The monk: a romance. In three volumes. ... [pt.1] Lewis, M. G. (Matthew Gregory), 1775-1818. 238 600dpi bitonal TIFF page images and SGML/XML encoded text University of Michigan Library Ann Arbor, Michigan 2009 April 004888900 T132693 CW113719433 K105233.001 CW3313719433 ECLL 0642400301

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The monk: a romance. In three volumes. ... Lewis, M. G. (Matthew Gregory), 1775-1818. 3v. ; 12⁰. printed for J. Bell, London : 1796. Preface signed: M. G. L., i.e. Matthew Gregory Lewis. Todd's first edition, first issue, with the quotations before the volume numbers on the titlepages. Reproduction of original from the British Library. English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT132693. Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).

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eng

THE MONK: A ROMANCE.

Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, ſagas, Nocturnos lemures, portentaque. HORAT. Dreams, magic terrors, ſpells of mighty power, Witches, and ghoſts who rove at midnight hour.

IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. BELL, OXFORD-STREET. M.DCC.XCVI.

PREFACE. IMITATION OF HORACE, EP. 20.—B. 1. METHINKS, Oh! vain ill judging book, I ſee thee caſt a wiſhful look, Where reputations won and loſt are In famous row called Paternoſter. Incenſed to find your precious olio Buried in unexplored port-folio, You ſcorn the prudent lock and key, And pant well bound and gilt to ſee Your volume in the window ſet Of Stockdale, Hook ham, or Debrett Go then, and paſs that dangerous bourn Whence never book can back return: And when you find, condemned, deſpiſed, Neglected, blamed, and eriticiſed, Abuſe from all who read you fall, (If haply you be read at all) Sorely will you your folly ſigh at, And wiſh for me, and home, and quiet. Aſſuming now a conjuror's office, I Thus on your future fortune propheſy:— Soon as your novelty is o'er, And you are young and new no more, In ſome dark dirty corner thrown, Mouldy with damps, with cobwebs ſtrown, Your leaves ſhall be the book-worm's prey; Or ſent to chandler-ſhop away, And doomed to ſuffer public ſcandal, Shall line the trunk, or wrap the candle! But ſhould you meet with approbation, And ſome one find an inclination To aſk, by natural tranſition, Reſpecting me and my condition; That I am one, the enquirer teach, Nor very poor, nor very rich; Of paſſions ſtrong, of haſty nature, Of graceleſs form and dwarfiſh ſtature; By few approved, and few approving; Extreme in hating and in loving; Abhorring all whom I diſlike, Adoring who my fancy ſtrike; In forming judgements never long, And for the moſt part judging wrong; In friendſhip firm, but ſtill believing Others are treacherous and deceiving, And thinking in the preſent aera That friendſhip is a pure chimaera: More paſſionate no creature living, Proud, obſtinate, and unforgiving, But yet for thoſe who kindneſs ſhow, Ready through fire and ſmoke to go. Again, ſhould it be aſked your page, "Pray, what may be the author's age?" Your faults, no doubt, will make it clear, I ſcarce have ſeen my twentieth year, Which paſſed, kind Reader, on my word, While England's throne held George the Third. Now then your venturous courſe purſue: Go, my delight! Dear book, adieu! HAGUE, Oct. 28, 1794. M. G. L.
TABLE OF THE POETRY. PREFACE—Imitation of Horace VOL. I. Page iii The Gipſy's Song Page 56 Inſcription in an Hermitage Page 87 Durandarte and Belerma Page 133 Love and Age VOL. II. Page 128 The Exile Page 165 Midnight Hymn Page 238 The Water-King VOL. III. Page 17 Serenade Page 32 Alonzo the Brave and Fair Imogine Page 63
ADVERTISEMENT.

THE firſt idea of this Romance was ſuggeſted by the ſtory of the Santon Barſiſa, related in The Guardian.—The Bleeding Nan is a tradition ſtill credited in many parts of Germany; and I have been told, that the ruins of the caſtle of Lauenſtein, which ſhe is ſuppoſed to haunt, may yet be ſeen upon the borders of Thuringia.—The Water-King, from the third to the twelfth ſtanza, is the fragment of an original Daniſh ballad—And Belerma and Durandarte is tranſlated from ſome ſtanzas to be found in a collection of old Spaniſh poetry, which contains alſo the popular ſong of Gayferos and Meleſindra, mentioned in Don Quixote.—I have now made a full avowal of all the plagiariſms of which I am aware myſelf; but I doubt not, many more may be found, of which I am at preſent totally unconſcious.

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

SCARCELY had the abbey-bell tolled for five minutes, and already was the church of the Capuchins thronged with auditors. Do not encourage the idea, that the crowd was aſſembled either from motives of piety or thirſt of information. But very few were influenced by thoſe reaſons; and in a city where ſuperſtition reigns with ſuch deſpotic ſway as in Madrid, to ſeek for true devotion would be a fruitleſs attempt. The audience now aſſembled in the Capuchin church was collected by various cauſes, but all of them were foreign to the oſtenſible motive. The women came to ſhow themſelves, the men to ſee the women: ſome were attracted by curioſity to hear an orator ſo celebrated; ſome came, becauſe they had no better means of employing their time till the play began; ſome, from being aſſured that it would be impoſſible to find places in the church; and one half of Madrid was brought thither by expecting to meet the other half. The only perſons truly anxious to hear the preacher, were a few antiquated devotees, and half a dozen rival orators, determined to find fault with and ridicule the diſcourſe. As to the remainder of the audience, the ſermon might have been omitted altogether, certainly without their being diſappointed, and very probably without their perceiving the omiſſion.

Whatever was the occaſion, it is at leaſt certain, that the Capuchin church had never witneſſed a more numerous aſſembly. Every corner was filled, every ſeat was occupied. The very ſtatues which ornamented the long aiſles were preſſed into the ſervice. Boys ſuſpended themſelves upon the wings of cherubims; St. Francis and St. Mark bore each a ſpectator on his ſhoulders; and St. Agatha found herſelf under the neceſſity of carrying double. The conſequence was, that, in ſpite of all their hurry and expedition, our two newcomers, on entering the church, looked round in vain for places.

However, the old woman continued to move forwards. In vain were exclamations of diſpleaſure vented againſt her from all ſides: in vain was ſhe addreſſed with—"I aſſure you, Segnora, there are no places here,"—"I beg, Segnora, that you will not crowd me ſo intolerably!"— "Segnora, you cannot paſs this way. Bleſs me! How can people be ſo troubleſome!" —The old woman was obſtinate, and on ſhe went. By dint of perſeverance and two brawny arms ſhe made a paſſage through the crowd, and managed to buſtle herſelf into the very body of the church, at no great diſtance from the pulpit. Her companion had followed her with timidity and in ſilence, profiting by the exertions of her conductreſs.

"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the old woman in a tone of diſappointment, while ſhe threw a glance of enquiry round her; "Holy Virgin! what heat! what a crowd! I wonder what can be the meaning of all this. I believe we muſt return: there is no ſuch thing as a ſeat to be had, and nobody ſeems kind enough to accommodate us with theirs."

This broad hint attracted the notice of two cavaliers, who occupied ſtools on the right hand, and were leaning their backs againſt the ſeventh column from the pulpit. Both were young, and richly habited. Hearing this appeal to their politeneſs pronounced in a female voice, they interrupted their converſation to look at the ſpeaker. She had thrown up her veil in order to take a clearer look round the cathedral. Her hair was red, and ſhe ſquinted. The cavaliers turned round, and renewed their converſation.

"By all means," replied the old woman's companion; "by all means, Leonella, let us return home immediately; the heat is exceſſive, and I am terrified at ſuch a crowd."

Theſe words were pronounced in a tone of unexampled ſweetneſs. The cavaliers again broke off their diſcourſe, but for this time they were not contented with looking up: both ſtarted involuntarily from their feats, and turned themſelves towards the ſpeaker.

The voice came from a female, the delicacy and elegance of whoſe figure inſpired the youths with the moſt lively curioſity to view the face to which it belonged. This ſatisfaction was denied them. Her features were hidden by a thick veil; but ſtruggling through the crowd had deranged it ſufficiently to diſcover a neck which for ſymmetry and beauty might have vied with the Medicean Venus. It was of the moſt dazzling whiteneſs, and received additional charms from being ſhaded by the treſſes of her long fair hair, which deſcended in ringlets to her waiſt. Her figure was rather below than above the middle ſize: it was light and airy as that of an Hamadryad. Her boſom was carefully veiled. Her dreſs was white; it was faſtened by a blue ſaſh, and juſt permitted to peep out from under it a little foot of the moſt delicate proportions. A chaplet of large grains hung upon her arm, and her face was covered with a veil of thick black gauze. Such was the female, to whom the youngeſt of the cavaliers now offered his ſeat, while the other thought it neceſſary to pay the ſame attention to her companion.

The old lady with many expreſſions of gratitude, but without much difficulty, accepted the offer, and ſeated herſelf: the young one followed her example, but made no other compliment than a ſimple and graceful reverence. Don Lorenzo (ſuch was the cavalier's name, whoſe ſeat ſhe had accepted) placed himſelf near her; but firſt he whiſpered a few words in his friend's ear, who immediately took the hint, and endeavoured to draw off the old woman's attention from her lovely charge.

"You are doubtleſs lately arrived at Madrid," ſaid Lorenzo to his fair neighbour; "it is impoſſible that ſuch charms ſhould have long remained unobſerved; and had not this been your firſt public appearance, the envy of the women and adoration of the men would have rendered you already ſufficiently remarkable."

He pauſed, in expectation of an anſwer. As his ſpeech did not abſolutely require one, the lady did not open her lips: After a few moments he reſumed his diſcourſe:

"Am I wrong in ſuppoſing you to be a ſtranger to Madrid?"

The lady heſitated; and at laſt, in ſo low a voice as to be ſcarcely intelligible, ſhe made ſhift to anſwer,—"No, Segnor."

"Do you intend making a ſtay of any length?"

"Yes, Segnor."

"I ſhould eſteem myſelf fortunate, were it in my power to contribute to making your abode agreeable. I am well known at Madrid, and my family has ſome intereſt at court, If I can be of any ſervice, you cannot honour or oblige me more than by permitting me to be of uſe to you."—"Surely," ſaid he to himſelf, "ſhe cannot anſwer that by a monoſyllable; now ſhe muſt ſay ſomething to me."

Lorenzo was deceived, for the lady anſwered only by a bow.

By this time he had diſcovered, that his neighbour was not very converſible; but whether her ſilence proceeded from pride, diſcretion, timidity, or idiotiſm, he was ſtill unable to decide.

After a pauſe of ſome minutes—"It is certainly from your being a ſtranger," ſaid he, "and as yet unacquainted with our cuſtoms, that you continue to wear your veil. Permit me to remove it."

At the ſame time he advanced his hand towards the gauze: the lady raiſed hers to prevent him.

"I never unveil in public, Segnor."

"And where is the harm, I pray you?" interrupted her companion ſomewhat ſharply. "Do not you ſee, that the other ladies have all laid their veils aſide, to do honour no doubt to the holy place in which we are? I have taken off mine already; and ſurely, if I expoſe my features to general obſervation, you have no cauſe to put yourſelf in ſuch a wonderful alarm! Bleſſed Maria! Here is a fuſs and a buſtle about a chit's face! Come, come, child! Uncover it! I warrant you that nobody will run away with it from you—"

"Dear aunt, it is not the cuſtom in Murcia—"

"Murcia, indeed! Holy St. Barbara, what does that ſignify? You are always putting me in mind of that villanous province. If it is the cuſtom in Madrid, that is all that we ought to mind; and therefore I deſire you to take off your veil immediately. Obey me this moment, Antonia, for you know that I cannot bear contradiction."

Her niece was ſilent, but made no further oppoſition to Don Lorenzo's efforts, who, armed with the aunt's ſanction, haſtened to remove the gauze. What a ſeraph's head preſented itſelf to his admiration! Yet it was rather bewitching than beautiful; it was not ſo lovely from regularity of features, as from ſweetneſs and ſenſibility of countenance. The ſeveral parts of her face conſidered ſeparately, many of them were far from handſome; but, when examined together, the whole was adorable. Her ſkin, though fair, was not entirely without freckles; her eyes were not very large, nor their laſhes particularly long. But then her lips were of the moſt roſy freſhneſs; her fair and undulating hair, confined by a ſimple ribband, poured itſelf below her waiſt in a profuſion of ringlets; her neck was full and beautiful in the extreme; her hand and arm were formed with the moſt perfect ſymmetry; her mild blue eyes ſeemed an heaven of ſweetneſs, and the cryſtal in which they moved ſparkled with all the brilliance of diamonds. She appeared to be ſcarcely fifteen; an arch ſmile, playing round her mouth, declared her to be poſſeſſed of livelineſs, which exceſs of timidity at preſent repreſſed. She looked round her with a baſhful glance; and whenever her eyes accidentally met Lorenzo's, ſhe dropped them haſtily upon her roſary; her cheek was immediately ſuffuſed with bluſhes, and ſhe began to tell her beads; though her manner evidently ſhowed that ſhe knew not what ſhe was about.

Lorenzo gazed upon her with mingled ſurpriſe and admiration; but the aunt thought it neceſſary to apologize for Antonia's mauvaiſe honte.

"'Tis a young creature," ſaid ſhe, "who is totally ignorant of the world. She has been brought up in an old caſtle in Murcia, with no other ſociety than her mother's, who, God help her! has no more ſenſe, good ſoul, than is neceſſary to carry her ſoup to her mouth. Yet ſhe is my own ſiſter, both by father and mother."

"And has ſo little ſenſe?" ſaid Don Chriſtoval with feigned aſtoniſhment. "How very extraordinary!"

"Very true, Segnor. Is it not ſtrange? However, ſuch is the fact; and yet only to ſee the luck of ſome people! A young nobleman, of the very firſt quality, took it into his head that Elvira had ſome pretenſions to beauty.—As to pretenſions, in truth ſhe had always enough of them; but as to beauty!—If I had only taken half the pains to ſet myſelf off which ſhe did!— But this is neither here nor there. As I was ſaying, Segnor, a young nobleman fell in love with her, and married her unknown to his father. Their union remained a ſecret near three years; but at laſt it came to the ears of the old marquis, who, as you may well ſuppoſe, was not much pleaſed with the intelligence. Away he poſted in all haſte to Cordova, determined to ſeize Elvira, and ſend her away to ſome place or other, where ſhe would never be heard of more. Holy St. Paul! How he ſtormed on finding that ſhe had eſcaped him, had joined her huſband, and that they had embarked together for the Indies! He ſwore at us all, as if the evil ſpirit had poſſeſſed him; he threw my father into priſon—as honeſt a pains-taking ſhoe-maker as any in Cordova; and when he went away, he had the cruelty to take from us my ſiſter's little boy, then ſcarcely two years old, and whom in the abruptneſs of her flight ſhe had been obliged to leave behind her. I ſuppoſe that the poor little wretch met with bitter bad treatment from him, for in a few months after we received intelligence of his death."

"Why, this was a moſt terrible old fellow, Segnora!"

"Oh! ſhocking! and a man ſo totally devoid of taſte! Why, would you believe it, Segnor? when I attempted to pacify him, he curſed me for a witch, and wiſhed that, to puniſh the count, my ſiſter might become as ugly as myſelf! Ugly indeed! I like him for that."

"Ridiculous!" cried Don Chriſtoval. "Doubtleſs the count would have thought himſelf fortunate, had he been permitted to exchange the one ſiſter for the other."

"Oh! Chriſt! Segnor, you are really too polite. However, I am heartily glad that the condé was of a different way of thinking. A mighty pretty piece of buſineſs, to be ſure, Elvira has made of it! After broiling and ſtewing in the Indies for thirteen long years, her huſband dies, and ſhe returns to Spain, without an houſe to hide her head, or money to procure her one! This Antonia was then but an infant, and her only remaining child. She found that her father-in-law had married again, that he was irreconcileable to the condé, and that his ſecond wife had produced him a ſon, who is reported to be a very fine young man. The old marquis refuſed to ſee my ſiſter or her child; but ſent her word that, on condition of never hearing any more of her, he would aſſign her a ſmall penſion, and ſhe might live in an old caſtle which he poſſeſſed in Murcia. This had been the favourite habitation of his eldeſt ſon; but, ſince his flight from Spain, the old marquis could not bear the place, but let it fall to ruin and confuſion.—My ſiſter accepted the propoſal; ſhe retired to Murcia, and has remained there till within the laſt month."

"And what brings her now to Madrid?" enquired Don Lorenzo, whom admiration of the young Antonia compelled to take a lively intereſt in the talkative old woman's narration.

"Alas! Segnor, her father-in-law being lately dead, the ſteward of his Murcian eſtates has refuſed to pay her penſion any longer. With the deſign of ſupplicating his ſon to renew it, ſhe is now come to Madrid; but I doubt that ſhe might have ſaved herſelf the trouble. You young noblemen have always enough to do with your money, and are not very often diſpoſed to throw it away upon old women. I adviſed my ſiſter to ſend Antonia with her petition; but ſhe would not hear of ſuch a thing. She is ſo obſtinate! Well! ſhe will find herſelf the worſe for not following my counſels: the girl has a good pretty face, and poſſibly might have done much."

"Ah, Segnora!" interrupted Don Chriſtoval, counterfeiting a paſſionate air; "if a pretty face will do the buſineſs, why has not your ſiſter recourſe to you?"

"Oh! Jeſus! my lord, I ſwear you quite overpower me with your gallantry! But I promiſe you that I am too well aware of the danger of ſuch expeditions to truſt myſelf in a young nobleman's power! No, no; I have as yet preſerved my reputation without blemiſh or reproach, and I always knew how to keep the men at a proper diſtance."

"Of that, Segnora, I have not the leaſt doubt. But permit me to aſk you, Have you then any averſion to matrimony?"

"That is an home queſtion. I cannot but confeſs, that if an amiable cavalier was to preſent himſelf—"

Here ſhe intended to throw a tender and ſignificant look upon Don Chriſtoval; but, as ſhe unluckily happened to ſquint moſt abominably, the glance fell directly upon his companion. Lorenzo took the compliment to himſelf, and anſwered it by a profound bow.

"May I enquire," ſaid he, "the name of the marquis?"

"The marquis de las Ciſternas."

"I know him intimately well. He is not at preſent in Madrid, but is expected here daily. He is one of the beſt of men; and if the lovely Antonia will permit me to be her advocate with him, I doubt not my being able to make a favourable report of her cauſe."

Antonia raiſed her blue eyes, and ſilently thanked him for the offer by a ſmile of inexpreſſible ſweetneſs. Leonella's ſatiſfaction was much more loud and audible. Indeed, as her niece was generally ſilent in her company, ſhe thought it incumbent upon her to talk enough for both: this ſhe managed without difficulty, for ſhe very ſeldom found herſelf deficient in words.

"Oh, Segnor!" ſhe cried; "you will lay our whole family under the moſt ſignal obligations! I accept your offer with all poſſible gratitude, and return you a thouſand thanks for the generoſity of your propoſal. Antonia, why do not you ſpeak, child? While the cavalier ſays all ſorts of civil things to you, you ſit like a ſtatue, and never utter a ſyllable of thanks, either bad, good, or indifferent!—"

"My dear aunt, I am very ſenſible that—"

"Fye, niece! How often have I told you, that you never ſhould interrupt a perſon who is ſpeaking! When did you ever know me do ſuch a thing? Are theſe your Murcian manners? Mercy on me! I ſhall never be able to make this girl any thing like a perſon of good breeding. But pray, Segnor," ſhe continued, addreſſing herſelf to Don Chriſtoval, "inform me, why ſuch a crowd is aſſembled to-day in this cathedral."

"Can you poſſibly be ignorant, that Ambroſio, abbot of this monaſtery, pronounces a ſermon in this church every Thurſday? All Madrid rings with his praiſes. As yet he has preached but thrice; but all who have heard him are ſo delighted with his eloquence, that it is as difficult to obtain a place at church, as at the firſt repreſentation of a new comedy. His fame certainly muſt have reached your ears?"

"Alas! Segnor, till yeſterday I never had the good fortune to ſee Madrid; and at Cordova we are ſo little informed of what is paſſing in the reſt of the world, that the name of Ambroſio has never been mentioned in its precincts."

"You will find it in every one's mouth at Madrid. He ſeems to have faſcinated the inhabitants; and, not having attended his ſermons myſelf, I am aſtoniſhed at the enthuſiaſm which he has excited. The adoration paid him both by young and old, by man and woman, is unexampled. The grandees load him with preſents; their wives refuſe to have any other confeſſor; and he is known through all the city by the name of The Man of Holineſs."

"Undoubtedly, Segnor, he is of noble origin?"

"That point ſtill remains undecided. The late ſuperior of the Capuchins found him while yet an infant at the abbey-door. All attempts to diſcover who had left him there were vain, and the child himſelf could give no account of his parents. He was educated in the monaſtery, where he has remained ever ſince. He early ſhowed a ſtrong inclination for ſtudy and retirement; and as ſoon as he was of a proper age, he pronounced his vows. No one has ever appeared to claim him, or clear up the myſtery which conceals his birth; and the monks, who find their account in the favour which is ſhewn to their eſtabliſhment from reſpect to him, have not heſitated to publiſh, that he is a preſent to them from the Virgin. In truth, the ſingular auſterity of his life gives ſome countenance to the report. He is now thirty years old, every hour of which period has been paſſed in ſtudy, total ſecluſion from the world, and mortification of the fleſh. Till theſe laſt three weeks, when he was choſen ſuperior of the ſociety to which he belongs, he had never been on the outſide of the abbey-walls. Even now he never quits them except on Thurſdays, when he delivers a diſcourſe in this cathedral, which all Madrid aſſembles to hear. His knowledge is ſaid to be the moſt profound, his eloquence the moſt perſuaſive. In the whole courſe of his life he has never been known to tranſgreſs a ſingle rule of his order; the ſmalleſt ſtain is not to be diſcovered upon his character; and he is reported to be ſo ſtrict an obſerver of chaſtity, that he knows not in what conſiſts the difference of man and woman. The common people therefore eſteem him to be a ſaint."

"Does that make a ſaint?" enquired Antonia. "Bleſs me! then am I one."

"Holy St. Barbara!" exclaimed Leonella, "what a queſtion! Fye, child, fye! theſe are not fit ſubjects for young women to handle. You ſhould not ſeem to remember that there is ſuch a thing as a man in the world, and you ought to imagine every body to be of the ſame ſex with yourſelf. I ſhould like to ſee you give people to underſtand, that you know that a man has no breaſts, and no hips, and no—"

Luckily for Antonia's ignorance, which her aunt's lecture would ſoon have diſpelled, an univerſal murmur through the church announced the preacher's arrival. Donna Leonella roſe from her ſeat to take a better view of him, and Antonia followed her example.

He was a man of noble port and commanding preſence. His ſtature was lofty, and his features uncommonly handſome. His noſe was aquiline, his eyes large, black and ſparkling, and his dark brows almoſt joined together. His complexion was of a deep but clear brown; ſtudy and watching had entirely deprived his cheek of colour. Tranquillity reigned upon his ſmooth unwrinkled forehead; and content, expreſſed upon every feature, ſeemed to announce the man equally unacquainted with cares and crimes. He bowed himſelf with humility to the audience. Still there was a certain ſeverity in his look and manner that inſpired univerſal awe, and few could ſuſtain the glance of his eye, at once fiery and penetrating. Such was Ambroſio, abbot of the Capuchins, and ſurnamed "The Man of Holineſs."

Antonia, while ſhe gazed upon him eagerly, felt a pleaſure fluttering in her boſom which till then had been unknown to her, and for which ſhe in vain endeavoured to account. She waited with impatience till the ſermon ſhould begin; and when at length the friar ſpoke, the ſound of his voice ſeemed to penetrate into her very ſoul. Though no other of the ſpectators felt ſuch violent ſenſations as did the young Antonia, yet every one liſtened with intereſt and emotion. They who were inſenſible to religion's merits, were ſtill enchanted with Ambroſio's oratory. All found their attention irreſiſtibly attracted while he ſpoke, and the moſt profound ſilence reigned through the crowded aiſles. Even Lorenzo could not reſiſt the charm: he forgot that Antonia was ſeated near him, and liſtened to the preacher with undivided attention.

In language nervous, clear, and ſimple, the monk expatiated on the beauties of religion. He explained ſome abſtruſe parts of the ſacred writings in a ſtyle that carried with it univerſal conviction. His voice, at once diſtinct and deep, was fraught with all the terrors of the tempeſt, while he inveighed againſt the vices of humanity, and deſcribed the puniſhments reſerved for them in a future ſtate. Every hearer looked back upon his paſt offences, and trembled: the thunder ſeemed to roll, whoſe bolt was deſtined to cruſh him, and the abyſs of eternal deſtruction to open before his feet! But when Ambroſio, changing his theme, ſpoke of the excellence of an unſullied conſcience, of the glorious proſpect which eternity preſented to the ſoul untainted with reproach, and of the recompenſe which awaited it in the regions of everlaſting glory, his auditors felt their ſcattered ſpirits inſenſibly return. They threw themſelves with confidence upon the mercy of their judge; they hung with delight upon the conſoling words of the preacher; and while his full voice ſwelled into melody, they were tranſported to thoſe happy regions which he painted to their imaginations in colours ſo brilliant and glowing.

The diſcourſe was of conſiderable length: yet, when it concluded, the audience grieved that it had not laſted longer. Though the monk had ceaſed to ſpeak, enthuſiaſtic ſilence ſtill prevailed through the church. At length the charm gradually diſſolving, the general admiration was expreſſed in audible terms. As Ambroſio deſcended from the pulpit, his auditors crowded round him, loaded him with bleſſings, threw themſelves at his feet, and kiſſed the hem of his garment. He paſſed on ſlowly, with his hands croſſed devoutly upon his boſom, to the door opening into the abbey-chapel, at which his monks waited to receive him. He aſcended the ſteps, and then, turning towards his followers, addreſſed to them a few words of gratitude and exhortation. While he ſpoke, his roſary, compoſed of large grains of amber, fell from his hand, and dropped among the ſurrounding multitude. It was ſeized eagerly, and immediately divided amidſt the ſpectators. Whoever became poſſeſſor of a bead, preſerved it as a ſacred relique; and had it been the chaplet of thrice-bleſſed St. Francis himſelf, it could not have been diſputed with greater vivacity. The abbot, ſmiling at their eagerneſs, pronounced his benediction and quitted the church, while humility dwelt upon every feature. Dwelt ſhe alſo in his heart?

Antonia's eyes followed him with anxiety. As the door cloſed after him, it ſeemed to her as ſhe had loſt ſome one eſſential to her happineſs. A tear ſtole in ſilence down her cheek.

"He is ſeparated from the world!" ſaid ſhe to herſelf; "perhaps, I ſhall never ſee him more!"

As ſhe wiped away the tear, Lorenzo obſerved her action.

"Are you ſatisfied with our orator?" ſaid he; "or do you think that Madrid over-rates his talents?"

Antonia's heart was ſo filled with admiration for the monk, that ſhe eagerly ſeized the opportunity of ſpeaking of him: beſides, as ſhe now no longer conſidered Lorenzo as an abſolute ſtranger, ſhe was leſs embarraſſed by her exceſſive timidity.

"Oh! he far exceeds all my expectations," anſwered ſhe; "till this moment I had no idea of the powers of eloquence. But when he ſpoke, his voice inſpired me with ſuch intereſt, ſuch eſteem, I might almoſt ſay ſuch affection for him, that I am myſelf aſtoniſhed at the acuteneſs of my feelings."

Lorenzo ſmiled at the ſtrength of her expreſſions.

"You are young, and juſt entering into life," ſaid he: "your heart, new to the world, and full of warmth and ſenſibility, receives its firſt impreſſions with eagerneſs. Artleſs yourſelf, you ſuſpect not others of deceit; and viewing the world through the medium of your own truth and innocence, you fancy all who ſurround you to deſerve your confidence and eſteem. What pity, that theſe gay viſions muſt ſoon be diſſipated! What pity, that you muſt ſoon diſcover the baſeneſs of mankind, and guard againſt your fellow-creatures as againſt your oes!"

"Alas! Segnor," replied Antonia, "the misfortunes of my parents have already placed before me but too many ſad examples of the perfidy of the world! Yet ſurely in the preſent inſtance the warmth of ſympathy cannot have deceived me."

"In the preſent inſtance, I allow that it has not. Ambroſio's character is perfectly without reproach; and a man who has paſſed the whole of his life within the walls of a convent, cannot have found the opportunity to be guilty, even were he poſſeſſed of the inclination. But now, when, obliged by the duties of his ſituation, he muſt enter occaſionally into the world, and be thrown into the way of temptation, it is now that it behoves him to ſhow the brilliance of his virtue. The trial is dangerous; he is juſt at that period of life when the paſſions are moſt vigorous, unbridled, and deſpotic; his eſtabliſhed reputation will mark him out to ſeduction as an illuſtrious victim; novelty will give additional charms to the allurements of pleaſure; and even the talents with which nature has endowed him will contribute to his ruin, by facilitating the means of obtaining his object. Very few would return victorious from a conteſt ſo ſevere."

"Ah! ſurely Ambroſio will be one of thoſe few."

"Of that I have myſelf no doubt: by all accounts he is an exception to mankind in general, and envy would ſeek in vain for a blot upon his character."

"Segnor, you delight me by this aſſurance! It encourages me to indulge my prepoſſeſſion in his favour; and you know not with what pain I ſhould have repreſſed the ſentiment! Ah! deareſt aunt, entreat my mother to chooſe him for our confeſſor."

"I entreat her?" replied Leonella; "I promiſe you that I ſhall do no ſuch thing. I do not like this ſame Ambroſio in the leaſt; he has a look of ſeverity about him that made me tremble from head to foot. Were he my confeſſor, I ſhould never have the courage to avow one half of my peccadilloes, and then I ſhould be in a rare condition! I never ſaw ſuch a ſtern-looking mortal, and hope that I never ſhall ſee ſuch another. His deſcription of the devil, God bleſs us! almoſt terrified me out of my wits, and when h ſpoke about ſinners he ſeemed as if he was ready to eat them."

"You are right, Segnora," anſwered Don Chriſtoval. "Too great ſeverity is ſaid to be Ambroſio's only fault. Exempted himſelf from human failings, he is not ſufficiently indulgent to thoſe of others; and though ſtrictly juſt and diſintereſted in his deciſions, his government of the monks has already ſhown ſome proofs of his inflexibility. But the crowd is nearly diſſipated: will you permit us to attend you home?"

"O Chriſt! Segnor," exclaimed Leonella affecting to bluſh; "I would not ſuffer ſuch a thing for the univerſe! If I came home attended by ſo gallant a cavalier, my ſiſter is ſo ſcrupulous that ſhe would read me an hour's lecture, and I ſhould never hear the laſt of it. Beſides, I rather wiſh you not to make your propoſals juſt at preſent.—"

My propoſals? I aſſure you, Segnora."

"Oh! Segnor, I believe that your aſſurances of impatience are all very true; but really I muſt deſire a little reſpite. It would not be quite ſo delicate in me to accept your hand at firſt ſight."

"Accept my hand? As I hope to live and breathe—"

"Oh! dear Segnor, preſs me no further if you love me! I ſhall conſider your obedience as a proof of your affection; you ſhall hear from me to-morrow, and ſo farewell. But pray, cavaliers, may I not enquire your names?"

"My friend's," replied Lorenzo, "is the Condé d'Oſſorio, and mine Lorenzo de Medina."

"'Tis ſufficient. Well, Don Lorenzo, I ſhall acquaint my ſiſter with your obliging offer, and let you know the reſult with all expedition. Where may I ſend to you?"

"I am always to be found at the Medina palace."

"You may depend upon hearing from me. Farewell, cavaliers. Segnor Condé, let me entreat you to moderate the exceſſive ardour of your paſſion. However, to prove that I am not diſpleaſed with you, and prevent your abandoning yourſelf to deſpair; receive this mark of my affection, and ſometimes beſtow a thought upon the abſent Leonella."

As ſhe ſaid this, ſhe extended a lean and wrinkled hand; which her ſuppoſed admirer kiſſed with ſuch ſorry grace and conſtraint ſo evident, that Lorenzo with difficulty repreſſed his inclination to laugh. Leonella then haſtened to quit the church: the lovely Antonia followed her in ſilence; but when ſhe reached the porch, ſhe turned involuntarily, and caſt back her eyes towards Lorenzo. He bowed to her, as bidding her farewell; ſhe returned the compliment, and haſtily withdrew.

"So, Lorenzo!" ſaid Don Chriſtoval as ſoon as they were alone, "you have procured me an agreeable intrigue! To favour your deſigns upon Antonia, I obligingly make a few civil ſpeeches which mean nothing to the aunt, and at the end of an hour I find myſelf upon the brink of matrimony! How will you reward me for having ſuffered ſo grievouſly for your ſake? What can repay me for having kiſſed the leathern paw of that confounded old witch? Diavolo! She has left ſuch a ſcent upon my lips, that I ſhall ſmell of garlick for this month to come! As I paſs along the Prado, I ſhall be taken for a walking omelet, or ſome large onion running to ſeed!"

"I confeſs, my poor count," replied Lorenzo, "that your ſervice has been attended with danger; yet am I ſo far from ſuppoſing it to be paſt all endurance; that I ſhall probably ſolicit you to carry on your amours ſtill further."

"From that petition I conclude, that the little Antonia has made ſome impreſſion upon you."

"I cannot expreſs to you how much I am charmed with her. Since my father's death, my uncle the duke de Medina has ſignified to me his wiſhes to ſee me married; I have till now eluded his hints, and refuſed to underſtand them; but what I have ſeen this evening—"

"Well, what have you ſeen this evening? Why ſurely, Don Lorenzo, you cannot be mad enough to think of making a wife out of this grand-daughter of 'as honeſt a pains-taking ſhoemaker as any in Cordova'?"

"You forget, that ſhe is alſo the grand-daughter of the late marquis de las Ciſternas; but without diſputing about birth and titles, I muſt aſſure you, that I never beheld a woman ſo intereſting as Antonia."

"Very poſſibly; but you cannot mean to marry her?"

"Why not, my dear condé? I ſhall have wealth enough for both of us, and you know that my uncle thinks liberally upon the ſubject. From what I have ſeen of Raymond de las Ciſternas, I am certain that he will readily acknowledge Antonia for his niece. Her birth therefore will be no objection to my offering her my hand. I ſhould be a villain, could I think of her on any other terms than marriage; and in truth ſhe ſeems poſſeſſed of every quality requiſite to make me happy in a wife— young, lovely, gentle, ſenſible—"

"Senſible? Why, ſhe ſaid nothing but Yes, and No."

"She did, not ſay much more, I muſt confeſs—but then ſhe always ſaid Yes or No in the right place."

"Did ſhe ſo? Oh! your moſt obedient! That is uſing a right lover's argument, and I dare diſpute no longer with ſo profound a caſuiſt. Suppoſe we adjourn to the comedy?"

"It is out of my power. I only arrived laſt night at Madrid, and have not yet had an opportunity of ſeeing my ſiſter. You know that her convent is in this ſtreet, and I was going thither when the crowd which I ſaw thronging into this church excited my curioſity to know what was the matter. I ſhall now purſue my firſt intention, and probably paſs the evening with my ſiſter at the parlour-grate."

"Your ſiſter in a convent, ſay you? Oh! very true, I had forgotten. And how does Donna Agnes? I am amazed, Don Lorenzo, how you could poſſibly think of immuring ſo charming a girl within the walls of a cloiſter!"

"I think of it, Don Chriſtoval? How can you ſuſpect me of ſuch barbarity? You are conſcious that ſhe took the veil by her own deſire, and that particular circumſtances made her wiſh for a ſecluſion from the world. I uſed every means in my power to induce her to change her reſolution; the endeavour was fruitleſs, and I loſt a ſiſter!"

"The luckier fellow you: I think, Lorenzo, you were a conſiderable gainer by that loſs; if I remember right, Donna Agnes had a portion of ten thouſand piſtoles, half of which reverted to your lordſhip. By St. Jago! I wiſh that I had fifty ſiſters in the ſame predicament: I ſhould conſent to loſing them every ſoul without much heartburning."

"How, condé?" ſaid Lorenzo in an angry voice; "do you ſuppoſe me baſe enough to have influenced my ſiſter's retirement? do you ſuppoſe that the deſpicable wiſh to make myſelf maſter of her fortune could—"

"Admirable! Courage, Don Lorenzo! Now the man is all in a blaze. God grant that Antonia may ſoften that fiery temper, or we ſhall certainly cut each other's throat before the month is over! However, to prevent ſuch a tragical cataſtrophe for the preſent, I ſhall make a retreat, and leave you maſter of the field. Farewell, my knight of Mount Aetna! Moderate that inflammable diſpoſition, and remember that, whenever it is neceſſary to make love to yonder harridan, you may reckon upon my ſervices."

He ſaid, and darted out of the cathedral.

"How wild-brained!" ſaid Lorenzo. "With ſo excellent an heart, what pity that he poſſeſſes ſo little ſolidity of judgment!"

The night was now faſt advancing. The lamps were not yet lighted. The faint beams of the riſing moon ſcarcely could pierce through the gothic obſcurity of the church. Lorenzo found himſelf unable to quit the ſpot. The void left in his boſom by Antonia's abſence, and his ſiſter's ſacrifice which Don Chriſtoval had juſt recalled to his imagination, created that melancholy of mind, which accorded but too well with the religious gloom ſurrounding him. He was ſtill leaning againſt the ſeventh column from the pulpit. A ſoft and cooling air breathed along the ſolitary aiſles; the moon-beams darting into the church through painted windows, tinged the fretted roofs and maſſy pillars with a thouſand various ſhades of light and colours. Univerſal ſilence prevailed around, only interrupted by the occaſional cloſing of doors in the adjoining abbey.

The calm of the hour and ſolitude of the place contributed to nouriſh Lorenzo's diſpoſition to melancholy. He threw himſelf upon a ſeat which ſtood near him, and abandoned himſelf to the deluſions of his fancy. He thought of his union with Antonia; he thought of the obſtacles which might oppoſe his wiſhes; and a thouſand changing viſions floated before his fancy, ſad 'tis true, but not unpleaſing. Sleep inſenſibly ſtole over him, and the tranquil ſolemnity of his mind when awake, for a while continued to influence his ſlumbers.

He ſtill fancied himſelf to be in the church of the Capuchins; but it was no longer dark and ſolitary. Multitudes of ſilver lamps ſhed ſplendour from the vaulted roofs; accompanied by the captivating chaunt of diſtant choriſters, the organ's melody ſwelled through the church; the altar ſeemed decorated as for ſome diſtinguiſhed feaſt; it was ſurrounded by a brilliant company; and near it ſtood Antonia arrayed in bridal white, and bluſhing with all the charms of virgin modeſty.

Half hoping, half fearing, Lorenzo gazed upon the ſcene before him. Sudden the door leading to the abbey uncloſed; and he ſaw, attended by a long train of monks, the preacher advance to whom he had juſt liſtened with ſo much admiration. He drew near Antonia.

"And where is the bridegroom?" ſaid the imaginary friar.

Antonia ſeemed to look round the church with anxiety. Involuntarily the youth advanced a few ſteps from his concealment. She ſaw him; the bluſh of pleaſure glowed upon her cheek; with a graceful motion of her hand ſhe beckoned to him to advance. He diſobeyed not the command; he ſlew towards her, and threw himſelf at her feet.

She retreated for a moment; then gazing upon him with unutterable delight, "Yes," ſhe exclaimed, "my bridegroom! my deſtined bridegroom!"

She ſaid, and haſtened to throw herſelf into his arms; but before he had time to receive her, an unknown ruſhed between them: his form was gigantic; his complexion was ſwarthy, his eyes fierce and terrible; his mouth breathed out volumes of fire, and on his forehead was written in legible characters—"Pride! Luſt! Inhumanity!"

Antonia ſhrieked. The monſter claſped her in his arms, and, ſpringing with her upon the altar, tortured her with his odious careſſes. She endeavoured in vain to eſcape from his embrace. Lorenzo flew to her ſuccour; but, ere he had time to reach her, a loud burſt of thunder was heard. Inſtantly the cathedral ſeemed crumbling into pieces; the monks betook themſelves to ſlight, ſhrieking fearfully; the lamps were extinguiſhed, the altar ſunk down, and in its place appeared an abyſs vomiting forth clouds of flame. Uttering a loud and terrible cry the monſter plunged into the gulph, and in his fall attempted to drag Antonia with him. He ſtrove in vain. Animated by ſupernatural powers, ſhe diſengaged herſelf from his embrace; but her white robe was left in his poſſeſſion. Inſtantly a wing of brilliant ſplendour ſpread itſelf from either of Antonia's arms. She darted upwards, and while aſcending cried to Lorenzo, "Friend! we ſhall meet above!"

At the ſame moment the roof of the cathedral opened; harmonious voices pealed along the vaults; and the glory into which Antonia was received, was compoſed of rays of ſuch dazzling brightneſs, that Lorenzo was unable to ſuſtain the gaze. His ſight failed, and he ſunk upon the ground.

When he awoke he found himſelf extended upon the pavement of the church: it was illuminated, and the chaunt of hymns ſounded from a diſtance. For a while Lorenzo could not perſuade himſelf that what he had juſt witneſſed had been a dream, ſo ſtrong an impreſſion had it made upon his fancy. A little recollection convinced him of its fallacy: the lamps had been lighted during his ſleep, and the muſic which he heard was occaſioned by the monks, who were celebrating their veſpers in the abbey-chapel.

Lorenzo roſe, and prepared to bend his ſteps towards his ſiſter's convent; his mind fully occupied by the ſingularity of his dream. He already drew near the porch, when his attention was attracted by perceiving a ſhadow moving upon the oppoſite wall. He looked curiouſly round, and ſoon deſcried a man wrapped up in his cloak, who ſeemed carefully examining whether his actions were obſerved. Very few people are exempt from the influence of curioſity. The unknown ſeemed anxious to conceal his buſineſs in the cathedral; and it was this very circumſtance which made Lorenzo wiſh to diſcover what he was about.

Our hero was conſcious that he had no right to pry into the ſecrets of this unknown cavalier.

"I will go," ſaid Lorenzo. And Lorenzo ſtayed where he was.

The ſhadow thrown by the column effectually concealed him from the ſtranger, who continued to advance with caution. At length he drew a letter from beneath his cloak, and haſtily placed it beneath a coloſſal ſtatue of St. Francis. Then retiring with precipitation, he concealed himſelf in a part of the church at a conſiderable diſtance from that in which the image ſtood.

"So!" ſaid Lorenzo to himſelf; "this is only ſome fooliſh love affair. I believe, I may as well be gone, for I can do no good in it."

In truth, till that moment it never came into his head that he could do any good in it; but he thought it neceſſary to make ſome little excuſe to himſelf for having indulged his curioſity. He now made a ſecond attempt to retire from the church. For this time he gained the porch without meeting with any impediment; but it was deſtined that he ſhould pay it another viſit that night. As he deſcended the ſteps leading into the ſtreet, a cavalier ruſhed againſt him with ſuch violence, that both were nearly overturned by the concuſſion. Lorenzo put his hand to his ſword.

"How now, Segnor?" ſaid he; "what mean you by this rudeneſs?"

"Ha! is it you, Medina?" replied the new comer, whom Lorenzo by his voice now recognized for Don Chriſtoval. "You re the luckieſt fellow in the univerſe, not o have left the church before my return. n, in! my dear lad! they will be here immediately!"

"Who will be here?"

"The old hen and all her pretty little chickens. In, I ſay; and then you ſhall know the whole hiſtory."

Lorenzo followed him into the cathedral, and they concealed themſelves behind the ſtatue of St. Francis.

"And now," ſaid our hero, "may I take the liberty of aſking what is the meaning of all this haſte and rapture?"

"Oh! Lorenzo, we ſhall ſee ſuch a glorious ſight! The prioreſs of St. Clare and her whole train of nuns are coming hither. You are to know, that the pious father Ambroſio [the Lord reward him for it!] will upon no account move out of his own precincts. It being abſolutely neceſſary for every faſhionable convent to have him for its confeſſor, the nuns are in conſequence obliged to viſit him at the abbey; ſince, when the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet muſt needs go to the mountain. Now the prioreſs of St. Clare, the better to eſcape the gaze of ſuch impure eyes as belong to yourſelf and your humble ſervant, thinks proper to bring her holy flock to confeſſion in the duſk: ſhe is to be admitted into the abbey-chapel by you private door. The portereſs of St. Clare, who is a worthy old ſoul and a particular friend of mine, has juſt aſſured me of their being here in a few moments. There is news for you, you rogue! We ſhall ſee ſome of the prettieſt faces in Madrid!"

"In truth, Chriſtoval, we ſhall do no ſuch thing. The nuns are always veiled."

"No! no! I know better. On entering a place of worſhip, they ever take off their veils, from reſpect to the ſaint to whom 'tis dedicated. But hark, they are coming! Silence! ſilence! Obſerve, and be convinced."

"Good!" ſaid Lorenzo to himſelf; "I may poſſibly diſcover to whom the vows are addreſſed of this myſterious ſtranger."

Scarcely had Don Chriſtoval ceaſed to ſpeak, when the domina of St. Clare appeared, followed by a long proceſſion of nuns. Each upon entering the church took off her veil. The prioreſs croſſed her hands upon her boſom, and made a profound reverence as ſhe paſſed the ſtatue of St. Francis, the patron of this cathedral. The nuns followed her example, and ſeveral moved onwards without having ſatisfied Lorenzo's curioſity. He almoſt began to deſpair of ſeeing the myſtery cleared up, when, in paying her reſpects to St. Francis, one of the nuns happened to drop her roſary. As ſhe ſtooped to pick it up the light flaſhed full in her face. At the ſame moment ſhe dexterouſly removed the letter from beneath the image, placed it in her boſom, and haſtened to reſume her rank in the proceſſion.

"Ha!" ſaid Chriſtoval in a low voice, "here we have ſome little intrigue, no doubt."

"Agnes, by heaven!" cried Lorenzo.

"What, your ſiſter? Diavolo! Then ſomebody, I ſuppoſe, will have to pay for our peeping."

"And ſhall pay for it without delay," replied the incenſed brother.

The pious proceſſion had now entered the abbey; the door was already cloſed upon it. The unknown immediately quitted his concealment, and haſtened to leave the church: ere he could effect his intention, he deſcried Medina ſtationed in his paſſage. The ſtranger haſtily retreated, and drew his hat over his eyes.

"Attempt not to fly me!" exclaimed Lorenzo; "I will know who you are, and what were the contents of that letter."

"Of that letter?" repeated the unknown. "And by what title do you aſk the queſtion?"

"By a title of which I am now aſhamed; but it becomes not you to queſtion me. Either reply circumſtantially to my demands, or anſwer me with your ſword."

"The latter method will be the ſhorteſt," rejoined the other, drawing his rapier; "come on, Segnor Bravo! I am ready."

Burning with rage, Lorenzo haſtened to the attack: the antagoniſts had already exchanged ſeveral paſſes, before Chriſtoval, who at that moment had more ſenſe than either of them, could throw himſelf between their weapons.

"Hold! hold! Medina!" he exclaimed; "remember the conſequences of ſhedding blood on conſecrated ground!"

The ſtranger immediately dropped his ſword.

"Medina?" he cried. "Great God, is it poſſible! Lorenzo, have you quite forgotten Raymond de las Ciſternas?"

Lorenzo's aſtoniſhment increaſed with every ſucceeding moment. Raymond advanced towards him; but with a look of ſuſpicion he drew back his hand, which the other was preparing to take.

"You here, Marquis? What is the meaning of all this? You engaged in a clandeſtine correſpondence with my ſiſter, whoſe affections—"

"Have ever been, and ſtill are mine. But this is no fit place for an explanation. Accompany me to my hotel, and you ſhall know every thing. Who is that with you?"

"One whom I believe you to have ſeen before," replied Don Chriſtoval, "though probably not at church."

"The condé d'Oſſorio?"

"Exactly ſo, marquis."

"I have no objection to entruſting you with my ſecret, for I am ſure that I may depend upon your ſilence."

"Then your opinion of me is better than my own, and therefore I muſt beg leave to decline your confidence. Do you go your own way, and I ſhall go mine. Marquis, where are you to be found?"

"As uſual, at the hotel de las Ciſternas; but remember that I am incognito, and that, if you wiſh to ſee me, you muſt aſk for Alphonſo d'Alvarada."

"Good! good! Farewell, cavaliers!" ſaid Don Chriſtoval, and inſtantly departed.

"You, marquis," ſaid Lorenzo in the accent of ſurpriſe; "you, Alphonſo d'Alvarada?"

"Even ſo, Lorenzo: but unleſs you have already heard my ſtory from your ſiſter, I have much to relate that will aſtoniſh you. Follow me, therefore, to my hotel without delay."

At this moment the porter of the Capuchins entered the cathedral to lock up the doors for the night. The two noblemen inſtantly withdrew, and haſtened with all ſpeed to the palace de las Ciſternas.

"Well, Antonia," ſaid the aunt, as ſoon as ſhe had quitted the church," what think you of our gallants? Don Lorenzo really ſeems a very obliging good ſort of young man: he paid you ſome attention, and nobody knows what may come of it. But as to Don Chriſtoval, I proteſt to you, he is the very phoenix of politeneſs; ſo gallant! ſo well-bred! ſo ſenſible, and ſo pathetic! Well! if ever man can prevail upon me to break my vow never to marry, it will be that Don Chriſtoval. You ſee, niece, that every thing turns out exactly as I told you: the very moment that I produced myſelf in Madrid, I knew that I ſhould be ſurrounded by admirers. When I took off my veil, did you ſee, Antonia, what an effect the action had upon the condé? And when I preſented him my hand, did you obſerve the air of paſſion with which he kiſſed it? If ever I witneſſed real love, I then ſaw it impreſſed upon Don Chriſtoval's countenance!"

Now Antonia had obſerved the air with which Don Chriſtoval had kiſſed this ſame hand; but as ſhe drew concluſions from it ſomewhat different from her aunt's, ſhe was wiſe enough to hold her tongue. As this is the only inſtance known of a woman's ever having done ſo, it was judged worthy to be recorded here.

The old lady continued her diſcourſe to Antonia in the ſame ſtrain, till they gained the ſtreet in which was their lodging. Here a crowd collected before their door permitted them not to approach it; and placing themſelves on the oppoſite ſide of the ſtreet, they endeavoured to make out what had drawn all theſe people together. After ſome minutes the crowd formed itſelf into a circle; and now Antonia perceived in the midſt of it a woman of extraordinary height, who whirled herſelf repeatedly round and round, uſing all ſorts of extravagant geſtures. Her dreſs was compoſed of ſhreds of various-coloured ſilks and linens fantaſtically arranged, yet not entirely without taſte. Her head was covered with a kind of turban ornamented with vine-leaves and wild flowers. She ſeemed much ſun-burnt, and her complexion was of a deep olive: her eyes looked fiery and ſtrange; and in her hand ſhe bore a long black rod, with which ſhe at intervals traced a variety of ſingular figures upon the ground, round about which ſhe danced in all the eccentric attitudes of folly and delirium. Suddenly ſhe broke off her dance, whirled herſelf round thrice with rapidity, and after a moment's pauſe ſhe ſung the following ballad:

THE GIPSY's SONG. COME, croſs my hand! My art ſurpaſſes All that did ever mortal know: Come, maidens, come! My magic glaſſes Your future huſband's form can ſhow: For 'tis to me the power is given Uncloſed the book of fate to ſee; To read the fixed reſolves of heaven, And dive into futurity. I guide the pale moon's ſilver waggon; The winds in magic bonds I hold; I charm to ſleep the crimſon dragon, Who loves to watch o'er buried gold. Fenced round with ſpells, unhurt I venture Their ſabbath ſtrange where witches keep; Fearleſs the ſorcerer's circle enter, And woundleſs tread on ſnakes aſleep. Lo! here are charms of mighty power! This makes ſecure an huſband's truth; And this, compoſed at midnight hour, Will force to love the coldeſt youth. If any maid too much has granted, Her loſs this philtre will repair. This blooms a cheek where red is wanted, And this will make a brown girl fair; Then ſilent hear, while I diſcover What I in fortune's mirror view; And each, when many a year is over, Shall own the Gipſy's ſayings true.

"Dear aunt!" ſaid Antonia when the ſtranger had finiſhed. "is ſhe not mad?"

"Mad? Not ſhe, child; ſhe is only wicked. She is a gipſy, a ſort of vagabond, whoſe ſole occupation is to run about the country telling lyes, and pilfering from thoſe who come by their money honeſtly. Out upon ſuch vermin! If I were king of Spain, every one of them ſhould be burnt alive, who was found in my dominions after the next three weeks."

Theſe words were pronounced ſo audibly, that they reached the gipſy's ears. She immediately pierced through the crowd, and made towards the ladies. She ſaluted them thrice in the eaſtern faſhion, and then addreſſed herſelf to Antonia.

THE GIPSY. "Lady, gentle lady! know, I your future fate can ſhow; Give your hand, and do not fear; Lady, gentle lady! hear!"

"Deareſt aunt!" ſaid Antonia, "indulge me this once! let me have my fortune told me!"

"Nonſenſe, child! She will tell you nothing but falſehoods."

"No matter; let me at leaſt hear what ſhe has to ſay. Do, my dear aunt, oblige me, I beſeech you!"

"Well, well! Antonia, ſince you are ſo bent upon the thing—Here, good woman, you ſhall ſee the hands of both of us. There is money for you, and now let me hear my fortune."

As ſhe ſaid this, ſhe drew off her glove, and preſented her hand. The gipſy looked at it for a moment, and then made this reply:

THE GIPSY. "Your fortune? You are now ſo old, Good dame, that 'tis already told: Yet, for your money, in a trice I will repay you in advice. Aſtoniſhed at your childiſh vanity, Your friends all tax you with inſanity, And grieve to ſee you uſe your art To catch ſome youthful lover's heart. Believe me, dame, when all is done, Your age will ſtill be fifty-one; And men will rarely take an hint Of love from two grey eyes that ſquint. Take then my counſels; lay aſide Your paint and patches, luſt and pride, And on the poor thoſe ſums beſtow, Which now are ſpent on uſeleſs ſhow. Think on your Maker, not a ſuitor; Think on your paſt faults, not on future; And think Time's ſcythe will quickly mow The few red hairs, which deck your brow.
The audience rang with laughter during the gipſy's addreſs; and—"fifty-one,"—ſquinting eyes,—red hair,—paint and patches,"—&c. were bandied from mouth to mouth. Leonella was almoſt choaked with paſſion, and loaded her malicious adviſer with the bittereſt reproaches. The ſwarthy propheteſs for ſome time liſtened to her with a contemptuous ſmile: at length ſhe made her a ſhort anſwer, and then turned to Antonia.

THE GIPSY. "Peace, lady! What I ſaid was true. And now, my lovely maid, to you; Give me your hand, and let me ſee Your future doom, and heaven's decree."

In imitation of Leonella, Antonia drew off her glove, and preſented her white hand to the gipſy, who, having gazed upon it for ſome time with a mingled expreſſion of pity and aſtoniſhment, pronounced her oracle in the following words:

THE GIPSY. "Jeſus! what a palm is there! Chaſte, and gentle, young and fair, Perfect mind and form poſſeſſing, You would be ſome good man's bleſſing: But, alas! this line diſcovers That deſtruction o'er you hovers; Luſtful man and crafty devil Will combine to work your evil; And from earth by ſorrows driven, Soon your ſoul muſt ſpeed to heaven. Yet your ſufferings to delay, Well remember what I ſay. When you one more virtuous ſee Than belongs to man to be, One, whoſe ſelf no crimes aſſailing, Pities not his neighbour's ſailing, Call the gipſy's words to mind: Though he ſeem ſo good and kind, Fair exteriors oft will hide Hearts that ſwell with luſt and pride. Lovely maid, with tears I leave you. Let not my prediction grieve you: Rather, with ſubmiſſion bending, Calmly wait diſtreſs impending, And expect eternal bliſs In a better world than this.

Having ſaid this, the gipſy again whirled herſelf round thrice, and then haſtened out of the ſtreet with frantic geſture. The crowd followed her; and Elvira's door being now unembarraſſed, Leonella entered the houſe, out of humour with the gipſy, with her niece, and with the people; in ſhort, with every body but herſelf and her charming cavalier. The gipſy's predictions had alſo conſiderably affected Antonia; but the impreſſion ſoon wore off, and in a few hours ſhe had forgotten the adventure, as totally as had it never taken place.

CHAP. II. Fòrſe ſé tu guſtaſſi una ſòl volta La milléſima parte délle giòje, Ché guſta un còr amato riamando, Direſti ripentita ſoſpirando, Perduto è tutto il tempo Ché in amar non ſi ſpènde. TASSO. Hadſt thou but taſted once the thouſandth part Of joys, which bleſs the loved and loving heart, Your words repentant and your ſighs would prove, Loſt is the time which is not paſt in love.

THE monks having attended their abbot to the door of his cell, he diſmiſſed them with an air of conſcious ſuperiority, in which humility's ſemblance combated with the reality of pride.

He was no ſooner alone, than he gave free looſe to the indulgence of his vanity. When he remembered the enthuſiaſm which his diſcourſe had excited, his heart ſwelled with rapture, and his imagination preſented him with ſplendid viſions of aggrandizement. He looked round him with exultation; and pride told him loudly, that he was ſuperior to the reſt of his fellow-creatures.

"Who," thought he, "who but myſelf has paſſed the ordeal of youth, yet ſees no ſingle ſtain upon his conſcience? Who elſe has ſubdued the violence of ſtrong paſſions and an impetuous temperament, and ſubmitted even from the dawn of life to voluntary retirement? I ſeek for ſuch a man in vain. I ſee no one but myſelf poſſeſſed of ſuch reſolution. Religion cannot boaſt Ambroſio's equal! How powerful an effect did my diſcourſe produce upon its auditors! How they crowded round me! How they loaded me with benedictions, and pronounced me the ſole uncorrupted pillar of the church! What then now is left for me to do? Nothing, but to watch as carefully over the conduct of my brethren, as I have hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold! May I not be tempted from thoſe paths, which till now I have purſued without one moment's wandering? Am I not a man, whoſe nature is frail and prone to error? I muſt now abandon the ſolitude of my retreat; the faireſt and nobleſt dames of Madrid continually preſent themſelves at the abbey, and will uſe no other confeſſor. I muſt accuſtom my eyes to objects of temptation, and expoſe myſelf to the ſeduction of luxury and deſire. Should I meet in that world which I am conſtrained to enter, ſome lovely female— lovely as you—Madona—!"

As he ſaid this, he fixed his eyes upon a picture of the Virgin, which was ſuſpended oppoſite to him: this for two years had been the object of his increaſing wonder and adoration. He pauſed, and gazed upon it with delight.

"What beauty in that countenance!" he continued after a ſilence of ſome minutes; "how graceful is the turn of that head! what ſweetneſs, yet what majeſty in her divine eyes! how ſoftly her cheek reclines upon her hand! Can the roſe vie with the bluſh of that cheek? can the lily rival the whiteneſs of that hand? Oh! if ſuch a creature exiſted, and exiſted but for me! were I permitted to twine round my fingers thoſe golden ringlets, and preſs with my lips the treaſures of that ſnowy boſom! gracious God, ſhould I then reſiſt the temptation? Should I not barter for a ſingle embrace the reward of my ſufferings for thirty years? Should I not abandon—Fool that I am! Whither do I ſuffer my admiration of this picture to hurry me? Away, impure ideas! Let me remember, that woman is for ever loſt to me. Never was mortal formed ſo perfect as this picture. But even did ſuch exiſt, the trial might be too mighty for a common virtue; but Ambroſio's is proof againſt temptation. Temptation, did I ſay? To me it would be none. What charms me, when ideal and conſidered as a ſuperior being, would diſguſt me, become woman and tainted with all the failings of mortality. It is not the woman's beauty that fills me with ſuch enthuſiaſm: it is the painter's ſkill that I admire; it is the Divinity that I adore. Are not the paſſions dead in my boſom? have I not freed myſelf from the frailty of mankind? Fear not, Ambroſio! Take confidence in the ſtrength of your virtue. Enter boldly into the world, to whoſe failings you are ſuperior; reflect that you are now exempted from humanity's defects, and defy all the arts of the ſpirits of darkneſs. They ſhall know you for what you are!"

Here his reverie was interrupted by three ſoft knocks at the door of his cell. With difficulty did the abbot awake from his delirium. The knocking was repeated.

"Who is there?" ſaid Ambroſio at length.

"It is only Roſario," replied a gentle voice.

"Enter! enter, my ſon!"

The door was immediately opened, and Roſario appeared with a ſmall baſket in his hand.

Roſario was a young novice belonging to the monaſtery, who in three months intended to make his profeſſion. A ſort of myſtery enveloped this youth, which rendered him at once an object of intereſt and curioſity. His hatred of ſociety, his profound melancholy, his rigid obſervation of the duties of his order, and his voluntary ſecluſion from the world, at his age ſo unuſual, attracted the notice of the whole fraternity. He ſeemed fearful of being recogniſed, and no one had ever ſeen his face. His head was continually muffled up in his cowl; yet ſuch of his features as accident diſcovered, appeared the moſt beautiful and noble. Roſario was the only name by which he was known in the monaſtery. No one knew from whence he came, and when queſtioned on the ſubject he preſerved a profound ſilence. A ſtranger, whoſe rich habit and magnificent equipage declared him to be of diſtinguiſhed rank, had engaged the monks to receive a novice, and had depoſited the neceſſary ſums. The next day he returned with Roſario, and from that time no more had been heard of him.

The youth had carefully avoided the company of the monks: he anſwered their civilities with ſweetneſs, but reſerve, and evidently ſhowed that his inclination led him to ſolitude. To this general rule the ſuperior was the only exception. To him he looked up with a reſpect approaching idolatry: he ſought his company with the moſt attentive aſſiduity, and eagerly ſeized every means to ingratiate himſelf in his favour. In the abbot's ſociety his heart ſeemed to be at eaſe, and an air of gaiety pervaded his whole manners and diſcourſe. Ambroſio on his ſide did not feel leſs attracted towards the youth; with him alone did he lay aſide his habitual ſeverity. When he ſpoke to him, he inſenſibly aſſumed a tone milder than was uſual to him; and no voice ſounded ſo ſweet to him as did Roſario's. He repaid the youth's attentions by inſtructing him in various ſciences; the novice received his leſſons with docility; Ambroſio was every day more charmed with the vivacity of his genius, the ſimplicity of his manners, and the rectitude of his heart: in ſhort, he loved him with all the affection of a father. He could not help ſometimes indulging a deſire ſecretly to ſee the face of his pupil; but his rule of ſelf-denial extended even to curioſity, and prevented him from communicating his wiſhes to the youth.

"Pardon my intruſion, father," ſaid Roſario, while he placed his baſket upon the table; "I come to you a ſuppliant. Hearing that a dear friend is dangerouſly ill, I entreat your prayers for his recovery. If ſupplications can prevail upon heaven to ſpare him, ſurely yours muſt be efficacious."

Whatever depends upon me, my ſon, you know that you may command. What is your friend's name?"

"Vincentio della Ronda."

"'Tis ſufficient. I will not forget him in my prayers, and may our thrice-bleſſed St. Francis deign to liſten to my interceſſion!—What have you in your baſket, Roſario?"

"A few of thoſe flowers, reverend father, which I have obſerved to be moſt acceptable to you. Will you permit my arranging them in your chamber?"

"Your attentions charm me, my ſon."

While Roſario diſperſed the contents of his baſket in ſmall vaſes, placed for that purpoſe in various parts of the room, the abbot thus continued the converſation:

"I ſaw you not in the church this evening, Roſario."

"Yet I was preſent, father. I am too grateful for your protection to loſe an opportunity of witneſſing your triumph."

"Alas! Roſario, I have but little cauſe to triumph: the ſaint ſpoke by my mouth; to him belongs all the merit. It ſeems then you were contented with my diſcourſe?"

"Contented, ſay you? Oh! you ſurpaſſed yourſelf! Never did I hear ſuch eloquence—ſave once!"

Here the novice heaved an involuntary ſigh.

"When was that once?" demanded the abbot.

"When you preached upon the ſudden indiſpoſition of our late ſuperior."

"I remember it: that is more than two years ago. And were you preſent? I knew you not at that time, Roſario."

"'Tis true, father; and would to God I had expired ere I beheld that day! What ſufferings, what ſorrows ſhould I have eſcaped!"

"Sufferings at your age, Roſario?"

"Aye, father; ſufferings, which if known to you, would equally raiſe your anger and compaſſion! Sufferings, which form at once the torment and pleaſure of my exiſtence! Yet in this retreat my boſom would feel tranquil, were it not for the tortures of apprehenſion. Oh God! oh God! how cruel is a life of fear!— Father! I have given up all; I have abandoned the world and its delights for ever: nothing now remains, nothing now has charms for me, but your friendſhip, but your affection. If I loſe that, father! oh! if I loſe that, tremble at the effects of my deſpair!"

"You apprehend the loſs of my friendſhip? How has my conduct juſtified this fear? Know me better, Roſario, and think me worthy of your confidence. What are your ſufferings? Reveal them to me, and believe, that if 'tis in my power to relieve them—"

"Ah! 'tis in no one's power but yours. Yet I muſt not let you know them. You would hate me for my avowal! you would drive me from your preſence with ſcorn and ignominy."

"My ſon, I conjure you! I entreat you—"

"For pity's ſake, enquire no further! I muſt not—I dare not—Hark! the bell rings for veſpers! Father, your benediction, and I leave you."

As he ſaid this, he threw himſelf upon his knees, and received the bleſſing which he demanded. Then preſſing the abbot's hand to his lips, he ſtarted from the ground, and haſtily quitted the apartment. Soon after Ambroſio deſcended to veſpers (which were celebrated in a ſmall chapel belonging to the abbey), filled with ſurpriſe at the ſingularity of the youth's behaviour.

Veſpers being over, the monks retired to their reſpective cells. The abbot alone remained in the chapel to receive the nuns of St. Clare. He had not been long ſeated in the confeſſional chair, before the prioreſs made her appearance. Each of the nuns was heard in her turn, while the others waited with the domina in the adjoining veſtry. Ambroſio liſtened to the confeſſions with attention, made many exhortations, enjoined penance proportioned to each offence, and for ſome time every thing went on as uſual: till at laſt one of the nuns, conſpicuous from the nobleneſs of her air and elegance of her figure, careleſsly permitted a letter to fall from her boſom. She was retiring, unconſcious of her loſs. Ambroſio ſuppoſed it to have been written by ſome one of her relations, and picked it up, intending to reſtore it to her.

"Stay, daughter," ſaid he; "you have let fall—"

At this moment, the paper being already open, his eye involuntarily read the firſt words. He ſtarted back with ſurpriſe. The nun had turned round on hearing his voice: the perceived her letter in his hand, and, uttering a ſhriek of terror, flew haſtily to regain it.

"Hold!" ſaid the friar in a tone of ſeverity; "daughter, I muſt read this letter."

"Then I am loſt!" ſhe exclaimed, claſping her hands together wildly.

All colour inſtantly faded from her face; ſhe trembled with agitation, and was obliged to fold her arms round a pillar of the chapel to ſave herſelf from ſinking upon the floor. In the mean while the abbot read the following lines:

"All is ready for your eſcape, my deareſt Agnes! At twelve to-morrow night I ſhall expect to find you at the garden-door: I have obtained the key, and a few hours will ſuffice to place you in a ſecure aſylum. Let no miſtaken ſcruples induce you to reject the certain means of preſerving yourſelf and the innocent creature whom you nouriſh in your boſom. Remember that you had promiſed to be mine, long ere you engaged yourſelf to the church; that your ſituation will ſoon be evident to the prying eyes of your companions; and that flight is the only means of avoiding the effects of their malevolent reſentment. Farewell, my Agnes! my dear and deſtined wife! Fail not to be at the garden-door at twelve!"

As ſoon as he had finiſhed, Ambroſio bent an eye ſtern and angry upon the imprudent nun.

"This letter muſt to the prioreſs," ſaid he, and paſſed her.

His words ſounded like thunder to her ears: ſhe awoke from her torpidity only to be ſenſible of the dangers of her ſituation. She followed him haſtily, and detained him by his garment.

"Stay! oh! ſtay!" ſhe cried in the accents of deſpair, while ſhe threw herſelf at the friar's feet, and bathed them with her tears. "Father, compaſſionate my youth! Look with indulgence on a woman's weakneſs, and deign to conceal my frailty! The remainder of my life ſhall be employed in expiating this ſingle fault, and your lenity will bring back a ſoul to heaven!"

"Amazing confidence! What! ſhall St. Clare's convent become the retreat of proſtitutes? Shall I ſuffer the church of Chriſt to cheriſh in its boſom debauchery and ſhame? Unworthy wretch! ſuch lenity would make me your accomplice. Mercy would here be criminal. You have abandoned yourſelf to a ſeducer's luſt; you have defiled the ſacred habit by your impurity; and ſtill dare you think yourſelf deſerving my compaſſion? Hence, nor detain me longer. Where is the lady prioreſs?" he added, raiſing his voice.

"Hold! father, hold! Hear me but for one moment! Tax me not with impurity, nor think that I have erred from the warmth of temperament. Long before I took the veil, Raymond was maſter of my heart: he inſpired me with the pureſt, the moſt irreproachable paſſion, and was on the point of becoming my lawful huſband. An horrible adventure, and the treachery of a relation, ſeparated us from each other. I believed him for ever loſt to me, and threw myſelf into a convent from motives of deſpair. Accident again united us; I could not refuſe myſelf the melancholy pleaſure of mingling my tears with his. We met nightly in the gardens of St. Clare, and in an unguarded moment I violated my vows of chaſtity. I ſhall ſoon become a mother. Reverend Ambroſio, take compaſſion on me; take compaſſion on the innocent being whoſe exiſtence is attached to mine. If you diſcover my imprudence to the domina, both of us are loſt. The puniſhment which the laws of St. Clare aſſign to unfortunates like myſelf, is moſt ſevere and cruel. Worthy, worthy father! let not your own untainted conſcience render you unfeeling towards thoſe leſs able to withſtand temptation! Let not mercy be the only virtue of which your heart is unſuſceptible! Pity me, moſt reverend! Reſtore my letter, nor doom me to inevitable deſtruction!"

"Your boldneſs confounds me. Shall I conceal your crime—I whom you have deceived by your feigned confeſſion?—No, daughter, no. I will render you a more eſſential ſervice. I will reſcue you from perdition, in ſpite of yourſelf. Penance and mortification ſhall expiate your offence, and ſeverity force you back to the paths of holineſs. What, ho! Mother St. Agatha!"

"Father! by all that is ſacred, by all that is moſt dear to you, I ſupplicate, I entreat——"

"Releaſe me. I will not hear you. Where is the domina? Mother St. Agatha, where are you?"

The door of the veſtry opened, and the prioreſs entered the chapel, followed by her nuns.

"Cruel, cruel!" exclaimed Agnes, relinquiſhing her hold.

Wild and deſperate, ſhe threw herſelf upon the ground, beating her boſom, and rending her veil in all the delirium of deſpair. The nuns gazed with aſtoniſhment upon the ſcene before them. The friar now preſented the fatal paper to the prioreſs, informed her of the manner in which he had found it, and added, that it was her buſineſs to decide what penance the delinquent merited.

While ſhe peruſed the letter, the domina's countenance grew inflamed with paſſion. What! ſuch a crime committed in her convent, and made known to Ambroſio, to the idol of Madrid, to the man whom ſhe was moſt anxious to impreſs with the opinion of the ſtrictneſs and regularity of her houſe! Words were inadequate to expreſs her fury. She was ſilent, and darted upon the proſtrate nun looks of menace and malignity.

"Away with her to the convent!" ſaid ſhe at length to ſome of her attendants.

Two of the oldeſt nuns now approaching Agnes, raiſed her forcibly from the ground, and prepared to conduct her from the chapel.

"What!" ſhe exclaimed ſuddenly, ſhaking off their hold with diſtracted geſtures, "is all hope then loſt? Already do you drag me to puniſhment? Where are you, Raymond? Oh! ſave me! ſave me!" Then caſting upon the abbot a frantic look, "Hear me!" ſhe continued, "man of an hard heart! Hear me, proud, ſtern, and cruel! You could have ſaved me; you could have reſtored me to happineſs and virtue, but would not; you are the deſtroyer of my ſoul; you are my murderer, and on you fall the curſe of my death and my unborn infant's! Inſolent in your yet-unſhaken virtue, you diſdained the prayers of a penitent; but God will ſhew mercy, though you ſhew none. And where is the merit of your boaſted virtue? What temptations have you vanquiſhed? Coward! you have fled from it, not oppoſed ſeduction. But the day of trial will arrive. Oh! then when you yield to impetuous paſſions; when you feel that man is weak, and born to err; when, ſhuddering, you look back upon your crimes, and ſolicit, with terror, the mercy of your God, oh! in that fearful moment think upon me! think upon your cruelty! think upon Agnes, and deſpair of pardon."

As ſhe uttered theſe laſt words, her ſtrength was exhauſted, and ſhe ſunk inanimate upon the boſom of a nun who ſtood near her. She was immediately conveyed from the chapel, and her companions followed her.

Ambroſio had not liſtened to her reproaches without emotion. A ſecret pang at his heart made him feel that he had treated this unfortunate with too great ſeverity. He therefore detained the prioreſs, and ventured to pronounce ſome words in favour of the delinquent.

"The violence of her deſpair," ſaid he, "proves that at leaſt vice is not become familiar to her. Perhaps, by treating her with ſomewhat leſs rigour than is generally practiſed, and mitigating in ſome degree the accuſtomed penance——"

"Mitigate it, father?" interrupted the lady prioreſs: "Not I, believe me. The laws of our order are ſtrict and ſevere; they have fallen into diſuſe of late; but the crime of Agnes ſhews me the neceſſity of their revival. I go to ſignify my intention to the convent, and Agnes ſhall be the firſt to feel the rigour of thoſe laws, which ſhall be obeyed to the very letter. Father, farewell!"

Thus ſaying, ſhe haſtened out of the chapel.

"I have done my duty," ſaid Ambroſio to himſelf.

Still did he not feel perfectly ſatisfied by this reflection. To diſſipate the unpleaſant ideas which this ſcene had excited in him, upon quitting the chapel he deſcended into the abbey-garden. In all Madrid there was no ſpot more beautiful, or better regulated. It was laid out with the moſt exquiſite taſte; the choiceſt flowers adorned it in the height of luxuriance, and, though artfully arranged, ſeemed only planted by the hand of Nature. Fountains, ſpringing from baſons of white marble, cooled the air with perpetual ſhowers; and the walls were entirely covered by jeſſamine, vines, and honey-ſuckles. The hour now added to the beauty of the ſcene. The full moon, ranging through a blue and cloudleſs ſky, ſhed upon the trees a trembling luſtre, and the waters of the fountains ſparkled in the ſilver beam; a gentle breeze breathed the fragrance of orange-bloſſoms along the alleys, and the nightingale poured forth her melodious murmur from the ſhelter of an artificial wilderneſs. Thither the abbot bent his ſteps.

In the boſom of this little grove ſtood a ruſtic grotto, formed in imitation of an hermitage. The walls were conſtructed of roots of trees, and the interſtices filled up with moſs and ivy. Seats of turf were placed on either ſide, and a natural caſcade fell from the rock above. Buried in himſelf, the monk approached the ſpot. The univerſal calm had communicated itſelf to his boſom, and a voluptuous tranquillity ſpread languor through his ſoul.

He reached the hermitage, and was entering to repoſe himſelf, when he ſtopped on perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one of the banks lay a man in a melancholy poſture. His head was ſupported upon his arm, and he ſeemed loſt in meditation. The monk drew nearer, and recogniſed Roſario: he watched him in ſilence, and entered not the hermitage. After ſome minutes the youth raiſed his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the oppoſite wall.

"Yes," ſaid he, with a deep and plaintive ſigh, "I feel all the happineſs of thy ſituation, all the miſery of my own. Happy were I, could I think like thee! Could I look like thee with diſguſt upon mankind, could bury myſelf for ever in ſome impenetrable ſolitude, and forget that the world holds beings deſerving to be loved! O God! what a bleſſing would miſanthropy be to me!"

"That is a ſingular thought, Roſario," ſaid the abbot, entering the grotto.

"You here, reverend father?" cried the novice.

At the ſame time ſtarting from his place in confuſion, he drew his cowl haſtily over his face. Ambroſio ſeated himſelf upon the bank, and obliged the youth to place himſelf by him.

"You muſt not indulge this diſpoſition to melancholy," ſaid he: "What can poſſibly have made you view in ſo deſirable a light, miſanthropy, of all ſentiments the moſt hateful?"

"The peruſal of theſe verſes, father, which till now had eſcaped my obſervation. The brightneſs of the moon-beams permitted my reading them; and, oh! how I envy the feelings of the writer!"

As he ſaid this, he pointed to a marble tablet fixed againſt the oppoſite wall: on it were engraved the following lines:

INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE. Whoe'er thou art theſe lines now reading, Think not, though from the world receding, I joy my lonely days to lead in This deſert drear, That with remorſe a conſcience bleeding Hath led me here. No thought of guilt my boſom ſours: Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers; For well I ſaw in halls and towers, That Luſt and Pride, The Arch-fiend's deareſt darkeſt powers, In ſtate preſide. I ſaw mankind with vice incruſted; I ſaw that Honour's ſword was ruſted; That few for aught but folly luſted; That he was ſtill deceiv'd, who truſted In love or friend; And hither came, with men diſguſted, My life to end. In this lone cave, in garments lowly, Alike a foe to noiſy folly And brow-bent gloomy melancholy, I wear away My life, and in my office holy Conſume the day. Content and comfort bleſs me more in This grot, than e'er I felt before in A palace; and with thoughts ſtill ſoaring To God on high, Each night and morn with voice imploring This wiſh I ſigh: "Let me, O Lord! from life retire, Unknown each guilty worldly fire, Remorſeful throb, or looſe deſire; And when I die, Let me in this belief expire, To God I fly!" Stranger, if, full of youth and riot, As yet no grief has marred thy quiet, Thou haply throw'ſt a ſcornful eye at The Hermit's prayer: But if thou haſt a cauſe to ſigh at Thy fault, or care; If thou haſt known falſe love's vexation, Or haſt been exil'd from thy nation, Or guilt affrights thy contemplation, And makes thee pine; Oh! how muſt thou lament thy ſtation, And envy mine!

"Were it poſſible," ſaid the friar, "for man to be ſo totally wrapped up in himſelf as to live in abſolute ſecluſion from human nature, and could yet feel the contented tranquillity which theſe lines expreſs, I allow that the ſituation would be more deſirable, than to live in a world ſo pregnant with every vice and every folly. But this never can be the caſe. This inſcription was merely placed here for the ornament of the grotto, and the ſentiments and the hermit are equally imaginary. Man was born for ſociety. However little he may be attached to the world, he never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by it. Diſguſted at the guilt or abſurdity of mankind, the miſanthrope flies from it; he reſolves to become an hermit, and buries himſelf in the cavern of ſome gloomy rock. While hate inflames his boſom, poſſibly he may feel contented with his ſituation: but when his paſſions begin to cool; when Time has mellowed his ſorrows, and healed thoſe wounds which he bore with him to his ſolitude, think you that Content becomes his companion? Ah! no, Roſario. No longer ſuſtained by the violence of his paſſions, he feels all the monotony of his way of living, and his heart becomes the prey of ennui and wearineſs. He looks round, and finds himſelf alone in the univerſe: the love of ſociety evives in his boſom, and he pants to re urn to that world which he has abandoned. Nature loſes all her charms in his eyes: no one is near him to point out her beauties, or ſhare in his admiration of her excellence and variety. Propped upon the fragment of ſome rock, he gazes upon the tumbling water-fall with a vacant eye; he views, without emotion, the glory of the ſetting ſun. Slowly he returns to his cell at evening, for no one there is anxious for his arrival; he has no comfort in his ſolitary, unfavoury meal: he throws himſelf upon his couch of moſs deſpondent and diſſatisfied, and wakes only to paſs a day as joyleſs, as monotonous as the former."

"You amaze me, father! Suppoſe that circumſtances condemned you to ſolitude; would not the duties of religion, and the conſciouſneſs of a life well ſpent, communicate to your heart that calm which——"

"I ſhould deceive myſelf, did I fancy that they could. I am convinced of the contrary, and that all my fortitude would not prevent me from yielding to melancholy and diſguſt. After conſuming the day in ſtudy, if you knew my pleaſure at meeting my brethren in the evening! After paſſing many a long hour in ſolitude, if I could expreſs to you the joy which I feel at once more beholding a fellow-creature! 'Tis in this particular that I place the principal merit of a monaſtic inſtitution. It ſecludes man from the temptations of vice; it procures that leiſure neceſſary for the proper ſervice of the Supreme; it ſpares him the mortification of witneſſing the crimes of the worldly, and yet permits him to enjoy the bleſſings of ſociety. And do you, Roſario, do you envy an hermit's life? Can you be thus blind to the happineſs of your ſituation? Reflect upon it for a moment. This abbey is become your aſylum: your regularity, your gentleneſs, your talents have rendered you the object of univerſal eſteem: you are ſecluded from the world which you profeſs to hate; yet you remain in poſſeſſion of the benefits of ociety, and that a ſociety compoſed of the moſt eſtimable of mankind."

"Father! father! 'tis that which cauſes ny torment. Happy had it been for me, ad my life been paſſed among the vicious nd abandoned; had I never heard pronounced the name of virtue. 'Tis my unbounded adoration of religion; 'tis my oul's exquiſite ſenſibility of the beauty of air and good, that loads me with ſhame— hat hurries me to perdition. Oh! that I had never ſeen theſe abbey-walls!"

"How, Roſario? When we laſt converſed, you ſpoke in a different tone. Is my friendſhip then become of ſuch little conſequence? Had you never ſeen theſe abbey-walls, you never had ſeen me. Can that really be your wiſh?"

"Had never ſeen you?" repeated the novice, ſtarting from the bank, and graſping the friar's hand with a frantic air— "You! you! Would to God that lightning had blaſted them before you ever met my eyes! Would to God that I were never to ſee you more, and could forget that I had ever ſeen you!"

With theſe words he flew haſtily from the grotto. Ambroſio remained in his former attitude, reflecting on the youth's unaccountable behaviour. He was inclined to ſuſpect the derangement of his ſenſes: yet the general tenor of his conduct, the connexion of his ideas, and calmneſs of his demeanour till the moment of his quitting the grotto, ſeemed to diſcountenance this conjecture. After a few minutes Roſario returned. He again ſeated himſelf upon the bank: he reclined his cheek upon one hand, and with the other wiped away the tears which trickled from his eyes at intervals.

The monk looked upon him with compaſſion, and forbore to interrupt his meditations. Both obſerved for ſome time a profound ſilence. The nightingale had now taken her ſtation upon an orange-tree fronting the hermitage, and poured forth a ſtrain the moſt melancholy and melodious. Roſario raiſed his head, and liſtened to her with attention.

"It was thus," ſaid he, with a deep-drawn ſigh, "it was thus that, during the laſt month of her unhappy life, my ſiſter uſed to ſit liſtening to the nightingale. Poor Matilda! ſhe ſleeps in the grave, and her broken heart throbs no more with paſſion."

"You had a ſiſter?"

"You ſay right, that I bad. Alas! I have one no longer. She ſunk beneath the weight of her ſorrows in the very ſpring of life."

"What were thoſe ſorrows?"

"They will not excite your pity. You know not the power of thoſe irreſiſtible, thoſe fatal ſentiments to which her heart was a prey. Father, ſhe loved unfortunately. A paſſion for one endowed with every virtue, for a man—oh! rather let me ſay for a divinity—proved the bane of her exiſtence. His noble form, his ſpotleſs character, his various talents, his wiſdom ſolid, wonderful, and glorious, might have warmed the boſom of the moſt inſenſible. My ſiſter ſaw him, and dared to love, though ſhe never dared to hope."

"If her love was ſo well beſtowed, what forbad her to hope the obtaining of its object?"

"Father, before he knew her, Julian had already plighted his vows to a bride moſt fair, moſt heavenly! Yet ſtill my ſiſter loved, and for the huſband's ſake ſhe doted upon the wife. One morning ſhe found means to eſcape from our father's houſe: arrayed in humble weeds ſhe offered herſelf as a domeſtic to the conſort of her beloved, and was accepted. She was now continually in his preſence: ſhe ſtrove 〈◊〉 ingratiate herſelf into his favour: ſhe ſucceeded. Her attentions attracted Julian's notice: the virtuous are ever grateful, and he diſtinguiſhed Matilda above the reſt of her companions."

"And did not your parents ſeek for her? Did they ſubmit tamely to their loſs, nor attempt to recover their wandering daughter?"

"Ere they could find her, ſhe diſcovered herſelf. Her love grew too violent for concealment; yet ſhe wiſhed not for Julian's perſon, ſhe ambitioned but a ſhare of his heart. In an unguarded moment ſhe confeſſed her affection. What was the return? Doting upon his wife, and believing that a look of pity beſtowed upon another was a theft from what he owed to her, he drove Matilda from his preſence: he forbad her ever again appearing before him. His ſeverity broke her heart: ſhe returned to her father's, and in a few months after was carried to her grave."

"Unhappy girl! Surely her fate was too ſevere, and Julian was too cruel."

"Do you think ſo, father?" cried the novice with vivacity: "Do you think that he was cruel?"

"Doubtleſs I do, and pity her moſt ſincerely."

"You pity her? you pity her? Oh! father! father! then pity me—"

The friar ſtarted; when, after a moment's pauſe, Roſario added with a faltering voice, "for my ſufferings are ſtill greater. My ſiſter had a friend, a real friend, who pitied the acuteneſs of her feelings, nor reproached her with her inability to repreſs them. I—! I have no friend! The whole wide world cannot furniſh an heart that is willing to participate in the ſorrows of mine."

As he uttered theſe words, he ſobbed audibly. The friar was affected. He took Roſario's hand, and preſſed it with tenderneſs.

"You have no friend, ſay you? What then am I? Why will you not confide in me, and what can you fear? My ſeverity? Have I ever uſed it with you? The dignity of my habit? Roſario, I lay aſide the monk, and bid you conſider me as no other than your friend, your father. Well may I aſſume that title, for never did parent watch over a child more fondly than I have watched over you. From the moment in which I firſt beheld you, I perceived ſenſations in my boſom till then unknown to me; I found a delight in your ſociety which no one's elſe could afford; and when I witneſſed the extent of your genius and information, I rejoiced as does a father in the perfections of his ſon. Then lay aſide your fears; ſpeak to me with openneſs: ſpeak to me, Roſario, and ſay that you will confide in me. If my aid or my pity can alleviate your diſtreſs——"

"Yours can; yours only can. Ah! father, how willingly would I unveil to you my heart! how willingly would I declare the ſecret which bows me down with its weight! But oh! I fear, I fear—"

"What, my ſon?"

"That you ſhould abhor me for my weakneſs; that the reward of my confidence ſhould be the loſs of your eſteem."

"How ſhall I reaſſure you? Reflect upon the whole of my paſt conduct, upon the paternal tenderneſs which I have ever ſhown you. Abhor you, Roſario? It is no longer in my power. To give up your ſociety would be to deprive myſelf of the greateſt pleaſure of my life. Then reveal to me what afflicts you, and believe me while I ſolemnly ſwear—"

"Hold!" interrupted the novice. "Swear, that whatever be my ſecret, you will not oblige me to quit the monaſtery till my noviciate ſhall expire."

"I promiſe it faithfully; and as I keep my vows to you, may Chriſt keep his to mankind! Now then explain this myſtery, and rely upon my indulgence."

"I obey you. Know then—Oh! how I tremble to name the word! Liſten to me with pity, revered Ambroſio! Call up every latent ſpark of human weakneſs that may teach you compaſſion for mine! Father!" continued he, throwing himſelf at the friar's feet, and preſſing his hand to his lips with eagerneſs, while agitation for a moment choaked his voice; "father!" continued he in faltering accents, "I am a woman!"

The abbot ſtarted at this unexpected avowal. Proſtrate on the ground lay the feigned Roſario, as if waiting in ſilence the deciſion of his judge. Aſtoniſhment on the one part, apprehenſion on the other, for ſome minutes chained them in the ſame attitudes, as they had been touched by the rod of ſome magician. At length recovering from his confuſion, the monk quitted the grotto, and ſped with precipitation towards the abbey. His action did not eſcape the ſuppliant. She ſprang from the ground; ſhe haſtened to follow him, overtook him, threw herſelf in his paſſage, and embraced his knees. Ambroſio ſtrove in vain to diſengage himſelf from her graſp.

"Do not fly me!" ſhe cried. "Leave me not abandoned to the impulſe of deſpair! Liſten, while I excuſe my imprudence; while I acknowledge my ſiſter's ſtory to be my own! I am Matilda; you are her beloved."

If Ambroſ o's ſurpriſe was great at her firſt avowal, upon hearing her ſecond it exceeded all bounds. Amazed, embarraſſed, and irreſolute, he found himſelf incapable of pronouncing a ſyllable, and remained in ſilence gazing upon Matilda. This gave her opportunity to continue her explanation as follows:

"Think not, Ambroſio, that I come to rob your bride of your affections. No, believe me: Religion alone deſerves you; and far is it from Matilda's wiſh to draw you from the paths of virtue. What I feel for you is love, not licentiouſneſs. I ſigh to be poſſeſſor of your heart, not luſt for the enjoyment of your perſon. Deign to liſten to my vindication: a few moments will convince you that this holy retreat is not polluted by my preſence, and that you may grant me your compaſſion without treſpaſſing againſt your vows."—She ſeated herſelf. Ambroſio, ſcarcely conſcious of what he did, followed her example, and ſhe proceeded in her diſcourſe:—

"I ſpring from a diſtinguiſhed family; my father was chief of the noble houſe of Villanegas: he died while I was ſtill an infant, and left me ſole heireſs of his immenſe poſſeſſions. Young and wealthy, I was ſought in marriage by the nobleſt youths of Madrid; but no one ſucceeded in gaining my affections. I had been brought up under the care of an uncle poſſeſſed of the moſt ſolid judgment and extenſive erudition: he took pleaſure in communicating to me ſome portion of his knowledge. Under his inſtructions my underſtanding acquired more ſtrength and juſtneſs than generally falls to the lot of my ſex: the ability of my preceptor being aided by natural curioſity, I not only made a conſiderable progreſs in ſciences univerſally ſtudied, but in others revealed but to few, and lying under cenſure from the blindneſs of ſuperſtition. But while my guardian laboured to enlarge the ſphere of my knowledge, he carefully inculcated every moral precept: he relieved me from the ſhackles of vulgar prejudice: he pointed out the beauty of religion: he taught me to look with adoration upon the pure and virtuous; and, wo is me! I have obeyed him but too well.

"With ſuch diſpoſitions, judge whether I could obſerve with any other ſentiment than diſguſt, the vice, diſſipation, and ignorance which diſgrace our Spaniſh youth. I rejected every offer with diſdain: my heart remained without a maſter, till chance conducted me to the cathedral of the Capuchins. Oh! ſurely on that day my guardian angel ſlumbered, neglectful of his charge! Then was it that I firſt beheld you: you ſupplied the ſuperior's place, abſent from illneſs.— You cannot but remember the lively enthuſiaſm which your diſcourſe created. Oh! how I drank your words! how your eloquence ſeemed to ſteal me from myſelf! I ſcarcely dared to breathe, fearing to loſe a ſyllable; and while you ſpoke, methought a radiant glory beamed round your head, and your countenance ſhone with the majeſty of a god. I retired from the church, glowing with admiration. From that moment you became the idol of my heart; the never-changing object of my meditations. I enquired reſpecting you. The reports which were made me of your mode of life, of your knowledge, piety, and ſelf-denial, riveted the chains impoſed on me by your eloquence. I was conſcious that there was no longer a void in my heart; that I had found the man whom I had ſought till then, in vain. In expectation of hearing you, again, every day I viſited your cathedral: you remained ſecluded within the abbey walls, and I always withdrew, wretched and diſappointed. The night was more propitious to me, for then you ſtood before me in my dreams; you vowed to me eternal friendſhip; you led me through the paths of virtue, and aſſiſted me to ſupport the vexations of life. The morning diſpelled theſe pleaſing viſions: I awoke, and found myſelf ſeparated from you by barriers which appeared inſurmountable. Time ſeemed only to increaſe the ſtrength of my paſſion: I grew melancholy and deſpondent; I fled from ſociety, and my health declined daily. At length, no longer able to exiſt in this ſtate of torture, I reſolved to aſſume the diſguiſe in which you ſee me. My artifice was fortunate; I was received into the monaſtery, and ſucceeded in gaining your eſteem.

"Now, then, I ſhould have felt completely happy, had not my quiet been diſturbed by the fear of detection. The pleaſure which I received from your ſociety was embittered by the idea, that perhaps I ſhould ſoon be deprived of it: and my heart throbbed ſo rapturouſly at obtaining the marks of your friendſhip, as to convince me that I never ſhould ſurvive its loſs. I reſolved, therefore, not to leave the diſcovery of my ſex to chance—to confeſs the whole to you, and throw myſelf entirely on your mercy and indulgence. Ah! Ambroſio, can I have been deceived? Can you be leſs generous than I thought you? I will not ſuſpect it. You will not drive a wretch to deſpair; I ſhall ſtill be permitted to ſee you, to converſe with you, to adore you! Your virtues ſhall be my example through life; and, when we expire, our bodies ſhall reſt in the ſame grave."

She ceaſed.—While ſhe ſpoke, a thouſand oppoſing ſentiments combated in Ambroſio's boſom. Surpriſe at the ſingularity of this adventure; confuſion at her abrupt declaration; reſentment at her boldneſs in entering the monaſtery; and conſciouſneſs of the auſterity with which it behoved him to reply; ſuch were the ſentiments of which he was aware: but there were others alſo which did not obtain his notice. He perceived not that his vanity was flattered by the praiſes beſtowed upon his eloquence and virtue; that he felt a ſecret pleaſure in reflecting that a young and ſeemingly lovely woman had for his ſake abandoned the world, and ſacrificed every other paſſion to that which he had inſpired: ſtill leſs did he perceive, that his heart throbbed with deſire, while his hand was preſſed gently by Matilda's ivory fingers.

By degrees he recovered from his confuſion: his ideas became leſs bewildered: he was immediately ſenſible of the extreme impropriety, ſhould Matilda be permitted to remain in the abbey after this avowal of her ſex. He aſſumed an air of ſeverity, and drew away his hand.

"How, lady!" ſaid he, "can you really hope for my permiſſion to remain amongſt us? Even were I to grant your requeſt, what good could you derive from it? Think you, that I ever can reply to an affection, which—"

"No, father, no! I expect not to inſpire you with a love like mine: I only wiſh for the liberty to be near you; to paſs ſome hours of the day in your ſociety; to obtain your compaſſion, your friendſhip, and eſteem. Surely my requeſt is not unreaſonable."

"But reflect, lady! reflect only for a moment on the impropriety of my harbouring a woman in the abbey, and that too a woman who confeſſes that ſhe loves me. It muſt not be. The riſk of your being diſcovered is too great; and I will not expoſe myſelf to ſo dangerous a temptation."

"Temptation, ſay you? Forget that I am a woman, and it no longer exiſts: conſider me only as a friend; as an unfortunate, whoſe happineſs, whoſe life, depends upon your protection. Fear not, leſt I ſhould ever call to your remembrance, that love the moſt impetuous, the moſt unbounded, has induced me to diſguiſe my ſex; or that, inſtigated by deſires, offenſive to your vows and my own honour, I ſhould endeavour to ſeduce you from the path of rectitude. No, Ambroſio! learn to know me better: I love you for your virtues: loſe them, and with them you loſe my affections. I look upon you as a ſaint: prove to me that you are no more than man, and I quit you with diſguſt. Is it then from me that you fear temptation? from me, in whom the world's dazzling pleaſures created no other ſentiment than contempt? from me, whoſe attachment is grounded on your exemption from human frailty? Oh! diſmiſs ſuch injurious apprehenſions! think nobler of me; think nobler of yourſelf. I am incapable of ſeducing you to error; and ſurely your virtue is eſtabliſhed on a baſis too firm to be ſhaken by unwarranted deſires. Ambroſio! deareſt Ambroſio! drive me not from your preſence; remember your promiſe, and authoriſe my ſtay."

"Impoſſible, Matilda! your intereſt commands me to refuſe your prayer, ſince I tremble for you, not for myſelf. After vanquiſhing the impetuous ebullitions of youth; after paſſing thirty years in mortification and penance, I might ſafely permit your ſtay, nor fear your inſpiring me with warmer ſentiments than pity: but to yourſelf, remaining in the abbey can produce none but fatal conſequences. You will miſconſtrue my every word and action; you will ſeize every circumſtance with avidity which encourages you to hope the return of your affection; inſenſibly, your paſſions will gain a ſuperiority over your reaſon; and, far from being repreſſed by my preſence, every moment which we paſs together will only ſerve to irritate and excite them. Believe me, unhappy woman! you poſſeſs my ſincere compaſſion. I am convinced that you have hitherto acted upon the pureſt motives; but though you are blind to the imprudence of your conduct, in me it would be culpable not to open your eyes. I feel that duty obliges my treating you with harſhneſs; I muſt reject your prayer, and remove every ſhadow of hope which may aid to nouriſh ſentiments ſo pernicious to your repoſe. Matilda, you muſt from hence to-morrow."

"To morrow, Ambroſio? to-morrow? Oh! ſurely you cannot mean it! you cannot reſolve on driving me to deſpair! you cannot have the cruelty—"

"You have heard my deciſion, and it muſt be obeyed: the laws of our order forbid your ſtay: it would be perjury to conceal that a woman is within theſe walls, and my vows will oblige me to declare your ſtory to the community. You muſt from hence. I pity you, but can do no more."

He pronounced theſe words in a faint and trembling voice; then, riſing from his ſeat, he would have haſtened towards the monaſtery. Uttering a loud ſhriek, Matilda followed, and detained him.

"Stay yet one moment, Ambroſio! hear me yet ſpeak one word!"

"I dare not liſten. Releaſe me: you know my reſolution."

"But one word! but one laſt word, and I have done!"

"Leave me. Your entreaties are in vain: you muſt from hence to-morrow."

"Go then, barbarian! But this reſource is ſtill left me."

As ſhe ſaid this, ſhe ſuddenly drew a poniard. She rent open her garment, and placed the weapon's point againſt her boſom.

"Father, I will never quit theſe walls alive."

"Hold! hold, Matilda! what would you do?"

"You are determined, ſo am I: the moment that you leave me, I plunge this ſteel in my heart."

"Holy St. Francis! Matilda, have you your ſenſes? Do you know the conſequences of your action? that ſuicide is the greateſt of crimes? that you deſtroy your ſoul? that you loſe your claim to ſalvation? that you prepare for yourſelf everlaſting torments?"

"I care not, I care not," ſhe replied paſſionately: "either your hand guides me to paradiſe, or my own dooms me to perdition. Speak to me, Ambroſio! Tell me that you will conceal my ſtory; that I ſhall remain your friend and your companion, or this poniard drinks my blood."

As ſhe uttered theſe laſt words, ſhe lifted her arm, and made a motion as if to ſtab herſelf. The friar's eyes followed with dread the courſe of the dagger. She had torn open her habit, and her boſom was half expoſed. The weapon's point reſted upon her left breaſt: and, oh! that was ſuch a breaſt! The moon-beams darting full upon it enabled the monk to obſerve its dazzling whiteneſs: his eye dwelt with inſatiable avidity upon the beauteous orb: a ſenſation till then unknown filled his heart with a mixture of anxiety and delight; a raging fire ſhot through every limb; the blood boiled in his veins, and a thouſand wild wiſhes bewildered his imagination.

"Hold!" he cried, in an hurried, faltering voice; "I can reſiſt no longer! Stay then, enchantreſs! ſtay for my deſtruction!".

He ſaid; and, ruſhing from the place, haſtened towards the monaſtery: he regained his cell, and threw himſelf upon his couch, diſtracted, irreſolute and confuſed.

He found it impoſſible for ſome time to arrange his ideas. The ſcene in which he had been engaged, had excited ſuch a variety of ſentiments in his boſom, that he was incapable of deciding which was predominant. He was irreſolute what conduct he ought to hold with the diſturber of his repoſe; he was conſcious that prudence, religion, and propriety, neceſſitated his obliging her to quit the abbey: but, on the other hand, ſuch powerful reaſons authoriſed her ſtay, that he was but too much inclined to conſent to her remaining. He could not avoid being flattered by Matilda's declaration, and at reflecting that he had unconſciouſly vanquiſhed an heart which had reſiſted the attacks of Spain's nobleſt cavaliers. The manner in which he had gained her affections was alſo the moſt ſatisfactory to his vanity: he remembered the many happy hours which he had paſſed in Roſario's ſociety; and dreaded that void in his heart which parting with him would occaſion. Beſides all this, he conſidered, that as Matilda was wealthy, her favour might be of eſſential benefit to the abbey.

"And what do I riſk," ſaid he to himſelf, "by authorizing her ſtay? May I not ſafely credit her aſſertions? Will it not be eaſy for me to forget her ſex, and ſtill conſider her as my friend and my diſciple? Surely her love is as pure as ſhe deſcribes: had it been the offspring of mere licentiouſneſs, would ſhe ſo long have concealed it in her own boſom? Would ſhe not have employed ſome means to procure its gratification? She has done quite the contrary: ſhe ſtrove to keep me in ignorance of her ſex; and nothing but the fear of detection, and my inſtances, would have compelled her to reveal the ſecret: ſhe has obſerved the duties of religion not leſs ſtrictly than myſelf: ſhe has made no attempt to rouſe my ſlumbering paſſions, nor has ſhe ever converſed with me till this night on the ſubject of love. Had ſhe been deſirous to gain my affections, not my eſteem, ſhe would not have concealed from me her charms ſo carefully: at this very moment I have never ſeen her face; yet certainly that face muſt be lovely, and her perſon beautiful, to judge by her—by what I have ſeen."

As this laſt idea paſſed through his imagination, a bluſh ſpread itſelf over his cheek. Alarmed at the ſentiments which he was indulging, he betook himſelf to prayer: he ſtarted from his couch, knelt before the beautiful Madona, and entreated her aſſiſtance in ſtifling ſuch culpable emotions: he then returned to his bed, and reſigned himſelf to ſlumber.

He awoke heated and unrefreſhed. During his ſleep, his inflamed imagination had preſented him with none but the moſt voluptuous objects. Matilda ſtood before him in his dreams, and his eyes again dwelt upon her naked breaſt; ſhe repeated her proteſtations of eternal love, threw her arms round his neck, and loaded him with kiſſes: he returned them; he claſped her paſſionately to his boſom, and—the viſion was diſſolved. Sometimes his dreams preſented the image of his favourite Madona, and he fancied that he was kneeling before her: as he offered up his vows to her, the eyes of the figure ſeemed to beam on him with inexpreſſible ſweetneſs; he preſſed his lips to hers, and found them warm: the animated form ſtarted from the canvas, embraced him affectionately, and his ſenſes were unable to ſupport delight ſo exquiſite. Such were the ſcenes on which his thoughts were employed while ſleeping: his unſatisfied deſires placed before him the moſt luſtful and provoking images, and he rioted in joys till then unknown to him.

He ſtarted from his couch, filled with confuſion at the remembrance of his dreams: ſcarcely was he leſs aſhamed when he reflected on his reaſons of the former night, which induced him to authoriſe Matilda's ſtay. The cloud was now diſſipated which had obſcured his judgment; he ſhuddered when he beheld his arguments blazoned in their proper colours, and found that he had been a ſlave to flattery, to avarice, and ſelf-love. If in one hour's converſation Matilda had produced a change ſo remarkable in his ſentiments, what had he not to dread from her remaining in the abbey? Become ſenſible of his danger, awakened from his dream of confidence, he reſolved to inſiſt on her departing without delay: he began to feel that he was not proof againſt temptation; and that, however Matilda might reſtrain herſelf within the bounds of modeſty, he was unable to contend with thoſe paſſions from which he falſely thought himſelf exempted.

"Agnes! Agnes!" he exclaimed, while reflecting on his embarraſſments, "I already feel thy curſe!"

He quitted his cell, determined upon diſmiſſing the feigned Roſario. He appeared at matins; but his thoughts were abſent, and he paid them but little attention: his heart and brain were both of them filled with worldly objects, and he prayed without devotion. The ſervice over, he deſcended into the garden; he bent his ſteps towards the ſame ſpot where on the preceding night he had made this embarraſſing diſcovery: he doubted not that Matilda would ſeek him there. He was not deceived: ſhe ſoon entered the hermitage, and approached the monk with a timid air. After a few minutes, during which both were ſilent, ſhe appeared as if on the point of ſpeaking; but the abbot, who during this time had been ſummoning up all his reſolution, haſtily interrupted her. Though ſtill unconſcious how extenſive was its influence, he dreaded the melodious ſeduction of her voice.

"Seat yourſelf by my ſide, Matilda," ſaid he, aſſuming a look of firmneſs, though carefully avoiding the leaſt mixture of ſeverity; "liſten to me patiently, and believe that, in what I ſhall ſay, I am not more influenced by my own intereſt than by yours; believe that I feel for you the warmeſt friendſhip, the trueſt compaſſion; and that you cannot feel more grieved than I do, when I declare to you that we muſt never meet again."

"Ambroſio!" ſhe cried, in a voice at once expreſſive both of ſurpriſe and of ſorrow.

"Be calm, my friend! my Roſario! ſtill let me call you by that name ſo dear to me: our ſeparation is unavoidable; I bluſh to own how ſenſibly it affects me.—But yet it muſt be ſo; I feel myſelf incapable of treating you with indifference; and that very conviction obliges me to inſiſt upon your departure. Matilda, you muſt ſtay here no longer."

"Oh! where ſhall I now ſeek for probity? Diſguſted with a perfidious world, in what happy region does Truth conceal herſelf? Father, I hoped that ſhe reſided here; I thought that your boſom had been her favourite ſhrine. And you too prove falſe? Oh God! and you too can betray me?"

"Matilda?"

"Yes, father, yes; 'tis with juſtice that I reproach you. Oh! where are your promiſes? My noviciate is not expired, and yet will you compel me to quit the monaſtery? Can you have the heart to drive me from you? and have I not received your ſolemn oath to the contrary?"

"I will not compel you to quit the monaſtery; you have received my ſolemn oath to the contrary: but yet, when I throw myſelf upon your generoſity; when I declare to you the embarraſſments in which your preſence involves me, will you not releaſe me from that oath? Reflect upon the danger of a diſcovery; upon the opprobrium in which ſuch an event would plunge me: reflect, that my honour and reputation are at ſtake; and that my peace of mind depends on your compliance. As yet, my heart is free; I ſhall ſeparate from you with regret, but not with deſpair. Stay here, and a few weeks will ſacrifice my happineſs on the altar of your charms; you are but too intereſting, too amiable! I ſhould love you, I ſhould doat on you! my boſom would become the prey of deſires, which honour and my profeſſion forbid me to gratify. If I reſiſted them, the impetuoſity of my wiſhes unſatisfied would drive me to madneſs: if I yielded to the temptation, I ſhould ſacrifice to one moment of guilty pleaſure, my reputation in this world, my ſalvation in the next. To you, then, I ſly for defence againſt myſelf. Preſerve me from loſing the reward of thirty years of ſufferings! preſerve me from becoming the victim of remorſe! Your heart has already felt the anguiſh of hopeleſs love: oh! then, if you really value me, ſpare mine that anguiſh! give me back my promiſe; fly from theſe walls. Go, and you bear with you my warmeſt prayers for your happineſs, my friendſhip, my eſteem, and admiration: ſtay, and you become to me the ſource of danger, of ſufferings, of deſpair. Anſwer me, Matilda, what is your reſolve?" She was ſilent.— "Will you not ſpeak, Matilda? Will you not name your choice?"

"Cruel! cruel!" ſhe exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony; "you know too well that you offer me no choice: you know too well that I can have no will but yours!"

"I was not then deceived. Matilda's generoſity equals my expectations."

"Yes; I will prove the truth of my affection by ſubmitting to a decree which cuts me to the very heart. Take back your promiſe. I will quit the monaſtery this very day. I have a relation, abbeſs of a convent in Eſtramadura: to her will I bend my ſteps, and ſhut myſelf from the world for ever. Yet tell me, father, ſhall I bear your good wiſhes with me to my ſolitude? Will you ſometimes abſtract your attention from heavenly objects to beſtow a thought upon me?"

"Ah! Matilda, I fear that I ſhall think on you but too often for my repoſe!"

"Then I have nothing more to wiſh for, ſave that we may meet in heaven. Farewell, my friend! my Ambroſio! And yet, methinks, I would fain bear with me ſome token of your regard."

"What ſhall I give you?"

"Something—any thing—one of thoſe flowers will be ſufficient." [Here ſhe pointed to a buſh of roſes, planted at the door of the grotto.] "I will hide it in my boſom, and, when I am dead, the nuns ſhall find it withered upon my heart."

The friar was unable to reply: with ſlow ſteps, and a ſoul heavy with affliction, he quitted the hermitage. He approached the buſh, and ſtooped to pluck one of the roſes. Suddenly he uttered a piercing cry, ſtarted back haſtily, and let the flower, which he already held, fall from his hand. Matilda heard the ſhriek, and flew anxiouſly towards him.

"What is the matter?" ſhe cried. "Anſwer me, for God's ſake! What has happened?"

"I have received my death" he replied in a faint voice: "concealed among the roſes—a ſerpent—"

Here the pain of his wound became ſo exquiſite, that nature was unable to bear it: his ſenſes abandoned him, and he ſunk inanimate into Matilda's arms.

Her diſtreſs was beyond the power of deſcription. She rent her hair, beat her boſom, and, not daring to quit Ambroſio, endeavoured by loud cries to ſummon the monks to her aſſiſtance. She at length ſucceeded. Alarmed by her ſhrieks, ſeveral of the brothers haſtened to the ſpot, and the ſuperior was conveyed back to the abbey. He was immediately put to bed, and the monk, who officiated as ſurgeon to the fraternity, prepared to examine the wound. By this time Ambroſio's hand had ſwelled to an extraordinary ſize: the remedies which had been adminiſtered to him, 'tis true, reſtored him to life, but not to his ſenſes: he raved in all the horrors of delirium, foamed at the mouth, and four of the ſtrongeſt monks were ſcarcely able to hold him in his bed.

Father Pablos (ſuch was the ſurgeon's name) haſtened to examine the wounded hand. The monks ſurrounded the bed, anxiouſly waiting for the deciſion: among theſe the feigned Roſario appeared not the moſt inſenſible to the friar's calamity: he gazed upon the ſufferer with inexpreſſible anguiſh; and his groans, which every moment eſcaped from his boſom, ſufficiently betrayed the violence of his affliction.

Father Pablos probed the wound. As he drew out his lancet, its point was tinged with a greeniſh hue. He ſhook his head mournfully, and quitted the bed ſide.

"'Tis as I feared," ſaid he; "there is no hope."

"No hope!" exclaimed the monks with one voice; "ſay you, no hope?"

"From the ſudden effects, I ſuſpected that the abbot was ſtung by a cientipedoro The cientipedoro is ſuppoſed to be a native of Cuba, and to have been brought into Spain from that ſtand in the veſſel of Columbus.: the venom which you ſee upon my lancet confirms my idea. He cannot live three days."

"And can no poſſible remedy be found?" enquired Roſario.

"Without extracting the poiſon, he cannot recover; and how to extract it is to me ſtill a ſecret. All that I can do is to apply ſuch herbs to the wound as will relieve the anguiſh: the patient will be reſtored to his ſenſes; but the venom will corrupt the whole maſs of his blood, and in three days he will exiſt no longer."

Exceſſive was the univerſal grief at hearing this deciſion. Pablos, as he had promiſed, dreſſed the wound, and then retired, followed by his companions. Roſario alone remained in the cell, the abbot, at his urgent entreaty, having been committed to his care. Ambroſio's ſtrength worn out by the violence of his exertions, he had by this time fallen into a profound ſleep. So totally was he overcome by wearineſs, that he ſcarcely gave any ſigns of life. He was ſtill in this ſituation, when the monks returned to enquire whether any change had taken place. Pablos looſened the bondage which concealed the wound, more from a principle of curioſity, than from indulging the hope of diſcovering any favourable ſymptoms. What was his aſtoniſhment at finding that the inflammation had totally ſubſided! He probed the hand; his lancet came out pure and unſullied; no traces of the venom were perceptible; and had not the orifice ſtill been viſible, Pablos might have doubted that there had ever been a wound.

He communicated this intelligence to his brethren: their delight was only equalled by their ſurpriſe. From the latter ſentiment, however, they were ſoon releaſed, by explaining the circumſtance according to their own ideas. They were perfectly convinced that their ſuperior was a ſaint, and thought that nothing could be more natural than for St. Francis to have operated a miracle in his favour. This opinion was adopted unanimouſly. They declared it ſo loudly, and vociferated "A miracle! a miracle!" with ſuch fervour, that they ſoon interrupted Ambroſio's ſlumbers.

The monks immediately crowded round his bed, and expreſſed their ſatisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was perfectly in his ſenſes, and free from every complaint, except feeling weak and languid. Pablos gave him a ſtrengthening medicine, and adviſed his keeping his bed for the two ſucceeding days: he then retired, having deſired his patient not to exhauſt himſelf by converſation, but rather to endeavour at taking ſome repoſe. The other monks followed his example, and the abbot and Roſario were left without obſervers.

For ſome minutes Ambroſio regarded his attendant with a look of mingled pleaſure and apprehenſion. She was ſeated upon the ſide of the bed, her head bending down, and, as uſual, enveloped in the cowl of her habit.

"And you are ſtill here, Matilda?" ſaid the friar at length; "are you not ſatisfied with having ſo nearly effected my deſtruction, that nothing but a miracle could have ſaved me from the grave? Ah! ſurely heaven ſent that ſerpent to puniſh—"

Matilda interrupted him by putting her hand before his lips with an air of gaiety.

"Huſh! father, huſh! you muſt not talk."

"He who impoſed that order, knew not how intereſting are the ſubjects on which I wiſh to ſpeak."

"But I know it, and yet iſſue the ſame poſitive command. I am appointed your nurſe, and you muſt not diſobey my orders."

"You are in ſpirits, Matilda!"

"Well may I be ſo; I have juſt received a pleaſure unexampled through my whole life."

"What was that pleaſure?"

"What I muſt conceal from all, but moſt from you."

"But moſt from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda—"

"Huſh! father, huſh! you muſt not talk. But as you do not ſeem inclined to ſleep, ſhall I endeavour to amuſe you with my harp?"

"How! I knew not that you underſtood muſic."

"Oh! I am a ſorry performer! Yet as ſilence is preſcribed you for eight-and-forty hours, I may poſſibly entertain you, when wearied of your own reflections. I go to fetch my harp."

She ſoon returned with it.

"Now, father, what ſhall I ſing? Will you hear the ballad which treats of the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of Roncevalles?"

"What you pleaſe, Matilda."

"Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Roſario, call me your friend. Thoſe are the names which I love to hear from your lips. Now liſten."

She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for ſome moments with ſuch exquiſite taſte as to prove her a perfect miſtreſs of the inſtrument. The air which ſhe played was ſoft and plaintive. Ambroſio, while he liſtened, felt his uneaſineſs ſubſide, and a pleaſing melancholy ſpread itſelf into his boſom. Suddenly Matilda changed the ſtrain: with an hand bold and rapid, ſhe ſtruck a few loud martial chords, and then chanted the following ballad to an air at once ſimple and melodious:

DURANDARTE AND BELERMA. SAD and fearful is the ſtory Of the Roncevalles fight; On thoſe fatal plains of glory Periſhed many a gallant knight. There fell Durandarte: never Verſe a nobler chieftain named: He, before his lips for ever Clos'd in ſilence, thus exclaimed: "Oh! Belerma! Oh! my dear one, For my pain and pleaſure born, Seven long years I ſerv'd thee, fair one, Seven long years my fee was ſcorn. "And when now thy heart, replying To my wiſhes, burns like mine, Cruel fate, my bliſs denying, Bids me every hope reſign. "Ah! though young I fall, believe me, Death would never claim a ſigh; 'Tis to loſe thee, 'tis to leave thee, Makes me think it hard to die! "Oh! my couſin Monteſinos, By that friendſhip firm and dear, Which from youth has lived between us, Now my laſt petition hear: "When my ſoul, theſe limbs forſaking, Eager ſeeks a purer air, From my breaſt the cold heart taking, Give it to Belerma's care. "Say, I of my lands poſſeſſor Named her with my dying breath: Say, my lips I op'd to bleſs her, Ere they clos'd for aye in death: "Twice a week, too, how ſincerely I ador'd her, couſin, ſay: Twice a week, for one who dearly Lov'd her, couſin, bid her pray. "Monteſinos, now the hour Mark'd by fate is near at hand: Lo! my arm has loſt its power! Lo! I drop my truſty brand. "Eyes, which forth beheld me going, Homewards ne'er ſhall ſee me hie: Couſin, ſtop thoſe tears o'erflowing, Let me on thy boſom die. "Thy kind hand my eye-lids cloſing, Yet one favour I implore: Pray thou for my ſoul's repoſing, When my heart ſhall throb no more. "So ſhall Jeſus, ſtill attending, Gracious to a Chriſtian's vow, Pleas'd accept my ghoſt aſcending, And a ſeat in heaven allow." Thus ſpoke gallant Durandarte; Soon his brave heart broke in twain. Greatly, joy'd the Mooriſh party, That the gallant knight was ſlain. Bitter weeping, Monteſinos Took from him his helm and glaive; Bitter weeping, Monteſinos Dug his gallant couſin's grave. To perform his promiſe made, he Cut the heart from out the breaſt, That Belerma, wretched lady! Might receive the laſt bequeſt. Sad was Monteſinos' heart, he Felt diſtreſs his boſom rend. "Oh! my couſin Durandarte, Woe is me to view thy end! "Sweet in manners, fair in favour, Mild in temper, fierce in fight, Warrior nobler, gentler, braver, Never ſhall behold the light. "Couſin, lo! my teare bedew thee; How ſhall I thy loſs ſurvive? Durandarte, he who ſlew thee, Wherefore left he me alive?"

While ſhe ſung, Ambroſio liſtened with delight: never had he heard a voice more harmonious; and he wondered how ſuch heavenly ſounds could be produced by any but angels. But though he indulged the ſenſe of hearing, a ſingle look convinced him, that he muſt not truſt to that of ſight. The ſongſtreſs ſat at a little diſtance from his bed. The attitude in which ſhe bent over her harp was eaſy and graceful: her cowl had fallen backwarder than uſual: two coral lips were viſible, ripe, freſh, and melting, and a chin, in whoſe dimples ſeemed to lurk a thouſand Cupids. Her habit's long ſleeve would have ſwept along the chords of the inſtrument: to prevent this inconvenience ſhe had drawn it above her elbow; and by this means an arm was diſcovered, formed in the moſt perfect ſymmetry, the delicacy of whoſe ſkin might have contended with ſnow in whiteneſs. Ambroſio dared to look on her but once: that glance ſufficed to convince him, how dangerous was the preſence of this ſeducing object. He cloſed his eyes, but ſtrove in vain to baniſh her from his thoughts. There ſhe ſtill moved before him, adorned with all thoſe charms which his heated imagination could ſupply. Every beauty which he had ſeen appeared embelliſhed; and thoſe ſtill concealed fancy repreſented to him in glowing colours. Still, however, his vows, and the neceſſity of keeping to them, were preſent to his memory. He ſtruggled with deſire, and ſhuddered when he beheld how deep was the precipice before him.

Matilda ceaſed to ſing. Dreading the influence of her charms, Ambroſio remained with his eyes cloſed, and offered up his prayers to St. Francis to aſſiſt him in this dangerous trial! Matilda believed that he was ſleeping: ſhe roſe from her ſeat, approached the bed ſoftly, and for ſome minutes gazed upon him attentively.

"He ſleeps!" ſaid ſhe at length in a low voice, but whoſe accents the abbot diſtinguiſhed perfectly: "now then I may gaze upon him without offence; I may mix my breath with his; I may doat upon his features, and he cannot ſuſpect me of impurity and deceit. He fears my ſeducing him to the violation of his vows. Oh! the unjuſt! Were it my wiſh to excite deſire, ſhould I conceal my features from him ſo carefully? —thoſe features, of which I daily hear him—"

She ſtopped, and was loſt in her reflections.

"It was but yeſterday," ſhe continued; "but a few ſhort hours have paſſed ſince I was dear to him; he eſteemed me, and my heart was ſatisfied: now, oh! now, how cruelly is my ſituation changed! He looks on me with ſuſpicion; he bids me leave him, leave him for ever. Oh! you, my ſaint, my idol! You! holding the next place to God in my breaſt, yet two days, and my heart will be unveiled to you. Could you know my feelings, when I beheld your agony! Could you know how much your ſufferings have endeared you to me! But the time will come, when you will be convinced that my paſſion is pure and diſintereſted. Then you will pity me, and feel the whole weight of theſe ſorrows."

As ſhe ſaid this, her voice was choaked by weeping. While ſhe bent over Ambroſio, a tear fell upon his cheek.

"Ah! I have diſturbed him," cried Matilda, and retreated haſtily.

Her alarm was ungrounded. None ſleep ſo profoundly as thoſe who are determined not to wake. The friar was in this predicament: he ſtill ſeemed buried in a repoſe, which every ſucceeding minute rendered him leſs capable of enjoying. The burning tear had communicated its warmth to his heart.

"What affection! what purity!" ſaid he internally. "Ah! ſince my boſom is thus ſenſible of pity, what would it be if agitated by love?"

Matilda again quitted her ſeat, and retired to ſome diſtance from the bed. Ambroſio ventured to open his eyes, and to caſt them upon her fearfully. Her face was turned from him. She reſted her head in a melancholy poſture upon her harp, and gazed on the picture which hung oppoſite to the bed.

"Happy, happy image!" Thus did ſhe addreſs the beautiful Madona; "'tis to you that he offers his prayers; 'tis on you that he gazes with admiration. I thought you would have lightened my ſorrows; you have only ſerved to increaſe their weight; you have made me feel, that, had I known him ere his vows were pronounced, Ambroſio and happineſs might have been mine. With what pleaſure he views this picture! With what fervour he addreſſes his prayers to the inſenſible image! Ah! may not his ſentiments be inſpired by ſome kind and ſecret genius, friend to my affection? May it not be man's natural inſtinct which, informs him —? Be ſilent! idle hopes! let me not encourage an idea, which takes from the brilliance of Ambroſio's virtue. 'Tis religion, not beauty, which attracts his admiration; 'tis not to the woman, but the divinity that he kneels. Would he but addreſs to me the leaſt tender expreſſion which he pours forth to this Madona! Would he but ſay, that were he not already affianced to the church, he would not have deſpiſed Matilda! Oh! let me nouriſh that fond idea. Perhaps he may yet acknowledge that he feels for me more than pity, and that affection like mine might well have deſerved a return. Perhaps he may own thus much when I lie on my death-bed. He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and the confeſſion of his regard will ſoften the p •• gs of dying. Would I were ſure of this! Oh! how earneſtly ſhould I ſigh for the moment of diſſolution!"

Of this diſcourſe the abbot loſt not a ſyllable; and the tone in which ſhe pronounced theſe laſt words pierced to his heart. Involuntarily he raiſed himſelf from his pillow.

"Matilda!" he ſaid in a troubled voice; "Oh! my Matilda!"

She ſtarted at the ſound, and turned towards him haſtily. The ſuddenneſs of her movement made her cowl fall back from her head; her features became viſible to the monk's enquiring eye. What was his amazement at beholding the exact reſemblance of his admired Madona! The ſame exquiſite proportion of features, the ſame profuſion of golden hair, the ſame roſy lips, heavenly eyes, and majeſty of countenance adorned Matilda! Uttering an exclamation of ſurpriſe, Ambroſio ſunk back upon his pillow, and doubted whether the object before him was mortal or divine.

Matilda ſeemed penetrated with confuſion. She remained motionleſs in her place, and ſupported herſelf upon her inſtrument. Her eyes were bent upon the earth, and her fair cheeks overſpread with bluſhes. On recovering herſelf, her firſt action was to conceal her features. She then, in an unſteady and troubled voice, ventured to addreſs theſe words to the friar:

"Accident has made you maſter of a ſecret, which I never would have revealed but on the bed of death: yes, Ambroſio, in Matilda de Villanegas you ſee the original of your beloved Madona. Soon after I conceived my unfortunate paſſion, I formed the project of conveying to you my picture. Crowds of admirers had perſuaded me that I poſſeſſed ſome beauty, and I was anxious to know what effect it would produce upon you. I cauſed my portrait to be drawn by Martin Galuppi, a celebrated Venetian at that time reſident in Madrid. The reſemblance was ſtriking: I ſent it to the Capuchin-abbey as if for ſale; and the Jew from whom you bought it was one of my emiſſaries. You purchaſed it. Judge of my rapture, when informed that you had gazed upon it with delight, or rather with adoration; that you had ſuſpended it in your cell, and that you addreſſed your ſupplications to no other ſaint! Will this diſcovery make me ſtill more regarded as an object of ſuſpicion? Rather ſhould it convince you how pure is my affection, and engage you to ſuffer me in your ſociety and eſteem. I heard you daily extol the praiſes of my portrait. I was an eye witneſs of the tranſports which its beauty excited in you: yet I forbore to uſe againſt your virtue thoſe arms with which yourſelf had furniſhed me I concealed thoſe features from your ſight which you loved unconſciouſly. I ſtrove no to excite deſire by diſplaying my charms, or to make myſelf miſtreſs of your hear through the medium of your ſenſes. To attract your notice by ſtudiouſly attending to religious duties, to endear myſelf to you by convincing you that my mind was virtuous and my attachment ſincere, ſuch was my only aim. I ſucceeded; I became your companion and your friend. I concealed my ſex from your knowledge; and had you not preſſed me to reveal my ſecret, had I not been tormented by the fear of a diſcovery, never had you known me for any other than Roſario. And ſtill are you reſolved to drive me from you? The few hours of life which yet remain for me, may I not paſs them in your preſence? Oh! ſpeak, Ambroſio, and tell me that I may ſtay."

This ſpeech gave the abbot an opportunity of recollecting himſelf. He was conſcious that, in the preſent diſpoſition of his mind, avoiding her ſociety was his only refuge from the power of this enchanting woman.

"Your declaration has ſo much aſtoniſhed me," ſaid he, "that I am at preſent incapable of anſwering you. Do not inſiſt upon a reply, Matilda; leave me to myſelf, I have need to be alone."

"I obey you; but, before I go, promiſe not to Inſiſt upon my quitting the abbey immediately."

"Matilda, reflect upon your ſituation: reflect upon the conſequences of your ſtay: our ſeparation is indiſpenſable, and we muſt part."

"But not to day, father! Oh! in pity, not to-day!"

"You preſs me too hard; but I cannot reſiſt that tone of ſupplication. Since you inſiſt upon it, I yield to your prayer; I conſent to your remaining here a ſufficient time to prepare, in ſome meaſure, the brethren for your departure: ſtay yet two days; but on the third"—(He ſighed involuntarily)—"remember, that on the third we muſt part for ever!"

She caught his hand eagerly, and preſſed it to her lips.

"On the third!" ſhe exclaimed with an air of wild ſolemnity: "You are right, father, you are right! On the third we muſt part for ever!"

There was a dreadful expreſſion in her eye as ſhe uttered theſe words, which penetrated the friar's ſoul with horror. Again ſhe kiſſed his hand, and then fled with rapidity from the chamber.

Anxious to authoriſe the preſence of his dangerous gueſt, yet conſcious that her ſtay was infringing the laws of his order, Ambroſio's boſom became the theatre of a thouſand contending paſſions. At length his attachment to the feigned Roſario, aided by the natural warmth of his temperament, ſeemed-likely to obtain the victory: the ſucceſs was aſſured, when that preſumption which formed the ground-work of his character came to Matilda's aſſiſtance. The monk reflected, that to vanquiſh temptation was an infinitely greater merit than to avoid it; he thought that he ought rather to rejoice in the opportunity given him of proving the firmneſs of his virtue. St. Anthony had withſtood all ſeductions to luſt, then why ſhould not he? Beſides, St. Anthony was tempted by the devil, who put every art into practice to excite his paſſions; whereas Ambroſio's danger proceeded from a mere mortal woman, fearful and modeſt, whoſe apprehenſions of his yielding were not leſs violent than his own.

"Yes," ſaid he, "the unfortunate ſhall ſtay; I have nothing to fear from her preſence: even ſhould my own prove too weak to reſiſt the temptation, I am ſecured from danger by the innocence of Matilda."

Ambroſio was yet to learn, that to an heart unacquainted with her, vice is ever moſt dangerous when lurking behind the maſk of virtue.

He found himſelf ſo perfectly recovered, that, when father Pablos viſited him again at night, he entreated permiſſion to quit his chamber on the day following. His requeſt was granted. Matilda appeared no more that evening, except in company with the monks when they came in a body to enquire after the abbot's health. She ſeemed fearful of converſing with him in private, and ſtayed but a few minutes in his room. The friar ſlept well; but the dreams of the former night were repeated, and his ſenſations of voluptuouſneſs were yet more keen and exquiſite; the ſame luſt-exciting viſions floated before his eyes; Matilda, in all the pomp of beauty, warm, tender and luxurious, claſped him to her boſom, and laviſhed upon him the moſt ardent careſſes. He returned them as eagerly; and already was on the point of ſatisfying his deſires, when the faithleſs form diſappeared, and left him to all the horrors of ſhame and diſappointment.

The morning dawned. Fatigued, haraſſed, and exhauſted by his provoking dreams, he was not diſpoſed to quit his bed: he excuſed himſelf from appearing at matins: it was the firſt morning in his life that he had ever miſſed them. He roſe late: during the whole of the day he had no opportunity of ſpeaking to Matilda without witneſſes; his cell was thronged by the monks, anxious to expreſs their concern at his illneſs; and he was ſtill occupied in receiving their compliments on his recovery, when the bell ſummoned them to the refectory.

After dinner the monks ſeparated, and diſperſed themſelves in various parts of the garden, where the ſhade of trees, or retirement of ſome grotto, preſented the moſt agreeable means of enjoying the fieſta. The abbot bent his ſteps towards the hermitage; a glance of his eye invited Matilda to accompany him: ſhe obeyed, and followed him thither in ſilence: they entered the grotto, and ſeated themſelves: both ſeemed unwilling to begin the converſation, and to labour under the influence of mutual embarraſſment. At length the abbot ſpoke: he converſed only on indifferent topics, and Matilda anſwered him in the ſame tone; ſhe ſeemed anxious to make him forget that the perſon who ſat by him was any other than Roſario. Neither of them dared, or indeed wiſhed, to make an alluſion to the ſubject which was moſt at the hearts of both.

Matilda's efforts to appear gay were evidently forced; her ſpirits were oppreſſed by the weight of anxiety; and when ſhe ſpoke, her voice was low and feeble: ſhe ſeemed deſirous of finiſhing a converſation which embarraſſed her; and, complaining that ſhe was unwell, ſhe requeſted Ambroſio's permiſſion to return to the abbey. He accompanied her to the door of her cell; and, when arrived there, he ſtopped her to declare his conſent to her continuing the partner of his ſolitude, ſo long as ſhould be agreeable to herſelf.

She diſcovered no marks of pleaſure at receiving this intelligence, though on the preceding day ſhe had been ſo anxious to obtain the permiſſion.

"Alas, father," ſhe ſaid, waving her head mournfully, "your kindneſs comes too late; my doom is fixed; we muſt ſeparate for ever; yet believe that I am grateful for your generoſity; for your compaſſion of an unfortunate who is but too little deſerving of it."

She put her handkerchief to her eyes; her cowl was only half drawn over her face. Ambroſio obſerved that ſhe was pale, and her eyes ſunk and heavy.

"Good God!" he cried, "you are very ill, Matilda; I ſhall ſend father Pablos to you inſtantly."

"No, do not; I am ill, 'tis true, but he cannot cure my malady. Farewell, father! Remember me in your prayers to-morrow, while I ſhall remember you in heaven."

She entered her cell, and cloſed the door.

The abbot diſpatched to her the phyſician without loſing a moment, and waited his report impatiently; but father Pablos ſoon returned, and declared that his errand had been fruitleſs. Roſario refuſed to admit him, and had poſitively rejected his offers of aſſiſtance. The uneaſineſs which this account gave Ambroſio was not trifling; yet he determined that Matilda ſhould have her own way for that night; but that, if her ſituation did not mend by the morning, he would inſiſt upon her taking the advice of father Pablos.

He did not find himſelf inclined to ſleep; he opened his caſement, and gazed upon the moon-beams as they played upon the ſmall ſtream whoſe waters bathed the walls of the monaſtery. The coolneſs of the night breeze, and tranquillity of the hour, inſpired the friar's mind with ſadneſs; he thought upon Matilda's beauty and affection; upon the pleaſures which he might have ſhared with her, had he not been reſtrained by monaſtic ſetters. He reflected that, unſuſtained by hope, her love for him could not long exiſt; that doubtleſs ſhe would ſucceed in extinguiſhing her paſſion, and ſeek for happineſs in the arms of one more fortunate. He ſhuddered at the void which her abſence would leave in his boſom; he looked with diſguſt on the monotony of a convent, and breathed a ſigh towards that world from which he was for ever ſeparated. Such were the reflections which a loud knocking at his door interrupted. The bell of the church had already ſtruck two. The abbot haſtened to enquire the cauſe of this diſturbance. He opened the door of his cell, and a lay-brother entered, whoſe looks declared his hurry and confuſion.

"Haſten, reverend father!" ſaid he, "haſten to the young Roſario: he earneſtly requeſts to ſee you; he lies at the point of death."

"Gracious God! where is father Pablos? Why is he not with him? Oh! I fear, I fear—"

"Father Pablos has ſeen him, but his art can do nothing. He ſays that he ſuſpects the youth to be poiſoned."

"Poiſoned? Oh! the unfortunate! It is then as I ſuſpected! But let me not loſe a moment; perhaps it may yet be time to ſave her."

He ſaid, and flew towards the cell of the novice. Several monks were already in the chamber; father Pablos was one of them, and held a medicine in his hand, which he was endeavouring to perſuade Roſario to ſwallow. The others were employed in admiring the patient's divine countenance, which they now ſaw for the firſt time. She looked lovelier than ever; ſhe was no longer pale or languid; a bright glow had ſpread itſelf over her cheeks; her eyes ſparkled with a ſerene delight, and her countenance was expreſſive of confidence and reſignation.

"Oh! torment me no more!" was ſhe ſaying to Pablos, when the terrified abbot ruſhed haſtily into the cell; "my diſeaſe is far beyond the reach of your ſkill, and I wiſh not to be cured of it." Then perceiving Ambroſio—"Ah, 'tis he!" ſhe cried; "I ſee him once again before we part for ever! Leave me, my brethren; much have I to tell this holy man in private."

The monks retired immediately, and Matilda and the abbot remained together.

"What have you done, imprudent woman?" exclaimed the latter, as ſoon as they were left alone: "tell me; are my ſuſpicions juſt? Am I indeed to loſe you? Has your own hand been the inſtrument of your deſtruction?"

She ſmiled, and graſped his hand.

"In what have I been imprudent, father? I have ſacrificed a pebble, and ſaved a diamond. My death preſerves a life valuable to the world, and more dear to me than my own.—Yes, father, I am poiſoned; but know, that the poiſon once circulated in your veins."

"Matilda!"

"What I tell you I reſolved never to diſcover to you but on the bed of death; that moment is now arrived. You cannot have forgotten the day already, when your life was endangered by the bite of a cientipedoro. The phyſician gave you over, declaring himſelf ignorant how to extract the venom. I knew but of one means, and heſitated not a moment to employ it. I was left alone with you; you ſlept; I looſened the bandage from your hand; I kiſſed the wound, and drew out the poiſon with my lips. The effect has been more ſudden than I expected. I feel death at my heart; yet an hour, and I ſhall be in a better world."

"Almighty God!" exclaimed the abbot, and ſunk almoſt lifeleſs upon the bed.

After a few minutes he again raiſed himſelf up ſuddenly, and gazed upon Matilda with all the wildneſs of deſpair.

"And you have ſacrificed yourſelf for me! You die, and die to preſerve Ambroſio! And is there indeed no remedy, Matilda? And is there indeed no hope? Speak to me, oh! ſpeak to me! Tell me that you have ſtill the means of life!"

"Be comforted, my only friend! Yes, I have ſtill the means of life in my power; but it is a means which I dare not employ; it is dangerous; it is dreadful! Life would be purchaſed at too dear a rate,—unleſs it were permitted me to live for you."

"Then live for me, Matilda; for me and gratitude!"—(He caught her hand, and preſſed it rapturouſly to his lips.)—"Remember our late converſations; I now conſent to every thing. Remember in what lively colours you deſcribed the union of ſouls; be it ours to realize thoſe ideas. Let us forget the diſtinctions of ſex, deſpiſe the world's prejudices, and only conſider each other as brother and friend. Live then, Matilda, oh! live for me!"

"Ambroſio, it muſt not be. When I thought thus, I deceived both you and myſelf: either I muſt die at preſent, or expire by the lingering torments of unſatisfied deſire. Oh! ſince we laſt converſed together, a dreadful veil has been rent from before my eyes. I love you no longer with the devotion which is paid to a ſaint; I prize you no more for the virtues of your ſoul; I luſt for the enjoyment of your perſon. The woman reigns in my boſom, and I am become a prey to the wildeſt of paſſions. Away with friendſhip! 'tis a cold unfeeling word: my boſom burns with love, with unutterable love, and love muſt be its return. Tremble then, Ambroſio, tremble to ſucceed in your prayers. If I live, your truth, your reputation, your reward of a life paſt in ſufferings, all that you value, is irretrievably loſt. I ſhall no longer be able to combat my paſſions, ſhall ſeize every opportunity to excite your deſires, and labour to effect your diſhonour and my own. No, no, Ambroſio, I muſt not live; I am convinced with every moment that I have but one alternative; I feel with every heart throb, that I muſt enjoy you or die."

"Amazement! Matilda! Can it be you who ſpeak to me?"

He made a movement as if to quit his feat. She uttered a loud ſhriek, and, raiſing herſelf half out of the bed, threw her arms round the friar to detain him.

"Oh! do not leave me! Liſten to my errors with compaſſion: in a few hours I ſhall be no more: yet a little, and I am free from this diſgraceful paſſion."

"Wretched woman, what can I ſay to you? I cannot—I muſt not—But live, Matilda! oh, live!"

"You do not reflect on what you aſk. What? live to plunge myſelf in infamy? to become the agent of hell? to work the deſtruction both of you and of myſelf? Feel this heart, father."

She took his hand. Confuſed, embarraſſed, and faſcinated, he withdrew it not, and felt her heart throb under it.

"Feel this heart, father! It is yet the ſeat of honour, truth, and chaſtity: if it beats to-morrow, it muſt fall a prey to the blackeſt crimes. Oh, let me then die to-day! Let me die while I yet deſerve the tears of the virtuous. Thus will I expire!"—(She reclined her head upon his ſhoulder; her golden hair poured itſelf over his cheſt.)— "Folded in your arms, I ſhall ſink to ſleep; your hand ſhall cloſe my eyes for ever, and your lips receive my dying breath. And will you not ſometimes think of me? Will you not ſometimes ſhed a tear upon my tomb? Oh, yes, yes, yes! that kiſs is my aſſurance."

The hour was night. All was ſilence around. The faint beams of a ſolitary lamp darted upon Matilda's figure, and ſhed through the chamber a dim, myſterious light. No prying eye or curious ear was near the lovers: nothing was heard but Matilda's melodious accents. Ambroſio was in the full vigour of manhood; he ſaw before him a young and beautiful woman, the preſerver of his life, the adorer of his perſon; and whom affection for him had reduced to the brink of the grave. He ſat upon her bed; his hand reſted upon her boſom; her head reclined voluptuouſly upon his breaſt. Who then can wonder if he yielded to the temptation? Drunk with deſire, he preſſed his lips to thoſe which ſought them; his kiſſes vied with Matilda's in warmth and paſſion: he claſped her rapturouſly in his arms; he forgot his vows, his ſanctity, and his fame; he remembered nothing but the pleaſure and opportunity.

"Ambroſio! Oh, my Ambroſio!" ſighed Matilda.

"Thine, ever thine," murmured the friar, and ſunk upon her boſom.

CHAP. III. — Theſe are the villains Whom all the travellers do fear ſo much. — Some of them are gentlemen, Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth Thruſt from the company of awful men. TWO GENTLEMAN OF VERONA.

THE marquis and Lorenzo proceeded to the hotel in ſilence. The former employed himſelf in calling every circumſtance to his mind, which related might give Lorenzo's the moſt favourable idea of his connexion with Agnes. The latter, juſtly alarmed for the honour of his family, felt embarraſſed by the preſence of the marquis: the adventure which he had juſt witneſſed forbad his treating him as a friend; and Antonia's intereſts being entruſted to his mediation, he ſaw the impolicy of treating him as a foe. He concluded from theſe reflections, that profound ſilence would be the wiſeſt plan, and waited with impatience for Don Raymond's explanation.

They arrived at the hotel de las Ciſternas. The marquis immediately conducted him to his apartment, and began to expreſs his ſatisfaction at finding him at Madrid. Lorenzo interrupted him.

"Excuſe me, my lord," ſaid he with a diſtant air, "if I reply ſomewhat coldly to your expreſſions of regard. A ſiſter's honour is involved in this affair: till that is eſtabliſhed, and the purport of your correſpondence with Agnes cleared up, I cannot conſider you as my friend. I am anxious to hear the meaning of your conduct; and hope that you will not delay the promiſed explanation."

"Firſt give me your word, that you will liſten with patience and indulgence."

"I love my ſiſter too well to judge her harſhly; and, till this moment, I poſſeſſed no friend ſo dear to me as yourſelf. I will alſo confeſs, that your having it in your power to oblige me in a buſineſs which I have much at heart, makes me very anxious to find you ſtill deſerving my eſteem."

"Lorenzo, you tranſport me! No greater pleaſure can be given me, than an opportunity of ſerving the brother of Agnes."

"Convince me that I can accept your favours without diſhonour, and there is no man in the world to whom I am more willing to be obliged."

"Probably you have already heard your ſiſter mention the name of Alphonſo d'Alvarada?"

"Never. Though I feel for Agnes an affection truly fraternal, circumſtances have prevented us from being much together. While yet a child, ſhe was conſigned to the care of her aunt, who had married a German nobleman. At his caſtle ſhe remained till two years ſince, when ſhe returned to Spain, determined upon ſecluding herſelf from the world."

"Good God! Lorenzo, you knew of her intention, and yet ſtrove not to make her change it?"

"Marquis, you wrong me: the intelligence which I received at Naples ſhocked me extremely, and I haſtened my return to Madrid for the expreſs purpoſe of preventing the ſacrifice. The moment that I arrived, I flew to the convent of St. Clare, in which Agnes had choſen to perform her noviciate. I requeſted to ſee my ſiſter. Conceive my ſurpriſe, when ſhe ſent me a refuſal: ſhe declared poſitively that, apprehending my influence over her mind, ſhe would not truſt herſelf in my ſociety, 'till the day before that on which ſhe was to receive the veil. I ſupplicated the nuns; I inſiſted upon ſeeing Agnes; and heſitated not to avow my ſuſpicions, that her being kept from me was againſt her own inclinations. To free herſelf from the imputation of violence, the prioreſs brought me a few lines, written in my ſiſter's well-known hand, repeating the meſſage already delivered. All future attempts to obtain a moment's converſation with her were as fruitleſs as the firſt. She was inflexible, and I was not permitted to ſee her till the day preceding that on which ſhe entered the cloiſter, never to quit it more. This interview took place in the preſence of our principal relations. It was for the firſt time ſince her childhood that I ſaw her, and the ſcene was moſt affecting: ſhe threw herſelf upon my boſom, kiſſed me, and wept bitterly. By every poſſible argument, by tears, by prayers, by kneeling, I ſtrove to make her abandon her intention. I repreſented to her all the hardſhips of a religious life; I painted to her imagination all the pleaſures which ſhe was going to quit; and beſought her to diſcloſe to me what occaſioned her diſguſt to the world. At this laſt queſtion ſhe turned pale, and her tears flowed yet faſter. She entreated me not to preſs her on that ſubject; that it ſufficed me to know that her reſolution was taken, and that a convent was the only place where ſhe could now hope for tranquillity. She perſevered in her deſign, and made her profeſſion. I viſited her frequently at the grate; and every moment that I paſſed with her made me feel more affliction at her loſs. I was ſhortly after obliged to quit Madrid; I returned but yeſterday evening, and, ſince then, have not had time to call at St. Clare's convent."

"Then, till I mentioned it, you never heard the name of Alphonſo d'Alvarada?"

"Pardon me: my aunt wrote me word, that an adventurer ſo called had found means to get introduced into the caſtle of Lindenberg; that he had inſinuated himſelf into my ſiſter's good graces; and that ſhe had even conſented to elope with him. However, before the plan could be executed, the cavalier diſcovered, that the eſtates which he believed Agnes to poſſeſs in Hiſpaniola, in reality belonged to me. This intelligence made him change his intention; he diſappeared on the day that the elopement was to have taken place; and Agnes, in deſpair at his perfidy and meanneſs, had reſolved upon ſecluſion in a convent. She added, that as this adventurer had given himſelf out to be a friend of mine, ſhe wiſhed to know whether I had any knowledge of him. I replied in the negative. I had then very little idea, that Alphonſo d'Alvarada and the marquis de las Ciſternas were one and the ſame perſon: the deſcription given me of the firſt, by no means tallied with what I knew of the latter."

"In this I eaſily recognize Donna Rodopha's perfidious character. Every word of this account is ſtamped with marks of her malice, of her falſehood, of her talents for miſrepreſenting thoſe whom ſhe wiſhes to injure. Forgive me, Medina, for ſpeaking ſo freely of your relation. The miſchief which ſhe has done me authoriſes my reſentment; and when you have heard my ſtory, you will be convinced that my expreſſions have not been too ſevere."

He then began his narrative in the following manner:—

HISTORY OF DON RAYMOND, MARQUIS DE LAS CISTERNAS.

LONG experience, my dear Lorenzo, has convinced me how generous is your nature: I waited not for your declaration of ignorance reſpecting your ſiſter's adventures, to ſuppoſe that they had been purpoſely concealed from you. Had they reached your knowledge, from what miſfortunes ſhould both Agnes and myſelf have eſcaped! Fate had ordained it otherwiſe. You were on your travels when I firſt became acquainted with your ſiſter; and as our enemies took care to conceal from her your direction, it was impoſſible for her to implore by letter your protection and advice.

On leaving Salamanca, at which univerſity, as I have ſince heard, you remained a year after I quitted it, I immediately ſet out upon my travels. My father ſupplied me liberally with money; but he inſiſted upon my concealing my rank, and preſenting myſelf as no more than a private gentleman. This command was iſſued by the counſels of his friend the duke of Villa Hermoſa, a nobleman for whoſe abilities and knowledge of the world I have ever entertained the moſt profound veneration.

"Believe me," ſaid he, "my dear Raymond, you will hereafter feel the benefits of this temporary degradation. 'Tis true, that as the condé de las Ciſternas you would have been received with open arms, and your youthful vanity might have felt gratified by the attentions ſhowered upon you from all ſides. At preſent, much will depend upon yourſelf; you have excellent recommendations, but it muſt be your own buſineſs to make them of uſe to you: you muſt lay yourſelf out to pleaſe; you muſt labour to gain the approbation of thoſe to whom you are preſented: they who would have courted the friendſhip of the condé de las Ciſternas will have no intereſt in finding out the merits, or bearing patiently with the faults, of Alphonſo d'Alvarada: conſequently, when you find yourſelf really liked, you may ſafely aſcribe it to your good qualities, not your rank; and the diſtinction ſhewn you will be infinitely more flattering. Beſides, your exalted birth would not permit your mixing with the lower claſſes of ſociety, which will now be in your power, and from which, in my opinion, you will derive conſiderable benefit. Do not confine yourſelf to the illuſtrious of thoſe countries through which you paſs. Examine the manners and cuſtoms of the multitude: enter into the cottages; and, by obſerving how the vaſſals of foreigners are treated, learn to diminiſh the burthens, and augment the comforts, of your own. According to my ideas of thoſe advantages which a youth deſtined to the poſſeſſion of power and wealth may reap from travel, he ſhould not conſider as the leaſt eſſential, the opportunity of mixing with the claſſes below him, and becoming an eye-witneſs of the ſufferings of the people."

Forgive me, Lorenzo, if I ſeem tedious in my narration: the cloſe connexion which now exiſts between us, makes me anxious that you ſhould know every particular reſpecting me; and in my fear of omitting the leaſt circumſtance which may induce you to think favourably of your ſiſter and myſelf, I may poſſibly relate many which you may think unintereſting.

I followed the duke's advice; I was ſoon convinced of its wiſdom. I quitted Spain, calling myſelf by the aſſumed title of Don Alphonſo d'Alvarada, and attended by a ſingle domeſtic of approved fidelity. Paris was my firſt ſtation. For ſome time I was enchanted with it, as indeed muſt be every man who is young, rich, and fond of pleaſure. Yet, among all its gaieties, I felt that ſomething was wanting to my heart: I grew ſick of diſſipation: I diſcovered that the people among whom I lived, and whoſe exterior was ſo poliſhed and ſeducing, were at bottom frivolous, unfeeling, and inſincere. I turned from the inhabitants of Paris with diſguſt, and quitted that theatre of luxury without heaving one ſigh of regret.

I now bent my courſe towards Germany, intending to viſit moſt of the principal courts. Prior to this expedition, I meant to make ſome little ſtay at Straſbourg. On quitting my chaiſe at Luneville, to take ſome refreſhment, I obſerved a ſplendid equipage, attended by four domeſtics in rich liveries, waiting at the door of the Silver Lion. Soon after, as I looked out of the window, I ſaw a lady of noble preſence, followed by two female attendants, ſtep into the carriage, which drove off immediately.

I enquired of the hoſt who the lady was that had juſt departed.

"A German baroneſs, monſieur, of great rank and fortune; ſhe has been upon a viſit to the ducheſs of Longueville, as her ſervants informed me. She is going to Straſbourg, where ſhe will find her huſband, and then both return to their caſtle in Germany."

I reſumed my journey, intending to reach Straſbourg that night. My hopes, however, were fruſtrated by the breaking down of my chaiſe: the accident happened in the middle of a thick foreſt, and I was not a little embarraſſed as to the means of proceeding. It was the depth of winter; the night was already cloſing round us; and Straſbourg, which was the neareſt town, was ſtill diſtant from us ſeveral leagues. It ſeemed to me that my only alternative to paſſing the night in the foreſt, was to take my ſervant's horſe and ride on to Straſbourg; an undertaking at that ſeaſon very far from agreeable. However, ſeeing no other reſource, I was obliged to make up my mind to it: accordingly, I communicated my deſign to the poſtillion, telling him that I would ſend people to aſſiſt him as ſoon as I reached Straſbourg. I had not much confidence in his honeſty; but Stephano being well armed, and the driver, to all appearance, conſiderably advanced in years, I believed I ran no riſk of loſing my baggage.

Luckily, as I then thought, an opportunity preſented itſelf of paſſing the night more agreeably than I expected. On mentioning my deſign of proceeding by myſelf to Straſbourg, the poſtillion ſhook his head in diſapprobation.

"It is a long way," ſaid he; "you will find it a difficult matter to arrive there without a guide: beſides, monſieur ſeems unaccuſtomed to the ſeaſon's ſeverity; and 'tis poſſible that, unable to ſuſtain the exceſſive cold—"

"What uſe is there to preſent me with all theſe objections?" ſaid I, impatiently interrupting him: "I have no other reſource; I run ſtill greater riſk of periſhing with cold by paſſing the night in the foreſt."

"Paſſing the night in the foreſt?" he replied. "Oh, by St. Denis! we are not in quite ſo bad a plight as that comes to yet. If I am not miſtaken, we are ſcarcely five minutes walk from the cottage of my old friend Baptiſte: he is a wood-cutter, and a very honeſt fellow. I doubt not but he will ſhelter you for the night with pleaſure. In the mean time, I can take the ſaddle-horſe, ride to Straſbourg, and be back with proper people to mend your carriage by break of day."

"And, in the name of God," ſaid I, "how could you leave me ſo long in ſuſpenſe? Why did you not tell me of this cottage ſooner? What exceſſive ſtupidity!"

"I thought, that perhaps monſieur would not deign to accept——"

"Abſurd! Come, come; ſay no more, but conduct us without delay to the woodman's cottage."

He obeyed, and we moved onwards: the horſes contrived, with ſome difficulty to drag the ſhattered vehicle after us. My ſervant was become almoſt ſpeechleſs, and I began to feel the effects of the cold myſelf before we reached the wiſhed-for cottage. It was a ſmall but neat building: as we drew near it, I rejoiced at obſerving through the window the blaze of a comfortable fire. Our conductor knocked at the door: it was ſome time before any one anſwered; the people within ſeemed in doubt whether we ſhould be admitted.

"Come, come, friend Baptiſte!" cried the driver with impatience, "what are you about? Are you aſleep? Or will you refuſe a night's lodging to a gentleman, whoſe chaiſe has juſt broken down in the foreſt?"

"Ah! is it you, honeſt Claude?" replied a man's voice from within: "wait a moment, and the door ſhall be opened."

Soon after the bolts were drawn back; the door was uncloſed, and a man preſented himſelf to us with a lamp in his hand: he gave the guide an hearty reception, and then addreſſed himſelf to me:

"Walk in, monſieur; walk in, and welcome. Excuſe me for not admitting you at firſt; but there are ſo many rogues about this place that, ſaving your preſence, I ſuſpected you to be one."

Thus ſaying, he uſhered me into the room where I had obſerved the fire. I was immediately placed in an eaſy chair, which ſtood cloſe to the hearth. A female, whom I ſuppoſed to be the wife of my hoſt, roſe from her ſeat upon my entrance, and received me with a ſlight and diſtant reverence. She made no anſwer to my compliment, but, immediately re-ſeating herſelf, continued the work on which ſhe had been employed. Her huſband's manners were as friendly as hers were harſh and repulſive.

"I wiſh I could lodge you more conveniently, monſieur," ſaid he, "but we cannot boaſt of much ſpare room in this hovel. However, a chamber for yourſelf and another for your ſervant, I think, we can make ſhift to ſupply. You muſt content yourſelf with ſorry fare; but to what we have, believe me, you are heartily welcome."——Then, turning to his wife—"Why, how you ſit there, Marguerite, with as much tranquillity as if you had nothing better to do! Stir about, dame! ſtir about! Get ſome ſupper; look out ſome ſheets. Here, here! throw ſome logs upon the fire, for the gentleman ſeems periſhed with cold."

The wife threw her work haſtily upon the table, and proceeded to execute his commands with every mark of unwillingneſs. Her countenance had diſpleaſed me on the firſt moment of my examining it: yet, upon the whole, her features were handſome unqueſtionably; but her ſkin was ſallow, and her perſon thin and meagre: a louring gloom overſpread her countenance, and it bore ſuch viſible marks of rancour and ill-will, as could not eſcape being noticed by the moſt inattentive obſerver: her every look and action expreſſed diſcontent and impatience; and the anſwers which ſhe gave Baptiſte, when he reproached her good-humouredly for her diſſatisfied air, were tart, ſhort, and cutting. In fine, I conceived at firſt ſight equal diſguſt for her, and prepoſſeſſion in favour of her huſband, whoſe appearance was calculated to inſpire eſteem and confidence. His countenance was open, ſincere, and friendly; his manners had all the peaſant's honeſty, unaccompanied by his rudeneſs: his checks were broad, full, and ruddy; and in the ſolidity of his perſon he ſeemed to offer an ample apology for the leanneſs of his wife's. From the wrinkles on his brow, I judged him to be turned of ſixty; but he bore his years well, and ſeemed ſtill hearty and ſtrong. The wife could not be more than thirty, but in ſpirits and vivacity ſhe was infinitely older than the huſband.

However, in ſpite of her unwillingneſs, Marguerite began to prepare the ſupper, while the woodman converted gaily on different ſubjects. The poſtillion, who had been furniſhed with a bottle of ſpirits, was now ready to ſet out for Straſbourg, and enquired whether I had any further commands.

"For Straſbourg?" interrupted Baptiſte; "you are not going thither to-night?"

"I beg your pardon: if I do not fetch workmen to mend the chaiſe, how is monſieur to proceed to-morrow?"

"That is true, as you ſay, I had forgotten the chaiſe. Well, but Claude, you may at leaſt eat your ſupper here? That can make you loſe very little time; and monſieur looks too kind-hearted to ſend you out with an empty ſtomach on ſuch a bitter cold night as this is."

To this I readily aſſented, telling the poſtillion that my reaching Straſbourg the next day an hour or two later would be perfectly immaterial. He thanked me, and then leaving the cottage with Stephano, put up his horſes in the woodman's ſtable. Baptiſte followed them to the door, and looked out with anxiety.

"'Tis a ſharp, biting wind," ſaid he: "I wonder what detains my boys ſo long! Monſieur, I ſhall ſhew you two of the fineſt lads that ever ſtepped in ſhoe of leather: the eldeſt is three-and-twenty, the ſecond a year younger: their equals for ſenſe, courage, and activity, are not to be found within fifty miles of Straſbourg. Would they were back again! I begin to feel uneaſy about them."

Marguerite was at this time employed in laying the cloth.

"And are you equally anxious for the return of your ſons?" ſaid I to her.

"Not I," ſhe replied peeviſhly; "they are no children of mine."

"Come, come, Marguerite!" ſaid the huſband, "do not be out of humour with the gentleman for aſking a ſimple queſtion: had you not looked ſo croſs, he would never have thought you old enough to have a ſon of three-and-twenty; but you ſee how many years ill-temper adds to you!—Excuſe my wife's rudeneſs, monſieur; a little thing puts her out; and ſhe is ſomewhat diſpleaſed at your not thinking her to be under thirty.—That is the truth, is it not, Marguerite? You know, monſieur, that age is always a tickliſh ſubject with a woman. Come, come, Marguerite! clear up a little. If you have not ſons as old, you will ſome twenty years hence; and I hope that we ſhall live to ſee them juſt ſuch lads as Jacques and Robert."

Marguerite claſped her hands together paſſionately.

"God forbid!" ſaid ſhe, "God forbid! If I thought it, I would ſtrangle them with my own hands."

She quitted the room haſtily, and went up ſtairs.

I could not help expreſſing to the woodman how much I pitied him for being chained for life to a partner of ſuch ill-humour.

"Ah, Lord! monſieur, every one has his ſhare of grievances, and Marguerite has fallen to mine. Beſides, after all, ſhe is only croſs, and not malicious: the worſt is, that her affection for two children by a former huſband, makes her play the ſtep-mother with my two ſons; ſhe cannot bear the ſight of them; and, by her good will, they would never ſet a foot within my door. But on this point I always ſtand firm, and never will conſent to abandon the poor lads to the world's mercy, as ſhe has often ſolicited me to do. In every thing elſe I let her have her own way; and truly ſhe manages a family rarely, that I muſt ſay for her."

We were converſing in this manner, when our diſcourſe was interrupted by a loud halloo, which rang through the foreſt.

"My ſons, I hope!" exclaimed the woodman, and ran to open the door.

The halloo was repeated. We now diſtinguiſhed the trampling of horſes; and, ſoon after, a carriage attended by ſeveral cavaliers ſtopped at the cottage door. One of the horſemen enquired how far they were ſtill from Straſbourg. As he addreſſed himſelf to me, I anſwered in the number of miles which Claude had told me; upon which a volley of curſes was vented againſt the drivers for having loſt their way. The perſons in the coach were now informed of the diſtance of Straſbourg; and alſo that the horſes were ſo fatigued as to be incapable of proceeding further. A lady, who appeared to be the principal, expreſſed much chagrin at this intelligence; but as there was no remedy, one of the attendants aſked the woodman whether he could furniſh them with lodging for the night.

He ſeemed much embarraſſed, and replied in the negative; adding, that a Spaniſh gentleman and his ſervant were already in poſſeſſion of the only ſpare apartments in his houſe. On hearing this, the gallantry of my nation would not permit me to retain thoſe accommodations of which a female was in want. I inſtantly ſignified to the woodman, that I transferred my right to the lady: he made ſome objections, but I over-ruled them, and, haſtening to the carriage, opened the door, and aſſiſted the lady to deſcend. I immediately recognized her for the ſame perſon whom I had ſeen at the inn at Luneville. I took an opportunity of aſking one of her attendants what was her name?

"The baroneſs Lindenberg," was the anſwer.

I could not but remark how different a reception our hoſt had given theſe new-comers and myſelf. His reluctance to admit them was viſibly expreſſed on his countenance; and he prevailed on himſelf with difficulty to tell the lady that ſhe was welcome. I conducted her into the houſe, and placed her in the arm-chair which I had juſt quitted. She thanked me very graciouſly, and made a thouſand apologies for putting me to an inconvenience. Suddenly the woodman's countenance cleared up.

"At laſt I have arranged it!" ſaid he, interrupting her excuſes. "I can lodge you and your ſuite, madam, and you will not be under the neceſſity of making this gentleman ſuffer for his politeneſs. We have two ſpare chambers, one for the lady, the other, monſieur, for you: my wife ſhall give up hers to the two waiting-women: as for the men ſervants, they muſt content themſelves with paſſing the night in a large barn, which ſtands at a few yards diſtance from the houſe; there they ſhall have a blazing fire, and as good a ſupper as we can make ſhift to give them."

After ſeveral expreſſions of gratitude on the lady's part, and oppoſition on mine to Marguerite's giving up her bed, this arrangement was agreed to. As the room was ſmall, the baroneſs immediately diſmiſſed her male domeſtics. Baptiſte was on the point of conducting them to the barn which he had mentioned, when two young men appeared at the door of the cottage.

"Hell and furies!" exclaimed the firſt, ſtarting back, "Robert, the houſe is filled with ſtrangers!"

"Ha! there are my ſons!" cried our hoſt. "Why, Jacques! Robert! whither are you running, boys? There is room enough ſtill for you."

Upon this aſſurance the youths returned. The father preſented them to the baroneſs and myſelf; after which he withdrew with our domeſtics, while, at the requeſt of the two waiting-women, Marguerite conducted them to the room deſigned for their miſtreſs.

The two new-comers were tall, ſtout, well-made young men, hard-featured, and very much ſun-burnt. They paid their compliments to us in few words, and acknowledged Claude, who now entered the room, as an old acquaintance. They then threw aſide their cloaks in which they were wrapped up, took off a leathern belt to which a large cutlaſs was ſuſpended, and each drawing a brace of piſtols from his girdle laid them upon a ſhelf.

"You travel well armed," ſaid I.

"True, monſieur," replied Robert.—

"We left Straſbourg late this evening, and 'tis neceſſary to take precautions at paſſing through this foreſt after dark; it does not bear a good repute, I promiſe you."

"How?" ſaid the baroneſs, "are there robbers hereabout?"

"So it is ſaid, madame: for my own part, I have travelled through the wood at all hours, and never met with one of them."

Here Marguerite returned. Her ſtepſons drew her to the other end of the room, and whiſpered her for ſome minutes. By the looks which they caſt towards us at intervals, I conjectured them to be enquiring our buſineſs in the cottage.

In the mean while, the baroneſs expreſſed her apprehenſions that her huſband would be ſuffering much anxiety upon her account. She had intended to ſend on one of her ſervants to inform the baron of her delay; but the account which the young men gave of the foreſt rendered this plan impracticable. Claude relieved her from her embarraſſment: he informed her, that he was under the neceſſity of reaching Straſbourg that night; and that, would ſhe truſt him with a letter, ſhe might depend upon its being ſafely delivered.

"And how comes it," ſaid I, "that you are under no apprehenſion of meeting theſe robbers?"

"Alas! monſieur, a poor man with a large family muſt not loſe certain profit becauſe 'tis attended with a little danger; and perhaps my lord the baron may give me a trifle for my pains: beſides, I have nothing to loſe except my life, and that will not be worth the robbers taking."

I thought his arguments bad, and adviſed his waiting till the morning; but, as the baroneſs did not ſecond me, I was obliged to give up the point. The baroneſs Lindenberg, as I found afterwards, had long been accuſtomed to ſacrifice the intereſts of others to her own, and her wiſh to ſend Claude to Straſbourg blinded her to the danger of the undertaking. Accordingly, it was reſolved that he ſhould ſet out without delay. The baroneſs wrote her letter to her huſband; and I ſent a few lines to my banker, appriſing him that I ſhould not be at Straſbourg till the next day. Claude took our letters, and left the cottage.

The lady declared herſelf much fatigued by her journey: beſides having come from ſome diſtance, the drivers had contrived to loſe their way in the foreſt. She now addreſſed herſelf to Marguerite, deſiring to be ſhewn to her chamber, and permitted to take half an hour's repoſe. One of the waiting-women was immediately ſummoned; ſhe appeared with a light, and the baroneſs followed her up ſtairs. The cloth was ſpreading in the chamber where I was, and Marguerite ſoon gave me to underſtand that I was in her way. Her hints were too broad to be eaſily miſtaken; I therefore deſired one of the young men to conduct me to the chamber where I was to ſleep, and where I could remain till ſupper was ready.

"Which chamber is it, mother?" ſaid Robert.

"The one with green hangings," ſhe replied. "I have juſt been at the trouble of getting it ready, and have put freſh ſheets upon the bed: if the gentleman chooſes to lollop and lounge upon it, he may make it again himſelf, for me."

"You are out of humour, mother; but that is no novelty. Have the goodneſs to follow me, monſieur."

He opened the door, and advanced towards a narrow ſtair-caſe.

"You have got no light," ſaid Marguerite; "is it your own neck or the gentleman's that you have a mind to break?"

She croſſed by me, and put a candle into Robert's hand; having received which, he began to aſcend the ſtair-caſe. Jacques was employed in laying the cloth, and his back was turned towards me. Marguerite ſeized the moment when we were unobſerved: ſhe caught my hand, and preſſed it ſtrongly.

"Look at the ſheets!" ſaid ſhe as ſhe paſſed me, and immediately reſumed her former occupation.

Startled by the abruptneſs of her action, I remained as if petrified. Robert's voice deſiring me to follow him recalled me to myſelf. I aſcended the ſtair-caſe. My conductor uſhered me into a chamber where an excellent wood fire was blazing upon the hearth. He placed the light upon the table, enquired whether I had any further commands, and, on my replying in the negative, left me to myſelf. You may be certain, that the moment when I found myſelf alone, was that on which I complied with Marguerite's injunction. I took the candle haſtily, approached the bed, and turned down the coverture. What was my aſtoniſhment, my horror, at finding the ſheets crimſoned with blood!

At that moment a thouſand confuſed ideas paſſed before my imagination. The robbers who infeſted the wood, Marguerite's exclamation reſpecting her children, the arms and appearance of the two young men, and the various anecdotes which I had heard related reſpecting the ſecret correſpondence which frequently exiſts between banditti and poſtillions; all theſe circumſtances flaſhed upon my mind, and inſpired me with doubt and apprehenſion. I ruminated on the moſt probable means of aſcertaining the truth of my conjectures. Suddenly I was aware of ſome one below pacing haſtily backwards and forwards. Every thing now appeared to me an object of ſuſpicion. With precaution I drew near the window, which, as the room had been long ſhut up, was left open in ſpite of the cold. I ventured to look out. The beams of the moon permitted me to diſtinguiſh a man, whom I had no difficulty to recognize for my hoſt. I watched his movements. He walked ſwiftly, then ſtopped and ſeemed to liſten: he ſtamped upon the ground, and beat his ſtomach with his arms, as if to guard himſelf from the inclemency of the ſeaſon: at the leaſt noiſe, if a voice was heard in the lower part of the houſe, if a bat flitted paſt him, or the wind rattled amidſt the leafleſs boughs, he ſtarted, and looked round with anxiety.

"Plague take him!" ſaid he at length with extreme impatience; "what can he be about?"

He ſpoke in a low voice; but as he was juſt below my window, I had no difficulty to diſtinguiſh his words.

I now heard the ſteps of one approaching. Baptiſte went towards the ſound; he joined a man, whom his low ſtature and the horn ſuſpended from his neck declared to be no other than my faithful Claude, whom I had ſuppoſed to be already on his way to Straſbourg. Expecting their diſcourſe to throw ſome light upon my ſituation, I haſtened to put myſelf in a condition to hear it with ſafety. For this purpoſe I extinguiſhed the c ndle, which ſtood upon a table near the bed: the flame of the fire was not ſtrong enough to betray me, and I immediately reſumed my place at the window.

The objects of my curioſity had ſtationed themſelves directly under it. I ſuppoſe that, during my momentary abſence, the woodman had been blaming Claude for tardineſs, ſince when I returned to the window the latter was endeavouring to excuſe his fault.

"However," added he, "my diligence at preſent ſhall make up for my paſt delay."

"On that condition," anſwered Baptiſte, "I ſhall readily forgive you: but in truth, as you ſhare equally with us in our prizes, your own intereſt will make you uſe all poſſible diligence. 'Twould be a ſhame to let ſuch a noble booty eſcape us. You ſay that this Spaniard is rich?"

"His ſervant boaſted at the inn, that the effects in his chaiſe were worth above two thouſand piſtoles."

Oh! how I curſed Stephano's imprudent vanity.

"And I have been told," continued the poſtillion, "that this baroneſs carries about her a caſket of jewels of immenſe value."

"May be ſo, but I had rather ſhe had ſtayed away. The Spaniard was a ſecure prey; the boys and myſelf could eaſily have maſtered him and his ſervant, and then the two thouſand piſtoles would have been ſhared between us four. Now we muſt let in the band for a ſhare, and perhaps the whole covey may eſcape us. Should our friends have betaken themſelves to their different poſts before you reach the cavern, all will be loſt. The lady's attendants are too numerous for us to over power them. Unleſs our aſſociates arrive in time, we muſt needs let theſe travellers ſet out to morrow without damage or hurt."

"'Tis plaguy unlucky that my comrades who drove the coach ſhould be thoſe unacquainted with our confederacy! But never fear, friend Baptiſte: an hour will bring me to the cavern; it is now but ten o'clock, and by twelve you may expect the arrival of the band. By the bye, take care of your wife: you know how ſtrong is her repugnance to our mode of life, and ſhe may find means to give information to the lady's ſervants of our deſign."

"Oh! I am ſecure of her ſilence; ſhe is too much afraid of me, and fond of her children, to dare to betray my ſecret. Beſides, Jacques and Robert keep a ſtrict eye over her, and ſhe is not permitted to ſet a foot out of the cottage. The ſervants are ſafely lodged in the barn. I ſhall endeavour to keep all quiet till the arrival of our friends. Were I aſſured of your finding them, the ſtrangers ſhould be diſpatched this inſtant; but as it is poſſible for you to miſs the banditti, I am fearful of being ſummoned by their domeſtics to produce them in the morning."

"And ſuppoſe either of the travellers ſhould diſcover your deſign?"

"Then we muſt poniard thoſe in our power, and take our chance about maſtering the reſt. However, to avoid running ſuch a riſk, haſten to the cavern; the banditti never leave it before eleven, and if you uſe diligence you may reach it in time to ſtop them."

"Tell Robert that I have taken his horſe; my own has broken his bridle, and eſcaped into the wood. What is the watch-word?"

"The reward of courage."

"'Tis ſufficient. I haſten to the cavern."

"And I to rejoin my gueſts, leſt my abſence ſhould create ſuſpicion. Farewell, and be diligent."

Theſe worthy aſſociates now ſeparated; the one bent his courſe towards the ſtable, while the other returned to the houſe.

You may judge what muſt have been my feelings during this converſation, of which I loſt not a ſingle ſyllable. I dared not truſt myſelf to my reflections, nor did any means preſent itſelf to eſcape the dangers which threatened me. Reſiſtance I knew to be vain; I was unarmed, and a ſingle man againſt three. However, I reſolved at leaſt to ſell my life as dearly as I could. Dreading leſt Baptiſte ſhould perceive my abſence, and ſuſpect me to have overheard the meſſage with which Claude was diſpatched, I haſtily re-lighted my candle and quitted the chamber. On deſcending, I found the table ſpread for ſix perſons. The baroneſs ſat by the fire-ſide; Marguerite was employed in dreſſing a ſallad, and her ſtep-ſons were whiſpering together at the further end of the room. Baptiſte, having the round of the garden to make ere he could reach the cottage door, was not yet arrived. I ſeated myſelf quietly oppoſite to the baroneſs.

A glance upon Marguerite told her that her hint had not been thrown away upon me. How different did ſhe now appear to me! What before ſeemed gloom and ſullenneſs, I now found to be diſguſt at her aſſociates and compaſſion for my danger. I looked up to her as to my only reſource; yet knowing her to be watched by her huſband with a ſuſpicious eye, I could place but little reliance on the exertions of her good will.

In ſpite of all my endeavours to conceal it, my agitation was but too viſibly expreſſed upon my countenance. I was pale, and both my words and actions were diſordered and embarraſſed. The young men obſerved this, and enquired the cauſe. I attributed it to exceſs of fatigue, and the violent effect produced on me by the ſeverity of the ſeaſon. Whether they believed me or not, I will not pretend to ſay; they at leaſt ceaſed to embarraſs me with their queſtions. I ſtrove to divert my attention from the perils which ſurrounded me, by converſing on different ſubjects with the baroneſs. I talked of Germany, declaring my intention of viſiting it immediately: God knows, that I little thought at that moment of ever ſeeing it! She replied to me with great eaſe and politeneſs, profeſſed that the pleaſure of making my acquaintance amply compenſated for the delay in her journey, and gave me a preſſing invitation to make ſome ſtay at the caſtle of Lindenberg. As ſhe ſpoke thus, the youths exchanged a malicious ſmile, which declared that ſhe would be fortunate if ſhe ever reached that caſtle herſelf. This action did not eſcape me; but I concealed the emotion which it excited in my breaſt. I continued to converſe with the lady; but my diſcourſe was ſo frequently incoherent that as ſhe has ſince informed me, ſhe began to doubt whether I was in my right ſenſes. The fact was, that while my converſation turned upon one ſubject, my thoughts were entirely occupied by another. I meditated upon the means of quitting the cottage, finding my way to the barn, and giving the domeſtics information of our hoſt's deſigns. I was ſoon convinced how impracticable was the attempt. Jacques and Robert watched my every movement with an attentive eye, and I was obliged to abandon the idea. All my hopes now reſted upon Claude's not finding the banditti. In that caſe, according to what I had overheard, we ſhould be permitted to depart unhurt.

I ſhuddered involuntarily as Baptiſte entered the room. He made many apologies for his long abſence, but "he had been detained by affairs impoſſible to be delayed." He then entreated permiſſion for his family to ſup at the ſame table with us, without which, reſpect would not authorize his taking ſuch a liberty. Oh! how in my heart I curſed the hypocrite! how I loathed his preſence, who was on the point of depriving me of an exiſtence, at that time infinitely dear! I had every reaſon to be ſatisfied with life; I had youth, wealth, rank, and education, and the faireſt proſpects preſented themſelves before me. I ſaw thoſe proſpects on the point of cloſing in the moſt horrible manner: yet was I obliged to diſſimulate, and to receive with a ſemblance of gratitude the falſe civilities of him who held the dagger to my boſom.

The permiſſion which our hoſt demanded was eaſily obtained. We ſeated ourſelves at the table. The baroneſs and myſelf occupied one ſide; the ſons were oppoſite to us, with their backs to the door. Baptiſte took his ſeat by the baroneſs, at the upper end; and the place next to him was left for his wife. She ſoon entered the room, and placed before us a plain but comfortable peaſant's repaſt. Our hoſt thought it neceſſary to apologize for the poorneſs of the ſupper: "he had not been apprized of our coming; he could only offer us ſuch fare as had been intended for his own family."

"But," added he, "ſhould any accident detain my noble gueſts longer than they at preſent intend, I hope to give them a better treatment."

The villain! I well knew the accident to which he alluded. I ſhuddered at the treatment which he taught us to expect.

My companion in danger ſeemed entirely to have got rid of her chagrin at being delayed. She laughed, and converſed with the family with infinite gaiety. I ſtrove, but in vain, to follow her example. My ſpirits were evidently forced, and the conſtraint which I put upon myſelf eſcaped not Baptiſte's obſervation.

"Come, come, monſieur, cheer up!" ſaid he; "you ſeem not quite recovered from your fatigue. To raiſe your ſpirits, what ſay you to a glaſs of excellent old wine which was left me by my father? God reſt his ſoul, he is in a better world! I ſeldom produce this wine; but as I am not honoured with ſuch gueſts every day, this is an occaſion which deſerves a bottle."

He then gave his wife a key, and inſtructed her where to find the wine of which he ſpoke. She ſeemed by no means pleaſed with the commiſſion; ſhe took the key with an embarraſſed air, and heſitated to quit the table.

"Did you hear me?" ſaid Baptiſte in an angry tone.

Marguerite darted upon him a look of mingled anger and fear, and left the chamber. His eyes followed her ſuſpiciouſly till ſhe had cloſed the door.

She ſoon returned with a bottle ſealed with yellow wax. She placed it upon the table, and gave the key back to her huſband. I ſuſpected that this liquor was not preſented to us without deſign, and I watched Marguerite's movements with inquietude. She was employed in rinſing ſome ſmall horn goblets. As ſhe placed them before Baptiſte, ſhe ſaw that my eye was fixed upon her; and at the moment when ſhe thought herſelf unobſerved by the banditti, ſhe motioned to me with her head not to taſte the liquor. She then reſumed her place.

In the mean while our hoſt had drawn the cork, and, filling two of the goblets, offered them to the lady and myſelf. She at firſt made ſome objections, but the inſtances of Baptiſte were ſo urgent, that ſhe was obliged to comply. Fearing to excite ſuſpicion, I heſitated not to take the goblet preſented to me. By its ſmell and colour, I gueſſed it to be champagne; but ſome grains of powder floating upon the top convinced me that it was not unadulterated. However, I dared not to expreſs my repugnance to drinking it; I lifted it to my lips, and ſeemed to be ſwallowing it: ſuddenly ſtarting from my chair, I made the beſt of my way towards a vaſe of water at ſome diſtance, in which Marguerite had been rinſing the goblets. I pretended to ſpit out the wine with diſguſt, and took an opportunity, unperceived, of emptying the liquor into the vaſe.

The banditti ſeemed alarmed at my action. Jacques half roſe from his chair, put his hand into his boſom, and I diſcovered the haft of a dagger. I returned to my ſeat with tranquillity, and affected not to have obſerved their confuſion.

"You have not ſuited my taſte, honeſt friend," ſaid I, addreſſing myſelf to Baptiſte: "I never can drink champagne without its producing a violent illneſs. I ſwallowed a few mouthfuls ere I was aware of its quality, and fear that I ſhall ſuffer for my imprudence."

Baptiſte and Jacques exchanged looks of diſtruſt.

"Perhaps," ſaid Robert, "the ſmell may be diſagreeable to you?"

He quitted his chair, and removed the goblet. I obſerved, that he examined whether it was nearly empty.

"He muſt have drank ſufficient," ſaid he to his brother in a low voice, while he re-ſeated himſelf.

Marguerite looked apprehenſive that I had taſted the liquor. A glance from my eye re-aſſured her.

I waited with anxiety for the effects which the beverage would produce upon the lady. I doubted not but the grains which I had obſerved were poiſonous, and lamented that it had been impoſſible for me to warn her of the danger. But a few minutes had elapſed, before I perceived her eyes grow heavy; her head ſank upon her ſhoulder, and ſhe fell into a deep ſleep. I affected not to attend to this circumſtance, and continued my converſation with Baptiſte, with all the outward gaiety in my power to aſſume. But he no longer anſwered me without conſtraint. He eyed me with diſtruſt and aſtoniſhment, and I ſaw that the banditti were frequently whiſpering among themſelves. My ſituation became every moment more painful: I ſuſtained the character of confidence with a worſe grace than ever. Equally afraid of the arrival of their accomplices, and of their ſuſpecting my knowledge of their deſigns, I knew not how to diſſipate the diſtruſt which the banditti evidently entertained for me. In this new dilemma the friendly Marguerite again aſſiſted me. She paſſed behind the chairs of her ſtep-ſons, ſtopped for a moment oppoſite to me, cloſed her eyes, and reclined her head upon her ſhoulder. This hint immediately diſpelled my incertitude. It told me, that I ought to imitate the baroneſs, and pretend that the liquor had taken its full effect upon me. I did ſo, and in a few minutes ſeemed perfectly overcome with ſlumber.

"So!" cried Baptiſte, as I fell back in my chair, "at laſt he ſleeps! I began to think that he had ſcented our deſign, and that we ſhould have been forced to diſpatch him at all events."

"And why not diſpatch him at all events?" enquired the ferocious Jacques: "why leave him the poſſibility of betraying our ſecret? Marguerite, give me one of my piſtols: a ſingle touch of the trigger will finiſh him at once."

"And ſuppoſing," rejoined the father, "ſuppoſing that our friends ſhould not arrive to night, a pretty figure we ſhould make when the ſervants enquire for him in the morning! No, no, Jacques; we muſt wait for our aſſociates. If they join us, we are ſtrong enough to diſpatch the domeſtics as well as their maſters, and the booty is our own. If Claude does not find the troop, we muſt take patience, and ſuffer the prey to ſlip through our fingers. Ah! boys, boys, had you arrived but five minutes ſooner, the Spaniard would have been done for, and two thouſand piſtoles our own. But you are always out of the way when you are moſt wanted. You are the moſt unlucky rogues——"

"Well, well, father!" anſwered Jacques; "had you been of my mind, all would have been over by this time. You, Robert, Claude, and myſelf—why the ſtrangers were but double the number, and I warrant you we might have maſtered them. However, Claude is gone; 'tis too late to think of it now. We muſt wait patiently for the arrival of the gang; and if the travellers eſcape us to-night, we muſt take care to way-lay them to-morrow."

"True! true!" ſaid Baptiſte; "Marguerite, have you given the ſleeping-draught to the waiting-women?"

She replied in the affirmative.

"All then is ſafe. Come, come, boys; whatever falls out, we have no reaſon to complain of this adventure. We run no danger, may gain much, and can loſe nothing."

At this moment I heard a trampling of horſes. Oh! how dreadful was the ſound to my ears! A cold ſweat flowed down my forehead, and I felt all the terrors of impending death. I was by no means reaſſured by hearing the compaſſionate Marguerite exclaim, in the accents of deſpair,

"Almighty God! they are loſt."

Luckily the woodman and his ſons were too much occupied by the arrival of their aſſociates to attend to me, or the violence of my agitation would have convinced them that my ſleep was feigned.

"Open! open!" exclaimed ſeveral voices on the outſide of the cottage.

"Yes! yes!" cried Baptiſte joyfully; "they are our friends, ſure enough. Now then our booty is certain. Away! lads, away! Lead them to the barn; you know what is to be done there."

Robert haſtened to open the door of the cottage.

"But firſt," ſaid Jacques, taking up his arms, "firſt let me diſpatch theſe ſleepers."

"No, no, no!" replied his father: "Go you to the barn, where your preſence is wanted. Leave me to take care of theſe and the women above."

Jacques obeyed, and followed his brother. They ſeemed to converſe with the new-comers for a few minutes; after which I heard the robbers diſmount, and, as I conjectured, bend their courſe towards the barn.

"So! that is wiſely done!" muttered Baptiſte; "they have quitted their horſes, that they may fall upon the ſtrangers by ſurpriſe. Good! good! and now to buſineſs."

I heard him approach a ſmall cupboard which was fixed up in a diſtant part of the room, and unlock it. At this moment I felt myſelf ſhaken gently.

"Now! now!" whiſpered Marguerite.

I opened my eyes. Baptiſte ſtood with his back towards me. No one elſe was in the room ſave Marguerite and the ſleeping lady. The villain had taken a dagger from the cupboard, and ſeemed examining whether it was ſufficiently ſharp. I had neglected to furniſh myſelf with arms; but I perceived this to be my only chance of eſcaping, and reſolved not to loſe the opportunity. I ſprang from my ſeat, darted ſuddenly upon Baptiſte, and, claſping my hands round his throat, preſſed it ſo forcibly as to prevent his uttering a ſingle cry. You may remember, that I was remarkable at Salamanca for the power of my arm. It now rendered me an eſſential ſervice. Surpriſed, terrified, and breathleſs, the villain was by no means an equal antagoniſt. I threw him upon the ground; I graſped him ſtill tighter; and while I fixed him without motion upon the floor, Marguerite, wreſting the dagger from his hand, plunged it repeatedly in his heart till he expired.

No ſooner was this horrible but neceſſary act perpetrated, than Marguerite called on me to follow her.

"Flight is our only refuge," ſaid ſhe, "quick! quick! away!"

I heſitated not to obey her; but unwilling to leave the baroneſs a victim to the vengeance of the robbers, I raiſed her in my arms ſtill ſleeping, and haſtened after Marguerite. The horſes of the banditti were faſtened near the door. My conductreſs ſprang upon one of them. I followed her example, placed the baroneſs before me, and ſpurred on my horſe. Our only hope was to reach Straſbourg, which was much nearer than the perfidious Claude had aſſured me. Marguerite was well acquainted with the road, and galloped on before me. We were obliged to paſs by the barn, where the robbers were ſlaughtering our domeſtics. The door was open: we diſtinguiſhed the ſhrieks of the dying, and imprecations of the murderers. What I felt at that moment language is unable to deſcribe.

Jacques heard the trampling of our horſes, as we ruſhed by the barn. He flew to the door with a burning torch in his hand, and eaſily recogniſed the fugitives.

"Betrayed! betrayed!" he ſhouted to his companions.

Inſtantly they left their bloody work, and haſtened to regain their horſes. We heard no more. I buried my ſpurs in the ſides of my courſer, and Marguerite goaded on hers with the poniard which had already rendered us ſuch good ſervice. We flew light lightning, and gained the open plains. Already was Straſbourg's ſteeple in ſight, when we heard the robbers purſuing us. Marguerite looked back, and diſtinguiſhed our followers deſcending a ſmall hill at no great diſtance. It was in vain that we urged on our horſes: the noiſe approached nearer with every moment.

"We are loſt!" ſhe exclaimed; "the villains gain upon us!"

"On! on!" replied I; "I hear the trampling of horſes coming from the town."

We redoubled our exertions, and were ſoon aware of a numerous band of cavaliers, who came towards us at full ſpeed. They were on the point of paſſing us.

"Stay! ſtay!" ſhrieked Marguerite; "ſave us! for God's ſake, ſave us!"

The foremoſt, who ſeemed to act as guide, immediately reined in his ſteed.

"'Tis ſhe! 'tis ſhe!" exclaimed he, ſpringing upon the ground: "Stop, my lord, ſtop! they are ſafe! 'tis my mother!"

At the ſame moment Marguerite threw herſelf from her horſe, claſped him in her arms, and covered him with kiſſes. The other cavaliers ſtopped at the exclamation.

"The baroneſs Lindenberg!" cried another of the ſtrangers eagerly: "Where is ſhe? Is ſhe not with you?"

He ſtopped on beholding her lying ſenſeleſs in my arms. Haſtily he caught her from me. The profound ſleep in which ſhe was plunged, made him at firſt tremble for her life; but the beating of her heart ſoon re-aſſured him.

"God be thanked!" ſaid he, "ſhe has eſcaped unhurt."

I interrupted his joy by pointing out the brigands, who continued to approach. No ſooner had I mentioned them, than the greateſt part of the company, which appeared to be chiefly compoſed of ſoldiers, haſtened forward to meet them. The villains ſtaid not to receive their attack. Perceiving their danger, they turned the heads of their horſes, and fled into the wood, whither they were followed by our preſervers. In the mean while the ſtranger, whom I gueſſed to be the baron Lindenberg, after thanking me for my care of his lady, propoſed our returning with all ſpeed to the town. The baroneſs, on whom the effects of the opiate had not ceaſed to operate, was placed before him; Marguerite and her ſon remounted their horſes; the baron's domeſtics followed, and we ſoon arrived at the inn, where he had taken his apartments.

This was at the Auſtrian Eagle, where my banker, whom before my quitting Paris I had appriſed of my intention to viſit Straſbourg, had prepared lodgings for me. I rejoiced at this circumſtance. It gave me an opportunity of cultivating the baron's acquaintance, which I foreſaw would be of uſe to me in Germany. Immediately upon our arrival, the lady was conveyed to bed. A phyſician was ſent for, who preſcribed a medicine likely to counteract the effects of the ſleepy potion; and after it had been poured down her throat, ſhe was committed to the care of the hoſteſs. The baron then addreſſed himſelf to me, and entreated me to recount the particulars of this adventure. I complied with his requeſt inſtantaneouſly; for, in pain reſpecting Stephano's fate, whom I had been compelled to abandon to the cruelty of the banditti, I found it impoſſible for me to repoſe till I had ſome news of him. I received but too ſoon the intelligence that my truſty ſervant had periſhed. The ſoldiers who had purſued the brigands, returned while I was employed in relating my adventure to the baron. By their account, I found that the robbers had been overtaken. Guilt and true courage are incompatible: they had thrown themſelves at the feet of their purſuers, had ſurrendered themſelves without ſtriking a blow, had diſcovered their ſecret retreat, made known their ſignals by which the reſt of the gang might be ſeized, and, in ſhort, had betrayed every mark of cowardice and baſeneſs. By this means the whole of the band, conſiſting of near ſixty perſons, had been made priſoners, bound, and conducted to Straſbourg.

Some of the ſoldiers haſtened to the cottage, one of the banditti ſerving them as guide. Their firſt viſit was to the fatal barn, where they were fortunate enough to find two of the baron's ſervants ſtill alive, though deſperately wounded. The reſt had expired beneath the ſwords of the robbers, and of theſe my unhappy Stephano was one.

Alarmed at our eſcape, the robbers, in their haſte to overtake us, had neglected to viſit the cottage; in conſequence, the ſoldiers found the two waiting-women unhurt, and buried in the ſame death-like ſlumber which had overpowered their miſtreſs. There was nobody elſe found in the cottage, except a child not above four years old, which the ſoldiers brought away with them. We were buſying ourſelves with conjectures reſpecting the birth of this little unfortunate, when Marguerite ruſhed into the room with the baby in her arms. She fell at the feet of the officer who was making us this report, and bleſſed him a thouſand times for the preſervation of her child.

When the firſt burſt of maternal tenderneſs was over, I beſought her to declare by what means ſhe had been united to a man whoſe principles ſeemed ſo totally diſcordant with her own. She bent her eyes downwards, and wiped a few tears from her cheek.

"Gentlemen," ſaid ſhe, after a ſilence of ſome minutes, "I would requeſt a favour of you. You have a right to know on whom you confer an obligation; I will not, therefore, ſtifle a confeſſion which covers me with ſhame; but permit me to compriſe it in as few words as poſſible.

"I was born in Straſbourg, of reſpectable parents; their names I muſt at preſent conceal. My father ſtill lives, and deſerves not to be involved in my infamy. If you grant my requeſt, you ſhall be informed of my family name. A villain made himſelf maſter of my affections, and to follow him I quitted my father's houſe. Yet, though my paſſions overpowered my virtue, I ſunk not into that degeneracy of vice but too commonly the lot of women who make the firſt falſe ſtep. I loved my ſeducer, dearly loved him! I was true to his bed: this baby, and the youth who warned you, my lord baron, of your lady's danger, are the pledges of our affection. Even at this moment I lament his loſs, though 'tis to him that I owe all the miſeries of my exiſtence.

"He was of noble birth, but he had ſquandered away his paternal inheritance. His relations conſidered him as a diſgrace to their name, and utterly diſcarded him. His exceſſes drew upon him the indignation of the police. He was obliged to fly from Straſbourg; and ſaw no other reſource from beggary than an union with the banditti who infeſted the neighbouring foreſt, and whoſe troop was chiefly compoſed of young men of family in the ſame predicament with himſelf. I was determined not to forſake him. I followed him to the cavern of the brigands, and ſhared with him the miſery inſeparable from a life of pillage. But though I was aware that our exiſtence was ſupported by plunder, I knew not all the horrible circumſtances attached to my lover's profeſſion: theſe he concealed from me with the utmoſt care. He was conſcious that my ſentiments were not ſufficiently depraved to look without horror upon aſſaſſination. He ſuppoſed, and with juſtice, that I ſhould fly with deteſtation from the embraces of a murderer. Eight years of poſſeſſion had not abated his love for me; and he cautiouſly removed from my knowledge every circumſtance which might lead me to ſuſpect the crimes in which he but too often participated. He ſucceeded perfectly. It was not till after my ſeducer's death that I diſcovered his hands to have been ſtained with the blood of innocence.

"One fatal night he was brought back to the cavern, covered with wounds: he received them in attacking an Engliſh traveller, whom his companions immediately ſacrificed to their reſentment. He had only time to entreat my pardon for all the ſorrows which he had cauſed me: he preſſed my hand to his lips, and expired. My grief was inexpreſſible. As ſoon as its violence abated, I reſolved to return to Straſbourg, to throw myſelf, with my two children; at my father's feet, and implore his forgiveneſs, though I little hoped to obtain it. What was my conſternation when informed, that no one entruſted with the ſecret of their retreat was ever permitted to quit the troop of the banditti; that I muſt give up all hopes of ever rejoining ſociety, and conſent inſtantly to accept one of their band for my huſband! My prayers and remonſtrances were vain. They caſt lots to decide to whoſe poſſeſſion I ſhould fall. I became the property of the infamous Baptiſte. A robber, who had once been a monk, pronounced over us a burleſque rather than a religious ceremony: I and my children were delivered into the hands of my new huſband, and he conveyed us immediately to his home.

"He aſſured me that he had long entertained for me the moſt ardent regard; but that friendſhip for my deceaſed lover had obliged him to ſtifle his deſires. He endeavoured to reconcile me to my fate, and for ſome time treated me with reſpect and gentleneſs. At length, finding that my averſion rather increaſed than diminiſhed, he obtained thoſe favours by violence which I perſiſted to refuſe him. No reſource remained for me but to bear my ſorrows with patience; I was conſcious that I deſerved them but too well. Flight was forbidden. My children were in the power of Baptiſte; and he had ſworn, that if I attempted to eſcape, their lives ſhould pay for it. I had had too many opportunities of witneſſing the barbarity of his nature, to doubt his fulfilling his oath to the very letter. Sad experience had convinced me of the horrors of my ſituation. My firſt lover had carefully concealed them from me; Baptiſte rather rejoiced in opening my eyes to the cruelties of his profeſſion, and ſtrove to familiariſe me with blood and ſlaughter.

"My nature was licentious and warm, but not cruel: my conduct had been imprudent, but my heart was not unprincipled. Judge, then, what I muſt have felt at being a continual witneſs of crimes the moſt horrible and revolting! Judge how I muſt have grieved at being united to a man, who received the unſuſpeding gueſt with an air of openneſs and hoſpitality, at the very moment that he meditated his deſtruction! Chagrin and diſcontent preyed upon my conſtitution; the few charms beſtowed on me by nature withered away, and the dejection of my countenance denoted the ſufferings of my heart. I was tempted a thouſand times to put an end to my exiſtence; but the remembrance of my children held my hand. I trembled to leave my dear boys in my tyrant's power, and trembled yet more for their virtue than their lives. The ſecond was ſtill too young to benefit by my inſtructions; but in the heart of my eldeſt I laboured unceaſingly to plant thoſe principles which might enable him to avoid the crimes of his parents. He liſtened to me with docility, or rather with eagerneſs. Even at his early age, he ſhewed that he was not calculated for the ſociety of villains; and the only comfort which I enjoyed among my ſorrows, was to witneſs the dawning virtues of my Theodore.

"Such was my ſituation when the perfidy of Don Alphonſo's poſtillion conducted him to the cottage. His youth, air, and manners intereſted me moſt forcibly in his behalf. The abſence of my huſband's ſons gave me an opportunity which I had long wiſhed to find, and I reſolved to riſque every thing to preſerve the ſtranger. The vigilance of Baptiſte prevented me from warning Don Alphonſo of his danger, I knew that my betraying the ſecret would be immediately puniſhed with death; and however embittered was my life by calamities, I wanted courage to ſacrifice it for the ſake of preſerving that of another perſon. My only hope reſted upon procuring ſuccour from Straſbourg. At this I reſolved to try; and ſhould an opportunity offer of warning Don Alphonſo of his danger unobſerved, I was determined to ſeize it with avidity. By Baptiſte's orders I went up ſtairs to make the ſtranger's bed: I ſpread upon it ſheets in which a traveller had been murdered but a few nights before, and which ſtill were ſtained with blood. I hoped that theſe marks would not eſcape the vigilance of our gueſt, and that he would collect, from them the deſigns of my perfidious huſband. Neither was this the only ſtep which I took to preſerve the ſtranger. Theodore was confined to his bed by illneſs. I ſtole into his room unobſerved by my tyrant, communicated to him my project, and he entered into it with eagerneſs. He roſe in ſpite of his malady, and dreſſed himſelf with all ſpeed. I faſtened one of the ſheets round his arms, and lowered him from the window. He flew to the ſtable, took Claude's horſe, and haſtened to Straſbourg. Had he been accoſted by the banditti, he was to have declared himſelf ſent upon a meſſage by Baptiſte, but fortunately he reached the town without meeting any obſtacle. Immediately upon his arrival at Straſbourg, he entreated aſſiſtance from the magiſtrate: his ſtory paſſed from mouth to mouth, and at length came to the knowledge of my lord the baron. Anxious for the ſafety of his lady, who he knew would be upon the road that evening, it ſtruck him that ſhe might have fallen into the power of the robbers. He accompanied Theodore, who guided the ſoldiers towards the cottage, and arrived juſt in time to ſave us from falling once more into the hands of our enemies."

Here I interrupted Marguerite to enquire why the ſleepy potion had been preſented to me. She ſaid, that Baptiſte ſuppoſed me to have arms about me, and wiſhed to incapacitate me from making reſiſtance: it was a precaution which he always took, ſince, as the travellers had no hopes of eſcaping, deſpair would have incited them to ſell their lives dearly.

The baron then deſired Marguerite to inform him what were her preſent plans. I joined him in declaring my readineſs to ſhew my gratitude to her for the preſervation of my life.

"Diſguſted with a world," ſhe replied, "in which I have met with nothing but misfortunes, my only wiſh is to retire into a convent. But firſt I muſt provide for my children. I find that my mother is no more—probably driven to an untimely grave by my deſertion. My father is ſtill living. He is not an hard man. Perhaps, gentlemen, in ſpite of my ingratitude and imprudence, your interceſſions may induce him to forgive me, and to take charge of his unfortunate grandſons. If you obtain this boon for me, you will repay my ſervices a thouſand-fold."

Both the baron and myſelf aſſured Marguerite, that we would ſpare no pains to obtain her pardon: and that, even ſhould her father be inflexible, ſhe need be under no apprehenſions reſpecting the fate of her children. I engaged myſelf to provide for Theodore, and the baron promiſed to take the youngeſt under his protection. The grateful mother thanked us with tears for what ſhe called generoſity, but which in fact was no more than a proper ſenſe of our obligations to her. She then left the room to put her little boy to bed, whom fatigue and ſleep had completely overpowered

The baroneſs, on recovering, and being informed from what dangers I had reſcued her, ſet no bounds to the expreſſions of her gratitude. She was joined ſo warmly by her huſband in preſſing me to accompany them to their caſtle in Bavaria, that I found it impoſſible to reſiſt their entreaties. During a week which we paſſed at Straſbourg, the intereſts of Marguerite were not forgotten. In our application to her father we ſucceeded as amply as we could wiſh. The good old man had loſt his wife. He had no children but this unfortunate daughter, of whom he had received no news for almoſt fourteen years. He was ſurrounded by diſtant relations, who waited with impatience for his deceaſe, in order to get poſſeſſion of his money. When therefore Marguerite appeared again ſo unexpectedly, he conſidered her as a gift from Heaven. He received her and her children with open arms, and inſiſted upon their eſtabliſhing themſelves in his houſe without delay. The diſappointed couſins were obliged to give place. The old man would not hear of his daughter's retiring into a convent. He ſaid, that ſhe was too neceſſary to his happineſs, and ſhe was eaſily perſuaded to relinquiſh her deſigns. But no perſuaſions could induce Theodore to give up the plan which I had at firſt marked out for him. He had attached himſelf to me moſt ſincerely during my ſtay at Straſbourg; and when I was on the point of leaving it, he beſought me with tears to take him into my ſervice. He ſet forth all his little talents in the moſt favourable colours, and tried to convince me that I ſhould find him of infinite uſe to me upon the road. I was unwilling to charge myſelf with a lad ſcarcely turned of thirteen, who I knew could only be a burthen to me: however, I could not reſiſt the entreaties of this affectionate youth, who in fact poſſeſſed a thouſand eſtimable qualities. With ſome difficulty he perſuaded his relations to let him follow me; and that permiſſion once obtained, he was dubbed with the title of my page. Having paſſed a week at Straſbourg, Theodore and myſelf ſet out for Bavaria, in company with the baron and his lady. Theſe latter, as well as myſelf, had forced Marguerite to accept ſeveral preſents of value, both for herſelf and her youngeſt ſon. On leaving her, I promiſed his mother faithfully, that I would reſtore Theodore to her within the year.

I have related this adventure at length, Lorenzo, that you might underſtand the means by which "the adventurer Alphonſo d'Alvarada got introduced into the caſtle of Lindenberg." Judge from this ſpecimen, how much faith ſhould be given to your aunt's aſſertions.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.