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 Assassins of his

Sister, Lorenzo little thought how severely his interest was suffering

in another quarter. As was before mentioned, He returned not to Madrid

till the evening of that day on which Antonia was buried. Signifying to

the Grand Inquisitor the order of the Cardinal-Duke (a ceremony not to

be neglected, when a Member of the Church was to be arrested publicly)

communicating his design to his Uncle and Don Ramirez, and assembling a

troop of Attendants sufficiently 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 Physicians 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 revenged, and himself

given over in the same moment.

Followed by Raymond’s ardent prayers for success, Lorenzo was at the

Gates of St. Clare a full hour before the time appointed by the Mother

St. Ursula. He was accompanied by his Uncle, by Don Ramirez de Mello,

and a party of chosen Archers. Though in considerable numbers their

appearance created no surprize: 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 expected to make exactly at

Midnight.

The Nuns were employed in religious duties established in honour of St.

Clare, and to which no Prophane was ever admitted. The Chapel windows

were illuminated. As they stood on the outside, the Auditors heard the

full swell of the organ, accompanied by a chorus of female voices, rise

upon the stillness of the night. This died away, and was succeeded by a

single strain of harmony: It was the voice of her who was destined to

sustain in the procession the character of St. Clare. For this office

the most beautiful Virgin of Madrid was always selected, and She upon

whom the choice fell esteemed it as the highest of honours. While

listening to the Music, whose melody distance only seemed to render

sweeter, the Audience was wrapped up in profound attention. Universal

silence prevailed through the Crowd, and every heart was filled with

reverence for religion. Every heart but Lorenzo’s. Conscious that among

those who 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 superstition which governed Madrid’s

Inhabitants. His good sense had pointed out to him the artifices of the

Monks, and the gross absurdity of their miracles, wonders, and

supposititious reliques. He blushed to see his Countrymen the Dupes of

deceptions 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 frequently 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 unmask the

Hypocrites, and convince his Countrymen that a sanctified exterior does

not always hide a virtuous heart.

The service lasted, till Midnight was announced by the Convent Bell.

That sound being heard, the Music ceased: The voices died away softly,

and soon after the lights disappeared from the Chapel windows.

Lorenzo’s heart beat high, when He found the execution of his plan to

be at hand. From the natural superstition of the People He had prepared

himself for some resistance. But He trusted that the Mother St. Ursula

would bring good reasons to justify his proceeding. He had force with

him to repel the first impulse of the Populace, till his arguments

should be heard: His only fear was lest the Domina, suspecting his

design, should have spirited away the Nun on whose deposition every

thing depended. Unless the Mother St. Ursula should be present, He

could only accuse the Prioress upon suspicion; and this reflection gave

him some little apprehension for the success of his enterprize. The

tranquillity which seemed to reign through the Convent in some degree

re-assured him: Still He expected the moment eagerly, when the presence

of his Ally should deprive him of the power of doubting.

The Abbey of Capuchins was only separated from the Convent by the

Garden and Cemetery. The Monks had been invited to assist at the

Pilgrimage. They now arrived, marching two by two with lighted Torches

in their hands, and chaunting Hymns in honour of St. Clare. Father

Pablos was at their head, the Abbot having excused himself from

attending. The people made way for the holy Train, and the Friars

placed themselves in ranks on either side of the great Gates. A few

minutes sufficed to arrange the order of the Procession. This being

settled, the Convent doors were thrown open, and again the female

Chorus sounded in full melody. First appeared a Band of Choristers: As

soon as they had passed, the Monks fell in two by two, and followed

with steps slow and measured. Next came the Novices; They bore no

Tapers, as did the Professed, but moved on with eyes bent downwards,

and seemed to be occupied by telling their Beads. To them succeeded a

young and lovely Girl, who represented St. Lucia: She held a golden

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. Catherine, a palm-branch in one hand, a flaming Sword

in the other: She was robed in white, and her brow was ornamented with

a sparkling Diadem. After her appeared St. Genevieve, surrounded by a

number of Imps, who putting themselves into grotesque attitudes,

drawing her by the robe, and sporting round her with antic gestures,

endeavoured to distract her attention from the Book, on which her eyes

were constantly fixed. These merry Devils greatly entertained the

Spectators, who testified their pleasure by repeated bursts of

Laughter. The Prioress had been careful to select a Nun whose

disposition was naturally solemn and saturnine. She had every reason to

be satisfied with her choice: The drolleries of the Imps were entirely

thrown away, and St. Genevieve moved on without discomposing a muscle.

Each of these Saints was separated from the Other by a band of

Choristers, exalting her praise in their Hymns, but declaring her to be

very much inferior to St. Clare, the Convent’s avowed Patroness. These

having passed, a long train of Nuns appeared, bearing like the

Choristers each a burning Taper. Next came the reliques of St. Clare,

inclosed in vases equally precious for their materials and workmanship:

But they attracted not Lorenzo’s attention. The Nun who bore the heart

occupied him entirely. According to Theodore’s description, He doubted

not her being the Mother St. Ursula. She seemed to look round with

anxiety. As He stood foremost in the rank by which the procession past,

her eye caught Lorenzo’s. A flush of joy overspread her till then

pallid cheek. She turned to her Companion eagerly.

“We are safe!” He heard her whisper; “’tis her Brother!”

His heart being now at ease, Lorenzo gazed with tranquillity upon the

remainder of the show. Now appeared its most brilliant ornament. It was

a Machine fashioned like a throne, rich with jewels and dazzling with

light. It rolled onwards upon concealed wheels, and was guided by

several lovely Children, dressed as Seraphs. The summit was covered

with silver clouds, upon which reclined the most beautiful form that

eyes ever witnessed. It was a Damsel representing St. Clare: Her dress

was of inestimable price, and round her head a wreath of Diamonds

formed an artificial glory: But all these ornaments yielded to the

lustre of her charms. As She advanced, a murmur of delight ran through

the Crowd. Even Lorenzo confessed secretly, that He never beheld more

perfect beauty, and had not his heart been Antonia’s, it must have

fallen a sacrifice to this enchanting Girl. As it was, He considered

her only as a fine Statue: She obtained from him no tribute save cold

admiration, and when She had passed him, He thought of her no more.

“Who is She?” asked a By-stander in Lorenzo’s hearing.

“One whose beauty you must often have heard celebrated. Her name is

Virginia de Villa-Franca: She is a Pensioner of St. Clare’s Convent, a

Relation of the Prioress, and has been selected with justice as the

ornament of the Procession.”

The Throne moved onwards. It was followed by the Prioress herself: She

marched at the head of the remaining Nuns with a devout and sanctified

air, and closed the procession. She moved on slowly: Her eyes were

raised to heaven: Her countenance calm and tranquil seemed abstracted

from all sublunary things, and no feature betrayed her secret pride at

displaying the pomp and opulence of her Convent. She passed along,

accompanied by the prayers and benedictions of the Populace: But how

great was the general confusion and surprize, when Don Ramirez starting

forward, challenged her as his Prisoner.

For a moment amazement held the Domina silent and immoveable: But no

sooner did She recover herself, than She exclaimed against sacrilege

and impiety, and called the People to rescue a Daughter of the Church.

They were eagerly preparing to obey her; when Don Ramirez, protected by

the Archers from their rage, commanded them to forbear, and threatened

them with the severest vengeance of the Inquisition. At that dreaded

word every arm fell, every sword shrunk back into its scabbard. The

Prioress herself turned pale, and trembled. The general silence

convinced her that She had nothing to hope but from innocence, and She

besought Don Ramirez in a faultering voice, to inform her of what crime

She was accused.

“That you shall know in time,” replied He; “But first I must secure the

Mother St. Ursula.”

“The Mother St. Ursula?” repeated the Domina faintly.

At this moment casting her eyes round, She saw near her 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 conducted 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 my life for the justice of

my accusation.”

A general cry of surprize was uttered by the whole Audience, and an

explanation was demanded loudly. The trembling Nuns, terrified at the

noise and universal confusion, had dispersed, and fled different ways.

Some regained the Convent; Others sought refuge in the dwellings of

their Relations; and Many, only sensible of their present danger, and

anxious to escape from the tumult, ran through the Streets, and

wandered, they knew not whither. The lovely Virginia was one of the

first to fly: And in order that She might be better seen and heard, the

People desired that St. Ursula should harangue them from the vacant

Throne. The Nun complied; She ascended the glittering Machine, and then

addressed the surrounding multitude as follows.

“However strange and unseemly may appear my conduct, when considered to

be adopted by a Female and a Nun, necessity will justify it most fully.

A secret, an horrible secret weighs heavy upon my soul: No rest can be

mine till I have revealed it to the world, and satisfied that innocent

blood which calls from the Grave for vengeance. Much have I dared to

gain this opportunity of lightening my conscience. Had I failed in my

attempt to reveal the crime, had the Domina but suspected that the

mystery was none 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 dangers 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 Confident, and I loved

her with sincere affection. Nor was I singular in my attachment. Her

piety unfeigned, her willingness to oblige, and her angelic

disposition, rendered her the Darling of all that was estimable in the

Convent. The Prioress herself, proud, scrupulous and forbidding, could

not refuse Agnes that tribute of approbation which She bestowed upon no

one else. Every one has some fault: Alas! Agnes had her weakness! She

violated the laws of our order, and incurred the inveterate hate of the

unforgiving Domina. St. Clare’s rules are severe: But grown antiquated

and neglected, many of late years have either been forgotten, or

changed by universal consent into milder punishments. The penance,

adjudged to the crime of Agnes, was most cruel, most inhuman! The law

had been long exploded: Alas! It still existed, and the revengeful

Prioress now determined to revive it.

This law decreed that the Offender should be plunged into a private

dungeon, expressly constituted to hide from the world 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 remainder of her days, with no

other food than bread and water, and no other comfort than the free

indulgence of her tears.”

The indignation created by this account was so violent, as for some

moments to interrupt St. Ursula’s narrative. When the disturbance

ceased, and silence again prevailed through the Assembly, She continued

her discourse, while at every word the Domina’s countenance betrayed

her increasing terrors.

“A council of the twelve elder nuns was called: I was of the number.

The Prioress in exaggerated colours described the offence of Agnes, and

scrupled not to propose the revival of this almost forgotten law. To

the shame of our sex be it spoken, that either so absolute was the

Domina’s will in the Convent, or so much had disappointment, solitude,

and self-denial hardened their hearts and soured their tempers that

this barbarous proposal was assented to by nine voices out of the

twelve. I was not one of the nine. Frequent opportunities had convinced

me of the virtues of Agnes, and I loved and pitied her most sincerely.

The Mothers Bertha and Cornelia 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 imprisoned and supposed dead, should Agnes be

discovered, her ruin would be inevitable. She therefore gave up her

design, though which 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 bad her take courage, told her

to rely upon the support of her friends, and taught her certain signs,

by which I might instruct her to answer the Domina’s questions by an

assent or negative. Conscious that her Enemy would strive to confuse,

embarrass, and daunt her, I feared her being ensnared into some

confession prejudicial to her interests. Being anxious to keep my visit

secret, I stayed with Agnes but a short time. I bad her not let her

spirits be cast down; I mingled my tears with those which streamed down

her cheek, embraced her fondly, and was on the point of retiring, when

I heard the sound of steps approaching the Cell. I started back. A

Curtain which veiled a large Crucifix offered me a retreat, and I

hastened to place myself behind it. The door opened. The Prioress

entered, followed by four other Nuns. They advanced towards the bed of

Agnes. The Superior reproached her with her errors in the bitterest

terms: She told her that She was a disgrace to the Convent, that She

was resolved to deliver the world and herself from such a Monster, and

commanded her to drink the contents of a Goblet now presented to her by

one of the Nuns. Aware of the fatal properties of the liquor, and

trembling to find herself upon 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

intention, She had to thank the opposition of her Friends. She

continued to insist upon her swallowing the poison: She bad her

recommend herself to the Almighty’s mercy, not to hers, and assured her

that in an hour She would be numbered with the Dead. Perceiving that it

was vain to implore this unfeeling Woman, She attempted to spring from

her bed, and call for assistance: She hoped, if She could not escape

the fate announced to her, at least to have witnesses of the violence

committed. The Prioress guessed her design. She seized her forcibly by

the arm, and pushed her back upon her pillow. At the same time drawing

a dagger, and placing it at the breast of the unfortunate Agnes, She

protested that if She uttered a single cry, or hesitated a single

moment to drink the poison, She would pierce her heart that instant.

Already half-dead with fear, She could make no further resistance. The

Nun approached with the fatal Goblet. The Domina obliged her to take

it, and swallow the contents. She drank, and the horrid deed was

accomplished. The Nuns then seated themselves round the Bed. They

answered her groans with reproaches; They interrupted with sarcasms the

prayers in which She recommended her parting soul to mercy: They

threatened her with heaven’s vengeance and eternal perdition: They bad

her despair of pardon, and strowed with yet sharper thorns Death’s

painful pillow. Such were the sufferings of this young Unfortunate,

till released by fate from the malice of her Tormentors. She expired in

horror of the past, in fears for the future; and her agonies were such

as must have amply gratified the hate and vengeance of her Enemies. As

soon as her Victim ceased to breathe, the Domina retired, and was

followed by her Accomplices.

“It was now that I ventured from my concealment. I dared not to assist

my unhappy Friend, aware that without preserving her, I should only

have brought on myself the same destruction. Shocked and terrified

beyond expression at this horrid scene, scarcely had I sufficient

strength to regain my Cell. As I reached the door of that of Agnes, I

ventured to look towards the bed, on which lay her lifeless body, once

so lovely and so sweet! I breathed a prayer for her departed Spirit,

and vowed to revenge her death by the shame and punishment of her

Assassins. With danger and difficulty have I 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 unhappy Girl’s Relations an

intimation of my secret. It was given out that Agnes had expired

suddenly: This account was credited not only by her Friends in Madrid,

but even by those within the Convent. The poison had left no marks upon

her body: No one suspected the true cause of her death, and it remained

unknown to all, save the Assassins and Myself.

“I have no more to say: for what I have already said, I will answer

with my life. I repeat that the Prioress is a Murderess; that she has

driven from the world, perhaps from heaven, an Unfortunate whose

offence was light and venial; that She has abused the power intrusted

to her hands, and has been a Tyrant, a Barbarian, and an Hypocrite. I

also accuse the four Nuns, Violante, Camilla, Alix, and Mariana, as

being her Accomplices, and equally criminal.”

Here St. Ursula ended her narrative. It created horror and surprize

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 refused to

consent positively. Even Lorenzo bad 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

popular phrenzy 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 insult, loaded her with mud and

filth, and called her by the most opprobrious appellations. They tore

her one from another, 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, spurning her, trampling

her, and treating her with every species of cruelty which hate or

vindictive fury could invent. At length a Flint, aimed by some

well-directing hand, struck her full upon the temple. She sank upon the

ground bathed in blood, and in a few minutes terminated her miserable

existence. Yet though She no longer felt their insults, the Rioters

still exercised their impotent rage upon her lifeless body. They beat

it, trod upon it, and ill-used it, till it became no more than a mass

of flesh, unsightly, shapeless, and disgusting.

Unable to prevent this shocking event, Lorenzo and his Friends had

beheld it with the utmost horror: But they were rouzed 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 resolved 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 Inhabitants from the fury of

the Rioters. Most of the Nuns had fled, but a few still remained in

their habitation. Their situation was truly dangerous. However, as they

had taken the precaution of fastening the inner Gates, with this

assistance Lorenzo hoped to repel the Mob, till Don Ramirez should

return to him with a more sufficient force.

Having been conducted by the former disturbance to the distance of some

Streets from the Convent, He did not immediately reach it: When He

arrived, the throng surrounding it was so excessive as to prevent his

approaching the Gates. In the interim, the Populace besieged the

Building with persevering rage: They battered the walls, threw lighted

torches in at the windows, and swore that by break of day not a Nun of

St. Clare’s order should be left alive. Lorenzo had just succeeded in

piercing his way through the Crowd, when one of the Gates was forced

open. The Rioters poured into the interior part of the Building, where

they exercised their vengeance upon every thing which found itself in

their passage. They broke the furniture into pieces, tore down the

pictures, destroyed the reliques, and in their hatred of her Servant

forgot all respect to the Saint. Some employed themselves in searching

out the Nuns, Others in pulling down parts of 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 conflagration spread

with rapidity from room to room. The Walls were soon shaken by the

devouring element: The Columns gave way: The Roofs came tumbling down

upon the Rioters, and crushed many of them beneath their weight.

Nothing was to be heard but shrieks and groans; The Convent was wrapped

in flames, and the whole presented a scene of devastation and horror.

Lorenzo was shocked at having been the cause, however innocent, of this

frightful disturbance: He endeavoured to repair his fault by protecting

the helpless Inhabitants of the Convent. He entered it with the Mob,

and exerted himself to repress the prevailing Fury, till the sudden and

alarming progress of the flames compelled him to provide for his own

safety. The People now hurried out, as eagerly as they had before

thronged in; But their numbers clogging up the doorway, and the fire

gaining upon them rapidly, many of them perished ere they had time to

effect their escape. Lorenzo’s good fortune directed him to a small

door in a farther Aisle of the Chapel. The bolt was already undrawn: He

opened the door, and found himself at the foot of St. Clare’s

Sepulchre.

Here he stopped to breathe. The Duke and some of his Attendants had

followed him, and thus were in security for the present. They now

consulted, what steps they should take to escape from this scene of

disturbance: But their deliberations were considerably interrupted by

the sight of volumes of fire rising from amidst the Convent’s massy

walls, by the noise of some heavy Arch tumbling down in ruins, or by

the mingled shrieks of the Nuns and Rioters, either suffocating in the

press, perishing in the flames, or crushed beneath the weight of the

falling Mansion.

Lorenzo enquired, whither the Wicket led? He was answered, to the

Garden of the Capuchins, and it was resolved to explore an outlet upon

that side. Accordingly the Duke raised the Latch, and passed into the

adjoining Cemetery. The Attendants followed without ceremony. Lorenzo,

being the last, was also on the point of quitting the Colonnade, when

He saw the door of the Sepulchre opened softly. Someone looked out, but

on perceiving Strangers uttered a loud shriek, started back again, and

flew down the marble Stairs.

“What can this mean?” cried Lorenzo; “Here is some mystery concealed.

Follow me without delay!”

Thus saying, He hastened into the Sepulchre, and pursued the person who

continued to fly before him. The Duke knew not the cause of his

exclamation, but supposing that He had good reasons for it, he 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 sudden turn deprived him of this assistance, total darkness

succeeded, and He could only trace the object of his enquiry by the

faint echo of retiring feet. The Pursuers were now compelled to proceed

with caution: As well as they could judge, the Fugitive also seemed to

slacken pace, for they heard the steps follow each other at longer

intervals. They at length were bewildered by the Labyrinth of passages,

and dispersed in various directions. Carried away by his eagerness to

clear up this mystery, and to penetrate into which He was impelled by a

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 pursuit. He was persuaded that no common cause would have

induced the Fugitive to seek that dreary place at an hour so unusual:

The cry which He had heard, seemed uttered in a voice of terror, and He

was convinced that some mystery was attached to this event. After some

minutes past in hesitation He continued to proceed, feeling his way

along the walls of the passage. He had already past some time in this

slow progress, when He descried a spark of light glimmering at a

distance. Guided by this observation, and having drawn his sword, He

bent his steps towards the place, whence the beam seemed to be emitted.

It proceeded from the Lamp which flamed before St. Clare’s Statue.

Before it stood several Females, their white Garments streaming in the

blast, as it howled along the vaulted dungeons. Curious to know what

had brought them together in this melancholy spot, Lorenzo drew near

with precaution. The Strangers seemed earnestly engaged in

conversation. They heard not Lorenzo’s steps, and He approached

unobserved, till He could hear their voices distinctly.

“I protest,” continued She who was speaking when He arrived, and to

whom the rest were listening with great attention; “I protest, that I

saw them with my own eyes. I flew down the steps; They pursued me, and

I escaped falling into their hands with difficulty. Had it not been for

the Lamp, I should never have found you.”

“And what could bring them hither?” said another in 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 continued to

approach softly.

“The Murderers!” She cried—

She started away from the Statue’s Pedestal on which She had been

seated, and attempted to escape by flight. Her Companions at the same

moment uttered a terrified scream, while Lorenzo arrested the Fugitive

by the arm. Frightened and desperate She sank upon her knees before

him.

“Spare me!” She exclaimed; “For Christ’s sake, spare me! I am innocent,

indeed, I am!”

While She spoke, her voice was almost choaked with fear. The beams of

the Lamp darting full upon her face which was unveiled, Lorenzo

recognized the beautiful Virginia de Villa-Franca. He hastened to raise

her from the ground, and besought her to take courage. He promised to

protect her from the Rioters, assured her that her retreat was still a

secret, and that She might depend upon his readiness to defend her to

the last drop of his blood. During this 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 protection with frantic cries. On perceiving their mistake, they

crowded round Lorenzo and heaped benedictions on him by dozens. He

found that, on hearing the threats of the Mob, and terrified by the

cruelties which from the Convent Towers they had seen inflicted on the

Superior, many of the Pensioners and Nuns had taken refuge in the

Sepulchre. Among the former was to be reckoned the lovely Virginia.

Nearly related to the Prioress, She had more reason than the rest to

dread the Rioters, and now besought Lorenzo earnestly not to abandon

her to their rage. Her Companions, most of whom were Women of noble

family, made the same request, which He readily granted. He promised

not to quit them, till He had seen each of them safe in the arms of her

Relations: But He advised their deferring to quit the Sepulchre for

some time longer, when the popular fury should be somewhat calmed, and

the arrival of military force have dispersed the multitude.

“Would to God!” cried Virginia, “That I were already safe in my

Mother’s embraces! How say you, Segnor; Will it be long, ere we may

leave this place? Every moment that I pass here, I pass in torture!”

“I hope, not long,” said He; “But till you can proceed with security,

this Sepulchre will prove an impenetrable asylum. Here you run no

risque of a discovery, and I would advise your remaining quiet for the

next two or three hours.”

“Two or three hours?” exclaimed Sister Helena; “If I stay another hour

in these vaults, I shall expire with fear! Not the wealth of worlds

should bribe me to undergo again what I have suffered since my coming

hither. Blessed Virgin! To be in this melancholy place in the middle of

night, surrounded by the mouldering bodies of my deceased Companions,

and expecting every moment to be torn in pieces by their Ghosts who

wander about me, and complain, and groan, and wail in accents that make

my blood run cold, ..... Christ Jesus! It is enough to drive me to

madness!”

“Excuse me,” replied Lorenzo, “if I am surprized that while menaced by

real woes you are capable of yielding to imaginary dangers. These

terrors are puerile and groundless: Combat them, holy Sister; I have

promised to guard you from the Rioters, but against the attacks of

superstition you must depend for protection upon yourself. The idea of

Ghosts is ridiculous in the extreme; And if you continue to be swayed

by ideal terrors ...”

“Ideal?” exclaimed the Nuns with one voice; “Why we heard it ourselves,

Segnor! 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 address the Nuns, and ridicule their childish

apprehensions, when his attention was arrested by a deep and long-drawn

groan.

“What was that?” He cried, and started.

“There, Segnor!” said Helena; “Now you must be convinced! You have

heard the noise yourself! Now judge, whether our terrors are imaginary.

Since we have been here, that groaning has been repeated almost every

five minutes. Doubtless, it proceeds from some Soul in pain, who wishes

to be prayed out of purgatory: But none of us here dares ask it the

question. As for me, were I to see an Apparition, the fright, I am very

certain, would kill me out of hand.”

As She said this, a second groan was heard yet more distinctly. The

Nuns crossed themselves, and hastened to repeat their prayers against

evil Spirits. Lorenzo listened attentively. He even thought that He

could distinguish sounds, as of one speaking in complaint; But distance

rendered them inarticulate. The noise seemed to come from the midst of

the small Vault in which He and the Nuns then were, and which a

multitude of passages branching out in various directions, formed into

a sort of Star. Lorenzo’s curiosity which was ever awake, made him

anxious to solve this mystery. He desired that silence might be kept.

The Nuns obeyed him. All was hushed, till the general stillness was

again disturbed by the groaning, which was repeated several times

successively. He perceived it to be most audible, when upon following

the sound He was conducted close to the shrine of St. Clare:

“The noise comes from hence,” said He; “Whose is this Statue?”

Helena, to whom He addressed the question, paused for a moment.

Suddenly She clapped her hands together.

“Aye!” cried she, “it must be so. I have discovered the meaning of

these groans.”

The nuns crowded round her, and besought her eagerly to explain

herself. She gravely replied that for time immemorial the Statue had

been famous for performing miracles: From this She inferred that the

Saint was concerned at the conflagration of a Convent which She

protected, and expressed her grief by audible lamentations. Not having

equal faith in the miraculous Saint, Lorenzo did not think this

solution of the mystery quite so 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 was He confirmed in this idea. He drew nearer to the

Image, designing to inspect it more closely: But perceiving his

intention, the Nuns besought him for God’s sake to desist, since if He

touched the Statue, his death was inevitable.

“And in what consists the danger?” said He.

“Mother of God! In what?” replied Helena, ever eager to relate a

miraculous adventure; “If you had only heard the hundredth part of

those marvellous Stories about this Statue which the Domina used to

recount! She assured us often and often, that if we only dared to lay a

finger upon it, we might expect the most fatal consequences. Among

other things She told us that a Robber having entered these Vaults by

night, He observed yonder Ruby, whose value is inestimable. Do you see

it, Segnor? It sparkles upon the third finger of the hand, in which She

holds a crown of Thorns. This Jewel naturally excited the Villain’s

cupidity. He resolved to make himself Master of it. For this purpose He

ascended the Pedestal: He supported himself by grasping the Saint’s

right arm, and extended his own towards the Ring. What was his

surprize, when He saw the Statue’s hand raised in a posture of menace,

and heard her lips pronounce his eternal perdition! Penetrated with awe

and consternation, He desisted from his attempt, and prepared to quit

the Sepulchre. In this He also failed. Flight was denied him. He found

it impossible to disengage the hand, which rested upon the right arm of

the Statue. In vain did He struggle: He remained fixed to the Image,

till the insupportable and fiery anguish which darted itself through

his veins, compelled his shrieking for assistance.

The Sepulchre was now filled with Spectators. The Villain confessed his

sacrilege, and was only released by the separation of his hand from his

body. It has remained ever since fastened to the Image. The Robber

turned Hermit, and led ever after an exemplary life: But 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

foolhardy, good Segnor! For the love of heaven, give up your design,

nor expose yourself unnecessarily to certain destruction.”

Not being convinced that his destruction would be so certain as Helena

seemed to think it, Lorenzo persisted in his resolution. The Nuns

besought him to desist in piteous terms, and even pointed out the

Robber’s hand, which in effect was still visible upon the arm of the

Statue. This proof, as they imagined, must convince him. It was very

far from doing so; and they were greatly scandalized when he declared

his suspicion that the dried and shrivelled fingers had been placed

there by order of the Prioress. In spite of their prayers and threats

He approached the Statue. He sprang over the iron Rails which defended

it, and the Saint underwent a thorough examination. The Image at first

appeared to be of Stone, but proved on further inspection to be formed

of no more solid materials than coloured Wood. He shook it, and

attempted to move it; But it appeared to be of a piece with the Base

which it stood upon. He examined it over and over: Still no clue guided

him to the solution of this mystery, for which the Nuns were become

equally solicitous, when they saw that He touched the Statue with

impunity. He paused, and listened: The groans were repeated at

intervals, and He was convinced of being in the spot nearest to them.

He mused upon this singular event, and ran over the Statue with

enquiring eyes. Suddenly they rested upon the shrivelled hand. It

struck him, that so particular an injunction was not given without

cause, not to touch the arm of the Image. He again ascended the

Pedestal; He examined the object of his attention, and discovered a

small knob of iron concealed between the Saint’s shoulder and what was

supposed to have been the hand of the Robber. This observation

delighted him. He applied his fingers to the knob, and pressed it down

forcibly. Immediately a rumbling noise was heard within the Statue, as

if a chain tightly stretched was flying back. Startled at the sound the

timid Nuns started away, prepared to hasten from the Vault at the first

appearance of danger. All remaining quiet and still, they again

gathered round Lorenzo, and beheld his proceedings with anxious

curiosity.

Finding that nothing followed this discovery, He descended. As He took

his hand from the Saint, She trembled beneath his touch. This created

new terrors in the Spectators, who believed the Statue to be animated.

Lorenzo’s ideas upon the subject were widely different. He easily

comprehended that the noise which He had heard, was occasioned by his

having loosened a chain which attached the Image to its Pedestal. He

once more attempted to move it, and succeeded without much exertion. He

placed it upon the ground, and then perceived the Pedestal to be

hollow, and covered at the opening with 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 utmost of their strength. The

attempt was accomplished with little difficulty. A deep abyss now

presented itself before them, whose thick obscurity the eye strove in

vain to pierce. The rays of the Lamp were too feeble to be of much

assistance. Nothing was discernible, save a flight of rough unshapen

steps which sank into the yawning Gulph and were soon lost in darkness.

The groans were heard no more; But All believed them to have ascended

from this Cavern. As He bent over it, Lorenzo fancied that He

distinguished something bright twinkling through the gloom. He gazed

attentively upon the spot where it showed itself, and was convinced

that He saw a small spark of light, now visible, now disappearing. He

communicated this circumstance to the Nuns: They also perceived the

spark; But when He declared his intention to descend into the Cave,

they united to oppose his resolution. All their remonstrances could not

prevail on him to alter it. None of them had courage enough to

accompany him; neither could He think of depriving them of the Lamp.

Alone therefore, and in darkness, He prepared to pursue his design,

while the Nuns were contented to offer up prayers for his success and

safety.

The steps were so narrow and uneven, that to descend them was like

walking down the side of a precipice. The obscurity by which He was

surrounded rendered his footing insecure. He was obliged to proceed

with great caution, lest He should miss the steps and fall into the

Gulph below him. This He was several times on the point of doing.

However, He arrived sooner upon solid ground than He had expected: He

now found that the thick darkness and impenetrable mists which reigned

through the Cavern had deceived him into the belief of its being much

more 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 before 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 irresolute to which side He should address

his steps. At all events He determined to proceed: He did so, but

slowly, fearing lest instead of approaching, He should be retiring from

the object of his search. The groans seemed to announce one in pain, or

at least in sorrow, and He hoped to have the power of relieving the

Mourner’s calamities. A plaintive tone, sounding at no great distance,

at length reached his hearing; He bent his course joyfully towards it.

It became more audible as He advanced; and He soon beheld again the

spark of light, which a low projecting Wall had hitherto concealed from

him.

It proceeded from a small lamp which was placed upon an heap of stones,

and whose faint and melancholy rays served rather to point out, than

dispell the horrors of a narrow gloomy dungeon formed in one side of

the Cavern; It also showed several other recesses of similar

construction, but whose depth was buried in obscurity. Coldly played

the light upon the damp walls, whose dew-stained surface gave back a

feeble reflection. A thick and pestilential fog clouded the height of

the vaulted dungeon. As Lorenzo advanced, He felt a piercing chillness

spread itself through his veins. The frequent groans still engaged him

to move forwards. He turned towards them, and by the Lamp’s glimmering

beams beheld in a corner of this loathsome abode, a Creature stretched

upon a bed of straw, so wretched, so emaciated, so pale, that He

doubted to think her Woman. She was half-naked: Her long dishevelled

hair fell in disorder over her face, and almost entirely concealed 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

Lorenzo, and She observed him not.

“No one comes!” She at length murmured.

As She spoke, her voice was hollow, and rattled in her throat: She

sighed bitterly.

“No one comes!” She repeated; “No! They have forgotten me! They will

come no more!”

She paused for a moment: Then continued mournfully.

“Two days! Two long, long days, and yet no food! And yet no hope, no

comfort! Foolish Woman! How can I wish to lengthen a life so wretched!

Yet such a death! 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 shuddered with disgust.

“It was once so sweet! It would have been so lovely, so like him! I

have lost it for ever! How a few days have changed it! I should not

know it again myself! Yet it is dear to me! God! how dear! I will

forget what it is: I will only remember what it was, and love it as

well, as when it was so sweet! so lovely! so like him! I thought that I

had wept away all my tears, but here is one still lingering.”

She wiped her eyes with a tress of her hair. She put out her hand for

the Pitcher, and reached it with difficulty. She cast into it a look of

hopeless enquiry. She sighed, and replaced it upon the ground.

“Quite a void! Not a drop! Not one drop left to cool my scorched-up

burning palate! Now would I give treasures for a draught of water! And

they are God’s Servants, who make me suffer thus! They think themselves

holy, while they torture me like Fiends! They are cruel and unfeeling;

And ’tis they who bid me repent; And ’tis they, who threaten me with

eternal perdition! Saviour, Saviour! You think not so!”

She again fixed her eyes upon the Crucifix, took her Rosary, and while

She told her beads, the quick motion of her lips declared her to be

praying with fervency.

While He listened to her melancholy accents, Lorenzo’s sensibility

became yet more violently affected. The first sight of such misery had

given a sensible shock to his feelings: But that being past, He now

advanced towards the Captive. She heard his steps, and uttering a cry

of 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 pity’s sake! I am faint with

long fasting, and grown so weak that I cannot raise myself from the

ground. Good Camilla, give me to drink, lest I expire before you!”

Fearing that surprize 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 earnestly.

“Great God! It is no illusion! A Man! Speak! Who are you? What brings

you hither? Come you to save me, to restore me to liberty, to life and

light? Oh! speak, speak quickly, lest I encourage an hope whose

disappointment will destroy me.”

“Be calm!” replied Lorenzo in a voice soothing and compassionate; “The

Domina of whose cruelty you complain, has already paid the forfeit of

her offences: You have nothing more to fear from her.

A few minutes will restore you to liberty, and the embraces of your

Friends from whom you have been secluded. You may rely upon my

protection. Give me your hand, and be not fearful. Let me conduct you

where you may receive those attentions which your feeble state

requires.”

“Oh! Yes! Yes! Yes!” cried the Prisoner with an exulting shriek; “There

is a God then, and a just one! Joy! Joy! I shall once more breath the

fresh air, and view the light of the glorious sunbeams! I will go with

you! Stranger, I will go with you! Oh! Heaven will bless you for

pitying an Unfortunate! But this too must go with me,” She added

pointing to the small bundle which She still clasped to her bosom; “I

cannot part with this. I will bear it away: It shall convince the world

how dreadful are the abodes so falsely termed religious. Good Stranger,

lend me your hand to rise: I am faint with want, and sorrow, and

sickness, and my forces have 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 surprized 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 fixing her to

the neighbouring Wall. However, his natural strength being aided by

anxiety to relieve the Unfortunate, He soon forced out the Staple to

which one end of the Chain was attached. Then taking the Captive in his

arms, He bent his course towards the Staircase. The rays of the Lamp

above, as well as the murmur of female voices, guided his steps. He

gained the Stairs, and in a few minutes after arrived at the

iron-grate.

The nuns during his absence had been terribly tormented by curiosity

and apprehension: They were equally surprized and delighted on seeing

him suddenly emerge from the Cave. Every heart was filled with

compassion for the miserable Creature whom He bore in his arms. While

the Nuns, and Virginia in particular, employed themselves in striving

to recall her to her senses, Lorenzo related in few words the manner of

his finding her. He then observed to them that by this time the tumult

must have been quelled, and that He could now conduct them to their

Friends without danger. All were eager to quit the Sepulchre: Still to

prevent all possibility of ill-usage, they besought Lorenzo to venture

out first alone, and examine whether the Coast was clear. With this

request He complied. Helena offered to conduct him to the Staircase,

and they were on the point of departing, when a strong light flashed

from several passages upon the adjacent walls. At the same time Steps

were heard of people approaching hastily, and whose number seemed to be

considerable. The Nuns were greatly alarmed at this circumstance: They

supposed their retreat to be discovered, and the Rioters to be

advancing in pursuit of them. Hastily quitting the Prisoner who

remained insensible, they crowded round Lorenzo, and claimed his

promise to protect them. Virginia alone forgot her own danger by

striving to relieve the sorrows of Another. She supported the

Sufferer’s head upon her knees, bathing her temples with rose-water,

chafing 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 Suppliants. 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 his idea. Don Ramirez, as

well as the Duke, appeared, followed by Attendants with Torches. They

had been seeking him through the Vaults, in order to let him know that

the Mob was dispersed, and the riot entirely over. Lorenzo recounted

briefly his adventure in the Cavern, and explained how much the Unknown

was in want of medical assistance. He besought the Duke to take charge

of her, as well as of the Nuns and Pensioners.

“As for me,” said He, “Other cares demand my attention. While you with

one half of the Archers convey these Ladies to their respective homes,

I wish the other half to be left with me. I will examine the Cavern

below, and pervade the most secret recesses of the Sepulchre. I cannot

rest till convinced that yonder wretched Victim was the only one

confined by Superstition in these vaults.”

The Duke applauded his intention. Don Ramirez offered to assist him in

his enquiry, and his proposal was accepted with gratitude.

The Nuns having made their acknowledgments to Lorenzo, committed

themselves to the care of his Uncle, and were conducted from the

Sepulchre. Virginia requested that the Unknown might be given to her in

charge, and promised to let Lorenzo know whenever She was sufficiently

recovered to accept his visits. In truth, She made this promise more

from consideration for herself than for either Lorenzo or the Captive.

She had witnessed his politeness, gentleness, and intrepidity with

sensible emotion. She wished earnestly to preserve his acquaintance;

and in addition to the sentiments 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 occupied in alleviating the Captive’s

sorrows, the nature of her employment adorned her with new charms, and

rendered her beauty a thousand times more interesting. Lorenzo viewed

her with admiration and delight: He considered her as a ministering

Angel descended to the aid of afflicted innocence; nor could his heart

have resisted her attractions, had it not been steeled by the

remembrance of Antonia.

The duke now conveyed the nuns in safety to the dwellings of their

respective friends. The rescued Prisoner was still insensible and gave

no signs of life, except by occasional groans. She was borne upon a

sort of litter; Virginia, who was constantly by the side of it, was

apprehensive that exhausted by long abstinence, and shaken by the

sudden change from bonds and darkness to liberty and light, her frame

would never get the better of the shock. Lorenzo and Don Ramirez still

remained in the Sepulchre. After deliberating upon their proceedings,

it was resolved that to prevent losing time, the Archers should be

divided into two Bodies: That with one Don Ramirez should examine the

cavern, while Lorenzo with the other might penetrate into the further

Vaults. This being arranged, and his Followers being provided with

Torches, Don Ramirez advanced to the Cavern. He had already descended

some steps when He heard People approaching hastily from the interior

part of the Sepulchre. This surprized him, and He quitted the Cave

precipitately.

“Do you hear footsteps?” said Lorenzo; “Let us bend our course towards

them. ’Tis from this side that they seem to proceed.”

At that moment a loud and piercing shriek induced him to quicken his

steps.

“Help! Help, for God’s sake! cried a voice, whose melodious tone

penetrated Lorenzo’s heart with terror.

He flew towards the cry with the rapidity of lightning, and was

followed by Don Ramirez with equal swiftness.