtain.”


THE MONK.
261
The witch she gave him armour white;
She formed him like a gallant knight;
Of water clear next made her hand
A steed, whose housings were of sand.
The Water-King then swift he went;
To Mary's church his steps he bent :
He bound his courser to the door,
And paced the church-yard three times four.
His courser to the door bound he,
And paced the church-yard four times three :
Then hastened up the aisle, where all
The people flock'd, both great and small.
The priest said, as the knight drew near,
“And wherefore comes the white chief bere ?"
The lovely maid, she smiled aside ;
“Oh! would I were the white chief's bride!”
He stepped o'er benches one and two;
“Oh! lovely maid, I die for you!"
He stepped o’er benches two and three;
“Oh! lovely maiden, go with me!”
Then sweet she smiled, the lovely maid;
And while she gave her hand, she said,
“Betide my joy, betide my woe,
O’er hill, o'er dale, with thee I go.”
The priest their hands together joins ;
They dance while clear the moon-beam shines;
And little thinks the maiden bright,
Her partner is the Water-Spright.
Oh ! had some spirit deigned to sing!
“ Your bridegroom is the Water-King !"
The maid had fear and hate confessed,
And cursed the hand which then she pressed.
But nothing giving cause to think
How near she strayed to danger's brink,
Still on she went, and hand in hand
The lovers reached the yellow sand.
“ Ascend this steed with me, my dear!
We needs must cross the streamlet here ;
Ride boldly in; it is not deep;
The winds are hushed, the billows sleep."


262
THE MONK.
Thus spoke the Water-King. The maid
Her traitor bridegroom's wish obey'd :
And soon she saw the courser lave
Delighted in his parent wave.
“ Stop, stop! my love! The waters blue
E’en now my shrinking foot bedew."
“ Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet heart,
We now have reached the deepest part.”
“ Stop, stop! my love! For now I see
The waters rise above my knee.”
“Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet heart!
We now have reached the deepest part.”
“Stop, stop! for God's sake, stop! For oh!
The waters o'er my bosom flow.”-
Scarce was the word pronounc'd, when knight
And courser vanished from her sight.
She shrieks, but shrieks in vain ; for high
The wild winds rising dull the cry;
The Fiend exults; the billows dash,
And o'er the hapless victim wash:
Three times, while struggling with the stream,
The lovely maid was heard to scream;
But when the tempest's rage was o’er,
The lovely maid was seen no more.
Warned by this tale, ye damsels fair,
To whom you give your love beware!
Believe not every handsome knight,
And dance not with the Water-Spright!
The youth ceased to sing. The nuns were delighted with
the sweetness of his voice, and masterly manner of touching
the instrument; but however acceptable this applause would
have been at any other time, at present it was insipid to
Theodore. His artifice had not succeeded. He paused in
vain between the stanzas; no voice replied to his, and he
abandoned the hope of equalling Blondel.
The convent-bell now warned the nuns that it was time to
assemble in the refectory. They were obliged to quit the grate :


THE MONK.
263
they thanked the youth for the entertainment which his music
had afforded them, and charged him to return the next day.
This he promised. The nuns, to give him the greater incli-
nation to keep his word, told him that he might always de-
pend upon the convent for his meals, and each of them made
him some little present. One gave him a box of sweetmeats ;
another, an agnus dei; some brought relicks of saints, waxen
images, and consecrated crosses; and others presented him
with pieces of those works in which the religious excel, such
as embroidery, artificial flowers, lace, and needlework.
All these he was advised to sell, in order to put himself into
better case; and he was assured that it would be easy to dis-
pose of them, since the Spaniards hold the performances of
the nuns in high estimation. Having received these gifts
with seeming respect and gratitude, he remarked, that, having
no basket, he knew not how to convey them away. Several
of the nuns were hastening in search of one, when they were
stopped by the return of an elderly woman, whom Theodore
had not till then observed. Her mild countenance and re-
spectable air prejudiced him immediately in her favour.
“ Hah!” said the porteress, “ here comes the Mother St.
Ursula with a basket.”
The nun approached the grate, and presented the basket
to Theodore: it was of willow, lined with blue satin, and
upon the four sides were painted scenes from the legend of
St. Genevieve.
“ Here is my gift,” said she, as she gave it into his hand :
“ Good youth, despise it not. Though its value seems insig-
nificant, it has many hidden virtues.”
She accompanied these words with an expressive look.
It was not lost upon Theodore. In receiving the present, he
drew as near the grate as possible.
“ Agnes !” she whispered in a voice scarcely intelligible.
Theodore, however, caught the sound. He concluded that
some mystery was concealed in the basket, and his heart beat
with impatience and joy. At this moment the Domina re-


264
THE MONK.
turned. Her air was gloomy and frowning, and she looked
if possible more stern than ever.
“ Mother St. Ursula, I would speak with you in private."
The nun changed colour, and was evidently disconcerted.
“ With me ?” she replied in a faltering voice.
The Domina motioned that she must follow her, and retired.
The Mother St. Ursula obeyed her. Soon after, the refectory
bell ringing a second time, the nuns quitted the grate, and
Theodore was left at liberty to carry off his prize. Delighted
that at length he had obtained some intelligence for the Mar-
quis, he flew rather than ran till he reached the hotel de las
Cisternas. In a few minutes he stood by his master's bed
with the basket in his hand. Lorenzo was in the chamber,
endeavouring to reconcile his friend to a misfortune which he
felt himself but too severely. Theodore related his adven-
ture, and the hopes which had been created by the Mother
St. Ursula's gift. The Marquis started from his pillow.
That fire which since the death of Agnes had been extin-
guished, now revived in his bosom, and his eyes sparkled
with the eagerness of expectation. The emotions which Lo-
renzo's countenance betrayed were scarcely weaker, and he
waited with inexpressible impatience for the solution of this
mystery. Raymond caught the basket from the hands of his
page: he emptied the contents upon the bed, and examined
them with minute attention. He hoped that a letter would
be found at the bottom. Nothing of the kind appeared. The
search was resumed, but still with no better success. At length
Don Raymond observed, that one corner of the blue satin
lining was unripped : he tore it open hastily, and drew forth
a small scrap of paper, neither folded nor sealed. It was ad-
dressed to the Marquis de las Cisternas, and the contents were
as follow:
' " Having recognised your page, I venture to send these
w lines. Procure an order from the Cardinal-Duke for
g my person, and that of the Domina ; but let it not be


THE MONK.
265
executed till Friday at midnight. It is the festival of St.
Clare ; there will be a procession of nuns by torch-light, and
I shall be among them. Beware, not to let your intention be
known. Should a syllable be dropped to excite the Domina's
suspicions, you will never hear of me more. Be cautious, if
you prize the memory of Agnes, and wish to punish her
assassins. I have that to tell, will freeze your blood with
horror,
“ ST. URSULA.”
No sooner had the Marquis read the note, than he fell back
upon his pillow deprived of sense or motion. The hope failed
him which till now had supported his existence; and these
lines convinced him but too positively that Agnes was indeed
no more. Lorenzo felt this circumstance less forcibly, since
it had always been his idea that his sister had perished by
unfair means. When he found by the Mother St. Ursula's
letter how true were his suspicions, the confirmation excited
no other sentiment in his bosom than a wish to punish the
murderers as they deserved. It was no easy task to recall the
Marquis to himself. As soon as he recovered his speech, he
broke out into execrations against the assassins of his beloved,
and vowed to take upon them a signal vengeance. He con-
tinued to rave and torment himself with impotent passion, till
his constitution, enfeebled by grief and illness, could support
itself no longer, and relapsed into insensibility. His melan-
choly situation sincerely affected Lorenzo, who would willingly
have remained in the apartment of his friend; but other cares
now demanded his presence. It was necessary to procure
the order for seizing the Prioress of St. Clare. For this pur-
pose, having committed Raymond to the care of the best phy-
sicians in Madrid, he quitted the hotel de las Cisternas, and
bent his course towards the palace of the Cardinal-Duke.
· His disappointment was excessive, when he found that
affairs of state had obliged the Cardinal to set out for a distant
province. It wanted but five days to Friday: yet, by travel-


266
THE MONK.
ling day and night, he hoped to return in time for the pilgrim-
age of St. Clare. In this be succeeded. He found the Car-
dinal-Duke, and represented to him the supposed culpability
of the Prioress, as also the violent effects which it had pro-
duced upon Don Raymond. He could have used no argu-
ment so forcibly as this last. Of all his nephews the Marquis
was the only one to whom the Cardinal-Duke was sincerely
attached: he perfectly doted upon him, and the Prioress could
have committed no greater crime in his eyes, than to have
endangered the life of the Marquis. Consequently, he granted
the order of arrest without difficulty. He also gave Lorenzo
a letter to the principal officer of the Inquisition, desiring him
to see his mandate executed. Furnished with these papers,
Medina hastened back to Madrid, which he reached on the
Friday a few hours before dark. He found the Marquis
somewhat easier, but so weak and exhausted, that without
great exertion he could neither speak nor move. Having
passed an hour by his bedside, Lorenzo left him to communi-
cate his design to his uncle, as also to give Don Ramirez de
Mello the Cardinal's letter. The first was petrified with
horror, when he learned the fate of his unhappy niece. He
encouraged Lorenzo to punish her assassins, and engaged to
accompany him at night to St. Clare's convent. Don Rami-
rez promised his firmest support, and selected a band of trusty
archers to prevent opposition on the part of the populace.
But while Lorenzo was anxious to unmask one religious
hypocrite, he was unconscious of the sorrows prepared for
him by another. Aided by Matilda's infernal agents, Am-
brosio had resolved upon the innocent Antonia's ruin. The
moment destined to be so fatal to her arrived. She had
taken leave of her mother for the night. As she kissed her,
she felt an unusual despondency infuse itself into her bosom.
She left her, and returned to her instantly, threw herself into
her maternal arms, and bathed her cheeks with tears. She
felt uneasy at quitting her, and a secret presentiment assured
her that never must they meet again. Elvira observed, and


THE MONK.
267
tried to laugh her out of this childish prejudice. She chid her
mildly for encouraging such ungrounded sadness, and warned
her how dangerous it was to encourage such ideas.
To all her remonstrances she received no other answer
than-
“ Mother! Dear mother! Oh! would to God it were
morning!"
Elvira, whose inquietude respecting her daughter was a
great obstacle to her perfect reestablishment, was still la-
bouring under the effects of her late severe illness. She was
this evening more than usually indisposed, and retired to bed
before her accustomed hour. Antonia withdrew from her
mother's chamber with regret, and, till the door closed, kept
her eyes fixed upon her with melancholy expression. She
retired to her own apartment: her heart was filled with bit-
terness. It seemed to her that all her prospects were blasted,
and the world contained nothing for which it was worth ex-
isting. She sank into a chair, reclined her head upon her
arm, and gazed upon the floor with a vacant stare, while the
most gloomy images floated before her fancy. She was still
in this state of insensibility, when she was disturbed by hearing
a strain of soft music breathed beneath her window. She
rose, drew near the casement, and opened it to hear it more
distinctly. Having thrown her veil over her face, she ventured
to look out. By the light of the moon she perceived several
men below with guitars and lutes in their hands; and at a
little distance from them stood another wrapped in his cloak,
whose stature and appearance bore a strong resemblance to
Lorenzo's. She was not deceived in this conjecture. It was
indeed Lorenzo himself who, bound by his word not to pre-
sent himself to Antonia without his uncle's consent, endea-
voured, by occasional serenades, to convince his mistress that
his attachment still existed. His stratagem had not the de-
sired effect. Antonia was far from supposing that this nightly
music was intended as a compliment to her. She was too
modest to think herself worthy such attentions : and con-


268
THE MONK.
cluding them to be addressed to some neighbouring lady, she
grieved to find that they were offered by Lorenzo.
The air which was played, was plaintive and melodious.
It accorded with the state of Antonia's mind, and she listened
with pleasure. After a symphony of some length, it was suc-
ceeded by the sound of voices, and Antonia distinguished the
following words:
SERENADE.
CHORUS.
Oh! breathe in gentle strain, my lyre!
'Tis here that beauty loves to rest :
Describe the pangs of fond desire,
Which rend a faithful lover's breast.
SONG.
In every heart to find a slave,
In every soul to fix his reign,
In bonds to lead the wise and brave,
And make the captive kiss his chain ;
Such is the power of Love !—and oh!
I grieve so well Love's power to know.
In sighs to pass the live-long day,
To taste a short and broken sleep,
For one dear object far away,
All others scorned, to watch and weep;
Such are the pains of Love!-and oh!
I grieve so well Love's pains to know.
To read consent in virgin eyes,
To press the lip ne'er prest till then,
To hear the sigh of transport rise,
And kiss, and kiss, and kiss again;
Such are thy pleasures, Love d—but oh!
When shall my heart thy pleasures know?
-
-
-
CHORUS.
Now hush, my lyre ! My voice, be still,
Sleep, gentle maid! My fond desire
With amorous thoughts thy visions fill,
Though still my voice, and hushed my lyre!


THE MONK.
269
The music ceased, the performers dispersed, and silence
prevailed through the street. She, as usual, recommended
herself to the protection of St. Rosalia, said her accustomed
prayers, and retired to bed. Sleep was not long absent, and
his presence relieved her from her terrors and inquietude.
It was almost two o'clock before the lustful Monk ventured
to bend his steps towards Antonia's dwelling. It has been al-
ready mentioned, that the abbey was at no great distance
from the strada di San Iago. He reached the house unob-
served. Here he stopped, and hesitated for a moment. He
reflected on the enormity of the crime, the consequences of a
discovery, and the probability, after what had passed, of El-
vira's suspecting him to be her daughter's ravisher. On the
other hand it was suggested, that she could do no more than
suspect; that no proofs of his guilt could be produced; that
it would seem impossible for the rape to have been committed
without Antonia's knowing when, where, or by whom; and
finally, he believed that his fame was too firmly established to
be shaken by the unsupported accusations of two unknown
women. This latter argument was perfectly false. He knew
not how uncertain is the air of popular applause, and that a
moment suffices to make him to-day the detestation of the
world, who yesterday was its idol. The result of the Monk's
deliberation was, that he should proceed in his enterprise. He
ascended the steps leading to the house. No sooner did he
touch the door with the silver myrtle, than it flew open, and
presented him with a free passage. He entered, and the door
closed after him of its own accord.
Guided by the moonbeams, he proceeded up the stair-
case with slow and cautious steps. He looked round him
every moment with apprehension and anxiety. He saw a
spy in every shadow, and heard a voice in every murmur of
the night breeze. Consciousness of the guilty business in
which he was employed appalled his heart, and rendered it
more timid than a woman's. Yet still he proceeded. He
reached the door of Antonia's chamber. He stopped, and


270
THE MONK.
listened. All was hushed within. The total silence persuaded
him that his intended victim was retired to rest, and he ven-
tured to lift up the latch. The door was fastened, and resist-
ed his efforts. But no sooner was it touched by the talisman,
than the bolt flew back. The ravisher stept on, and found
himself in the chamber, where slept the innocent girl, uncon-
scious how dangerous a visitor was drawing near her couch.
The door closed after him, and the bolt shot again into its
fastening.
Ambrosio advanced with precaution. He took care that
not a board should creak under his foot, and held in his
breath as he approached the bed. His first attention was to
perform the magic ceremony, as Matilda had charged him :
he breathed thrice upon the silver myrile, pronounced over it
Antonia's name, and laid it upon her pillow. The effects
which it had already produced permitted not his doubting its
success in prolonging the slumbers of his devoted mistress.
No sooner was the enchantment performed, than he con-
sidered her to be absolutely in his power, and his eyes flashed
with lust and impatience. He now ventured to cast a glance
upon the sleeping beauty. A single lamp, burning before the
statue of St. Rosalia, shed a faint light through the room,
and permitted him to examine all the charms of the lovely
object before him. The heat of the weather had obliged her
to throw off part of the bed-clothes. Those which still co-
vered her, Ambrosio's insolent hand hastened to remove.
She lay with her cheek reclining upon one ivory arm : the
other rested on the side of the bed with graceful indolence.
A few tresses of her hair had escaped from beneath the
muslin which confined the rest, and fell carelessly over her
bosom, as it heaved with slow and regular suspiration. The
warm air had spread her cheek with higher colour than
usual. A smile inexpressibly sweet played round her ripe
and coral lips, from which every now and then escaped a
gentle sigh, or an half-pronounced sentence. An air of en-
chanting innocence and candour pervaded her whole form;


THE MONK.
271
and there was a sort of modesty in her very nakedness, which
added fresh stings to the desires of the lustful Monk.
He remained for some moments devouring those charms
with his eyes, which soon were to be subjected to his ill-re-
gulated passions. Her mouth half-opened seemed to solicit a
kiss : he bent over her: he joined his lips to hers, and drew
in the fragrance of her breath with rapture. This momen-
tary pleasure increased his longing for still greater. His de-
sire were raised to that frantic height by which brutes are
agitated. He resolved not to delay for one instant longer the
accomplishment of his wishes, and hastily proceeded to tear
off those garments which impeded the gratification of his
lust.
Gracious God!” exclaimed a voice behind him: “Am I
not deceived ? Is not this an illusion ?” .
Terror, confusion, and disappointment accompanied these
words, as they struck Ambrosio's hearing. He started and
turned towards it. Elvira stood at the door of the chamber,
and regarded the Monk with looks of surprise and detesta-
tion.
A frightful dream had represented to her Antonia on the
verge of a precipice. She saw her trembling on the brink :
every moment seemed to threaten her fall, and she heard her
exclaim with shrieks, “ Save me, mother! save me!-Yet a
moment, and it will be too late.” Elvira awoke in terror.
The vision had made too strong an impression upon her
mind, to permit her resting till assured of her daughter's
safety. She hastily started from her bed, threw on a loose
night-gown, and passing through the closet in which slept the
waiting-woman, reached Antonia's chamber just in time to
rescue her from the grasp of the ravisher.
His shame and her amazement seemed to have petrified
into statues both Elvira and the Monk. They remained gaz-
ing upon each other in silence. The lady was the first to re-
cover herself.
"It is no dream,” she cried : “it is really Ambrosio who


272
THE MONK.
stands before me. It is the man whom Madrid esteems a
saint, that I find at this late hour near the couch of my un-
happy child. Monster of hypocrisy! I already suspected
your designs, butforbore your accusation in pity to human
frailty. Silence would now be criminal. The whole city
shall be informed of your incontinence. I will unmask you,
villain, and convince the Church what a viper she cherishes
in her bosom.”
Pale and confused, the baffled culprit stood trembling be-
fore her. He would fain have extenuated his offence, but
could find no apology for his conduct. He could produce no-
thing but broken sentences, and excuses which contradicted
each other. Elvira was too justly incensed to grant the par-
don which he requested. She protested that she would
· raise the neighbourhood, and make him an example to all
future hypocrites. Then hastening to the bed, she called to
Antonia to wake; and finding that her voice had no effect,
she took her arm, and raised it forcibly from the pillow. The
charm operated too powerfully. Antonia remained insen-
sible; and, on being released by her mother, sank back upon
the pillow.
“This slumber cannot be natural,” cried the amazed El-
vira, whose indignation increased with every moment :
6 some mystery is concealed in it. But tremble, hypocrite!
All your villany shall soon be unravelled. Help! help !" she
exclaimed aloud : “ Within there! Flora! Flora!”
“ Hear me for one moment, lady!” cried the Monk, re-
stored to himself by the urgency of the danger: “by all that
is sacred and holy, I swear that your daughter's honour is
still unviolated. Forgive my transgression! spare me the
shame of a discovery, and permit me to regain the abbey un-
disturbed. Grant me this request in mercy! I promise not
only that Antonia shall be secure from me in future, but that
the rest of my life shall prove--"
• Elvira interrupted him abruptly.
“ Antonia secure from you? I will secure her. You shall


THE MONK.
273
betray no longer the confidence of parents. Your iniquity
shall be unveiled to the public eye. All Madrid shall shud-
der at your perfidy, your hypocrisy, and incontinence. What
ho! there! Flora! Flora! I say."
While she spoke thus, the remembrance of Agnes struck
upon his mind. Thus had she sued to him for mercy, and
thus had he refused her prayer! It was now his turn to suf-
fer, and he could not but acknowledge that his punishment
was just. In the mean while Elvira continued to call Flora
to her assistance; but her voice was so choaked with passion
that the servant, who was buried in profound slumber, was
insensible to all her cries : Elvira dared not go towards the
closet in which Flora slept, lest the Monk should take that op-
portunity to escape. Such indeed was his intention : he
trusted that could he reach the abbey unobserved by any
other than Elvira, her single testimony would not suffice to
ruin a reputation so well established as his was in Madrid.
With this idea he gathered up such garments as he had al-
ready thrown off, and hastened towards the door. Elvira
was aware of his design : she followed him, and, ere he could
draw back the bolt, seized him by the arm, and detained
him.
“ Attempt not to fly!” said she: “ you quit not this room
without witnesses of your guilt.”
Ambrosio struggled in vain to disengage himself. Elvira
quitted not her hold, but redoubled her cries for succour.
The Friar's danger grew more urgent. He expected every
moment to hear people assembling at her voice; and worked
up to madness by the approach of ruin, he adopted a reso-
lution equally desperate and savage. Turning round suddenly,
with one hand he grasped Elvira's throat so as to prevent her
continuing her clamour, and with the other dashing her vio-
lently upon the ground, he dragged her towards the bed.
Confused by this unexpected attack, she scarcely had power
to strive at forcing herself from his grasp : while the Monk,
snatching the pillow from beneath her daughter's head, co-


274
THE MONK.
vering with it Elvira's face, and pressing his knee upon her
stomach with all his strength, endeavoured to put an end to
her existence. He succeeded but too well. Her natural
strength increased by the excess of anguish, long did the suf-
ferer struggle to disengage herself, but in vain. The Monk
continued to kneel upon her breast, witnessed without mercy
the convulsive trembling of her limbs beneath him, and sus-
tained with inhuman firmness the spectacle of her agonies,
when soul and body were on the point of separating. Those
agonies at length were over. She ceased to struggle for life.
The Monk took off the pillow, and gazed upon her. Her face
was covered with a frightful blackness : her limbs moved no
more : the blood was chilled in her veins: her heart had for-
gotten to beat; and her hands were stiff and frozen. Ambrosio
beheld before him that once noble and majestic form, now
become a corse, - cold, senseless, and disgusting.
This horrible act was no sooner perpetrated, than the Friar
beheld the enormity of his crime. A cold dew flowed over
his limbs : his eyes closed ; he staggered to a chair, and sank
into it almost as lifeless as the unfortunate who lay extended
at his feet. From this state he was roused by the necessity
of flight, and the danger of being found in Antonia's apart-
ment. He had no desire to profit by the execution of his
crime. Antonia now appeared to him an object of disgust.
A deadly cold had usurped the place of that warmth which
glowed in his bosom. No ideas offered themselves to his mind
but those of death and guilt, of present shame and future pu-
nishment. Agitated by remorse and fear, he prepared for
flight: yet his terrors did not so completely master his recol-
lection, as to prevent his taking the precautions necessary for
his safety. He replaced the pillow upon the bed, gathered up
his garments, and, with the fatal talisman in his hand, bent
his unsteady steps towards the door. Bewildered by fear, he
fancied that his flight was opposed by legions of phantoms.
Wherever he turned, the disfigured corse seemed to lie in his
passage, and it was long before he succeeded in reaching the


THE MONK.'
275
door. The enchanted myrtle produced its former effect.
The door opened, and he hastened down the staircase. He
entered the abbey unobserved; and having shut himself into
his cell, he abandoned his soul to the tortures of unavailing
remorse, and terrors of impending detection.
CHAPTER IX.
Tell us, ye dead, will none of you, in pity
To those you left behind, disclose the secret?
O ! that some courteous ghost would blab it out,
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be!
I've heard, that souls departed have sometimes
Forewarn’d men of their deaths : 'twas kindly done,
To knock, and give th’alarm.
BLAIR.
AMBROSIO shuddered at himself when he reflected on his
rapid advance in iniquity. The enormous crime which he
had just committed, filled him with real horror. The mur-
dered Elvira was continually before his eyes, and his guilt
was already punished by the agonies of his conscience.
Time, however, considerably weakened these impressions :
one day passed away; another followed it, and still not the
least suspicion was thrown upon him. Impunity reconciled
him to his guilt. He began to resume his spirits; and as
his fears of detection died away, he paid less attention to the
reproaches of remorse. Matilda exerted herself to quiet his
alarms. At the first intelligence of Elvira's death, she seemed
greatly affected, and joined the Monk in deploring the un-
happy catastrophe of his adventure: but when she found his
agitation to be somewhat calmed, and himself better disposed
to listen to her arguments, she proceeded to mention his
offence in milder terms, and convince him that he was not so
18 *


276
THE MONK.
highly culpable as he appeared to consider himself. She re-
presented, that he had only availed himself of the rights
which nature allows to every one, those of self-preservation:
that either Elvira or himself must have perished; and that
her inflexibility and resolution to ruin him had deservedly
marked her out for the victim. She next stated, that as he
had before rendered himself suspected to Elvira, it was a for-
tunate event for him that her lips were closed by death;
since, without this last adventure, her suspicions, if made
public, might have produced very disagreeable consequences.
He had, therefore, freed himself from an enemy, to whom the
errors of his conduct were sufficiently known to make her dan-
gerous, and who was the greatest obstacle to his designs
upon Antonia.—Those designs she encouraged him not to
abandon. She assured him that, no longer protected by her
mother's watchful eye, the daughter would fall an easy con-
quest; and by praising and enumerating Antonia's charms,
she strove to rekindle the desires of the Monk. In this en-
deavour she succeeded but too well.
As if the crimes into which his passion had seduced him
had only increased its violence, he longed more eagerly than
ever to enjoy Antonia. The same success in concealing his
present guilt, he trusted, would attend his future. He was
deaf to the murmurs of conscience, and resolved to satisfy his
desires at any price. He waited only for an opportunity of
repeating his former enterprise ; but to procure that oppor-
tunity by the same means was now impracticable. In the
first transports of despair, he had dashed the enchanted myr-
tle into a thousand pieces. Matilda told him plainly, that he
must expect no further assistance from the infernal powers,
unless he was willing to subscribe to their established con-
ditions. This Ambrosio was determined not to do. He per-
suaded himself, that, however great might be his iniquity, so
long as he preserved his claim to salvation, he need not de-
spair of pardon. He therefore resolutely refused to enter into
any bond or compact with the fiends: and Matilda, finding


THE MONK.
277
him obstinate upon this point, forbore to press him further.
She exerted her invention to discover some means of putting
Antonia into the Abbot's power: nor was it long before that
means presented itself.
While her ruin was thus meditating, the unhappy girl her-
self suffered severely from the loss of her mother. Every
morning on waking, it was her care to hasten to Elvira's
chamber. On that which followed Ambrosio's fatal visit, she
awoke later than was her usual custom: of this she was con-
vinced by the abbey chimes. She started from her bed,
threw on a few loose garments hastily, and was speeding to
enquire how her mother had passed the night, when her foot
struck against something which lay in her passage. She
looked down. What was her horror at recognising Elvira's
livid corse! She uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself
upon the floor. She clasped the inanimate form to her bo-
som, felt that it was dead-cold, and, with a movement of
disgust, of which she was not mistress, let it fall again from
her arms. The cry had alarmed Flora, who had hastened
to her assistance. The sight which she beheld penetrated
her with horror ; but her alarm was more audible than An-
tonia's. She made the house ring with her lamentations,
while her mistress, almost suffocated with grief, could only
mark her distress by sobs and groans. Flora's shrieks soon
reached the ears of the hostess, whose terror and surprise
were excessive on learning the cause of this disturbance. A
physician was immediately sent for; but, on the first moment
of beholding the corse, he declared that Elvira's recovery was
beyond the power of art. He proceeded therefore to give his
assistance to Antonia, who by this time was truly in need of
it. She was conveyed to bed, while the landlady busied her-
self in giving orders for Elvira's burial. Dame Jacintha was
a plain good kind of woman, charitable, generous, and de-
vout; but her intellects were weak, and she was a miserable
slave to fear and superstition. She shuddered at the idea of


278
THE MONK.
passing the night in the same house with a dead body. She
was persuaded that Elvira's ghost would appear to her, and
no less certain that such a visit would kill her with fright.
From this persuasion, she resolved to pass the night at a
neighbour's, and insisted that the funeral should take place
the next day. St. Clare's cemetery being the nearest, it was
determined that Elvira should be buried there. Dame Jacintha
engaged to pay every expense attending the burial. She knew
not in what circumstances Antonia was left ; but, from the
sparing manner in which the family had lived, she concluded
them to be indifferent: consequently she entertained very
little hope of ever being recompensed. But this consideration
prevented her not from taking care that the interment was
performed with decency, and from showing the unfortunate
Antonia all possible respect.
Nobody dies of mere grief; of this Antonia was an instance.
Aided by her youth and healthy constitution, she shook off the
malady which her mother's death had occasioned; but it was
not so easy to remove the disease of her mind. Her eyes were
constantly filled with tears; every trifle affected her, and she
evidently nourished in her bosom a profound and rooted me-
lancholy. The slightest mention of Elvira, the most trivial
circumstance recalling that beloved parent to her memory, was
sufficient to throw her into serious agitation. How much
would her grief have been increased, had she known the agonies
which terminated her mother's existence! But of this no one
entertained the least suspicion. Elvira was subject to strong
convulsions: it was supposed that, aware of their approach,
she had dragged herself to her daughter's chamber, in hopes
of assistance; that a sudden access of her fits had seized her,
too violent to be resisted by her already enfeebled state of
health; and that she had expired ere she had time to reach
the medicine which generally relieved her, and which stood
upon a shelf in Antonia's room. This idea was firmly credited
by the few people who interested themselves about Elvira. Her


THE MONK.
279
death was esteemed a natural event, and soon forgotten by
all, save by her, who had but too much reason to deplore her
loss.
In truth, Antonia's situation was sufficiently embarrassing
and unpleasant. She was alone, in the midst of a dissipated
and expensive city; she was ill provided with money, and
worse with friends. Her aunt Leonella was still at Cordova,
and she knew not her direction. Of the Marquis de las Cis-
ternas she heard no news. As to Lorenzo, she had long given
up the idea of possessing any interest in his bosom. She knew
not to whom she could address herself in her present di-
lemma. She wished to consult Ambrosio, but she remem-
bered her mother's injunctions to shun him as much as
possible; and the last conversation which Elvira had held
with her upon the subject, had given her sufficient lights re-
specting his designs, to put her upon her guard against him
in future. Still all her mother's warnings could not make her
change her good opinion of the Friar. She continued to feel
that his friendship and society were requisite to her hap-
piness: she looked upon his failings with a partial eye, and
could not persuade herself that he really had intended her
ruin. However, Elvira had positively commanded her to
drop his acquaintance, and she had too much respect for her
orders to disobey them.
At length she resolved to address herself for advice and
protection to the Marquis de las Cisternas, as being her
nearest relation. She wrote to him, briefly stating her de-
solate situation; she besought him to compassionate his bro-
ther's child, to continue to her Elvira's pension, and to
authorise her retiring to his old castle in Murcia, which till
now had been her retreat. Having sealed her letter, she
gave it to the trusty Flora, who immediately set out to execute
her commission. But Antonia was born under an unlucky
star. Had she made her application to the Marquis but one
day sooner--received as his niece, and placed at the head of
his family, she would have escaped all the misfortunes with


280
THE MONK.
which she was now threatened. Raymond had always in-
tended to execute this plan: but first, his hopes of making
the proposal to Elvira through the lips of Agnes, and after-
wards his disappointment at losing his intended bride, as well
as the severe illness which for some time had confined him to
his bed, made him defer from day to day the giving an asy-
lum in his house to his brother's widow. He had commis-
sioned Lorenzo to supply her liberally with money. But
Elvira, unwilling to receive obligations from that nobleman,
had assured him that she needed no immediate pecuniary as-
sistance. Consequently, the Marquis did not imagine that a
trifling delay on his part would create any embarrassment;
and the distress and agitation of his mind might well excuse
his negligence.
Had he been informed that Elvira's death had left her
daughter friendless and unprotected, he would doubtless have
taken such measures as would have ensured her from every
danger. But Antonia was not destined to be so fortunate.
The day on which she sent her letter to the palace de las Cis-
ternas, was that following Lorenzo's departure from Madrid.
The Marquis was in the first paroxysms of despair at the con-
viction that Agnes was indeed no more : he was delirious ;
and, his life being in danger, no one was suffered to approach
him. Flora was informed that he was incapable of attending
to letters, and that probably a few hours would decide his
fate. With this unsatisfactory answer she was obliged to
return to her mistress, who now found herself plunged into
greater difficulties than ever.
Flora and Dame Jacintha exerted themselves to console
her. The latter begged her to make herself easy, for that as
long as she chose to stay with her she would treat her like
her own child. Antonia, finding that the good woman had
taken a real affection for her, was somewhat comforted by
thinking that she had at least one friend in the world. A
letter was now brought to her, directed to Elvira. She re-
cognized Leonella's writing, and, opening it with joy, found a


THE MONK.
281
detailed account of her aunt's adventures at Cordova. She
informed her sister that she had recovered her legacy, had
lost her heart, and had received in exchange that of the most
amiable of apothecaries, past, present, and to come. She
added, that she should be at Madrid on the Tuesday night,
and meant to have the pleasure of presenting her caro sposo
in form. Though her nuptials were far from pleasing An-
tonia, Leonella's speedy return gave her niece much delight.
She rejoiced in thinking that she should once more be under
a relation's care. She could not but judge it to be highly
improper for a young woman to be living among absolute
strangers, with no one to regulate her conduct, or protect
her from the insults to which, in her defenceless situation, she
was exposed. She therefore looked forward with impatience
to the Tuesday night.
It arrived. Antonia listened anxiously to the carriages as
they rolled along the street. None of them stopped, and it
grew late without Leonella's appearing. Still Antonia re-
solved to sit up till her aunt's arrival; and, in spite of all her
remonstrances, Dame Jacintha and Flora insisted upon doing
the same. The hours passed on slow and tediously. Loren-
zo's departure from Madrid had put a stop to the nightly se-
renades; she hoped in vain to hear the usual sound of guitars
beneath her window. She took up her own, and struck a few
chords; but music that evening had lost its charms for her,
and she soon replaced the instrument in its case. She seated
herself at her embroidery frame, but nothing went right : the
silks were missing, the thread snapped every moment, and
the needles were so expert at falling that they seemed to
be animated. At length a flake of wax fell from the taper
which stood near her upon a favourite wreath of violets; this
completely discomposed her; she threw down her needle, and
quitted the frame. It was decreed that for that night nothing
should have the power of amusing her. She was the prey
of ennui, and employed herself in making fruitless wishes for
the arrival of her aunt.


262
THE MONK.
As she walked with a listless air up and down the cham-
ber, the door caught her eye conducting to that which had
been her mother's. She remembered that Elvira's little li-
brary was arranged there, and thought that she might possibly
find in it some book to amuse her till Leonella should arrive.
Accordingly she took her taper from the table, passed through
the little closet, and entered the adjoining apartment. As she
looked around her, the sight of this room brought to her re-
collection a thousand painful ideas. It was the first time of
her entering it since her mother's death. The total silence
prevailing through the chamber, the bed despoiled of its fur-
niture, the cheerless hearth where stood an extinguished lamp,
and a few dying plants in the window, which since Elvira's
loss had been neglected, inspired Antonia with a melancholy
awe. The gloom of night gave strength to this sensation. She
placed her light upon the table, and sunk into a large chair,
in which she had seen her mother seated a thousand and a
thousand times. She was never to see her seated there
again! Tears unbidden streamed down her cheek, and she
abandoned herself to the sadness which grew deeper with
every moment.
Ashamed of her weakness, she at length rose from her
seat; she proceeded to seek for what had brought her to this
melancholy scene. The small collection of books was arranged
upon several shelves in order. Antonia examined them with-
out finding any thing likely to interest her, till she put her
hand upon a volume of old Spanish ballads. She read a few
stanzas of one of them. They excited her curiosity. She
took down the book, and seated herself to peruse it with ease.
She trimmed the taper, which now drew towards its end,
and then read the following ballad:
ALONZO THE BRAVE AND FAIR IMOGI NE.
A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright,
Conversed as they sat on the green;


THE MONK.
283
They gazed on each other with tender delight:
Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight,
The maid's was the Fair Imogine.
46 And, oh !" said the youth, “ since to-morrow I go
To fight in a far distant land,
Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow,
Some other will court you, and you will bestow
On a wealthier suitor your hand.”
* Oh! hush these suspicions,” Fair Imogine said,
“ Offensive to love and to me!
For, if you be living or if you be dead,
I swear, by the Virgin, that none in your stead
Shall husband of Imogine be.
“ If e'er I, by lust or by wealth led aside,
Forget my Alonzo the Brave,
God grant, that to punish my falsehood and pride,
Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side,
May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride,
And bear me away to the grave!"
To Palestine hastened the hero so bold ;
His love she lamented him sore :
But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when behold!
A Baron all covered with jewels and gold
Arrived at Fair Imogine's door.
His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain
Soon made her untrue to her vows :
He dazzled her eyes; he bewildered her brain ;
He caught her affections so light and so vain,
And carried her home as his spouse.
And now had the marriage been blest by the priest;
The revelry now was begun :
The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast ;
Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased,
When the bell at the castle told—“ one l"
Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found
That a stranger was placed by her side:
His air was terrific; he uttered no sound;
He spoke not, he moved not, he looked not around,
But earnestly gazed on the bride.


284
THE MONK.
His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height:
His armour was sable to view :
All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight;'
The dogs as they eyed him drew back in affright;
The lights in the chamber burned blue!
His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay ;
The guests sat in silence and fear,
At length spoke the bride, while she trembled; “I pray,
Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay,
And deign to partake of our cheer.”
The lady is silent; the stranger complies, ,
His vizor he slowly unclosed :
Oh! God! what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes!
What words can express her dismay and surprise,
When a skeleton's head was exposed !
All present then uttered a terrific shout;
All turned with disgust from the scene.
The worms they crept in and the worms they crept out,
And sported his eyes and his temples about,
While the spectre address'd Imogine,
“ Behold me, thou false one! behold me !" he cried ;
“ Remember Alonzo the Brave!
God grants, that to punish thy falsehood and pride
My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side,
Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride,
And bear thee away to the grave!”
Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound,
While loudly she shrieked in dismay;
Then sank with his prey through the wide-yawning ground:
Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found,
Or the spectre who bore her away..
Not long lived the Baron; and none since that time
To inhabit the castle presume;
For chronicles tell that, by order sublime,
There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime,
And mourns her deplorable doom.
At midnight four times in each year does her spright,
When mortals in slumber are bound,
Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white,
Appear in the hall with the Skeleton-Knight,
And shriek as he whirls her around.


THE MONK.
285
While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave,
Dancing round them the spectres are seen :
Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave
They howl :-"To the health of Alonzo the Brave,
And his consort the Fair Imogine!"
The perusal of this story was ill calculated to dispel An-
tonia's melancholy. She had naturally a strong inelination
to the marvellous ; and her nurse, who believed firmly in
apparitions, had related to her when an infant, so many hor-
rible adventures of this kind, that all Elvira's attempts had
failed to eradicate their impressions from her daughter's mind.
Antonia still nourished a superstitious prejudice in her bosom:
she was often susceptible of terrors, which, when she disco-
vered their natural and insignificant cause, made her blush
at her own weakness. With such a turn of mind, the ad-
venture which she had just been reading sufficed to give her
apprehensions the alarm. The hour and the scene combined
to authorise them. It was the dead of night; she was alone,
and in the chamber once occupied by her deceased mother.
The weather was comfortless and stormy; the wind howled
around the house, the doors rattled in their frames, and the
heavy rain pattered against the windows. No other sound
was heard. The taper, now burnt down to the socket, some-
times flaring upwards, shot a gleam of light through the room,
then sinking again, seemed upon the point of expiring. Anto-
nia's heart throbbed with agitation : her eyes wandered fear-
fully over the objects around her, as the trembling flame
illuminated them at intervals. She attempted to rise from
her seat, but her limbs trembled so violently that she was
unable to proceed. She then called Flora, who was in a
room at no great distance; but agitation choaked her voice,
and her cries died away in hollow murmurs.
She passed some minutes in this situation, after which her
terrors began to diminish. She strove to recover herself,
and acquire strength enough to quit the room. Suddenly she


286
THE MONK.
fancied that she heard a low sigh drawn near her. This idea
brought back her former weakness. She had already raised
herself from her seat, and was on the point of taking the lamp
from the table. The imaginary noise stopped her: she drew
back her hand, and supported herself upon the back of a
chair. She listened anxiously, but nothing more was heard.
“Gracious God!” she said to herself, “what could be that
sound? Was I deceived, or did I really hear it p”.
Her reflections were interrupted by a voice at the door
scarcely audible; it seemed as if somebody was whispering.
Antonia's alarm increased; yet the bolt she knew to be fast-
ened, and this idea in some degree reassured her. Pre-
sently the latch was lifted up softly, and the doors moved with
caution backwards and forwards. Excess of terror now sup-
plied Antonia with that strength, of which she had till then
been deprived. She started from her place, and made
towards the closet-door, whence she might soon have reached
the chamber where she expected to find Flora and Dame Ja-
cintha. Scarcely had she reached the middle of the room,
when the latch was lifted up a second time. An involuntary
movement obliged her to turn her head. Slowly and gra-
dually the door turned upon its hinges, and standing upon the
threshold she beheld a tall thin figure, wrapped in a white
shroud which covered it from head to foot..
This vision arrested her feet; she remained as if petrified
in the middle of the apartment. The stranger with measured
and solemn steps drew near the table. The dying taper darted
a blue and melancholy flame as the figure advanced towards
it. Over the table was fixed a small clock; the hand of it
was upon the stroke of three. The figure stopped opposite to
the clock: it raised its right arm, and pointed to the hour, at
the same time looking earnestly upon Antonia, who waited for
the conclusion of this scene, motionless and silent.
The figure remained in this posture for some moments.
The clock struck. When the sound had ceased, the stranger
advanced yet a few steps nearer Antonia.


THE MONK.
287
“ Yet three days,” said a voice, faint, hollow, and sepul-
chral ; “yet three days, and we meet again !”
Antonia shuddered at the words.
“We meet again P” she pronounced at length with diffi-
culty: “ Where shall we meet ? Whom shall I meet ?”
The figure pointed to the ground with one hand, and with
the other raised the linen which covered its face.
“ Almighty God! My mother!"
Antonia shrieked, and fell lifeless upon the floor.
Dame Jacintha who was at work in a neighbouring cham-
ber, was alarmed by the cry: Flora was just gone down stairs
to fetch fresh oil for the lamp by which they had been sitting.
Jacintha therefore hastened alone to Antonia's assistance, and
great was her amazement to find her extended upon the
floor. She raised her in her arms, conveyed her to her
apartment, and placed her upon the bed, still senseless. She
then proceeded to bathe her temples, chafe her hands, and
use all possible means of bringing her to herself. With some
difficulty she succeeded. Antonia opened her eyes and looked
round her wildly.
- “Where is she ?” she cried in a trembling voice: "Is she
gone? Am I safe ? Speak to me! Comfort me! Oh! speak
to me, for God's sake !"
“ Safe from whom, my child ?” replied the astonished
Jacintha : “What alarms you? Of whom are you afraid ?"
“In three days! She told me that we should meet in
three days! I heard her say it! I saw her, Jacintha, I saw
her but this moment!".
She threw herself upon Jacintha's bosom.
“ You saw her ?-Saw whom ?”
.“ My mother's ghost !”
“ Christ Jesus!" cried Jacintha; and, starting from the
bed, let fall Antonia upon the pillow, and fled in consternation
out of the room.
As she hastened down stairs, she met Flora ascending
them.


288
THE MONK.
“Go to your mistress, Flora,” said she; “ Here are rare
doings! Oh! I am the most unfortunate woman alive! My
house is filled with ghosts and dead bodies, and the Lord
knows what besides; yet I am sure nobody likes such com-
pany less than I do. But go your way to Donna Antonia,
Flora, and let me go mine."
Thus saying, she continued her course to the street-door,
which she opened ; and, without allowing herself time to
throw on her veil, she made the best of her way to the Ca-
puchin abbey. In the meanwhile, Flora hastened to her
lady's chamber, equally surprised and alarmed at Jacintha's
consternation. She found Antonia lying upon the bed, in-
sensible. She used the same means for her recovery that
Jacintha had already employed; but finding that her mistress
only recovered from one fit to fall into another, she sent in
all haste for a physician. While expecting his arrival, she
undressed Antonia, and conveyed her to bed.
Heedless of the storm, terrified almost out of her senses,
Jacintha ran though the streets, and stopped not till she
reached the gate of the abbey. She rang loudly at the bell;
and as soon as the porter appeared, she desired permission
to speak to the superior. Ambrosio was then conferring with
Matilda upon the means of procuring access to Antonia. The
cause of Elvira's death remaining unknown, he was con-
vinced that crimes were not so swiftly followed by punish-
ment as his instructors the monks had taught him, and as till
then he had himself believed. This persuasion made him re-
solve upon Antonia's ruin, for the enjoyment of whose person
dangers and difficulties only seemed to have increased his pas-
sion. The Monk had already made one attempt to gain ad-
mission to her presence; but Flora had refused him in such
a manner as to convince him that all future endeavours must
be vain. Elvira had confided her suspicions to that trusty
servant: she had desired her never to leave Ambrosio alone
with her daughter, and, if possible, to prevent their meeting
altogether. Flora promised to obey her, and had executed


THE MONK.
289
her orders to the very letter. Ambrosio's visit had been re-
jected that morning, though Antonia was ignorant of it. He
saw that to obtain a sight of his mistress by open means was
out of the question; and both himself and Matilda had con-
sumed the night in endeavouring to invent some new plan,
whose event might be more successful. Such was their em-
ployment when a lay-brother entered the Abbot's cell, and
informed him that a woman calling herself Jạcintha Zuniga
requested audience for a few minutes. . .
Ambrosio was by no means disposed to grant the petition
of his visitor. He refused it positively, and bade the lay-bro-
ther tell the stranger to return the next day. Matilda inter-
rupted him—-
“ See this woman,” said she in a low voice; “ I have my
reasons.”
The Abbot obeyed her, and signified that he would go to
the parlour immediately. With this answer the lay-brother
withdrew. As soon as they were alone, Ambrosio enquired
why Matilda wished him to see this Jacintha.
“She is Antonia's hostess,” replied Matilda; “ she may pos-
sibly be of use to you ; let us examine her, and learn what
brings her hither.”
- They proceeded together to the parlour, where Jacintha
was already waiting for the Abbot. She had conceived a
great opinion of his piety and virtue ; and supposing him to
have much influence over the devil,, thought that it must be
an easy matter for him to lay Elvira's ghost in the Red Sea.
Filled with this persuasion, she had hastened to the abbey.
As soon as she saw the Monk enter the parlour, she dropped
upon her knees, and began her story as follows:
“Oh! reverend father! such an accident! such an adven-
ture! I know not what course to take; and unless you can
help me, I shall certainly go distracted. Well, to be sure,
never was woman so unfortunate as myself! All in my power
to keep clear of such aboinination haye I done, and yet that
all is too little. What signifies my telling my beads four
19


THE MONK.
unes a day, and observing every fast prescribed by the ca-
lendar? What sizilies my having made three pilgrimages
to St. James of Compostella, and purchased as many pardons
from the Pope as would buy off Cain's punishment? No-
thing prospers with me! all goes wrong, and God only
hnows whether any thing will ever go right again? Why
now, be your holiness the judge-My lodger dies in convul-
sions; out of pure kindness I bury her at my own espense;
'pot that she is any relation of mine, or that I shall be bene-
fited a pistole by her death: I got nothing by it, and there-
fore you know, reverend father, that her living or dying was
just the same to me. But that is nothing to the purpose; to
return to what I was saying, I took care of her funeral, had
every thing performed decently and properly, and put myself
to expense enough, God knows! And how do you think the
lady repays me for my kindness? Why truly by refusing to
sleep quietly in her comfortable deal coffin, as a peaceable
well-disposed spirit ought to do, and coming to plague me,
who never wish to set eyes on her again. Forsooth, it well
becomes her to go racketing about my house at midnight,
popping into her daughter's room through the key-hole, and
frightening the poor child out of her wits! Though she be a
ghost, she might be more civil than to bolt into a person's
house who likes her company so little. But as for me, re-
verend father, the plain state of the case is this; if she walks
into my house, I must walk out of it, for I cannot abide such
visitors-not I. Thus you see, your sanctity, that without
your assistance I am ruined and undone for ever. I shall be
obliged to quit my house: nobody will take it, when 'tis known
that she haunts it, and then I shall find myself in a fine situa-
tion. Miserable woman that I am! what shall I do? what
will become of me?”
Here she wept bitterly, wrung her hands, and begged to
know the Abbot's opinion of her case.
“In truth, good woman,” replied he, “it will be difficult for
me to relieve you, without knowing what is the matter with


THE MONK.
291
you. You have forgotten to tell me what has happened, and
what it is you want."
- Let me die,” cried Jacintha, “ but your sanctity is in the
right. This then is the fact stated briefly–A lodger of mine
is lately dead; a very good sort of woman, that I must needs
say for her; as far as my knowledge of her went, though that
was not a great way. She kept me too much at a distance;
for indeed she was given to be upon the high ropes; and
whenever I ventured to speak to her, she had a look with her
which always made me feel a little queerish: God forgive me
for saying so! However, though she was more stately than
needful, and affected to look down upon me (though if I am
well informed, I come of as good parents as she could do for
her ears, for her father was a shoemaker at Cordova, and
mine was a hatter at Madrid--aye, and a very creditable
hatter too, let me tell you), yet for all her pride she was a
quiet well-behayed body, and I never wish to have a better
lodger. This makes me wonder the more at her not sleeping
quietly in her grave; but there is no trusting to people in this
world. For my part I never saw her do amiss, except on the
Friday before her death. To be sure, I was then much scan-
dalized by seeing her eat the wing of a chicken. "How, Ma-
dona Flora ! quoth I, does your mistress eat flesh upon
Fridays? Well, well, see the event, and then remember that
Dame Jacintha warned you of it! These were my very
words; but, alas ! I might as well have held my tongue. No-
hody minded me; and Flora, who is somewhat pert and
snappish (more is the pity, say I), told me, that there was no
more harm in eating a chicken than the egg from which it
came: nay, she even declared, that if her lady added a slice
of bacon, she would not be an inch nearer damnation. God
protect us! a poor ignorant sinful soul! I protest to your
holiness, I trembled to hear her utter such blasphemies, and
expected every moment to see the ground open and swallow
her up, chicken and all; for you must know, worshipful fa-
ther, that while she talked thus, she held the plate in her
19 *


292
THE MONK.
hand on which lay the identical roast fowl: and a fine bird it
was, that I must say for it--done to a turn, for I superin-
tended the cooking of it myself. It was a little gallician of
my own raising, may it please your holiness, and the flesh was
as white as an egg-shell, as indeed Donna Elvira then told
me herself. • Dame Jacintha,' said she, very good-humour-
edly, though to say the truth she was always very polite to
me”-
Here Ambrosio's patience failed him. Eager to know Ja-
cintha's business in which Antonia seemed to be concerned,
he was almost distracted while listening to the rambling of
this prosing old woman. He interrupted her, and protested
that if she did not immediately tell her story and have done
with it, he should quit the parlour, and leave her to get out
of her difficulties by herself. This threat had the desired ef-
fect. Jacintha related her business in as few words as she
could manage: but her account was still so prolix, that
Ambrosio bad need of his patience to bear him to the con-
clusion.
“ And so, your reverence,” said she, after relating Elvira's
death and burial, with all their circumstances—_" and so,
your reverence, upon hearing the shriek, I put away my
work, and away posted I to Donna Antonia's chamber.
Finding nobody there, I passed on to the next: but I must
own I was a little timorous at going in ; for this was the
very room where Donna Elvira used to sleep. However, in
I went, and sure enough there lay the young lady at full length
upon the floor, as cold as a stone, and as white as a sheet.
I was surprised at this, as your holiness may well suppose :
but, oh me! how I shook when I saw a great tall figure at
my elbow, whose head touched the ceiling! The face was
Donna Elvira's, I must confess; but out of its mouth came
clouds of fire; its arms were loaded with heavy chains, which
it rattled piteously; and every hair on its head was a serpent
as big as my arm. At this I was frightened enough, and be-
gan to say my Ave-Maria ; but the ghost interrupting me.


THE MONK.
293
uttered three loud groans, and roared out in a terrible voice,
• Oh! that chicken's wing! my poor soul suffers for it. As
soon as she had said this, the ground opened, the spectre
sank down; I heard a clap of thunder, and the room was
filled with a smell of brimstone. When I recovered from
my fright, and had brought Donna Antonia to herself, who
told me that she had cried out upon seeing her mother's
ghost (and well might she cry, poor soul! had I been in her
place, I should have cried ten times louder), it directly came
into my head, that if any one had power to quiet this spectre,
it must be your reverence. So hither I came in all diligence,
to beg that you will sprinkle my house with holy water, and
lay the apparition in the Red Sea.”
- Ambrosio started at this strange story, which he could not
credit.
“ Did Donna Antonia also see the ghost P” said he.
" As plain as I see you, reverend father.”
Ambrosio paused for a moment. Here was an opportunity
offered him of gaining access to Antonia, but he hesitated to
employ it. The reputation which he enjoyed in Madrid was
still dear to him; and since he had lost the reality of virtue,
it appeared as if its semblance was become more valuable.
He was conscious that publicly to break through the rule
never to quit the abbey-precincts would derogate much from
his supposed austerity. In visiting Elvira, he had always
taken care to keep his features concealed from the domestics.
Except by the lady, her daughter, and the faithful Flora, he
was known in the family by no other name than that of Father
Jerome. Should be comply with Jacintha's request, and ac-
company her to her house, he knew that the violation of his
rule could not be kept a secret. However, his eagerness to
see Antonia obtained the victory. He even hoped that the
singularity of this adventure would justify him in the eyes of
Madrid. But whatever might be the consequences, he re-
solved to profit by the opportunity which chance had pre-


294
THE MONK.
sented to him. An expressive look from Matilda confirmed
him in this resolution.
“ Good woman,” said he to Jacintha, “ what you tell me
is so extraordinary that I can scarcely credit your assertions.
However, I will comply with your request. To-morrow, after
matins, you may expect me at your house: I will then exa-
mine into what I can do for you; and if it is in my power,
will free you from this unwelcome visitor. Now then go
home, and peace be with you!"
“ Home !” exclaimed Jacintha; “ I go home ? Not I, by
my troth !--except under your protection, I set no foot of
mine within the threshold. God help me! the ghost may
meet me upon the stairs, and whisk me away with her to the
devil! Oh! that I had accepted young Melchior Basco's
offer! then I should have had somebody to protect me; but
now I am a lone woman, and meet with nothing but crosses
and misfortunes. Thank Heaven, it is not yet too late to re-
pent. There is Simon Gonzalez will have me any day of the
week; and if I live till day-break, I will marry him out of
hand : a husband I will have, that is determined; for, now
this ghost is once in my house, I shall be frightened out of
my wits to sleep alone. But, for God's sake, reverend father!
come with me now. I shall have no rest till the house is
purified, or the poor young lady either. The dear girl! she
is in a piteous taking : I left her in strong convulsions, and I
doubt she will not easily recover her fright.” .
The Friar started, and interrupted her hastily.
“ In convulsions, say you ? Antonia in convulsions ? Lead
on, good woman, I follow you this moment."
Jacintha insisted upon his stopping to furnish himself with
the vessel of holy water. With this request he complied.
Thinking herself safe under his protection should a legion of
ghosts attack her, the old woman returned the Monk a pro-
fusion of thanks, and they departed together for the strada di
San Iago.


THE MONK.
295
So strong an impression had the spectre made upon An-
tonia, that for the first two or three hours the physician de-
clared her life to be in danger. The fits at length becoming
less frequent, induced him to alter his opinion. He said, that
to keep her quiet was all that was necessary; and he ordered
a medicine to be prepared, which would tranquillize her
nerves, and procure her that repose which at present she
much wanted. The sight of Ambrosio, who now appeared
with Jacintha at her bedside, contributed essentially to com-
pose her ruffled spirits. Elvira had not sufficiently explained
herself upon the nature of his designs, to make a girl so ig-
norant of the world as her daughter aware how dangerous
was his acquaintance. At this moment, when penetrated with
horror at the scene which had just passed, and dreading to
contemplate the ghost's prediction, her mind had need of all
the succours of friendship and religion, Antonia regarded the
Abbot with an eye doubly partial. That strong prepossession
in his favour still existed, which she had felt for him at first
sight : she fancied, yet knew not wherefore, that his presence
was a safeguard to her from every danger, insult, or misfor-
tune. She thanked him gratefully for bis visit, and related to
him the adventure which had alarmed her so seriously.
The Abbot strove to reassure her, and convince her that
the whole had been a deception of her overheated fancy.
The solitude in which she had passed the evening, the gloom
of night, the book which she had been reading, and the room
in which she sat, were all calculated to place before her such
a vision. He treated the idea of ghosts with ridicule, and
produced strong arguments to prove the fallacy of such a
system. His conversation tranquillized and comforted her,
but did not convince her. She could not believe that the
spectre had been a mere creature of her imagination : every
circumstance was impressed upon her mind too forcibly to
permit her flattering herself with such an idea. She per-
sisted in asserting that she had really seen her mother's ghost,
had heard the period of her dissolution announced, and de-


296
THE MONK.
clared that she should never quit her bed alive. Ambrosio
advised her against encouraging these sentiments, and then
quitted her chamber, having promised to repeat his visit on
the morrow. Antonia received this assurance with every
mark of joy: but the Monk easily perceived that he was not
equally acceptable to her attendant. Flora obeyed Elvira's in-
junctions with the most scrupulous observance. She examined
with an anxious eye every circumstance likely in the least to
prejudice her young mistress, to whom she had been attached
for many years. She was a native of Cuba, had followed El-
vira to Spain, and loved the young Antonia with a mother's
affection. Flora quitted not the room for a moment while the
Abbot remained there: she watched his every word, his every
look, his every action. He saw that her suspicious eye was
always fixed upon him; and, conscious that his designs would
not bear inspection so minute, he felt frequently confused and
disconcerted. He was aware that she doubted the purity of
his intentions; that she would never leave him alone with
Antonia; and, his mistress defended by the presence of this
vigilant observer, he despaired of finding the means to gratify
his passion.
As he quitted the house, Jacintha met him, and begged
that some masses might be sung for the repose of Elvira's
soul, which she doubted not was suffering in purgatory.
He promised not to forget her request; but he perfectly
gained the old woman's heart, by engaging to watch during
the whole of the approaching night in the haunted chamber.
Jacintha could find no terms sufficiently strong to express her
gratitude, and the Monk departed loaded with her bene-
dictions.
It was broad day when he returned to the abbey. His first
care was to communicate what had passed to his confidante.
He felt too sincere a passion for Antonia, to have heard un-
moved the prediction of her speedy death, and he shuddered
at the idea of losing an object so dear to him. Upon this
head Matilda reassured him. She confirmed the arguments


THE MONK
297
which himself had already used : she declared Antonia to have
been deceived by the wandering of her brain, by the spleen
which oppressed her at that moment, and by the natural turn
of her mind to superstition and the marvellous. As to Ja-
cintha's account, the absurdity refuted itself. The Abbot he-
sitated not to believe that she had fabricated the whole story,
either confused by terror, or hoping to make him comply more
readily with her request. Having overruled the Monk's ap-
prehensions, Matilda continued thus :
“ The prediction and the ghost are equally false: but it
must be your care, Ambrosio, to verify the first. Antonia
within three days must indeed be dead to the world : but she
must live for you. Her present illness, and this fancy which
she has taken into her head, will colour a plan which I have
long meditated, but which was impracticable without your pro-
curing access to Antonia. She shall be yours, not for a single
night, but for ever. All the vigilance of her duenna shall not
avail her. You shall riot unrestrained in the charms of your
mistress. This very day must the scheme be put in execution,
for you have no time to lose. The nephew of the Duke of
Medina Celi prepares to demand Antonia for his bride: in a
few days she will be removed to the palace of her relation,
the Marquis de las Cisternas, and there she will be secure
from your attempts. Thus during your absence have I been
informed by my spies, who are ever employed in bringing me
intelligence for your service. Now then listen to me. There
is a juice extracted from certain herbs known but to few,
which brings on the person who drinks it the exact image of
death. Let this be administered to Antonia : you may easily
find means to pour a few drops into her medicine. The ef-
fect will be throwing her into strong convulsions for an hour:
after which her blood will gradually cease to flow, and her
heart to beat : a mortal paleness will spread itself over her
features, and she will appear a corse to every eye. She has
no friends about her : you may charge yourself unsuspected
with the superintendence of her funeral, and cause her to be


298
THE MONK.
buried in the vaults of St. Clare. Their solitude and easy
access render these caverns favourable to your designs. Give
Antonia the soporific draught this evening : eight-and-forty
hours after she has drank it, life will revive in her bosom,
She will then be absolutely in your power : she will find all
resistance unavailing, and necessity will compel her to receive
you in her arms.”
“ Antonia will be in my power !” exclaimed the Monk ;
“ Matilda, you transport me! At length, then, happiness will
be mine, and that happiness will be Matilda's gift, will be the
gift of friendship! I shall clasp Antonia in my arms, far from
every prying eye, from every tormenting intruder! I shall
sigh out my soul upon her bosom; shall teach her young
heart the first rudiments of pleasure, and revel uncontrolled
in the endless variety of her charms! And shall this delight
indeed be mine? Shall I give the reins to my desires and
gratify every wild tumultuous wish? Oh! Matilda, how can
I express to you my gratitude ?”.
“By profiting by my counsels. Ambrosio, I live but to
serve you; your interest and happiness are equally mine.
Be your person Antonia's, but to your friendship and your
heart I still assert my claim. Contributing to yours, forms
now my only pleasure. Should my exertions procure the
gratification of your wishes, I shall consider my trouble to be
amply repaid. But let us lose no time. The liquor of which
I spoke, is only to be found in St. Clare's laboratory. Hasten
then to the Prioress, request of her admission to the labo-
ratory, and it will not be denied. There is a closet at the
lower end of the great room, filled with liquids of different
colours and qualities; the bottle in question stands by itself,
upon the third shelf on the left. It contains a greenish liquor:
fill a small phial with it when you are unobserved, and An-
tonia is your own.”
The Monk hesitated not to adopt this infainous plan. His
desires, but too violent before, had acquired fresh vigour from
the sight of Antonia. As he sat by her bedside, accident had


THE MONK.
299
discovered to him some of those charms which till then had
been concealed from him: he found them even more perfect
than his ardent imagination had pictured them.' Sometimes
her white and polished arm was displayed in arranging the
pillow: sometimes a sudden movement discovered part of her
swelling bosom; but wherever the new-found charm pre-
sented itself, there rested the Friar's gloating eyes. Scarcely
could he master himself sufficiently to conceal his desires
from Antonia and her vigilant duenna. Inflamed by the re-
membrance of these beauties, he entered into Matilda's scheme
without hesitation.
No sooner were the matins over, than he bent his course,
towards the convent of St. Clare: his arrival threw the
whole sisterhood into the utmost amazement. The Prioress
was sensible of the honour done her convent by his paying
it his first visit, and strove to express her gratitude by every
possible attention. He was paraded through the garden,
shewn all the relicks of saints and martys, and treated with
as much respect and distinction as if he had been the Pope
himself. On his part, Ambrosio received the Domina's civilities
very graciously, and strove to remove her surprise at his
having broken through his resolution. He stated that among
his penitents, illness prevented many from quitting their
houses. These were exactly the people who most needed
his advice and the comforts of religion. Many representa-
tions had been made to him upon this account, and, though
highly repugnant to his own wishes, he had found it abso-
lutely necessary, for the service of Heaven, to change his de-
termination, and quit his beloved retirement. The Prioress
applauded his zeal in his profession, and his charity towards
mankind. She declared that Madrid was happy in possessing
a man so perfect and irreproachable. In such discourse the
Friar at length reached the laboratory : he found the closet;
the bottle stood in the place which Matilda had described,
and the Monk seized an opportunity to fill his phial unob-
served with the soporific liquor. Then having partaken of a


300
THE MONK.
collation in the refectory, he retired from the convent, pleased
with the success of his visit, and leaving the nuns delighted
by the honour conferred upon them.
He waited till evening before he took the road to Antonia's
dwelling. Jacintha welcomed him with transport, and be-
sought him not to forget his promises to pass the night in the
haunted chamber. That promise he now repeated. He found
Antonia tolerably well, but still harping upon the ghost's pre-
diction. Flora moved not from her lady's bed, and, by symp-
toms yet stronger than on the former night, testified her
dislike to the Abbot's presence. Still Ambrosio affected not
to observe them. The physician arrived while he was con-
versing with Antonia. It was dark already; lights were called
for, and Flora was compelled to descend for them herself.
However, as she left a third person in the room, and expected
to be absent but a few minutes, she believed that she risked
nothing in quitting her post. No sooner had she left the
room, than Ambrosio moved towards the table, on which
stood Antonia's medicine. It was placed in a recess of the
window. The physician, seated in an arm-chair, and em-
ployed in questioning his patient, paid no attention to the
proceedings of the Monk. Ambrosio seized the opportunity;
he drew out the fatal phial, and let a few drops fall into the
medicine: he then hastily left the table, and returned to the
seat which he had quitted. When Flora made her appea-
rance with lights, every thing seemed to be exactly as she had
left it.
The physician declared that Antonia might quit her chamber
the next day with perfect safety. He recommended her fol-
lowing the same prescription which on the night before had
procured her a refreshing sleep. Flora replied that the draught
stood ready on the table: he advised the patient to take it
without delay, and then retired. Flora poured the medicine
into a cup, and presented it to her mistress. At that moment
Ambrosio's courage failed him. Might not Matilda have de-
ceived him? Might not jealousy have persuaded her to


THE MONK.
301
destroy her rival, and substitute poison in the room of an
opiate? This idea appeared so reasonable, that he was on
the point of preventing her from swallowing the medicine.
His resolution was adopted too late. The cup was already
emptied, and Antonia restored it into Flora's hands. No re-
medy was now to be found: Ambrosio could only expect the
moment impatiently destined to decide upon Antonia's life or
death, upon his own happiness or despair.
· Dreading to create suspicion by his stay, or betray himself
by his mind's agitation, he took leave of his victim, and with-
drew from the room. Antonia parted from him with less cor-
diality than on the former night. Flora had represented to
her mistress, that to admit his visits were to disobey her mo-
ther's orders. She described to her his emotion on entering
the room, and the fire which sparkled in his eyes while he
gazed upon her. This had escaped Antonia's observation,
but not her attendant's, who, explaining the Monk's designs,
and their probable consequences, in terms much clearer than
Elvira's, though not quite so delicate, had succeeded in alarm-
ing her young lady, and persuading her to treat him more dis-
tantly than she had done hitherto. The idea of obeying her
mother's will at once determined Antonia. Though she
grieved at losing his society, she conquered herself sufficiently
to receive the Monk with some degree of reserve and cold-
ness. She thanked him with respect and gratitude for his
former visits, but did not invite his repeating them in future.
It now was not the Friar's interest to solicit admission to her
presence, and he took leave of her as if not designing to re-
turn. Fully persuaded that the acquaintance which she
dreaded was now at an end, Flora was so much worked upon
by his easy compliance, that she began to doubt the justice of
her suspicions. As she lighted him down stairs, she thanked
him for having endeavoured to root out from Antonia's mind
her superstitious terrors of the spectre's prediction: she added,
that as he seemed interested in Donna Antonia's welfare,
should any change take place in her situation, she would be


302
THE MONK
careful to let him know it. The Monk, in replying, took pains
to raise his voice, hoping that Jacintha would hear it. In this
he succeeded. As he reached the foot of the stairs with his
conductress, the landlady failed not to make her appearance.
“Why surely you are not going away, reverend father ?”
cried she: “Did you not promise to pass the night in the
haunted chamber? Christ Jesus! I shall be left alone with
the ghost, and a fine pickle I shall be in by morning! Do all
I could, say all I could, that obstinate old brute, Simon Gon-
zalez, refused to marry me to-day; and before to-morrow
comes, I suppose I shall be torn to pieces by the ghosts and
goblins, and devils, and what not! For God's sake, your
holiness, do not leave me in such a woful condition! On my
bended knees I beseech you to keep your promise: watch
this night in the haunted chamber; lay the apparition in the
Red Sea, and Jacintha reinembers you in her prayers to the
last day of her existence."
This request Ambrosio expected and desired: yet he affected
to raise objections, and to seem unwilling to keep his word.
He told Jacintha that the ghost existed now here but in her
own brain, and that her insisting upon his staying all night in
the house was ridiculous and useless. Jacintha was obstinate ;
she was not to be convinced, and pressed him so urgently not
to leave her a prey to the devil, that at length he granted her
request. All this show of resistance imposed not upon Flora,
who was naturally of a suspicious temper. She suspected the
Monk to be acting a part very contrary to his own inclina-
tions, and that he wished for no better than to remain where
he was. She even went so far as to believe that Jacintha
was in his interest; and the poor old woman was immediately
set down as no better than a procuress. While she applauded
herself for having penetrated into this plot against her lady's
honour, she resolved in secret to render it fruitless.
“ So then,” said she to the Abbot, with a look half satirical
and half indignant——“so, then, you mean to stay here to-
night! Do so, in God's name! Nobody will prevent you.


THE MONK.
303
Sit up to watch for the ghost's arrival : I shall sit up too, and
the Lord grant that I may see nothing worse than a ghost !
I quit not Donna Antonia's bedside during this blessed night.
Let me see any one dare to enter the room, and be he mortal
or immortal, be he ghost, devil, or man, I warrant his re-
penting that ever he crossed the threshold!”
This hint was sufficiently strong, and Ambrosio understood
its meaning. But instead of showing that he perceived her
suspicions, he replied mildly, that he approved the Duenna's
precautions, and advised her to persevere in her intention.--
This she assured him faithfully that he might depend upon
her doing. Jacintha then conducted him into the chamber
where the ghost had appeared, and Flora returned to her
lady's.
Jacintha opened the door of the haunted room with a
trembling hand; she ventured to peep in, but the wealth of
India would not have tempted her to cross the threshold.
She gave the taper to the Monk, wished him well through
the adventure, and hastened to be gone. Ambrosio entered.
He bolted the door, placed the light upon the table, and
seated himself in the chair which on the former night had
sustained Antonia. In spite of Matilda's assurances, that the
spectre was a mere creation of fancy, his mind was impressed
with a certain mysterious horror. He in vain endeavoured
to shake it off. The silence of the night, the story of the
apparition, the chamber wainscoted with dark oak pannels,
the recollection which it brought with it of the murdered
Elvira, and his incertitude respecting the nature of the drops
given by him to Antonia, made him feel uneasy at his present
situation. But he thought much less of the spectre than of
the poison. Should he have destroyed the only object which
made life dear to him; should the ghost's prediction prove
true; should Antonia in the three days be no more, and he the
wretched cause of her death-The supposition was too
horrible to dwell upon. He drove away these dreadful images,
and as often they presented themselves again before him.


304
THE MONK.
Matilda had assured him that the effects of the opiate would
be speedy. He listened with fear, yet with eagerness, ex-
pecting to hear some disturbance in the adjoining chamber.
All was still silent. He concluded that the drops had not
begun to operate. Great was the stake for which he now
played: a moment would suffice to decide upon his misery or
happiness. Matilda had taught him the means of ascertaining,
that life was not extinct for ever: upon this essay depended
all his hopes. With every instant his impatience redoubled;
his terrors grew more lively, his anxiety more awake. Unable
to bear this state of incertitude, he endeavoured to divert it
by substituting the thoughts of others to his own. The books,
as was before mentioned, were ranged upon shelves near the
table: this stood exactly opposite to the bed, which was placed
in an alcove near the closet-door. Ambrosio took down a
volume, and seated himself by the table: but his attention
wandered from the pages before him. Antonia's image, and
that of the murdered Elvira, stood before his imagination.
Still he continued to read, though his eyes ran over the cha-
racters without his mind being conscious of their import.
Such was his occupation when he fancied that he heard a
footstep. He turned his head, but no body was to be seen.
He resumed his book; but in a few minutes after, the same
sound was repeated, and followed by a rustling noise close
behind him. He now started from his seat, and looking round
him, perceived the closet-door standing half unclosed. On
his first entering the room, he had tried to open it, but found
it bolted on the inside.
“ How is this ?” said he to himself; “ How comes this door
unfastened?"
He advanced towards it, he pushed it open, and looked
into the closet : no one was there. While he stood irresolute,
he thought that he distinguished a groaning in the adjacent
chamber : it was Antonia's, and he supposed that the drops
began to take effect. But upon listening more attentively, he
found the noise to be caused by Jacintha, who had fallen


THE MONK.
303
asleep by the lady's bedside, and was snoaring most lustily.
Ambrosio drew back and returned to the other room, musing
upon the sudden opening of the closet-door, for which he
strove in vain to account.
He paced the chamber up and down in silence. At length
he stopped, and the bed attracted his attention. The curtain
of the recess was but half drawn. He sighed involuntarily.
- That bed,” said he in a low voice, “that bed was El-
vira's! There has she passed many a quiet night, for she
was good and innocent. How sound must have been her
sleep! and yet now she sleeps sounder! Does she indeed
sleep? Oh! God grant that she may! What if she rose
from her grave at this sad and silent hour? What if she
broke the bonds of the tomb, and glided angrily before my
blasted eyes? Oh! I never could support the sight! Again
to see her form distorted by dying agonies, her blood-swollen
veins, her livid countenance, her eyes bursting from their
sockets with pain !—to hear her speak of future punishment,
menace me with Heaven's vengeance, tax me with the crimes
I have committed, with those I am going to commit-
Great God! what is that ?”
As he uttered these words, his eyes, which were fixed upon
the bed, saw the curtain shaken gently backwards and for-
wards. The apparition was recalled to his mind, and he al-
most fancied that he beheld Elvira's visionary form reclining
upon the bed. A few moments consideration sufficed to re-
assure him.
“It was only the wind,” said he, recovering himself.
Again he paced the chamber; but an involuntary move-
ment of awe and inquietude constantly led his eyes towards
the alcove. He drew near it with irresolution. He paused
before he ascended the few steps which led to it. He put
out his hand thrice to remove the curtain, and as often drew
it back.
“ Absurd terrors !” he cried at length, ashamed of his
own weakness.
20


304
THE MONK.
Matilda had assured him that the effects of the opiate would
be speedy. He listened with fear, yet with eagerness, ex-
pecting to hear some disturbance in the adjoining chamber.
All was still silent. He concluded that the drops had not
begun to operate. Great was the stake for which he now
played: a moment would suffice to decide upon his misery or
happiness. Matilda had taught him the means of ascertaining,
that life was not extinct for ever: upon this essay depended
all his hopes. With every instant his impatience redoubled;
his terrors grew more lively, his anxiety more awake. Unable
to bear this state of incertitude, he endeavoured to divert it
by substituting the thoughts of others to his own. The books,
as was before mentioned, were ranged upon shelves near the
table: this stood exactly opposite to the bed, which was placed
in an alcove near the closet-door. Ambrosio took down a
volume, and seated himself by the table: but his attention
wandered from the pages before him. Antonia's image, and
that of the murdered Elvira, stood before his imagination.
Still he continued to read, though his eyes ran over the cha-
racters without his mind being conscious of their import.
Such was his occupation when he fancied that he heard a
footstep. He turned his head, but no body was to be seen.
He resumed his book; but in a few minutes after, the same
sound was repeated, and followed by a rustling noise close
behind him. He now started from his seat, and looking round
him, perceived the closet-door standing half unclosed. On
his first entering the room, he had tried to open it, but found
it bolted on the inside.
“ How is this ?” said he to himself; “ How comes this door
unfastened?"
He advanced towards it, he pushed it open, and looked
into the closet : no one was there. While he stood irresolute,
he thought that he distinguished a groaning in the adjacent
chamber : it was Antonia's, and he supposed that the drops
began to take effect. But upon listening more attentively, he
found the noise to be caused by Jacintha, who had fallen


THE MONK.
303
asleep by the lady's bedside, and was snoaring most lustily.
Ambrosio drew back and returned to the other room, musing
upon the sudden opening of the closet-door, for which he
strove in vain to account.
He paced the chamber up and down in silence. At length
he stopped, and the bed attracted his attention. The curtain
of the recess was but half drawn. He sighed involuntarily.
“ That bed,” said he in a low voice, “ that bed was El-
vira's! There has she passed many a quiet night, for she
was good and innocent. How sound must have been her
sleep! and yet now she sleeps sounder! Does she indeed
sleep? Oh! God grant that she may! What if she rose
from her grave at this sad and silent hour? What if she
broke the bonds of the tomb, and glided angrily before my
blasted eyes? Oh! I never could support the sight! Again
to see her form distorted by dying agonies, her blood-swollen
veins, her livid countenance, her eyes bursting from their
sockets with pain!—to hear her speak of future punishment,
menace me with Heaven's vengeance, tax me with the crimes
I have committed, with those I am going to commit-
Great God! what is that ?”
As he uttered these words, his eyes, which were fixed upon
the bed, saw the curtain shaken gently backwards and for-
wards. The apparition was recalled to his inind, and he al-
most fancied that he beheld Elvira's visionary form reclining
upon the bed. A few moments consideration sufficed to re-
assure him.
“It was only the wind,” said he, recovering himself.
Again he paced the chamber; but an involuntary move-
ment of awe and inquietude constantly led his eyes towards
the alcove. He drew near it with irresolution. He paused
before he ascended the few steps which led to it. He put
out his hand thrice to remove the curtain, and as often drew
it back.
“ Absurd terrors !” he cried at length, ashamed of his
own weakness.
20


306
THE MONK.
Hastily he mounted the steps, when a figure dressed in
white started from the alcove, and gliding by him, made with
precipitation towards the closet. Madness and despair now
supplied the Monk with that courage of which he had till
then been destitute. He flew down the steps, pursued the
apparition, and attempted to grasp it.
“Ghost or devil, I hold you !” he exclaimed, and seized the
spectre by the arm.
“Oh! Christ Jesus !” cried a shrill voice : “Holy father,
how you gripe me! I protest that I meant no harm !”
This address, as well as the arm which he held, convinced
the Abbot that the supposed ghost was substantial flesh and
blood. He drew the intruder towards the table, and hold-
ing up the light, discovered the features of --- Madona
Flora!
Incensed at having been betrayed by this trifling cause into
fears so ridiculous, he asked her sternly what business had
brought her to that chamber. Flora, ashamed at being found
out, and terrified at the severity of Ambrosio's looks, fell upon
her knees, and promised to make a full confession.
“I protest, reverend father,” said she, “ that I am quite
grieved at having disturbed you; nothing was further from
my intention. I meant to get out of the room as quietly as I
got in; and had you been ignorant that I watched you, you
know it would have been the same thing as if I had not
watched you at all. To be sure I did very wrong in being a
spy upon you—that I cannot deny. But, Lord! your reve-
rence, how can a poor weak woman resist curiosity! Mine
was so strong to know what you were doing, that I could not
but try to get a little peep without any body knowing any
thing about it. So with that I left old dame Jacintha sitting by
my lady's bed, and I ventured to steal into the closet. Being
unwilling to interrupt you, I contented myself at first with put-
ting my eye to the key-hole; but as I could see nothing by
this means, I undrew the bolt, and while your back was
turned to the alcove, I whipt me in softly and silently. Here


THE MONK.
307
I lay snug behind the curtain, till your reverence found me
out and seized me ere I had time to regain the closet-door.
This is the whole truth, I assure you, holy father, and I beg
your pardon a thousand times for my impertinence.” .
During this speech the Abbot had time to recollect himself:
he was satisfied with reading the penitent spy a lecture upon
the dangers of curiosity, and the meanness of the action in
which she had been just discovered. Flora declared herself
fully persuaded that she had done wrong; she promised
never to be guilty of the same fault again, and was retiring
very humble and contrite to Antonia's chamber, when the
closet-door was suddenly thrown open, and in rushed Jacin-
tha pale and out of breath.
“Oh! father! father!” she cried, in a voice almost
choaked with terror, " What shall I do! What shall I do!
Here is a fine piece of work! Nothing but misfortunes! No-
thing but dead people, and dying people! Oh! I shall go
distracted! I shall go distracted !”
“Speak! Speak!” cried Flora and the Monk at the same
time : " what has happened? what is the matter ?”
“Oh! I shall have another corse in my house! Some
witch has certainly cast a spell upon it, upon me, and upon
all about me! Poor Donna Antonia! there she lies in just
such convulsions as killed her mother! The ghost told her
true! I am sure the ghost told her true !"
Flora ran, or rather flew to her lady's chamber: Ambrosio
followed her, his bosom trembling with hope and apprehen-
sion. They found Antonia as Jacintha had described, torn by
racking convulsions, from which they in vain endeavoured to
relieve her. The Monk dispatched Jacintha to the abbey in
all haste, and commissioned her to bring Father Pablos back
with her without losing a moment.
“I will go for him,” replied Jacintha, “and tell him to come
hither; but as to bringing him myself, I shall do no such
thing. I am sure that the house is bewitched, and burn me
if ever I set foot in it again.”
20*


308
THE MONK.
With this resolution she set out for the monastery, and de-
livered to Father Pablos the Abbot's orders. She then be-
took herself to the house of old Simon Gonzalez, whom she
resolved never to quit till she had made him her husband, and
his dwelling her own.
Father Pablos had no sooner beheld Antonia, than he pro-
nounced her incurable. The convulsions continued for an
hour; during that time her agonies were much milder than
those which her groans created in the Abbot's heart. Her
every pang seemed a dagger in his bosom, and he cursed
himself a thousand times for having adopted so barbarous a
project. The hour being expired, by degrees the fits became
less frequent, and Antonia less agitated. She felt that her
dissolution was approaching, and that nothing could save
her.
“ Worthy Ambrosio,” she said in a feeble voice, while she
pressed his hand to her lips; “ I am now at liberty to express
how grateful is my heart for your attention and kindness. I
am upon the bed of death; yet an hour, and I shall be no
more. I may therefore acknowledge without restraint, that
to relinquish your society was very painful to me: but such
was the will of a parent, and I dared not disobey. I die
without repugnance: there are few who will lament my
leaving them—there are few whom I lament to leave. Among
those few I lament for none more than for yourself; but we
shall meet again, Ambrosio! we shall one day meet in Hea-
ven : there shall our friendship be renewed, and my mother
shall view it with pleasure !"
She paused. The Abbot shuddered when she mentioned
Elvira. Antonia imputed his emotion to pity and concern for
her.
“ You are grieved for me, father,” she continued ; “ Ah!
sigh not for my loss. I have no crimes to repent, at least
none of which I am conscious; and I restore my soul without
fear to him from whom I received it. I have but few re-
quests to make; yet let me hope that what few I have shall


310
THE MONK.
himself about the funeral, which, out of consideration for Ja-
cintha, as he pretended, should take place with all expedition.
Plunged in grief for the loss of her beloved mistress, Flora
scarcely attended to what he said. Ambrosio hastened to
command the burial. He obtained permission from the
Prioress, that the corse should be deposited in St. Clare's
sepulchre, and on the Friday morning, every proper and need-
ful ceremony being performed, Antonia's body was com-
mitted to the tomb. On the same day Leonella arrived at
Madrid, intending to present her young husband to Elvira.
Various circumstances had obliged her to defer her journey
from Tuesday to Friday; and she had no opportunity of
making this alteration in her plans known to her sister. As
her heart was truly affectionate, and as she had ever enter-
tained a sincere regard for Elvira and her daughter, her sur-
prise at hearing of their sudden and melancholy fate was
fully equalled by her sorrow and disappointment. Ambrosio
sent to inform her of Antonia's bequest: at her solicitation,
he promised, as soon as Elvira's trifling debts were dis-
charged, to transmit to her the remainder. This being set-
tled, no other business detained Leonella in Madrid, and she
returned to Cordova with all diligence.


THE MONK.
311
CHAPTER X.
Oh! could I worship aught beneath the skies,
That earth hath seen, or fancy could devise,
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand,
Built by no mercenary vulgar hand,
With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair,
As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air.
CowPER.
His whole attention bent upon bringing to justice the as-
sassins of his sister, Lorenzo little thought how severely his
interest was suffering in another quarter. As was before
mentioned, he returned not to Madrid till the evening of that
day on which Antonia was buried. Signifying to the Grand
Inquisitor the order of the Cardinal-Duke (a ceremony not
to be neglected when a member of the Church was to be ar-
rested publicly), communicating his design to his uncle and
Don Ramirez, and assembling a troop of attendants sufficient
to prevent opposition, furnished him with full occupation
during the few hours preceding midnight. Consequently, he
had no opportunity to enquire about his mistress, and was
perfectly ignorant both of her death and her mother's.
The Marquis was by no means out of danger; his delirium
was gone, but had left him so much exhausted, that the phy-
sicians declined pronouncing upon the consequences likely to
ensue. As for Raymond himself, he wished for nothing
more earnestly than to join Agnes in the grave. Existence
was hateful to him: he saw nothing in the world deserving
his attention ; and he hoped to hear that Agnes was re-
venged and himself given over in the same moment.
Followed by Raymond's ardent prayers for success, Lo-


312
THE MONK.
renzo was at the gates of St. Clare a full hour before the
time appointed by the Mother St. Ursula. He was accom-
panied by his uncle, by Don Ramirez de Mello, and a party of
chosen archers. Though in considerable numbers, their ap-
pearance created no surprise: a great crowd was already
assembled before the convent-doors, in order to witness the
procession. It was naturally supposed, that Lorenzo and his
attendants were conducted thither by the same design. The
Duke of Medina being recognised, the people drew back, and
made way for his party to advance. Lorenzo placed himself
opposite to the great gate through which the pilgrims were
to pass. Convinced that the Prioress could not escape him,
he waited patiently for her appearance, which she was ex-
pected to make exactly at midnight.
The nuns were employed in religious duties established in
honour of St. Clare, and to which no profane was ever ad-
mitted. The chapel windows were illuminated. As they
stood on the outside, the auditors heard the full swell of the
organ, accompanied by a chorus of female voices, rise upon
the stillness of the night. This died away, and was suc-
ceeded by a single strain of harmony; it was the voice of
her who was destined to sustain in the procession the cha-
racter of St. Clare. For this office the most beautiful virgin
of Madrid was always seleċted, and she upon whom the
choice fell, esteemed it as the highest of honours. While
listening to the music, whose melody distance only seemed to
render sweeter, the audience was wrapped up in profound
attention. Universal silence prevailed through the crowd,
and every heart was filled with reverence for religion-
every heart but Lorenzo's. Conscious that among those who
chaunted the praises of their God so sweetly, there were
some who cloaked with devotion the foulest sins, their hymns
inspired him with detestation at their hypocrisy. He had
long observed with disapprobation and contempt the super-
stition which governed Madrid's inhabitants. His good sense
had pointed out to him the artifices of the monks, and the


THE MONK.
313
gross absurdity of their miracles, wonders, and suppositious
relicks. He blushed to see his countrymen the dupes of
deception so ridiculous, and only wished for an opportunity
to free them from their monkish fetters. That opportunity,
so long desired in vain, was at length presented to him. He
resolved not to let it slip, but to set before the people, in
glaring colours, how enormous were the abuses but too fre-
quently practised in monasteries, and how unjustly public
esteem was bestowed indiscriminately upon all who wore a
religious habit. He longed for the moment destined to un-
mask the hypocrites, and convince his countrymen, that a
sanctified exterior does not always hide a virtuous heart.
The service lasted till midnight was announced by the
convent-bell. The sound being heard, the music ceased:
the voices died away softly, and soon after the lights disap-
peared from the chapel windows. Lorenzo's heart beat high,
when he found the execution of his plan to be at hand.
From the natural superstition of the people, he had prepared
himself for some resistance; but he trusted that the Mother
St. Ursula would bring good reasons to justify his proceed-
ing. He had force with him to repel the first impulse of the
populace, till his arguments should be heard: his only fear
was, lest the Domina, suspecting his design, should have spi-
rited away the nun, on whose deposition every thing de-
pended. Unless the Mother St. Ursula should be present,
he could only accuse the Prioress upon suspicion ; and this
reflection gave him some little apprehension for the success
of his enterprise. The tranquillity which seemed to reign
through the convent, in some degree, reassured him: still he
expected the moment eagerly, when the presence of his ally
should deprive him of the power of doubting.
The abbey of Capuchins was only separated from the con-
vent by the garden and cemetery. The monks had been in-
vited to assist at the pilgrimage. They now arrived, march-
ing two by two, with lighted torches in their hands, and
chaunting hymns in honour of St. Clare. Father Pablos


314
THE MONK.
was at their head, the Abbot having excused himself from
attending. The people made way for the holy train, and
the friars placed themselves in ranks on either side of the
great gates. A few minutes sufficed to arrange the order of
the procession. This being settled, the convent-doors were
thrown open, and again the female chorus sounded in full
inelody. First appeared a band of choristers. As soon as
they had passed, the monks fell in two by two, and followed
with steps slow and measured: next came the novices: they
bore no tapers, as did the professed, but moved on with eyes
bent downwards, and seemed to be occupied by telling their
beads. To them succeeded a young and lovely girl, who
represented St. Lucia: she held a golden bason, in which
were two eyes : her own were covered by a velvet bandage,
and she was conducted by another nun, habited as an angel.
She was followed by St. Catharine, a palm-branch in one
hand, a flaming sword in the other : she was robed in white,
and her brow was ornamented with a sparkling diadem.
After her appeared St. Genevieve, surrounded by a number of
imps, who putting themselves into grotesque attitudes, draw-
ing her by the robe, and sporting round her with antick ges-
tures, endeavoured to distract her attention from the book,
on which her eyes were constantly fixed. These merry
devils greatly entertained the spectators, who testified their
pleasure by repeated bursts of laughter. The Prioress had
been careful to select a nun whose disposition was naturally
solemn and saturnine. She had every reason to be satisfied
with her choice: the drolleries of the imps were entirely
thrown away, and St. Genevieve moved on without discom-
posing a muscle.
Each of these saints was separated from the other by a band
of choristers, exalting her praise in their hymns, but declar-
ing her to be very much inferior to St. Clare, the convent's
avowed patroness. These having passed, a long train of
nuns appeared, bearing like the choristers each a burning taper.
Next came the relicks of St. Clare, inclosed in vases equally


316
THE MONK.
countenance, calm and tranquil, seemed abstracted from all
sublunary things, and no feature betrayed her secret pride
at displaying the pomp and opulence of her convent. She
passed along, accompanied by the prayers and benedictions
of the populace: but how great was the general confusion and
surprise when Don Ramirez, starting forward, challenged her
as his prisoner!
For a moment amazement held the Domina silent and im-
moveable : but no sooner did she recover herself, than she
exclaimed against sacrilege and impiety, and called upon the
people to rescue a daughter of the Church. They were
eagerly preparing to obey her; when Don Ramirez, protected
by the archers from their rage, commanded them to forbear,
and threatened them with the severest vengeance of the In-
quisition. At that dreaded word every arm fell, every sword
shrunk back into its scabbard. The Prioress herself turned
pale, and trembled. The general silence convinced her that
she had nothing to hope but from innocence, and she besought
Don Ramirez in a faltering voice, to inform her of what crime
she was accused.
- That you shall know in time,” replied he; “but first I
must secure the Mother St. Ursula.”
“The Mother St. Ursula ?” repeated the Domina faintly.
At this moment castin; her eyes round, she saw Lorenzo
and the Duke, who had followed Don Ramirez.
“Ah! great God!" she cried, clasping her hands together
with a frantic air. “I am betrayed.”
“Betrayed ?” replied St. Ursula, who now arrived, con-
ducted by some of the archers, and followed by the nun her
companion in the procession : “not betrayed, but discovered.
In me recognise your accuser : you know not how well I am
instructed in your guilt;--Segnor,” she continued, turning
to Don Ramirez, “I commit myself to your custody. I charge
the Prioress of St. Clare with murder, and stake iny life for
the justice of my accusation.” .
A general cry of surprise was uttered by the whole au-


THE MONK.
317
dience, and an explanation was loudly demanded. The
trembling nuns, terrified at the noise of the universal confu-
sion, had dispersed, and fled different ways. Some regained
the convent: others sought refuge in the dwellings of their
relations; and many, only sensible of their present danger,
and anxious to escape from the tumult, ran through the
streets, and wandered they knew not whither. The lovely
Virginia was one of the first to fly. And in order that she
might be better seen and heard, the people desired that St.
Ursula should harangue them from the vacant throne. The
nun complied: she ascended the glittering machine, and then
addressed the surrounding multitude as follows:
“However strange and unseemly may appear my conduct,
when considered to be adopted by a female and a nun, ne-
cessity will justify it most fully. A secret, a horrible secret
weighs heavy upon my soul: no rest can be mine till I have
revealed it to the world, and satisfied that innocent blood
which calls from the grave for vengeance. Much have I dared,
to gain this opportunity of lightening my conscience. Had I
failed in my attempt to reveal the crime, had the Domina hut
suspected that the mystery was known to me, my ruin was
inevitable. Angels who watch unceasingly over those who
deserve their favour, have enabled me to escape detection. I
am now at liberty to relate a tale, whose circumstances will
freeze every honest soul with horror. Mine is the task to rend
the veil from hypocrisy, and show misguided parents to what
danger the woman is exposed, who falls under the sway of a
monastic tyrant.
“ Among the votaries of St. Clare, none was more lovely,
none more gentle, than Agnes de Medina. I knew her well:
she entrusted to me every secret of her heart: I was her
friend and confidant, and I loved her with sincere affection.
Nor was I singular in my attachment. Her piety unfeigned,
her willingness to oblige, and her angelic disposition, ren-
dered her the darling of all that was estimable in the con-
vent. The Prioress herself, proud, scrupulous, and forbid-


318
THE MONK.
ding, could not refuse Agnes that tribute of approbation
which she bestowed upon no one else. Every one has some
fault. Alas! Agnes had her weaknesses: she violated the
laws of her order, and incurred the inveterate hate of the
unforgiving Domina. St. Clare's rules are severe: but grown
antiquated and neglected, many of late years have either been
forgotten, or changed by universal consent into milder pu-
nishments. The penance adjudged to the crime of Agnes was
most cruel, most inhuman. The law had been long exploded.
Alas! it still existed, and the revengeful Prioress now deter-
mined to revive it. This law decreed, that the offender
should be plunged into a private dungeon, expressly consti-
tuted to hide from the world for ever the victim of cruelty
and tyrannic superstition. In this dreadful abode she was to
lead a perpetual solitude, deprived of all society, and believed
to be dead by those whom affection might have prompted to
attempt her rescue. Thus was she to languish out the re-
mainder of her days, with no other food than bread and
water, and no other comfort than the free indulgence of her
tears.”
The indignation created by this account was so violent, as
for some moments to interrupt St. Ursula's narrative. When
the disturbance ceased, and silence again prevailed through
the assembly, she continued her discourse, while at every
word the Domina's countenance betrayed her increasing ter-
rors.
“A council of the twelve elder nuns was called: I was of
the number. The Prioress in exaggerated colours described
the offence of Agnes, and scrupled not to propose the revival
of this almost forgotten law. To the shame of our sex be it
spoken, that either so absolute was the Domina's will in the
convent, or so much had disappointment, solitude, and self-
denial hardened their hearts and soured their tempers, that
this barbarous proposal was assented to by nine voices out
of the twelve. I was not one of the nine. Frequent oppor-
tunities had convinced me of the virtues of Agnes, and I loved


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319
and pitied her most sincerely. The mothers Bertha and Cor-
nelia joined my party: we made the strongest opposition
possible, and the Superior found herself compelled to change
her intention. In spite of the majority in her favour, she
feared to break with us openly. She knew that, supported
by the Medina family, our forces would be too strong for her
to cope with: and she also knew, that after being once impri-
soned, and supposed dead, should Agnes be discovered, her
ruin would be inevitable : she therefore gave up her design,
though with much reluctance. She demanded some days to
reflect upon a mode of punishment, which might be agreeable
to the whole community; and she promised, that as soon as
her resolution was fixed, the same council should be again
summoned. Two days passed away: on the evening of the
third it was announced, that on the next day Agnes should
be examined: and that according to her behaviour on that
occasion, her punishment should be either strengthened or
mitigated.
“On the night preceding this examination, I stole to the
cell of Agnes at an hour when I supposed the other nuns to
be buried in sleep. I comforted her to the best of my power:
I bade her take courage, told her to rely on the support of her
friends, and taught her certain signs, by which I might instruct
her to answer the Domina's questions by an assent or negative.
Conscious that her enemy would strive to confuse, embarrass,
and daunt her, I feared her being ensnared to some confession
prejudicial to her interests. Being anxious to keep my visit
secret, I staid with Agnes but a short time. I bade her not
to let her spirits be cast down. I mingled my tears with those
which streamed down her cheek, embraced her fondly, and
was on the point of retiring, when I heard the sound of steps
approach the cell. I started back. A curtain which veiled
a large crucifix offered me a retreat, and I hastened to place
myself behind it. The door opened. The Prioress entered,
followed by four other nuns. They advanced towards the bed
of Agnes. The Superior reproached her with her errors in


320
THE MONK.
the bitterest terms. She told her, that she was a disgrace to
the convent, that she was resolved to deliver the world and
herself from such a monster, and commanded her to drink the
contents of the goblet now presented to her by one of the
nuns. Aware of the fatal properties of the liquor, and trem-
bling to find herself upon the brink of eternity, the unhappy
girl strove to excite the Domina's pity by the most affecting
prayers. She sued for life in terms which might have melted
the heart of a fiend. She promised to submit patiently to any
punishment, to shame, imprisonment, and torture, might she
but be permitted to live! Oh! might she but live another
month, or week, or day! Her merciless enemy listened to
her complaints unmoved : she told her, that at first she meant
to have spared her life, and that if she had altered her in-
tention, she had to thank the opposition of her friends. She
continued to insist upon her swallowing the poison : she bade
her recommend herself to the Almighty's mercy, not to hers;
and assured her that in an hour she would be numbered with
the dead. Perceiving that it was in vain to implore this
unfeeling woman, she attempted to spring from her bed, and
call for assistance: she hoped, if she could not escape the fate
announced to her, at least to have witnesses of the violence
committed: The Prioress guessed her design: she seized her
forcibly by the arm, and pushed her back upon her pillow;
at the same time drawing a dagger, and placing it at the breast
of the unfortunate Agnes, she protested that if she uttered a
single cry, or hesitated a single moment to drink the poison,
she would pierce her heart that instant. Already half-dead
with fear, she could make no further resistance. The nun
approached with the fatal goblet; the Domina obliged her to
take it, and swallow the contents. She drank, and the horrid
deed was accomplished. The nuns then seated themselves
round the bed: they answered her groans with reproaches;
they interrupted with sarcasms the prayers in which she re-
commended her parting soul to mercy: they threatened her
with Heaven's vengeance and eternal perdition : they bade her


THE MONK.
321
despair of pardon, and strewed with yet sharper thorns death's
painful pillow. Such were the sufferings of this young un-
fortunate," till released by fate from the malice of her tor-
mentors. She expired in horror of the past, in fears for the
future; and her agonies were such as must have amply gra-
tified the hate and vengeance of her enemies. As soon as her
victim ceased to breathe, the Domina retired, and was fol-
lowed by her accomplices.
" It was now that I ventured from my concealment. I
dared not to assist my unhappy friend, aware that, without
preserving her, I should only have brought on myself the
same destruction. Shocked and terrified beyond expression
at this horrid scene, scarcely had I sufficient strength to regain
my cell. As I reached the door of that of Agnes, I ventured
to look towards the bed on which lay her lifeless body, once
so lovely, and so sweet! I breathed a prayer for her de-
parted spirit, 'and vowed to revenge her death by the shame
and punishment of her assassins. With danger and difficulty
I have kept my oath. I unwarily dropped some words at the
funeral of Agnes, while thrown off my guard by excessive
grief, which alarmed the guilty conscience of the Prioress.
My every action was observed; my every step was traced, I
was constantly surrounded by the Superior's spies. It was
long before I could find the means of conveying to the un-
happy girl's relations an intimation of my secret. It was
given out that Agnes had expired suddenly: this account was
credited not only by her friends in Madrid, but even by those
within the convent. The poison had left no marks upon her
body: no one suspected the true cause of her death, and it
remained unknown to all save the assassins and myself.
“ I have no more to say; for what I have already said, I
will answer with my life. I repeat, that the Prioress is a
murderess: that she has driven from the world, perhaps from
Heaven, an unfortunate, whose offence was light and venial;
that she has abused the power intrusted to her hands, and
has been a tyrant, a barbarian, and a hypocrite. I also ac-
21


322
THE MONK.
cuse the four 'nuns, Violante, Camilla, Alix, and Mariana, as
being her accomplices, and equally criminal.”
Here St. Ursula ended her narrative. It created horror
and surprise throughout; but when she related the inhuman
murder of Agnes, the indignation of the mob was so audibly
testified, that it was scarcely possible to hear the conclusion.
This confusion increased with every moment. At length a
multitude of voices exclaimed, that the Prioress should be
given up to their fury. To this Don Ramirez positively re-
fused to consent. Even Lorenzo bade the people remember,
that she had undergone no trial, and advised them to leave
her punishment to the Inquisition. All representations were
fruitless : the disturbance grew still more violent, and the
populace more exasperated. In vain did Ramirez attempt to
convey his prisoner out of the throng. Wherever he turned,
a band of rioters barred his passage, and demanded her
being delivered over to them more loudly than before.
Ramirez ordered his attendants to cut their way through the
multitude. Oppressed by numbers, it was impossible for
them to draw their swords. He threatened the mob with
the vengeance of the Inquisition : but, in this moment of po-
pular frenzy, even this dreadful name had lost its effect.
Though regret for his sister made him look upon the Prioress
with abhorrence, Lorenzo could not help pitying a woman in
a situation so terrible : but in spite of all his exertions and
those of the Duke, of Don Ramirez and the archers, the
people continued to press onwards. They forced a passage
through the guards who protected their destined victim,
dragged her from her shelter, and proceeded to take upon her
a most summary and cruel vengeance. Wild with terror,
and scarcely knowing what she said, the wretched woman
shrieked for a moment's mercy: she protested that she was
innocent of the death of Agnes, and could clear herself from
the suspicion beyond the power of doubt. The rioters heeded
nothing but the gratification of their barbarous vengeance.
They refused to listen to her : they showed her every sort of


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323
insult, loaded her with mud and filth, and called her by the
most opprobrious appellations. They tore her one from an-
other, and each new tormentor was more savage than the
former. They stifled, with howls and execrations, her shrill
cries for mercy, and dragged her through the streets, spurn-
ing her, trampling her, and treating her with every species of
cruelty which hate or vindictive fury could invent. At length
a flint, aimed by some well-directed hand, struck her full
upon the temple. She sank upon the ground bathed in
blood, and in a few minutes terminated her miserable exis-
tence. Yet though she no longer felt their insults, the rioters
still exercised their impotent rage upon her lifeless body.
They beat it, trod upon it, and ill-used it, till it became no
more than a mass of flesh, unsightly, shapeless, and dis-
gusting.
Unable to prevent this shocking event, Lorenzo and his
friends had beheld it with the utmost horror : but they were
roused from their compelled inactivity, on hearing that the
mob was attacking the convent of St. Clare. The incensed
populace, confounding the innocent with the guilty, had re-
solved to sacrifice all the nuns of that order to their rage,
and not to leave one stone of the building upon another.
Alarmed at this intelligence, they hastened to the convent,
resolved to defend it if possible, or at least to rescue the in-
habitants from the fury of the rioters. Most of the nuns had
fled, but a few still remained in their habitation. Their situa-
tion was truly dangerous. However, as they had taken the
precaution of fastening the inner gates, with this assistance
Lorenzo hoped to repel the mob, till Don Ramirez should
return to him with a more sufficient force. ,
Having been conducted by the former disturbance to the
distance of some streets from the convent, he did not imme-
diately reach it. When he arrived, the throng surrounding
it was so excessive, as to prevent his approaching the gates.
In the interim, the populace besieged the building with per-
21*


324
THE MONK.
severing rage: they battered the walls, threw lighted torches
in at the windows, and swore that by break of day not a nun
of St. Clare's order should be left alive. Lorenzo had just
succeeded in piercing his way through the crowd, when one
of the gates was forced open. The rioters poured into the
interior part of the building, where they exercised their ven-
geance upon every thing which found itself in their passage.
They broke the furniture into pieces, tore down the pictures,
destroyed the relicks, and in the hatred of her servant forgot.
all respect to the saint. Some employed themselves in
searching out the nuns, others in pulling down parts of the
convent, and others again in setting fire to the pictures and
valuable furniture which it contained. These latter produced
the most decisive desolation. Indeed, the consequences of
their action were more sudden than themselves had expected
or wished. The flames rising from the burning piles caught
part of the building, which being old and dry, the conflagra-
tion spread with rapidity from room to room. The walls
were soon shaken by the devouring element. The columns
gave way, the roof came tumbling down upon the rioters, and
crushed many of them beneath their weight. Nothing was
to be heard but shrieks and groans. The convent was
wrapped in flames, and the whole presented a scene of de-
vastation and horror.
Lorenzo was shocked at having been the cause, however
innocent, of this frightful disturbance: he endeavoured to re-
pair his fault by protecting the helpless inhabitants of the
convent. He entered it with the mob, and exerted himself
to repress the prevailing fury, till the sudden and alarming
progress of the flames compelled him to provide for his own
safety. The people now hurried out as eagerly as they had
before thronged in; but their numbers clogging up the door-
way, and the fire gaining upon them rapidly, many of them
perished ere they had time to effect their escape. Lorenzo's
good fortune directed him to a small door, in a further aisle


THE MONK.
32;
of the chapel. The bolt was already undrawn; he opened
the door, and found himself at the foot of St. Clare's se-
pulchre.
Here he stopped to breathe. The Duke and some of his
attendants had followed him, and thus were in security for
the present. They now consulted what steps they should take
to escape from this scene of disturbance; but their delibera-
tions were considerably interrupted by the sight of volumes
of fire rising from amidst the convent's massy walls, by the
noise of some heavy arch tumbling down in ruins, or by the
mingled shrieks of the nuns and rioters, either suffocating in
the press, perishing in the flames, or crushed beneath the
weight of the falling mansion.
..
Lorenzo inquired, whither the wicket led? He was an-
swered, to the garden of the Capuchins; and it was resolved
to explore an outlet upon that side. Accordingly the Duke
raised the latch, and passed into the adjoining cemetery. The
attendants followed without ceremony. Lorenzo being the
last, was also on the point of quitting the colonade, when he
saw the door of the sepulchre opened softly. Some one
looked out, but on perceiving strangers uttered a loud shriek,
started back again, and flew down the marble stairs.
“What can this mean?” cried Lorenzo. “Here is some
mystery concealed. Follow me without delay!”
Thus saying, he hastened into the sepulchre, and pursued
the person who continued to fly before him. The Duke knew
not the cause of this exclamation, but, supposing that he had
good reason for it, followed him without hesitation. The
others did the same, and the whole party soon arrived at the
foot of the stairs. The upper door having been left open,
the neighbouring flames darted from above a sufficient light
to enable Lorenzo's catching a glance of the fugitive running
through the long passages and distant vaults; but when a sud-
den turn deprived him of this assistance, total darkness suc-
ceeded, and he could only trace the object of his enquiry by
the faint echo of retiring feet. The pursuers were now com-


326
THE MONK.
pelled to proceed with caution : as well as they could judge,
the fugitive also seemed to slacken pace, for they heard the
steps follow each other at longer intervals. They at length
were bewildered by the labyrinth of passages, and dispersed
in various directions. Carried away by his eagerness to clear
up this mystery, and to penetrate into which he was impelled
by a movement secret and unaccountable, Lorenzo heeded
not this circumstance till he found himself in total solitude.
The noise of footsteps had ceased, all was silent around, and
no clue offered itself to guide him to the flying person. He
stopped to reflect on the means most likely to aid his pur-
suit. He was persuaded that no common cause would have
induced the fugitive to seek that dreary place at an hour so
unusual: the cry which he had heard, seemed uttered in a
voice of terror; and he was convinced that some mystery
was attached to this event. After some minutes past in he-
sitation, he continued to proceed, feeling his way along the
walls of the passage. He had already passed some time in this
slow progress, when he descried a spark of light glimmering
at a distance. Guided by this observation, and having drawn
his sword, he bent his steps towards the place whence the
beam seemed to be emitted.
It proceeded from the lamp which flamed before St.
Clare's statue. Before it stood several females ; their white
garments streaming in the blast as it howled along the vaulted
dungeons. Curious to know what had brought them together
in this melancholy spot, Lorenzo drew near with precaution.
The strangers seemed earnestly engaged in conversation.
They heard not Lorenzo's steps, and he approached unob-
served, till he could hear their voices distinctly.
“I protest,” continued she who was speaking when he ar-
rived, and to whom the rest were listening with great atten-
tion; “ I protest, that I saw them with my own eyes. I flew
down the steps, they pursued me, and I escaped falling into
their hands with difficulty. Had it not been for the lamp, I
should never have found you.”


THE MONK.
327
“ And what could bring them hither ?” said another in a
trembling voice; “ do you think that they were looking for
us ?”
“God grant that my fears may be false,” rejoined the first;
“ but I doubt they are murderers! If they discover us, we
are lost! As for me, my fate is certain. My affinity to the
Prioress will be a sufficient crime to condemn me; and
though till now these vaults have afforded me a retreat-_"
Here looking up, her eye fell upon Lorenzo, who had con-
tinued to approach slowly.
• The murderers !” she cried.
She started away from the statue's pedestal on which
she had been seated, and attempted to escape by flight. Her
companions at the same moment uttered a terrific scream,
while Lorenzo arrested the fugitive by the arm. Frightened
and desperate, she sank upon her knees before him.
“ Spare me !" she exclaimed ; " for Christ's sake, spare
me! I am innocent, indeed, I am !”
While she spoke, her voice was almost choaked with fear.
The beams of the lamp darting full upon her face, which was
unveiled, Lorenzo recognised the beautiful Virginia de Villa-
Franca. He hastened to raise her from the ground, and be-
sought her to take courage. He promised to protect her
from the rioters, assured her that her retreat was still a se-
cret, and that she might depend upon his readiness to defend
her to the last drop of his blood. During this conversation,
the nuns had thrown themselves into various attitudes : one
knelt, and addressed herself to Heaven ; another hid her face
in the lap of her neighbour; some listened motionless with
fear to the discourse of the supposed assassin : while others
embraced the statue of St. Clare, and implored her protec-
tion with frantic cries. On perceiving their mistake, they
crowded round Lorenzo, and heaped benedictions on him
by dozens. He found that on hearing the threats of the mob,
and terrified by the cruelties which from the convent towers
they had seen inflicted on the Superior, many of the pen-


THE MONK.
329
ghosts is ridiculous in the extreme; and if you continue to be
swayed by ideal terrors-_"
“ Ideal ?” exclaimed the nuns with one voice: “Why we
heard it ourselves, Segnor! Every one of us heard it! It
was frequently repeated, and it sounded every time more
melancholy and deep. You will never persuade me that we
could all have been deceived. Not we, indeed; no, no; had
the noise been merely created by fancy__”.
“Hark! hark!” interrupted Virginia, in a voice of terror;
"God preserve us ! there it is again !" *
The nuns clasped their hands together, and sank upon their
knees. Lorenzo looked round him eagerly, and was on the
point of yielding to the fears which already had possessed
the women. Universal silence prevailed. He examined the
vault, but nothing was to be seen. He now prepared to ad-
dress the nuns, and ridicule their childish apprehensions,
when his attention was arrested by a deep and long-drawn
gróan.
6. What was that ?” he cried, and started.-
“ There, Segnor!” said Helena. “Now you must be con-
vinced! You have heard the noise yourself! Now judge
whether our terrors are imaginary. Since we have been
here, that groaning has been repeated almost every five
minutes. Doubtless it proceeds from some soul in pain who
wishes to be prayed out of purgatory: but none of us dare
ask it the question. As for me, were I to see an apparition,
the fright, I am very certain, would kill me out of hand.”
As she said this, a second groan was heard yet more dis-
tinctly. The nuns crossed themselves, and hastened to re-
peat their prayers against evil spirits. Lorenzo listened
attentively. He even thought that he could distinguish
sounds as of one speaking in complaint, but distance rendered
them inarticulate. The noise seemed to come from the midst
of the small vault in which he and the nuns then were, and
which a multitude of passages branching out in various di-
rections formed into a sort of star. Lorenzo's curiosity, which
STUCERE
CO GET
era
idari


330
THE MONK.
was ever awake, made him anxious to solve this mystery.
He desired that silence might be kept. The nuns obeyed him.
All was hushed till the general stillness was again disturbed
by the groaning, which was repeated several times succes-
sively. He perceived it to be most audible, when upon fol-
lowing the sound he was conducted close to the shrine of St.
Clare.
“ The noise comes from hence,” said he: “whose is this
statue ?”
Helena, to whom he addressed the question, paused for a
moment. Suddenly she clapped her hands together.
“Aye!" cried she, " it must be so. I have discovered the
meaning of these groans.”
The nuns crowded round her, and besought her eagerly
to explain herself. She gravely replied, that from time im-
memorial the statue had been famous for performing miracles.
From this she inferred, that the saint was concerned at the
conflagration of a convent which she protected, and ex-
pressed her grief by audible lamentations. Not having equal
faith in the miraculous saint, Lorenzo did not think this solu-
tion of the mystery quite so satisfactory, as the nuns, who
subscribed to it without hesitation. In one point 'tis true
that he agreed with Helena. He suspected that the groans
proceeded from the statue: the more he listened the more he
was confirmed in this idea. He drew nearer to the image,
designing to inspect it more closely: but perceiving his in-
tention, the nuns besought him for God's sake to desist, since,
if he touched the statue, his death was inevitable.
“And in what consists the danger ?” said he.
“ Mother of God! In what ?” replied Helena, ever eager to
relate a miraculous adventure: “ If you had only heard the
hundredth part of those marvellous stories about this statue,
which the Domina used to recount! She assured us often
and often, that if we only dared to lay a finger upon it, we
might expect the most fatal consequences. Among other
things she told us, that a robber having entered these vaults


THE MONK.
331
by night, he observed yonder ruby, whose value is inesti-
mable. Do you see it, Segnor? It sparkles upon the third
finger of the hand in which she holds a crown of thorns.
This jewel naturally excited the villain's cupidity. He re-
solved to make himself master of it. For this purpose he
ascended the pedestal; he supported himself by grasping
the saint's right arm, and extended his own towards the ring.
What was his surprise, when he saw the statue's hand raised
in a posture of menace, and heard her lips pronounce his
eternal perdition! Penetrated with awe and consternation,
he desisted from his attempt, and prepared to quit the sepul-
chre. In this he also failed. Flight was denied him. He
found it impossible to disengage the hand which rested upon
the right arm of the statue. In vain did he struggle: he re-
mained fixed to the image, till the insupportable and fiery
anguish which darted itself through his veins, compelled his
shrieking for assistance. The sepulchre was now filled with
spectators. The villain confessed his sacrilege, and was only
released by the separation of his hand from his body. It has
remained ever since fastened to the image. The robber
turned hermit, and led, ever after, an exemplary life. But
yet the saint's decree was performed; and tradition says,
that he continues to haunt this sepulchre, and implore St.
Clare's pardon with groans and lamentations. Now I think
of it, those which we have just heard, may very possibly have
been uttered by the ghost of this sinner: but of this I will not
be positive. All that I can say is, that since that time no one
has ever dared to touch the statue. Then do not be fool-
hardy, good Segnor. For the love of Heaven, give up your
design, nor expose yourself unnecessarily to certain de-
struction.”
Not being convinced that his destruction would be so cer-
tain as Helena seemed to think it, Lorenzo persisted in his
resolution. The nuns besought him to desist in piteous
terms, and even pointed out the robber's hand, which was in
effect still visible upon the arm of the statue. This proof, as


THE MONK.
333
the noise which he had heard was occasioned by his having
loosened a chain which attached the image to its pedestal.
He once more attempted to move it, and succeeded without
much exertion. He placed it upon the ground, and then per-
ceived the pedestal to be hollow, and covered at the opening
with an heavy iron grate.
This excited such general curiosity, that the sisters forgot
both their real and imaginary dangers. Lorenzo proceeded
to raise the grate, in which the nuns assisted him to the ut-
most of their strength. The attempt was accomplished with
little difficulty. A deep abyss now presented itself before
them, whose thick obscurity the eye strove in vain to pierce.
The rays of the lamp were too feeble to be of much assis-
tance. Nothing was discernible save a flight of rough un-
shapen steps, which sank into the yawning gulf, and were
soon lost in darkness. The groans were heard no more:
but all believed them to have ascended from this cavern. As
he bent over it, Lorenzo fancied that he distinguished some-
thing bright twinkling through the gloom. He gazed atten-
tively upon the spot where it showed itself, and was convinced
that he saw a small spark of light, now visible, now disap-
pearing. He communicated this circumstance to the nuns :
they also perceived this spark, but when he declared his in-
tention to descend into the cave, they united to oppose his
resolution. All their remonstrances could not prevail on him
to alter it. None of them had courage enough to accompany
him ; neither could he think of depriving them of the lamp.
Alone, therefore, and in darkness, he prepared to pursue his
design, while the nuns were contented to offer up prayers for
his success and safety.
The steps were so narrow and uneven, that to descend
them was like walking down the side of a precipice. The ob-
scurity by which he was surrounded, rendered his footing
insecure. He was obliged to proceed with great caution, lest
he should miss the steps, and fall into the gulf below him.
This he was several times on the point of doing. However, he


334
THE MONK.
arrived sooner upon solid ground than he had expected. He
now found, that the thick darkness and impenetrable mists
which reigned through the cavern had deceived him into the
belief of its being much more profound than it proved upon
inspection. He reached the foot of the stairs unhurt: he
now stopped, and looked round for the spark, which had be-
fore caught his attention. He sought it in vain ; all was dark
and gloomy. He listened for the groans; but his ear caught
no sound, except the distant murmur of the nuns above, as in
low voices they repeated their Ave-Marias. He stood irre-
solute to which side he should address his steps. At all
events he determined to proceed: he did so, but slowly,
fearful lest, instead of approaching, he should be retiring from
the object of his search. The groans seemed to announce one
in pain, or at least in sorrow, and he hoped to have the
power of relieving the mourner's calamities. A plaintive tone,
sounding at no great distance, at length reached his hearing :
he bent his course joyfully towards it. It became more au-
dible as it advanced; and he soon beheld again the spark of
light, which a low projecting wall had hitherto concealed from
him.
It proceeded from a small lamp which was placed upon a
heap of stones, and whose faint and melancholy rays served
rather to point out than dispel the horrors of a narrow gloomy
dungeon formed in one side of the cavern: it also showed
several other recesses of similar construction, but whose depth
was buried in obscurity. Coldly played the light upon the
damp walls, whose dew-stained surface gave back a feeble
reflection. A thick and pestilential fog clouded the height of
the vaulted dungeon. As Lorenzo advanced, he felt a piercing
chillness spread itself through his veins. The frequent groans
still engaged him to move forwards. He turned towards
them, and by the lamp's glimmering beams beheld, in a corner
of this loathsome abode, a creature stretched upon a bed of
straw, so wretched, so emaciated, so pale, that he doubted to
think her woman. She was half naked : her long dishevelled


THE MONK.
335
hair fell in disorder over her face, and almost entirely con-
cealed it. One wasted arm hung listlessly upon a tattered
rug, which covered her convulsed and shivering limbs : the
other was wrapped round a small bundle, and held it closely
to her bosom. A large rosary lay near her: opposite to her
was a crucifix, on which she bent her sunk eyes fixedly, and
by her side stood a basket and a small earthen pitcher.
Lorenzo stopped: he was petrified with horror. He gazed
upon the miserable object with disgust and pity. He trembled
at the spectacle : he grew sick at heart: his strength failed
him, and his limbs were unable to support his weight. He
was obliged to lean against the low wall which was near
him, unable to go forward or to address the sufferer. She
cast her eyes towards the staircase: the wall concealed Lo-
renzo, and she observed him not.
- No one comes !” she at length murmured.
As she spoke, her voice was hollow, and rattled in her
throat : she sighed bitterly.
“No one comes !" she repeated : “no! they have forgotten
me! they will come no more!"
She paused for a moment; then continued mournfully:
“Two days ! two long, long days, and yet no food! and
yet no hope, no comfort! Foolish woman! how can I wish
to lengthen a life so wretched !-- Yet such a death! O
God! to perish by such a death! to linger out such ages in
torture! Till now, I knew not what it was to hunger !
Hark !--- No! no one comes : they will come no more.”
She was silent. She shivered, and drew the rug over her
naked shoulders :
“ I am very cold: I am still unused to the damps of this
dungeon : 'tis strange: but no matter. Colder shall I soon be,
and yet not feel it. I shall be cold, cold as thou art.”
She looked at the bundle, which lay upon her breast. She
bent over it, and kissed it: then drew back hastily, and shud-
dered with disgust:
“ It was once so sweet! It would have been so lovely, so


336
THE MONK.
like him! I have lost it for ever. How a few days have
changed it! I should not know it again myself. Yet it is dear
to me. God! how dear!--I will forget what it is! I
will only remember what it was, and love it as well as when
it was so sweet! so lovely! so like him!--I thought that
I had wept away all my tears, but here is one still linger-
ing."
She wiped her eyes with a tress of her hair. She put out
her hand for the pitcher, and reached it with difficulty. She
cast into it a look of hopeless enquiry. She sighed, and re-
placed it upon the ground.
“Quite a void !--Not a drop!--Not one drop left to
cool my scorched-up burning palate !--Now would I give
treasures for a draught of water !---And they are God's
servants who make me suffer thus !--They think them-
selves holy, while they torture me like fiends !--They are
cruel and unfeeling; and 'tis they who bid me repent; and
'tis they who threaten me with eternal perdition! Saviour !
Saviour! you think not so!”
She again fixed her eyes upon the crucifix, took her rosary,
and, while she told her beads, the quick motion of her lips
declared her to be praying with fervency.
While he listened to her melancholy accents, Lorenzo's
sensibility became yet more violently affected. The first sight
of such misery had given a sensible shock to his feelings :
but that being past, he now advanced towards the captive.
She heard his steps, and uttering a cry of joy, dropped the
rosary.
“ Hark! hark! hark !" she cried, “ some one comes !"
She strove to raise herself, but her strength was unequal
to the attempt; she fell back, and, as she sank again upon
the bed of straw, Lorenzo heard the rattling of heavy chains.
He still approached, while the prisoner thus continued :
“ Is it you, Camilla ? You are come then at last? Oh!
it was time! I thought that you had forsaken me; that I was
doomed to perish of hunger. Give me to drink, Camilla, for


THE MONK.
337
pity's sake; I am faint with long fasting, and grown so weak
that I cannot raise myself from the ground. Good Camilla,
give me to drink, least I expire before you."
Fearing that surprise in her enfeebled state might be fatal,
Lorenzo was at a loss how to address her.
“ It is not Camilla,” said he at length, speaking in a slow
and gentle voice.
“ Who is it, then ?” replied the sufferer ; “ Alix, perhaps,
or Violante. My eyes are grown so dim and feeble, that I
cannot distinguish your features; but whichever it is, if your
breast is sensible of the least compassion, if you are not more
cruel than wolves and tigers, take pity on my sufferings.
You know that I am dying for want of sustenance. This is
the third day since these lips have received nourishment. Do
you bring me food ? Or come you only to announce my
death, and learn how long I have yet to exist in agony ?”
“ You mistake my business,” replied Lorenzo; “ I am no
emissary of the cruel Prioress. I pity your sorrows, and
come hither to relieve them.”
“ To relieve them !” repeated the captive ; " said you, to
relieve them ?"
At the same time starting from the ground, and supporting
herself upon her hands, she gazed upon the stranger ear-
nestly.
“Great God !--Is it no illusion P—--A man? Speak!
Who are you? What brings you hither? Come you to save
me, to restore me to liberty, to life and light ? Oh! speak,
speak quickly, lest I encourage a hope whose disappointment
will destroy me.”
“ Be calm !" replied Lorenzo, in a voice soothing and com-
passionate ; “ the Domina of whose cruelty you complain,
has already paid the forfeit of her offences : you have nothing
more to fear from her. A few minutes will restore you to
liberty and the embraces of your friends, from whom you have
been secluded. You may rely upon my protection. Give me
your hand and be not fearful. Let me conduct you where
22


338
THE MONK.
you may receive those attentions which your feeble state
requires.”
- Oh! yes! yes ! yes !" cried the prisoner with an exult-
ing shriek; “ there is a God, then, and a just one! Joy! Joy!
I shall once more breathe the fresh air, and view the light of
the glorious sunbeams! I will go with you! Stranger, I will
go with you! Oh! Heaven will bless you for pitying an un-
fortunate! But this too must go with me,” she added, pointing
to the small bundle, which she still clasped to her bosom ; “I
cannot part with this. I will bear it away. It shall convince
the world how dreadful are the abodes so falsely termed re-
ligious. Good stranger! lend me your hand to rise; I am
faint with want, and sorrow, and sickness, and my strength
has quite forsaken me! So, that is well!"
As Lorenzo stooped to raise her, the beams of the lamp
struck full upon his face.
“ Almighty God!” she exclaimed: “Is it possible !—That
look! those features!—Oh! yes, it is, it is—-_"
She extended her arms to throw them round him, but her
enfeebled frame was unable to sustain the emotions which
agitated her bosom. She fainted, and again sank upon the
bed of straw.
Lorenzo was surprised at her last exclamation. He thought
that he had before heard such accents as her hollow voice
had just formed, but where, he could not remember. He saw
that, in her dangerous situation, immediate physical aid was
absolutely necessary, and he hastened to convey her from the
dungeon. He was at first prevented from doing so by a
strong chain fastened round the prisoner's body, and fixed to
the neighbouring wall. However, his natural strength being
aided by anxiety to relieve the unfortunate, he soon forced
out the staple, to which one end of the chain was attached:
then taking the captive in his arms, he bent his course towards
the staircase. The rays of the lamp above, as well as the
murmur of female voices, guided his steps. He gained the
stairs, and in a few minutes after arrived at the iron grate.


THE MONK.
339
The nuns during his absence had been terribly tormented
by curiosity and apprehension. They were equally surprised
and delighted on seeing him suddenly emerge from the cave.
Every heart was filled with compassion for the miserable
creature whom he bore in his arms. While the nuns, and
Virginia in particular, employed themselves in striving to
recall her to her senses, Lorenzo related in a few words the
manner of his finding her. He then observed to them, that
by this time the tumult must have been quelled, and that he
could now conduct them to their friends without danger. All
were eager to quit the sepulchre. Still, to prevent all possi-
bility of ill-usage, they besought Lorenzo to venture out first
alone, and examine whether the coast was clear. With this
request he complied. Helena offered to conduct him to the
staircase, and they were on the point of departing, when a
strong light flashed from several passages upon the adjacent
walls. At the same time steps were heard of people ap-
proaching hastily, and whose number seemed to be consi-
derable. The nuns were greatly alarmed at this circumstance;
they supposed their retreat to be discovered, and the rioters
to be advancing in pursuit of them. Hastily quitting the pri-
soner, who remained insensible, they crowded around Lo-
renzo, and claimed his promise to protect them. Virginia
alone forgot her own danger by striving to relieve the sor-
rows of another. She supported the sufferer's head upon
her knees, bathing her temples with rose-water, chafing her
cold hands, and sprinkling her face with tears which were
drawn from her by compassion. The strangers approaching
nearer, Lorenzo was enabled to dispel the fears of the sup-
pliants. His name, pronounced by a number of voices, among
which he distinguished the Duke's, pealed along the vaults,
and convinced him that he was the object of their search. He
communicated this intelligence to the nuns, who received it
with rapture. A few moments after confirmed this idea. Don
Ramirez as well as the Duke appeared, followed by attendants
22 *


340
THE MONK,
with torches. They had been seeking him through the vaults,
in order to let him know that the mob was dispersed, and the
riot entirely over. Lorenzo recounted briefly his adventure
in the cavern, and explained how much the unknown was in
want of medical assistance. He besought the Duke to take
charge of her, as well as of the nuns and pensioners.”
“ As for me,” said he, “ other cares demand my attention.
While you, with one half of the archers, convey these ladies to
their respective homes, I wish the other half to be left with
me. I will examine the cavern below, and pervade the most
secret recesses of the sepulchre. I cannot rest till convinced
that yonder wretched victim was the only one confined by
superstition in these vaults.” .
The Duke applauded his intention. Don Ramirez offered
to assist him in his enquiry, and his proposal was accepted
with gratitude. The nuns having made their acknowledg-
ments to Lorenzo, committed themselves to the care of his
uncle, and were conducted from the sepulchre. Virginia re-
"quested the unknown might be given to her in charge, and
promised to let Lorenzo know, whenever she sufficiently re-
covered to accept his visits. In truth, she made this promise
more from consideration for herself, than for either Lorenzo
or the captive. She had witnessed his politeness, gentleness,
and intrepidity with sensible emotion. She wished earnestly
to preserve his acquaintance : and in addition to the senti-
ments of pity which the prisoner excited, she hoped that her
attention to this unfortunate would raise her a degree in the
esteem of Lorenzo. She had no occasion to trouble herself
upon this head. The kindness already displayed by her, and
the tender concern which she had shown for the sufferer, had
gained her an exalted place in his good graces. While oc-
cupied in alleviating the captive's sorrows, the nature of her
employment adorned her with new charins, and rendered
her beauty a thousand times more interesting. Lorenzo
viewed her with admiration and delight : he considered her


THE MONK.
341
as a ministering angel descended to the aid of afflicted in-
nocence; nor could his heart have resisted her attractions,
had it not been steeled by the remembrance of Antonia.
The Duke now conveyed the nuns in safety to the dwell-
ings of their respective friends. The rescued prisoner was
still insensible, and gave no signs of life, except by occasional
groans. She was borne upon a sort of litter. Virginia, who
was constantly by the side of it, was apprehensive that ex-
hausted by long abstinence, and shaken by the sudden change
from bonds and darkness to liberty and light, her frame
would never get the better of the shock. Lorenzo and
Don Ramirez still remained in the sepulchre. After de-
liberating upon their proceedings, it was resolved that, to
prevent losing time, the archers should be divided into two
bodies: that with one, Don Ramirez should examine the ca-
vern, while Lorenzo, with the other, might penetrate into the
further vaults. This being arranged, and his followers being
provided with torches, Don Ramirez advanced to the cavern.
He had already descended some steps, when he heard people
approaching hastily from the interior part of the sepulchre.
This surprised him, and he quitted the cave precipitately.
• Do you hear footsteps ?” said Lorenzo. “Let us bend
our course towards them. 'Tis from this side that they seem,
to proceed.”
At that moment a loud and piercing shriek induced him to
quicken his steps.
“ Help! help, for God's sake!" cried a voice, whose me-
lodious tone penetrated Lorenzo's heart with terror..
He flew towards the cry with the rapidity of lightning, and
was followed by Don Ramirez with equal swiftness. -


342
THE MONK.
CHAPTER X.
Great Heaven ! How frail thy creature man is made!
How by himself insensibly betray'd!
In our own strength unhappily secure,
Too little cautious of the adverse power,
On pleasure's flowery brink we idly stray,
Masters as yet of our returning way;
Till the strong gusts of raging passion rise,
Till the dire tempest mingles earth and skies,
And, swift into the boundless ocean borne,
Our foolish confidence too late we mourn:
Round our devoted heads the billows beat,
And from our troubled view the lessening lands retreat.
PRIOR,
All this while Ambrosio was unconscious of the dreadful
scenes which were passing so near. The execution of his
designs upon Antonia employed his every thought. Hitherto
he was satisfied with the success of his plans. Antonia had
drank the opiate, was buried in the vaults of St. Clare, and
absolutely at his disposal. Matilda, who was well acquainted
with the nature and effects of the soporifie medicine, had
computed that it would not cease to operate till one in the
morning. For that hour he waited with impatience. The
festival of St. Clare presented him with a favourable oppor-
tunity of consummating his crime. He was certain that the
friars and nuns would be engaged in the procession, and
that he had no cause to dread an interruption : from appear-
ing himself at the head of the monks, he had desired to be
excused. He doubted not, that being beyond the reach of
help, cut off from all the world, and totally in his power,
Antonia would comply with his desires. The affection which


THE MONK.
343
she had ever expressed for him, warranted this persuasion :
but he resolved that should she prove obstinate, no conside-
ration whatever should prevent him from enjoying her. Se-
cure from a discovery, he shuddered not at the idea of em-
ploying force; or, if he felt any repugnance, it arose not from
a principle of shame or compassion, but from his feeling for
Antonia the most sincere and ardent affection, and wishing to
owe her favours to no one but herself.
The monks quitted the abbey at midnight. Matilda was
among the choristers, and led the chaunt. Ambrosio was left
hy himself, and at liberty to pursue his own inclinations. Con-
vinced that no one remained behind to watch his motions,
or disturb his pleasures, he now hastened to the western
aisles. His heart beating with hope not unmingled with
anxiety, he crossed the garden, unlocked the door which
admitted him into the cemetery, and in a few minutes he
stood before the vaults. Here he paused: he looked round
him with suspicion, conscious that his business was unfit for
any other eye. As he stood in hesitation, he heard the me-
lancholy shriek of the screech-owl: the wind rattled loudly
against the windows of the adjacent convent, and, as the cur-
rent swept by him, bore with it the faint notes of the chaunt
of choristers. He opened the door cautiously, as if fearing
to be overheard : he entered, and closed it again after him.
Guided by his lamp, he threaded the long passages, in whose
windings Matilda had instructed him, and reached the private
vault which contained his sleeping mistress.
Its entrance was by no means easy to discover; but this
was no obstacle to Ambrosio, who at the time of Antonia's
funeral had observed it too carefully to be deceived. He
found the door, which was unfastened, pushed it open, and
descended into the dungeon. He approached the huinble
tomb in which Antonia reposed. He had provided himself
with an iron crow and a pick-axe : but this precaution was
unnecessary. The grate was slightly fastened on the outside:
he raised it, and placing the lamp upon its ridge, bent silently


314
THE MONK.
over the tomb. By the side of three putrid half-corrupted
bodies lay the sleeping beauty. A lively red, the forerun-
ner of returning animation, had already spread itself over
her cheeks; and, as wrapped in her shroud, she reclined
upon her funeral bier, she seemed to smile at the images of
death around her. While he gazed upon the rotting bones
and disgusting figures, who perhaps were once as sweet
and lovely, Ambrosio thought upon Elvira, by him reduced
to the same state. As the memory of that horrid act glanced
upon his mind, it was clouded with a gloomy horror : yet it
served but to strengthen his resolution to destroy Antonia's
honour.
“For your sake, fatal beauty!” murmured the Monk, while
gazing on his devoted prey, “ for your sake have I committed
this murder, and sold myself to eternal tortures. Now you
are in my power; the produce of my guilt will at least be
mine. Hope not that your prayers, breathed in tones of un-
equalled melody, your bright eyes filled with tears, and your
hands lifted in supplication, as when seeking in penitence the
Virgin's pardon : hope not, that your moving innocence, your
beauteous grief, or all your suppliant arts, shall ransom you
from my embraces. Before the break of day, mine you must,
and mine you shall be!"
He lifted her, still motionless, from the tomb; he seated
himself upon a bank of stone, and, supporting her in his arms,
watched impatiently for the symptoms of returning animation.
Scarcely could he command his passions sufficiently, to re-
strain himself from enjoying her while yet insensible. His
natural lust was increased in ardour by the difficulties which
had opposed his satisfying it; as also by his long abstinence
from women, since, from the moment of resigning her claim
to his love, Matilda had exiled him from her arms for ever.
“I am no prostitute, Ambrosio,” had she told him, when,
in the fullness of his lust, he demanded her favours with more
than usual earnestness; “I am now no more than your friend,
and will not be your mistress. Cease then to solicit my com-


THE MONK.
315
plying with desires which insult me. While your heart was
miņe, I gloried in your embraces. Those happy times are
past; my person is become indifferent to you, and 'tis neces-
sity, not love, which makes you seek my enjoyment. I can-
not yield to a request so humiliating to my pride.”
Suddenly deprived of pleasures, the use of which had made
them an absolute want, the Monk felt this restraint severely.
Naturally addicted to the gratification of the senses, in the
full vigour of manhood and heat of blood, he had suffered his
temperament to acquire such ascendency, that his lust was
become madness. Of his fondness for Antonia, none but the
grosser particles remained; he longed for the possession of
her person; and even the gloom of the vault, the surrounding
silence, and the resistance which he expected from her, seemed
to give a fresh edge to his fierce and unbridled desires.
Gradually he felt the bosom, which rested against his, glow
with returning warmth. Her heart throbbed again, her blood
flowed swifter, and her lips moved. At length she opened
her eyes, but, still oppressed and bewildered by the effects of
the strong opiate, she closed them again immediately. Am-
brosio watched her narrowly, nor permitted a movement to
escape him. Perceiving that she was fully restored to exis-
tence, he caught her in rapture to his bosom, and closely
pressed his lips to hers. The suddenness of his action suf-
ficed to dissipate the fumes which obscured Antonia's reason.
She hastily raised herself, and cast a wild look round her.
The strange images which presented themselves on every side
contributed to confuse her. She put her hand to her head,
as if to settle her disordered imagination. At length she took
it away, and threw her eyes through the dungeon a second
time. They fixed on the Abbot's face.
“Where am I ?” she said abruptly. “How came I here?
-Where is my mother? Methought I saw her! Oh! a
dream, a dreadful dream, told me-----But where am I?
Let me go! I cannot stay here!"


THE MONK.
347
of pity and humanity! Let me return to the house which I
have quitted I know not how; but stay here one moment
longer, I neither will nor ought."
Though the Monk was somewhat startled by the resolute
tone in which this speech was delivered, it produced upon
him no other effect than surprise. He caught her hand,
forced her upon his knee, and, gazing upon her with gloating
eyes, he thus replied to her:
“Compose yourself, Antonia. Resistance is unavailing,
and I need disavow my passion for you no longer. You are
imagined dead; society is for ever lost to you. I possess you
here alone; you are absolutely in my power, and I burn with
desires which I must either gratify or die: but I would owe
my happiness to yourself. My lovely girl! my adorable An-
tonia! let me instruct you in joys to which you are still a
stranger, and teach you to feel those pleasures in my arms,
which I must soon enjoy in yours. Nay, this struggling is
childish,” he continued, seeing her repel his caresses, and en- .
deavour to escape from his grasp; “no aid is near; neither
heaven nor earth shall save you from my embraces. Yet why
reject pleasures so sweet, so rapturous ? No one observes us;
our commerce will be a secret to all the world. Love and
opportunity invite your giving loose to your passions. Yield to
them, my Antonia! yield to them, my lovely girl! Throw
your arms thus fondly round me; join your lips thus closely to
mine! Amidst all her gifts, has nature denied her most pre-
cious, the sensibility of pleasure ? Oh! impossible! Every
feature, look, and motion declares you formed to bless, and to
be blessed yourself! Turn not on me those supplicating
eyes : consult your own charms: they will tell you that I am
proof against entreaty. Can I relinquish these limbs so
white, so soft, so delicate! these swelling breasts, round, full,
and elastic! these lips fraught with such inexhaustible sweet-
ness ? Can I relinquish these treasures, and leave them to
another's enjoyment ? No, Antonia, never, never ; I swear
by this kiss! and this! and this !".


348
THE MONK
With every moment the Friar's passion became more ardent,
and Antonia's terror more intense. She struggled to disengage
herself from his arms. Her exertions were unsuccessful; and,
finding that Ambrosio's conduct became still freer, she shrieked
for assistance with all her strength. The aspect of the vault,
the pale glimmering of the lamp, the surrounding obscurity,
the sight of the tombs, and the objects of mortality which met
her eyes on every side, were ill calculated to inspire her with
those emotions by which the Friar was agitated. Even his
caresses terrified her from their fury, and created no other
sentiment than fear. On the contrary, her alarm, her evi-
dent disgust, and incessant opposition, seemed only to inflame
the Monk's desires, and supply his brutality with additional
strength. Antonia's shrieks were unheard; yet she con-
tinued them, nor abandoned her endeavours to escape, till
exhausted and out of breath she sank from his arms upon her
knees, and once more had recourse to prayers and supplica-
tions. This attempt had not better success than the former.
On the contrary, taking advantage of her situation, the ra-
visher threw himself by her side. He clasped her to his
bosom almost lifeless with terror, and faint with struggling.
He stifled her cries with kisses, treated her with the rudeness
of an unprincipled barbarian, proceeded from freedom to
freedom, and, in the violence of his lustful delirium, wounded
and bruised her tender limbs. Heedless of her tears, cries,
and entreaties, he gradually made himself master of her per-
son, and desisted not from his prey, till he had accomplished
his crime and the dishonour of Antonia.
Scarcely had he succeeded in his design, than he shud-
dered at himself, and the means by which it was effected.
The very excess of his former eagerness to possess Antonia
now contributed to inspire him with disgust; and a secret
impulse made him feel how base and unmanly was the crime
which he had just committed. He started hastily from her
arms. She, who so lately had been the object of his adora-
tion, now raised no other sentiment in his heart than aver-


THE MONK.
349
sion and rage. He turned away from her : or, if his eyes
rested upon her figure involuntarily, it was only to dart upon
her looks of hate. The unfortunate had fainted ere the com-
pletion of her disgrace : she only recovered life to be sensible
of her misfortune. She remained stretched upon the earth
in silent despair; the tears chased each other slowly down
her cheeks, and her bosom heaved with frequent sobs. Op-
pressed with grief, she continued for some time in this state
of torpidity. At length she rose with difficulty, and, drag-
ging her feeble steps towards the door, prepared to quit the
dungeon.
The sound of her footsteps roused the Monk from his
sullen apathy. Starting from the tomb against which he re-
clined, while his eyes wandered over the images of corruption
contained in it, he pursued the victim of his brutality, and
soon overtook her. He seized her by the arm, and violently
forced her back into the dungeon.
“Whither go you p” he cried in a stern voice; "return
this instant!"
Antonia trembled at the fury of his countenance.
“What would you more ?” she said with timidity: “ Is not
my ruin completed ? Am I not undone, undone for ever? Is
not your cruelty contented, or have I yet more to suffer ? Let
me depart: let me return to my home, and weep unrestrained
my shame and my affliction !”.
“Return to your home ?” repeated the Monk, with bitter
and contemptuous mockery; then suddenly his eyes flaming
with passion. “What? that you may denounce me to the
world? that you may proclaim me a hypocrite, a ravisher, a
betrayer, a monster of cruelty, lust, and ingratitude ? No, no,
no! I know well the whole weight of my offences; well,
that your complaints would be too just, and my crimes too
notorious! You shall not from hence to tell Madrid that I
am a villain; that my conscience is loaded with sins, which
make me despair of Heaven's pardon. Wretched girl, you
must stay here with me! Here amidst these lonely tombs,


352
THE MONK.
curiosity, and the violence of her afflictions would prevent her
from concealing its cause. He determined, therefore, that
Antonia should remain a prisoner in the dungeon.
He approached her with confusion painted on his counte-
nance. He raised her from the ground—her hand trembled
as he took it, and he dropped it again as if he had touched a
serpent. Nature seemed to recoil at the touch. He felt him-
self at once repulsed from and attracted towards her, yet
could account for neither sentiment. There was something
in her look which penetrated him with horror; and though
his understanding was still ignorant of it, conscience pointed
out to him the whole extent of his crime. In hurried accents,
yet the gentlest he could find, while his eye was averted, and
his voice scarcely audible, he 'strove to console her under a
misfortune which now could not be avoided. He declared
himself sincerely penitent, and that he would gladly shed a
drop of his blood for every tear which his barbarity had
forced from her. Wretched and hopeless, Antonia listened
to him in silent grief; but when he announced her confine-
ment in the sepulchre, that dreadful doom, to which even
death seemed preferable, roused her from her insensibility at
once. To linger out a life of misery in a narrow loathsome
cell, known to exist by no human being save her ravisher,
surrounded by mouldering corses, breathing the pestilential
air of corruption, never more to behold the light, or drink
the pure gale of heaven--the idea was more terrible than
she could support. It conquered even her abhorrence of the
Friar. Again she sank upon her knees; she besought his
compassion in terms the most pathetic and urgent: she pro-
mised, would he but restore her to liberty, to conceal her in-
juries from the world; to assign any reasons for her reap-
pearance, which he might judge proper; and in order to
prevent the least suspicion from falling upon him, she offered
to quit Madrid immediately. Her entreaties were so urgent
as to make a considerable impression upon the Monk. He
reflected, that as her person no longer excited his desires, he


THE MONK.
353
had no interest in keeping her concealed as he had at first
intended : that he was adding a fresh injury to those which
she had already suffered; and that if she adhered to her
promises, whether she was confined or at liberty, his life and
reputation were equally secure. On the other hand, he
trembled lest in her affliction Antonia should unintentionally
break her engagement, or that her excessive simplicity and
ignorance of deceit should permit some one more artful to
surprise her secret.—However well-founded were these ap-
prehensions, compassion, and a sincere wish to repair his
fault as much as possible, solicited his complying with the
prayers of his suppliant. The difficulty of colouring Antonia's
unexpected return to life, after her supposed death and public
interment, was the only point which kept him irresolute. He
was still pondering on the means of removing this obstacle,
when he heard the sound of feet approaching with precipita-
tion. The door of the vault was thrown open, and Matilda
rushed in, evidently much confused and terrified.
On seeing a stranger enter, Antonia uttered a cry of joy;
but her hopes of receiving succour from him were soon dis-
sipated. The supposed novice, without expressing the least
surprise at finding a woman alone with the Monk, in so
strange a place, and at so late an hour, addressed him thus
without losing a moment:
“ What is to be done, Ambrosio? We are lost unless some
speedy means is found of dispelling the rioters. Ambrosio,
the convent of St. Clare is on fire; the Prioress is fallen a
victim to the fury of the mob. Already is the abbey menaced
with a similar fate. Alarmed at the threats of the people, the
monks seek for you every where. They imagine that your
authority alone will suffice to calm this disturbance. No one
knows what is become of you, and your absence creates uni-
versal astonishment and despair. I profited by the confusion,
and fled hither to warn you of the danger.” .
6. This will soon be remedied,” answered the Abbot; " I
23


331
THE MONK.
will hasten back to my cell : a trivial reason will account for
my having been missed."
“ Impossible!” rejoined Matilda : “ The sepulchre is filled
with archers. Lorenzo de Medina, with several officers of
the inquisition, searches through the vaults, and pervades
every passage. You will be intercepted in your flight; your
reasons for being at this late hour in the sepulchre will be ex-
amined; Antonia will be found, and then you are undone for
ever!”
“ Lorenzo de Medina ? Officers of the Inquisition ? What
brings them here? Seek they for me? Am I then suspected ?
Oh! speak Matilda, answer me in pity!" :
" As yet they do not think of you; but I fear that they will
ere long. Your only chance of escaping their notice rests
upon the difficulty of exploring this vault. The door is artfully
hidden; haply it may not be observed, and we may remain
concealed till the search is over.”
.“ But Antonia- should the inquisitors draw near and
her cries be heard”—-
“ Thus I remove that danger!" interrupted Matilda.
At the same time drawing a poniard, she rushed upon her
devoted prey.
“ Hold! hold !" cried Ambrosio, seizing her hand, and
wresting from it the already lifted weapon. “What would
you do, cruel woman? The unfortunate has already suffered
but too much, thanks to your pernicious counsels! Would to
God that I had never followed them! Would to God that I
had never seen your face !"
Matilda darted upon him a look of scorn.
.“ Absurd !” she exclaimed, with an air of passion and ma-
jesty, which impressed the Monk with awe. “ After robbing
her of all that made it dear, can you fear to deprive her of a
life so miserable? But 'tis well! Let her live to convince you
of your folly. I abandon you to your evil destiny! I disclaim
your alliance! Who trembles to commit so insignificant a


THE MONK.
355
crime, deserves not my protection. Hark! hark! Ambrosio ;
hear you not the archers? They come, and your destruction
is inevitable!"
At this moment the Abbot heard the sound of distant voices.
He flew to close the door, on whose concealment his safety
depended, and which Matilda had neglected to fasten. Ere
he could reach it, he saw Antonia glide suddenly by him, rush
through the door, and fly towards the noise with the swiftness
of an arrow. She had listened attentively to Matilda : she
heard Lorenzo's name mentioned, and resolved to risk every
thing to throw herself under his protection. The door was
open. The sounds convinced her that the archers could be at
no great distance. She mustered up her little remaining
strength, rushed by the Monk ere he perceived her design,
and bent her course rapidly towards the voices. As soon
as he recovered from his first surprise, the Abbot failed not
to pursue her. In vain did Antonia redouble her speed, and
stretch every nerve to the utmost. Her enemy gained upon
her every moment: she heard his steps close after her, and
felt the heat of his breath glow. upon her neck. He overtook
her; he twisted his hands in the ringlets of her streaming
hair, and attempted to drag her back with him to the dungeon.
Antonia resisted with all her strength. She folded her arms
round a pillar which supported the roof, and shrieked loudly
for assistance. In vain did the Monk strive to threaten her
to silence.
“Help !" she continued to exclaim ; "help! help! for God's
sake.”
Quickened by her cries, the sound of footsteps was heard
approaching. The Abbot expected every moment to see the
inquisitors arrive. Antonia still resisted, and he now enforced
her silence by means the most horrible and inhuman. He
still grasped Matilda's dagger: without allowing himself a
moment's reflection, he raised it, and plunged it twice into
the bosom of Antonia! She shrieked, and sank upon the
ground. The Monk endeavoured to bear her away with him,
23 *


356
THE MONK.
but she still embraced the pillar firmly. At that instant the
light of approaching torches flashed upon the walls. Dread-
ing a discovery, Ambrosio was compelled to abandon his
victim, and hastily fled back to the vault, where he had left
Matilda.
He fled not unobserved. Don Ramirez happening to arrive
the first, perceived a female bleeding upon the ground, and a
man flying from the spot, whose confusion betrayed him for
the murderer. He instantly pursued the fugitive, with some
part of the archers, while the others remained with Lorenzo
to protect the wounded stranger. They raised her, and sup-
ported her in their arms. She had fainted from excess of
pain, but soon gave signs of returning life. She opened her
eyes; and on lifting up her head, the quantity of fair hair fell
back, which till then had obscured her features.
: “God Almighty! it is Antonia.”
Such was Lorenzo's exclamation, while he snatched her
from the attendant's arms, and clasped her in his own.
Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poniard had an-
swered but too well the purpose of its employer. The
wounds were mortal, and Antonia was conscious that she
never could recover. Yet the few moments which remained
for her, were moments of happiness.
The concern expressed upon Lorenzo's countenance, the
frantic fondness of his complaints, and his earnest enquiries
respecting her wounds, convinced her, beyond a doubt, that
his affections were her own. She would not be removed
from the vaults, fearing lest motion should only hasten her
death; and she was unwilling to lose those moments which
she passed in receiving proofs of Lorenzo's love, and assuring
him of her own. She told him, that had she still been unde-
filed, she might have lamented the loss of life: but that, de-
prived of honour, and branded with shame, death was to her
a blessing: she could not have been his wife; and that hope
being denied her, she resigned herself to the grave without
one sigh of regret. She bade him take courage, conjured


THE MONK.
357
him not to abandon himself to fruitless sorrow, and declared
that she mourned to leave nothing in the whole world but
him. While every sweet accent increased rather than light-
ened Lorenzo's grief, she continued to converse with him till
the moment of dissolution. Her voice grew faint, and
scarcely audible; a thick cloud spread itself over her eyes;
her heart beat slow and irregular, and every instant seemed
to announce that her fate was near at hand.
She lay, her head reclining upon Lorenzo's bosom, and her
lips still murmuring to him words of comfort. She was in-
terrupted by the convent bell, as, tolling at a distance, it
struck the hour. Suddenly Antonia's eyes sparkled with
celestial brightness; her frame seemed to have received new
strength and animation. She started from her lover's arms:
“Three o'clock !” she cried. 6 Mother, I come!”
She clasped her hands, and sank lifeless upon the ground.
Lorenzo, in agony, threw himself beside her. He tore his
hair, beat his breast, and refused to be separated from the
corse. At length his force being exhausted, he suffered him-
self to be led from the vault, and was conveyed to the palace
de Medina, scarcely more alive than the unfortunate An-
tonia.
In the mean while, though closely pursued, Ambrosio suc-
ceeded in regaining the vault. The door was already fastened
when Don Ramirez arrived, and much time elapsed ere the
fugitive's retreat was discovered. But nothing can resist per-
severance. Though so artfully concealed, the door could not
escape the vigilance of the archers. They forced it open, and
entered the vault, to the infinite dismay of Ambrosio and his
companion. The Monk's confusion, his attempts to hide him-
self, his rapid flight, and the blood sprinkled upon his clothes,
left no room to doubt his being Antonia's murderer. But
when he was recognized for the immaculate Ambrosio, “the
man of holiness,” the idol of Madrid, the faculties of the
spectators were chained up in surprise, and scarcely could
they persuade themselves that what they saw was no vision,


358
THE MONK.
The Abbot strove not to vindicate himself, but preserved a
sullen silence. He was secured and bound. The same pre-
caution was taken with Matilda. Her cowl being removed,
the delicacy of her features and profusion of her golden
hair betrayed her sex; and this incident created fresh amaze-
ment. The dagger was also found in the tomb, where the
Monk had thrown it; and the dungeon having undergone a
thorough search, the two culprits were conveyed to the pri-
sons of the Inquisition.
Don Ramirez took care that the populace should remain
ignorant both of the crimes and profession of the captives.
He feared a repetition of the riots, which had followed the
apprehending the Prioress of St. Clare. He contented him-
self with stating to the Capuchins the guilt of their superior.
To avoid the shame of a public accusation, and dreading the
popular fury, from which they had already saved their abbey
with much difficulty, the monks readily permitted the inqui-
sitors to search their mansion without noise. No fresh dis-
coveries were made. The effects found in the Abbots and
Matilda's cells were seized, and carried to the Inquisition, to
be produced in evidence. Every thing else remained in its
former position, and order and tranquillity once more pre-
vailed through Madrid.
St. Clare's convent was completely ruined by the united
ravages of the mob and conflagration. Nothing remained of
it but the principal walls, whose thickness and solidity had
preserved them from the flames. The nuns who had belonged
to it were obliged, in consequence, to disperse themselves
into other societies : but the prejudice against them ran high,
and the superiors were very unwilling to admit them. How-
ever, most of them being related to families the most distin-
guished for their riches, birth, and power, the several con-
vents were compelled to receive them, though they did it with
a very ill grace. This prejudice was extremely false and un-
justifiable. After a close investigation, it was proved that all
in the convent were persuaded of the death of Agnes, except


THE MONK."
359
the four nuns whom St. Ursula had pointed out. These had
fallen victims to the popular fury, as had also several who
were perfectly innocent and unconscious of the whole affair.
Blinded by resentment, the mob had sacrificed every nun who
fell into their hands: they who escaped. were entirely in-
debted to the Duke de Medina's prudence and moderation.
Of this they were conscious, and felt for that nobleman a
proper sense of gratitude.
Virginia was not the most sparing of her thanks ; she
wished equally to make a proper return for his attentions, and
to obtain the good graces of Lorenzo's uncle. In this she
easily succeeded. The Duke beheld her beauty with wonder
and admiration; and while his eyes were enchanted with her
form, the sweetness of her manners, and her tender concern
for the suffering nun, prepossessed his heart in her favour.
This Virginia had discernment enough to perceive, and she re-
doubled her attention to the invalid. When he parted from
her at the door of her father's palace, the Duke entreated
permission to enquire occasionally after her health. His re-
quest was readily granted; Virginia assured him, that the
Marquis de Villa-Franca would be proud of an opportunity
to thank him in person for the protection afforded to her.
They now separated, he enchanted with her beauty and gen-
tleness, and she much pleased with him and more with his
nephew..
On entering the palace, Virginia's first care was to sum-
mon the family physician, and take care of her unknown
charge. Her mother hastened to share with her the charitable
office. Alarmed by the riots, and trembling for his daughter's
safety, who was his only child, the Marquis had flown to
St. Clare's convent, and was still employed in seeking her.
Messengers were now dispatched on all sides to inform him,
that he would find her safe at his hotel, and desire him to
hasten thither immediately. His absence gave Virginia liberty
to bestow her whole attention upon her patient; and though
much disordered herself by the adventures of the night, no


360
THE MONK.'
persuasion could induce her to quit the bedside of the suf-
ferer. Her constitution being much enfeebled by want and
sorrow, it was some time before the stranger was restored to
her senses. She found-great difficulty in swallowing the me-
dicines prescribed to her; but this obstacle being removed,
she easily conquered her disease, which proceeded from no-
thing but weakness. The attention which was paid her, the
wholesome food to which she had been long a stranger, and
her joy at being restored to liberty, to society, and, she dared
to hope, to love, all this combined to her speedy reestablish-
ment. From the first moment of knowing her, her melan-
choly situation, her sufferings almost unparalleled, had en-
gaged the affections of her amiable hostess. Virginia felt for
her the most lively interest : but how was she delighted,
when, her guest being sufficiently recovered to relate her
history, she recognized in the captive nun the sister of Lo-
renzo!
This victim of monastio cruelty was indeed no other than
the unfortunate Agnes. During her abode in the convent, she
had been well known to Virginia; but her emaciated form,
her features altered by affliction, her death universally cre-
dited, and her overgrown and matted hair which hung over
her face and bosom in disorder, at first had prevented her
being recollected. The Prioress had put every artifice in
practice to induce Virginia to take the veil; for the heiress
of Villa-Franca would have been no despicable acquisition.
Her seeming kindness and unremitted attention so far suc-
ceeded, that her young relation began to think seriously upon
compliance. Better instructed in the disgust and ennui of a
monastic life, Agnes had penetrated the designs of the Do-
mina. She trembled for the innocent girl, and endeavoured
to make her sensible of her error. She painted in their true
colours the numerous inconveniencies attached to a convent,
the continued restraint, the low jealousies, the petty intrigues,
the servile court and gross flattery expected by the Superior.
She then bade Virginia reflect on the brilliant prospect which


THE MONK,
361
presented itself before her. The idol of her parents, the ad-
miration of Madrid, endowed by nature and education with
every perfection of person and mind, she might look forward
to an establishment the most fortunate. Her riches furnished
her with the means of exercising, in their fullest extent, cha-
rity and benevolence, those virtues so dear to her; and her
stay in the world would enable her discovering objects worthy
her protection, which could not be done in the seclusion of a
convent.
Her persuasion induced Virginia to lay aside all thoughts
of the veil : but another argument, not used by Agnes, had
more weight with her than all the others put together. She
had seen Lorenzo when he visited his sister at the grate ; his
person pleased her, and her conversation with Agnes gene-
rally used to terminate in some question about her brother.
She, who doated upon Lorenzo, wished for nothing more
than an opportunity to trumpet out his praise; she spoke of
him in terms of rapture; and, to convince her auditor how
just were his sentiments, how cultivated his mind, and elegant
his expressions, she showed her at different times the letters
which she received from him. She soon perceived that from
these communications the heart of her young friend had im-
bibed impressions which she was far from intending to give,
but was truly happy to discover. She could not have wished
her brother a more desirable union : heiress of Villa-Franca,
virtuous, affectionate, beautiful, and accomplished, Virginia
seemed calculated to make him happy. She sounded her
brother upon the subject, though without mentioning names
or circumstances. He assured her in his answers, that his
heart and hand were totally disengaged, and she thought that
upon these grounds she might proceed without danger. She
in consequence endeavoured to strengthen the dawning pas-
sion of her friend. Lorenzo was made the constant topic
of her discourse; and the avidity with which her auditor
listened, the sighs which frequently escaped from her bosom,
and the eagerness with which upon every digression she


362
THE MONK.
brought back the conversation to the subject whence it had
wandered, sufficed to convince Agnes that her brother's ad-
dresses would be far from disagreeable. She at length ven-
tured to mention her wishes to the Duke. Though a stran-
ger to the lady herself, he knew enough of her situation to
think her worthy his nephew's hand. It was agreed between
him and his niece, that she should insinuate the idea to Lo-
renzo, and she only waited his return to Madrid to propose
her friend to him as his bride. The unfortunate events which
took place in the interim, prevented her from executing her
design. Virginia wept her loss sincerely, both as a com-
panion, and as the only person to whom she could speak of
Lorenzo. Her passion continued to prey upon her heart in
secret, and she had almost determined to confess her senti-
ments to her mother, when accident once more threw their
object in her way. The sight of him so near her, his polite-
ness, his compassion, his intrepidity, had combined to give
new ardour to her affection. When she now found her
friend and advocate restored to her, she looked upon her as
a gift from Heaven; she ventured to cherish the hope of
being united to Lorenzo, and resolved to use with him his
sister's influence.
Supposing that before her death Agnes might possibly
have made the proposal, the Duke had placed all his nephew's
hints of marriage to Virginia's account; consequently, he
gave them the most favourable reception. On returning to
his hotel, the relation given him of Antonia's death, and Lo-
renzo's behaviour on the occasion, made evident his mistake.
He lamented the circumstances; but the unhappy girl being
effectually out of the way, be trusted that his designs would
yet be executed. 'Tis true that Lorenzo's situation just then
ill suited him for a bridegroom. His hopes disappointed at
the moment when he expected to realize them, and the dread-
ful and sudden death of his mistress, had affected him very
severely. The Duke found him upon the bed of sickness.
His attendants expressed serious apprehensions for his life ;


364
THE MONK.
was worn down to a shadow; nothing could give him plea-
sure. He was persuaded with difficulty to swallow nourish-
ment sufficient for the support of life, and a consumption was
apprehended. The society of Agnes formed his only com-
fort. Though accident had never permitted their being much
together, he entertained for her a sincere friendship and at-
tachment. Perceiving how necessary she was to him, she
seldom quitted his chamber. She listened to his complaints
with unwearied attention, and soothed him by the gentleness
of her manners, and by sympathizing with his distress. She
still inhabited the palace of Villa-Franca, the possessors of
which treated her with marked affection. The Duke had
intimated to the Marquis his wishes respecting Virginia. The
match was unexceptionable ; Lorenzo was heir to his uncle's
immense property, and was distinguished in Madrid for his
agreeable person, extensive knowledge, and propriety of con-
duct. Add to this, that the Marchioness had discovered how
strong was her daughter's prepossession in his favour.
In consequence, the Duke's proposal was accepted without
hesitation : every precaution was taken to induce Lorenzo's
seeing the lady with those sentiments which she so well
merited to excite. In her visits to her brother, Agnes was
frequently accompanied by the Marchioness; and as soon as
he was able to move into his antechamber, Virginia, under
her mother's protection, was sometimes permitted to express
her wishes for his recovery. This she did with such delicacy,
the manner in which she mentioned Antonia was so tender
and soothing, and when she lamented her rival's melancholy
fate, her bright eyes shone so beautiful through her tears, that
Lorenzo could not behold or listen to her without emotion.
His relations, as well as the lady, perceived that with every
day her society seemed to give him fresh pleasure, and that
he spoke of her in terms of stronger admiration. However,
they prudently kept their observations to themselves. No
word was dropped, which might lead him to suspect their
designs. They continued their former conduct and attention,


THE MONK.
365
and left time to ripen into a warmer sentiment the friendship
which he already felt for Virginia.
In the mean while her visits became more frequent; and
latterly there was scarce a day, of which she did not pass
some part by the side of Lorenzo's couch. He gradually re-
gained his strength, but the progress of his recovery was slow
and doubtful. · One evening he seemed to be in better spirits
than usual: Agnes and her lover, the Duke, Virginia, and her
parents were sitting round him. He now for the first time
entreated his sister to inform him how she had escaped the
effects of the poison which St. Ursula had seen her swallow.
Fearful of recalling those scenes to his mind in which Antonia
had perished, she had hitherto concealed from him the his-
tory of her sufferings. As he now started the subject himself,
and thinking that perhaps the narrative of her sorrows, might
draw him from the contemplation of those on which he dwelt
too constantly, she immediately complied with his request.
The rest of the company had already heard her story: but
the interest which all present felt for its heroine, made them
anxious to hear it repeated. The whole society seconding
Lorenzo's entreaties, Agnes obeyed. She first recounted
the discovery which had taken place in the abbey-chapel, the
Domina’s resentment, and the midnight scene of which St.
Ursula had been a concealed witness. Though the nun had
already described this latter event, Agnes now related it
more circumstantially, and at large. After which she pro-
ceeded in her narrative as follows:
CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF AGNES DE MEDINA.
My supposed death was attended with the greatest agonies.
Those moments which I believed my last were embittered
by the Domina's assurances that I could not escape perdition;
and as my eyes closed, I heard her rage exhale itself in
curses on my offence. The horror of this situation, of a death-


366
THE MONK.
bed from which hope was banished, of a sleep from which I
was only to wake to find myself the prey of flames and furies,
was more dreadful than I can describe. When animation re-
vived in me, my soul was still impressed with these terrible
ideas. I looked round with fear, expecting to behold the mi-
nisters of divine vengeance. For the first hour, my senses
were so bewildered, and my brain so dizzy, that I strove in
vain to arrange the strange images which floated in wild
confusion before me. If I endeavoured to raise myself from
the ground, the wandering of my head deceived me.—Every
thing around me seemed to rock, and I sank once more upon
the earth. My weak and dazzled eyes were unable to bear a
nearer approach to a gleam of light, which I saw trembling
above me. I was compelled to close them again, and remain
motionless in the same posture.
A full hour elapsed, before I was sufficiently myself to ex-
amine the surrounding objects. When I did examine them,
what terror filled my bosom! I found myself extended upon
a sort of wicker couch. It had six handles to it, which doubt-
less had served the nuns to convey me to my grave. I was
covered with a linen cloth : several faded flowers were strewn
over me. On one side lay a small wooden crucifix: on the
other a rosary of large beads. Four low narrow walls con-
fined me. The top was also covered, and in it was fitted a
small grated door, through which was admitted the little air
that circulated in this miserable place. A faint glimmering of
light, which streamed through the bars, permitted me to dis-
tinguish the surrounding horrors. I was oppressed by a
noisome suffocating smell; and perceiving that the grated
door was unfastened, I thought that I might possibly effect my
escape. As I raised myself with this design, my hand rested
upon something soft; I grasped it, and advanced it towards
the light. Almighty God! what was my disgust! my con-
sternation! In spite of its putridity, and the worms which
preyed upon it, I perceived a corrupted human head, and re-
cognised the features of a nun who had died some months


368
THE MONK.
extent of its compass, and shrieked for aid. I was remote
from the hearing of every one. No friendly voice replied to
mine. A profound and melancholy silence prevailed through
the vault, and I despaired of liberty. My long abstinence
from food now began to torment me. The tortures which
hunger inflicted on me, were the most painful and insupport-
able: yet they seemed to increase with every hour which
passed over my head. Sometimes I threw myself upon the
ground, and rolled upon it wild and desperate: sometimes
starting up, I returned to the door, again strove to force it
open, and repeated my fruitless cries for succour. Often was
I on the point of striking my temple against the sharp corner
of some monument, dashing out my brains, and thus termi-
nating my woes at once. But still the remembrance of my
baby vanquished my resolution. I trembled at a deed, which
equally endangered my child's existence and my own. Then
would I vent my anguish in loud exclamations and passionate
complaints: and then again my strength failing me, silent
and hopeless I would sit me down upon the base of St. Clare's
statue, fold my arms, and abandon myself to sullen despair.
Thus passed several wretched hours. Death advanced towards
me with rapid strides, and I expected that every succeeding
moment would be that of my dissolution. Suddenly a neigh-
bouring tomb caught my eye: a basket stood upon it, which
till then I had not observed. I started from my seat: I made
towards it as swiftly as my exhausted frame would permit.
How eagerly did I seize the basket, on finding it to contain a
loaf of coarse bread, and a small bottle of water.
I threw myself with avidity upon these humble aliments.
They had to all appearance been placed in the vault for
several days. The bread was hard, and the water tainted :
yet never did I taste food to me so delicious. When the
cravings of appetite were satisfied, I busied myself with
conjectures upon this new circumstance. I debated whe-
ther the basket had been placed there with a view to my
necessity. Hope answered my doubts in the affirmative.


THE MONK.
369
Yet who could guess me to be in need of such assistance ?
If my existence was known, why was I detained in this
gloomy vault? If I was kept a prisoner, what meant the
ceremony of committing me to the tomb? Or if I was
doomed to perish with hunger, to whose pity was I in-
debted for provisions placed within my reach? A friend
would not have kept my dreadful punishment a secret :
neither did it seem probable that an enemy would have
taken pains to supply me with the means of existence.
Upon the whole I was inclined to think, that the Doinina's
designs upon my life had been discovered by some one of
my partisans in the convent, who had found means to sub-
stitute an opiate for poison; that she had furnished me
with food to support me, till she could effect my delivery;
and that she was then employed in giving intelligence to
my relations of my danger, and pointing out a way to re-
lease me from captivity. Yet why then was the quality
of my provision so coarse ? How could my friend have
entered the vault without the Domina's knowledge ? and if
she had entered, why was the door fastened so carefully ?
These reflections staggered me : yet still this idea was the
most favourable to my hopes, and I dwelt upon it in pre-
ference.
· My meditations were interrupted by the sound of distant
footsteps. They approached but slowly. Rays of light
now darted through the crevices of the door. Uncertain
whether the persons who advanced came to relieve me, or
were conducted by some other motive to the vault, I failed
not to attract their notice by loud cries for help. Still the
sounds drew near. The light grew stronger. At length
with inexpressible pleasure I heard the key turning in the
lock. Persuaded that my deliverance was at hand, I flew
towards the door with a shriek of joy. It opened: but all
my hopes of escape died away, when the Prioress appeared,
followed by the same four nuns who had been witnesses
24


370
THE MONK.
of my supposed death. They bore torches in their hands,
and gazed upon me in fearful silence.
I started back in terror. The Domina descended into the
vault, as did also her companions. She took the seat which
I had just quitted. The door was again closed, and the
nuns ranged themselves behind their superior, while the
glare of their torches, dimmed by the vapours and dampness
of the vault, gilded with their cold beams the surrounding
monuments. For some moments all preserved a dead and
solemn silence. I stood at some distance from the Prioress.
At length she beckoned to me to advance. Trembling at the
severity of her aspect, my strength searce sufficed me to obey
her. I drew near, but my limbs were unable to support
their burthen. I sank upon my knees, I clasped my hands,
and lifted them up to her for mercy, but had no power to
articulate a syllable.
She gazed upon me with angry eyes.
“ Do I see a penitent, or a criminal ?” she said at length:
5 Are those hands raised in contrition for your crimes, or in
fear of meeting their punishment ? Do those tears acknow-
ledge the justice of your doom, or only solicit mitigation of
your sufferings ? I fear me, 'tis the latter!”
She paused, but kept her eye still fixed upon mine.
“ Take courage,” she continued; “I wish not for your
death, but your repentance. The draught which I adminis-
tered was no poison, but an opiate. My intention in deceiv-
ing you, was to make you feel the agonies of a guilty con-
science, had death overtaken you suddenly, while your crimes
were still unrepented. You have suffered those agonies; I
have brought you to be familiar with the sharpness of death,
and I trust that your momentary anguish will prove to you
an eternal benefit. It is not my design to destroy your im-
mortal soul, or bid you seek the grave burthened with the
weight of sins unexpiated. No, daughter, far from it; I will
purify you with wholesome chastisement, and furnish you


THE MONK.
371
with full leisure for contrition and remorse. Hear, then, my
sentence: the ill-judged zeal of your friends delayed its
execution, but cannot now prevent it. All Madrid believes
you to be no more; your relations are thoroughly persuaded
of your death, and the nuns your partisans have assisted at
your funeral. Your existence can never be suspected. I
have taken such precautions as must render it an impene-
trable mystery. Then abandon all thoughts of a world from
which you are eternally separated, and employ the few hours
which are allowed you in preparing for the next.”
This exordium led me to expect something terrible. I
trembled, and would have spoken to deprecate her wrath;
but a motion of the Domina commanded me to be silent. She
proceeded:
“Though of late years unjustly neglected, and now op-
posed by many of our misguided sister's (whom Heaven con-
vert!) it is my intention to revive the laws of our order in
their full force. That against incontinence is severe, but no
more than so monstrous an offence demands. Submit to it,
daughter, without resistance; you will find the benefit of pa-
tience and resignation in a better life than this. Listen, then,
to the sentence of St. Clare:-Beneath these vaults there
exist prisons, intended to receive such criminals as yourself:
artfully is their entrance concealed, and she who enters them
must resign all hopes of liberty. Thither must you now be
conveyed. Food shall be supplied you, but not sufficient for
the indulgence of appetite: you shall have just enough to keep
together body and soul, and its quality shall be the simplest
and coarsest. Weep, daughter, weep, and moisten your bread
with your tears. God knows, that you have ample cause for
sorrow! Chained down in one of these secret dungeons, shut
out from the world and light for ever, with no comfort but
religion, no society but repentance; thus must you groan
away the remainder of your days. Such are St. Clare's
orders; submit to them without repining. Follow me!"
Thunder-struck at this barbarous decree, my little remain-
24 *


372
THE MONK.
ing strength abandoned me. I answered only by falling at
her feet, and bathing them with tears. The Domina, un-
moved by my affliction, rose from her seat with a stately air :
she repeated her commands in an absolute tone; but my
excessive faintness made me unable to obey her. Mariana
and Alix raised me from the ground, and carried me forwards
in their arms. The Prioress moved on, leaning on Violante,
and Camilla preceded her with a torch. Thus passed our
sad procession along the passages, in silence only broken by
my sighs and groans. We stopped before the principal
shrine of St. Clare. The statue was removed from its pe-
destal, though how I knew not. The nuns afterwards raised
an iron grate, till then concealed by the image, and let it fall
on the other side with a loud crash. The awful sound, re-
peated by the vaults above and caverns below me, roused me
from the despondent apathy in which I had been plunged.
I looked before me; an abyss presented itself to my affrighted
eyes, and a steep and narrow staircase, whither my con-
ductors were leading me. I shrieked, and started back. I
implored compassion, rent the air with my cries, and sum-
moned both Heaven and earth to my assistance. In vain !
I was hurried down the staircase, and forced into one of the
cells which lined the cavern's sides.
My blood ran cold, as I gazed upon this melancholy abode.
The cold vapours hovering in the air, the walls green with
damp, the bed of straw so forlorn and comfortless, the chain
destined to bind me for ever to my prison, and the reptiles of
every description, which, as the torches advanced towards
them, I descried hurrying to their retreats, struck my heart
with terrors almost too exquisite for nature to bear. Driven
by despair to madness, I burst suddenly from the nuns who
held me; I threw myself upon my knees before the Prioress,
and besought her mercy in the most passionate and frantic
terms.
“ If not on me,” said I, “ look at least with pity on that
innocent being, whose life is attached to mine! Great is my


THE MONK.
373
crime, but let not my child suffer for it! My baby has com-
mitted no fault. Oh! spare me for the sake of my unborn
offspring, whom, ere it tastes life, your severity dooms to de-
struction !"
The Prioress drew back hastily; she forced her habit from
my grasp, as if my touch had been contagious.
“ What!” she exclaimed with an exasperated air : “ What!
Dare you plead for the produce of your shame? Shall a
creature be permitted to live, conceived in guilt so mon-
strous ? Abandoned woman, speak for it no more! Better
that the wretch should perish than live: begotten in perjury,
incontinence, and pollution, it cannot fail to prove a prodigy
of vice. Hear me, thou guilty! Expect no mercy from me,
either for yourself or brat. Rather pray that death may
seize you before you produce it; or, if it must see the light,
that its eyes may immediately be closed again for ever! No
aid shall be given you in your labour; bring your offspring
into the world yourself, feed it yourself, nurse it yourself,
bury it yourself: God grant that the latter may happen soon,
lest you receive comfort from the fruit of your iniquity!”.
This inhuman speech, the threats which it contained, the
dreadful sufferings foretold to me by the Domina, and her
prayers for my infant's death, on whom, though unborn, I
already doated, were more than my exhausted frame could
support, Uttering a deep groan, I fell senseless at the feet
of my unrelenting enemy. I know not how long I remained
in this situation; but I imagine that some time must have
elapsed before my recovery, since it sufficed the Prioress and
her nuns to quit the cavern. When my senses returned, I
found myself in silence and solitude. I heard not even the
retiring footsteps of my persecutors. All was hushed, and
all was dreadful! I had been thrown upon the bed of straw:
the heavy chain which I had already eyed with terror, was
wound around my waist, and fastened me to the wall. A
lamp glimmering with dull melancholy rays through my dun-
geon, permitted my, distinguishing all its horrors. It was


THE MONK.
375
been an actress, advanced the period of my labour. In soli-
tude and misery, abandoned by all, unassisted by art, uncom-
forted by friendship, with pangs which if witnessed would
have touched the hardest heart, was I delivered of my
wretched burthen. It came alive into the world ; but I knew
not how to treat it, or by what means to preserve its exist-
ence. I could only bathe it with tears, warm it in iny bosom,
and offer up prayers for its safety. I was soon deprived of
this mournful employment : the want of proper attendance,
my ignorance how to nurse it, the bitter cold of the dungeon,
and the unwholesome air which inflated its lungs, terminated
my sweet babe's short and painful existence. It expired in a
few hours after its birth, and I witnessed its death with agonies
which beggar all description.
But my grief was unavailing. My infant was no more ;
nor could all my sighs impart to its little tender frame the
breath of a moment. I rent my winding sheet, and wrapped
in it my lovely child. I placed it on my bosom, its soft arm
folded round my neck, and its pale cold cheek resting upon
mine. Thus did its lifeless limbs repose, while I covered it
with kisses, talked to it, wept and moaned over it without
remission day or night. Camilla entered my prison regu-
larly once every twenty-four hours to bring me food. In
spite of her flinty nature, she could not behold this spectacle
unmoved. She feared that grief so excessive would at
length turn my brain: and in truth I was not always in my
proper senses. From a principle of compassion, she urged
me to permit the corse to be buried; but to this I never
would consent. I vowed not to part with it while I had
life: its presence was my only comfort, and no persuasion
could induce me to give it up. It soon became a mass of
putridity, and to every eye was a loathsome and disgusting
object, to every eye but a mother's. In vain did human
feelings bid me recoil from this emblem of mortality with re-
pugnance. I withstood, and vanquished that repugnance.
I persisted in holding my infant to my bosom, in lamenting


THE MONK.
377
told the nuns, to whose custody I was committed, that my
fault was of the most heinous nature, that no sufferings could
equal the offence, and that nothing could save me from eter-
nal perdition but punishing my guilt with the utmost severity.
The Superior's word is an oracle to but too many of a con-
vent's inhabitants. The nuns believed whatever the Prioress
chose to assert; though contradicted by reason and charity.
They hesitated not to admit the truth of her arguments.
They followed her injunctions to the very letter, and were
fully persuaded, that to treath me with lenity, or to show the
least pity for my woes, would be a direct means to destroy
my chance for salvation.
Camilla being inost employed about me, was particularly
charged by the Prioress to treat me with harshness. In com-
pliance with these orders, she frequently strove to convince
me how just was my punishment, and how enormous was
my crime. She bade me think myself too happy in saving
my soul by mortifying my body, and even threatened me
sometimes with eternal perdition. Yet, as I before observed,
she always concluded by words of encouragement and com-
fort; and though uttered by Camilla's lips, I easily recognized
the Domina's expressions. Once, and once only, the Prioress
visited me in my dungeon. She then treated me with the
most unrelenting cruelty. She loaded me with reproaches,
taunted me with my frailty; and, when I implored her mercy,
told me to ask it of Heaven, since I deserved none on earth.
She even gazed upon my lifeless infant without emotion ;
and when she left me, I heard her charge Camilla to increase
the hardships of my captivity. Unfeeling woman! But let
me check my resentment. She has expiated her errors by
her sad and unexpected death. Peace be with her! and may
her crimes be forgiven in heaven, as I forgive her my suffer-
ings on earth!
Thus did I drag on a miserable existence. Far from grow-
ing familiar with my prison, I beheld it every moment with
new horror. The cold seemed more piercing and bitter, the


THE MONK.
379
to let me perish. The latter idea seemed the most probable :
yet so natural is the love of life, that I trembled to find it
true. Though embittered by every species of misery, my
existence was still dear to me, and I dreaded to lose it.
Every succeeding minute proved to me that I must abandon
all hopes of relief. I was become an absolute skeleton : my
eyes already failed me, and my limbs were beginning to
stiffen. I could only express my anguish, and the pangs of
that hunger which gnawed my heartstrings, by frequent
groans, whose melancholy sound the vaulted roof of the dun-
geon reechoed. I resigned myself to my fate: I already ex-
pected the moment of dissolution, when my guardian angel —
when my beloved brother arrived in time to save me. My
sight, grown dim and feeble, at first refused to recognize him:
and when I did distinguish his features, the sudden burst
of rapture was too much for me to bear. I was overpowered
by the swell of joy at once more beholding a friend, and that
a friend so dear to me. Nature could not support my emo-
tions, and took her refuge in insensibility.
You already know what are my obligations to the family of
Villa-Franca. But what you cannot know, is the extent of
my gratitude, boundless as the excellence of my benefactors.
Lorenzo! Raymond! names so dear to me! teach me to bear
with fortitude this sudden transition from misery to bliss. So
lately a captive, oppressed with chains, perishing with hunger,
suffering every inconvenience of cold and want, hidden from
the light, excluded from society, hopeless, neglected, and, as I
feared, forgotten: now restored to life and liberty, enjoying
all the comforts of affluence and ease, surrounded by those
who are most loved by me, and on the point of becoming his
bride who has been long wedded to my heart, my happiness is
so exquisite, so perfect, that scarcely can my brain sustain the
weight. One only wish remains ungratified. It is to see my
brother in his former health, and to know that Antonia's me-
mory is buried in her grave. Granted this prayer, I have
nothing more to desire. I trust that my past sufferings have


380
THE MONK.
purchased from Heaven the pardon of my momentary weak-
ness. That I have offended, offended greatly and grievously,
I am fully conscious. But let not my husband, because he
once conquered my virtue, doubt the propriety of my future
conduct. I have been frail and full of error: but I yielded not
to the warmth of constitution. Raymond, affection for you
betrayed me. I was too confident of my strength, but I de-
pended no less on your honour than my own. I had vowed
never to see you more. Had it not been for the consequences
of that unguarded moment, my resolution had been kept.
Fate willed it otherwise, and I cannot but rejoice at its de-
cree. Still my conduct has been highly blameable; and while
I attempt to justify myself, I blush at recollecting my impru-
dence. Let me then dismiss the ungrateful subject; first as-
suring you, Raymond, that you shall have no cause to repent
our union, and that the more culpable have been the errors
of your mistress, the more exemplary shall be the conduct of
your wife.
Here Agnes ceased; and the Marquis replied to her address
in terms equally sincere and affectionate. Lorenzo expressed
his satisfaction at the prospect of being so closely connected
with a man for whom he had ever entertained the highest
esteem. The Pope's bull had fully and effectually released
Agnes from her religious engagements. The marriage was
therefore celebrated as soon as the needful preparations had
been made: for the Marquis wished to have the ceremony
performed with all possible splendour and publicity. This
being over, and the bride having received the compliments of
Madrid, she departed with Don Raymond for his castle in
Audalusia. Lorenzo accompanied them, as did also the Mar-
chioness de Villa-Franca and her lovely daughter. It is need-
less to say that Theodore was of the party, and it would be
impossible to describe his joy at his master's marriage. Pre-
vious to his departure, the Marquis, to atone in some mea-
sure for his past neglect, made some enquiries relative to
Elvira. Finding that she, as well as her daughter, had re-


THE MONK.
381
ceived many services from Leonella and Jacintha, he showed
his respect to the memory of his sister-in-law by making the
two women handsome presents. Lorenzo followed his ex-
ample. Leonella was highly flattered by the attentions of
noblemen so distinguished, and Jacintha blessed the hour on
which her house was bewitched.
On her side, Agnes failed not to reward her convent
friends. The worthy Mother St. Ursula, to whom she owed
her liberty, was named, at her request, superintendent of
" the Ladies of Charity.” This was one of the best and
most opulent societies throughout Spain. Bertha and Cor-
nelia, not choosing to quit their friend, were appointed to
principal charges in the same establishment. As to the
nuns who had aided the Domina in persecuting Agnes ;-Ca-
milla, being confined by illness to her bed, had perished in
the flames which consumed St. Clare's convent. Mariana,
Alix, and Violante, as well as two more, had fallen victims
to the popular rage. The three others who had in council
supported the Domina's sentence, were severely reprimanded,
and banished to religious houses in obscure and distant pro-
vinces. Here they languished away a few years, ashamed of
their former weakness, and shunned by their companions
with aversion and contempt.
Nor was the fidelity of Flora permitted to go unrewarded.
Her wishes being consulted, she declared herself impatient to
revisit her native land. In consequence, a passage was pro-
cured for her to Cuba, where she arrived in safety, loaded
with the presents of Raymond and Lorenzo.
The debts of gratitude discharged, Agnes was at liberty to
pursue her favourite plan. Lodged in the same house, Lo-
renzo and Virginia were eternally together. The more he
saw of her, the more was he convinced of her merit. On
her part, she laid herself out to please; and not to succeed
was for her impossible. Lorenzo witnessed with admiration
her beautiful person, elegant manners, innumerable talents,
and sweet disposition. He was also much flattered by her


THE MONK.
383
CHAPTER XI.
--He was a fell despightful fiend :
Hell holds none worse in baleful power below;
By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancour keened :
Of man, alike if good or bad, the foe.
THOMSON.
On the day following Antonia's death, all Madrid was a
scene of consternation and amazement. An archer who had
witnessed the adventure in the sepulchre, had indiscreetly
related the circumstances of the murder: he had also named
the perpetrator. The confusion was without example which
this intelligence raised among the devotees. Most of them
disbelieved it, and went themselves to the abbey to ascertain
the fact. Anxious to avoid the shame to which their Superior's
ill conduct exposed the whole brotherhood, the monks as-
sured the visitors, that Ambrosio was prevented from receiv-
ing them as usual by nothing but illness. This attempt was
unsuccessful. The same excuse being repeated day after day,
the archer's story gradually obtained confidence. His par-
tisans abandoned him: no one entertained a doubt of his
guilt: and they, who before had been warmest in his praise,
were now the most vociferous in his condemnation.
While his innocence or guilt was debated in Madrid with
the utmost acrimony, Ambrosio was a prey to the pangs of
conscious villany, and the terrors of punishment impending
over him. When he looked back to the eminence on which
he lately stood, universally honoured and respected, at peace
with the world and with himself, scarcely could he believe
that he was indeed the culprit, whose crimes and whose fate


384
THE MONK.
he trembled to consider. But a few weeks had elapsed, since
he was pure and virtuous, courted by the wisest and noblest
in Madrid, and regarded by the people with a reverence that
approached idolatry. He now saw himself stained with the
most loathed and monstrous sins, the object of universal ex-
ecration, a prisoner of the Holy Office, and probably doomed
to perish in tortures the most severe. He could not hope to
deceive his judges : the proofs of his guilt were too strong.
His being in the sepulchre at so late an hour, his confusion at
the discovery, the dagger which in his first alarm he owned
had been concealed by him, and the blood which had spirted
upon his habit from Antonia's wound, sufficiently marked
him out for the assassin. He waited with agony for the day
of examination. He had no resource to comfort him in his
distress. Religion could not inspire him with fortitude. If
he read the books of morality which were put into his hands,
he saw in them nothing but the enormity of his offences. If
he attempted to pray, he recollected that he deserved not
Heaven's protection, and believed his crimes so monstrous as
to exceed even God's infinite goodness. For every other
sinner he thought there might be hope, but for him there
could be none. Shuddering at the past, anguished by the
present, and dreading the future, thus passed he the few days
preceding that which was marked for his trial.
That day arrived. At nine in the morning his prison-door
was unlocked ; and his goaler entering, commanded him to
follow him. He obeyed with trembling. He was conducted
into a spacious hall hung with black cloth. At the table sat
three grave stern-looking men, also habited in black: one was
the Grand Inquisitor, whom the importance of this cause had
induced to examine into it himself. At a smaller table, at a
little distance, sat the secretary, provided with all the neces-
sary implements for writing. Ambrosio was beckoned to ad-
vance, and take his station at the lower end of the table. As
his eye glanced downwards, he perceived various iron in-
struments lying scattered upon the floor. Their forms were


386
THE MONK.
dently left in his chamber. The strange figures engraved
upon it caught the attention of Don Ramirez, while searching
the Abbot's cell; in consequence, he carried it away with him.
It was shown to the Grand Inquisitor, who having considered
it for some time, took off a small golden cross which hung at
his girdle, and laid it upon the mirror. Instantly a loud noise
was heard, resembling a clap of thunder, and the steel shi-
vered into a thousand pieces. This circumstance confirmed
the suspicion of the Monk's having dealt in magic. It was
even supposed that his former influence over the minds of the
people was entirely to be ascribed to witchcraft.
Determined to make him confess not only the crimes which
he had committed, but those also of which he was innocent,
the inquisitors began their examination. Though dreading
the tortures as he dreaded death, which would consign him
to eternal torments, the Abbot asserted his purity in a voice
bold and resolute. Matilda followed his example, but spoke
with fear and trembling. Having in vain exhèrted him to
confess, the inquisitors ordered the Monk to be put to the
question. The decree was immediately executed. Ambrosio
suffered the most excruciating pangs that ever were invented
by human cruelty. Yet so dreadful is death, when guilt ac-
companies it, that he had sufficient fortitude to persist in his
disavowal. His agonies were redoubled in consequence; nor
was he released till, fainting from excess of pain, insensibility
rescued him from the hands of his tormentors.
Matilda was next ordered to the torture; but terrified by
the sight of the Friar's sufferings, her courage totally deserted
her. She sank upon her knees, acknowledged her cor-
responding with infernal spirits, and that she had witnessed
the Monk's assassination of Antonia ; but as to the crime of
sorcery, she declared herself the sole criminal, and Ambrosio
perfectly innocent. The latter assertion met with no credit.
The Abbot recovered in time to hear the confession of his ac-
complice: but he was too much enfeebled by what he had
already undergone, to be capable at that time of sustaining


THE MONK.
387
eng
a with in
consider
ach hang
steel
confirm
e. 10
indista
nes
INDO
dreads
nan
-d him
new torments. He was commanded back to his cell, but first
informed, that, as soon as he had gained strength sufficient, he
must prepare himself for a second examination. The inqui-
sitors hoped that he would then be less hardened and ob-
stinate. To Matilda it was announced, that she must expiate
her crime in fire on the approaching Auto da Fe. All her
tears and entreaties could procure no mitigation of her doom,
and she was dragged by force from the hall of trial.
Returned to his dungeon, the sufferings of Ambrosio's
body were far more supportable than those of his mind. His
dislocated limbs, the nails torn from his hands and feet, and
his fingers mashed and broken by the pressure of screws,
were far surpassed in anguish by the agitation of his soul, and
vehemence of his terrors. He saw that, guilty or innocent,
his judges were bent upon condemning him. The remem-
brance of what his denial had already cost him, terrified him
at the idea of being again applied to the question, and almost
engaged him to confess his crimes. Then again the conse-
quences of his confession flashed before him, and rendered
him once more irresolute. His death would be inevitable,
and that a death the most dreadful. He had listened to Ma-
tilda's doom, and doubted 'not that a similar was reserved
for him. He shuddered at the approaching Auto da Fe, at
the idea of perishing in flames, and only escaping from en-
durable torments to pass into others more subtle and ever-
lasting! With affright did he bend his mind's eye on the
space beyond the grave; nor could hide from himself how
justly he ought to dread Heaven's vengeance. In this laby-
rinth of terrors, fain would he have taken his refuge in the
gloom of atheism; fain would he have denied the soul's im-
mortality; have persuaded himself that when his eyes once
closed, they would never more open, and that the same mo-
ment would annihilate his soul and body. Even this resource
was refused to him. To permit his being blind to the fallacy
of this belief, his knowledge was too extensive, his under-
standing too solid and just. He could not help feeling the ex-
umbri
Envert
25 *


THE MONK.
389
DAT
bernyata
- ringis
ispade
IJ
beary
ined. )
poche
nema
robert
hai ng
rounded by fiends appointed his tormentors, and who drove
him through a variety of tortures, each of which was more
dreadful than the former. Amidst these dismal scenes wan-
dered the ghosts of Elvira and her daughter. They re-
proached him with their deaths, recounted his crimes to the
demons, and urged them to inflict torments of cruelty yet
more refined. Such were the pictures that floated before
his eyes in sleep: they vanished not till his repose was dis-
turbed by excess of agony. Then would he start from the
ground on which he had stretched himself, his brows running
down with cold sweat, his eyes wild and frenzied; and he
only exchanged the terrible certainty of surmises scarcely
more supportable. He paced his dungeon with disordered
steps ; he gazed with terror upon the surrounding darkness,
and often did he cry,
" Oh, fearful is night to the guilty!"
The day of his second examination was at hand. He had
been compelled to swallow cordials, whose virtues were cal-
culated to restore his bodily strength, and enable him to sup-
port the question longer. On the night preceding this dreaded
day, his fears for the morrow permitted him not to sleep.
His terrors were so violent as nearly to annihilate his mental
powers. He sat, like one stupefied, near the table on which
his lamp was burning dimly. Despair chained up his facul-
ties in idiotism, and he remained for some hours unable to
speak or move, or indeed to think.
“ Look up, Ambrosio !” said a voice in accents well known
to him.
The Monk started, and raised his melancholy eyes. Ma-
tilda stood before him. She had quitted her religious habit.
She now wore a female dress, at once elegant and splendid;
a profusion of diamonds blazed upon her robes, and her
hair was confined by a coronet of roses. In her right hand
she held a small book: a lively expression of pleasure beamed
upon her countenance-but still it was mingled with a wild


390
THE MONK.
imperious majesty, which inspired the Monk with awe, and
repressed in some measure his transports at seeing her.
- You here, Matilda ?” he at length exclaimed: “ How
have you gained entrance ? Where are your chains ? What
means this magnificence, and the joy which sparkles in your
eyes ? Have our judges relented ? Is there a chance of my
escaping? Answer me for pity, and tell me what I have to
hope or fear.”
“ Ambrosio !" she replied with an air of commanding dig-
nity : “ I have baffled the Inquisition's fury, I am free: a few
moments will place kingdoms between these dungeons and
me: yet I purchase my liberty at a dear, a dreadful price!
Dare you pay the same, Ambrosio ? Dare you spring with-
out fear over the bounds which separate men from angels ?
--You are silent—You look upon me with eyes of sus-
picion and alarm—I read your thoughts, and confess their
justice. Yes, Ambrosio, I have sacrificed all for life and
liberty. I am no longer a candidate for Heaven! I have
renounced God's service, and am enlisted beneath the ban-
ners of his foes. The deed is past recall, yet were it in my
power to go back, I would not. Oh! my friend, to expire
in such torments! to die amidst curses and execrations! to
bear the insults of an exasperated mob! to be exposed to all
the mortifications of shame and infamy! who can reflect
without horror on such a doom? Let me, then, exult in my
exchange. I have sold distant and uncertain happiness for
present and secure. I have preserved a life which otherwise
I had lost in torture: and I have obtained the power of pro-
curing every bliss which can make that life delicious! The
infernal spirits obey me as their sovereign : by their aid shall
my days be passed in every refinement of luxury and volup-
tuousness. I will enjoy unrestrained the gratification of my
senses; every passion shall be indulged even to satiety; then
will I bid my seryants inyent new pleasures, to revive and
stimulate my glutted appetites! I go, impatient to exercise


THE MONK.
391
my newly-gained dominion. I pant to be at liberty. No-
thing should hold me one moment longer in this abhorred
abode, but the hope of persuading you to follow my example.
Ambrosio, I still love you: our mutual guilt and danger have
rendered you dearer to me than ever, and I would ſain save
you from impending destruction. Summon, then, your re-
solution to your aid, and renounce for immediate and certain
benefits the hopes of a salvation difficult to obtain, and per-
haps altogether erroneous. Shake off the prejudices of
vulgar souls ; abandon a God who has abandoned you, and
raise yourself to the level of superior beings !”
She paused for the Monk's reply: he shuddered while he
gave it.
“ Matilda!” he said, after a long silence, in a low and un-
steady voice: “ What price gave you for liberty ?”.
She answered him firm and dauntless,
“ Ambrosio, it was my soul!"
“ Wretched woman, what have you done! Pass but a
few years, and how dreadful will be your sufferings!"
“ Weak man, pass but this night, and how dreadful will
be your own! Do you remember what you have already
endured? To-morrow you must bear torments doubly ex-
quisite. Do you remember the horrors of a fiery punish-
ment? In two days you must be led a victim to the stake!
What then will become of you? Still dare you hope for
pardon ? Still are you beguiled with visions of salvation ?
Think upon your crimes! Think upon your lust, your per-
jury, inhumanity, and hypocrisy! Think upon the innocent
blood which cries to the throne of God for vengeance ! and
then hope for mercy! Then dream of heaven, and sigh for
worlds of light, and realms of peace and pleasure! Absurd!
Open your eyes, Ambrosio, and be prudent. Hell is your
lot; you are doomed to eternal perdition ; nought lies beyond
your grave, but a gulf of devouring flames. And will you
then speed towards that hell ? Will you clasp that perdition
in your arms ere 'tis needful? Will you plunge into those


392
THE MONK.
flames while you still have the power to shun them? 'Tis
a madman's action. No, no, Ambrosio, let us for a while fly
from divine vengeance. Be advised by me; purchase by one
moment's courage the bliss of years ; enjoy the present, and
forget that a future lags behind.”
“ Matilda, your counsels are dangerous; I dare not, I will
not follow them. I must not give up my claim to salvation.
Monstrous are my crimes; but God is merciful, and I will
not despair of pardon.”.
“Is such your resolution ? I have no more to say. I
speed to joy and liberty, and abandon you to death and eter-
nal torments !"
“ Yet stay one moment, Matilda! You command the in-
fernal demons; you can force open these prison doors; you
can release me from these chains which weigh me down.
Save me, I conjure you, and bear me from these fearful
abodes!"
“ You ask the only boon beyond my power to bestow. I
am forbidden to assist a churchman and a partisan of God.
Renounce those titles, and command me.”
“I will not sell my soul to perdition.”
“Persist in your obstinacy till you find yourself at the
stake : then will you repent your error, and sigh for escape
when the moment is gone by. I quit you—--Yet ere the
hour of death arrives, should wisdom enlighten you, listen to
the means of repairing your present fault. I leave with you
this book. Read the four first lines of the seventh page
backwards. The spirit whom you have already once beheld,
will immediately appear to you. If you are wise, we shall
meet again; if not, farewell for ever!"
She let the book fall upon the ground. A cloud of blue
fire wrapped itself round her. She waved her hand to Am-
brosio, and disappeared. The momentary glare which the
flames poured through the dungeon, on dissipating suddenly,
seemed to have increased its natural gloom. The solitary
lamp scarcely gave light sufficient to guide the Monk to a chair.


THE MONK.
395
were armed with long talons. Fury glared in his eyes,
which might have struck the bravest heart with terror. Over
his huge shoulders wayed two enormous sable wings: and
his hair was supplied by living snakes, which twined them-
selves round his brows with frightful hissings. In one hand
he held a roll of parchment, and in the other an iron pen.
Still the lightning flashed around him, and the thunder with
repeated bursts seemed to announce the dissolution of na-
ture.
Terrified at an apparition so different from what he had
expected, Ambrosio remained gazing upon the fiend, de-
prived of the power of utterance. The thunder had ceased
to roll; universal silence reigned through the dungeon.
“For what am I summoned hither ?” said the demon, in a
voice which sulphurous fogs had damped to hoarseness.'
At the sound nature seemed to tremble. A violent earth-
quake rocked the ground, accompanied by a fresh burst of
thunder, louder and more appalling than the first.
Ambrosio was long unable to answer the demon's de-
mand.
“I am condemned to die,” he said with a faint voice, his
blood running cold while he gazed upon his dreadful visitor.
“ Save me! bear me from hence !"
“Shall the reward of my services be paid me? Dare you
embrace my cause? Will you be mine, body and soul ? are
you prepared to renounce him who made you, and him who
died for you? Answer but Yes! and Lucifer is your
slave.”
“Will no less price content you? Can nothing satisfy
you but my eternal ruin ? Spirit, you ask too much. Yet con-
vey me from this dungeon. Be my servant for one hour,
and I will be yours for a thousand years. Will not this
offer suffice ?”
“It will not. I must have your soul: must have it mine,
and mine for ever.”
“ Insatiate demon! I will not doom myself to endless tor-


396
THE MONK.
ments. I will not give up my hopes of being one day par-
doned.”
“You will not ? On what chimera rest then your hopes ?
Short-sighted mortal! Miserable wretch! Are you not
guilty? Are you not infamous in the eyes of men and angels ?
Can such enormous sins be forgiven? Hope you to escape
my power? Your fate is already pronounced. The Eternal
has abandoned you. Mine you are marked in the book of
destiny, and mine you must and shall be.”
“ Fiend, 'tis false. Infinite is the Almighty's mercy, and
the penitent shall meet his forgiveness. My crimes are mon-
strous, but I will not despair of pardon. Haply, when they
have received due chastisement.--".
“ Chastisement ? Was purgatory meant for guilt like
yours? Hope you, that your offences shall be bought off by
prayers of superstitious dotards and droning monks ? Am-
brosio! be wise. Mine you must be. You are doomed to
flames, but may shun them for the present. Sign this parch-
ment: I will bear you from hence, and you may pass your
remaining years in bliss and liberty. Enjoy your existence.
Indulge in every pleasure to which appetite may lead you.
But from the moment that it quits your body, remember that
your soul belongs to me, and that I will not be defrauded of
my right.”
The Monk was silent: but his looks declared that the
tempter's words were not thrown away. He reflected on the
conditions proposed with horror. On the other hand, he be-
lieved himself doomed to perdition, and that, by refusing the
demon's succour, he only hastened tortures which he never
could escape. The fiend saw that his resolution was shaken.
He renewed his instances, and endeavoured to fix the Ab-
bot's indecision. He described the agonies of death in the
most terrific colours; and he worked so powerfully upon Am-
brosio's despair and fears, that he prevailed upon him to re-
ceive the parchment. He then struck the iron pen which he
held into a vein of the Monk's left hand. It pierced deep,


THE MONK.
397
and was instantly filled with blood: yet Ambrosio felt no
pain from the wound. The pen was put into his hand : it
trembled. The wretch placed the parchment on the table
before him, and prepared to sign it. Suddenly he held his
hand: he started away hastily, and threw the pen upon the
table.
“ What am I doing P” he cried. Then turning to the fiend
with a desperate air, “ Leave me! begone! I will not sign
the parchment.”
“Fool!” exclaimed the disappointed demon, darting looks
so furious as penetrated the Friar's soul with horror. “Thus
am I trifled with ? Go then! Rave in agony, expire in tor-
tures, and then learn the extent of the Eternal's mercy! But
beware how you make me again your mock! Call me no
more, till resolved to accept my offers. Summon me a second
time to dismiss me thus idly, and these talons shall rend you
into a thousand pieces. Speak yet again : will you sign the
parchment ?”
“I will not. Leave me. Away!" sagot
Instantly the thunder was heard to roll horribly: once more
the earth trembled with violence : the dungeon resounded
with loud shrieks, and the demon fled with blasphemy and
curses.
At first, the Monk rejoiced at having resisted the seducer's
arts, and obtained a triumph over mankind's enemy: but as
the hour of punishment drew near, his former terrors revived
in his heart. Their momentary repose seemed to have given
them fresh vigour. The nearer that the time approached,
the more did he dread appearing before the throne of God.
He shuddered to think how soon he must be plunged into
eternity -- how soon meet the eyes of his Creator, whom he
had so grievously offended. The bell announced midnight.
It was the signal for being led to the stake. As he listened to
the first stroke, the blood ceased to circulate in the Abbot's
veins. He heard death and torture murmured in each suc-
ceeding sound. He expected to see the archers entering his


THE MONK.
399
back. The prisoner heard the rattling of chains ; the heavy
bar fell : the archers were on the point of entering. Worked
up to frenzy by the urgent danger, shrinking from the ap-
proach of death, terrified by the demon's threats, and seeing
no other means to escape destruction, the wretched Monk
complied. He signed the fatal contract, and gave it hastily
into the evil spirit's hands, whose eyes, as he received the
gift, glared with malicious rapture.
6 Take it !” said the God-abandoned. “ Now then save
me! Snatch me from hence !"
« Hold! Do you freely and absolutely renounce your
Creator and his Son ?”
“I do! I do!”
“ Do you make over your soul to me for ever?”
“For ever!"
6. Without reserve or subterfuge ? without future appeal
to the divine mercy ?”
The last chain fell from the door of the prison. The key
was heard turning in the lock. Already the iron door grated
heavily upon its rusty hinges.-
“I am yours for ever, and irrevocably!” cried the Monk,
wild with terror: “ I abandon all claim to salvation. I own
no power but yours. Hark! Hark! they come! Oh! save
me! bear me away!”
“ I have triumphed ! you are mine past reprieve, and I
fulfil my promise.”
While he spoke, the door unclosed. Instantly the demon
grasped one of Ambrosio's arms, spread his broad pinions,
and sprang with him into the air. The roof opened as they
soared upwards, and closed again when they had quitted the
dungeon.
In the mean while, the gaoler was thrown into the utmost
surprise by the disappearance of his prisoner. Though
neither he nor the archers were in time to witness the Monk's
escape, a sulphurous smell prevailing through the prison suffi-
ciently informed them by whose aid he had been liberated.


THE MONK.
401
this melancholy scene? Bear me from it quickly! carry
me to Matilda !”
The fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in
silence. Ambrosio could not sustain his glance : he turned
away his eyes, while thus spoke the demon :
“I have him then in my power ? This model of piety!
this being without reproach! this mortal who placed his
puny virtues on a level with those of angels. He is mine!
irrevocably, eternally mine! Companions of my sufferings !
denizens of hell! how grateful will be my present.
He paused: then addressed himself to the Monk-
“Carry you to Matilda ?” he continued, repeating Am-
brosio's words: “Wretch! you shall soon be with her!
You well deserve a place near her, for hell boasts no mis-
creant more guilty than yourself. Hark, Ambrosio, while I
unveil your crimes! You have shed the blood of two inno-
cents ; Antonia and Elvira perished by your hand. That
Antonia whom you violated, was your sister! That Elvira
whom you murdered, gave you birth! Tremble, abandoned
hypocrite! inhuman parricide! incestuous ravisher! tremble
at the extent of your offences! And you it was who thought
yourself proof against temptation, absolved from human
frailties, and free from error and vice! Is pride then a vir-
tue? Is inhumanity no fault? Know, vain man! that I
long have marked you for my prey: I watched the move-
ments of your heart; I saw that you were virtuous from
vanity, not principle, and I seized the fit moment of seduction.
I observed your blind idolatry of the Madona's picture. I
bade a subordinate, but crafty spirit, assume a similar form,
and you eagerly yielded to the blandishments of Matilda.
Your pride was gratified by her flattery: your lust only
needed an opportunity to break forth; you ran into the snare
blindly, and scrupled not to commit a crime, which you
blamed in another with unfeeling severity. It was I who
threw Matilda in your way; it was I who gave you entrance


402
THE MONK.
to Antonia's chamber; it was I who caused the dagger to be
given you which pierced your sister's bosom; and it was I
who warned Elvira in dreams of your designs upon her
daughter, and thus, by preventing your profiting by her sleep,
compelled you to add rape, as well as incest, to the catalogue
of your crimes. Hear, hear, Ambrosio! Had you resisted me
one minute longer, you had saved your body and soul. The
guards whom you heard at your prison-door, came to signify
your pardon. But I had already triumphed: my plots had
already succeeded. Scarcely could I propose crimes so quick
as you performed them. You are mine, and Heaven itself
cannot rescue you from my power. Hope not that your peni-
tence will make void our contract. Here is your bond signed
with your blood; you have given up your claim to mercy, and
nothing can restore to you the rights which you have foolishly
resigned. Believe you that your secret thoughts escaped me ?
No, no, I read them all! You trusted that you should still
have time for repentance. I saw your artifice, knew its falsity,
and rejoiced in deceiving the deceiver! You are mine beyond
reprieve: I burn to possess my right, and alive you quit not
these mountains.”
During the demon's speech, Ambrosio had been stupified
by terror and surprise. This last declaration roused him.
“Not quit these mountains alive ?” he exclaimed: “Perfi-
dious, what mean you? Have you forgotten our contract ?”
The fiend answered by a malicious laugh:
“Our contract ? Have I not performed my part? What
more did I promise than to save you from your prison?
Have I not done so ? Are you not safe from the Inquisition ?
safe from all but from me? Fool that you were to confide
yourself to a devil! Why did you not stipulate for life, and
power, and pleasure? Then all would have been granted;
now, your reflections come too late. Miscreant, prepare for
death; you have not many hours to live!"
On hearing this sentence, dreadful were the feelings of the


404
THE MONK.
stream; the waves overflowed their banks; they reached the
spot where Ambrosio lay, and, when they abated, carried
with them into the river the corse of the despairing Monk.
Haughty lady, why shrunk you back when yon poor frail
one drew near ? Was the air infected by her errors ? Was
your purity soiled by her passing breath ? Ah, lady! smooth
that insulting brow: stifle the reproach just bursting from
your scornful lip: wound not a soul, that bleeds already!
She has suffered, suffers still. Her air is gay, but her heart
is broken; her dress sparkles, but her bosom groans.
Lady, to look with mercy on the conduct of others, is a
virtue no less than to look with severity on your own.
END OF THE MONK.





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