CHAPTER XII.

——He was a fell despightful Fiend:

Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below:

By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancor keened;

Of Man alike, if good or bad the Foe.

THOMSON.

On the day following Antonia’s death, all Madrid was a scene of

consternation and amazement. An Archer who had witnessed the adventure

in the Sepulchre had indiscreetly related the circumstances of the

murder: He had also named the Perpetrator. The confusion was without

example which this intelligence raised among the Devotees. Most of them

disbelieved it, and went themselves to the Abbey to ascertain the fact.

Anxious to avoid the shame to which their Superior’s ill-conduct

exposed the whole Brotherhood, the Monks assured the Visitors that

Ambrosio was prevented from receiving them as usual by nothing but

illness. This attempt was unsuccessful: The same excuse being repeated

day after day, the Archer’s story gradually obtained confidence. His

Partizans abandoned him: No one entertained a doubt of his guilt; and

they who before had been the warmest in his praise were now the most

vociferous in his condemnation.

While his innocence or guilt was debated in Madrid with the utmost

acrimony, Ambrosio was a prey to the pangs of conscious villainy, and

the terrors of punishment impending over him. When He looked back to

the eminence on which He had lately stood, universally honoured and

respected, at peace with the world and with himself, scarcely could He

believe that He was indeed the culprit whose crimes and whose fate He

trembled to envisage. But a few weeks had elapsed, since He was pure

and virtuous, courted by the wisest and noblest in Madrid, and regarded

by the People with a reverence that approached idolatry: He now saw

himself stained with the most loathed and monstrous sins, the object of

universal execration, a Prisoner of the Holy Office, and probably

doomed to perish in tortures the most severe. He could not hope to

deceive his Judges: The proofs of his guilt were too strong. His being

in the Sepulchre at so late an hour, his confusion at the discovery,

the dagger which in his first alarm He owned had been concealed by him,

and the blood which had spirted upon his habit from Antonia’s wound,

sufficiently marked him out for the Assassin. He waited with agony for

the day of examination: He had no resource to comfort him in his

distress. Religion could not inspire him with fortitude: If He read the

Books of morality which were put into his hands, He saw in them nothing

but the enormity of his offences; If he attempted to pray, He

recollected that He deserved not heaven’s protection, and believed his

crimes so monstrous as to baffle even God’s infinite goodness. For

every other Sinner He thought there might be hope, but for him there

could be none. Shuddering at the past, anguished by the present, and

dreading the future, thus passed He the few days preceding that which

was marked for his Trial.

That day arrived. At nine in the morning his prison door was unlocked,

and his Gaoler entering, commanded him to follow him. He obeyed with

trembling. He was conducted into a spacious Hall, hung with black

cloth. At the Table sat three grave, stern-looking Men, also habited in

black: One was the Grand Inquisitor, whom the importance of this cause

had induced to examine into it himself. At a smaller table at a little

distance sat the Secretary, provided with all necessary implements for

writing. Ambrosio was beckoned to advance, and take his station at the

lower end of the Table. As his eye glanced downwards, He perceived

various iron instruments lying scattered upon the floor. Their forms

were unknown to him, but apprehension immediately guessed them to be

engines of torture. He turned pale, and with difficulty prevented

himself from sinking upon the ground.

Profound silence prevailed, except when the Inquisitors whispered a few

words among themselves mysteriously. Near an hour past away, and with

every second of it Ambrosio’s fears grew more poignant. At length a

small Door, opposite to that by which He had entered the Hall, grated

heavily upon its hinges. An Officer appeared, and was immediately

followed by the beautiful Matilda. Her hair hung about her face wildly;

Her cheeks were pale, and her eyes sunk and hollow. She threw a

melancholy look upon Ambrosio: He replied by one of aversion and

reproach. She was placed opposite to him. A Bell then sounded thrice.

It was the signal for opening the Court, and the Inquisitors entered

upon their office.

In these trials neither the accusation is mentioned, or the name of the

Accuser. The Prisoners are only asked, whether they will confess: If

they reply that having no crime they can make no confession, they are

put to the torture without delay. This is repeated at intervals, either

till the suspected avow themselves culpable, or the perseverance of the

examinants is worn out and exhausted: But without a direct

acknowledgment of their guilt, the Inquisition never pronounces the

final doom of its Prisoners.

In general much time is suffered to elapse without their being

questioned: But Ambrosio’s trial had been hastened, on account of a

solemn Auto da Fe which would take place in a few days, and in which

the Inquisitors meant this distinguished Culprit to perform a part, and

give a striking testimony of their vigilance.

The Abbot was not merely accused of rape and murder: The crime of

Sorcery was laid to his charge, as well as to Matilda’s. She had been

seized as an Accomplice in Antonia’s assassination. On searching her

Cell, various suspicious books and instruments were found which

justified the accusation brought against her. To criminate the Monk,

the constellated Mirror was produced, which Matilda had accidentally

left in his chamber. The strange figures engraved upon it caught the

attention of Don Ramirez, while searching the Abbot’s Cell: In

consequence, He carried it away with him. It was shown to the Grand

Inquisitor, who having considered it for some time, took off a small

golden Cross which hung at his girdle, and laid it upon the Mirror.

Instantly a loud noise was heard, resembling a clap of thunder, and the

steel shivered into a thousand pieces. This circumstance confirmed the

suspicion of the Monk’s having dealt in Magic: It was even supposed

that his former influence over the minds of the People was entirely to

be ascribed to witchcraft.

Determined to make him confess not only the crimes which He had

committed, but those also of which He was innocent, the Inquisitors

began their examination. Though dreading the tortures, as He dreaded

death still more which would consign him to eternal torments, the Abbot

asserted his purity in a voice bold and resolute. Matilda followed his

example, but spoke with fear and trembling. Having in vain exhorted him

to confess, the Inquisitors ordered the Monk to be put to the question.

The Decree was immediately executed. Ambrosio suffered the most

excruciating pangs that ever were invented by human cruelty: Yet so

dreadful is Death when guilt accompanies it, that He had sufficient

fortitude to persist in his disavowal. His agonies were redoubled in

consequence: Nor was He released till fainting from excess of pain,

insensibility rescued him from the hands of his Tormentors.

Matilda was next ordered to the torture: But terrified by the sight of

the Friar’s sufferings, her courage totally deserted her. She sank upon

her knees, acknowledged her corresponding with infernal Spirits, and

that She had witnessed the Monk’s assassination of Antonia: But as to

the crime of Sorcery, She declared herself the sole criminal, and

Ambrosio perfectly innocent. The latter assertion met with no credit.

The Abbot had recovered his senses in time to hear the confession of

his Accomplice: But He was too much enfeebled by what He had already

undergone to be capable at that time of sustaining new torments.

He was commanded back to his Cell, but first informed that as soon as

He had gained strength sufficient, He must prepare himself for a second

examination. The Inquisitors hoped that He would then be less hardened

and obstinate. To Matilda it was announced that She must expiate her

crime in fire on the approaching Auto da Fe. All her tears and

entreaties could procure no mitigation of her doom, and She was dragged

by force from the Hall of Trial.

Returned to his dungeon, the sufferings of Ambrosio’s body were far

more supportable than those of his mind. His dislocated limbs, the

nails torn from his hands and feet, and his fingers mashed and broken

by the pressure of screws, were far surpassed in anguish by the

agitation of his soul and vehemence of his terrors. He saw that, guilty

or innocent, his Judges were bent upon condemning him: The remembrance

of what his denial had already cost him terrified him at the idea of

being again applied to the question, and almost engaged him to confess

his crimes. Then again the consequences of his confession flashed

before him, and rendered him once more irresolute. His death would be

inevitable, and that a death the most dreadful: He had listened to

Matilda’s doom, and doubted not that a similar was reserved for him. He

shuddered at the approaching Auto da Fe, at the idea of perishing in

flames, and only escaping from indurable torments to pass into others

more subtile and ever-lasting! With affright did He bend his mind’s eye

on the space beyond the grave; nor could hide from himself how justly

he ought to dread Heaven’s vengeance. In this Labyrinth of terrors,

fain would He have taken his refuge in the gloom of Atheism: Fain would

He have denied the soul’s immortality; have persuaded himself that when

his eyes once closed, they would never more open, and that the same

moment would annihilate his soul and body. Even this resource was

refused to him. To permit his being blind to the fallacy of this

belief, his knowledge was too extensive, his understanding too solid

and just. He could not help feeling the existence of a God. Those

truths, once his comfort, now presented themselves before him in the

clearest light; But they only served to drive him to distraction. They

destroyed his ill-grounded hopes of escaping punishment; and dispelled

by the irresistible brightness of Truth and convinction, Philosophy’s

deceitful vapours faded away like a dream.

In anguish almost too great for mortal frame to bear, He expected the

time when He was again to be examined. He busied himself in planning

ineffectual schemes for escaping both present and future punishment. Of

the first there was no possibility; Of the second Despair made him

neglect the only means. While Reason forced him to acknowledge a God’s

existence, Conscience made him doubt the infinity of his goodness. He

disbelieved that a Sinner like him could find mercy. He had not been

deceived into error: Ignorance could furnish him with no excuse. He had

seen vice in her true colours; Before He committed his crimes, He had

computed every scruple of their weight; and yet he had committed them.

“Pardon?” He would cry in an access of phrenzy “Oh! there can be none

for me!”

Persuaded of this, instead of humbling himself in penitence, of

deploring his guilt, and employing his few remaining hours in

deprecating Heaven’s wrath, He abandoned himself to the transports of

desperate rage; He sorrowed for the punishment of his crimes, not their

commission; and exhaled his bosom’s anguish in idle sighs, in vain

lamentations, in blasphemy and despair. As the few beams of day which

pierced through the bars of his prison window gradually disappeared,

and their place was supplied by the pale and glimmering Lamp, He felt

his terrors redouble, and his ideas become more gloomy, more solemn,

more despondent. He dreaded the approach of sleep: No sooner did his

eyes close, wearied with tears and watching, than the dreadful visions

seemed to be realised on which his mind had dwelt during the day. He

found himself in sulphurous realms and burning Caverns, surrounded by

Fiends appointed his Tormentors, and who drove him through a variety of

tortures, each of which was more dreadful than the former. Amidst these

dismal scenes wandered the Ghosts of Elvira and her Daughter. They

reproached him with their deaths, recounted his crimes to the Dæmons,

and urged them to inflict torments of cruelty yet more refined. Such

were the pictures which floated before his eyes in sleep: They vanished

not till his repose was disturbed by excess of agony. Then would He

start from the ground on which He had stretched himself, his brows

running down with cold sweat, his eyes wild and phrenzied; and He only

exchanged the terrible certainty for surmizes scarcely more

supportable. He paced his dungeon with disordered steps; He gazed with

terror upon the surrounding darkness, and often did He cry,

“Oh! fearful is night to the Guilty!”

The day of his second examination was at hand. He had been compelled to

swallow cordials, whose virtues were calculated to restore his bodily

strength, and enable him to support the question longer. On the night

preceding this dreaded day, his fears for the morrow permitted him not

to sleep. His terrors were so violent, as nearly to annihilate his

mental powers. He sat like one stupefied near the Table on which his

Lamp was burning dimly. Despair chained up his faculties in Idiotism,

and He remained for some hours, unable to speak or move, or indeed to

think.

“Look up, Ambrosio!” said a Voice in accents well-known to him—

The Monk started, and raised his melancholy eyes. Matilda stood before

him. She had quitted her religious habit. She now wore a female dress,

at once elegant and splendid: A profusion of diamonds blazed upon her

robes, and her hair was confined by a coronet of Roses. In her right

hand She held a small Book: A lively expression of pleasure beamed upon

her countenance; But still it was mingled with a wild imperious majesty

which inspired the Monk with awe, and represt in some measure his

transports at seeing her.

“You here, Matilda?” He at length exclaimed; “How have you gained

entrance? Where are your Chains? What means this magnificence, and the

joy which sparkles in your eyes? Have our Judges relented? Is there a

chance of my escaping? Answer me for pity, and tell me, what I have to

hope, or fear.”

“Ambrosio!” She replied with an air of commanding dignity; “I have

baffled the Inquisition’s fury. I am free: A few moments will place

kingdoms between these dungeons and me. Yet I purchase my liberty at a

dear, at a dreadful price! Dare you pay the same, Ambrosio? Dare you

spring without fear over the bounds which separate Men from Angels?—You

are silent.—You look upon me with eyes of suspicion and alarm—I read

your thoughts and confess their justice. Yes, Ambrosio; I have

sacrificed all for life and liberty. I am no longer a candidate for

heaven! I have renounced God’s service, and am enlisted beneath the

banners of his Foes. The deed is past recall: Yet were it in my power

to go back, I would not. Oh! my Friend, to expire in such torments! To

die amidst curses and execrations! To bear the insults of an

exasperated Mob! To be exposed to all the mortifications of shame and

infamy! Who can reflect without horror on such a doom? Let me then

exult in my exchange. I have sold distant and uncertain happiness for

present and secure: I have preserved a life which otherwise I had lost

in torture; and I have obtained the power of procuring every bliss

which can make that life delicious! The Infernal Spirits obey me as

their Sovereign: By their aid shall my days be past in every refinement

of luxury and voluptuousness. I will enjoy unrestrained the

gratification of my senses: Every passion shall be indulged, even to

satiety; Then will I bid my Servants invent new pleasures, to revive

and stimulate my glutted appetites! I go impatient to exercise my

newly-gained dominion. I pant to be at liberty. Nothing should hold me

one moment longer in this abhorred abode, but the hope of persuading

you to follow my example. Ambrosio, I still love you: Our mutual guilt

and danger have rendered you dearer to me than ever, and I would fain

save you from impending destruction. Summon then your resolution to

your aid; and renounce for immediate and certain benefits the hopes of

a salvation, difficult to obtain, and perhaps altogether erroneous.

Shake off the prejudice of vulgar souls; Abandon a God who has

abandoned you, and raise yourself to the level of superior Beings!”

She paused for the Monk’s reply: He shuddered, while He gave it.

“Matilda!” He said after a long silence in a low and unsteady voice;

“What price gave you for liberty?”

She answered him firm and dauntless.

“Ambrosio, it was my Soul!”

“Wretched Woman, what have you done? Pass but a few years, and how

dreadful will be your sufferings!”

“Weak Man, pass but this night, and how dreadful will be your own! Do

you remember what you have already endured? Tomorrow you must bear

torments doubly exquisite. Do you remember the horrors of a fiery

punishment? In two days you must be led a Victim to the Stake! What

then will become of you? Still dare you hope for pardon? Still are you

beguiled with visions of salvation? Think upon your crimes! Think upon

your lust, your perjury, inhumanity, and hypocrisy! Think upon the

innocent blood which cries to the Throne of God for vengeance, and then

hope for mercy! Then dream of heaven, and sigh for worlds of light, and

realms of peace and pleasure! Absurd! Open your eyes, Ambrosio, and be

prudent. Hell is your lot; You are doomed to eternal perdition; Nought

lies beyond your grave but a gulph of devouring flames. And will you

then speed towards that Hell? Will you clasp that perdition in your

arms, ere ’tis needful? Will you plunge into those flames while you

still have the power to shun them? ’Tis a Madman’s action. No, no,

Ambrosio: Let us for awhile fly from divine vengeance. Be advised by

me; Purchase by one moment’s courage the bliss of years; Enjoy the

present, and forget that a future lags behind.”

“Matilda, your counsels are dangerous: I dare not, I will not follow

them. I must not give up my claim to salvation. Monstrous are my

crimes; But God is merciful, and I will not despair of pardon.”

“Is such your resolution? I have no more to say. I speed to joy and

liberty, and abandon you to death and eternal torments.”

“Yet stay one moment, Matilda! You command the infernal Dæmons:

You can force open these prison doors; You can release me from these

chains which weigh me down. Save me, I conjure you, and bear me from

these fearful abodes!”

“You ask the only boon beyond my power to bestow. I am forbidden to

assist a Churchman and a Partizan of God: Renounce those titles, and

command me.”

“I will not sell my soul to perdition.”

“Persist in your obstinacy, till you find yourself at the Stake: Then

will you repent your error, and sigh for escape when the moment is gone

by. I quit you. Yet ere the hour of death arrives should wisdom

enlighten you, listen to the means of repairing your present fault. I

leave with you this Book. Read the four first lines of the seventh page

backwards: The Spirit whom you have already once beheld will

immediately appear to you. If you are wise, we shall meet again: If

not, farewell for ever!”

She let the Book fall upon the ground. A cloud of blue fire wrapped

itself round her: She waved her hand to Ambrosio, and disappeared. The

momentary glare which the flames poured through the dungeon, on

dissipating suddenly, seemed to have increased its natural gloom. The

solitary Lamp scarcely gave light sufficient to guide the Monk to a

Chair. He threw himself into his seat, folded his arms, and leaning his

head upon the table, sank into reflections perplexing and unconnected.

He was still in this attitude when the opening of the prison door

rouzed him from his stupor. He was summoned to appear before the Grand

Inquisitor. He rose, and followed his Gaoler with painful steps. He was

led into the same Hall, placed before the same Examiners, and was again

interrogated whether He would confess. He replied as before, that

having no crimes, He could acknowledge none: But when the Executioners

prepared to put him to the question, when He saw the engines of

torture, and remembered the pangs which they had already inflicted, his

resolution failed him entirely. Forgetting the consequences, and only

anxious to escape the terrors of the present moment, He made an ample

confession. He disclosed every circumstance of his guilt, and owned not

merely the crimes with which He was charged, but those of which He had

never been suspected. Being interrogated as to Matilda’s flight which

had created much confusion, He confessed that She had sold herself to

Satan, and that She was indebted to Sorcery for her escape. He still

assured his Judges that for his own part He had never entered into any

compact with the infernal Spirits; But the threat of being tortured

made him declare himself to be a Sorcerer, and Heretic, and whatever

other title the Inquisitors chose to fix upon him. In consequence of

this avowal, his sentence was immediately pronounced. He was ordered to

prepare himself to perish in the Auto da Fe, which was to be solemnized

at twelve o’clock that night. This hour was chosen from the idea that

the horror of the flames being heightened by the gloom of midnight, the

execution would have a greater effect upon the mind of the People.

Ambrosio rather dead than alive was left alone in his dungeon. The

moment in which this terrible decree was pronounced had nearly proved

that of his dissolution. He looked forward to the morrow with despair,

and his terrors increased with the approach of midnight. Sometimes He

was buried in gloomy silence: At others He raved with delirious

passion, wrung his hands, and cursed the hour when He first beheld the

light. In one of these moments his eye rested upon Matilda’s mysterious

gift. His transports of rage were instantly suspended. He looked

earnestly at the Book; He took it up, but immediately threw it from him

with horror. He walked rapidly up and down his dungeon: Then stopped,

and again fixed his eyes on the spot where the Book had fallen. He

reflected that here at least was a resource from the fate which He

dreaded. He stooped, and took it up a second time.

He remained for some time trembling and irresolute: He longed to try

the charm, yet feared its consequences. The recollection of his

sentence at length fixed his indecision. He opened the Volume; but his

agitation was so great that He at first sought in vain for the page

mentioned by Matilda. Ashamed of himself, He called all his courage to

his aid. He turned to the seventh leaf. He began to read it aloud; But

his eyes frequently wandered from the Book, while He anxiously cast

them round in search of the Spirit, whom He wished, yet dreaded to

behold. Still He persisted in his design; and with a voice unassured

and frequent interruptions, He contrived to finish the four first lines

of the page.

They were in a language, whose import was totally unknown to him.

Scarce had He pronounced the last word when the effects of the charm

were evident. A loud burst of Thunder was heard; The prison shook to

its very foundations; A blaze of lightning flashed through the Cell;

and in the next moment, borne upon sulphurous whirl-winds, Lucifer

stood before him a second time. But He came not as when at Matilda’s

summons He borrowed the Seraph’s form to deceive Ambrosio. He appeared

in all that ugliness which since his fall from heaven had been his

portion: His blasted limbs still bore marks of the Almighty’s thunder:

A swarthy darkness spread itself over his gigantic form: His hands and

feet were armed with long Talons: Fury glared in his eyes, which might

have struck the bravest heart with terror: Over his huge shoulders

waved two enormous sable wings; and his hair was supplied by living

snakes, which twined themselves round his brows with frightful

hissings. In one hand He held a roll of parchment, and in the other an

iron pen. Still the lightning flashed around him, and the Thunder with

repeated bursts, seemed to announce the dissolution of Nature.

Terrified at an Apparition so different from what He had expected,

Ambrosio remained gazing upon the Fiend, deprived of the power of

utterance. The Thunder had ceased to roll: Universal silence reigned

through the dungeon.

“For what am I summoned hither?” said the dæmon, in a voice which

_sulphurous fogs had damped to hoarseness_.

At the sound Nature seemed to tremble: A violent earthquake rocked the

ground, accompanied by a fresh burst of Thunder, louder and more

appalling than the first.

Ambrosio was long unable to answer the Dæmon’s demand.

“I am condemned to die;” He said with a faint voice, his blood running

cold, while He gazed upon his dreadful Visitor. “Save me! Bear me from

hence!”

“Shall the reward of my services be paid me? Dare you embrace my cause?

Will you be mine, body and soul? Are you prepared to renounce him who

made you, and him who died for you? Answer but ‘Yes’ and Lucifer is

your Slave.”

“Will no less price content you? Can nothing satisfy you but my eternal

ruin? Spirit, you ask too much. Yet convey me from this dungeon: Be my

Servant for one hour, and I will be yours for a thousand years. Will

not this offer suffice?”

“It will not. I must have your soul; must have it mine, and mine for

ever.”

“Insatiate Dæmon, I will not doom myself to endless torments. I will

not give up my hopes of being one day pardoned.”

“You will not? On what Chimaera rest then your hopes? Short-sighted

Mortal! Miserable Wretch! Are you not guilty? Are you not infamous in

the eyes of Men and Angels. Can such enormous sins be forgiven? Hope

you to escape my power? Your fate is already pronounced. The Eternal

has abandoned you; Mine you are marked in the book of destiny, and mine

you must and shall be!”

“Fiend, ’tis false! Infinite is the Almighty’s mercy, and the Penitent

shall meet his forgiveness. My crimes are monstrous, but I will not

despair of pardon: Haply, when they have received due chastisement....”

“Chastisement? Was Purgatory meant for guilt like yours? Hope you that

your offences shall be bought off by prayers of superstitious dotards

and droning Monks? Ambrosio, be wise! Mine you must be: You are doomed

to flames, but may shun them for the present. Sign this parchment: I

will bear you from hence, and you may pass your remaining years in

bliss and liberty. Enjoy your existence: Indulge in every pleasure to

which appetite may lead you: But from the moment that it quits your

body, remember that your soul belongs to me, and that I will not be

defrauded of my right.”

The Monk was silent; But his looks declared that the Tempter’s words

were not thrown away. He reflected on the conditions proposed with

horror: On the other hand, He believed himself doomed to perdition and

that, by refusing the Dæmon’s succour, He only hastened tortures which

He never could escape. The Fiend saw that his resolution was shaken: He

renewed his instances, and endeavoured to fix the Abbot’s indecision.

He described the agonies of death in the most terrific colours; and He

worked so powerfully upon Ambrosio’s despair and fears that He

prevailed upon him to receive the Parchment. He then struck the iron

Pen which He held into a vein of the Monk’s left hand. It pierced deep,

and was instantly filled with blood; Yet Ambrosio felt no pain from the

wound. The Pen was put into his hand: It trembled. The Wretch placed

the Parchment on the Table before him, and prepared to sign it.

Suddenly He held his hand: He started away hastily, and threw the Pen

upon the table.

“What am I doing?” He cried—Then turning to the Fiend with a desperate

air, “Leave me! Begone! I will not sign the Parchment.”

“Fool!” exclaimed the disappointed Dæmon, darting looks so furious as

penetrated the Friar’s soul with horror; “Thus am I trifled with? Go

then! Rave in agony, expire in tortures, and then learn the extent of

the Eternal’s mercy! But beware how you make me again your mock! Call

me no more till resolved to accept my offers! Summon me a second time

to dismiss me thus idly, and these Talons shall rend you into a

thousand pieces! Speak yet again; Will you sign the Parchment?”

“I will not! Leave me! Away!”

Instantly the Thunder was heard to roll horribly: Once more the earth

trembled with violence: The Dungeon resounded with loud shrieks, and

the Dæmon fled with blasphemy and curses.

At first, the Monk rejoiced at having resisted the Seducer’s arts, and

obtained a triumph over Mankind’s Enemy: But as the hour of punishment

drew near, his former terrors revived in his heart. Their momentary

repose seemed to have given them fresh vigour. The nearer that the time

approached, the more did He dread appearing before the Throne of God.

He shuddered to think how soon He must be plunged into eternity; How

soon meet the eyes of his Creator, whom He had so grievously offended.

The Bell announced midnight: It was the signal for being led to the

Stake! As He listened to the first stroke, the blood ceased to

circulate in the Abbot’s veins: He heard death and torture murmured in

each succeeding sound. He expected to see the Archers entering his

prison; and as the Bell forbore to toll, he seized the magic volume in

a fit of despair. He opened it, turned hastily to the seventh page, and

as if fearing to allow himself a moment’s thought ran over the fatal

lines with rapidity. Accompanied by his former terrors, Lucifer again

stood before the Trembler.

“You have summoned me,” said the Fiend; “Are you determined to be wise?

Will you accept my conditions? You know them already. Renounce your

claim to salvation, make over to me your soul, and I bear you from this

dungeon instantly. Yet is it time. Resolve, or it will be too late.

Will you sign the Parchment?”

“I must!—Fate urges me! I accept your conditions.”

“Sign the Parchment!” replied the Dæmon in an exulting tone.

The Contract and the bloody Pen still lay upon the Table. Ambrosio drew

near it. He prepared to sign his name. A moment’s reflection made him

hesitate.

“Hark!” cried the Tempter; “They come! Be quick! Sign the Parchment,

and I bear you from hence this moment.”

In effect, the Archers were heard approaching, appointed to lead

Ambrosio to the Stake. The sound encouraged the Monk in his resolution.

“What is the import of this writing?” said He.

“It makes your soul over to me for ever, and without reserve.”

“What am I to receive in exchange?”

“My protection, and release from this dungeon. Sign it, and this

instant I bear you away.”

Ambrosio took up the Pen; He set it to the Parchment. Again his courage

failed him: He felt a pang of terror at his heart, and once more threw

the Pen upon the Table.

“Weak and Puerile!” cried the exasperated Fiend: “Away with this folly!

Sign the writing this instant, or I sacrifice you to my rage!”

At this moment the bolt of the outward Door was drawn back. The

Prisoner heard the rattling of Chains; The heavy Bar fell; The Archers

were on the point of entering. Worked up to phrenzy by the urgent

danger, shrinking from the approach of death, terrified by the Dæmon’s

threats, and seeing no other means to escape destruction, the wretched

Monk complied. He signed the fatal contract, and gave it hastily into

the evil Spirit’s hands, whose eyes, as He received the gift, glared

with malicious rapture.

“Take it!” said the God-abandoned; “Now then save me! Snatch me from

hence!”

“Hold! Do you freely and absolutely renounce your Creator and his Son?”

“I do! I do!”

“Do you make over your soul to me for ever?”

“For ever!”

“Without reserve or subterfuge? Without future appeal to the divine

mercy?”

The last Chain fell from the door of the prison: The key was heard

turning in the Lock: Already the iron door grated heavily upon its

rusty hinges.

“I am yours for ever and irrevocably!” cried the Monk wild with terror:

“I abandon all claim to salvation! I own no power but yours! Hark!

Hark! They come! Oh! save me! Bear me away!”

“I have triumphed! You are mine past reprieve, and I fulfil my

promise.”

While He spoke, the Door unclosed. Instantly the Dæmon grasped one of

Ambrosio’s arms, spread his broad pinions, and sprang with him into the

air. The roof opened as they soared upwards, and closed again when they

had quitted the Dungeon.

In the meanwhile, the Gaoler was thrown into the utmost surprize by the

disappearance of his Prisoner. Though neither He nor the Archers were

in time to witness the Monk’s escape, a sulphurous smell prevailing

through the prison sufficiently informed them by whose aid He had been

liberated. They hastened to make their report to the Grand Inquisitor.

The story, how a Sorcerer had been carried away by the Devil, was soon

noised about Madrid; and for some days the whole City was employed in

discussing the subject. Gradually it ceased to be the topic of

conversation: Other adventures arose whose novelty engaged universal

attention; and Ambrosio was soon forgotten as totally, as if He never

had existed. While this was passing, the Monk supported by his infernal

guide, traversed the air with the rapidity of an arrow, and a few

moments placed him upon a Precipice’s brink, the steepest in Sierra

Morena.

Though rescued from the Inquisition, Ambrosio as yet was insensible of

the blessings of liberty. The damning contract weighed heavy upon his

mind; and the scenes in which He had been a principal actor had left

behind them such impressions as rendered his heart the seat of anarchy

and confusion. The Objects now before his eyes, and which the full Moon

sailing through clouds permitted him to examine, were ill-calculated to

inspire that calm, of which He stood so much in need. The disorder of

his imagination was increased by the wildness of the surrounding

scenery; By the gloomy Caverns and steep rocks, rising above each

other, and dividing the passing clouds; solitary clusters of Trees

scattered here and there, among whose thick-twined branches the wind of

night sighed hoarsely and mournfully; the shrill cry of mountain

Eagles, who had built their nests among these lonely Desarts; the

stunning roar of torrents, as swelled by late rains they rushed

violently down tremendous precipices; and the dark waters of a silent

sluggish stream which faintly reflected the moonbeams, and bathed the

Rock’s base on which Ambrosio stood. The Abbot cast round him a look of

terror. His infernal Conductor was still by his side, and eyed him with

a look of mingled malice, exultation, and contempt.

“Whither have you brought me?” said the Monk at length in an hollow

trembling voice: “Why am I placed in this melancholy scene? Bear me

from it quickly! Carry me to Matilda!”

The Fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in silence.

Ambrosio could not sustain his glance; He turned away his eyes, while

thus spoke the Dæmon:

“I have him then in my power! This model of piety! This being without

reproach! This Mortal who placed his puny virtues on a level with those

of Angels. He is mine! Irrevocably, eternally mine! Companions of my

sufferings! Denizens of hell! How grateful will be my present!”

He paused; then addressed himself to the Monk——

“Carry you to Matilda?” He continued, repeating Ambrosio’s words:

“Wretch! you shall soon be with her! You well deserve a place near her,

for hell boasts no miscreant more guilty than yourself.

Hark, Ambrosio, while I unveil your crimes! You have shed the blood of

two innocents; Antonia and Elvira perished by your hand. That Antonia

whom you violated, was your Sister! That Elvira whom you murdered, gave

you birth! Tremble, abandoned Hypocrite! Inhuman Parricide! Incestuous

Ravisher! Tremble at the extent of your offences! And you it was who

thought yourself proof against temptation, absolved from human

frailties, and free from error and vice! Is pride then a virtue? Is

inhumanity no fault? Know, vain Man! That I long have marked you for my

prey: I watched the movements of your heart; I saw that you were

virtuous from vanity, not principle, and I seized the fit moment of

seduction. I observed your blind idolatry of the Madona’s picture. I

bad a subordinate but crafty spirit assume a similar form, and you

eagerly yielded to the blandishments of Matilda. Your pride was

gratified by her flattery; Your lust only needed an opportunity to

break forth; You ran into the snare blindly, and scrupled not to commit

a crime which you blamed in another with unfeeling severity. It was I

who threw Matilda in your way; It was I who gave you entrance to

Antonia’s chamber; It was I who caused the dagger to be given you which

pierced your Sister’s bosom; and it was I who warned Elvira in dreams

of your designs upon her Daughter, and thus, by preventing your

profiting by her sleep, compelled you to add rape as well as incest to

the catalogue of your crimes. Hear, hear, Ambrosio! Had you resisted me

one minute longer, you had saved your body and soul. The guards whom

you heard at your prison door came to signify your pardon. But I had

already triumphed: My plots had already succeeded. Scarcely could I

propose crimes so quick as you performed them. You are mine, and Heaven

itself cannot rescue you from my power. Hope not that your penitence

will make void our contract. Here is your bond signed with your blood;

You have given up your claim to mercy, and nothing can restore to you

the rights which you have foolishly resigned. Believe you that your

secret thoughts escaped me? No, no, I read them all! You trusted that

you should still have time for repentance. I saw your artifice, knew

its falsity, and rejoiced in deceiving the deceiver! You are mine

beyond reprieve: I burn to possess my right, and alive you quit not

these mountains.”

During the Dæmon’s speech, Ambrosio had been stupefied by terror and

surprize. This last declaration rouzed him.

“Not quit these mountains alive?” He exclaimed: “Perfidious, what mean

you? Have you forgotten our contract?”

The Fiend answered by a malicious laugh:

“Our contract? Have I not performed my part? What more did I promise

than to save you from your prison? Have I not done so? Are you not safe

from the Inquisition—safe from all but from me? Fool that you were to

confide yourself to a Devil! Why did you not stipulate for life, and

power, and pleasure? Then all would have been granted: Now, your

reflections come too late. Miscreant, prepare for death; You have not

many hours to live!”

On hearing this sentence, dreadful were the feelings of the devoted

Wretch! He sank upon his knees, and raised his hands towards heaven.

The Fiend read his intention and prevented it—

“What?” He cried, darting at him a look of fury: “Dare you still

implore the Eternal’s mercy? Would you feign penitence, and again act

an Hypocrite’s part? Villain, resign your hopes of pardon. Thus I

secure my prey!”

As he said this, darting his talons into the monk’s shaven crown, he

sprang with him from the rock. The caves and mountains rang with

Ambrosio’s shrieks. The dæmon continued to soar aloft, till reaching a

dreadful height, He released the sufferer. Headlong fell the Monk

through the airy waste; The sharp point of a rock received him; and He

rolled from precipice to precipice, till bruised and mangled He rested

on the river’s banks. Life still existed in his miserable frame: He

attempted in vain to raise himself; His broken and dislocated limbs

refused to perform their office, nor was He able to quit the spot where

He had first fallen. The Sun now rose above the horizon; Its scorching

beams darted full upon the head of the expiring Sinner. Myriads of

insects were called forth by the warmth; They drank the blood which

trickled from Ambrosio’s wounds; He had no power to drive them from

him, and they fastened upon his sores, darted their stings into his

body, covered him with their multitudes, and inflicted on him tortures

the most exquisite and insupportable. The Eagles of the rock tore his

flesh piecemeal, and dug out his eyeballs with their crooked beaks. A

burning thirst tormented him; He heard the river’s murmur as it rolled

beside him, but strove in vain to drag himself towards the sound.

Blind, maimed, helpless, and despairing, venting his rage in blasphemy

and curses, execrating his existence, yet dreading the arrival of death

destined to yield him up to greater torments, six miserable days did

the Villain languish. On the Seventh a violent storm arose: The winds

in fury rent up rocks and forests: The sky was now black with clouds,

now sheeted with fire: The rain fell in torrents; It swelled the

stream; The waves overflowed their banks; They reached the spot where

Ambrosio lay, and when they abated carried with them into the river the

corse of the despairing monk.

Haughty Lady, why shrunk you back when yon poor frail-one drew near?

Was the air infected by her errors? Was your purity soiled by her

passing breath? Ah! Lady, smooth that insulting brow: stifle the

reproach just bursting from your scornful lip: wound not a soul, that

bleeds already! She has suffered, suffers still. Her air is gay, but

her heart is broken; her dress sparkles, but her bosom groans.

Lady, to look with mercy on the conduct of others, is a virtue no less

than to look with severity on your own.

FINIS.