CHAPTER VIII.

The crickets sing, and Man’s o’er-laboured sense

Repairs itself by rest: Our Tarquin thus

Did softly press the rushes, ere He wakened

The chastity He wounded—Cytherea,

How bravely thou becom’st thy bed! Fresh Lily!

And whiter than the sheets!

CYMBELINE.

All the researches of the Marquis de las Cisternas proved vain: Agnes

was lost to him for ever. Despair produced so violent an effect upon

his constitution, that the consequence was a long and severe illness.

This prevented him from visiting Elvira as He had intended; and She

being ignorant of the cause of his neglect, it gave her no trifling

uneasiness. His Sister’s death had prevented Lorenzo from communicating

to his Uncle his designs respecting Antonia: The injunctions of her

Mother forbad his presenting himself to her without the Duke’s consent;

and as She heard no more of him or his proposals, Elvira conjectured

that He had either met with a better match, or had been commanded to

give up all thoughts of her Daughter. Every day made her more uneasy

respecting Antonia’s fate: While She retained the Abbot’s protection,

She bore with fortitude the disappointment of her hopes with regard to

Lorenzo and the Marquis. That resource now failed her. She was

convinced that Ambrosio had meditated her Daughter’s ruin: And when She

reflected that her death would leave Antonia friendless and unprotected

in a world so base, so perfidious and depraved, her heart swelled with

the bitterness of apprehension. At such times She would sit for hours

gazing upon the lovely Girl; and seeming to listen to her innocent

prattle, while in reality her thoughts dwelt upon the sorrows into

which a moment would suffice to plunge her. Then She would clasp her in

her arms suddenly, lean her head upon her Daughter’s bosom, and bedew

it with her tears.

An event was in preparation which, had She known it, would have

relieved her from her inquietude. Lorenzo now waited only for a

favourable opportunity to inform the Duke of his intended marriage:

However, a circumstance which occurred at this period, obliged him to

delay his explanation for a few days longer.

Don Raymond’s malady seemed to gain ground. Lorenzo was constantly at

his bedside, and treated him with a tenderness truly fraternal. Both

the cause and effects of the disorder were highly afflicting to the

Brother of Agnes: yet Theodore’s grief was scarcely less sincere. That

amiable Boy quitted not his Master for a moment, and put every means in

practice to console and alleviate his sufferings. The Marquis had

conceived so rooted an affection for his deceased Mistress, that it was

evident to all that He never could survive her loss: Nothing could have

prevented him from sinking under his grief but the persuasion of her

being still alive, and in need of his assistance. Though convinced of

its falsehood, his Attendants encouraged him in a belief which formed

his only comfort. He was assured daily that fresh perquisitions were

making respecting the fate of Agnes: Stories were invented recounting

the various attempts made to get admittance into the Convent; and

circumstances were related which, though they did not promise her

absolute recovery, at least were sufficient to keep his hopes alive.

The Marquis constantly fell into the most terrible excess of passion

when informed of the failure of these supposed attempts. Still He would

not credit that the succeeding ones would have the same fate, but

flattered himself that the next would prove more fortunate.

Theodore was the only one who exerted himself to realize his Master’s

Chimoeras. He was eternally busied in planning schemes for entering the

Convent, or at least of obtaining from the Nuns some intelligence of

Agnes. To execute these schemes was the only inducement which could

prevail on him to quit Don Raymond. He became a very Proteus, changing

his shape every day; but all his metamorphoses were to very little

purpose: He regularly returned to the Palace de las Cisternas without

any intelligence to confirm his Master’s hopes. One day He took it into

his head to disguise himself as a Beggar. He put a patch over his left

eye, took his Guitar in hand, and posted himself at the Gate of the

Convent.

“If Agnes is really confined in the Convent,” thought He, “and hears my

voice, She will recollect it, and possibly may find means to let me

know that She is here.”

With this idea He mingled with a crowd of Beggars who assembled daily

at the Gate of St. Clare to receive Soup, which the Nuns were

accustomed to distribute at twelve o’clock. All were provided with jugs

or bowls to carry it away; But as Theodore had no utensil of this kind,

He begged leave to eat his portion at the Convent door. This was

granted without difficulty: His sweet voice, and in spite of his

patched eye, his engaging countenance, won the heart of the good old

Porteress, who, aided by a Lay-Sister, was busied in serving to each

his Mess. Theodore was bad to stay till the Others should depart, and

promised that his request should then be granted. The Youth desired no

better, since it was not to eat Soup that He presented himself at the

Convent. He thanked the Porteress for her permission, retired from the

Door, and seating himself upon a large stone, amused himself in tuning

his Guitar while the Beggars were served.

As soon as the Crowd was gone, Theodore was beckoned to the Gate, and

desired to come in. He obeyed with infinite readiness, but affected

great respect at passing the hallowed Threshold, and to be much daunted

by the presence of the Reverend Ladies. His feigned timidity flattered

the vanity of the Nuns, who endeavoured to reassure him. The Porteress

took him into her awn little Parlour: In the meanwhile, the Lay-Sister

went to the Kitchen, and soon returned with a double portion of Soup,

of better quality than what was given to the Beggars. His Hostess added

some fruits and confections from her own private store, and Both

encouraged the Youth to dine heartily. To all these attentions He

replied with much seeming gratitude, and abundance of blessings upon

his benefactresses. While He ate, the Nuns admired the delicacy of his

features, the beauty of his hair, and the sweetness and grace which

accompanied all his actions. They lamented to each other in whispers,

that so charming a Youth should be exposed to the seductions of the

World, and agreed, that He would be a worthy Pillar of the Catholic

Church. They concluded their conference by resolving that Heaven would

be rendered a real service if they entreated the Prioress to intercede

with Ambrosio for the Beggar’s admission into the order of Capuchins.

This being determined, the Porteress, who was a person of great

influence in the Convent, posted away in all haste to the Domina’s

Cell. Here She made so flaming a narrative of Theodore’s merits that

the old Lady grew curious to see him. Accordingly, the Porteress was

commissioned to convey him to the Parlour grate. In the interim, the

supposed Beggar was sifting the Lay-Sister with respect to the fate of

Agnes: Her evidence only corroborated the Domina’s assertions. She said

that Agnes had been taken ill on returning from confession, had never

quitted her bed from that moment, and that She had herself been present

at the Funeral. She even attested having seen her dead body, and

assisted with her own hands in adjusting it upon the Bier. This account

discouraged Theodore: Yet as He had pushed the adventure so far, He

resolved to witness its conclusion.

The Porteress now returned, and ordered him to follow her. He obeyed,

and was conducted into the Parlour, where the Lady Prioress was already

posted at the Grate. The Nuns surrounded her, who all flocked with

eagerness to a scene which promised some diversion. Theodore saluted

them with profound respect, and his presence had the power to smooth

for a moment even the stern brow of the Superior. She asked several

questions respecting his Parents, his religion, and what had reduced

him to a state of Beggary. To these demands his answers were perfectly

satisfactory and perfectly false. He was then asked his opinion of a

monastic life: He replied in terms of high estimation and respect for

it. Upon this, the Prioress told him that his obtaining an entrance

into a religious order was not impossible; that her recommendation

would not permit his poverty to be an obstacle, and that if She found

him deserving it, He might depend in future upon her protection.

Theodore assured her that to merit her favour would be his highest

ambition; and having ordered him to return next day, when She would

talk with him further, the Domina quitted the Parlour.

The Nuns, whom respect for the Superior had till then kept silent, now

crowded all together to the Grate, and assailed the Youth with a

multitude of questions. He had already examined each with attention:

Alas! Agnes was not amongst them. The Nuns heaped question upon

question so thickly that it was scarcely possible for him to reply. One

asked where He was born, since his accent declared him to be a

Foreigner: Another wanted to know, why He wore a patch upon his left

eye: Sister Helena enquired whether He had not a Sister like him,

because She should like such a Companion; and Sister Rachael was fully

persuaded that the Brother would be the pleasanter Companion of the

Two. Theodore amused himself with retailing to the credulous Nuns for

truths all the strange stories which his imagination could invent. He

related to them his supposed adventures, and penetrated every Auditor

with astonishment, while He talked of Giants, Savages, Ship-wrecks, and

Islands inhabited

“By anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders,”

with many other circumstances to the full as remarkable. He said, that

He was born in Terra Incognita, was educated at an Hottentot

University, and had past two years among the Americans of Silesia.

“For what regards the loss of my eye” said He, “it was a just

punishment upon me for disrespect to the Virgin, when I made my second

pilgrimage to Loretto. I stood near the Altar in the miraculous Chapel:

The Monks were proceeding to array the Statue in her best apparel. The

Pilgrims were ordered to close their eyes during this ceremony: But

though by nature extremely religious, curiosity was too powerful. At

the moment ..... I shall penetrate you with horror, reverend Ladies,

when I reveal my crime! .... At the moment that the Monks were changing

her shift, I ventured to open my left eye, and gave a little peep

towards the Statue. That look was my last! The Glory which surrounded

the Virgin was too great to be supported. I hastily shut my

sacrilegious eye, and never have been able to unclose it since!”

At the relation of this miracle the Nuns all crossed themselves, and

promised to intercede with the blessed Virgin for the recovery of his

sight. They expressed their wonder at the extent of his travels, and at

the strange adventures which He had met with at so early an age. They

now remarked his Guitar, and enquired whether he was an adept in Music.

He replied with modesty that it was not for him to decide upon his

talents, but requested permission to appeal to them as Judges. This was

granted without difficulty.

“But at least,” said the old Porteress, “take care not to sing any

thing profane.”

“You may depend upon my discretion,” replied Theodore: “You shall hear

how dangerous it is for young Women to abandon themselves to their

passions, illustrated by the adventure of a Damsel who fell suddenly in

love with an unknown Knight.”

“But is the adventure true?” enquired the Porteress.

“Every word of it. It happened in Denmark, and the Heroine was thought

so beautiful that She was known by no other name but that of ‘the

lovely Maid’.”

“In Denmark, say you?” mumbled an old Nun; “Are not the People all

Blacks in Denmark?”

“By no means, reverend Lady; They are of a delicate pea-green with

flame-coloured hair and whiskers.”

“Mother of God! Pea-green?” exclaimed Sister Helena; “Oh! ’tis

impossible!”

“Impossible?” said the Porteress with a look of contempt and

exultation: “Not at all: When I was a young Woman, I remember seeing

several of them myself.”

Theodore now put his instrument in proper order. He had read the story

of a King of England whose prison was discovered by a Minstrel; and He

hoped that the same scheme would enable him to discover Agnes, should

She be in the Convent. He chose a Ballad which She had taught him

herself in the Castle of Lindenberg: She might possibly catch the

sound, and He hoped to hear her replying to some of the Stanzas. His

Guitar was now in tune, and He prepared to strike it.

“But before I begin,” said He “it is necessary to inform you, Ladies,

that this same Denmark is terribly infested by Sorcerers, Witches, and

Evil Spirits. Every element possesses its appropriate Dæmons. The Woods

are haunted by a malignant power, called ‘the Erl- or Oak-King:’ He it

is who blights the Trees, spoils the Harvest, and commands the Imps and

Goblins: He appears in the form of an old Man of majestic figure, with

a golden Crown and long white beard: His principal amusement is to

entice young Children from their Parents, and as soon as He gets them

into his Cave, He tears them into a thousand pieces—The Rivers are

governed by another Fiend, called ‘the Water-King:’ His province is to

agitate the deep, occasion ship-wrecks, and drag the drowning Sailors

beneath the waves: He wears the appearance of a Warrior, and employs

himself in luring young Virgins into his snare: What He does with them,

when He catches them in the water, Reverend Ladies, I leave for you to

imagine—‘The Fire-King’ seems to be a Man all formed of flames: He

raises the Meteors and wandering lights which beguile Travellers into

ponds and marshes, and He directs the lightning where it may do most

mischief—The last of these elementary Dæmons is called ‘the

Cloud-King;’ His figure is that of a beautiful Youth, and He is

distinguished by two large sable Wings: Though his outside is so

enchanting, He is not a bit better disposed than the Others: He is

continually employed in raising Storms, tearing up Forests by the

roots, and blowing Castles and Convents about the ears of their

Inhabitants. The First has a Daughter, who is Queen of the Elves and

Fairies; The Second has a Mother, who is a powerful Enchantress:

Neither of these Ladies are worth more than the Gentlemen: I do not

remember to have heard any family assigned to the two other Dæmons, but

at present I have no business with any of them except the Fiend of the

Waters. He is the Hero of my Ballad; but I thought it necessary before

I began, to give you some account of his proceedings—”

Theodore then played a short symphony; After which, stretching his

voice to its utmost extent to facilitate its reaching the ear of Agnes,

He sang the following Stanzas.

THE WATER-KING

A DANISH BALLAD

With gentle murmur flowed the tide,

While by the fragrant flowery side

The lovely Maid with carols gay

To Mary’s church pursued her way.

The Water-Fiend’s malignant eye

Along the Banks beheld her hie;

Straight to his Mother-witch he sped,

And thus in suppliant accents said:

“Oh! Mother! Mother! now advise,

How I may yonder Maid surprize:

Oh! Mother! Mother! Now explain,

How I may yonder Maid obtain.”

The Witch She gave him armour white;

She formed him like a gallant Knight;

Of water clear next made her hand

A Steed, whose housings were of sand.

The Water-King then swift He went;

To Mary’s Church his steps He bent:

He bound his Courser to the Door,

And paced the Church-yard three times four.

His Courser to the door bound He,

And paced the Church-yard four time three:

Then hastened up the Aisle, where all

The People flocked, both great and small.

The Priest said, as the Knight drew near,

“And wherefore comes the white Chief here?”

The lovely Maid She smiled aside;

“Oh! would I were the white Chief’s Bride!”

He stept o’er Benches one and two;

“Oh! lovely Maid, I die for You!”

He stept o’er Benches two and three;

“Oh! lovely Maiden, go with me!”

Then sweet She smiled, the lovely Maid,

And while She gave her hand, She said,

“Betide me joy, betide me woe,

O’er Hill, o’er dale, with thee I go.”

The Priest their hands together joins:

They dance, while clear the moon-beam shines;

And little thinks the Maiden bright,

Her Partner is the Water-spright.

Oh! had some spirit deigned to sing,

“Your Partner is the Water-King!”

The Maid had fear and hate confest,

And cursed the hand which then She prest.

But nothing giving cause to think,

How near She strayed to danger’s brink,

Still on She went, and hand in hand

The Lovers reached the yellow sand.

“Ascend this Steed with me, my Dear;

We needs must cross the streamlet here;

Ride boldly in; It is not deep;

The winds are hushed, the billows sleep.”

Thus spoke the Water-King. The Maid

Her Traitor-Bride-groom’s wish obeyed:

And soon She saw the Courser lave

Delighted in his parent wave.

“Stop! Stop! my Love! The waters blue

E’en now my shrinking foot bedew!”

“Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet Heart!

We now have reached the deepest part.”

“Stop! Stop! my Love! For now I see

The waters rise above my knee.”

“Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet Heart!

We now have reached the deepest part.”

“Stop! Stop! for God’s sake, stop! For Oh!

The waters o’er my bosom flow!”—

Scarce was the word pronounced, when Knight

And Courser vanished from her sight.

She shrieks, but shrieks in vain; for high

The wild winds rising dull the cry;

The Fiend exults; The Billows dash,

And o’er their hapless Victim wash.

Three times while struggling with the stream,

The lovely Maid was heard to scream;

But when the Tempest’s rage was o’er,

The lovely Maid was seen no more.

Warned by this Tale, ye Damsels fair,

To whom you give your love beware!

Believe not every handsome Knight,

And dance not with the Water-Spright!

The Youth ceased to sing. The Nuns were delighted with the sweetness of

his voice and masterly manner of touching the Instrument: But however

acceptable this applause would have been at any other time, at present

it was insipid to Theodore. His artifice had not succeeded. He paused

in vain between the Stanzas: No voice replied to his, and He abandoned

the hope of equalling Blondel.

The Convent Bell now warned the Nuns that it was time to assemble in

the Refectory. They were obliged to quit the Grate; They thanked the

Youth for the entertainment which his Music had afforded them, and

charged him to return the next day. This He promised: The Nuns, to give

him the greater inclination to keep his word, told him that He might

always depend upon the Convent for his meals, and each of them made him

some little present. One gave him a box of sweetmeats; Another, an

Agnus Dei; Some brought reliques of Saints, waxen Images, and

consecrated Crosses; and Others presented him with pieces of those

works in which the Religious excel, such as embroidery, artificial

flowers, lace, and needlework. All these He was advised to sell, in

order to put himself into better case; and He was assured that it would

be easy to dispose of them, since the Spaniards hold the performances

of the Nuns in high estimation. Having received these gifts with

seeming respect and gratitude, He remarked that, having no Basket, He

knew not how to convey them away. Several of the Nuns were hastening in

search of one, when they were stopped by the return of an elderly

Woman, whom Theodore had not till then observed: Her mild countenance,

and respectable air prejudiced him immediately in her favour.

“Hah!” said the Porteress; “Here comes the Mother St. Ursula with a

Basket.”

The Nun approached the Grate, and presented the Basket to Theodore: It

was of willow, lined with blue satin, and upon the four sides were

painted scenes from the legend of St. Genevieve.

“Here is my gift,” said She, as She gave it into his hand; “Good Youth,

despise it not; Though its value seems insignificant, it has many

hidden virtues.”

She accompanied these words with an expressive look. It was not lost

upon Theodore; In receiving the present, He drew as near the Grate as

possible.

“Agnes!” She whispered in a voice scarcely intelligible. Theodore,

however, caught the sound: He concluded that some mystery was concealed

in the Basket, and his heart beat with impatience and joy. At this

moment the Domina returned. Her air was gloomy and frowning, and She

looked if possible more stern than ever.

“Mother St. Ursula, I would speak with you in private.”

The Nun changed colour, and was evidently disconcerted.

“With me?” She replied in a faltering voice.

The Domina motioned that She must follow her, and retired. The Mother

St. Ursula obeyed her; Soon after, the Refectory Bell ringing a second

time, the Nuns quitted the Grate, and Theodore was left at liberty to

carry off his prize. Delighted that at length He had obtained some

intelligence for the Marquis, He flew rather than ran, till He reached

the Hotel de las Cisternas. In a few minutes He stood by his Master’s

Bed with the Basket in his hand. Lorenzo was in the chamber,

endeavouring to reconcile his Friend to a misfortune which He felt

himself but too severely. Theodore related his adventure, and the hopes

which had been created by the Mother St. Ursula’s gift. The Marquis

started from his pillow: That fire which since the death of Agnes had

been extinguished, now revived in his bosom, and his eyes sparkled with

the eagerness of expectation. The emotions which Lorenzo’s countenance

betrayed, were scarcely weaker, and He waited with inexpressible

impatience for the solution of this mystery. Raymond caught the basket

from the hands of his Page: He emptied the contents upon the bed, and

examined them with minute attention. He hoped that a letter would be

found at the bottom; Nothing of the kind appeared. The search was

resumed, and still with no better success. At length Don Raymond

observed that one corner of the blue satin lining was unripped; He tore

it open hastily, and drew forth a small scrap of paper neither folded

or sealed. It was addressed to the Marquis de las Cisternas, and the

contents were as follows:

“Having recognised your Page, I venture to send these few lines.

Procure an order from the Cardinal-Duke for seizing my Person, and that

of the Domina; But let it not be executed till Friday at midnight. It

is the Festival of St. Clare: There will be a procession of Nuns by

torch-light, and I shall be among them. Beware not to let your

intention be known: Should a syllable be dropt to excite the Domina’s

suspicions, you will never hear of me more. Be cautious, if you prize

the memory of Agnes, and wish to punish her Assassins. I have that to

tell, will freeze your blood with horror.

“ST. URSULA.”

No sooner had the Marquis read the note than He fell back upon his

pillow deprived of sense or motion. The hope failed him which till now

had supported his existence; and these lines convinced him but too

positively that Agnes was indeed no more. Lorenzo felt this

circumstance less forcibly, since it had always been his idea that his

Sister had perished by unfair means. When He found by the Mother St.

Ursula’s letter how true were his suspicions, the confirmation excited

no other sentiment in his bosom than a wish to punish the Murderers as

they deserved. It was no easy task to recall the Marquis to himself. As

soon as He recovered his speech, He broke out into execrations against

the Assassins of his Beloved, and vowed to take upon them a signal

vengeance. He continued to rave and torment himself with impotent

passion till his constitution, enfeebled by grief and illness, could

support itself no longer, and He relapsed into insensibility. His

melancholy situation sincerely affected Lorenzo, who would willingly

have remained in the apartment of his Friend; But other cares now

demanded his presence. It was necessary to procure the order for

seizing the Prioress of St. Clare. For this purpose, having committed

Raymond to the care of the best Physicians in Madrid, He quitted the

Hotel de las Cisternas, and bent his course towards the Palace of the

Cardinal-Duke.

His disappointment was excessive, when He found that affairs of State

had obliged the Cardinal to set out for a distant Province.

It wanted but five to Friday: Yet by travelling day and night, He hoped

to return in time for the Pilgrimage of St. Clare. In this He

succeeded. He found the Cardinal-Duke; and represented to him the

supposed culpability of the Prioress, as also the violent effects which

it had produced upon Don Raymond. He could have used no argument so

forcible as this last. Of all his Nephews, the Marquis was the only one

to whom the Cardinal-Duke was sincerely attached: He perfectly doated

upon him, and the Prioress could have committed no greater crime in his

eyes than to have endangered the life of the Marquis. Consequently, He

granted the order of arrest without difficulty: He also gave Lorenzo a

letter to a principal Officer of the Inquisition, desiring him to see

his mandate executed. Furnished with these papers, Medina hastened back

to Madrid, which He reached on the Friday a few hours before dark. He

found the Marquis somewhat easier, but so weak and exhausted that

without great exertion He could neither speak or more. Having past an

hour by his Bedside, Lorenzo left him to communicate his design to his

Uncle, as also to give Don Ramirez de Mello the Cardinal’s letter. The

First was petrified with horror when He learnt the fate of his unhappy

Niece: He encouraged Lorenzo to punish her Assassins, and engaged to

accompany him at night to St. Clare’s Convent. Don Ramirez promised his

firmest support, and selected a band of trusty Archers to prevent

opposition on the part of the Populace.

But while Lorenzo was anxious to unmask one religious Hypocrite, He was

unconscious of the sorrows prepared for him by Another. Aided by

Matilda’s infernal Agents, Ambrosio had resolved upon the innocent

Antonia’s ruin. The moment destined to be so fatal to her arrived. She

had taken leave of her Mother for the night.

As She kissed her, She felt an unusual despondency infuse itself into

her bosom. She left her, and returned to her instantly, threw herself

into her maternal arms, and bathed her cheek with tears: She felt

uneasy at quitting her, and a secret presentiment assured her that

never must they meet again. Elvira observed, and tried to laugh her out

of this childish prejudice: She chid her mildly for encouraging such

ungrounded sadness, and warned her how dangerous it was to encourage

such ideas.

To all her remonstrances She received no other answer than,

“Mother! Dear Mother! Oh! would to God, it were Morning!”

Elvira, whose inquietude respecting her Daughter was a great obstacle

to her perfect reestablishment, was still labouring under the effects

of her late severe illness. She was this Evening more than usually

indisposed, and retired to bed before her accustomed hour. Antonia

withdrew from her Mother’s chamber with regret, and till the Door

closed, kept her eyes fixed upon her with melancholy expression. She

retired to her own apartment; Her heart was filled with bitterness: It

seemed to her that all her prospects were blasted, and the world

contained nothing for which it was worth existing. She sank into a

Chair, reclined her head upon her arm, and gazed upon the floor with a

vacant stare, while the most gloomy images floated before her fancy.

She was still in this state of insensibility when She was disturbed by

hearing a strain of soft Music breathed beneath her window. She rose,

drew near the Casement, and opened it to hear it more distinctly.

Having thrown her veil over her face, She ventured to look out. By the

light of the Moon She perceived several Men below with Guitars and

Lutes in their hands; and at a little distance from them stood Another

wrapped in his cloak, whose stature and appearance bore a strong

resemblance to Lorenzo’s. She was not deceived in this conjecture. It

was indeed Lorenzo himself, who bound by his word not to present

himself to Antonia without his Uncle’s consent, endeavoured by

occasional Serenades, to convince his Mistress that his attachment

still existed. His stratagem had not the desired effect. Antonia was

far from supposing that this nightly music was intended as a compliment

to her: She was too modest to think herself worthy such attentions; and

concluding them to be addressed to some neighbouring Lady, She grieved

to find that they were offered by Lorenzo.

The air which was played, was plaintive and melodious. It accorded with

the state of Antonia’s mind, and She listened with pleasure. After a

symphony of some length, it was succeeded by the sound of voices, and

Antonia distinguished the following words.

SERENADE

Chorus

Oh! Breathe in gentle strain, my Lyre!

’Tis here that Beauty loves to rest:

Describe the pangs of fond desire,

Which rend a faithful Lover’s breast.

Song

In every heart to find a Slave,

In every Soul to fix his reign,

In bonds to lead the wise and brave,

And make the Captives kiss his chain,

Such is the power of Love, and Oh!

I grieve so well Love’s power to know.

In sighs to pass the live-long day,

To taste a short and broken sleep,

For one dear Object far away,

All others scorned, to watch and weep,

Such are the pains of Love, and Oh!

I grieve so well Love’s pains to know!

To read consent in virgin eyes,

To press the lip ne’er prest till then

To hear the sigh of transport rise,

And kiss, and kiss, and kiss again,

Such are thy pleasures, Love, But Oh!

When shall my heart thy pleasures know?

Chorus

Now hush, my Lyre! My voice be still!

Sleep, gentle Maid! May fond desire

With amorous thoughts thy visions fill,

Though still my voice, and hushed my Lyre.

The Music ceased: The Performers dispersed, and silence prevailed

through the Street. Antonia quitted the window with regret: She as

usual recommended herself to the protection of St. Rosolia, said her

accustomed prayers, and retired to bed. Sleep was not long absent, and

his presence relieved her from her terrors and inquietude.

It was almost two o’clock before the lustful Monk ventured to bend his

steps towards Antonia’s dwelling. It has been already mentioned that

the Abbey was at no great distance from the Strada di San Iago. He

reached the House unobserved. Here He stopped, and hesitated for a

moment. He reflected on the enormity of the crime, the consequences of

a discovery, and the probability, after what had passed, of Elvira’s

suspecting him to be her Daughter’s Ravisher: On the other hand it was

suggested that She could do no more than suspect; that no proofs of his

guilt could be produced; that it would seem impossible for the rape to

have been committed without Antonia’s knowing when, where, or by whom;

and finally, He believed that his fame was too firmly established to be

shaken by the unsupported accusations of two unknown Women. This latter

argument was perfectly false: He knew not how uncertain is the air of

popular applause, and that a moment suffices to make him today the

detestation of the world, who yesterday was its Idol. The result of the

Monk’s deliberations was that He should proceed in his enterprize. He

ascended the steps leading to the House. No sooner did He touch the

door with the silver Myrtle, than it flew open, and presented him with

a free passage. He entered, and the door closed after him of its own

accord.

Guided by the moonbeams, He proceeded up the Staircase with slow and

cautious steps. He looked round him every moment with apprehension and

anxiety. He saw a Spy in every shadow, and heard a voice in every

murmur of the night breeze. Consciousness of the guilty business on

which He was employed appalled his heart, and rendered it more timid

than a Woman’s. Yet still He proceeded. He reached the door of

Antonia’s chamber. He stopped, and listened. All was hushed within. The

total silence persuaded him that his intended Victim was retired to

rest, and He ventured to lift up the Latch. The door was fastened, and

resisted his efforts: But no sooner was it touched by the Talisman,

than the Bolt flew back. The Ravisher stept on, and found himself in

the chamber, where slept the innocent Girl, unconscious how dangerous a

Visitor was drawing near her Couch. The door closed after him, and the

Bolt shot again into its fastening.

Ambrosio advanced with precaution. He took care that not a board should

creak under his foot, and held in his breath as He approached the Bed.

His first attention was to perform the magic ceremony, as Matilda had

charged him: He breathed thrice upon the silver Myrtle, pronounced over

it Antonia’s name, and laid it upon her pillow. The effects which it

had already produced permitted not his doubting its success in

prolonging the slumbers of his devoted Mistress. No sooner was the

enchantment performed than He considered her to be absolutely in his

power, and his eyes flamed with lust and impatience. He now ventured to

cast a glance upon the sleeping Beauty. A single Lamp, burning before

the Statue of St. Rosolia, shed a faint light through the room, and

permitted him to examine all the charms of the lovely Object before

him. The heat of the weather had obliged her to throw off part of the

Bed-cloathes: Those which still covered her, Ambrosio’s insolent hand

hastened to remove. She lay with her cheek reclining upon one ivory

arm; The Other rested on the side of the Bed with graceful indolence. A

few tresses of her hair had escaped from beneath the Muslin which

confined the rest, and fell carelessly over her bosom, as it heaved

with slow and regular suspiration. The warm air had spread her cheek

with higher colour than usual. A smile inexpressibly sweet played round

her ripe and coral lips, from which every now and then escaped a gentle

sigh or an half-pronounced sentence. An air of enchanting innocence and

candour pervaded her whole form; and there was a sort of modesty in her

very nakedness which added fresh stings to the desires of the lustful

Monk.

He remained for some moments devouring those charms with his eyes which

soon were to be subjected to his ill-regulated passions. Her mouth

half-opened seemed to solicit a kiss: He bent over her; he joined his

lips to hers, and drew in the fragrance of her breath with rapture.

This momentary pleasure increased his longing for still greater. His

desires were raised to that frantic height by which Brutes are

agitated. He resolved not to delay for one instant longer the

accomplishment of his wishes, and hastily proceeded to tear off those

garments which impeded the gratification of his lust.

“Gracious God!” exclaimed a voice behind him; “Am I not deceived?

Is not this an illusion?”

Terror, confusion, and disappointment accompanied these words, as they

struck Ambrosio’s hearing. He started, and turned towards it. Elvira

stood at the door of the chamber, and regarded the Monk with looks of

surprize and detestation.

A frightful dream had represented to her Antonia on the verge of a

precipice. She saw her trembling on the brink: Every moment seemed to

threaten her fall, and She heard her exclaim with shrieks, “Save me,

Mother! Save me!—Yet a moment, and it will be too late!” Elvira woke in

terror. The vision had made too strong an impression upon her mind, to

permit her resting till assured of her Daughter’s safety. She hastily

started from her Bed, threw on a loose night-gown, and passing through

the Closet in which slept the Waiting-woman, She reached Antonia’s

chamber just in time to rescue her from the grasp of the Ravisher.

His shame and her amazement seemed to have petrified into Statues both

Elvira and the Monk: They remained gazing upon each other in silence.

The Lady was the first to recover herself.

“It is no dream!” She cried; “It is really Ambrosio, who stands before

me! It is the Man whom Madrid esteems a Saint, that I find at this late

hour near the Couch of my unhappy Child! Monster of Hypocrisy! I

already suspected your designs, but forbore your accusation in pity to

human frailty. Silence would now be criminal: The whole City shall be

informed of your incontinence. I will unmask you, Villain, and convince

the Church what a Viper She cherishes in her bosom.”

Pale and confused the baffled Culprit stood trembling before her.

He would fain have extenuated his offence, but could find no apology

for his conduct: He could produce nothing but broken sentences, and

excuses which contradicted each other. Elvira was too justly incensed

to grant the pardon which He requested. She protested that She would

raise the neighbourhood, and make him an example to all future

Hypocrites. Then hastening to the Bed, She called to Antonia to wake;

and finding that her voice had no effect, She took her arm, and raised

her forcibly from the pillow. The charm operated too powerfully.

Antonia remained insensible, and on being released by her Mother, sank

back upon the pillow.

“This slumber cannot be natural!” cried the amazed Elvira, whose

indignation increased with every moment. “Some mystery is concealed in

it; But tremble, Hypocrite; all your villainy shall soon be unravelled!

Help! Help!” She exclaimed aloud; “Within there! Flora! Flora!”

“Hear me for one moment, Lady!” cried the Monk, restored to himself by

the urgency of the danger; “By all that is sacred and holy, I swear

that your Daughter’s honour is still unviolated. Forgive my

transgression! Spare me the shame of a discovery, and permit me to

regain the Abbey undisturbed. Grant me this request in mercy! I promise

not only that Antonia shall be secure from me in future, but that the

rest of my life shall prove .....”

Elvira interrupted him abruptly.

“Antonia secure from you? _I_ will secure her! You shall betray no

longer the confidence of Parents! Your iniquity shall be unveiled to

the public eye: All Madrid shall shudder at your perfidy, your

hypocrisy and incontinence. What Ho! there! Flora! Flora, I say!”

While She spoke thus, the remembrance of Agnes struck upon his mind.

Thus had She sued to him for mercy, and thus had He refused her prayer!

It was now his turn to suffer, and He could not but acknowledge that

his punishment was just. In the meanwhile Elvira continued to call

Flora to her assistance; but her voice was so choaked with passion that

the Servant, who was buried in profound slumber, was insensible to all

her cries: Elvira dared not go towards the Closet in which Flora slept,

lest the Monk should take that opportunity to escape. Such indeed was

his intention: He trusted that could He reach the Abbey unobserved by

any other than Elvira, her single testimony would not suffice to ruin a

reputation so well established as his was in Madrid. With this idea He

gathered up such garments as He had already thrown off, and hastened

towards the Door. Elvira was aware of his design; She followed him, and

ere He could draw back the bolt, seized him by the arm, and detained

him.

“Attempt not to fly!” said She; “You quit not this room without

Witnesses of your guilt.”

Ambrosio struggled in vain to disengage himself. Elvira quitted not her

hold, but redoubled her cries for succour. The Friar’s danger grew more

urgent. He expected every moment to hear people assembling at her

voice; And worked up to madness by the approach of ruin, He adopted a

resolution equally desperate and savage. Turning round suddenly, with

one hand He grasped Elvira’s throat so as to prevent her continuing her

clamour, and with the other, dashing her violently upon the ground, He

dragged her towards the Bed. Confused by this unexpected attack, She

scarcely had power to strive at forcing herself from his grasp: While

the Monk, snatching the pillow from beneath her Daughter’s head,

covering with it Elvira’s face, and pressing his knee upon her stomach

with all his strength, endeavoured to put an end to her existence. He

succeeded but too well. Her natural strength increased by the excess of

anguish, long did the Sufferer struggle to disengage herself, but in

vain. The Monk continued to kneel upon her breast, witnessed without

mercy the convulsive trembling of her limbs beneath him, and sustained

with inhuman firmness the spectacle of her agonies, when soul and body

were on the point of separating. Those agonies at length were over. She

ceased to struggle for life. The Monk took off the pillow, and gazed

upon her. Her face was covered with a frightful blackness:

Her limbs moved no more; The blood was chilled in her veins; Her heart

had forgotten to beat, and her hands were stiff and frozen.

Ambrosio beheld before him that once noble and majestic form, now

become a Corse, cold, senseless and disgusting.

This horrible act was no sooner perpetrated, than the Friar beheld the

enormity of his crime. A cold dew flowed over his limbs; his eyes

closed; He staggered to a chair, and sank into it almost as lifeless as

the Unfortunate who lay extended at his feet. From this state He was

rouzed by the necessity of flight, and the danger of being found in

Antonia’s apartment. He had no desire to profit by the execution of his

crime. Antonia now appeared to him an object of disgust. A deadly cold

had usurped the place of that warmth which glowed in his bosom: No

ideas offered themselves to his mind but those of death and guilt, of

present shame and future punishment. Agitated by remorse and fear He

prepared for flight: Yet his terrors did not so compleatly master his

recollection, as to prevent his taking the precautions necessary for

his safety. He replaced the pillow upon the bed, gathered up his

garments, and with the fatal Talisman in his hand, bent his unsteady

steps towards the door. Bewildered by fear, He fancied that his flight

was opposed by Legions of Phantoms; Whereever He turned, the disfigured

Corse seemed to lie in his passage, and it was long before He succeeded

in reaching the door. The enchanted Myrtle produced its former effect.

The door opened, and He hastened down the staircase. He entered the

Abbey unobserved, and having shut himself into his Cell, He abandoned

his soul to the tortures of unavailing remorse, and terrors of

impending detection.