CHAPTER XI.

Great Heaven! How frail thy creature Man is made!

How by himself insensibly betrayed!

In our own strength unhappily secure,

Too little cautious of the adverse power,

On pleasure’s flowery brink we idly stray,

Masters as yet of our returning way:

Till the strong gusts of raging passion rise,

Till the dire Tempest mingles earth and skies,

And swift into the boundless Ocean borne,

Our foolish confidence too late we mourn:

Round our devoted heads the billows beat,

And from our troubled view the lessening lands retreat.

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 in his disposal. Matilda, who was well

acquainted with the nature and effects of the soporific medicine, had

computed that it would not cease to operate till one in the Morning.

For that hour He waited with impatience. The Festival of St. Clare

presented him with a favourable opportunity of consummating his crime.

He was certain that the Friars and Nuns would be engaged in the

Procession, and that He had no cause to dread an interruption: From

appearing himself at the head of his Monks, He had desired to be

excused. He doubted not, that being beyond the reach of help, cut off

from all the world, and totally in his power, Antonia would comply with

his desires. The affection which She had ever exprest for him,

warranted this persuasion: But He resolved that should She prove

obstinate, no consideration whatever should prevent him from enjoying

her. Secure from a discovery, He shuddered not at the idea of employing

force: 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 by himself, and at

liberty to pursue his own inclinations. Convinced that no one remained

behind to watch his motions, or disturb his pleasures, He now hastened

to the Western Aisles. His heart beating with hope not 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

melancholy shriek of the screech-Owl: The wind rattled loudly against

the windows of the adjacent Convent, and as the current 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

humble Tomb in which Antonia reposed. He had provided himself with an

iron crow and a pick-axe; But this precaution was unnecessary. The

Grate was slightly fastened on the outside: He raised it, and placing

the Lamp upon its ridge, bent silently over the Tomb. By the side of

three putrid half-corrupted Bodies lay the sleeping Beauty. A lively

red, the forerunner of returning animation, had already spread itself

over her cheek; and as wrapped in her shroud She reclined upon her

funeral Bier, She seemed to smile at the Images of Death around her.

While He gazed upon their rotting bones and disgusting figures, who

perhaps were once as sweet and lovely, Ambrosio thought upon Elvira, by

him reduced to the same state. As the memory of that horrid act glanced

upon his mind, it was clouded with a gloomy horror. Yet it served but

to strengthen his resolution to destroy Antonia’s honour.

“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 unequalled 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 restrain himself from enjoying her while yet

insensible. His natural lust was increased in ardour by the

difficulties which had opposed his satisfying it: As also by his long

abstinence from Woman, since from the moment of resigning her claim to

his love, Matilda had exiled him from her arms for ever.

“I am no Prostitute, Ambrosio;” Had She told him, when in the 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 complying with desires, which insult me. While

your heart was mine, I gloried in your embraces: Those happy times are

past: My person is become indifferent to you, and ’tis necessity, not

love, which makes you seek my enjoyment. I cannot yield to a request so

humiliating to my pride.”

Suddenly deprived of pleasures, the use of which had made them an

absolute want, the Monk felt this restraint severely. Naturally

addicted to the gratification of the senses, in the full vigour of

manhood, and heat of blood, He had suffered his temperament to acquire

such 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 opprest

and bewildered by the effects of the strong opiate, She closed them

again immediately. Ambrosio watched her narrowly, nor permitted a

movement to escape him. Perceiving that She was fully restored to

existence, He caught her in rapture to his bosom, and closely pressed

his lips to hers. The suddenness of his action sufficed to dissipate

the fumes which obscured Antonia’s reason. She hastily raised herself,

and cast a wild look round her. The strange Images which presented

themselves on every side 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 upon 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 dreadful dream told me

...... But where am I? Let me go! I cannot stay here!”

She attempted to rise, but the Monk prevented her.

“Be calm, lovely Antonia!” He replied; “No danger is near you: Confide

in my protection. Why do you gaze on me so earnestly? Do you not know

me? Not know your Friend? Ambrosio?”

“Ambrosio? My Friend? Oh! yes, yes; I remember ...... But why am I

here? Who has brought me? Why are you with me? Oh! Flora bad me beware

.....! Here are nothing but Graves, and Tombs, and Skeletons! This

place frightens me! Good Ambrosio take me away from it, for it recalls

my fearful dream! Methought I was dead, and laid in my grave! Good

Ambrosio, take me from hence. Will you not? Oh! will you not? Do not

look on me thus!

Your flaming eyes terrify me! Spare me, Father! Oh! spare me for God’s

sake!”

“Why these terrors, Antonia?” rejoined the Abbot, folding her in his

arms, and covering her bosom with kisses which She in vain struggled to

avoid: “What fear you from me, from one who adores you? What matters it

where you are? This Sepulchre seems to me Love’s bower; This gloom is

the friendly night of mystery which He spreads over our delights! Such

do I think it, and such must my Antonia. Yes, my sweet Girl! Yes! Your

veins shall glow with fire which circles in mine, and my transports

shall be doubled by your sharing them!”

While He spoke thus, He repeated his embraces, and permitted himself

the most indecent liberties. Even Antonia’s ignorance was not proof

against the freedom of his behaviour. She was sensible of her danger,

forced herself from his arms, and her shroud being her only garment,

She wrapped it closely round her.

“Unhand me, Father!” She cried, her honest indignation tempered by

alarm at her unprotected position; “Why have you brought me to this

place? Its appearance freezes me with horror! Convey me from hence, if

you have the least sense of pity and humanity! Let me return to the

House which I have quitted I know not how; But stay here one moment

longer, I neither will, or 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

surprize. He caught her hand, forced her upon his knee, and gazing upon

her with gloting eyes, He thus replied to her.

“Compose yourself, Antonia. Resistance is unavailing, and I need

disavow my passion for you no longer. You are imagined dead: Society is

for ever lost to you. I possess you here alone; You are absolutely in

my power, and I burn with desires which I must either gratify or die:

But I would owe my happiness to yourself. My lovely Girl! My adorable

Antonia! Let me instruct you 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 repell his caresses, and endeavour to escape from his grasp; “No

aid is near: Neither heaven or earth shall save you from my embraces.

Yet why reject pleasures so sweet, so rapturous? No one observes us:

Our loves will be a secret to all the world: Love and opportunity

invite your giving loose to your passions. Yield to them, my Antonia!

Yield to them, my lovely Girl! Throw your arms thus fondly round me;

Join your lips thus closely to mine! Amidst all her gifts, has Nature

denied her most precious, the sensibility of Pleasure? Oh! impossible!

Every feature, look, and motion declares you formed to bless, and to be

blessed yourself! Turn not on me those supplicating eyes: Consult your

own charms; They will tell you that I am proof against entreaty. Can I

relinquish these limbs so white, so soft, so delicate; These swelling

breasts, round, full, and elastic! These lips fraught with such

inexhaustible sweetness? Can I relinquish these treasures, and leave

them to another’s enjoyment? No, Antonia; never, never! I swear it by

this kiss, and this! and this!”

With every moment the Friar’s passion became more ardent, and Antonia’s

terror more intense. She struggled to disengage herself from his arms:

Her exertions were unsuccessful; and finding that Ambrosio’s conduct

became still freer, She shrieked for assistance with all her strength.

The aspect of the Vault, the pale glimmering of the Lamp, the

surrounding obscurity, the sight of the Tomb, and the objects of

mortality which met her eyes on either side, were ill-calculated to

inspire her with those emotions by which the Friar was agitated. Even

his caresses terrified her from their fury, and created no other

sentiment than fear. On the contrary, her alarm, her evident disgust,

and incessant opposition, seemed only to inflame the Monk’s desires,

and supply his brutality with additional strength. Antonia’s shrieks

were unheard: Yet She continued them, nor abandoned her endeavours to

escape, till exhausted and out of breath She sank from his arms upon

her knees, and once more had recourse to prayers and supplications.

This attempt had no better success than the former. On the contrary,

taking advantage of her situation, the Ravisher threw himself by her

side: He clasped her to his bosom almost lifeless with terror, and

faint with struggling. He stifled her cries with kisses, treated her

with the rudeness of an unprincipled Barbarian, proceeded from freedom

to freedom, and in the violence of his lustful delirium, wounded and

bruised her tender limbs. Heedless of her tears, cries and entreaties,

He gradually made himself Master of her person, and desisted not from

his prey, till He had accomplished his crime and the dishonour of

Antonia.

Scarcely had He succeeded in his design than He shuddered at himself

and the means by which it was effected. The very excess of his former

eagerness to possess Antonia now contributed to inspire him with

disgust; and a secret impulse made him feel how base and unmanly was

the crime which He had just committed. He started hastily from her

arms. She, who so lately had been the object of his adoration, now

raised no other sentiment in his heart than aversion and rage. He

turned away from her; or if his eyes rested upon her figure

involuntarily, it was only to dart upon her looks of hate. The

Unfortunate had fainted ere the completion of her disgrace: She only

recovered life to be sensible of her misfortune. She remained stretched

upon the earth in silent despair: The tears chased each other slowly

down her cheeks, and her bosom heaved with frequent sobs. Oppressed

with grief, She continued for some time in this state of torpidity. At

length She rose with difficulty, and dragging her feeble steps towards

the door, prepared to quit the dungeon.

The sound of her footsteps rouzed the Monk from his sullen apathy.

Starting from the Tomb against which He reclined, 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?” 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

compleated? 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 an Hypocrite, a

Ravisher, a Betrayer, a Monster of cruelty, lust, and ingratitude? No,

no, no! I know well the whole weight of my offences; Well that your

complaints would be too just, and my crimes too notorious! You shall

not from hence to tell Madrid that I am a Villain; that my conscience

is loaded with sins which make me despair of Heaven’s pardon. Wretched

Girl, you must stay here with me! Here amidst these lonely Tombs, these

images of Death, these rotting loathsome corrupted bodies! Here shall

you stay, and witness my sufferings; witness what it is to die in the

horrors of despondency, and breathe the last groan in blasphemy and

curses! And who am I to thank for this? What seduced me into crimes,

whose bare remembrance makes me shudder? Fatal Witch! was it not thy

beauty? Have you not plunged my soul into infamy? Have you not made me

a perjured Hypocrite, a Ravisher, an Assassin! Nay, at this moment,

does not that angel look bid me despair of God’s forgiveness? Oh! when

I stand before his judgment-throne, that look will suffice to damn me!

You will tell my Judge that you were happy, till _I_ saw you; that you

were innocent, till _I_ polluted you! You will come with those tearful

eyes, those cheeks pale and ghastly, those hands lifted in

supplication, as when you sought from me that mercy which I gave not!

Then will my perdition be certain! Then will come your Mother’s Ghost,

and hurl me down into the dwellings of Fiends, and flames, and Furies,

and everlasting torments! And ’tis you, who will accuse me! ’Tis you,

who will cause my eternal anguish! You, wretched Girl! You! You!”

As He thundered out these words, He violently grasped Antonia’s arm,

and spurned the earth with delirious fury.

Supposing his brain to be turned, Antonia sank in terror upon her

knees: She lifted up her hands, and her voice almost died away, ere She

could give it utterance.

“Spare me! Spare me!” She murmured with difficulty.

“Silence!” cried the Friar madly, and dashed her upon the ground——

He quitted her, and paced the dungeon with a wild and disordered air.

His eyes rolled fearfully: Antonia trembled whenever She met their

gaze. He seemed to meditate on something horrible, and She gave up all

hopes of escaping from the Sepulchre with life. Yet in harbouring this

idea, She did him injustice. Amidst the horror and disgust to which his

soul was a prey, pity for his Victim still held a place in it. The

storm of passion once over, He would have given worlds had He possest

them, to have restored to her that innocence of which his unbridled

lust had deprived her. Of the desires which had urged him to the crime,

no trace was left in his bosom: The wealth of India would not have

tempted him to a second enjoyment of her person. His nature seemed to

revolt at the very idea, and fain would He have wiped from his memory

the scene which had just past. As his gloomy rage abated, in proportion

did his compassion augment for Antonia. He stopped, and would have

spoken to her words of comfort; But He knew not from whence to draw

them, and remained gazing upon her with mournful wildness. Her

situation seemed so hopeless, so woebegone, as to baffle mortal power

to relieve her. What could He do for her? Her peace of mind was lost,

her honour irreparably ruined. She was cut off for ever from society,

nor dared He give her back to it. He was conscious that were She to

appear in the world again, his guilt would be revealed, and his

punishment inevitable. To one so laden with crimes, Death came armed

with double terrors. Yet should He restore Antonia to light, and stand

the chance of her betraying him, how miserable a prospect would present

itself before her. She could never hope to be creditably established;

She would be marked with infamy, and condemned to sorrow and solitude

for the remainder of her existence. What was the alternative? A

resolution far more terrible for Antonia, but which at least would

insure the Abbot’s safety. He determined to leave the world persuaded

of her death, and to retain her a captive in this gloomy prison: There

He proposed to visit her every night, to bring her food, to profess his

penitence, and mingle his tears with hers. The Monk felt that this

resolution was unjust and cruel; but it was his only means to prevent

Antonia from publishing his guilt and her own infamy. Should He release

her, He could not depend upon her silence: His offence was too flagrant

to permit his hoping for her forgiveness. Besides, her reappearing

would excite universal curiosity, and the violence of her affliction

would prevent her from concealing its cause. He determined therefore,

that Antonia should remain a Prisoner in the dungeon.

He approached her with confusion painted on his countenance. He raised

her from the ground. Her hand trembled, as He took it, and He dropped

it again as if He had touched a Serpent. Nature seemed to recoil at the

touch. He felt himself at once repulsed from and attracted towards her,

yet could account for neither sentiment. There was something in her

look which penetrated him with horror; and though his understanding was

still ignorant of it, Conscience pointed out to him the whole extent of

his crime. In hurried accents yet the gentlest He could find, while his

eye was averted, and his voice scarcely audible, He strove to console

her under a misfortune which now could not be avoided. He declared

himself sincerely penitent, and that He would gladly shed a drop of his

blood, for every tear which his barbarity had forced from her. Wretched

and hopeless, Antonia listened to him in silent grief: But when He

announced her confinement in the Sepulchre, that dreadful doom to which

even death seemed preferable roused her from her insensibility at once.

To linger out a life of misery in a narrow loathsome Cell, known to

exist by no human Being save her Ravisher, surrounded by mouldering

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 promised, would He but

restore her to liberty, to conceal her injuries from the world; to

assign any reason for her reappearance which He might judge proper; and

in order to prevent the least suspicion from falling upon him, She

offered to quit Madrid immediately. Her entreaties were so urgent as to

make a considerable impression upon the Monk. He reflected that as her

person no longer excited his desires, He had no interest in keeping her

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 surprize her secret. However well-founded were

these apprehensions, compassion, and a sincere wish to repair his fault

as much as possible solicited his complying with the prayers of his

Suppliant. The difficulty of colouring Antonia’s unexpected return to

life, after her supposed death and public interment, was the only point

which kept him irresolute. He was still pondering on the means of

removing this obstacle, when He heard the sound of feet approaching

with precipitation. The door of the Vault was thrown open, and Matilda

rushed in, evidently much confused and terrified.

On seeing a Stranger enter, Antonia uttered a cry of joy: But her hopes

of receiving succour from him were soon dissipated. The supposed

Novice, without expressing the least surprize at finding a Woman alone

with the Monk, in so strange a place, and at so late an hour, addressed

him thus without losing a moment.

“What is to be done, Ambrosio? We are lost, unless some speedy means is

found of dispelling the Rioters. Ambrosio, the Convent of St. Clare is

on fire; The Prioress has fallen a victim to the fury of the Mob.

Already is the Abbey menaced with a similar fate. Alarmed at the

threats of the People, the Monks seek for you everywhere. They imagine

that your authority alone will suffice to calm this disturbance. No one

knows what is become of you, and your absence creates universal

astonishment and despair. I profited by the confusion, and fled hither

to warn you of the danger.”

“This will soon be remedied,” answered the Abbot; “I will hasten back

to my Cell: a trivial reason will account for my having been missed.”

“Impossible!” rejoined Matilda: “The Sepulchre is filled with Archers.

Lorenzo de Medina, with several Officers of the Inquisition, searches

through the Vaults, and pervades every passage. You will be intercepted

in your flight; Your reasons for being at this late hour in the

Sepulchre will be examined; Antonia will be found, and then you are

undone for ever!”

“Lorenzo de Medina? Officers of the Inquisition? What brings them here?

Seek they for me? Am I then suspected? Oh! speak, Matilda! Answer me,

in pity!”

“As yet they do not think of you, but I fear that they will ere long.

Your only chance of escaping their notice rests upon the difficulty of

exploring this Vault. The door is artfully hidden:

Haply it may not be observed, and we may remain concealed till the

search is over.”

“But Antonia ..... Should the Inquisitors draw near, and her cries be

heard ....”

“Thus I remove that danger!” interrupted Matilda.

At the same time drawing a poignard, 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 consels! 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 majesty which

impressed the Monk with awe. “After robbing her of all that made it

dear, can you fear to deprive her of a life so miserable? But ’tis

well! Let her live to convince you of your folly. I abandon you to your

evil destiny! I disclaim your alliance! Who trembles to commit so

insignificant a crime, deserves not my protection. Hark! Hark!

Ambrosio; Hear you not the Archers? They come, and your destruction is

inevitable!”

At this moment the Abbot heard the sound of distant voices. He flew to

close the door on whose concealment his safety depended, and which

Matilda had neglected to fasten. Ere He could reach it, He saw Antonia

glide suddenly by him, rush through the door, and fly towards the noise

with the swiftness of an arrow. She had listened attentively to

Matilda: She heard Lorenzo’s name mentioned, and resolved to risque

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 surprize, 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 hand 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 in the bosom of Antonia! She shrieked, and sank upon the ground.

The Monk endeavoured to bear her away with him, but She still embraced

the Pillar firmly. At that instant the light of approaching Torches

flashed upon the Walls. Dreading a discovery, Ambrosio was compelled to

abandon his Victim, and hastily fled back to the Vault, where He had

left Matilda.

He fled not unobserved. Don Ramirez happening to arrive the first,

perceived a Female bleeding upon the ground, and a Man flying from the

spot, whose confusion betrayed him for the Murderer. He instantly

pursued the Fugitive with some part of the Archers, while the Others

remained with Lorenzo to protect the wounded Stranger. They raised her,

and supported her in their arms. She had fainted from excess of pain,

but soon gave signs of returning life. She opened her eyes, and on

lifting up her head, the quantity of fair hair fell back which till

then had obscured her features.

“God Almighty! It is Antonia!”

Such was Lorenzo’s exclamation, while He snatched her from the

Attendant’s arms, and clasped her in his own.

Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poignard had answered but too

well the purpose of its Employer. The wounds were mortal, and Antonia

was conscious that She never could recover. Yet the few moments which

remained for her were moments of happiness. The concern exprest 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 past in receiving proofs of

Lorenzo’s love, and assuring him of her own. She told him that had She

still been undefiled She might have lamented the loss of life; But that

deprived of honour and branded with shame, Death was to her a blessing:

She could not have been his Wife, and that hope being denied her, She

resigned herself to the Grave without one sigh of regret. She bad him

take courage, conjured 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 lightened 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 interrupted by the Convent

Bell, as tolling at a distance, it struck the hour. Suddenly Antonia’s

eyes sparkled with celestial brightness: Her frame seemed to have

received new strength and animation. She started from her Lover’s arms.

“Three o’clock!” She cried; “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 himself to be led from the Vault, and was

conveyed to the Palace de Medina scarcely more alive than the

unfortunate Antonia.

In the meanwhile, though closely pursued, Ambrosio succeeded in

regaining the Vault. The Door was already fastened when Don Ramirez

arrived, and much time elapsed, ere the Fugitive’s retreat was

discovered. But nothing can resist perseverance. Though so artfully

concealed, the Door could not escape the vigilance of the Archers. They

forced it open, and entered the Vault to the infinite dismay of

Ambrosio and his Companion. The Monk’s confusion, his attempt to hide

himself, his rapid flight, and the blood sprinkled upon his cloaths,

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 surprize,

and scarcely could they persuade themselves that what they saw was no

vision. The Abbot strove not to vindicate himself, but preserved a

sullen silence. He was secured and bound. The same precaution was taken

with Matilda: Her Cowl being removed, the delicacy of her features and

profusion of her golden hair betrayed her sex, and this incident

created fresh amazement. The dagger was also found in the Tomb, where

the Monk had thrown it; and the dungeon having undergone a thorough

search, the two Culprits were conveyed to the prisons of the

Inquisition.

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 himself 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 Inquisitors to search

their Mansion without noise. No fresh discoveries were made. The

effects found in the Abbot’s and Matilda’s Cells were seized, and

carried to the Inquisition to be produced in evidence. Every thing else

remained in its former position, and order and tranquillity once more

prevailed through Madrid.

St. Clare’s Convent was completely ruined by the united ravages of the

Mob and conflagration. Nothing remained of it but the principal Walls,

whose thickness and solidity had preserved them from the flames. The

Nuns who had belonged to it were obliged in consequence to disperse

themselves into other Societies: But the prejudice against them ran

high, and the Superiors were very unwilling to admit them. However,

most of them being related to Families the most distinguished for their

riches, birth and power, the several Convents were compelled to receive

them, though they did it with a very ill grace. This prejudice was

extremely false and unjustifiable: After a close investigation, it was

proved that All in the Convent were persuaded of the death of Agnes,

except the four Nuns whom St. Ursula had pointed out. These had fallen

Victims to the popular fury; as had also several who were perfectly

innocent and unconscious of the whole affair. Blinded by resentment,

the Mob had sacrificed every Nun who fell into their hands: They who

escaped were entirely indebted to the Duke de Medina’s prudence and

moderation. Of this they were conscious, and felt for that Nobleman a

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

redoubled 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 request was readily granted:

Virginia assured him that the Marquis de Villa-Franca would be proud of

an opportunity to thank him in person for the protection afforded to

her. They now separated, He enchanted with her beauty and gentleness,

and She much pleased with him and more with his Nephew.

On entering the Palace, Virginia’s first care was to summon the family

Physician, and take care of her unknown charge. Her Mother hastened to

share with her the charitable office. Alarmed by the riots, and

trembling for his Daughter’s safety, who was his only child, the

Marquis had flown to St. Clare’s Convent, and was still employed in

seeking her. Messengers were now 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 persuasion could induce her to quit the

bedside of the Sufferer. Her constitution being much enfeebled by want

and sorrow, it was some time before the Stranger was restored to her

senses. She found great difficulty in swallowing the medicines

prescribed to her: But this obstacle being removed, She easily

conquered her disease which proceeded from nothing but weakness. The

attention which was paid her, the wholesome food to which She had been

long a Stranger, and her joy at being restored to liberty, to society,

and, as She dared to hope, to Love, all this combined to her speedy

re-establishment.

From the first moment of knowing her, her melancholy situation, her

sufferings almost unparalleled had engaged the affections of her

amiable Hostess: Virginia felt for her the most lively interest; But

how was She delighted, when her Guest being sufficiently recovered to

relate her History, She recognized in the captive Nun the Sister of

Lorenzo!

This victim of monastic cruelty was indeed no other than the

unfortunate Agnes. During her abode in the Convent, She had been well

known to Virginia: But her emaciated form, her features altered by

affliction, her death universally credited, and her overgrown and

matted hair which hung 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 succeeded that her young

Relation began to think seriously upon compliance. Better instructed in

the disgust and ennui of a monastic life, Agnes had penetrated the

designs of the Domina: She trembled for the innocent Girl, and

endeavoured to make her sensible of her error. She painted in their

true colours the numerous 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 bad

Virginia reflect on the brilliant prospect which presented itself

before her: The Idol of her Parents, the admiration of Madrid, endowed

by nature and education with every perfection of person and mind, She

might look forward to an establishment the most fortunate. Her riches

furnished her with the means of exercising in their fullest extent,

charity and benevolence, those virtues so dear to her; and her stay in

the world would enable her discovering Objects worthy her protection,

which could not be done in the seclusion of a Convent.

Her persuasions induced Virginia to lay aside all thoughts of the Veil:

But another argument, not used by Agnes, 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 conversations with

Agnes generally used to terminate in some question about her Brother.

She, who doted upon Lorenzo, wished for no better than an opportunity

to trumpet out his praise. She spoke of him in terms of rapture; and to

convince her Auditor how just were his sentiments, how cultivated his

mind, and elegant his expressions, She showed her at different times

the letters which She received from him. She soon perceived that from

these communications the heart of her young Friend had imbibed

impressions, which She was far from intending to give, but was truly

happy to discover. She could not have wished her Brother a more

desirable union: Heiress of Villa-Franca, virtuous, affectionate,

beautiful, and accomplished, Virginia seemed calculated to make him

happy. She sounded her Brother upon the subject, though without

mentioning names or circumstances. He assured her in his answers that

his heart and hand were totally disengaged, and She thought that upon

these grounds She might proceed without danger. She in consequence

endeavoured to strengthen the dawning passion of her Friend. Lorenzo

was made the constant topic of her discourse; and the avidity with

which her Auditor listened, the sighs which frequently escaped from her

bosom, and the eagerness with which upon any digression She brought

back the conversation to the subject whence it had wandered, sufficed

to convince Agnes that her Brother’s addresses would be far from

disagreeable. She at length ventured to mention her wishes to the Duke:

Though a Stranger to the Lady herself, He knew enough of her situation

to think her worthy his Nephew’s hand. It was agreed between him and

his Niece, that She should insinuate the idea to Lorenzo, and She only

waited his return to Madrid to propose her Friend to him as his Bride.

The unfortunate events which took place in the interim, prevented her

from executing her design. Virginia wept her loss sincerely, both as a

Companion, and as the only Person to whom She could speak of Lorenzo.

Her passion continued to prey upon her heart in secret, and She had

almost determined to confess her sentiments to her Mother, when

accident once more threw their object in her way. The sight of him so

near her, his politeness, his compassion, his intrepidity, had combined

to give new ardour to her affection. When She now found her Friend and

Advocate restored to her, She looked upon her as a Gift from Heaven;

She ventured to cherish the hope of being united to Lorenzo, and

resolved to use with him his Sister’s influence.

Supposing that before her death Agnes might possibly have made the

proposal, the Duke had placed all his Nephew’s hints of marriage to

Virginia’s account: Consequently, He gave them the most favourable

reception. On returning to his Hotel, the relation given him of

Antonia’s death, and Lorenzo’s behaviour on the occasion, made evident

his mistake. He lamented the circumstances; But the unhappy Girl being

effectually out of the way, He trusted that his designs would yet be

executed. ’Tis true that Lorenzo’s situation just then ill-suited him

for a Bridegroom. His hopes disappointed at the moment when He expected

to realize them, and the dreadful 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;

But the Uncle entertained not the same fears. He was of opinion, and

not unwisely, that “Men have died, and worms have eat them; but not for

Love!” He therefore flattered himself that however deep might be the

impression made upon his Nephew’s heart, Time and Virginia would be

able to efface it. He now hastened to the afflicted Youth, and

endeavoured to console him: He sympathised in his distress, but

encouraged him to resist the encroachments of despair. He allowed that

He could not but feel shocked at an event so terrible, nor could He

blame his sensibility; But He besought him not to torment himself with

vain regrets, and rather to struggle with affliction, and preserve his

life, if not for his own sake, at least for the sake of those who were

fondly attached to him. While He laboured thus to make Lorenzo forget

Antonia’s loss, the Duke paid his court assiduously to Virginia, and

seized every opportunity to advance his Nephew’s interest in her heart.

It may easily be expected that Agnes was not long without enquiring

after Don Raymond. She was shocked to hear the wretched situation to

which grief had reduced him; Yet She could not help exulting secretly,

when She reflected, that his illness proved the sincerity of his love.

The Duke undertook the office himself, of announcing to the Invalid the

happiness which awaited him. Though He omitted no precaution to prepare

him for such an event, at this sudden change from despair to happiness

Raymond’s transports were so violent, as nearly to have proved fatal to

him. These once passed, the tranquillity of his mind, the assurance of

felicity, and above all the presence of Agnes, (Who was no sooner

reestablished by the care of Virginia and the Marchioness, than She

hastened to attend her Lover) soon enabled him to overcome the effects

of his late dreadful malady. The calm of his soul communicated itself

to his body, and He recovered with such rapidity as to create universal

surprize.

No so Lorenzo. Antonia’s death accompanied with such terrible

circumstances weighed upon his mind heavily. He was worn down to a

shadow. Nothing could give him pleasure. He was persuaded with

difficulty to swallow nourishment sufficient for the support of life,

and a consumption was apprehended. The society of Agnes formed his only

comfort. Though accident had never permitted their being much together,

He entertained for her a sincere friendship and attachment. Perceiving

how necessary She was to him, She seldom quitted his chamber. She

listened to his complaints with unwearied attention, and soothed him by

the gentleness of her manners, and by sympathising with his distress.

She still inhabited the Palace de Villa-Franca, the Possessors of which

treated her with marked affection. The Duke had intimated to the

Marquis his wishes respecting Virginia. The match was unexceptionable:

Lorenzo was Heir to his Uncle’s immense property, and was distinguished

in Madrid for his agreeable person, extensive knowledge, and propriety

of conduct: Add to this, that the Marchioness had discovered how strong

was her Daughter’s prepossession in his favour.

In consequence the Duke’s proposal was accepted without hesitation:

Every precaution was taken to induce Lorenzo’s seeing the Lady with

those sentiments which She so well merited to excite. In her visits to

her Brother Agnes was frequently accompanied by the Marchioness; and as

soon as He was able to move into his Antichamber, 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, 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 regained 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 history of her sufferings. As He now started the

subject himself, and thinking that perhaps the narrative of her sorrows

might draw him from the contemplation of those on which He dwelt too

constantly, She immediately complied with his request. The rest of the

company had already heard her story; But the interest which all present

felt for its Heroine made them anxious to hear it repeated. The whole

society seconding Lorenzo’s entreaties, Agnes obeyed. She first

recounted the discovery which had taken place in the Abbey Chapel, the

Domina’s resentment, and the midnight scene of which St. Ursula had

been a concealed witness. Though the Nun had already described this

latter event, Agnes now related it more circumstantially and at large:

After which She proceeded in her narrative as follows.

Conclusion of the History of Agnes de Medina

My supposed death was attended with the greatest agonies. Those moments

which I believed my last, were embittered by the Domina’s assurances

that I could not escape perdition; and as my eyes closed, I heard her

rage exhale itself in curses on my offence. The horror of this

situation, of a death-bed from which hope was banished, of a sleep from

which I was only to wake to find myself the prey of flames and Furies,

was more dreadful than I can describe. When animation revived in me, my

soul was still impressed with these terrible ideas: I looked round with

fear, expecting to behold the Ministers of divine vengeance. For the

first hour, my senses were so bewildered, and my brain so dizzy, that I

strove in vain to arrange the strange images which floated in wild

confusion before me. If I endeavoured to raise myself from the ground,

the wandering of my head deceived me. 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 examine the

surrounding Objects. When I did examine them, what terror filled my

bosom I found myself extended upon a sort of wicker Couch: It had six

handles to it, which doubtless had served the Nuns to convey me to my

grave. I was covered with a linen cloth:

Several faded flowers were strown over me: On one side lay a small

wooden Crucifix; On the other, a Rosary of large Beads. Four low narrow

walls confined me. The top was also covered, and in it was practised a

small grated Door: Through this was admitted the little air which

circulated in this miserable place. A faint glimmering of light which

streamed through the Bars, permitted me to distinguish the surrounding

horrors. I was opprest 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 consternation! In spite of its

putridity, and the worms which preyed upon it, I perceived a corrupted

human head, and recognised the features of a Nun who had died some

months before!

I threw it from me, and sank almost lifeless upon my Bier.

When my strength returned, this circumstance, and the consciousness of

being surrounded by the loathsome and mouldering Bodies of my

Companions, increased my desire to escape from my fearful prison. I

again moved towards the light. The grated door was within my reach: I

lifted it without difficulty; Probably it had been left unclosed to

facilitate my quitting the dungeon. Aiding myself by the irregularity

of the Walls some of whose stones projected beyond the rest, I

contrived to ascend them, and drag myself out of my prison. I now found

Myself in a Vault tolerably spacious. Several Tombs, similar in

appearance to that whence I had just escaped, were ranged along the

sides in order, and seemed to be considerably sunk within the earth. A

sepulchral Lamp was suspended from the roof by an iron chain, and shed

a gloomy light through the dungeon. Emblems of Death were seen on every

side: Skulls, shoulder-blades, thigh-bones, and other leavings of

Mortality were scattered upon the dewy ground. Each Tomb was ornamented

with a large Crucifix, and in one corner stood a wooden Statue of St.

Clare. To these objects I at first paid no attention: A Door, the only

outlet from the Vault, had attracted my eyes. I hastened towards it,

having wrapped my winding-sheet closely round me. I pushed against the

door, and to my inexpressible terror found that it was fastened on the

outside.

I guessed immediately that the Prioress, mistaking the nature of the

liquor which She had compelled me to drink, instead of poison had

administered a strong Opiate. From this I concluded that being to all

appearance dead I had received the rites of burial; and that deprived

of the power of making my existence known, it would be my fate to

expire of hunger. This idea penetrated me with horror, not merely for

my own sake, but that of the innocent Creature, who still lived within

my bosom. I again endeavoured to open the door, but it resisted all my

efforts. I stretched my voice to the extent of its compass, and

shrieked for aid: I was remote from the hearing of 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 insupportable: Yet they

seemed to increase with every hour which past 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 terminating my woes at once; But still

the remembrance of my Baby vanquished my resolution: I trembled at a

deed which equally endangered my Child’s existence and my own. Then

would I vent my anguish in loud 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

neighbouring Tomb caught my eye: A Basket stood upon it, which till

then I had not observed. I started from my seat: I made towards it as

swiftly as my exhausted frame would permit. How eagerly did I seize the

Basket, on finding it to 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 whether

the Basket had been placed there with a view to my necessity. Hope

answered my doubts in the affirmative. Yet who could guess me to be in

need of such assistance? If my existence was known, why was I detained

in this gloomy Vault? If 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 indebted for provisions placed within my reach? A

Friend would not have kept my dreadful punishment a secret; Neither did

it seem probable that an Enemy would have taken pains to supply me with

the means of existence. Upon the whole I was inclined to think that the

Domina’s designs upon my life had been discovered by some one of my

Partizans in the Convent, who had found means to substitute an opiate

for poison: That She had furnished me with food to support me, till She

could effect my delivery: And that She was then employed in giving

intelligence to my Relations of my danger, and pointing out a way to

release me from captivity. Yet why then was the quality of my

provisions so coarse? How could my Friend have entered the Vault

without the Domina’s knowledge? And if She had entered, why was the

Door fastened so carefully? These reflections staggered me: Yet still

this idea was the most favourable to my hopes, and I dwelt upon it in

preference.

My meditations were interrupted by the sound of distant footsteps. They

approached, but slowly. Rays of light now darted through the crevices

of the Door. 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 of my supposed death. They

bore torches in their hands, and gazed upon me in fearful silence.

I started back in terror. The Domina descended into the Vault, as did

also her Companions. She bent upon me a stern resentful eye, but

expressed no surprize at finding me still living. She took the seat

which I had just quitted: The door was again closed, and the Nuns

ranged themselves behind their Superior, while the glare of their

torches, dimmed by the vapours and dampness of the Vault, gilded with

cold beams the surrounding Monuments. For some moments all preserved a

dead and solemn silence. I stood at some distance from the Prioress. At

length She beckoned me to advance. Trembling at the severity of her

aspect my strength scarce sufficed me to obey her. I drew near, but my

limbs were unable to support their burthen. I sank upon my knees; I

clasped my hands, and lifted them up to her for mercy, but had no power

to articulate a syllable.

She gazed upon me with angry eyes.

“Do I see a Penitent, or a Criminal?” She said at length; “Are those

hands raised in contrition for your crimes, or in fear of meeting their

punishment? Do those tears acknowledge the justice of your doom, or

only solicit mitigation of your sufferings? I fear me, ’tis the

latter!”

She paused, but kept her eye still fixt upon mine.

“Take courage;” She continued: “I wish not for your death, but your

repentance. The draught which I administered, was no poison, but an

opiate. My intention in deceiving you was to make you feel the agonies

of a guilty conscience, had Death overtaken you suddenly while your

crimes were still unrepented. You have suffered those agonies: I have

brought you to be familiar with the sharpness of death, and I trust

that your momentary anguish will prove to you an eternal benefit. It is

not my design to destroy your immortal soul; or bid you seek the grave,

burthened with the weight of sins unexpiated. No, Daughter, far from

it: I will purify you with wholesome chastisement, and furnish you 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 Partizans have

assisted at your funeral. Your existence can never be suspected; I have

taken such precautions, as must render it an impenetrable mystery. Then

abandon all thoughts of a World from which you are eternally separated,

and employ the few hours which are allowed you, in preparing for the

next.”

This exordium led me to expect something terrible. I trembled, and

would have spoken to deprecate her wrath: but a motion of the Domina

commanded me to be silent. She proceeded.

“Though of late years unjustly neglected, and now opposed by many of

our misguided Sisters, (whom Heaven convert!) it is my intention to

revive the laws of our order in their full force. That against

incontinence is severe, but no more than so monstrous an offence

demands: Submit to it, Daughter, without resistance; You will find the

benefit of patience and resignation in a better life than this. Listen

then to the sentence of St. Clare. Beneath these Vaults there exist

Prisons, intended to receive such criminals as yourself: Artfully is

their entrance concealed, and She who enters them, must resign all

hopes of liberty. Thither must you now be conveyed. Food shall be

supplied you, but not sufficient for the indulgence of appetite: You

shall have just enough to keep together body and soul, and its quality

shall be the simplest and coarsest. Weep, Daughter, weep, and moisten

your bread with your tears: God knows that you have ample cause for

sorrow! Chained down in one of these secret dungeons, shut out from the

world and light for ever, with no comfort but religion, no society but

repentance, thus must you groan away the remainder of your days. Such

are St. Clare’s orders; Submit to them without repining. Follow me!”

Thunderstruck at this barbarous decree, my little remaining strength

abandoned me. I answered only by falling at her feet, and bathing them

with tears. The Domina, unmoved by my affliction, rose from her seat

with a stately air. She repeated her commands in an absolute 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 upon 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 Pedestal, though

how I knew not. The Nuns afterwards raised an iron grate till then

concealed by the Image, and let it fall on the other side with a loud

crash. The awful sound, repeated by the vaults above, and Caverns below

me, rouzed me from the despondent apathy in which I had been plunged. I

looked before me: An abyss presented itself to my affrighted eyes, and

a steep and narrow Staircase, whither my Conductors were leading me. I

shrieked, and started back. I implored compassion, rent the air with my

cries, and summoned both heaven and earth to my assistance. In vain! I

was hurried down the Staircase, and forced into one of the Cells which

lined the Cavern’s sides.

My blood ran cold, as I gazed upon this melancholy abode. The cold

vapours hovering in the air, the walls green with damp, the bed of

Straw so forlorn and 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 crime, but let not

my Child suffer for it! My Baby has committed no fault: Oh! spare me

for the sake of my unborn Offspring, whom ere it tastes life your

severity dooms to destruction!”

The Prioress drew back haughtily: She forced her habit from my grasp,

as if my touch had been contagious.

“What?” She exclaimed with an exasperated air; “What? Dare you plead

for the produce of your shame? Shall a Creature be permitted to live,

conceived in guilt so monstrous? Abandoned Woman, speak for him no

more! 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 dungeon, permitted my

distinguishing all its horrors: It was separated from the Cavern by a

low and irregular Wall of Stone: A large Chasm was left open in it

which formed the entrance, for door there was none. A leaden Crucifix

was in front of my straw Couch. A tattered rug lay near me, as did also

a Chaplet of Beads; and not far from me stood a pitcher of water, and a

wicker Basket containing a small loaf, and a bottle of oil to supply my

Lamp.

With a despondent eye did I examine this scene of suffering: When I

reflected that I was doomed to pass in it the remainder of my days, my

heart was rent with bitter anguish. I had once been taught to look

forward to a lot so different! At one time my prospects had appeared so

bright, so flattering! Now all was lost to me. Friends, comfort,

society, happiness, in one moment I was deprived of all! Dead to the

world, Dead to pleasure, I lived to nothing but the sense of misery.

How fair did that world seem to me, from which I was for ever excluded!

How many loved objects did it contain, whom I never should behold

again! As I threw a look of terror round my prison, as I shrunk from

the cutting wind which howled through my subterraneous dwelling, the

change seemed so striking, so abrupt, that I doubted its reality.

That the Duke de Medina’s Niece, that the destined Bride of the Marquis

de las Cisternas, One bred up in affluence, related to the noblest

families in Spain, and rich in a multitude of affectionate Friends,

that She should in one moment become a Captive, separated from the

world for ever, weighed down with chains, and reduced to support life

with the coarsest aliments, appeared a change so sudden and incredible,

that I believed myself the sport of some frightful vision. Its

continuance convinced me of my mistake with but too much certainty.

Every morning my hopes were disappointed. At length I abandoned all

idea of escaping: I resigned myself to my fate, and only expected

Liberty when She came the Companion of Death.

My mental anguish, and the dreadful scenes in which I had been an

Actress, advanced the period of my labour. In solitude and misery,

abandoned by all, unassisted by Art, uncomforted by Friendship, with

pangs which if witnessed would have touched the hardest heart, was I

delivered of my wretched burthen. It came alive into the world; But I

knew not how to treat it, or by what means to preserve its existence. I

could only bathe it with tears, warm it in my bosom, and offer up

prayers for its safety. I was soon deprived of this mournful

employment: The want of proper attendance, my ignorance how to nurse

it, the bitter cold of the dungeon, and the unwholesome air which

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 regularly once every

twenty-four hours, to bring me food. In spite of her flinty nature, She

could not behold this spectacle unmoved. She feared that grief so

excessive would at length turn my brain, and in truth I was not always

in my proper senses. From a principle of compassion She urged me to

permit the 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 repugnance: I

withstood, and vanquished that repugnance. I persisted in holding my

Infant to my bosom, in lamenting it, loving it, adoring it! Hour after

hour have I passed upon my sorry Couch, contemplating what had once

been my Child: I endeavoured to retrace its features through the livid

corruption, with which they were overspread: During my confinement this

sad occupation was my only delight; and at that time Worlds should not

have bribed me to give it up. Even when released from my prison, I

brought away my Child in my arms. The representations of my two kind

Friends,‘—(Here She took the hands of the Marchioness and Virginia, and

pressed them alternately to her lips)—’at length persuaded me to resign

my unhappy Infant to the Grave. Yet I parted from it with reluctance:

However, reason at length prevailed; I suffered it to be taken from me,

and it now reposes in consecrated ground.

I before mentioned that regularly once a day Camilla brought me food.

She sought not to embitter my sorrows with reproach: She bad me, ’tis

true, resign all hopes of liberty and worldly happiness; But She

encouraged me to bear with patience my temporary distress, and advised

me to draw comfort from religion.

My situation evidently affected her more than She ventured to express:

But She believed that to extenuate my fault would make me less anxious

to repent it. Often while her lips painted the enormity of my guilt in

glaring colours, her eyes betrayed, how sensible She was to my

sufferings. In fact I am certain that none of my Tormentors, (for the

three other Nuns entered my prison occasionally) were so much actuated

by the spirit of oppressive cruelty as by the idea that to afflict my

body was the only way to preserve my soul. Nay, even this persuasion

might not have had such weight with them, and they might have thought

my punishment too severe, had not their good dispositions been represt

by blind obedience to their Superior. Her resentment existed in full

force. My project of elopement having been discovered by the Abbot of

the Capuchins, She supposed herself lowered in his opinion by my

disgrace, and in consequence her hate was inveterate. She told the Nuns

to whose custody I was committed that my fault was of the most heinous

nature, that no sufferings could equal the offence, and that nothing

could save me from eternal perdition but punishing my guilt with the

utmost severity. The Superior’s word is an oracle to but too many of a

Convent’s Inhabitants. The Nuns believed whatever the Prioress chose to

assert: Though contradicted by reason and charity, they hesitated not

to admit the truth of her arguments. They followed her injunctions to

the very letter, and were fully persuaded that to treat me with lenity,

or to show the least pity for my woes, would be a direct means to

destroy my chance for salvation.

Camilla, being most employed about me, was particularly charged by the

Prioress to treat me with harshness. In compliance with these orders,

She frequently strove to convince me, how just was my punishment, and

how enormous was my crime: She bad 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 comfort; and though uttered by Camilla’s

lips, I easily recognised 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 sufferings on earth!

Thus did I drag on a miserable existence. Far from growing familiar

with my prison, I beheld it every moment with new horror. The cold

seemed more piercing and bitter, the air more thick and pestilential.

My frame became weak, feverish, and emaciated. I was unable to rise

from the bed of Straw, and exercise my limbs in the narrow limits, to

which the length of my chain permitted me to move. Though exhausted,

faint, and weary, I trembled to profit by the approach of Sleep: My

slumbers were constantly interrupted by some obnoxious Insect crawling

over me.

Sometimes I felt the bloated Toad, hideous and pampered with the

poisonous vapours of the dungeon, dragging his loathsome length along

my bosom: Sometimes the quick cold Lizard rouzed me leaving his slimy

track upon my face, and entangling itself in the tresses of my wild and

matted hair: Often have I at waking found my fingers ringed with the

long worms which bred in the corrupted flesh of my Infant. At such

times I shrieked with terror and disgust, and while I shook off the

reptile, trembled with all a Woman’s weakness.

Such was my situation, when Camilla was suddenly taken ill. A dangerous

fever, supposed to be infectious, confined her to her bed. Every one

except the Lay-Sister appointed to nurse her, avoided her with caution,

and feared to catch the disease. She was perfectly delirious, and by no

means capable of attending to me. The Domina and the Nuns admitted to

the mystery, had latterly given me over entirely to Camilla’s care: In

consequence, they busied themselves no more about me; and occupied by

preparing for the approaching Festival, it is more than probable that I

never once entered into their thoughts. Of the reason of Camilla’s

negligence, I have been informed since my release by the Mother St.

Ursula; At that time I was very far from suspecting its cause. On the

contrary, I waited for my Gaoler’s appearance at first with impatience,

and afterwards with despair. One day passed away; Another followed it;

The Third arrived. Still no Camilla! Still no food! I knew the lapse of

time by the wasting of my Lamp, to supply which fortunately a week’s

supply of Oil had been left me. I supposed, either that the Nuns had

forgotten me, or that the Domina had ordered them to let me perish. The

latter idea seemed the most probable; Yet so natural is the love of

life, that I trembled to find it true. Though embittered by every

species of misery, my existence was still dear to me, and I dreaded to

lose it. Every succeeding minute proved to me that I must abandon all

hopes of relief. I was become an absolute skeleton: My eyes already

failed me, and my limbs were beginning to stiffen. I could only express

my anguish, and the pangs of that hunger which gnawed my heart-strings,

by frequent groans, whose melancholy sound the vaulted roof of the

dungeon re-echoed. I resigned myself to my fate: I already expected the

moment of dissolution, when my Guardian Angel, when my beloved Brother

arrived in time to save me. My sight grown dim and feeble at first

refused to recognize him; and when I did distinguish his features, the

sudden burst of rapture was too much for me to bear. I was overpowered

by the swell of joy at once more beholding a Friend, and that a Friend

so dear to me. Nature could not support my emotions, and took her

refuge in insensibility.

You already know, what are my obligations to the Family of

Villa-Franca: But what you cannot know is the extent of my gratitude,

boundless as the excellence of my Benefactors. Lorenzo! Raymond! Names

so dear to me! Teach me to bear with fortitude this sudden transition

from misery to bliss. So lately a Captive, opprest 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 long been

wedded to my heart, my happiness is so exquisite, so perfect, that

scarcely can my brain sustain the weight. One only wish remains

ungratified: It is to see my Brother in his former health, and to know

that Antonia’s memory is buried in her grave.

Granted this prayer, I have nothing more to desire. I trust, that my

past sufferings have purchased from heaven the pardon of my momentary

weakness. That I have offended, offended greatly and grievously, I am

fully conscious; But let not my Husband, because He once conquered my

virtue, doubt 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 depended no less on your honour than my own. I had

vowed never to see you more: Had it not been for the consequences of

that unguarded moment, my resolution had been kept. Fate willed it

otherwise, and I cannot but rejoice at its decree. Still my conduct has

been highly blameable, and while I attempt to justify myself, I blush

at recollecting my imprudence. Let me then dismiss the ungrateful

subject; First assuring you, Raymond, that you shall have no cause to

repent our union, and that the more culpable have been the errors of

your Mistress, the more exemplary shall be the conduct of your Wife.

Here Agnes ceased, and the Marquis replied to her address in terms

equally sincere and affectionate. Lorenzo expressed his satisfaction at

the prospect of being so closely connected with a Man for whom He had

ever entertained the highest esteem. The Pope’s Bull had fully and

effectually released Agnes from her religious engagements: The marriage

was therefore celebrated as soon as the needful preparations had been

made, for the Marquis wished to have the ceremony performed with all

possible splendour and publicity. This being over, and the Bride having

received the compliments of Madrid, She departed with Don Raymond for

his Castle in Andalusia: Lorenzo accompanied them, as did also the

Marchioness de Villa-Franca and her lovely Daughter. It is needless to

say that Theodore was of the party, and would be impossible to describe

his joy at his Master’s marriage. Previous to his departure, the

Marquis, to atone in some measure for his past neglect, made some

enquiries relative to Elvira. Finding that She as well as her Daughter

had received many services from Leonella and Jacintha, He showed his

respect to the memory of his Sister-in-law by making the two Women

handsome presents. Lorenzo followed his example—Leonella was highly

flattered by the attentions of Noblemen so distinguished, and 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 Cornelia

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, Camilla being confined by illness to her bed, had

perished in the flames which consumed St. Clare’s Convent. Mariana,

Alix, and Violante, as well as two more, had fallen victims to the

popular rage. The three Others who in Council had supported the

Domina’s sentence, were severely reprimanded, and banished to religious

Houses in obscure and distant Provinces: Here they languished away a

few years, ashamed of their former weakness, and shunned by their

Companions with aversion and contempt.

Nor was the fidelity of Flora permitted to go unrewarded. Her wishes

being consulted, She declared herself impatient to revisit her native

land. In consequence, a passage was procured for her to 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, Lorenzo and Virginia were

eternally together. The more He saw of her, the more was He convinced

of her merit. On her part, She laid herself out to please, and not to

succeed was for her impossible.

Lorenzo witnessed with admiration her beautiful person, elegant

manners, innumerable talents, and sweet disposition: He was also much

flattered by her prejudice in his favour, which She had not sufficient

art to conceal. However, his sentiments partook not of that ardent

character which had marked his affection for Antonia. The image of that

lovely and unfortunate Girl still lived in his heart, and baffled all

Virginia’s efforts to displace it. Still when the Duke proposed to him

the match, which He wished to earnestly to take place, his Nephew did

not reject the offer. The urgent supplications of his Friends, and the

Lady’s merit conquered his repugnance to entering into new engagements.

He proposed himself to the Marquis de Villa-Franca, and was accepted

with joy and gratitude. Virginia became his Wife, nor did She ever give

him cause to repent his choice. His esteem increased for her daily. Her

unremitted endeavours to please him could not but succeed. His

affection assumed stronger and warmer colours. Antonia’s image was

gradually effaced from his bosom; and Virginia became sole Mistress of

that heart, which She well deserved to possess without a Partner.

The remaining years of Raymond and Agnes, of Lorenzo and Virginia, were

happy as can be those allotted to Mortals, born to be the prey of

grief, and sport of disappointment. The exquisite sorrows with which

they had been afflicted, made them think lightly of every succeeding

woe. They had felt the sharpest darts in misfortune’s quiver; Those

which remained appeared blunt in comparison. Having weathered Fate’s

heaviest Storms, they looked calmly upon its terrors: or if ever they

felt Affliction’s casual gales, they seemed to them gentle as Zephyrs

which breathe over summer-seas.