CHAP I.

IT was in the church of San Lorenzo at Naples, in the year 1758; that Vicentio di Vivaldi first saw Ellena Rosa [...]ba. The sweetness and fine expression of her voice attracted his attention to her figure, which had a distinguished air of delicacy and grace; but her face was concealed in her veil. So much indeed was he facinated by the voice, that a most painful curi­osity was excited as to her countenance, which he fancied must express all the sensibility of character that the modulation of her tones indicated. He listened to their exquisite expression with a rapt attention, and hardly withdrew his eyes from her person till the matin service had concluded; when he observed her leave the church, with an aged lady, who leaned upon her arm, and who appeared to be her mother.

Vivaldi immediately followed their steps, determi­ned to obtain, if possible, a view of Ellena's face, and and to discover the home to which she should retire. They walked quickly, looking niether to the right or left, and as they turned into the Strada di Toledo he had nearly lost them; but quickening his pace, and re­linquishing the cautious distance he had hitherto kept-he overtook them as they entered on the Terrazzo Nuovo▪ which runs along the bay of Naples, and leads [Page 10] towards the Gran Corso. He overtook them; but the fair unknown still held her veil close, and he knew not how to introduce himself to her notice or to ob­tain a view of the features, which excited his curiosi­ty. He was embarrassed by a respectful timidity, that mingled with his admiration, and which kept him si­lent, notwithstanding his wish to speak.

In descending the last steps of the Terrazzo, how­ever, the foot of the elder lady faultered, and, while Vivaldi, hastened to assist her, the breeze from the water caught the veil, which Ellena had no longer a hand sufficiently disengaged to confine, and, wafting it partially aside, disclosed to him a countenance more touchingly beautiful than he had dared to imagine. Her features were of the Grecian outline, and, though they expressed the tranquility of an elegant mind, her dark blue eyes sparkled with intelligence. She was assisting her companion so anxiously, that she did not imediately observe the admiration she had inspired; but the moment her eyes met those of Vivaldi, she be­came conscious of their effect, and she hastily drew her veil,

The old lady was not materially hurt by her fall, as she walked with dificulty, Vivaldi siezed the op­portunity thus offered, and insisted that she should ex­cept his arm. She refused this with many acknow­ledgements; but he pressed so repeatedly and respect­fully, that; at length, she accepted it, and they walked towards her residence together.

On the way thither, he attempted to converse with Ellena, but her replies were concise and he arrived at the end of the walk while he was yet considering what he could say, that might interest and withdraw her from this severe reserve. From the style of their residence, he imagined they were persons of honorable but moderate independence. The house was small, but exhibited an air of comfort, and even of taste. It [Page 11] stood on an eminence, surrounded by a garden and vineyards, which commanded the city and bay of Na­ples, an ever-moving picture, and was canopied by a thick grove of pines and majestic date-trees; and though the little portico and colonade in front were of common marble, the style of architect was elegant. While they afforded a shelter from the sun, they ad­mitted the cooling breezes that rose from the bay be­low, and a prospect of the whole scope of its enchant­ing shores.

Vivaldi stopped at the little gate, which led into the garden, where the elder lady repeated her acknow­ledgement for his care, but did not invite him to en­ter; and he, trembling with anxiety and sinking with disappointment, remained for a moment gazing upon Ellena, unable to take leave, yet irresolute what to say that might prolong the interview, till the old lady again bade him good-day. He then summoned cou­rage enough to request he might be allowed to en­quire after her health, and, having obtained her per­mission, his eyes bade adieu to Ellena, who, as they were parting, ventured to thank him for the care he had taken of her aunt. The sound of her voice, and his acknowledgment of obligation, made him less willing to go than before, but at length he tore him­self away. The beauty of her countenance haunting his imagination, and the touching accents of her voice still vibrating on his heart, he descended to the shore below her residence, pleasing himself with the consciousness of being near her, though he could no longer behold her; and sometimes hoping that he might again see her, however distantly, in a balcony of the house, where the silk awning seemed to invite the breeze from the sea. He lingered hour after hour, stretched beneath the umbrageous pines that waved over the shore, or traversing, regardless of the heat, the base of the cliffs that crowned it; recalling to his [Page 12] fancy the enchantment of her smile, and seeming still to listen to the sweetness of her accents,

In the evening he returned to his father's palace at Naples, thoughtful yet pleased, anxious yet happy; dwelling with delightful hope on the remembrance of the thanks he had received from Ellena, yet not daring to form any plan as to his future conduct. He re­turned time enough to attend his mother in her even­ing ride on the Corso, where, in every gay carriage that passed he hoped to see the object of his constant thought; but she did not appear. His mother, the Marchesa di Vivaldi, observed his anxiety and un­usual silence, and asked him some questions, which she meant should lead to an explanation of the change in his manners; but his replies only excited a strong­er curiosity, and though she forbore to press her enquiries, it was probable that she might employ a more artful means of renewing them.

Vincentio di Vivaldi was the only son of the Mar­chese di Vivaldi, a nobleman of one of the most ancient families of the kingdom of Naples, a favourite possessing an uncommon share of influence at Court, and a man still higher in power than in rank. His pride of birth was equal to either, but it was mingled with the justifiable pride of a principled mind; it governed his conduct in morals as well as in the jealousy of ceremonial distinctions, and elevated his practice as well as his claims. His pride was at once his vice and his virtue, his safeguard and his weak­ness.

The mother of Vivaldi, descended from a family as ancient as that of his father, was equally jealous of her importance; but her pride was that of birth and distinction, without extending to morals. She was of violent passions, haughty, vindictive, yet crafty and deceitful; patient in stratagem, and indefatigable in pursuit of vengeance, on the unhappy objects who [Page 13] provoked her resentment. She loved her son, rather as being the last of two illustrious houses, who was to re-unite and support the honor of both, than with the fondness of a mother.

Vicentio inherited much of the character of his fa­ther, and very little of that of his mother. His pride was as noble and as generous as that of the Marchese; but he had somewhat of the fiery passions of the Mar­chesa, without any of her craft, her duplicity, or vin­dictive thirst of revenge. Frank in his temper, in­genuous in his sentiments. quickly offended, but ea­sily appeased; irritated by any appearance of disres­pect, but melted by a concession, a high sense of ho­nor rendered him no more jealous of offence, than a delicate humanity made him ready for reconciliation, and anxious to spare the feelings of others.

On the day following that, on which he had seen Ellena, he returned to the villa Altieri, to use the permission granted him on enquiring after the health of Signora Bianchi. The expectation of seeing El­lena agitated him with impatient joy and trembling hope, which still, encreased as he approached her re­sidence, till, having reached the garden-gate, he was obliged to rest for a few moments to recover breath and composure.

Having announced himself to an old female servant, who came to the gate, he was soon after admitted to a small vestibule, where he found Signora Bianchi wind­ing balls of silk, and alone; though from the position of a chair which stood near a frame for embroidery, he judged that Ellena had just quitted the apartment.

Signora Bianchi received him with a reserved po­liteness, and seemed very cautious in her replies to his enquiries after her niece, who, he hoped, every moment, would appear. He lengthened his visit till there was no longer an excuse for doing so; till he [Page 14] had exhausted every topic of conversation, and till the silence of Signora Bianchi seemed to hint, that his departure was expected. With a heart saddened by disappointment, and having obtained only a reluctant permission to enquire after the health of that lady on some future day, he took his leave.

On his way through the garden he often paused to look back on the house, hoping to obtain a glimpse of Ellena at a lattice; and threw a glance around him, almost expecting to see her seated beneath the shade of the luxuriant plaintains; but his search was every where vain, and he quitted the place with the slow and heavy step of despondency.

The day was employed in endeavours to obtain in­telligence concerning the family of Ellena, but of this he procured little that was satisfactory. He was told, that she was an orphan, living under the care of her aunt, Signora Bianchi: that her family, which had never been illustrious, was decayed in fortune, and that her only dependance was upon this aunt. But he was ignorant of what was very true, though very secret, that she assisted to support this aged relative, whose sole property was the small estate on which they lived, and that she passed whole days in embroid­ering silks, which were disposed of to the nuns of a neighbouring convent, who sold them to the Neapo­litan ladies, that visited their grate, at a very high ad­vantage. He little thought, that a beautiful robe, which he had often seen his mother wear, was worked by Ellena; nor that some copies from the antique, which ornamented a cabinet of the Vivaldi palace, were drawn by her hand. If he had known these circumstances, they would only have served to en­crease the passion, which, since they were proofs of a [...]parity of fortune, that would certainly render his family repugnant to a connection with hers, it would have been prudent to discourage.

[Page 15] Ellena could have endured poverty, but not contempt; and it was to protect herself from this effect of the narrow prejudices of the world around her, that she had so cautiously concealed from it a knowledge of the industry, which did honor to her character. She was not ashamed of poverty or the industry which overcame it, but her spirit shrunk from the senseless smile and humiliating con­descension, which prosperity sometimes gives to in­digence. Her mind was not yet strong enough, or her views sufficiently enlarged, to teach her a con­tempt of the sneer of vicious folly, and to glory in the dignity of virtuous independence, Ellena was the sole support of her aunt's declining years; was patient of her infirmities, and consoling to her sufferings; and repaid the fondness of a mother with the affection of a daughter. Her mother she had never known, hav­ing lost her while she was an infant, and from that period Signora Bianchi had performed the duties of one for her.

Thus innocent and happy in the silent performance of her duties and in the veil of retirement, lived Elle­na Rosalba, when she first saw Vincentio di Vivaldi. He was not a figure to pass unobserved when seen, and Ellena had been struck by the spirit and dignity of his air, and by his countenance, so frank, noble, and full of that kind of expression, which announces the energies of the soul. But she was cautious of ad­mitting a sentiment more tender than admiration, and endeavour to dismiss his image from her mind, and by engaging in her usual occupations, to recover the state of tranquility, which his appearance had somewhat interrupted.

Vivaldi, mean while, restless from disappointment, and impatient from anxiety, having passed the greater part of the day in enquiries, which repaid him only with doubt and apprehension, determined to return to [Page 16] the villa Altieri, when evening should conceal his steps, consoled by the certainty of being near the ob­ject of his thoughts, and hoping, that chance might favour him once more with a view, however, transi­ent of Ellena.

The Marchesa Vivaldi held an assembly this even­ing, and a suspicion concerning the impatience he be­trayed, induced her to detain him about her person to a late hour, engaging him to select the music for her orchestra, and to superintend the performance of a new piece, the work of a composer whom she had brought into fashion. Her assemblies were among the most brilliant and crowded in Naples, and the nobility, who were to be at the palace this evening, were di­vided into two parties as to the merits of the musical genius, whom she patronized, and those of another candidate for fame. The performance of the evening it was expected it would finally decide the victory. This therefore, was a night of great importance and anxiety to the Marchesa, for she was as jealous of the reputation of her favovrite composer as of her own, and the welfare of her son did but slightly divide her cares.

The moment he could depart unobserved, he quit­ted the assembly, and, muffling himself in his cloak, hastened to the villa Altiera, which lay at a short dis­tance to the west of the city. He reached it unobser­ved, and breathless with impatience, traversed the the boundary of the garden; where, free from cere­monial restraint and near the object of his affection, he experienced for the first few moments a joy as ex­quisite as her presence could have inspired. But this delight faded with its novelty, and in a short time he felt as forlorn as if he was separated for ever from El­lena, in whose presence he but lately almost beleived himself.

The night was far advanced, and, no light appear­ing from the house, he concluded the inhabitants had [Page 17] retired to rest, and all hope of seeing her vanished from his mind. Still, however, it was sweet to be near her, and he anxiously sought to gain admittance to the gardens, that he might approach the window where it was possible she reposed. The boundary, formed of trees and thick shrubs, was not difficult to be passed, and he found himself once more in the por­tico of the villa.

It was nearly midnight, and the stillness that reign­ed was rather soothed than interrupted by the gentle dashings of the waters of the bay below, and by the hollow murmurs of Vesuvius, which threw up at in­tervals its sudden flame on the horizon, and then left it to darkness. The solemnity of the scene accorded with the temper of his mind, and he listened in deep attention for the returning sounds, which broke upon the ear like distant thunder muttering imperfectly from the clouds. The pauses of silence, that succeeded each groan of the mountain, when expectation listened for the rising sound, affected the imagination of Vivaldi at this time with particular awe, and, rapt in thought, he continued to gaze upon the sublime and shadowy outline of the shores, and on the sea, just descerned be­neath the twilight of a cloudless sky. along its grey surface many vessels were pursuing their silent course, guided over the deep waters only by the polar star, which burned with steady luster. The air was calm, and rose from the bay with most balmy and refreshing coolness; it scarcely stirred the heads of the broad pines that overspread the villa: and bore no sounds but of the waves and the groans of the far-off moun­tain—till a chaunting of deep voices [...]welled from a distance. The solemn character of the strain engaged his attention; he perceived that it was a requiem, and he endeavoured to dis­cover from what quarter it came. It advanced, though distantly, and then passed away on the air. [Page 18] The circumstance struck him; he knew not it was usual in some parts of Italy to chant this strain over the bed of the dying; but here the mourners seemed to walk on the earth, or in the air. He was not doubt­ful as to the strain itself;—once before he had heard it, and attended with circumstances which made it im­possible that he should forget it. As he now listen­ed to the choral voices softening distance, a few pa­thetic voices notes brought full upon his remembrance the divine melody he had heard Ellena utter in the church of San Lorenzo. Overcome by the recollec­tion, he started away, and, wandering over the garden reached another side of the villa, where he soon heard the voice of Ellena herself, performing the midnight hymn to the virgin, and accompanied by a lute, which she touched with most affecting and delicate expressi­on. He stood for a moment entranced, and scarcely daring to breathe, lest he should lose any [...]ote of that meek and holy strain' which seemed to flow from a devotion almost saintly, Then looking round to dis­cover the object of his admiration, a light issuing from among the bowery foliage of a clematis led him to a lattice, and shewed him Ellena. The lattice had been thrown open to admit the cool air, and he had a full view of her and the apartment. She was rsiiug from a small altar where she had concluded the service; the glow of devotion was still upon her countenance as she raised her eyes, and with rapt earnestness fixed them on the heavens. She still held the lute, but no longer awakened it, and seemed lost to every surroun-object. Her fine hair was negligently bound up in a silk net, and some tresses that had escaped it, played on her neck, and round her beautiful countenance, which now was not even partially concealed by a viel. The light drapery of her dress, her whole figure, air, and attitude, were such as might have been copied for a Grecian nymph.

[Page 19] Vivaldi was perplexed and agitated between the wish of seizing an opportunity, which might never a­gain occur, of pleading his love, and the fear of offen­ding, by intruding upon her retirement at so sacred an hour; but, while he thus hesitated, he heard her sigh, and then with a sweetness peculiar to her accent, pronounce his name. During the trembling anxiety, with which he listened to what might follow this men­tion of his name, he disturbed the clematis that sur­rounded the lattice, and she turned her eyes towards the window; but Vivaldi was entirely concealed by the foliage. She, however, rose to close the lattice, as she approached which, Vivaldi, unable any longer to command himself, appeared before her. She stood fixed for an instant, while her countenance changed to an ashy paleness; and then, with trembling haste closing the lattice, quitted the apartment. Vivaldi felt as if all his hopes had vanished with her.

After lingering in the garden for some time with­out perceiving a light in any other part of the build­ing, or hearing a sound proceed from it, he took his melancholy way to Naples. He now began to ask himself some questions, which he ought to have urged before, and to enpuire wherefore he sought the dangerous pleasure of seeing Ellena, since her family was of such a condition as rendered the consent of his parents to a marriage with her unattainable.

He was lost in revere on this subject, sometimes half resolved to seek her no more, and then shrinking from a conduct, which seemed to strike him with the force of despair, when, as he emerged from the dark▪ arch of ruin that extended over the road, his was way crossed by a person in the habit of a monk, whose face was shrou­ded by his cowl still more than by the twilight. The Stranger, addressing him by his name, said, "Signor! your steps are watched; beware how you revisit Alte­ri!" Having uttered this, he disappeared, before [Page 20] Vivaldi could return the sword he had half drawn in­to the scabbard, or demand an explanation of the words he had heard. He called loudly and repeatedly conjuring the unknown person to appear; and linger­ed near the spot for a considerable time; but the visi­on came no more.

Vivaldi arrived at home with a mind occupied by this incident, and tormented by the jealousy to which it gave rise; for, after indulging various conjectures, he concluded with believing the notice, of which he had been warned, tobe that of a rival, and that the dan­ger which menaced him, was from the poniard of jea­lousy. This belief discovered to him at once the ex­tent of his passion, and of the imprudence, which had thus readily admitted it; yet so far was this new pru­dence from overcoming his error, that, stung with a torture more exquisite than he had ever known, he resolved, at every event, to declare his love, and sue for the hand of Ellena. Unhappy young man, he knew not the fatal error, into which his passion was precipitating him.

On his arrival at the Vivaldi palace, he learned that the Marchesa had observed his [...]bsence, had repeated­ly enquired for him, and had given orders that the time of his return should be mentioned to her. She had however, retired to rest; but the Marchese, who had attended the king on an excursion to one of the roy­al villas on the bay, returned home [...]oon a [...]ter Vincen­tio, and, before he had withdrawn to his apartment, he met his son with unusual displeasure, but avoided saying any thing, which either explained or alluded to the subject of it; and, after a short conversation they separated.

Vivaldi shut himself in his apartment to deliberate, if that may deserve the name of del [...]eration, in which a conflict o [...] passions, rather than an exertion of judg­ment, prevailed. For several hours he traversed his [Page 21] suit of rooms, alternately tortured by the remembrance of Ellena, fired with jealousy, and alarmed for the con­sequence of the imprudent step, which he was about to take. He knew the temper of his father, and some of the traits of the character of his mother, sufficently to fear that their displeasure would be irreconcileable concerning the marriage he meditated; yet, when he considered that he was their only son, he was inclined to admit a hope of forgiveness, notwithstanding the weight which the circumstance must add to their dis­appointment. These reflections were frequently in­terrupted by sears lest Ellena had already disposed of her affections to this imaginary rival. He was how­ever, somewhat consoled by remembring the sigh she had uttered, and the tenderness, with which she had immediately pronounced his name. Yet, even, if she were not averse to his suit, how could he solicit her hand, and hope it would be given him, when he should declare that this must be in secret? He scarcely da­red to beleived that she would condescend to enter a family who disdained to receive her? and again des­pondency overcame him.

The morning found him as distracted as the night had left him; his determination, however, was fixed; and this was to sacrifice what he now considered as a delusive pride of birth, to a choice which he beleived would ensure the happiness of his life. But, before he ventured to declare himself to Ellena, it appeared ne­cessary to ascertain whether he held an interest in her heart, or whether she had devoted it to the rival of his love, and who this rival really was. It was so much easier to wish for such information than to obtain it, that, after forming a thousand projects, either the de­licacy of his respect for Ellena, or his fear of offending her, or an apprehension of discovery from his family before he had secured an interest in her affections, con­stantly opposed his views of an enquiry.

[Page 22] In this difficulty he opened his heart to a friend, who had long possessed his confidence, and whose ad­vice he solicited with somewhat more anxiety and sincerity than is usual on such occasions. It was not a sanction of his own oppinion that he required, but the impartial judgment of another mind. Bonarmo, however little he might be qualified for the office of an adviser, did not scruple to give his advice. As a means of judging whether Ellena was disposed to fa­vour Vivaldi's addresses, he proposed, that, according to the custom of the country, a serenade should be given; he maintained, that, if she was not disinclined towards him, some sign of approbation would appear; and if otherwise, that she would remain silent and in­visible. Vivaldi objected to this coarse and inadequate mode of expressing a love so sacred as his, and he had too lofty an opinion of Ellena's mind and delicacy, to believe, that the trifling homage of a serenade would either flatter her self-love, or interest her in his fa­vour; nor, if it did, could he venture to believ, that she would display any sign of approbation.

His friend laughed at his scruples and at his opini­on of what he called such romantic delicacy, that his ignorance of the world was his only excuse for having cherished them. But Vivaldi interrupted this raillery, and would neither suffer him to speak thus of Ellena, or to call such delicacy romantic. Bonarmo, however still urged the serenade as at least a possible means of discovering her disposition towards him before he made a formal avowel of his suit; and Vivaldi, per­plexed and distracted with apprehension and impati­ence to terminate his present state of suspence, was at length so far overcome by his own difficulties, ra­ther then by his friend's persuasion, that he consented to make the adventure of a serenade on the approach­ing night. This was adopted rather as a refuge from desponedncy, than with any hope of success; for he [Page 23] still believed that Ellena would not give any hint, that might terminate his uncertainty.

Beneath their cloaks they carried musical instru­ments, and, muffling their faces, so that they could not be known, they proceeded in thoughtful silence on the way to the villa Altieri. Already they had passed the arch, in which Vivaldi was stopped by the stranger on the proceeding night, when he heard a sudden sound near him, and, raising his head from the cloak, he perceived the same figure! Before he had time for exclamation, the stranger crossed him again. "Go not to the villa Altieri," said he in a solemn voice, "lest you meet the fate you ought to dread."

"What fate?" demanded Vivaldi, stepping back; "Speak, I conjure you!"

But the monk was gone, and the darkness of the hour baffled observation as to the way of his depar­ture.

"Dio mi guardi [...]" exclaimed Bonarmo, "this is almost beyond belief! but let us return to Naples; this second warning ought to be obeyed."

"It is almost beyond endurance," exclaimed Vi­valdi; "which way did he pass?"

"He glided by me," replied Bonarmo, "and he was gone before I could cross him?"

"I will tempt the worst at once," said Vivaldi; "if I have a rival, it is best to meet him. Let us go on."

Bonarmo remonstrated, and represented the serious danger that threatened from so rash a proceeding. "It is evident that you have a rival," said he; "and your courage cannot avail you against hired bravos." Vivaldi's heart swelled at the mention of a rival. "If you think it dangerous to proceed, I will go alone," said he.

Hurt by this reproof, Bonarmo accompanied his friend in silence, and they reached without interrup­tion [Page 24] the boundary of the villa. Vivaldi led to the place [...] which he had entered on the preceding night, and they passed unmolested into the garden.

"Where are these terrible bravos of whom you warned me?" said Vivaldi, with taunting exultation.

"Speak cautiously," replied his friend; "we may even now, be within their reach?"

"They also may be within ours," observed Vi­valdi.

At length these adventurous friends came to the o­rangery, which was near the house, when, tired by the ascent, they rested to recover breath and to pre­pare their instruments for the serenade. The night was still, and they now heard, for the first time, mur­murs as of a distant multitude▪ and then the sudden splendour of fire works broke upon the sky. These a­rose from a villa on the western margin of the bay, and were given in honour of the birth of one of the royal princes. They soared to an immence height, and, as their lustre broke silently upon the night, it lightened on the thousand upturned faces of the gazing crowd, illumined the waters of the bay, with every little boat that skimmed its surface, and shewed distinctly the whole sweep of its rising shores, the stately city of Naples on the strand below, and spreading far among the hills, its terraced roofs crowded with spectators and the Corso tumultuous with carriages and blazing with torches.

While Bonarmo surveyed this magnificent scene, Vivaldi turned his eyes to the residence of Ellena, part of which looked out from among the trees, with a hope that the spectacle would draw her to a balcony; but she did not appear, nor was there any light that might indicate her approach,

While they still rested on the turf of the orangery, they herad a rustling of the leaves, as if the branches were disturbed by some person who endeavoured to [Page 25] make his way between them when, Vivaldi demanded who passed. No answer was returned, and a long silence followed.

"We are observed," said Bonarmo, at length, "and are even now, perhaps, almost beneath the poniard of the assassin: let us be gone.

"O that my heart were as secure from the darts of love, the assassin of my peace," exclaimed Vivaldi, "as yours is from those of bravos! My friend, you have little to interest you, since your thoughts have so much leisure for apprehension."

"My fear is that of prudence, not of weakness," retorted Bonarmo, with acrimony; "you will find, perhaps, that I have none, when you most wish me to possess it."

"I understand you," replied Vivaldi "let us finish this business, and you shall receive reparation, since you beleive yourself injured: I am as anxious to re­pair an offence, as jealous of receiving one."

"Yes," replied Bonarmo, "you would repair the injury you have done your friend with his blood.

"Oh! never, never!" said Vivaldi, falling on his neck. "Forgive my hasty violence; allow for the distraction of my mind."

Bonarmo returned the imbrace, "It is enough," said he; "no more, no more! I hold again my friend to my heart."

While this conversation passed, they had quitted the orangery, and reached the walls of the villa, where they took their station under a balcony that overhung the lattice, through which Vivaldi had seen Ellena on the preceding night. They tuned their instruments, and opened the serenade with a duet.

Vivaldi's voice was a fine tenor, and the same sus­ceptibility, which made him passionately fond of mu­sic, taught him to modulate its cadence with exqui­site delicacy, and to give his emphasis with the most [Page 26] simple and pathetic expression, His soul seemed to breathe in the sounds,—so tender, so imploring, yet so energetic. On this night, enthusiasm inspired him with the highest eloquence, perhaps, which music is capable of attaining; what might be its effect on Ellena he had no means of judging, for she did not ap­pear either at the balcony or the lattice, nor give any hint of applause. No sounds stole on the stillness of the night, except those of the serenade, nor did any light from within the villa break upon the obscurity without; once, indeed, in a pause of the instruments Bonarmo fancied he distinguished voices near him, as of persons who feared to be heard, and he listened at­tentively, but without ascertaining the truth. Some­times they seemed to sound heavily in his ear, and then a death-like silence prevailed. Vivaldi affirmed the [...]ound to be nothing more than the confused murmur of the distant multitude on the shore, but Bonarmo was not thus easily convinced.

The musicians, unsuccessful in their first endeavour to attract attention, removed to the opposite side of the building, and placed themselves in front of the portico, but with as little success; and, after having exercised their powers of harmony and of patience for above an hour, they resigned all further effort to win upon the obdurate Ellena. Vivaldi, notwith­standing the feebleness of his first hope of seeing her, now suffered an agony of disappointment; and Bo­narmo, alarmed for the consequence of his despair, was as anxious to persuade him that he had no rival, as he had lately been pertinacious in affirming that he had one.

At length they left the gardens, Vivaldi, protest­ing that he would not rest until he had discovered the stranger, who so wantonly destroyed his peace, and had compelled him to explain his ambiguous warn­ings; and Bonarmo remonstrating on the imprudence [Page 27] and difficulty of the search, and representing that such conduct would probably be the means of spreading a report of his attachment, where most he dreaded it should be known,

Vivaldi refused to yield to remonstrance or consi­derations of any kind. "We shall see," said he, "whether this demon in the garb of a monk, will haunt me again at the accustomed place; if he does, he shall not escape my grasp; and if he does not, I will watch as vigilantly for his return, as he seems to have done for mine. I will lurk in the shade of the ruin, and wait for him, though it be till death!"

Bonarmo was particularly struck by the vehemence which he pronounced the last words, but he no longer opposed his purpose, and only bade him consider whe­ther he was well armed, "For" he added, "you may have need of arms there, though you had no use for them at the villa Altieri. Remember that the strang­er told you that your steps were watched."

"I have my sword," replied Vivaldi, "and the dagger which I usually wear; but I ought to enquire what are your weapons of defence."

"Hush!" said Bornarmo, as they turned the foot of a rock that overhung the road, "we are approach­ing the spot; yonder is the arch!" It appeared duski­ly in the perspective, suspended between two cliffs, where the road wound from sight, on one of which were the ruins of the Roman fort it belonged to, and on the other, shadowing pines, and thickets of oak that tufted the rock to its base.

They proceeded in silence, treading lightly, and of­ten throwing a suspicious glance around, expecting every instant that the monk would steal out upon them from some recess of the cliffs. But they passed on un­ [...]olested to the arch-way. "We are here before [...]im, however," said Vivaldi as they entered the dark­ness. "Speak low, my friend," said Bonarmo, "o­thers [Page 28] besides ourselves may be shrouded in this obscu­rity. I like not the place."

"Who but ourselves would chuse so dismal a re­treat?" whispered Vivaldi, "unless indeed, it were banditti; the savageness of the spot would, in truth, suit their humour, and it suits well also with my own."

"It would suit their purpose too, as well as their humour," observed Bonarmo. "Let us remove from this deep shade, into the more open road, where we can as closely observe who passes.

Vivaldi objected that in the road they might them­selves be observed, "and if we are seen by my un­known tormentor, our design is defeated, for he comes upon us suddenly, or not at all, lest we should be pre­pared to detain him.

Vivaldi, as he said this, took his station within the thickest gloom of the arch, which was of considerable depth, and near a flight of steps that was cut in the rock, and ascended to the fortress. His friend step­ped close to his side. After a pause of silence, du­ring which Bonarmo was meditating, and Vivaldi was impatiently watching, "do you really believe," said the former, "that any effort to detain him would be effectual? He glided past me with a strange faci­lity, it was surely more than human!"

"What is it you mean?" enquired Vivaldi.

"Why, I mean that I could be superstitious. This place, perhaps, infects my mind with congenial gloom, for I find that, at this moment, there is scarce­ly a superstition too dark for my credulity."

Vivaldi smiled. "And▪ you must allow," added Bonarmo, "that he has appeared under circumstan­ces somewhat extraordinary. How should he know your name, by which you say he addressed you at the first meeting? How should he know from whence you came, or whether you designed to return? By what magic could he become acquainted with your plans?"

[Page 29] "Nor am I certain that he is acquainted with them," observed Vivaldi; "but if he is, there was no necessity for superhuman means to obtain such knowledge."

"The result of this evening surely ought to con­vince you that he is acquainted with your designs," said Bonarmo. Do you believe it possible that Elle­na could have been insensible to your attentions, "if her heart had not been pre-engaged, and that she would not have shewn herself at a lattice?"

"You do not know Ellena," replied Vivaldi, "and therefore I once more pardon you the question. Yet had she been disposed to accept my addresses, surely some sign of approbation,"—he checked himself.

"The stranger warned you not to go to the villa Altieri," resumed Bonarmo, "he seemed to anticipate the reception which awaited you, and to know a dan­ger, which hitherto you have happily escaped."

"Yes, he anticipated too well that reception," said Vivaldi, losing, his prudence in passionate exclamati­on; "and he is himself, perhaps, the rival, whom he has taught me to suspect. He has assumed a disguise only the more effectually to impose upon my credulity, and do deter me from addressing Ellena. And shall I tamely lie in wait for his approach? Shall I lurk like a guilty assassin for his rival?"

"For heaven's sake!" said Bonarmo, "moderate these transports; consider where you are. This sur­mise of yours is in the highest degree improbable." He gave his reasons for thinking so, and these convin­ced Vivaldi, who was prevailed upon to be once more patient.

They had remained watchful and still for a consi­derable time, when Bon [...]mo saw a person approach the end of the arch-way nearest to Altieri. He heard no step, but he perceived a shadowy figure sta­tion itself at the entrance of the arch, where the twi­light [Page 30] of this brilliant climate was, for a few paces, ad­mitted. Vivaldi's eyes were fixed on the road lead­ing towards Naples, and he, therefore, did not perceive the object of Bonarmo's attention, who, fearful of his friend's precipitancy, forbore to point out immediate­ly what he observed, judging it more prudent to watch the motions of this unknown person, that he might ascertain whether it really were the monk. The size of the figure, and the dark drapery in which it seem­ed wrapt, induced him, at length, to believe that this was the expected stranger; and he seized Vivaldi's arm to direct his attention to him, when the form glided forward disappeared in the gloom, but not be­fore Vivaldi had understood the occasion of his friend's gesture and significant silence. They heard no foot­step pass them, and, being convinced that this person, whatever he was, had not left the arch-way, they kept their station in watchful stillness. Presently they heard a rustling, as of garments, near them, and Vi­valdi, unable longer to command his patience, started from his concealment, and with arms extended to prevent any one from escaping, demanded who was there.

The sound ceased, and no reply was made. Bonarmo drew his sword, protesting he would stab the air till he found the person who lurked there; but if the latter would discover himself, he should receive no injury. This assurance Vivaldi confirmed by his promise. Still no answer was returned; but as they listened for a voice, they thought something passed them, and the avenue was not narrow enough to have prevent­ed such a circumstance. Vivaldi rushed forward, but did not perceive any person issue from the arch in­to the highway, where the stronger twilight must have discovered him.

"Somebody certainly passed," whispered Bonar­mo, "and I think I hear a sound from yonder steps, that lead to the fortress."

[Page 31] "Let us follow," cried Vivaldi, and he began to ascend.

"Stop, for heaven's sake stop!" said Bonarmo; "consider what you are about! Do not brave the ut­ter darkness of these ruins; do not pursue the assassin to his den!"

"It is the monk himself! exclaimed Vivaldi, still ascending; "he shall not escape me!"

Bonarmo paused a moment at the foot of the steps, and his friend disappeared; he hesitated what to do, till ashamed of suffering him to encounter danger a­lone, he sprang to the flight, and not without difficul­ty surmounted the rugged steps.

Having reached the summit of the rock, he found himself on a terrace, that ran along the top of the arch­way and had once been fortified; this, crossing the road, commanded the defile each way. Some remains of massy walls, that still exhibited loops for archers, were all that now hinted of its former use. It led to a watch-tower almost concealed in thick pines, that crowned the opposite cliff, and had thus served not only for a strong battery over the road, but connecting the opposite sides of the defile, had formed a line of communication between the fort and this out-post.

Bonarmo looked round in vain for his friend, and the echoes of his own voice only, among the rocks, replied to his repeated calls. After some hesitation whether to enter the walls of the main building, or to cross to the watch-tower, he determined on the former, and entered a rugged area, the walls of which, following the declivities of the precipice, could scarce­ly now be traced. The citadel, a round tower, of majestic strength, with some Roman arches scattered near, was all that remained of this once important fortress; except, indeed, a mass of ruins near the edge of the cliff, the construction of which made it difficult to guess for what purpose it had been designed.

[Page 32] Bonarmo entered the immense walls of the citadel, but the utter darkness within checked his progress, and, contenting himself with calling loudly on Vi­valdi, he returned to the open air.

As he approached the mass of ruins, whose sin­gular form had interested his curiosity, he thought he distinguished the low accents of a human voice, and while he listened in anxiety, a person rushed forth from a door-way of the ruin, carrying a drawn sword. It was Vivaldi himself. Bonarmo sprang to meet him; he was pale and breathless, and some moments elapsed before he could speak, or appeared to hear the repeated enquiries of his friend.

"Let us go," said Vivaldi, "let us leave this place."

"Most willingly," replied Bonarmo, "but where have you been, and who have you seen, that you are thus affected?"

"Ask me no more questions, let us go,' repeated Vivaldi.

They descended the rock together, and when having reached the arch way, Bonarmo enquired, half spor­tively, whether they should remain any longer on the watch, his friend answered, "No!" with an emphasis that startled him. They passed hastily on the way to Naples, Bonarmo repeating enquiries which Vivaldi seemed reluctant to satisfy, and wondering no less at the cause of this sudden reserve, than anxious to know whom he had seen.

"It was the monk, then," said Bonarmo; "you secured him at last?"

"I know not what to think," replied Vivaldi, "I am more perplexed than ever."

"He escaped you then?"

"We will speak of this in future," said Vivaldi; "but [...]e it as it may, the business rests not here. I will return in the night of to-morrow with a torch; dare you venture yourself with me?"

[Page 33] "I know not," replied Bonarmo, "whether I ought to do so, since I am not informed for what purpose?"

"I will not press you to go," said Vivaldi; my purpose is already known to you."

"Have you really failed to discover the stranger—have you still doubts concerning the person you pur­sued?"

I have doubts, which to-morow night, I hope will dissipate."

"This is very strange!" said Bonarmo, "It was but now that I witnessed the horror, with which you left this fortress of Puluzzi, and already you speak of returning to it! And why at night—why not in the day, when less danger would beset you?"

"I know not as to that," replied Vivaldi, "you are to observe that day-light never pierces within the recess, to which I penetrated; we must search the place with torches at whatsoever hour we would ex­amine it."

"Since this is necessary," said Bonarmo, "how happens it that you found your way in total darkness?"

"I was too much engaged to know how; I was led on, as by an invisible hand."

"We must, notwithstanding," observed Banarmo, "go in day-time, if not by day-light, provided I ac­company you. It would be little less than insanity to go twice to a place, which is probably infested with robbers, and at their own hour of midnight."

"I shall watch again in the accustomed place," re­plied Vivaldi, "before I use my last resource, and this cannot be done during the day. Besides, it is neces­sary that I should go at a particular hour, the hour when the monk has usually appeared.

"He did escape you, then?" said Bonarmo, "and you are still ignorant concerning who he is?"

Vivaldi rejoined only with an enquiry whether his friend would accompany him. "If not," he added▪ "I must hope to find another companion."

[Page 34] Bonarmo said, that he must consider of the proposal, and would acquaint him with his determination be­fore the following evening.

While this conversation concluded, they were in Naples, and at the gates of the Vivaldi palace, where they separated for the remainder of the night.

CHAP. II.

SINCE Vivaldi had failed to procure an explanati­on of the words of the monk, he determined to relieve himself from the torture of suspence, respecting a rival, by going to the villa Altieri, and declaring his preten­sions. On the morning immediately following his late adventure, he went thither, and on equiring for Signora Bianchi, was told she could not be seen. With much difficulty he prevailed upon the old house keeper to deliver a request that he might be permitted to wait upon her for a few moments. Per­mission was granted him, when he was conducted in­to the very apartment where he had formerly seen Ellena. It was unoccupied, and he was told that Sig­nora Bianchi would be there presently.

During this interval, he was agitated at one mo­ment with quick impatience, and at another with en­thusiastic pleasure, while he gazed on the altar whence he had seen Ellena rise, and where to his fancy, she still appeared; and on every object, on which he knew her eyes had lately dwelt. These objects so familiar to her, had in the imagination of Vivaldi acquired somewhat of the sacred character she had impressed up­on his heart, and affected him in some degree as her presence would have done. He trembled as he took [Page 36] up the lute she had been accustomed to touch, and, when he awakened the chords, her own voice seemed to speak. A drawing half-finished, of a dancing nymph, remained on a stand, and he immediately understood that her hand had traced the lines. It was a copy from Herculaneum, and though a copy, was touched with the spirit of original genius. The light steps ap­peared almost to move, and the whole figure display­ed the airy lightness of exquisite grace. Vivaldi per­ceived this to be one of a set that ornamented the a­partment, and observed with surprise, that they were the particular subjects, which adorned his father's ca­binet, and which he had understood to be the only co­pies permitted from the originals in the royal mu­seum.

Every object, on which his eyes rested, seemed to announce the presence of Ellena; and the very flow­ers that so gaily embellished the apartment, breathed forth a perfume, which fascinated his senses and affect­ed his imagination. Before Signora Bianchi appear­ed, his anxiety and apprehension had encreased so much that, believing he should not be able to support him­self in her presence, he was more than once upon the point of leaving the house. At length, he heard her approaching step from the hall; and his breath al­most forsook him. The figure of Signora Bianchi was not of an order to inspire admiration, and a spec­tator might have smiled to see the perterbation of Vi­valdi, his faultering step and anxious eye, as he ad­vanced to meet the venerable Bianchi, as he bowed upon her faded hand, and listened to her querulous voice. She received him with an air of reserve, and some moments passed before he could recollect him­self sufficiently to explain the purpose of his visit; yet this, when he discovered it, did not apparently sur­prize her. She listened with composure, though with somewhat of a severe countenance, to his protestations [Page 37] of regard for her niece, and when he implored her to intercede for him in obtaining the hand of Ellena, she said, "I cannot be ignorant that a family of your rank must be averse to an union with one of mine; nor am I unacquainted that a full sense of the value of birth is a striking feature in the characters of the Marchese and Marchesa di Vivaldi. This proposal must be disagreeable or unknown to them; and I am to in­form you, Signor, that, though Signora di Rosalba is their inferior in rank, she is their equal in pride."

Vivaldi disdained to prevaricate, yet was shocked to own the truth thus abruptly. The ingenious man­ner, however, with which he at length did this, and the energy of a passion too eloquent to be misunder­stood, somewhat soothed the anxiety of Signora Bian­chi, with whom other considerations began to arise. She considered that from her own age and infirmities she must very soon, in the course of nature, leave El­lena a young and friendless orphan; still somewhat de­pendant upon her own industry, and entirely so on her discretion. With much beauty and little knowledge of the world, the dangers of her future situation ap­peared in vivid colours to the affectionate mind of Signora Bianchi; and she sometimes thought that it might be right to sacrifice considerations, which in other circumstances would be laudable, to the obtain­ing for her niece the protection of a husband and a man of honour. If in this instance she descended from the lofty integrity, which ought to have opposed her consent that Ellena should clandestinely enter any family, her parental anxiety may soften the censure she deserved.

But before she determined upon this subject, it was necessary to ascertain that Vivaldi was worthy the confidence she might repose in him. To try, also, the constancy of his affection, she gave little present en­couragement to his hopes. His request to see Ellena [Page 38] she absolutely refused, till she should have considered further of his proposals; and his enquiry whether he had a rival, and, if he had, whether Ellena was dis­posed to favour him, she evaded, since she knew that a reply would give more encouragement to his hopes, than it might hereafter be proper to confirm.

Vivaldi, at length took his leave, released, indeed, from absolute despair, but scarcely encouraged to hope; ignorant that he had a rival, yet doubtful whether Ellena honoured himself with any share of her esteem.

He had received permission to wait upon Signora Bianchi on a future day, but till that day should ar­rive time appeared motionless; and, since it seemed utterly impossible to endure this interval of suspence, his thoughts on the way to Naples were wholly en­gaged in contriving the means of concluding it, till he reached the well known arch, and looked round, though hopelessly, for his mysterious tormentor. The stranger did not appear; and Vivaldi pursued the road, determined to re-visit the spot at night, and also to re­turn privately to the villa Altieri, where he hoped a second visit might procure for him some relief from his present anxiety.

When he reached home he found that the Marchese, his father, had left an order for him, to await his ar­rival; which he obeyed: but the day passed without his return. The Marchesa, when she saw him, en­quired with a look that expressed much, how he had engaged himself of late, and completely frustrated his plans for the evening, by requiring him to attend her to Portici. Thus he was prevented from watching at Paluzzi, and from revisiting Ellena's residence.

He remained at Portici the following evening, and, on his return to Naples, the Marchese being again absent, he continued ignorant of the intended subject of the interview. A note from Bonarmo brought a refusal to accompany him to the fortress, and urged [Page 39] him to forbear so dangerous a visit. Being for this night unprovided with a companion for the adventure, and unwilling to go alone, Vivaldi deferred it to another evening; but no consideration could deter him from visiting the villa Altieri. Not chusing to solicit his friend to accompany him thither, since he had refused his first request, he took his solitary lute, and reached the garden at an earlier hour than usual.

The sun had been set above an hour, but the hori­zon still retained somewhat of a saffron brilliancy, and the whole dome of the sky had an appearance of trans­parency, peculiar to this enchanting climate, which seemed to diffuse a more soothing twilight over the reposing world. In the south-cast the outline of Ve­suvius appeared distinctly, but the mountain itself was dark and silent.

Vivaldi heard only the quick and eager voices of some Lazaroni at a distance on the shore, as they con­tended at the simple game of maro. From the bowery lattices of a small pavilion within the orangery, he perceived a light, and the sudden hope which it occa­sioned, of seeing Ellena, almost overcame him. It was impossible to resist the opportunity of beholding her, yet he checked the impatient step he was taking, to ask himself, whether it was honourable thus to steal upon her retirement, and become an unsuspected ob­server of her secret thoughts. But the temptation was too powerful for this honourable hesitation; the pause was momentary; and stepping lightly towards the pavilion, he placed himself near an open lattice, so as to be shrouded from observation by the branches of an orange-tree, while he obtained a full view of the apartment. Ellena was alone, sitting in a thoughtful attitude and holding her lute, which she did not play. She appeared lost to a consciousness of surrounding objects, and a tenderness was on her countenance, which seemed to tell him that her thoughts were en­gaged [Page 40] by some interesting subject. Recollecting that, when last he had seen her thus, she pronounced his name, his hope revived, and he was going to discover himself and appear at her feet, when she spoke, and he paused.

"Why this unreasonable pride of birth!" said she, "A visionary prejudice destroys our peace.—Never would I submit to enter a family averse to re­ceive me; they shall learn, at least, that I inherit no­bility of soul. O! Vivaldi! but for this unhappy prejudice!"—

Vivaldi, while he listened to this, was immoveable; he seemed as if entranced; the sound of her lute and voice recalled him, and he heard her sing the first stanza of the very air, with which he had opened the serenade on a former night, and with such sweet pa­thos as the composer must have felt when he was in­spired with the idea.

She paused at the conclusion of the first stanza, when Vivaldi, overcome by the temptation of such an opportunity for expressing his passion, suddenly struck the chords of the lute, and replied to her in the second. The tremor of his voice, though it restrained his tones, heightened its eloquence. Ellena instantly recollect­ed it; her colour alternately faded and returned; and, before the verse concluded, she seemed to have lost all consciousness. Vivaldi was now advancing into the pavilion, when his approach recalled her; she waved him to retire, and before he could spring to her sup­port, she rose and would have left the place, had he not interrupted her and implored a few moments at­tention.

"It is impossible," said Ellena.

"Let me only hear you say that I am not hateful to you," rejoined Vivaldi; "that this intrusion has not deprived me of the regard, with which but now you acknowledged you honoured me."—

[Page 41] "Oh, never, never!" interrupted Ellena, impa­tiently; "forget that I ever made such acknowledge­ment; forget that you ever heard it; I know not what I said."

"Ah, beautiful Ellena! do you think it possible I ever can forget it? It will be the solace of my soli­tary hours, the hope that shall sustain me."

"I cannot be detained, Signor," interrupted Ellena, still more embarrassed, "o [...] forgive myself for having permitted such conversation!" but as she spoke the last words, an involuntary smile seemed to contradict their meaning. Vivaldi believed the smile in spite of the words; but, before he could express the lightning joy of conviction, she had left the pavilion; he followed through the garden—but she was gone.

From this moment Vivaldi seemed to have arisen into a new existence; the whole world to him was Paradise; that smile seemed impressed upon his heart for ever. In the fulness of present joy, he believed it impossible that he ever could be unhappy again, and defied the utmost malice of future fortune. With footsteps light as air, he returned to Naples, nor once remembered to look for his old monitor on the way.

The Marchese and his mother being from home, he was left at his leisure to indulge the rapturous re­collection, that pressed upon his mind, and of which he was impatient of a moment's interruption. All night he either traversed his apartment with an agita­tion equal to that, which anxiety had so lately inflict­ed, or composed and destroyed letters to Ellena; some­times fearing that he had written too much, and at others feeling that he had written too little; recollect­ing circumstances which he ought to have mentioned, and lamenting the cold expression of a passion, to which it appeared that no language could do justice.

[Page 42] By the hour when the domestics had risen, he had, however, completed a letter somewhat more to his satisfaction, and he dispatched it to the villa Altieri by a confidential person; but the servant had scarcely quitted the gates, when he recollected new arguments, which he wished to urge, and expressions to change of the utmost importance to enforce his meaning, and he would have given half the world to have recalled the messenger.

In this state of agitation he was summoned to attend the Marchese, who had been too much engaged of late to keep his own appointment. Vivaldi was not long in doubt as to the subject of this inter­view.

"I have wished to speak with you," said the Mar­chese, assuming an air of haughty severity, "upon a subject of the utmost importance to your honour and happiness; and I wished, also, to give you an opportu­nity of contradicting a report, which would have oc­casioned me considerable uneasiness, if I could have believed it. Happily I had too much confidence in my son to credit this; and I affirmed that he too well understood what was due both to his family and him­self, to take any step derogatory from the dignity of either. My motive for this conversation, therefore, is merely to afford you a moment for refuting the calumny I shall mention, and to obtain for myself authority for contradicting it to the persons who have communicated it to me."

Vivaldi waited impatiently for the conclusion of this exordium, and then begged to be informed of the subject of the report.

"It is said." resumed the Marchese, "that there is a young woman, who is called Ellena Rosalba—I think that is the name;—do you know any person of the name?"

[Page 43] "Do I know!" exclaimed Vivaldi, "but pardon me, pray proceed, my Lord."

The Marchese paused, and regarded his son with sternness, but without surprise. "It is said, that a young person of this name has contrived to fascinate your affections, and"—

"It is most true, my Lord, that Signora Rosalba has won my affections," interrupted Vivaldi with ho­nest impatience, "but without contrivance."

"I will not be interrupted," said the Marchese, in­terrupting in his turn. "It is said that she has so artfully adapted her temper to yours, that, with the assistance of a relation who lives with her, she has reduced you to the degrading situation of her devoted suitor."

"Signora R [...]salba has, my Lord, exalted me to the honour of being her suitor," said Vivaldi, unable lon­ger to command his feelings. He was proceeding, when the Marchese abruptly checked him, "You avow your folly then!"

"My Lord, I glory in my choice."

"Young men," rejoined his father, "as this is the arrogance and romantic enthusiasm of a boy, I am wil­ling to forgive it for once, and observe me, only for once. If you will acknowledge your error, instantly dismiss this new favourite."—

"My Lord!"

"You must instantly dismiss her," repeated the Marchese with sternner emphasis; "and, to prove that I am more merciful than just, I am willing, on this condition, to allow her a small annuity as some repa­ration for the depravity, into which you have assisted to sink her."

"My Lord!" exclaimed Vivaldi aghast, and scarce­ly daring to trust his voice; "my Lord!—depravity!" struggling for breath. "Who has dared to pollute her spotless fame by insulting your ears with such in­famous [Page 44] falfehoods? Tell me, I conjure you, instantly tell me, that I may hasten to give him his reward—Depravity!—an annuity—an annnity! O Ellena! Ellena!" As he pronounced her name tears of ten­derness mingled with those of indignation.

"Young man," said the Marchese, who had obser­ved the violence of his emotion with strong displea­sure and alarm, "I do not lightly give faith to report, and I cannot suffer myself to doubt the truth of what I have advanced. You are deceived, and your vanity will continue the delusion, unless I condescend to ex­ert my authority, and tear the veil from your eyes. Dismiss her instantly, and I will adduce proof of her former character which will stagger even your faith, enthusiastic as it is."

"Dismiss her!" repeated Vivaldi, with calm yet stern energy, such as his father had never seen him assume; "My Lord, you have never yet doubted my word, and I now pledge you that honourable word, that Ellena is innocent. Innocent! O heavens, that it should ever be necessary to affirm so, and, above all, that it should ever be necessary for me to vindicate her!"

"I must indeed lament that it ever should," replied the Marchese coldly. "You have pledged your word, which I cannot question. I believe, therefore, that you are deceived; that you think her virtuous, notwith­standing your midnight visits to her house. And grant she is, unhappy boy! what reparation can you make her for the infatuated folly, which has thus stain­ed her character? What"—

"By proclaiming to the world, my Lord, that she is worthy of becoming my wife," replied Vivaldi, with a glow of countenance which announced the courage and exultation of a virtuous mind.

"Your wife!" said the Marchese with a look of ineffable disdain, which was instantly succeeded by one [Page 45] of angry alarm,—"If I believed you could so far for­get what is due to the honour of your house, I would for ever disclaim you as my son."

"O! why," exclaimed Vivaldi, in an agony of conflicting passions, "why should I be in danger of forgetting what is due to a father, when I am only asserting what is due to innocence; when I am only defending her, who has no other to defend her! Why may not I be permitted to reconcile duties so conge­nial! But, be the event what it may, I will defend the oppressed, and glory in the virtue, which teaches me, that it is the first duty of humanity to do so. Yes, my Lord, if it must be so, I am ready to sacrifice in­ferior duties to the grandeur of a principle, which ought to expand all hearts and impel all actions. I shall best support the honour of my house by adhering to its dictates."

"Where is the principle;" said the Marchese, im­patiently, "which shall teach you to disobey a father? where is the virtue which shall instruct you to de­grade your family?"

"There can be no degradation, my Lord, where there is no vice," replied Vivaldi; "and are instan­ces, pardon me, my Lord, there are some few instances in which it is virtuous to disobey."

"This paradoxical morality," said the Marchese, with passionate displeasure, "and this romantic lan­guage, sufficiently explain to me the character of your associates, and the innocence of her, whom you defend with so chivalric an air. Are you to learn, Signor, that you belong to your family, not your family to you; that you are only a guardian of its honour, and not at liberty to dispose of yourself? My patience will endure no more!"

Nor could the patience of Vivaldi endure this re­peated attack on the honour of Ellena. But while he yet asserted her innocence, he endeavoured to do so [Page 46] with the temper, which was due to the presence of a father; and, though he maintained the independence of a man, he was equally anxious to preserve inviolate the duties of a son. But unfortunately the Marchese and Vivaldi differed in opinion concerning the limits of these duties; the first extending them to passive obedience, and the latter conceiving them to conclude at a point, wherein the happinefs of an individual is so deeply concerned as in marriage. They parted mutually inflamed; Vivaldi unable to prevail with his father to mention the name of his infamous infor­mant, or to acknowledge himself convinced of Elle­na's innocence; and the Merchese equally unsuccess­ful in his endeavours to obtain from his son a promise that he would see her no more.

Here then was Vivaldi, who only a few short hours before, had experienced a happiness so supreme as to efface all impressions of the past, and to annihilate every consideration of the future; a joy so full that it permitted him not to believe it possible that he could ever again taste of misery; he, who had felt as if that moment was an eternity, rendering him independent of all others,—even he was thus soon fallen into the region of time and of suffering.

The present conflict of passion appeared endless; he loved his father, and would have been more shocked to consider the vexation he was preparing for him, had he not been resentful of the contempt he expressed for Ellena. He adored Ellena; and, while he felt the impracticability of resigning his hopes, was equally indignant of the slander, which affected her name, and impatient to avenge the insult upon the original defamer.

Though the displeasure of his father concerning a marriage with Ellena had been already foreseen, the experience of it was severer and more painful than he had imagined; while the indignity offered to Ellena [Page 47] was as unexpected as intolerable. But this circum­stance furnished him with an additional argument for addressing her; for, if it had been possible that his love could have paused, his honour seemed now en­gaged in her behalf; and, since he had been a means of sullying her fame, it became his duty to restore it. Willingly listening to the dictates of a duty so plau­sible, he determined to persevere in his original design. But his first efforts were directed to discover her slan­derer, and recollecting, with surprise, those words of the Marchese, which had confessed a knowledge of his evening visits to the villa Altieri, the doubtful warnings of the monk seemed explained. He believ­ed that this man was at once the spy of his steps, and the defamer of his love, till the inconsistency of such conduct with the seeming friendliness of his admoni­tions, struck Vivaldi and compelled him to believe the contrary.

Meanwhile, the heart of Ellena had been little less tranquil. It was divided by love and pride; but had she been acquainted with the circumstances of the late interview between the Marchese and Vivaldi, it would have been divided no longer, and a just regard for her own dignity would instantly have taught her to sub­due, without difficulty, this infant affection.

Signora Bianchi had informed her niece of the sub­ject of Vivaldi's visit; but she had softened the ob­jectionable circumstances that attended his proposal, and had, at first, merely hinted that it was not to be supposed his family would approve a connection with any person so much their inferior in rank as herself. Ellena, alarmed by this suggestion, replied, that, since she believed so, she had done right to reject Vivaldi's suit; but her sigh, as she said this, did not escape the observation of Signora Bianchi, who ventured to add, that she had not absolutely rejected his offers.

While in this and future conversations, Ellena was [Page 48] pleased to perceive her secret admiration thus justified by an approbation so indisputable as that of her aunt, and was willing to believe that the circumstances, which had alarmed her just pride, was no so humili­ating as she at first imagined. Bianchi was careful to conceal the real considerations, which had induced her to listen to Vivaldi, being well assured that they would have no weight with Ellena, whose generous heart and inexperienced mind would have revolted from mingling any motives of interest with an engagement so sacred as that of marriage. When, however, from further deliberation upon the advantages, which such an alliance must secure for her niece, Signora Bianchi determined to encourage his views, and to direct the mind of Ellena, whose affections were already engag­ed on her side, the opinions of the latter were found less ductile than had been expected. She was shocked at the idea of entering clandestinely the family of Vi­valdi. But Bianchi, whose infirmities urged her wishes, was now so strongly convinced of the pru­dence of such an engagement for her niece, that she determined to prevail over her reluctance, though she perceived that this must be by means more gradual and persuasive than she had believed necessary. On the evening, when Vivaldi had surprised from Ellena an acknowledgement of her sentiments, her embar­rassment and vexation, on her returning to the house, and relating what had occurred, sufficiently expressed to Signora Bianchi the exact situation of her heart. And when, on the following morning, his letter arrived, written with the simplicity and energy of truth, the aunt neglected not to adapt her remarks upon it, to the character of Ellena, with her usual address.

Vivaldi, after the late interview with the Marchese passed the remainder of the day in considering various plans, which might discover to him the person, who had abused the credulity of his father; and in the even­ing [Page 49] he returned once more to the villa Altieri, not in secret to serenade the dark balcony of his mistress, but openly, and to converse with Signora Bianchi, who now received him more courteously than on his former visit. Attributing the anxiety in his countenance to the uncertainty, concerning the disposition of her niece, she was neither surprised nor offended, but ven­tured to relieve him from a part of it, by encouraging his hopes. Vivaldi dreaded lest she should enquire further respecting the sentiments of his family, but she spared both his delicacy and her own on this point; and, after a conversation of considerable length, he left the villa Altieri with a heart somewhat soothed by approbation, and lightened by hope, although he had not obtained a sight of Ellena. The disclosure she had made of her sentiments on the preceding evening, and the hints she had received as to those of his fami­ly, still wrought upon her mind with too much effect to permit an interview.

Soon after his return to Naples, the Marchesa, whom he was surprised to find disengaged, sent for him to her closet, where a scene passed similar to that which had occurred with his father, except that the Marchesa was more dexterous in her questions, and more subtle in her whole conduct; and that Vivaldi, never for a moment, forgot the decorum which was due to a mo­ther. Managing her passions, rather than exasperat­ing them, and deceiving him with respect to the de­gree of resentment she felt from his choice, she was less passionate than the Marchese in her observations and menaces, perhaps, only because she entertained more hope than he did of preventing the evil she con­templated.

Vivaldi quitted her, unconvinced by her argu­ments, unsubdued by her prophecies, and unmoved in his designs. He was not alarmed, because he did not sufficiently understand her character to apprehend her [Page 50] purposes. Despairing to effect these by open vio­lence, she called in an auxiliary of no mean talents, and whose character and views well adapted him to be an instrument in her hands. It was, perhaps, the baseness of her own heart, not either depth of reflec­tion or keenness of penetration, which enabled her to understand the nature of his; and she determined to modulate that nature to her own views.

There lived in the Dominican convent of the Spi­rito Santo, at Naples, a man called father Schedoni; an Italian, as his name imported, but whose family was unknown, and from some circumstances, it ap­peared, that he wished to throw an impenetrable veil over his origin. For whatever reason, he was never heard to mention a relative, or the place of his nati­vity, and he had artfully eluded every enquiry that approached the subject, which the curiosity of his asso­ciates had occasionally prompted. There were cir­cumstances, however, which appeared to indicate him to be a man of birth, and of fallen fortune; his spirit, as it had sometimes looked forth from under the dis­guise of his manners, seemed lofty; it shewed not, however, the aspirings of a generous mind, but rather the gloomy pride of a disappointed one. Some few persons in the convent, who had been interested by [...] appearance, believed that the peculiarities of his man­ners, his severe reserve and unconquerable silence, his solitary habits and frequent penances, were the effect of misfortunes preying upon a haughty and disor­dered spirit; while others conjectured them the con­sequence of some hideous crime gnawing upon an awakened conscience.

He would sometimes abstract himself from the soci­ety for whole days together, or when with such a dis­position he was compelled to mingle with it, he seemed unconscious where he was, and continued shrouded in meditation and silence till he was again [Page 51] alone. There were times when it was unknown whither he had retired, notwithstanding that his steps had been watched, and his customary haunts examined. No one ever heard him complain. The elder bro­thers of the convent said that he had talents, but denied him learning; they applauded him for the profound subtlety which he occasionally discovered in argument, but observed that he seldom perceived truth when it lay on the surface; he could follow it through all the labyrinths of disquisition, but overlooked it, when it was undisguised before him. In fact he cared not for truth, nor sought it by bold and broad argument, but loved to exert the wily cunning of his nature in hunt­ing it through artificial perplexities. At length, from a habit of intricacy and suspicion, his vitiated mind could receive nothing for truth, which was simple and easily comprehended.

Among his associates no one loved him, many dis­liked him, and more feared him. His figure was striking, but not so from grace; it was stall, and, though extremely thin, his limbs were large and un­couth, and as he stalked along, wrapt in the black garments of his order, there was something terrible in its air; something almost superhuman. His cowl, too, as it threw a shade over the livid paleness of his face, increased its severe character, and gave an effect to his large melancholy eye, which approached to hor­ror. His was not the melancholy of a sensible and wounded heart, but apparently that of a gloomy and ferocious disposition. There was something in his physiognomy extremely singular, and that cannot easily be defined. It bore the traces of many passions, which seemed to have fixed the features they no longer ani­mated. An habitual gloom and severity prevailed over the deep lines of his countenance; and his eyes were so piercing, that they seemed to penetrate at a single glance into the hearts of men, and to read their [Page 52] most secret thoughts; few persons could support their scrutiny, or even endure to meet them twice. Yet, notwithstanding all this gloom and austerity, some rare occasions of interest had called forth a character upon his countenance entirely different; and he could adapt himself to the tempers and passions of persons, whom he wished to conciliate, with astonishing faci­lity, and generally with complete triumph. This monk, this Schedoni, was the confessor and secret ad­viser of the Marchesa di Vivaldi. In the first effer­vescence of pride and indignation, which the discovery of her son's intended marriage occasioned, she con­sulted him on the means of preventing it, and she soon perceived that his talents promised to equal her wishes. Each possessed, in a considerable degree, the power of assisting the other; Schedoni had subtlety with ambi­tion to urge it; and the Marchesa had inexorable pride, and courtly influence; the one hoped to obtain a high benefice for his services, and the other to secure the imaginary dignity of her house, by her gifts. Prompt­ed by such passions, and allured by such views, they concerted in private, and unknown even to the Mar­chese, the means of accomplishing their general end.

Vivaldi, as he quitted his mother's closet, had met Schedoni in the corridor leading thither. He knew him to be her confessor, and was not much surprised to see him, though the hour was an unusual one. Schedoni bowed his head, as he passed, and assumed a meek and holy countenance; but Vivaldi, as he eyed him with a penetrating glance, now recoiled with in­voluntary emotion; and it seemed as if a shuddering presentiment of what this monk was preparing for him had crossed his mind.

CHAP. III.

VIVALDI, from the period of his last visit to Al­tieri, was admitted a frequent visitor to Signora Bian­chi, and Ellena was prevailed upon to join the party, when the conversation was always on different topics. Bianchi, understanding the disposition of her niece's affections, and the accomplished mind and manners of Vivaldi, judged that he was more likely to succeed by silent attentions than by a formal declaration of his sentiments. By such declaration, Ellena, till her heart was more engaged in his cause, would, perhaps, have been alarmed into an absolute rejection of his addresses, and this was every day less likely to happen so long as he had an opportunity of conversing with her.

Signora Bianchi had acknowledged to Vivaldi that he had no rival to apprehend; that Ellena had uni­formly rejected every admirer who had hitherto disco­vered her within the shade of her retirement, and that her present reserve proceeded more from considerations of the sentiments of his family than from disapproba­tion of himself. He forbore, therefore, to press his suit, till he should have secured a stronger interest in her heart, and in this hope he was encouraged by Signora Bianchi, whose gentle remonstrances in his favour became every day more pleasing and more con­vincing.

Several weeks passed away in this kind of inter­course, till Ellena, yielding to the representations of Signora Bianchi, and to the pleadings of her own [Page 54] heart, received Vivaldi as an acknowledged admirer, and the sentiments of his family were no longer re­membered, or if remembered, it was with a hope that they might be overcome by considerations more powerful.

The lovers, with Signora Bianch and Signor Gi­otto, a distant relation of the latter, frequently made excursions in the delightful environs of Naples; for Vivaldi was no longer anxious to conceal his attach­ment, but wished to contradict any report injurious to his love, by the publicity of his conduct; while the consideration, that Ellena's name had suffered by his late imprudence, contributed, with the unsuspecting innocence and sweetness of her manners towards him, who had been the occasion of her injuries, to mingle a secret pity with his love, which obliterated all family politics from his mind, and bound her irrecoverably to his heart.

These excursions sometimes led them to Puzzuoli, Baia, or the woody cliffs of Pausilippo, and as, on their return, they glided along the moon-light bay, the me­lodies of Italian strains seemed to give enchantment to the scenery of this shore. At this cool hour the voices of the vine-dressers were frequently heard in trio, as they reposed from the labour of the day, on some pleasant promontory, under the shade of poplars; or the brisk music of the dance from fishermen, on the margin of the waves below. The boatmen rested on their oars, while their company listened to voices mo­dulated by sensibility to finer eloquence, than is in the power of art alone to display; and at others, while they observed the airy natural grace which distin­guishes the dance of the fishermen and peasants of Naples. Frequently as they glided round a promon­tory, whose shaggy masses impended [...] over the sea, such magic scenes of beauty unfolded, adorned by these dancing groups on the bay beyond, as no pencil could [Page 55] do justice to. The deep clear waters reflected every image of the landscape, the cliffs, branching into wild forms, crowned with groves, whose rough foli­age often spread down their steeps in picturesque lux­uriance; the ruined villa on some bold point, peeping through the trees; peasants cabins hanging on the precipices, and the dancing figures on the strand—all touched with the silver tint and soft shadows of moon­light. On the other hand, the sea trembling with a long line of radiance, and shewing in the clear distance the sails of vessels stealing in every direction along its surface, presented a prospect as grand as the land­scape was beautiful.

One evening that Vivaldi sat with Ellena and Sig­nora Bianchi, in the very pavilion where he had over­heard that short but interesting soliloquy, which assu­red him of her regard, he pleaded with more than his usual earnestness for a speedy marriage. Bianchi did not oppose his arguments; she had been ill for some time, and believing herself to be declining fast, was anxious to have their nuptials concluded. She sur­veyed with languid eyes the scene that spread before the pavilion. The strong effulgence which a setting sun threw over the sea, shewing innumerable gaily painted ships, and fishing-boats returning from Santa Lucia into the port of [...] no longer power to cheer her. Even the Roman tower that terminated the mole below, touched as it was with the [...]laming rays; and the various figures of fishermen, who lay smoaking beneath its walls, in the long shadow, or stood in the sunshine on the beach, watching the ap­proaching boats of their comrades, combined a picture which was no longer interesting. "Alas!" said she, breaking from meditative silence, "this sun so glori­ous, which lights up all the [...] colouring of these shores, and the glow of those majestic mountains; [Page 56] alas! I feel that it will not long shine for me—my eyes must soon close upon the prospect for ever!"

To Ellena's tender reproach for this melancholy suggestion Bianchi replied only by expressing an ear­nest wish to witness the certainty of her being pro­tected; adding, that this must be soon, or she should not live to see it. Ellena, extremely shocked both by this presage of her aunt's fate, and by the direct refer­ence made to her own condition in the presence of Vivaldi, burst into tears, while he, supported by the wishes of Signora Bianchi, urged his suit with en­creased interest.

"This is not a time for fastidious scruples," said Bianchi, "now that a solemn truth calls out to us. My dear girl, I will not disguise my feelings; they assure me I have not long to live. Grant me then the only request I have to make, and my last hours will be comforted."

After a pause she added, as she took the hand of her niece, "This will, no doubt, be an awful separation to us both; and it must also be a mournful one, Sig­nor," turning to Vivaldi, "for she has been as a daughter to me, and I have, I trust, fulfilled to her the duties of a mother. Judge then, what will be her feelings when I am no more. But it will be your care to sooth them."

Vivaldi looked at Ellena, and would have spoken; her aunt, however, proceeded. "My own feelings would now be little less poignant, if I did not believe that I was confiding her to a tenderness, which cannot diminish; that I should prevail with her to accept the protection of a husband. To you, Signor, I commit the legacy of my child. Watch over her future mo­ments, guard her from inquietude as vigilantly [...] I have done, and, if possible; from misfortune! I have yet much to say, but my spirits are exhausted."

While he listened to this sacred charge, and recol­lected [Page 57] the injury Ellena had already sustained for his sake, by the cruel obloquy which the Marchese had thrown upon her character, he felt a degree of gener­ous indignation, of which he scarcely could conceal the cause, and a succeeding tenderness that almost melt­ed him to tears; and he secretly vowed to defend her fame and protect her peace, at the sacrifice of every other consideration.

Bianchi, as she concluded her exhortation, gave Ellena's hand to Vivaldi, who received it with emo­tion such as his countenance, only, could express, and with solemn fervour raising his eyes to heaven, vowed that he never would betray the confidence thus re­posed in him, but would watch over the happiness of Ellena with a care as tender, as anxious, and as un­ceasing as her own; that from this moment he consi­dered himself bound by ties not less sacred than those which the church confers to defend her as his wife, and would do so to the latest moment of his existence. As he said this, the truth of his feelings appeared in the energy of his manner.

Ellena, still weeping, and agitated by various con­siderations, spoke not, but withdrawing the handker­chief from her face, looked at him through her tears, with a smile so meek, so affectionate, so timid, yet so confiding, as expressed all the mingled emotions of her heart, and appealed more eloquently to his, than the most energetic language could have done.

Before Vivaldi left the villa, he had some further conversation with Signora Bianchi, when it was agreed that the nuptials should be solemnized on the following week, if Ellena could be prevailed on to confirm her consent so soon; and that when he return­ed the next day, her determination would probably be made known to him.

He departed for Naples once more with the lightly-bounding steps of joy, which, however, when he ar­rived [Page 58] there, was somewhat alloyed by a message from the Marchese, demanding to see him in his cabinet. Vivaldi anticipated the subject of the interview, and obeyed the summons with reluctance.

He found his father so absorbed in thought that he did not immediately perceive him. On raising his eyes from the floor, where discontent and perplexity seemed to have held them, he fixed a stern regard on Vivaldi. "I understand," said he, "that you persist in the unworthy pursuit against which I warned you. I have left you thus long to your own discretion, be­cause I was willing to afford you an opportunity of retracting with grace the declaration, which you dared to make me of your principles and intentions; but your conduct has not therefore been less observed. I am informed that your visits have been as frequent [...] the residence of the unhappy young woman, who was the subject of our former conversation, as formerly, and that you are as much infatuated."

"If it is Signora Rosalba, whom your lordship means," said Vivaldi, "she is not unhappy; and I do not scruple to own, that I am as sincerely attached to her as ever. Why, my dear father," continued he, subduing the feelings which this degrading mention of Ellena had aroused, "why will you persist in opposing the happiness of your son; and above all, why will you continue to think unjustly of her, who deserves your admiration as much as my love?"

"As I am not a lover." replied the Marchese, "and that the age of boyish credulity is past with me, I do not wilfully close my mind against examination, but am directed by proof and yield to conviction."

"What proof is it my Lord, that has thus easily convinced you?" said Vivaldi; "Who is it that per­sists in abusing your confidence, and in destroying my peace?"

The Marchese haughtily reproved his son for such [Page 59] doubts and questions, and a long conversation ensued, which seemed neither to reconcile the interests or the opinions of either party. The Marchese persisted in accusation and menace; and Vivaldi in defending El­lena, and in affirming, that his affections and intenti­ons were unalterable.

Not any art of persuasion could prevail with the Marchese to adduce his proofs, or deliver up the name of his informer; nor any menace awe Vivaldi into a renunciation of Ellena; and they parted mutually dissatisfied. The Marchese had failed on this occasi­on to act with his usual policy, for his menaces and accusations had aroused spirit and indignation, when kindness and gentle remonstrance would certainly have awakened filial affection, and might have occasioned a contest in the breast of Vivaldi. Now, no strug­gle of opposing duties divided his resolution. He had no hesitation on the subject of their dispute; but regarding his father as a haughty oppressor who would rob him of his most sacred right; and as one who did not scruple to stain the name of the innocent and the defenceless, when his interest required it, upon the doubtful authority of a base informer, he suffered neither pity or remorse to mingle with the resolution of asserting the freedom of his nature; and was even more anxious than before, to conclude a marriage which he believed would secure his own happiness, and the reputation of Ellena.

He returned, therefore, on the following day to the villa Altieri, with encreased impatience to learn the result of Signora Bianchi's further conversation with her niece, and the day on which the nuptials might be solemnized. On the way thither, his thoughts were wholly occupied by Ellena, and he proceeded mecha­nically, and without observing where he was, till the shade which the well known arch threw over the road recalled him to local circumstances, and a voice [Page 60] instantly arrested his attention. It was the voice of the monk, whose figure again passed before him, "Go not to the villa Altieri," it said solemnly, "for death is in the house!"

Before Vivaldi could recover from the dismay into which this abrupt assertion and sudden appearance had thrown him, the stranger was gone. He had escaped in the gloom of the place, and seemed to have retired into the obscurity, from which he had so suddenly emerged, for he was not seen to depart from under the archway. Vivaldi pursued him with his voice, con­juring him to appear, and demanding who was dead; but no voice replied.

Believing that the stranger could not have escaped unseen from the arch by any way, but that leading to the fortress above, Vivaldi began to ascend the steps, when, considering that the more certain means of un­derstanding this awful assertion would be, to go im­mediately to the villa Altieri, he left this portentous ruin and hastened thither.

An indifferent person would probably have un­derstood the words of the monk to allude to Signora Bianchi, whose infirm state of health rendered her death though sudden not improbable; but to the af­frighted fancy of Vivaldi, the dying Ellena only ap­peared. His fears, however probabilities might sanc­tion, or the event justify them, were natural to ar­dent affection; but they were accompanied by a pre­sentiment as extraordinary as it was horrible;—it oc­curred to him more than once, that Ellena was mur­dered. He saw her wounded, and bleeding to death; saw her ashy countenance, and her wasting eyes, from which the spirit of life was fast departing, turned pite­ously on himself, as if imploring him to save her from the fate that was dragging her to the grave. And, when he reached the boundary of the garden, his whole frame trembled so, with horrible apprehension, that he [Page 61] rested a while, unable to venture further towards the truth. At length he summoned courage to dare it, and, unlocking a private gate, of which he had lately received the key, because it spared him a considerable distance of the road to Naples, he approached the house. Every place around it was silent and forsaken; many of the lattices were closed, and, as he endeavour­ed to collect from every trivial circumstance some conjecture, his spirits still sunk as he advanced, till, having arrived within a few paces of the portico, all his fears were confirmed. He heard from within a feeble sound of lamentation, and then some notes of that solemn and peculiar kind of recitative, which is in some parts of Italy the requiem of the dying. The sounds were so low and distant that they only murmur­ed on his ear; but, without pausing for information, he rushed into the portico, and knocked loudly at the folding doors, now closed against him.

After repeated summonses, Beatrice, the old house­keeper, appeared. She did not wait for Vivaldi's enquiries. "Alas! Signor," said she, "alas-a-day! who would have thought it; who would have expect­ed such a change as this! It was only yester-evening that you was here,—she was then as well as I am; who would have thought that she would be dead to­day?"

"She is dead, then!" exclaimed Vivaldi, struck to the heart; "she is dead!" staggering towards a pillar of the hall, and endeavouring to support himself against it. Beatrice, shocked at his condition, would have gone for assistance, but he waved her to stay. "When did she die?" said he, drawing breath with difficulty, "how and where?"

"Alas! here in the villa, Signor," replied Beatrice, weeping; "who would have thought that I should live to see this day! I hoped to have laid down my old bo [...]es▪ in peace."

[Page 62] "What has caused her death?" interrupted Vivaldi impatiently, "and when did she die?"

"About two of the clock this morning, Signor; about two o'clock. O miserable day, that I should live to see it!"

"I am better," said Vivaldi, raising himself, "lead me to her apartment,—I must see her. Do not hesi­tate, lead me on."

"Alas! Signor, it is a dismal sight; why should you wish to see her? Be persuaded; do not go, Sig­nor; it is a woeful sight!"

"Lead me on," repeated Vivaldi sternly; "or if you refuse, I will find the way myself."

Beatrice, terrified by his look and gesture, no longer opposed him, begging only that he would wait till she had informed her lady of his arrival; but he followed her closely up the staircase and along a corridor that led round the west side of the house, which brought him to a suite of chambers darkened by the closed lattices, through which we passed towards the one where the body lay. The requiem had ceased, and no sound dis­turbed the awful stillness that prevailed in these de­serted rooms. At the door of the last apartment, where he was compelled to stop, his agitation was such, that Beatrice, expecting every instant to see him sink to the floor, made an effort to support him with her feeble aid, but he gave a signal for her to retire. He soon recovered himself and passed into the cham­ber of death, the solemnity of which might have effect­ed him in any other state of his spirits; but these were now too severely pressed upon by real suffering to feel the influence of local circumstances. Ap­proaching the bed on which the corpse was laid, he raised his eyes to the mourner who hung weeping over it, and beheld—Ellena! who, surprised by this sudden intrusion, and still more by the agitation of Vivaldi, repeatedly demanded the occasion of it. But [Page 63] he had neither power nor inclination to explain a cir­cumstance, which must deeply wound the heart of Ellena, since it would have told that the same event, which excited her grief, accidentally inspired his joy.

He did not long intrude upon the sacredness of sorrow, and the short time he remained was employed in endeavours to command his own emotion and to soothe her's.

When he left Ellena, he had some conversation with Beatrice, as to the death of Signora Bianchi, and understood that she had retired to rest on the preced­ing night apparently in her usual state of health. "It was about one in the morning Signor," continued Beatrice, "I was waked out of my first sleep by a noise in my lady's chamber. It is a grievous thing to me, Signor, to be waked from my first sleep, and I Santa Maria forgive me! was angry at being disturb­ed? So I would not get up, but laid my head upon the pillow again, and tried to sleep; but presently I heard the noise again; nay now, says I, somebody must be up in the house, that's certain. I had scarcely said so, Signor, when I heard my young lady's voice call­ing, 'Beatrice! Beatrice!' Ah! poor young lady! she was indeed in a sad fright, as well she might. She was at my door in an instant, and looked as pale as death, and trembled so! 'Beatrice,' said she, 'rise this moment; my aunt is dying.' She did not wait for my answer, but was gone directly. Santa Maria protect me! I thought I should have swooned out­right."

"Well, but your lady?" said Vivaldi, whose pa­tience the tedious circumlocution of old Beatrice had exhausted.

"Ah! my poor lady! Signor, I thought I never should have been able to reach her room; and when I got there, I was scarcely more alive than herself.—There she lay on her bed! O it was a grievous sight [Page 64] to see! there she lay, looking so piteously; I saw she was dying. She could not speak, though she tried often, but she was sensible, for she would look so at Signora Ellena, and then try to speak; it almost broke one's heart to see her. Something seemed to lie upon her mind, and she tried almost to the last to tell it; and as she grasped Signora Ellena's hand, she would still look up in her face with such doleful expression as no one who had not a heart of stone could bear. My poor young mistress was quite overcome by it, and cried as if her heart would break. Poor young lady! she has lost a friend indeed, such a one as she must never hope to see again."

"But she shall find one as firm and affectionate as the last!" exclaimed Vivaldi fervently.

"The good Saint grant it may prove so," replied Beatrice, doubtingly. "All that could be done for our dear lady," she continued, "was tried, but with no avail. She could not swallow what the Doctor offered her. She grew fainter and fainter, yet would often utter such deep sighs, and then would grasp my hand so hard! At last she turned her eyes from Sig­nora Ellena, and they grew duller and fixed, and she seemed not to see what was before her. Alas! I knew she was going; her hand did not press mine as it had done a minute or two before, and a deadly coldness was upon it. Her face changed so too in a few mi­nutes! This was about two o'clock, and she died before her confessor could administer."

Beatrice ceased to speak, and wept; Vivaldi almost wept with her, and it was some time before he could command his voice sufficiently to enquire, what were the symptoms of Signora Bianchi's disorder, and whether she had ever been thus suddenly attacked before.

"Never, Signor!" replied the old house-keeper; [Page 65] "and though to be sure, she had long been very in­firm, and going down, as one may say, yet,"—

"What is it you mean?" said Vivaldi.

"Why, Signor, I do not know what to think about my lady's death. To be sure, there is nothing cer­tain; and I may only get scoffed at, if I speak my mind abroad, for nobody would believe me, it is so strange, yet I must have my own thoughts, for all that."

"Pray speak intelligibly," said Vivaldi, "you need not apprehend censure from me."

"Not from you, Signor, but if the report should get abroad, and it was known that I had set it a­going."

"That never shall be known from me," said Vi­valdi, with increased impatience, "tell me, without fear, all that you conjecture."

"Well then, Signor, I will own, that I do not like the suddenness of my lady's death, no, nor the manner of it, nor her appearance after death!"

"Speak explicitly, and to the point," said Vivaldi.

"Nay, Signor, there are some folks that will not understand if you speak ever so plain, I am sure I speak plain enough. If I might tell my mind,—I do not believe she came fairly by her death at last."

"How!" said Vivaldi, "your reasons?"

"Nay, Signor, I have given them already; I said I did not like the suddenness of her death, nor her ap­pearance after, nor"—

"Good heaven!" interrupted Vivaldi, "you mean poison."

"Hush, Signor, hush! I do not say that; but she did not seem to die naturally."

"Who has been at the villa lately?" said Vivaldi, in a tremulous voice.

"Alas! Signor, nobody has been here; she lived so privately that she saw nobody."

[Page 66] "Not one person?" said Vivaldi, "consider well, Beatrice, had she no visitor?"

"Not of a long while, Signor, no visitors but yourself and her cousin Signor Giotto. The only other person that has been within these walls for many weeks, to the best of my remembrance, is a sister of the Convent, who comes for the silks my young lady embroiders."

"Embroiders! What convent?"

"The Santa Maria della Pieta, yonder, Signor; if you will step this way to the window, I will shew it you. Yonder, among the woods on the hill-side, just above those gardens that stretch down to the bay. There is an olive ground close beside it, and observe, Signor, there is a red and yellowish ridge of rocks rises over the woods higher still, and looks as if it would fall down upon those old spires. Have you found it, Signor?"

"How long is it since this sister came here?" said Vivaldi.

"There weeks at least, Signor."

"And you are certain that no other person has call­ed within that time?"

"No other, Signor, except the fisherman and the gardener, and a man who brings maccaroni, and such sort of things; for it is such a long way to Naples, Signor, and I have so little time."

"Three weeks, say you! You say three weeks, I think? Are you certain as to this?"

"Three weeks, Signor! Santa della Pieta! Do you believe, Signor, that we could fast for three weeks! Why, they call almost every day."

"I speak of the nun," said Vivaldi.

"O yes, Signor," replied Beatrice; "it is that at least, since she was here."

"This is strange!" said Vivaldi, musing, "but I will talk with you some other time. Meanwhile, I [Page 67] wish you could contrive that I should see the face of your deceased lady, without the knowledge of Signora Ellena. And, observe me, Beatrice, be strictly silent as to your surmises concerning her death: do not suffer any negligence to betray your suspicions to your young mistress. Has she any suspicions herself of the same nature?"

Beatrice replied, that she believed Signora Ellena had none: and promised faithfully to observe his in­junctions.

He then left the villa, meditating on the circum­stances he had just learned, and on the prophetic asser­tion of the monk, between whom, and the cause of Bianchi's sudden death, he could not forbear surmising there was some connection, and it now occurred to him, and for the first time, that this monk, this myste­rious stranger, was no other than Schedoni, whom he had observed of late going more frequently than usual, to his mother's apartment. He almost started, in hor­ror of the suspicion, to which this conjecture led, and precipitately rejected it, as a poison that would destroy his own peace for ever. But though he instantly dis­missed the suspicion, the conjecture returned to his mind, and he endeavoured to recollect the voice and figure of the stranger, that he might compare them with those of the confessor. The voices were, he thought, of a different tone, and the persons of a dif­ferent height and proportion. This comparison, however, did not forbid him to surmise that the stran­ger was an agent of the confessor's; that he was, at least, a secret spy upon his actions, and the defamer of Ellena; while both, if indeed there were two persons concerned, appeared to be at the command of his pa­rents. Fired with indignation of the unworthy arts that he believed to have been employed against him, and impatient to meet the slanderer of Ellena, he de­termined to attempt some decisive step towards a dis­covery [Page 68] of the truth, and either to compel the confessor to reveal it to him, or to search out his agent, who, he fancied, was occasionally a resident within the ruins of Paluzzi.

The inhabitants of the convent, which Beatrice had pointed out, did not escape his consideration, but no reason appeared for supposing them the enemies of his Ellena, who, on the contrary, he understood had been for some years amicably connected with them. The embroidered silks, of which the old servant had spoken, sufficiently explained the nature of the con­nection, and discovering more fully the circum­stances of Ellena's fortune, her conduct heightened the tender admiration with which he had hitherto regarded her.

The hints for suspicion which Beatrice had given respecting the cause of her mistress's decease, inces­santly recurred to him; and it appeared extraordinary, and sometimes in the highest degree improbable, that any person could be sufficiently interested in the death of a woman apparently so blameless, as to administer p [...]son to her. What motive could have prompted so horrible a deed, was still more inexplicable. It was true that she had long been in a declining state; yet the suddenness of her departure and the singula­rity of some circumstances preceding as well as some appearances that had followed it, compelled Vivaldi to doubt as to the cause. He believed, however, that, after having seen the corpse, his doubts must vanish; and Beatrice had promised, that, if he could return in the evening, when Ellena had retired to rest, he should be permitted to visit the chamber of the deceased. There was something repugnant to his feelings, in going thus secretly, or, indeed, at all, to the residence of Ellena at this delicate period, yet it was necessary he should introduce there some medical professor, on whose judgment he could rest, [Page 69] respecting the occasion of Bianchi's death; and as he believed he should soon acquire the right of vindi­cating the honour of Ellena, that consideration did not so seriously affect him as otherwise it would have done. The enquiry which called him thither was, besides, of a nature too solemn and important to be lightly resigned; he had therefore, told Beatrice he would be punctual to the hour she appointed. His intention to search for the monk was thus again interrupted.

CHAP. IV.

WHEN Vivaldi returned to Naples, he enquir­ed for the Marchesa, of whom he wished to ask some questions concerning Schedoni, which, though he scarcely expected they would be explicitly answered, might yet lead to part of the truth he sought for.

The Marchesa was in her closet, and Vivaldi found the confessor with her. "This man crosses me like my evil genius," said he to himself as he entered, "but I will know whether he deserves my suspicions before I leave the room."

Schedoni was so deeply engaged in conversation, that he did not immediately perceive Vivaldi, who stood for a moment examining his countenance, and tracing subjects for curiosity in its deep lines. His eyes, while he spoke were cast downward, and his fea­tures were fixed in an expression at once severe and crafty. The Marchesa was listening with deep at­tention, her head inclined towards him, as if to catch the lowest murmur of his voice, and her face picturing the anxiety and vexation of her mind. This was evidently a conference, not a confession.

Vivaldi advancing, the monk raised his eyes; his countenance suffered no change, as they met those of Vivaldi. He rose, but did not take leave, and return­ed the slight and somewhat haughty salutation of Vi­valdi, with an inclination of the head, that indicated▪ pride without pettishness, and a firmness bordering o [...] contempt.

The Marchesa, on perceiving her son was somewhat embarrassed, and her brow, before slightly contracted [Page 71] by vexation, now frowned with severity. Yet it was an involuntary emotion, for she endeavoured to chase the expression of it with a smile. Vivaldi liked the smile still less than the frown.

Schedoni seated himself quietly, and began with al­most the ease of a man of the world, to converse on general topics. Vivaldi, however, was reserved and si­lent; he knew not how to begin a conversation, which might lead to the knowledge he desired, and the Mar­chesa did not relieve him from the difficulty. His eye and his ear assisted him at least to conjecture at least, if not to obtain the information he wished; and, as he listened to the deep tones of Schedoni's voice, he be­came almost certain, that they were not the accents of his unknown adviser, though he considered, at the [...]ame moment, that it was not difficult to disguise, or to feign a voice. His stature seemed to decide the question more reasonably; for the figure of Schedoni appeared taller than that of the stranger; and tho' there was something of resemblance in their air, which Vi­valdi had never observed before, he again considered, that the habit of the same order, which each wore, might easily occasion an artificial resemblance. Or the likeness, as to countenance, he could not judge, since the stranger had been so much shrouded by his cowl, that Vivaldi had never distinctly seen a single feature. Schedoni's hood was now thrown back, so that he could not compare even the air of their heads under similar circumstances; but as he remembered to have seen the confessor on a former day approach­ing his mother's closet with the cowl shading his face, the same gloomy severity seemed to characterize both, and nearly the same terrible portrait was drawn on his fancy. Yet this again might be only an artificial effect, a character which the cowl alone gave to the head; and any face s [...]en imperfectly beneath its dark shade, might have appeared equally severe. Vivaldi was [Page 72] still extremely perplexed in his opinion. One cir­cumstance, however seemed to throw some light on his judgment. The stranger had appeared in the ha­bit of a monk, and if Vivaldi's transient observation might be trusted, he was of the very same order with that of Schedoni, Yet if he were Schedoni, or even his agent, it was not probable that he would have shewn himself in a dress that might lead to a discovery of his person. That he was anxious for a conceal­ment, his manner had strongly proved; it seemed then, that this habit of a monk was only a disguise, assumed for the purpose of misleading conjecture. Vivaldi, however, determined to put some questions to Sche­doni, and at the same time to observe their effect on his countenance. He took occasion to notice some drawing of ruins, which ornamented the cabinet of the Marchesa, and to say that the fortress of Paluzzi was worthy of being added to her collection. "You have seen it lately, perhaps, reverend father," added Vivaldi, with a penetrating glance.

"It is a striking relique of antiquity," replied the confessor.

"That arch," resumed Vivaldi, his eye still fixed on Schedoni, "that arch suspended between two rocks, the one overtopped by the towers of the fortress, the other shadowed with pine and broad oak, has a fine effect. But a picture of it would want human figures Now either the grotesque shapes of banditti lurking within the ruin, as if ready to start out upon the tra­veller, or a friar rolled up in his black garments, just stealing forth from under the shade of the arch, and looking like some supernatural messenger of evil would finish the piece."

The features of Schedoni suffered no change dur­ing this speech. "Your picture in complete," said he, "and I cannot but admire the [...]ecility with which you have classed the monks together with banditti."

[Page 73] "Your pardon, holy father," said Vivaldi, "I did not draw a parallel between them."

"O! no offence, Signor," replied Schedoni, with a smile somewhat ghastly.

During the latter part of this conversation, if con­versation it may be called, the Marchesa had followed a servant, who had brought her a letter, out of the a­partment, and as the confessor appeared to await her re­turn, Vivaldi determined to press his enquiry. "It ap­pears, however," said he, "that Paluzzi, if not haunt­ed by robbers, is at least frequented by ecclesiastics; for I have seldom passed it without seeing one of the order, and that one has appeared so suddenly, and va­nished so suddenly, that I have been almost compelled to believe he was literally a spiritual being!"

"The convent of the Black Penitents is not far distant," observed the confessor.

"Does the dress of this convent resemble that of your order, reverend father? for I observed that the monk I speak of was habited like yourself; aye and he was about your stature, and very much resembled you."

"That well may be, Signor," replied the confes­sor calmly; "there are many brethern who, no doubt, resemble each other; but the brothers of the Black Penitents are clothed in sackcloth; and the death's head on the garment, the peculiar symbol of this or­der, would not have escaped your observation; it could not, therefore, be a member of their society whom you have seen."

"I am not inclined to think that it was," said Vi­valdi; "but be it who it may, I hope soon to be better acquainted with him, and to tell him truths so strong, that he shall not be permitted even to affect the misun­derstanding of them."

[Page 74] "You will do right, if you have cause of complaint against him," observed Schedoni.

"And only if I have cause of complaint, holy father? Are strong truths to be told only when there is direct cause of complaint? Is it only when we are injured that we are to be sincere?" He believed that he had now detected Schedoni, who seemed to have betrayed a consciousness that Vivaldi had reason for complaint against the stranger.

"You will observe, reverend father, that I have not said I am injured," he added. "If you know that I am, this must be by other means than by my words: I have not even expressed resentment."

"Except by your voice and eye, Signor," replied Schedoni drily. "When a man is vehement and dis­ordered, we usually are inclined to suppose he feels resentment, and that he has cause of complaint, either real or imaginary. As I have not the honour of be­ing acquainted with the subject you allude to, I cannot decide to which of the two your cause belongs."

"I have never been in doubt as to that," said Vi­valdi haughtily; "and if I had, you will pardon me, holy father, but I should not have requested your de­cision. My injuries are, alas! too real; and I now think it is also too certain to whom I may attribute them. The secret adviser, who steals into the bosom of a family only to poison its repose, the informer—the base asperser of innocence, stand revealed in one person before me.

Vivaldi delivered these words with a tempered ener­gy, at once dignified and pointed, which seemed to strike directly to the heart of Schedoni; but, whether it was his conscience or his pride that took the alarm, did not certainly appear. Vivaldi believed the for­mer. A dark malignity overspread the features of the monk, and at that moment Vivaldi thought he beheld a man, whose passions might impel him to the perpe­tration [Page 75] of almost any crime, how hideous soever. He recoiled from him, as if he had suddenly seen a serpent in his path, and stood gazing on his face, with an at­tention so wholly occupied as to be unconscious that he did so.

Schedoni almost instantly recovered himself; his features relaxed from their first expression, and that portentous darkness passed away from his countenance; but with a look that was still stern and haughty, he said, "Signor, however ignorant I may be of the sub­ject of your discontent, I cannot misunderstand that your resentment is, to some extent or other, directed against myself as the cause of it. Yet I will not sup­pose, Signor; I say I will not suppose," raising his voice significantly, "that you have dared to brand me with the ignominious titles you have just uttered; but"—

"I have applied them to the author of my injuries," interrupted Vivaldi; "you, father, can best inform me whether they applied to yourself."

"I have then nothing to complain of," said Sche­doni, adroitly, and with a sudden calmness, that sur­prised Vivaldi. "If you directed them against the author of your injuries, whatever they may be, I am satisfied."

The chearful complacency, with which he spoke this, renewed the doubts of Vivaldi, who thought it nearly impossible that a man conscious of guilt could assume, under the very charge of it, the tranquil and dignified air which the confessor now displayed. He began to accuse himself of having condemned him with passionate rashness, and gradually became shock­ed at the indecorum of his conduct towards a man of Schedoni's age and sacred profession. Those expres­sions of countenance, which had so much alarmed him, he was now inclined to think the effects of a jealous and haughty honour, and he almost forgot the malig­nity, which had mingled with Schedoni's pride, in [Page 76] sorrow for the offence that had provoked it. Thus, not less precipitate in his pity than his anger, and cre­dulous alike to the passion of the moment, he was now as eager to apologize for his error, as he had been hasty in committing it. The frankness, with which he apologized and lamented the impropriety of his conduct would have won an easy forgiveness from a generous heart. Schedoni listened with apparent complacency and secret contempt. He regarded Vi­valdi as a rash boy, who was swayed only by his pas­sions; but while he suffered deep resentment for the evil in his character, he felt neither respect nor kind­ness for the good, for the sincerity, the love of justice, the generosity, which threw a brilliancy even on his foibles. Schedoni, indeed, saw only evil in human nature.

Had the heart of Vivaldi been less generous, he would now have distrusted the satisfaction, which the confessor assumed, and have discovered the contempt and malignity, that lurked behind the smile thus im­perfectly masking his countenance. The confessor perceived his power, and the character of Vivaldi lay before him as a map. He saw, or fancied he saw every line and feature of its plan, and the relative propor­tions of every energy and weakness of its nature. He believed, also, he could turn the very virtues of this young man against himself, and he exulted, even while the smile of good-will was yet upon his countenance, in anticipating the moment that should avenge him for the past outrage, and which, while Vivaldi was ingenuously lamenting it, he had apparantly for­gotten.

Schedoni was thus ruminating evil against Vivaldi, and Vivaldi was considering how he might possibly make Schedoni atonement for the affront he had offer­ed him, when the Marchesa returned to the apart­ment; and perceived in the honest countenance of [Page 77] Vivaldi some symptoms of the agitation which had passed over it; his complexion was flushed, and his brow was slightly contracted. The face of Schedoni told nothing but complacency, except that now and then when he looked at Vivaldi, it was with half shut eyes, that indicated treachery, or, at least, cunning, try­ing to conceal exasperated pride.

The Marchesa, with displeasure directed against her son, enquired the reason of his emotion; but he, stung with consciousness of his conduct towards the monk, could neither endure to explain it, or to remain in her presence, and saying that he would confide his honour to the discretion of the holy father, who would speak only too favourably of his fault, he abruptly left the room.

When he had departed, Schedoni gave, with seem­ing reluctance, the explanation which the Marchesa required, but was cautious not to speak too favourably of Vivaldi's conduct, which, on the contrary, he re­presented as much more insulting than it really was; and, while he aggravated the offensive part of it, he suppressed all mention of the candour and self-reproach, which had followed the charge. Yet this he managed so artfully that he appeared to extenuate Vivaldi's er­rors, to lament the hastiness of his temper, and to plead for a forgiveness from his irritated mother. "He is very young," added the monk, when he perceived that he had sufficiently exasperated the Marchesa against her son; "he is very young, and youth is warm in its passions and precipitate in its judgments. He was, besides, jealous, no doubt, of the friendship with which you are pleased to honour me; and it is natural that a son should be jealous of the attention of such a mother."

"You are too good, father," said the Marchesa; her resentment encreasing towards Vivaldi in propor­tion as Schedoni displayed his artificial candour and meekness.

[Page 78] "It is true," continued the confessor, "that I per­ceive all the inconveniences to which my attachment, I should say my duty, to your family exposes me; but I willingly submit to these, while it is yet possible that my advice may be a means of preserving the honour of your house unsullied, and of saving this inconsiderate young man from future misery and unavailing re­pentance."

During the warmth of this sympathy in resentment, the Marchesa and Schedoni mutually, and sincerely, lost their remembrance of the unworthy motives, by which each knew the other to be influenced, as well as that disgust which those who act together to the same bad end, can seldom escape from feeling towards their associates. The Marchesa, while she commend­ed the fidelity of Schedoni, forgot his views and her promises as to a rich benefice; while the confessor im­puted her anxiety for the splendor of her son's condi­tion to a real interest in his welfare, not a care of her own dignity. After mutual compliments had been exchanged, they proceeded to a long consultation con­cerning Vivaldi, and it was agreed, that their efforts for what they termed his preservation should no longer be confined to remonstrances.

CHAP. V.

VIVALDI, when his first feelings of pity and compunction for having insulted an aged man, the member of a sacred profession, were past, and when he looked with a more deliberate eye upon some circum­stances of the confessor's conduct, perceived that suspi­cion was again gathering on his mind. But, regard­ing this as a symptom of his own weakness, rather than as a hint of truth, he endeavoured, with a magnani­mous disdain, to reject every surmise that boded un­favourably of Schedoni.

When evening arrived, he hastened towards the villa Altieri, and, having met without the city, accord­ing to appointment, a physician, upon whose honour and judgment he thought he might rely, they proceed­ed on their way together. Vivaldi had forgotten, during the confusion of his last interview with Ellena, to deliver up the key of the garden-gate, and he now entered it as usual, though he could not entirely over­come the reluctance, which he felt on thus visiting, in secret and at night, the dwelling of Ellena. Un­der no other circumstances, however, could the physi­cian, whose opinion was so necessary to his peace, be introduced without betraying a suspicion, which must render her unhappy, probably for ever.

Beatrice, who had watched for them in the portico, led the way to the chamber where the corpse was laid out; and Vivaldi, though considerably affected when he entered, soon recovered composure enough to take his station on one side of the bed, while the physician placed himself on the other. Unwilling to expose his [Page 80] emotion to the observation of a servant, and desirous also of some private conversation with the physician, he took the lamp from Beatrice and dismissed her.—As the light glared upon the livid face of the corpse, Vivaldi gazed with melancholy surprise, and an effort of reason was necessary to convince him, that this was the same countenance which only one evening preced­ing was animated like his own; which had looked upon him in tears, while, with anxiety the most tender, she had committed the happiness of her niece to his care, and had, alas! too justly predicted her ap­proaching dissolution. The circumstances of that scene now appeared to him like a vision, and touched every fibre of his heart. He was fully sensible of the importance of the trust committed to him, and, as he now hung over the pale and deserted form of Bianchi, he silently renewed his solemn vows to Ellena, to de­serve the confidence of her departed guardian.

Before Vivaldi had courage enough to ask the opi­nion of the physician, who was still viewing the face of the deceased with very earnest attention and disap­proving countenance, his own suspicions strengthened from some circumstances of her appearance; and par­ticularly from the black tint that prevailed over her complexion, it seemed to him, that her death had been by poison. He seared to break a silence, which pro­longed his hope of the contrary, feeble though it was; and the physician, who probably was apprehensive for the consequence of delivering his real thoughts, did not speak.

" [...] read your opinion," said Vivaldi, at length, "it coincides with my own."

"I know not as to that, Signor," replied the phy­sician, "though I think I perceive what is yours. Appearances are unfavourable, yet I will not take up­on me to decide from them, that it is as you suspect. There are other circumstances, under which similar [Page 81] appearances might occur." He gave his reasons for this assertion, which were plausible even to Vivaldi, and concluded with requesting to speak with Beatrice, "for I wish to understand," said he, "what was the exact situation of this lady for some hours previous to her decease."

After a coversation of some length with Beatrice, whatever might be the opinion resulting from his en­quiries, he adhered nearly to his former assertions; pronouncing that so many contradictory circumstances appeared, as rendered it impossible for him to decide, whether Bianchi had died by poison, or otherwise. He stated more fully than he had done before the reasons which must render the opinion of any medical person, on this subject, doubtful. But, whether it was that he feared to be responsible for a decision, which would accuse some person of murder, or that he really was inclined to believe that Bianchi died naturally, it is certain he seemed disposed to adopt the latter opinion; and that he was very anxious to quiet the suspicions of Vivaldi. He so far succeeded, indeed, as to convince him that it would be unavailing to pursue the enquiry, and almost compelled him to believe, that she had de­parted according to the common course of nature.

Vivaldi, having lingered a while over the death-bed of Bianchi, and taken a last farewell of her silent form, quitted the chamber and the house as softly as he had approached, and unobserved, as he believed, by Ellena or any other person. The morning dawned over the sea, when he returned into the garden, and a few fish­ermen, loitering on the beach, or putting off their little boats from the shore, were the only persons visible at this early hour. The time, however, was passed for renewing the enquiry he had purposed at Paluzzi, and the brightening dawn warned him to retire. To Naples, therefore, he returned, with spirits somewhat [Page 82] soothed by a hope, that Bianchi had not fallen prema­turely, and by the certainty that Ellena was well. On the way thither, he passed the fort without interrup­tion, and, having parted with the physician, was ad­mitted into his father's mansion by a confidential servant.

CHAP. VI.

ELLENA, on thus suddenly losing her aunt, her only relative, the friend of her whole life, felt as if left alone in the world. But it was not in the first moment of affliction that this feeling occurred. Her own for­lorn situation was not even observed, while affection, pity, and irresistible grief for Bianchi, occupied her heart.

Bianchi was to be interred in the church belonging to the convent of Santa Maria della Pieta. The body attired according to the custom of the country, and decorated with flowers, was carried on an open bier to the place of interment, attended only by priests and torch-bearers. But Ellena could not endure thus lightly to part with the reliques of a beloved friend, and being restrained by custom from following the corpse to the grave, she repaired first to the convent, to attend the funeral service. Her sorrow did not al­low her to join in the choral symphonies of the nuns, but their sacred solemnity was soothing to her spirits, and the tears she shed while she listened to the length­ening notes, assuaged the force of grief.

When the service concluded she withdrew to the parlour of the lady Abbess, who mingled with her consolations many entreaties that Ellena would make the convent her present asylum; and her affliction re­quired little persuasion on this subject. It was her wish to retire hither as to a sanctuary, which was not only suitable to her particular circumstances, but espe­cially adapted to the present state of her spirits. Here [Page 84] she believed that she should sooner acquire resignation and regain tranquility, than in a place less consecrated to religion; and, before she took leave of the Abbess it was agreed, that she should be received as a boarder. To acquaint Vivaldi with her intention was, indeed, her chief motive for returning to the villa Altieri, after this her resolution had been taken. Her affection and esteem had been gradual in their progress, and had now attained a degree of strength, which promised to de­cide the happiness or misery of her whole life. The fanction given by her aunt to this choice, and particu­larly the very solemn manner in which, on the even­ing preceding her death, she bequeathed Ellena to his care, had still endeared him to her heart, and imparted a sacredness to the engagement, which made her con­sider Vivaldi as her guardian and only surviving pro­tector. The more tenderly she lamented her deceased relative, the more tenderly she thought of Vivaldi; and her love for the one was so intimately connected with her affection for the other, that each seemed strengthened and exalted by the union.

When the funeral was over, they met at Altieri.

He was neither surprised nor averse to her with­drawing awhile to a convert; for there was a propri­ety in retiring, during the period of her grief, from▪ home where she had no longer a guardian, which de­licacy seemed to demand. He only stipulated that [...] might be permitted to visit her in the parlour of the convent, and to claim, when decorum should no longer object to it, the hand which Bianchi had resigned to him.

Notwithstanding that he yielded to this arrange­ment without complaining, it was not entirely without repining; but being assured by Ellena of the worthi­ness of the Abbess of the Santa Maria della Pieta, [...] endeavoured [...] silence the secret murmurs of his heart with the [...] of his judgment.

[Page 85] Mean while, the deep impression made by his un­known tormentor, the monk, and especially by his pre­diction of the death of Bianchi, remained upon his mind, and he once more determined to ascertain, if pos­sible, the true nature of this portentous visitant, and what were the motives which induced him to haunt his footsteps and interrupt his peace. He was awed by the circumstances which had attended the visitations of the monk, if monk it was; by the suddenness of his appearance, and departure; by the truth of his pro­phecies; and, above all, by the solemn event which had verified his last warning; and his imagination, thus elevated by wonder and painful curiosity, was prepar­ed for something above the reach of common conjec­ture, and beyond the accomplishment of human agen­cy. His understanding was▪ sufficiently clear and strong to teach him to detect many errors of opinion, that prevailed around him, as well as to dispise the common superstitions of his country, and, in the usual state of his mind, he probably would not have paused for a moment on the subject before him; but his pas­sions were now interested and his fancy awakened, and, though he was unconscious of this propensity, he would, perhaps, have been somewhat disappointed to have descended suddenly from the region of fearful sublimity, to which he had soared—to the world of terrible shadows—to the earth, on which he daily walked, and to an explanation simply natural.

He designed to visit again, at midnight, the fortress of Paluzzi, and not to watch for the appearance of the stranger, but to carry torches into every recess of the ruin, and discover, at least, whether it was haunted by any other human beings than himself. The chief difficul­ty which had hitherto delayed him, was that of finding a person, in whom he could confide, to accompany him in the search, since his former adventure had warned him never to renew it alone. Signor Bonarmo per­sisted [Page 86] absolutely, and, perhaps, wisely, to refuse his request on this subject; and, as Vivaldi had no other acquaintance, to whom he chose to give so much ex­planation of the affair as might induce compliance, he at length determined to take with him Paulo, his own servant.

On the Evening, previous to the day of Ellena's departure to the Santo della Pieta, Vivaldi went to Altieri, to bid her adieu. During this interview his spirits were more than usually depressed; and, though he knew that her retirement was only for a short period, and had as much confidence in the con­tinuance of her affection, as is, perhaps, possible to a lover, Vivaldi felt as if he was parting with her for ever. A thousand vague and fearful conjectures, such as he never till this moment admitted, assailed him, and amongst them, it appeared probable, that the arts of the nuns might win her from the world, and sacri­fice her to the cloister. In her present state of sorrow this seemed to be even more than probable, and not all the assurances which Ellena gave him, and in these parting moments she spoke with less reserve than she had hitherto done, could entirely re-assure his mind. "It should seem, Ellena, by these boding fears," said he, imprudently, "that I am parting with you for e­ver; I feel a weight upon my heart, which I cannot throw off. Yet I consent that you shall withdraw awhile to this convent, convinced of the propriety of the step; and I ought, also, to know that you will soon return; that I shall soon take you from its walls as my wife, never more to leave me, never more to pass from my immediate care and tenderness. I ought to feel assured of all this; yet so apt are my fears, that I cannot confide in what is probable, but rather ap­prehend what is possible. And is it then possible that I yet may lose you, and is it only probable that you may be mine for ever? How under such circumstan­ces, [Page 87] could I weakly consent to your retirement? Why did I not urge you to bestow immediately those in­dissoluble bonds, which no human force can burst asun­der? How could I leave the destiny of all my peace within the reach of a possibility, which it was once in my power to have removed! Which it was in my power!—It is, perhaps, still in my power. O Elle­na! let the severities of custom yield to the security of my happiness. If you do go to the Santa Maria, let it be only to visit its altar!"

Vivaldi delivered this expostulation with a rapidity, that left no pause for Ellena to interrupt him. When, at length, he concluded, she gently reproached him for doubting the continuance of her regard, and endea­voured to sooth his apprehensions of misforune, but would not listen to his request. She represented, that not only the state of her spirits required retire­ment, but that respect to the memory of her aunt de­manded it; and added gravely, that if he had so little confidence in the steadiness of her opinions, as to doubt the constancy of her affection, and for so short a peri­od, unless her vows were secured to him, he had done imprudently to elect her for the companion of his whole life.

Vivaldi, then ashamed of the weakness he had be­trayed, besought her forgiveness, and endeavoured to appease apprehensions which passion only made plau­sible, and which reason reproved; notwithstanding which, he could recover neither tranquility nor con­fidence; nor could Ellena, though her conduct was supported and encouraged by justness of sentiment, en­tirely remove the oppression of spirits she had felt from almost the first moment of this interview. They parted with many tears; and Vivaldi, before he final­ly took his leave, frequently returned to claim some promise, or to ascertain some explanation, till Ellena remarked with a forced smile, that the seresembled e­ternal [Page 88] adieus, rather than those of only a few days; an observation which renewed all his alarm, and furnished an excuse for again delaying his departure. At length he tore himself away, and left the villa Altieri; but as the time was yet too early to suit his purposed en­quiry at Paluzzi, he returned to Naples.

Ellena, meanwhile, endeavouring to dissipate me­lancholy recollections by employment, continued bu­sied in preparation for her departure on the following day, till a late hour of the night. In the prospect of quitting, though only for so short a period, the home where she had passed almost every day since the dawn of her earliest remembrance, there was something mel­ancholy, if not solemn in leaving those well-known scenes, where, it might be said, the shade of her de­ceased relative seemed yet to linger, she was quitting all vestige of her late happiness, all note of former years and present consolation; and she felt as if going forth into a new and homeless world. Her affection for the place encreased as the passing time diminished, and it seemed as if the last moment of her stay would be precisely that, in which the villa Altieri would be most valued.

In her favourite apartments she lingered for a con­siderable time; and in the room where she had supped on the night immediately preceding the death of Sig­nora Bianchi, she indulged many [...]ender and mournful recollections, and probably would have continued to indulge them much longer, had not her attention been withdrawn by a sudden rustling of the foliage that sur­rounded the window, when on raising her eyes, she thought she perceived some person pass quickly before it. The lattices had, as usual, been left open to admit the fresh breeze from the bay below, but she now rose with some alarm to close them, and had scarcely done so when she heard a distant knocking from the portico, [Page 89] and in the next instant the screams of Beatrice in the hall.

Alarmed for herself, Ellena, had, however, the cou­rage to advance to the assistance of her old servant, when, on entering the passage leading to the hall, three men, masked and muffled up in cloaks, appeared, ad­vancing from the opposite extremity. While she fled, they pursued her to the apartment she had quit­ted. Her breath and her courage were gone, yet she struggled to sustain herself, and endeavoured to ask with calmness what was their errand. They gave no reply, but threw a veil over her face, and seizing her arms, led her almost unresisting but supplicating, to­wards the portico.

In the hall, Ellena perceived Beatrice bound to a pillar; and another ruffian, who was also masked, watching over and menacing her, not by words but gestures. Ellena's shrieks seemed to recall the almost lifeless Beatrice, for whom she supplicated as much as for herself; but entreaty was alike unavailing for each, and Ellena was borne from the house and through the garden. All consciousness had now forsaken her. On recovering, she perceived herself in a carriage which was driven with great rapidity, and that her arms were within the grasp of some persons, whom, when her recollection returned more fully, she believ­ed to be the men, who had carried her from the villa. The darkness prevented her from observing their fi­gures, and to all her questions and entreaties a death­like silence was observed.

During the whole night the carriage proceeded ra­pidly, stopping only while the ho [...]ses were changed, when Ellena endeavoured to interest by her cries the compassion of the people at the post-houses, and by her cries only, for the blinds were closely drawn. The postillions, no doubt imposed on the credulity of these people, for they were insensible to her distress, and her [Page 90] immediate companions soon overcame the only means that had remained by which she could make it known.

For the first hours, a tumult of terror and amaze­ment occupied her mind, but, as this began to subside, and her understanding to recover its clearness, grief and despondency mingled with her fears. She saw herself separated from Vivaldi, probably for ever, for she apprehended that the strong and invisible hand which governed her course, would never relinquish its grasp till it had placed her irrecoverably beyond the reach of her lover. A conviction that she should see him no more, came, at intervals with such over­whelming force, that every consideration and emoti­on disappeared before it; and at these moments she lost all anxiety as to the place of her destination, and all fear as to her personal safety.

As the morning advanced and the heat encreased, the blinds were let down a little to admit air, and El­lena then perceived, that only two of the men, who had appeared at the villa Altieri, were in the carriage, and that they were still disguised in cloaks and visors. She had no means of judging through what part of the country she was travelling, for above the small open­ings which the blinds left she could see only the tower­ing tops of mountains, or sometimes the veiny preci­pices and tangled thickets, that closely impended over the road,

About noon, as she judged from the excessive heat, the carriage stopped at a post-house, and ice-water was handed through the window, when, as the blind was lowered to admit it, she perceived herself on a wild and solatary plain, surrounded by mountains and woods. The people at the door of the post-house seemed "unused to pity or be pitied." The lean and sallow countenance of poverty stared over their gaunt bones, and habitual discontent had fixed the furrows of their cheeks. They regarded Ellena with only a [Page 91] feeble curiosity, though the affliction in her looks might have interested almost any heart that was not corroded by its own sufferings; nor did the masked faces of her companions excite a much stronger atten­tion.

Ellena accepted the cool refreshment offered her, the first she had taken on the road. Her companions having emptied their glasses drew up the blind, and, notwithstanding the almost intolerable heat of noon, the carriage proceeded. Fainting under its oppression, Ellena entreated that the windows might he open, when the men, in compliance with their own necessity rather than with her request, lowered the blinds, and she had a glimpse of the lofty region of the mountains, but of no object that could direct her conjecture con­cerning where she was. She saw only pinnacles and vast precipices of various-tinted marbles, intermingled with scanty vegetation, such as stunted pinasters, dwarf oak and holly, which gave dark touches to the many-coloured cliffs, and sometimes stretched in sha­dowy masses to the deep vallies, that, winding into ob­scurity, seemed to invite curiosity to explore the scenes beyond. Below these bold precipices extended the gloomy regions of olive-trees, and lower still other rocky steeps sunk towards the plains, bearing terra­ces crowned with vines, and were often the artificial soil was propped by thickets of juniper, pomegranates and oleander.

Ellena, after having been so long shut in darkness, and brooding over her own alarming circumstances found temporary, though feeble, relief in once more looking upon the face of nature; till, her spirits be­ing gradually revived and elevated by the grandeur of the images around her, she said to herself, "If I am condemned to misery, surely I could endure it with more fortitude it scenes like these, than amidst the ta­mer landscapes of nature! Here, the objects seem to [Page 92] impart somewhat of their own sublimity, to the soul. It is scarcely possible to yield to the pressure of mis­fortunes while we walk, as with the Deity, amidst his most stupendous works!"

But soon after the idea of Vivaldi glancing athwart her memory, she melted into tears; the weakness however was momentary, and during the rest of the journey she preserved a strenuous equality of mind.

It was when the heat and the light were declining that the carriage entered a rocky defile, which shewed, as through a tellescope reversed distant plains, and moun­tains opening beyond, lighted up with all the purple splendor of the setting sun. Along this deep and sha­dowy perspective a river, which was seen descending among the cliffs of a mountain, rolled with impetuous force, fretting and foaming amidst the dark rocks in its descent, and then flowing in a limpid lapse to the brink of other precipices, whence again it fell with thundering strength to the abyss, throwing its misty clouds of spray high in the air, and seeming to claim the sole empire of this solitary wild. Its bed took up the whole breadth of the chasm, which some strong convulsion of the earth seemed to have formed, not leaving space even for a road along its margin. The road, therefore, was carried high among the cliffs, that impended over the river, and seemed as if suspend­ed in the air; while the gloom and vastness of the precipices, which towered above and sunk below it, together with the amazing force and uproar of the falling waters combined to render the pass more terri­fic than the pencil could describe, or language can ex­press. Ellena ascended it, not with indifference but with calmness; she experienced somewhat of a dread­ful pleasure in looking down upon the irresistible flood; but this emotion was heightened into awe, when she perceived that the road led to a slight bridge, [Page 93] which, thrown across the chasm at an immense height, united two opposite cliffs, between which the whole cataract of the river descended. The bridge, which was defended only by a slender railing, appeared as if hung amidst the clouds. Ellena, while she was cros­sing it, almost forgot her misfortunes. Having reach­ed the opposite side of the glen, the road gradually descended the precipices for about half a mile, when it opened to extensive prospects over plains and towards distant mountains—the sunshine landscape, which had long appeared to bound this shadowy pass. The tran­sition was as the passage through the vale of death to the bliss of eternity; but the idea of its resemblance did not long remain with Ellena. Perched high a­mong the cliffs of a mountain, which might be said to terminate one of the jaws of this terific gorge, and which was one of the loftiest of a chain that surround­ed the plains, appeared the spires and long terraces of a monastry; and she soon understood that her journey was to conclude there,

At the foot of this mountain her companions alight­ed, and obliged her to do the same, for the ascent was too steep and irregular to admit of a carriage. El­lena followed unresistingly, like a lamb to the sacri­fice, up a path that wound among the rocks, and was coolly over-shadowed by thickets of almond trees, figs broad-leaved myrtle, and ever-green rose bushes, in­termingled with the strawberry tree, beautiful in fruit and blossoms, the yellow jasemine, the delightful aca­cia mimosa, and a variety of other fragrant plants. These bowers frequently admitted glimpses of the glowing country below, and sometimes opened to ex­pansive views bounded by the snowy mountains of Abruzzo. At every step were objects which would have afforded pleasure to a tranquil mind; the beau­tifully varigated marbles, that formed the cliffs imme­diately above, their fractured masses embossed with [Page 94] mosses and flowers of every vivid hue that paints the rainbow; the elegance of the shrubs that tufted, and the majestic grace of the palms which waved over them would have charmed almost any other eye than Elle­na's, whose spirit was rapt in care or than those of her companions, whose hearts were dead to feeling. Par­tial features of the vast edifice she was approaching, appeared now and then between the trees; the tall west window of the cathedral with the spires that over­topped it; the narrow pointed roofs of the cloisters; angles of the insurmountable walls, which fenced the garden from the precipices below, and the dark portal leading into the chief court; each of these, seen at in­tervals beneath the gloom of cypress and spreading cedar, seemed as if manacing the unhappy Ellena with hints of future suffering. She past several shrines and images half hid among the shrubs and the cliffs; and, when she drew near the monastery, her companions stopped at a little chapel which stood beside the path, where, after examining some papers, an act which she observed with surprise, they drew aside, as if to con­sult respecting herself. Their conversation was de­livered in voices so low, that she could not catch a single tone distinctly, and it is probable that if she could, this would not have assisted her in conjecturing who they were; yet the pro [...]ound silence they had hi­therto observed had much encreased her curiosity, now that they spoke.

One of them soon after quitted the chapel, and pro­ceeded alone to the monastery, leaving Ellena in the custody of his comrade, whose pity she now made a last, though almost hopeless, effort to interest. He re­plied to all her entreaties only by a waving of the hand and an averted face; and she endeavoured to meet with fortitude and to endure with patience, the evil which she could neither avoid nor subdue. The spot where she awaited the return of the ruffian, was not of a cha­racter [Page 95] to promote melancholy, except, indeed, that lux­urious solemn kind of melancholy, which a view of stupendous objects inspires. It overlooked the whole, extent of plains, of which she had before caught partia scenes, with the vast chain of mountains, which seem­ed to form an insurmountable rampart to the rich land­scape at their feet. There towering and fantastical sum­mits, crowding together into dusky air, like flames ta­pering to apoint, exhibited images of peculiar grandeur, which each minuter line and feature withdrawing, at this evening hour from observation, seemed to resolve itself into the more gigantic masses, to which the du­bious tint, the solemn obscurity, that began to pre­vail over them, gave force and loftier character. The silence and deep repose of the landscape, served to im­press this character more awfully on the heart, and while Ellena sat rapt in the thoughtfulness it promoted, the vesper-service of the monks breathing softly from the cathedral above, came to her ear; it was a music which might be said to win on silence, and was in per­fect unison with her feelings; solemn, deep, and full, it swelled in holy peals, and rolled away in murmurs, which attention pursued to the last faint note that melted into air. Ellena's heart owned the power of its high minstrelsy; and while she caught for a mo­ment the sweeter voices of the nuns mingling in the chorus, she iudulged a hope that they would not be wholly insensible to her sufferings, and that she should receive some consolation from sympathy as [...]oft as these tender-breathing strains appeared to indicate.

She had rested nearly half an hour on the turfy slope before the chapel, when she perceived thro' the twi­light, two monks descending from the monastery to­wards the spot where she sat. As they drew near, she distinguished their dress of grey stuff, the hood, the shaven head, where only a coronet of white hair was left, and other ensigns of their particular Order. On [Page 96] reaching the chapel they accosted her companion, with whom they retired a few paces, and conversed. El­lena heard, for the first time the sound of her con­ductor's voice, and though this was but faintly, she marked it well. The other ruffian did not appear, but it seemed evident that these friars had left the con­vent in consequence of his information; and some­times when she looked upon the taller of the two, she fancied she saw the person of the very man whose ab­sence she had remarked, a conjecture which strength­ened while she more accurately noticed him. The portrait had certainly much resemblance in height and bulk; and the same gaunt awkwardness, which even the cloak of the ruffian had not entirely shrouded, ob­truded itself from under the folded garments of the re­cluse. If countenance, too, might be trusted, this same friar had a ruffian's heart, and his keen and cun­ning eye seemed habitually upon the watch for prey. His brother of the order shewed nothing strongly characteristic either in his face or manner.

After a private conversation of some length, the fri­ars approached Ellena, and told her, that she must accompany them to the convent; when her disguised conductor, having resigned her to them, immediately departed and descended the mountain.

Not a word was uttered by either of the party as they pursued the deep tract leading to the gates of this se­cluded edifice, which were opened to them by a lay-brother, and Ellena entered a spacious court. Three sides of this were closed by lofty buildings, lined with ranges of cloisters; the fourth opened to a garden, shaded with avenues of melancholy cypress, that ex­tended to the cathedral, whose fretted windows and ornamented spires appeared to close the perspective. Other large and detached buildings skirted the gar­dens on the left, while, on the right, spacious olive grounds and vineyards spread to the cliffs that formed [Page 97] a barrier to all this side of the domain of the convent.

The friar, her conductor, crossed the court to the north wing, and there ringing a bell a door was open­ed by a nun, into whose hands Ellena was giv­en. A significant look was exchanged between the devotees, but no words; the friar departed, and the nun, still silent, conducted her through many solitary passages, where not even a distant foot-fall echoed, and whose walls were roughly painted with subjects indicatory of the severe superstitions of the place, tend­ing to inspire melancholy awe. Ellena's hope of pi­ty vanished as her eyes glanced over these symbols of the disposition of the inhabitants, and on the counte­nance of the nun characterised by a gloomy malignity, which seemed ready to inflict upon others some porti­on of the unhappiness she herself suffered. As she glided forward with soundless step, her white drapery, floating along these solemn avenues, and her hollow features touched with the mingled light and shadow which the partial rays of a taper she held occasioned, she seemed like a spectre newly risen from the grave, rather than a living being. These passages ter­minated in the parlour of the Abbess, where the nun paused, and turning to Ellena, said, "It is the hour of vespers; you will wait here till our lady of the con­vent leaves▪ the church; she would speak with you."

"To what saint is the convent dedicated," said El­lena, "and who, sister, presides over it?

The nun gave no reply, and after having eyed the forlorn stranger for a moment, with inquisitive ill-nature, quitted the room. The unhappy Ellena had not been le [...]t long to her own reflections, when the Abbess appeared; a stately lady, apparently occu­pied with opinions of her own importance, and pre­pared to receive her guest with rigour and supercilious haughtiness. This Abbess, who was herself a wo­man of some distinction, believed that of all possible [Page 98] crimes, next to that of sacrilege, offences against per­sons of rank were least pardonable. It is not surpri­sing, therefore, that supposing, Ellena a young wo­man of no family, to have sought clandestinely to u­nite herself with the noble house of Vivaldi, should feel for her, not only disdain, but indignation, and that she should readily consent, not only to punish the offender, but at the same time, to afford means of pre­serving the ancient dignity of the offended.

"I understand," said the Abbess, on whose appear­ance the alarmed Ellena had arisen, "I understand," said she, without making any signal for her to be seat­ed, "that you are the young person who is arrived from Naples,"

"My name is Ellena di Rosalba," said her auditor, recovering some degree of courage from the manner which was designed to depress her.

"I know nothing of your name," replied the supe­rior; "I am informed only that you are sent here to acquire a knowledge of yourself and of your duties. Till the period shall be passed, for which you are given into my charge, I shall scrupulously observe the obli­gations of the troublesome office, which my regard for the honor of a noble family, has induced me to un­dertake."

By these words, the author and the motives of this extraordinary transaction were at once revealed to El­lena, who was for some moments almost overwhelmed by the sudden horrors that gathered in her mind, and stood silent and motionless. Fear, shame, indignati­on, alternately assailed her; and the sting of offended honor, on being suspected, and thus accused of having voluntarily disturbed the tranquility, and sought the alliance of any family, and especially of one who dis­dained her, struck forcibly to her heart, till the pride of conscious worth revived her courage and fortified her [...] and she demanded by whose will she had [Page 99] been torn from her house, and by whose authority she was now detained, as it appeared, a prisoner.

The Abbess, unaccustomed to have her power op­posed, or her words questioned, was for a moment too indignant to reply; and Ellena observed, but no long­er with dismay, the brooding tempest ready to burst over her head. "It is I only who am injured," said she to herself, "and shall the guilty oppressor triumph, and the innocent sufferer sink under the shame that belongs only to guilt! Never will I yield to a weak­ness so contemptible. The consciousness of deserving well, will recall my presence of mind, which permit­ting me to estimate the characters of my oppressors by their actions, will enable me also to dispise their power."

"I must remind you," said the Abbess, at length, "that the questions you make are unbecoming in your situation; and that contrition and humility are the best extenuations of error. You may withdraw."

"Most true," replied Ellena, bowing with digni­ty to the Superior; "and I most willingly resign them to my oppressors."

Ellena forebore to make further▪ enquiry or remon­strance, and perceiving that reproach would not only be useless, but degrading to herself, she immediately obeyed the ma [...]ate of the Abbess, and determined since she must suffer, to suffer if possible, with firm­ness and dignity.

She was conducted from the parlour by the nun who had admitted her, and as she passed through the refactory where the nuns, just returned from vespers, were assembled, their inquisitive glances, their smiles and busy whispers, told her, that she was not only an object of curiosity, but of suspicion, and that little sym­pathy could be expected from hearts, which even the offices of hourly devotion had not purified from the [Page 100] malignant envy, that taught them to exalt themselves upon the humiliation of others.

The little room to which Ellena was led, and where, to her great satisfaction, she was left alone, ra­ther deserved the denomination of a cell than of a chamber; since, like those of the nuns, it had only one small lattice; and a mattress, one chair, and a ta­ble, with a prayer-book were all its furniture. Elle­na, as she surveyed her melancholy habitation, sup­pressed a rising sigh, but she could not remain unaf­fected by recollections, which, on this view of her al­tered state, crowded to her mind: nor think of Vival­di far away, perhaps for ever, and probably, even ig­norant of her distination, without bitter tears. But she dried them, as the idea of the Marchesa obtruded on her thoughts, for other emotions than those of grief possessed her. It was to the Marchesa that she especially attributed her present situation; and it now appeared that the family of Vivaldi had not only been reluctant, but absolutely averse to a connection with hers, contrary to the suggestions of Signora Bianchi, who had represented, that it might be supposed only, from their known character, that they would disap­prove of the alliance, but would of course be reconcil­ed to an event, which their haughtiest displeasure ne­ver could revoke. This discovery of their absolute rejection awakened all the proper pride, which the mistaken prudence of her aunt, and her affection for Vivaldi had lulled to rest; and she now suffered the most acute vexation and remorse, for having yielded her consent to enter clandestinely into any family. The imaginary honors of so noble an alliance vanish­ed, when the terms of obtaining them were consider­ed; and now, that the sound mind of Ellena was left to its own judgment, she looked with infinitely more pride and preference upon the industrious means, [Page 101] which had hitherto rendered her independent, than on all distinction which might be reluctantly conferred. The consciousness of innocence, which had supported her in the presence of the Superior, began to falter. "Her accusation was partly just!" said Ellena, "and I deserve punishment, since I could even for a mo­ment, submit to the humiliation of desiring an alli­ance, which I knew would be unwillingly conferred. But it is not yet too late to retrieve my own esteem by asserting my independence, and resigning Vivaldi for ever. By resigning him! by abandoning him who loves me,—abandoning him to misery! Him, whom I cannot even think of without tears,—to whom my vows have been given,—who may claim me by the sacred remembrance of my dying friend,—him, to whom my whole heart is devoted! O! miserable al­ternative!—that I can no longer act justly, but at the expence of all my future happiness! Justly! And would it then be just to abandon him who is willing to resign every thing for me,—abandon him to cease­less sorrow, that the prejudices of his family may be gratified?"

Poor Ellena perceived that she could not obey the dictates of a just pride, without such opposition from her heart as she had never experienced before. Her affections were now too deeply engaged to permit her to act with firmness, at the price of long-suffering. The consideration of resigning Vivaldi was so very grievous, that she could scarcely endure to pause up­on it for a moment; yet, on the other hand, when she thought of his family, it appeared that she never could consent to make a part of it. She would have blamed the eroneous judgment of Signora Bianchi, whose persuasions had so much assisted in reducing her to the present alternative, had not the tenderness with which she cherished her memory, rendered this impossible. All, that now remained for her, was to endeavour pa­tiently [Page 102] to endure present evils which she could not conquer; for, to forsake Vivaldi as the price of liber­ty, should liberty be offered her on such terms, or to accept him in defiance of honorable pride, should he ever affect her release, appeared to her distracted thoughts almost equally impracticable But, as the probability of never being able to discover her abode, returned to her consideration, the anguish she suffered told how much more she dreaded to lose then to accept Vivaldi, and that love was, after all, the most power­ful affection of her heart.

CHAP. VII

VIVALDI, meanwhile, ignorant of what had oc­curred at the villa Altieri, repaired as he had proposed to Paluzzi, attended hy his servant Paulo. It was deep night before he left Naples, and so anxious was he to conceal himself from observation, that though Paulo carried a torch, he did not permit it to be lighted, till after he should have remained some time within the arch-way, thinking it most prudent to watch awhile in secret for his unknown adviser, before he proceeded to examine the fort.

His attendant, Paulo, was a true Neapolitian, shrewd, inquisitive, insinuating, adroit; possessing much of the spirit of intrigue, together with a considerable portion of humour, which displayed itself not so much in words, as in his manner and countenance, in the archness of his dark, penetrating eye, and in the exquisite adapta­tion of his gesture to his idea. He was a distinguished favourite of his master, who, if he had not humour him­self, had a keen relish for it in others, and who certain­ly did possess wit, with all its lively accompaniments, in an eminent degree. Vivaldi had been won by the naivete and humour of this man, to allow him an unu­sual degree of familiarity in conversation; and, as they now walked together towards Paluzzi, he unfolded to Paulo as much of his former adventure there as he judged necessary to interest his curiosity and excite his vigilance. The relation did both. Paulo, however, naturally courageous, was [...]ncredulous to superstition of any kind; and having quickly perceived that his master was not altogether indisposed to attribute to a superna­tural cause the extraordinary occurrences at paluzzi, he [Page 104] began, in his manner, to rally him; but Vivaldi was not in temper to endure jesting; his mood was grave, even to solemnity, and he yeilded, though reluctantly, to the awe which, at intervails, returned upon him with the force of a magical spell, binding up all his fa­culties to sternness, and fixing them in expectation. While he was nearly regardless of defence against hu­man agency, his servant was, however, preparing for that alone; and very properly represented the impru­dence of going to Paluzzi in darkness. Vivaldi ob­served that they could not watch for the monk other­wise than in darkness. since the torch which lighted them would also warn him, and he had very particular reasons for watching before he proceeded to examine. He added, that after a certain time had elapsed, the torch might be lighted at a neighbouring cottage. Paulo objected, that in the meanwhile, the person for whom they watched might escape; and Vivaldi com­promised the affair. The torch was lighted but con­cealed within a hollow of the cliffs, that bordered on the road, and the centinels took their station in dark­ness, within the deep arch, near the spot where Vival­di had watched with Bonarmo. As they did this, the distant chime of a convent informed Vivaldi that mid­night was turned. The sound recalled to his mind the the words of [...], concerning the vicinity of the convent of the Black Penitents, to Paluzzi, and he as­ked Paulo whether this was the chime of that convent. Paulo replied that it was, and that a remarkable cir­cumstance had taught him to remember the Santa del Pianto, or our Lady of Tears. "The place, Signor, would interest you," said Paulo for there are some-odd stories told of it; and I am inclined [...]o think, this un­known monk must be one of that society, his conduct is so strange."

"You believe then, that I am willing to give faith to wonderful stories," said Vivaldi, smiling.

"But what have you heard, that is so extraordinary, [Page 105] respecting this convent? Speak low, or we may be dis­covered."

"Why, Signor, the story is not generally known," said Paulo in a whisper; "I half promised never to re­veal it."

"If you are under any promise of secresy," interrup­ed Vivaldi, "I forbid you to tell this wonderful tale, which, however, seems somewhat too bad to rest with­in your brain."

"The story would fain expand itself to your's Sig­nor," said Paulo; "and, as I did not absolutely pro­mise to conceal it, I am very willing to reveal it."

"Proceed, then," said Vivaldi; "but l [...]t me once more caution you to speak low."

"You are obeyed, Signor. You must know then, Maestro, that it was on the eve of the festival of San­to Marco and about six years since."—

"Peace!" said Vivaldi. They were silent; but every thing remaining still, Paulo, after some time ventured to proceed, though in a yet slower whisper. "It was on the eve of the Santo Marco, and when the last bell had rung, that a person"—He stopped again, for a rustling sound passed near him.

"You are too late," said a sudden voice beside Vivaldi, who instantly recognized the thrilling accents of the monk.—"It is past midnight; she departed an hour ago. Look to your steps!"

Though thrilled by this well known voice, Vivaldi scarcely yielded to his feelings for a moment, but, chec­ing the question which would have asked "who de­parted?" he, by a sudden spring, endeavoured to sieze the intruder, while Paulo, in the first hurry of his alarm fired a pistol, and then hastened for the torch. So cer­tainly did Vivaldi beleive himself to have leaped upon the spot whence the voice proceeded, that, on reaching it, he instantly extended his arms and searching around expected every moment to find his enemy in his grasp.

Darkness again bafled his attempt▪

[Page 106] "You are known," cried Vivaldi; "you shall see me at the Santa del Pianto! What, oh! Paulo, the torch!—the torch!"

Paulo, swift as the wind, appeared with it. "He passed up those steps in the rock, Signor; I saw the skirts of his garments ascending!"

"Follow me, then," said Vivaldi, mounting the steps. "Away, away, Maestro!" said Paulo, impa­tiently; "but for Heaven's sake, name no more the convent of the Santa del Pianto; our lives may an­swer it!"

He followed to the terrace above, where Vivaldi, holding high the torch, looked round for the monk. The place, however, as far as his eye could penetrate, was forsaken and silent. The glare of the torch en­lightened only the rude walls of the citadel, some points of the cliff below, and some tall pines that waved over them, leaving in doubtful gloom many a rec [...]ss of the ruin, and many a tangled thicket, that spread a­mong the rocks beyond.

"Do you perceive any person, Paulo?" said Vival di, waving the torch in the air to rouse the flame.

"Among those arches on the left, Signor, those arches that stand duskily beyond the citadel, I thought I saw a shadowy sort of a figure pass. He might be a ghost, by his silence, for aught I know, Maestro; but he seems to have a good mor [...] instinct in taking care of himself, and to have as swift a pair of heels to assist in carrying him off, as any Lazaro in Naples need desire

"Fewer words, and more caution!" said Vivaldi, lowering the torch, and pointing it towards the quar­ter which Paulo had mentioned, "Be vigilant, and tread lightly."

"You are obeyed, Signor; but their eyes will in­form them, though their ears refuse, while we hold a light to our steps."

[Page 107] "Peace, with this buffoonery!" said Vivaldi, some­what sternly; "follow in silence, and be on your guard."

Paulo submitted and they proceeded towards the range of arches; which communicated with the build­ing, whose singular structure had formerly arrested the attention of Bonarmo, and whence Vivaldi himself had returned with such unexpected precipitancy and con­sternation.

On perceiving the place he was approaching, he suddenly stopped and Paulo, observing his agitation, and probably not relishing the adventure, endeavoured to dissuade him from further research: "For we know not who may inhabit this gloomy place, Signor, or their numbers, and we are only two of us after all. Be­sides, Signor, it was through that door, yonder;" and he pointed to the very spot whence Vivaldi had so fear­fully issued; "through that door, that I fancied just now, I saw something pass."

"Are you certain as to this?" said Vivaldi, with encreased emotion. "What was its form?"

"It was so dusky thereabout, Maestro, that I could not distinguish."

Vivaldi's eyes were fixed upon the building, and a vi­olent conflict of feelings seemed to shake his soul. A few seconds decided it. "I will go on," said he, "and terminate, at any hazard, this state of intolerable anx­iety. Paulo, pause a moment, and consider well, whe­ther you can depend on your courage, for it may be severely tried. If you can descend with me in silence, and I warn you to be wary; if you cannot, I will go alone."

"It is too late now, Signor, to ask myself that ques­tion," replied Paulo, with a submissive air; "and if I had not settled it long ago, I should not have follow­ed you thus far. My courage, Signor, you never doubted before."

[Page 108] "Come on then," said Vivaldi. He drew his sword, and entering the narrow door-way, the torch, which he had now resigned to Paulo, shewed a stone passage, that was, however, interminable to the eye.

As they proceeded, Paulo observed that the walls were stained in several places with what appeared to be blood, but prudently forbore to point out this to his master, observing the strict injunction of silence he had received.

Vivaldi stepped cautiously, and often paused to list­en, after which he went on with a quicker pace, mak­ing signs only to Paulo to follow, and be vigilant.—The passage terminated in a staircase, that seemed to lead to vaults below. Vivaldi remembered the light which had formerly appeared there, and, as recollection of the past gathered on his mind, he faultered in his purpose.

Again he paused, looked back upon Paulo, but was going forward, when Paulo himself seized his arm.—"Stop! Signor," said he in a low voice. "Do you not distinguish a figure standing yonder in the gloom?"

Vivaldi looked onward, and perceived indistinctly, something as of human form, but motionless and silent.

It stood at the dusky extremity of the avenue, near the stair-case. Its garments, if garments they were, were dark; but its whole figure was so saintly traced to the eye, that it was impossible to ascertain whether this was the monk. Vivaldi took the light, and held it forward, endeavouring to distinguish the object be­fore he ventured further; but the enquiry was useless, and resigning the torch to Paulo, he rushed on. When he reached the head of the stair-case, however, the form, whatever it might be, was gone. Vivaldi had heard no [...]oo [...]t [...]p. Paulo pointed out the exact spot where it had [...]ood, but no vestige of it appeared. Vivaldi called loudly upon the monk, but he heard only the lengthening echoes of his own voice revolving a­mong [Page 109] the chambers below; and, after hesitating a while on the head of the stairs, he descended.

Paulo had not followed down many steps, when he called out, "It is there! Signor; I see it again! and now again! and now it flits away through the door that opens to the vaults!"

Vivaldi pursued so swiftly, that Paulo could scarce­ly follow fast enough with the light; and, as at length he rested to take breath, he perceived himself in the same spacious chamber to which he had formerly de­scended. At this moment Paulo perceived his counte­nance change. "You are ill, Signor," said he, "In the name of our holy Saint, let us quit this hideous place. Its inhabitants can be nothing good, and no good can come of our remaining here."

Vivaldi made no reply; he drew breath with diffi­culty, and his eyes remained fixed on the ground, till a noise, like the creaking of a heavy hinge, rose in a distant part of the vault. Paulo turned his eye, at the same instant, towards the place whence it came, and they both perceived a door in the wall [...]lowly opened and immediately closed again, as if the person within had feared to be discovered. Each believed, from the transient view he had of it, that this was the fame fi­gure which had appeared on the stair-case, and that it was the monk himself. Reanimated by this belief, Vi­valdi's nerves were instantly r [...]braced, and he sprang to the door, which was unfastened and yielded immedi­ately to his impetuous hand, "You shall not deceive me now," cried he, as he entered; "Paulo! keep guard at the door!"

He looked round the second vault, in which he now found himself, but no person appeared; he examined the place, and particularly the walls, without discover­ing any aperture, either of door or window, by which the figure could have quitted the chamber; a strongly grated casement, placed near the roof, was all that ad­mitted [Page 110] air and probably light. Vivaldi was astonished! "Have you seen any thing pass?" said he to Paulo.

"Nothing, Maestro," replied the servant.

"This is almost incredible," exclaimed, Vivaldi; "'tis certain, this form can be nothing human!"

"If so, Signor," observed Paulo, "why should it fear us? as surely it does; or why should it have fled?"

"That is not so certain," rejoined Vivaldi; "it may have fled only to lead us into evil. But bring hither the torch; here is something in the wall which I would examine."

Paulo obeyed. It was merely a ruggedness in the stones, not the partition of a door, that had excited his curiosity. "This is inexplicable," exclaimed Vivaldi, after a long pause. "What motive could any human being have for thus tormenting me?"

"Or any being superhuman, either, my Signor?" said Paulo.

"I am warned of evils that await me," continued Vivaldi, musing: "of events that are regularly fulfilled; the being who warms me, crosses my path perpetually, yet, with the cunning of a demon, as con­stantly eludes my grasp, and baffles my pursuit! It is incomprehensible, by what means he glides thus a­way from my eye, and fades, as if into air, at my ap­proach! He is repeatedly in my presence, yet is nev­er to be found?"

"It is most true, Signor," said Paulo, "that he is never to be found, and therefore let me entreat you to give up the pursuit. This place is enough to make one believe in the horrors of purgatory? Let us go, Signor."

"What but spirit could have quitted this vault so mysteriously," continued Vivaldi, not attending to Paulo; "what but spirit!"—

"I would fain prove," said the servant, "that sub­stance can quit it as easily; I would fain evaporate through that door myself."

[Page 111] He had scarcely spoken the words, when the door closed, with a thundering clap that echoed through all the vaults; and Vivaldi and Paulo stood for a mo­ment aghast! and then both hastened to open it, and to leave the place. Their consternation may be ea­sily conceived, when they found that all their efforts at the door were ineffectual. The thick wood was in­laid with solid bars of iron; and was of such uncon­querable strength, that it evidently guarded what had been designed for a prison, and appeared to be the keep or dungeon of the ancient fort.

"Ah, Signor mio!" said Paulo," if this was a spi­rit, 'tis plain he knew we were not so, by his luring us hither. Would we could exchange natures with him for a moment; for I know not how, as mere mor­tal men, we can ever squeeze, ourselves out o [...] this scrape. You must allow, Maestro, that this was not one of the evils he warned you of; or, if he did, it was through my organs, for I entreated you"—

"Peace, good Signor Buffo!" said Vivaldi; "a truce with this nonsense, and assist in searching for some means of escape."

Vivaldi again examined the walls, and as unsuccess­fully as before; but in one corner of the vault [...]ay an object, which seemed to tell the fate of one who had been confined here, and to hint his own: it was a gar­ment covered with blood. Vivaldi and his servant discovered it at the same instant; and a dreadful fore­boding of their own distin [...] fixed them, for some mo­ments, to the spot. Vivaldi first recovered himself, when instead of yielding to despondency, all his facul­ties were aroused to divise some means for escaping; but Paulo's hopes seemed buried beneath the dreadful vestments upon which he still gazed. "Ah, my Sig­nor!" said he, at length, in a faultering accent, "who shall dare to raise that garment? What if it should conceal the mangled body whose blood has stained it!"

[Page 112] Vivaldi, shudderingly, turned to look on it again.

"It moves!" exclaimed Paulo; "I see it move!" as he said which, he started to the opposite side of the chamber. Vivaldi stepped a few paces back, and as quickly returned; when, determined to know the event at once, [...]e raised the garment upon the point of his sword, and perceived, beneath, other remains of dress, heaped high together, while even the floor below was stained with gore.

Believing that fear had deceived the eyes of Paulo, Vivaldi watched this horrible spectacle for some time, but without perceiving the least motion; when he be­came convinced, that not any remains of life were shrouded beneath it, and that it contained only articles of dress, which had belonged to some unfortunate person, who had probably been decoyed hither for plunder, and afterwards murdered. This belief, and the repugnance he felt to dwell upon the spectacle, prevented him from examining further, and he turned away to a remote part of the vault. A conviction of his own fate, and of his servant's, filled his mind for a while with de­spair. It appeared that he had been ensnared by rob­bers, till, as he recollected the circumstances which had attended his entrance, and several peculiar occurrences connected with the arch▪way, this conjecture seemed highly improbable: It was unreasonable, that robbers should have taken the trouble to decoy, when they might at first have seized him; still more so, that they would have persevered so long in the attempt; and most of all, that when he had formerly been in their power, they should have neglected their opportunity, and suffered him to leave the ruin unmolested. Yet, granting that all this, improbable as it was, were, however, possible, the solemn warnings and predic­tions of the monk, so frequently delivered, and so faith­fully fulfilled, could have no connection with the schemes of banditti. It appeared, therefore, that Vi­valdi [Page 113] was not in the hands of robbers; or, if he were, that the monk, at least, had no connection with them; yet it was certain that he had just heard the voice of this monk beneath the arch; that his servant had said, he saw the vestments of one ascending the steps of the fort; and that they had both reason, afterwards, to be­lieve it was his shadowy figure, which they had pursued to the very chamber where they were now confined.

As Vivaldi considered all these circumstances, his perplexity encreased, and he was more than ever in­clined to believe, that the form, which had assumed the appearance of a monk, was something super-human.

"If this being had appeared only," said he to him­self, "I should, perhaps, have thought it the perturbed spirit of him, who doubtless has been murdered here, and that it led me hither to discover the deed, that his bones might be removed to holy ground; but this monk, or whatever it is, was neither silent, nor ap­parently anxious concerning himself; he spoke only of events connected with my peace, and predicted of the future, as well as reverted to the past! If he had either hinted of himself, or had been wholly silent, his appearance, and manner of eluding pursuit, is so ex­traordinary, that I should have yielded, for once, per­haps, to the tales of our grandfathers, and thought he was the spectre of a murdered person."

As Vivaldi expressed his incredulity, however, he returned to examine the garment once more, when, as he raised it, he observed, what had before escaped his notice, black drapery mingled with the heap beneath; and, on lifting this also on the point of his sword, he perceived part of the habiliment of a monk! He start­ed at the discovery, as if he had seen the apparition, which had so long been tempting his credulity. Here were the vest and scapulary, rent and stained with blood! Having gazed for a moment, he let them drop [Page 114] upon the heap; when Paulo, who had been silently observing him, exclaimed,

"Signor! that should be the garment of the demon who led us hither. Is it a winding-sheet for us, Maestro? Or was it one for the body he inhabited while on earth!"

"Neither, I trust," replied Vivaldi, endeavouring to command the perturbation he suffered, and turning from the spectacle; "therefore we will try once more to regain our liberty."

This was a design, however, beyond his accomplish­ment; and having again attacked the door, raised Paulo to the grated window, and vociferated for re­lease with his utmost strength, in which he was very ably seconded by Paulo, he abandoned for the present all further attempts, and, weary and desponding, threw himself on the ground of the dungeon.

Paulo bitterly lamented his master's rashness in pe­netrating to this remote spot, and bewailed the proba­bility of their being famished.

"For supposing, Signor, that we were not decoyed hither for plunder and butchery, and supposing that we are not surrounded by malicious spirits, which San Januarius forbid I should take upon me to affirm is impossible! supposing all this, Signor, yet still there remains almost a certainty of our being starved to death; for how is it possible that any body can hear our cries, in a place so remote from all resort, and bu­ried, as one may say, under ground as this is?"

"Thou art an excellent comforter," said Vivaldi, groaning.

"You must allow, Signor, that you are as excellent a conductor."

Vivaldi gave no answer, but lay on the ground, abandoned to agonizing thought. He had now leisure to consider the late words of the monk, and to con­jecture, for he was in a mood for conjecturing the [Page 115] worst, that they not only alluded to Ellena, but that his saying, "she had departed an hour ago," was a figurative manner of telling that she had died then. This was a conjecture which dispelled almost all ap­prehension for himself. He started from the ground, and paced his prison with quick and unequal steps; it was now no longer a heavy despondency that oppressed him, but an acute anxiety that stung him, and with the tortures of suspense, brought also that of passionate impatience and horror concerning the fate of Ellena. The longer he dwelt upon the possibility of her death, the more probable it appeared. The monk had alrea­dy forewarned him of the death of Bianchi; and when he recollected the suspicious circumstances which had attended it, his terrors for Ellena increased. The more he yielded to his feelings, the more violent they became, till at length, his ungovernable impatience and apprehensions arose almost to frenzy.

Paulo forgot for a while his own situation in the superior sufferings of his master, and now, at least endeavoured to perform the offices of a comforter, for he tried to calm Vivaldi's mind, by selecting the fairest circumstances for hope which the subject admitted, and he passed without noticing, or, if noticing, only lightly touched upon the most prominent possibilities of evil. His master, however, was insensible to all he said, till he mentioned again the convent del Pianto; and this subject, as it seemed connected with the monk, who had hinted the fate of Ellena, interested the un­happy Vivaldi, who withdrew awhile from his own reflection, to listen to a recital which might assist his conjectures.

Paulo complied with his command, but not without reluctance. He looked round the empty vault, as if he feared that some person might be lurking in the obscu­rity, who would overhear and even answer him.

"We are tolerably retired here too, Signor," said [Page 116] he, recollecting himself; "one may venture to talk secrets with little danger of being discovered. How­ever, Maestro, it is best to make matters quite sure; and therefore, if you will please to take a seat on the ground, I will stand beside you and relate all I know of the convent of Our Lady of Tears, which is not much after all."

Vivaldi having seated himself, and bidden Paulo do the same, the servant began in a low voice—"It was on the vigil of the Santo Marco, just after the last vesper-bell had tolled—You never was at the Santa Maria del Pianto, Signor, or you would know what a gloomy old church it has—It was in a confessional in one of the side ailes of this church, and just after the last bell had ceased, that a person, so muffled up that neither shape nor face could be distinguished, came and placed himself on the steps of one of the boxes adjoining the confessional chair; but if he had been as airily dressed as yourself, Signor, he might have been just as well concealed; for the dusky aile is light­ed only by one lamp, which hangs at the end next the painted window, except when the tapers at the shrine of San Antonio happen to be burning at the other extremity, and even then the place is almost as gloomy as this vault. But that is, no doubt contrived for the purpose, that people may not blush for the sins they confess; and in good faith, this is an accommodation which may bring more money to the poors' box, for the monks have a shrewd eye that way, and"—

"You have dropt the thread of your story," said Vivaldi.

"True, Signor, let me recollect where I lost it—Oh! at the steps of the confessional:—the stranger knelt down upon them, and for some time poured such groans into the ear of the confessor, as were heard all along the aile. You are to know, Signor, that the brothers of Santa del Pianto are of the order of Black [Page 117] Penitents; and people who have more than ordinary sins to confess, sometimes go there, to consult with the grand penitentiary himself, what is to be done. Now it happened that Father Ansaldo, the grand peniten­tiary himself was in the chair, as is customary on the vigil of the Santo Marco; and he gently reproved the penitent for bewailing so loud, and bade him take comfort; when the other replied only by a groan deeper than before, but it was not so loud, and then proceeded to confess. But what he did confess, Sig­nor, I know not; for the confessor, you know, never must divulge, except, indeed, on very extraordinary occasions. It was, however, something so very strange and horrible, that the grand penitentiary suddenly quit­ted the chair, and before he reached the cloisters he fell into strong convulsions. On recovering himself, he asked the people about him, whether the penitent who had visited such a confessional, naming it, was gone; adding, that if he was still in the church, it was proper he should be detained. He descri [...]ed, at the same time, as well as he could, the sort of figure he had dimly seen approaching the confessional just before he had received the confession, at recollecting which, he seemed ready to go off again into his convulsions. One of the fathers, who had crossed the aile on his way to the cloisters, upon the first alarm of Ansaldo's dis­order, remembered that a person, such as was described, had passed him hastily. He had seen a tall figure, muffled up in the habit of a white friar, gliding swiftly along the aile, towards the door that opened into the outer door of the convent; but he was himself too much engaged to notice the stranger particularly. Father Ansaldo thought this must be the person; and the porter was summoned, and asked whether he had observed such an one pass. He affirmed that he had not seen any person go forth from the gate within the last quarter of an hour; which might be true enough, [Page 118] you know, Signor, if the rogue had been off his post. But he further said, that no one had entered, during the whole evening, habited in white, as the stranger was described to be: so the porter proved himself to be a vigilant watchman; for he must have been asleep too, or how could this personage have entered the con­vent, and left it again, without being seen by him!"

"In white, was he?" said Vivaldi; "if he had been in black, I should have thought this must have been the monk my tormentor."

"Why, you know, Signor, that occurred to me before," observed Paulo, "and a man might easily change his dress if that were all."

"Proceed," said Vivaldi.

"Hearing this account from the porter," continued Paulo, "the Fathers believed one and all, that the stranger must be secreted within the walls; and the convent, with every part of the precincts, was search­ed; but no person was found!"

"This must certainly be the monk," said Vivaldi, notwithstanding the difference of his habit; there surely cannot be two beings in the world, who would conduct themselves in this same mysterious manner!"

He was interrupted by a low sound, which seemed to his distracted fancy, to proceed from a dying person. Paulo also heard it; he started, and they both listened with intense and almost intolerable expectation.

"Ah!" said Paulo at length, "it was only the wind.

"It was no more," said Vivaldi; proceed there­fore.

"From the period of this strange confession,' 're­sumed Paulo, "Father Ansaldo was never properly himself; he"—

"Doubtless the crime confessed related to himself," observed Vivaldi.

"Why, no, Signor, I never heard that that was [Page 120] the case; and some remarkable circumstances, which followed, se [...]med to prove it otherwise. About a month after the time I have mentioned, on the eveing o [...] a sul­try day, when the monks were retiring from the last service"—

"Hark!" cried Vivaldi.

"I hear whispers," said Paulo, whispering himself.

"Be still" said Vivaldi.

They listened attentively, and heard a murmuring as of voices; but could not ascertain whether they came from the adjacent vault, or arose from beneath the one in which they were. The sound returned at intervails; and the persons who conversed, whatever they were, seemingly restrained their voices, as if they feared to be heard. Vivaldi considered whether it were better to discover himself, and call for assistance, or to remain still.

"Remember, Signor," said Paulo, "what a chance we have of being starved, unless we venture to disco­ver ourselves to these people or whatever they are."

"Venture!" exclaimed Vivaldi. "What has such a wretch as I to do with fear? O, Ellena, Ellena!"

He instantly called loudly to the person whom he believed he had heard, and was seconded by Paulo; but thier continued vociferations availed them nothing; no answer was returned; and even the indistinct sounds, which had awakened their attention, were heard no more.

Exhausted by their efforts, they laid down on the floor of the dungeon, abandoning all further attempts at escape till the morning light might assist them.

Vivaldi had no further spirits to enquire for the re­mainder of Paulo's narrative. Almost despairing for himself, he could not feel an interest concerning stran­gers; for he had already perceived, that it could not afford him information connected with Ell [...]na; and Paulo, who had roared himself hoarse, was very willing to be silent

CHAP. VIII.

DURING several days after Ellena's arrival at the monastery of San Stefano, she was not permitted to leave the room. The door was locked upon her, and not any person appeared except the nun, who brought her a scanty portion of food, and who was the same, that had first admitted her into that part of the convent appropriated to the abbess.

On the fourth-day, when, probably, it was believed that her spirits were subdued by confinement, and by her experience of the suffering she had to expect from residence, she was summoned to the parlour. The ab­bess was alone, and the air of austerity, with which she regarded Ellena, prepared the latter to endure.

After an exordium on the heniousness of her offence and the nessessity there was for taking measures to pro­tect the peace and dignity of a noble family, which her late conduct had nearly destroyed; the abbess infor­med her, that she must determine either to accept the veil, or the personwhom the Marchesa di Vivaldi had, of her great goodness, selected for her husband.

"You never can be sufficiently grateful," added the abbess, "for the generosity the Marchesa displays, in allowing you a choice on the subject. After the in­jury you have endeavored to inflict upon her and her family, you could not expect that any indulgence would be shewn you. It was natural to suppose, that the Marchesa would punish you with severity; instead of which, she allows you to enter into our society; or, if [Page 121] you have not strength of mind sufficient to enable you to renounce a sinful world, she permits you to return into it, and gives you a suitable partner to support you through its cares and toils,—a partner much more suitable to your circumstances than him, to whom you had the temerity to lift your eye."

Ellena blushed at this coarse appeal to her pride, and persevered in a disdainful silence. Thus to give injus­tice the colouring of mercy, and to acts most absolute­ly tyrannical the softening tints of generosity, excited her honest indignation. She was not, however, shoc­ked by a discovery of the designs formed against her, since, from the moment of her arrival at San Stefano, she had expected something terribly severe, and had, prepared her mind to meet it with fortitude; for she believed, that, so supported, she should weary the ma­lice of her enemies, and finally triumph over misfor­tune. It was only when she thought of Vivaldi that her courage failed, and that the injuries she endured seem too heavy to be long sustained.

"You are silent!" said the abbess, after a pause of expectation. "Is it possible, then, that you can be un­grateful for the generosity of the Marchesa? But, though you may at present be insensible to her good­ness, I will forbear to take advantage of your indiscre­tion, and will still allow you liberty of choice. You [...]ay retire to your chamber, to consider and to decide. But remember, that you must abide by the determina­tion you shall avow; and, that you will be allowed no appeal from the alternatives which are now placed be­fore you. If you reject the veil, you must accept the husband offered you."

"It is unnecessary," said Ellena, with an air of dig­nified tranquility, "that I should withdraw for the pur­poses of considering and deciding. My resolution is already taken, and I reject each of the offered alterna­tives. I will neither condemn myself to a cloister, or [Page 122] to the degradation, with which I am threatened on the other hand. Having said this, I am prepared to meet whatever suffering you shall inflict upon me; but be assured, that my own voice never shall sanction the e­vils to which I may be subjected, and that the immor­tal love of justice which fills all my heart, will sustain my courage no less powerfully than the sense of what is due to my own character. You are now acquaint­ed with my sentiments and my resolutions; I shall re­peat them no more."

The abbess, whose surprise had thus long suffered Ellena to speak, still fixed upon her a stern regard, as she said, "Where is it that you have learned these heroics, and acquired the rashness which thus prompts you to avow them!—the boldness which enables you to insult your superior, a priestess of your holy reli­gion, even in her sanctuary!"

"The sanctuary is prophaned," said Ellena, mildly, but with dignity: "it is become a prison. It is only when the superior ceases to respect the precepts of that holy religion, the precepts which teach her justice and benevolence, that she herself is no longer respected.—The very sentiment which bids us revere its mild and beneficent laws, bids us also reject the violators of them: when you command me to reverence my reli­gion, you urge me to condemn yourself."

"Withdraw!" said the abbess, rising impatiently from her chair; "your admonition, so becomingly de­livered, shall not be forgotten."

Ellena willingly obeyed, and was led back to her cell, where she sat down pensively, and reviewed her conduct. Her judgment approved of the frankness, with which she had asserted her rights, and of the firm­ness, with which she had reproved a woman, who had dared to demand respect from the very victim of her cruelty and oppression. She was the more satis­fied with herself, because she had never, for an instant, [Page 123] forgotten her own dignity so far, as to degenerate into the vehemence of passion, or to faulter with the weak­ness of fear. Her conviction of the abbess's unworthy character was too clear to allow Ellena to feel abash­ed in her presence; for she regarded only the censure of the good, to which she had ever been tremblingly alive, as she was obdurately insensible to that of the vicious.

Ellena, having now asserted her resolutions, deter­mined to avoid, if possible, all repetition of scenes like the last, and to repel, by silence only, whatever indig­nity might be offered her. She knew that she must suffer, and she resolved to endure. Of the three evils, which were placed before her, that of confinement, with all its melancholy accompaniments, appeared considerably less severe than either the threatened mar­riage, or a formal renunciation of the world; either of which would devote her, during life, to misery, and that by her own act. Her choice, therefore, had been easy, and the way was plain before her. If she could endure with calmness the hardships which she could not avoid, half their weight would be unfelt; and she now most strenuously endeavoured to attain the strength of mind, which was necessary to support such equanimity.

For several days after the late interview with the abbess, she was kept a close prisoner; but on the fifth evening she was permitted to attend vespers. As she walked through the garden to the chapel, the ordinary freshness of the open air, and the verdure of the trees and shrubs were luxuries to her, who had so long been restricted from the common blessings of nature. She followed the nuns to a chapel where they usually performed their devotions, and was there s [...]ated among the novices. The solemnity of the service, and par­ticularly of those parts, which were accompanied by music, touched all her heart, and soothed and [...]levated her spirit.

[Page 124] Among the voices of the choir, was one whose ex­pression immediately fixed her attention; it seemed to speak a loftier sentiment of devotion than the others, and to be modulated by the melancholy of an heart, that had long since taken leave of this world. Whe­ther it swelled with the high peal of the organ, or mingled in low and trembling accents with the sink­ing chorus, Ellena felt that she understood all the feel­ings of the breast from which it flowed; and she look­ed to the gallery where the nuns were assembled, to discover a countenance, that might seem to accord with the sensibility expressed in the voice. As no strangers were admitted to the chapel, some of the sisters had thrown back their veils, and she saw little that interested her in their various faces; but the figure and attitude of a nun, kneeling in a remote part of the gallery, beneath a lamp, which threw its rays aslant her head, perfectly agreed with the idea she had formed of the singer, and the sound seemed to ap­proach immediately from that direction. Her face was concealed by a black veil, whose transparency, however, permitted the fairness of her complexion to appear; but the air of her head, and the singularity of her attitude, for she was the only person who remain­ed kneeling, sufficiently indicated the superior degree of fervency and penitence, which the voice had ex­pressed.

When the hymn had ceased she rose from her knees, and Ellena, soon after, observed her throw back her veil, discovered, by the lamp, which shed its full light upon her features, a countenance that instantly con­firmed her conjecture. It was touched with a me­lancholy kind of resignation; yet grief seemed still to occasion the paleness, and the air of languor, that pre­vailed over it, and which disappeared only when the momentary energy of devotion seemed to lift her spirit above this world, and to impart to it somewhat of a [Page 125] seraphic grandeur. At those moments her blue eyes were raised towards Heaven, with such meek, yet fer­vent love, such sublime enthusiasm as the heads of Guido sometimes display, and which renewed with Ellena, all the enchanting effects of the voice she had just heard.

While she regarded the nun with a degree of inter­est which rendered her insensible to every other object in the chapel, she fancied she could perceive the calm­ness in her countenance to be that of despair, rather than of resignation; for, when her thoughts were not elevated in prayer, there was frequently a fixedness in her look, too energetic for common suffering, or for the temper of mind which may lead to perfect resig­nation. It had, however, much that attached the sympathy of Ellena, and much that seemed to speak a similarity of feeling. Ellena was not only soothed, but in some degree comforted, whilst she gazed upon her; a selfishness which may, perhaps, be pardoned, when it is considered, that she thus knew there was one human being, at least, in the convent, who must be capable of feeling pity, and willing to administer consolation. Ellena endeavoured to meet her eye, that she might inform her of the regard she had in­spired, and express her own happiness; but the nun was so entirely engaged by devotion, that she did not succeed.

As they left the chapel, however, the nun passed close by Ellena, who threw back her veil, and fixed upon her a look so supplicating and expressive, that the nun paused, and in her turn regarded the novice, not with surprise only, but with a mixture of curiosity and compassion. A faint brush crossed her cheek, her spirits seemed to faulter, and she was unwilling to withdraw her eyes from Ellena: but it was necessary that she should continue in the procession, and, bidding her farewel by a smile of ineffable pity, she passed on [Page 126] to the court, while Ellena followed with attention still fixed upon the sister, who soon disappeared beyond the doorway of the Abbess's apartment, and Ellena had nearly reached her own, before her thoughts were sufficiently disengaged to permit her to enquire the name of the stranger.

"It is sister Olivia whom you mean, perhaps," said her conductress.

"She is very handsome," said Ellena.

"Many of the sisters are so," replied Margaritone, with an air of pique.

"Undoubtedly," said Ellena; "but she, whom I mean, has a most touching countenance; frank, noble, full of sensibility; and there is a gentle melancholy in her eye, which can not but interest all who observe her."

Ellena was so fascinated by this interesting nun, that she forgot she was describing her to a person, whose callous heart rendered her insensible to the in­fluence of any countenance, except, perhaps, the com­manding one of the lady abbess; and to whom, there­fore, a description of the fine traits, which Ellena felt, was as unintelligible as would have been an A­rabic inscription.

"She is passed the bloom of youth," continued Ellena, still anxious to be understood; "but she re­tains all its interesting graces, and adds to them the dignity of"—

"If you mean that she is of middle age," interrupted Margaritone, peevishly, "it is sister Olivia you men­tion, for we are all younger than she is."

Ellena, raising her eyes almost unconsciously, as the nun spoke this, fixed them upon a face sallow, mea­gre, seemingly near fifty years an inhabitant of this world; and she could scarcely suppress the surprise she felt, on perceiving such wretched vanity lingering among the chilled passions of so repulsive a frame, and within the sequestered shade of a cloister, Margari­tone, [Page 127] still jealous of the praise bestowed on Olivia, repelled all further enquiry, and, having attended El­lena to her cell, locked her up for the night.

On the following evening Ellena was again per­mitted to attend vespers, and, on the way to the cha­pel, the hope of seeing her interesting favourite re­animated her spirits. In the same part of the gallery, as on the preceding night, she again appeared, and kneeling, as before, beneath the lamp, in private ori­son, for the service was not begun.

Ellena endeavoured to subdue the impatience she felt to express her regard, and to be noticed by the holy sister, till she should have finished. When the nun rose, and observed Ellena, she lifted her veil, and, fixing on her the same enquiring eye, her countenance brightened into a smile so full of compassion and in­telligence, that Ellena, forgetting the decorums of the place, left her seat to approach her; it seemed as if the soul, which beamed forth in that smile, had long been acquainted with hers. As she advanced, the nun dropped her veil, a reproof which she immediately understood, and she withdrew to her seat; but her at­tention remained fixed on the nun during the whole service.

At the conclusion, when they left the chapel, and she saw Olivia pass without noticing her, Ellena could scarcely restrain her tears; she returned in deep de­jection to her room. The regard of this n [...]n was not only delightful, but seemed necessary to her heart, and she dwelt, with fond perseverance, on the smile that had expressed so much, and which threw one gleam of comfort, even through the bars of her prison.

Her reveries was soon interrupted by a light step, that approached her cell, and in the next moment the door was unlocked, and Olivia herself appeared. El­lena rose with emotion to meet her; the nun held forth her hand to receive hers.

[Page 128] "You are unused to confinement," said she, curtsy­ing mournfully, and placing on the table a little basket containing refreshment, "and our hard fare"—

"I understand you," said Ellena, with a look ex­pressive of her gratitude; "you have a heart that can pity, though you inhabit these walls; you have suffer­ed too and know the delicate generosity of softening the sorrows of others, by any attention that may tell them your sympathy. O! if I could express how much the sense of this affects me!"

Tears interrupted her. Olivia pressed her hand, looked steadily upon her face, and was somewhat agi­tated, but she soon recovered apparent tranquillity, and said, with a serious smile, "You judge rightly, my sister, respecting my sentiments, however you may do concerning my sufferings. My heart is not insensible to pity, nor to you my child. You were designed for happier days than you can hope to find within these cloisters!"

She checked herself as if she had allowed too much, and then added, "But you may, perhaps, be peaceful; and since it consoles you to know you have a friend near you, believe me that friend—but believe it in si­lence. I will visit you when I am permitted—but do not enquire for me; and if my visits are short, do not press me to lengthen them."

"How good is this!" said Ellena, in a faultering voice. "How sweet too it is! you will visit me, and I am pitied by you!"

"Hush!" said the nun, expressively; "no more; I may be observed. Good night, my sister; may your slumbers be light!"

Ellena's heart sunk. She had not spirits to say, "Good night!" but her eyes, covered with tears, said more. The nun turned her own away suddenly, and, pressing her hand in silence, left the cell. Ellena, firm and tranquil under the insults of the abbess, was now [Page 129] melted into tears by the kindness of a friend. These gentle tears were refreshing to her long oppressed spi­rits, and she indulged them. Of Vivaldi she thought with more composure than she had done since she left the villa Alti [...]ri; and something like hope began to re­vive in her heart, though reflection offered nothing to support it.

On the following morning, she perceived that the door of her cell had not been closed. She rose im­patiently, and, not without a hope of liberty, immedi­ately passed it. The cell opening upon a short pas­sage, which communicated with the main building, and which was shut up by a door, was secluded, and almost insulated from every other chamber; and this door being now secured, Ellena was as trully a prisoner as before. It appeared then, that the nun had omitted to fasten the cell only for the purpose of allowing her more space to walk in the passage, and she was grate­ful for the attention. Still more she was so, when, having traversed it, she perceived one extremity terminate in a narrow stair-case, that appeared to lead to other chambers.

She ascended the winding steps hastily, and found they led only to a door, opening into a small room, where nothing remarkable appeared, till she approach­ed the windows, and beh [...]ld thence an horizon, and a landscape spread below, whose grandeur awakened all her heart. The consciousness of her prison was lost, while her eyes ranged over the wide and freely sublime scene without. She p [...]rceived that this cham­ber was within a small turret, projecting from an an­gle of the convent over the wa [...]ls, and suspended, as in air, above the vast precipices of granite, that formed part of the mountain. These precipices were broken into cliffs, which, in some places, impended f [...]r above their bas [...], and in others, [...]ose, in nearly perpendicular lines, to the walls of the monastery, which they sup­ported. [Page 130] Ellena, with a dreadful pleasure, looked down them, shagged as they were with larch, and frequently darkened by lines of gigantic pine bending along the rocky ledges, till her eye rested on the thick chesnut woods that extended over their winding base, and which softening to the plains, seemed to [...]orm a grada­tion between the variegated cultivation there, and the awful wildness of the rocks above. Round these ex­tensive plains were tumbled the mountains, of various shape and attitude, which Ellena had admired on her approach to San Stefano; some shaded with forests of olive and almond trees, but the greater part abandon­ed to the flocks, which, in summer, feed on their aro­matic herbage, and on the approach of winter, descend to the sheltered plains of the Tavogliere di Puglia.

On the left opened the dreadful pass which she had traversed, and the thunder of whose waters now mur­mured at a distance. The accumulation of over-top­ping points, which the mountains of this dark per­spective exhibited, presented an image of grandeur su­perior to any thing she had seen while within the pass itself.

To Ellena, whose mind was capable of being highly elevated, or sweetly soothed, by scenes of nature, the discovery of this little turret was an important circum­stance. Hither she could come, and her soul, refresh­ed by the views it afforded, would acquire strength to bear her with equanimity, through the persecutions that might await her. Here, gazing up [...]n the stu­pendous imagery around her, looking, as it were, be­yond the awful veil which obscures the features of the Deity, and conceals Him from the eyes of his crea­tures, dwelling as with a present God in the midst of his sublime works; with a mind thus elevated, how insignificant would appear to her the transactions, and the sufferings of this world! How poor the boasted power of man, when the fall of a single cliff from these [Page 131] mountains would with ease destroy thousands of his race assembled on the plains below! How would it avail them, that they were accoutred for battle, armed with all the instruments of destruction that human in­vention ever fashioned? Thus man, the giant who now held her in captivity, would shrink to the dimi­nutiveness of a fairy; and she would experience, that his utmost force was unable to enchain her soul, or compel her to fear him, while he was destitute of virtue.

Ellena's attention was recalled from the scene with­out by a sound from within the gallery, and she then heard a key turning in the door of the passage. Fear­ing that it was sister Margaritone who approached, and who, informed by her absence of the consolatory turret she had discovered, would perhaps debar her from ever returning to it, Ellena descended with a pal­pitating heart, and found that nun in the cell. Sur­prise and severity were in her countenance, when she enquired by what means Ellena had unlocked the door, and whether she had been.

Ellena answered without any prevarication, that she had found the door unfastened, and that she had visit­ed the turret above; but she forebore to express a wish to return thither, judging that such an expression would certainly exclude her in future. Margaritone, after sharply rebuking her for prying beyond the pas­sage, and setting down the breakfast she had brought, left the room, the door of which she did not forget to secure. Thus Ellena was at once deprived of so in­nocent a means of consolation as her pleasant turret had afforded.

During several days, she saw only the austere nun, except when she attended vespers; where, however, she was so vigilantly observed, that she feared to speak with Olivia, even by h [...] eyes. Olivia's were often fixed upon her face, and with a kind of expression [Page 132] which Ellena, when she did venture to look at her, could not perfectly interpret. It was not only of pity, but of anxious curiosity, and of something also like fear. A blush would sometimes wander over her cheek, which was succeeded by an extreme paleness, and by an air of such universal langour as precedes a fainting fit: but the exercises of devotion seemed fre­quently to recal her fleeting spirits, and to elevate them with hope and courage.

When she left the chapel, Ellena saw Olivia no more that night; but on the following morning she came with breakfast to the cell. A character of pecu­liar sadness was on her brow.

"O! how glad I am to see you!" said Ellena▪ "and how much I have regretted your long absence! I was obliged to remember constantly what you had enjoined, to forbear enquiring after you."

The nun replied with a melancholly smile, "I am come in obedience to our lady abbess," said she, as she seated herself on Ellena's mattress.

"And did you not wish to come?" said Ellena, mournfully.

"I did wish it," replied Olivia; "but"—and she hesitated.

"Whence then this reluctance?" enquired Ellena Olivia was silent a moment.

"You are a messenger of evil news!" said Ellena; "you are only reluctant to afflict me."

"It is as you say," replied Olivia; "I am only reluc­tant to afflict you; and I fear you have too many at­tachments to the world, to allow you [...]o receive, with­out sorrow, what I have to communicate. I am or­dered to prepare you for the vows, and to say, that since you have rejected the husband which was pro­posed to you, you are to accept the veil; that many of the customary forms are to be dispensed with; and that the ceremony of taking the black veil, will follow without delay that of receiving the white one."

[Page 133] The nun paused; and Ellena said, "You are an un­willing bearer of this cruel message; and I reply only to the lady abbess, when I declare, that I never will accept either; that force may send me to the altar, but that it never shall compel me to utter vows which my heart abhors; and if I am constrained to appear there, it shall be only to protest against her tyranny, and against the form intended to sanction it."

To Olivia this answer was so far from being dis­pleasing, that it appeared to give her satisfaction.

"I dare not applaud your resolution," said she; "but I will not condemn it. You have, no doubt, connections in the world which would render a seclu­sion from it afflicting. You have relations, friends, from whom it would be dreadful to part?"

"I have neither," said Ellena, sighing.

"No! Can that be possible? and yet you are so unwilling to retire!"

"I have only one friend," replied Ellena, "and it is of him they would deprive me!"

"Pardon, my love, the abruptness of these enqui­ries," said Olivia; "yet, whi [...] ▪ I entreat your for­giveness, I am inclined to [...] again, and to ask your name."

"That is a question I will readily answer. My name is Ellena di Rosalba."

"How?" said Olivia, with an air of deliberation; "Ellena di"—

"Di Ros [...]lba," repeated her companion; "and per­mit me to ask your motive for the enquiry; do you know any person of my name?"

"No," replied the nun, mournfully: "but your fea­tures have some resemblance to those of a friend I once had."

As she said this, her agitation was apparent, and she arose to go. "I must not lengthen my visit, lest I should be forbidden to repeat it," said she. "What [Page 134] answer shall I give to the abbess? If you are deter­mined to reject the veil, allow me to advise you to soften your refusal as much as possible. I am, per­haps, better acquainted with her character than you are; and O, my sister! I would not see you pining away your existence in this solitary cell."

"How much am I obliged by the interest you ex­press for my welfare," said Ellena, "and by the ad­vice you offer! I will yield my judgment in this instance to yours; you shall modulate my refusal as you think proper: but remember that it must be absolute: and beware, lest the abbess should mistake gentleness for irresolution."

"Trust me, I will be cautious in all that relates to you," said Olivia. "Farewel! I will visit you, if possible, in the evening. In the mean time the door shall be left open, that you may have more air and prospect than this cell affords. That staircase leads to a pleasant chamber."

"I have visited it already," replied Ellena, "and have to thank you for the goodness which permitted me to do so. To go thither will greatly soothe my spirits; if I had some book, and my drawing-instru­ments, I could almost forget my sorrows there."

"Could you so?" said the nun, with an affectionate smile. "Adieu! I will endeavour to see you in the evening. If sister Margaritone returns, be careful not to enquire for me; nor once ask her for the little indulgence I give you."

Olivia withdraw, and Ellena retired to the chamber above, where she lost for a while all sense of sorrow amidst the great scenery, which its window exhi­bited.

At noon, the step of Margaritone summoned Ellena from her retreat, and she was surprised that no reproof followed this second discovery of her absence. Mar­garitone only said, that the abbess had the goodness to [Page 135] permit Ellena to dine with the novices, and that she came to conduct her to their table.

Ellena did not rejoice in this permission, preferring to remain in her solitary turret, to the being exposed to the examining eyes of strangers; and she followed dejectedly, through the silent passages to the apart­ment where they were assembled. She was not l [...]ss surprised than embarrassed to observe, in the manners of young people residing in a convent, an absence of that decorum, which includes beneath its modest shade every grace that ought to adorn the female character, like the veil which gives dignity to their air and soft­ness to their features. When Ellena entered the room, the eyes of the whole company were immediately fix­ed upon her; the young ladies began to whisper and smile, and shewed, by various means, that she was the subject of conversation, not otherwise than censorious. No one advanced to meet and to encourage her, to wel­come her to the table, or still less display one of those nameless graces, with which a generous and delicate mind delights to re-animate the modest and the un­fortunate.

Ellena took a chair in silence; and, though she had at first felt forlorn and embarrassed by the impertinent manners of her companions, a consciousness of inno­cence gradually revived her spirits, and enabled her to resume an air of dignity, which repressed this rude presumption.

Ellena returned to her cell, for the first time, with eagerness. Margaritone did not fasten the door of it, but she was careful to secure that of the passage; and even this small indulgence she seemed to allow with a surly reluctance, as if compelled to obey the command of a superior. The moment she was gone, Ellena withdrew to her pleasant turret, where, after having suffered from the coarse manners of the novices, her gratitude was the more lively, when she perceived the [Page 136] delicate attention of her beloved nun. It appeared that she had visited the chamber in Ellena's absence, and had caused to be brought thither a chair and a table, on which were placed some books, and a knot of fra­grant flowers. Ellena did not repress the grateful tears, which the generous feelings of Olivia excited; and she forbore, for some moments, to examine the books, that the pleasing emotions she experienced might not be interrupted.

On looking into these books, however, she percei­ved that some of them treated of mystical subjects, which she laid aside with disappointment; but in others she observed a few of the best Italian poets, and a volume or two of Guicciardini's history. She was somewhat surprised, that the poets should have found their way to the library of a nun, but was too much pleased with the discovery to dwell on the enquiry.

Having arranged her books, and set her little room in order, she seated herself at a window, and, with a volume of Tasso, endeavoured to banish every pain­ful remembrance from her mind. She continued wan­dering in the imaginary scenes of the poet, till the fading light recalled her to those of reality. The sun was set, but the mountain-tops were still lighted up by his beams, and a tint of glorious purple coloured all the west, and began to change the snowy points on the horizon. The silence and repose of the vast scene, promoted the tender melancholy that prevailed in her heart; she thought of Vivaldi, and wept—of Vivaldi, whom she might, perhaps, never see again, though she doubted not that he would be indefatigable in search­ing for her. Every particular of their last conversa­tion, when he had so earnestly lamented the approach­ing separation, even while he allowed of its propriety, came to her mind; and while she witnessed, in ima­gination, the grief and distraction, which her myste­rious departure and absence must have occasioned him, [Page 137] the fortitude, with which she had resisted her own sufferings, yielded to the picture of his.

The vesper-bell, at length, summoned her to pre­pare for mass, and she descended to her cell to await the arrival of her conductress. It was Margaritone, who soon appeared; but in the chapel she, as usual, saw Olivia, who, when the service had concluded, in­vited her into the garden of the convent. There, as she walked beneath the melancholy cypresses, that ranged on either side the long walks, formed a majestic canopy, almost excluding the evening twilight. O­livia conversed with her on serious, but general topics, carefully avoiding any mention of the abbess, and of the affairs of Ellena. The latter, anxious to learn the effect of her repeated rejection of the veil, ventur­ed to make some enquires, which the nun immediately discouraged, and as cautiously checked the grateful effusions of her young friend for the attentions she had received.

Olivia accompanied Ellena to her cell, and there no longer scrupled to relieve her from uncertainty. With a mixture of frankness and discretion, she re­lated as much of the conversation, that had passed be­tween herself and the abbess, as it appeared necessary for Ellena to know, from which it seemed that the former was as obstinate, as the latter was firm.

"Whatever may be your resolution," added the nun, "I earnestly advise you, my sister, to allow the Supe­rior some hope of compliance, lest she should proceed to extremities."

"And what extremity can be more terrible," repli­ed Ellena, "than either of those to which she would now urge me? Why should I descend to practice dissimulation?"

"To save yourself from undeserved sufferings," said Olivia mournfully.

"Yes, but I should then incur deserved ones," ob­served [Page 138] Ellena; "and forfeit such peace of mind as my oppress [...] never could restore to me." As she said this, she looked at the nun with an expression of gentle reproach and disappointment.

"I applaud the justness of your sentiment," replied Olivia, regarding her with tenderest compassion.—"Alas! that a mind so noble should be subjected to the power of injustice and depravity!"

"Not subjected," said Ellena, "do not say subject­ed. I have accustomed myself to contemplate these sufferings; I have chosen the least of such as were given to my choice, and I will endure them with for­titude; and can you then say that I am subjected?"

"Alas, my sister! you know not what you promise," replied Olivia; "you do not comprehend the suffer­ings which may be preparing for you."

As she spoke, her eyes filled with tears, and she withdrew them from Ellena, who, surprised at the ex­treme concern on her countenance, entreated she would explain herself.

"I am not certain myself as to this point," said Oli­via; "and if I were, I should not dare to explain it."

"Not dare!" repeated Ellena, mournfully. "Can benevolence like yours know fear, when courage is necessary to prevent evil?"

"Enquire no further," said Olivia; but no blush of conscious duplicity stained her cheek. "It is suf­ficient that you understand the consequence of open resistance to be terrible, and that you consent to avoid it."

"But how avoid it, my beloved friend, without in­curring a consequence which, in my apprehension, would be yet more dreadful? How avoid it, without either subjecting myself to a hateful marriage, or ac­cepting the vows? Either of these events would be more terrible to me, than any thing with which I may be menaced."

[Page 139] "Perhaps not," said the nun, "Imagination cannot draw the horrors of—But, my sister, let me repeat, that I would save you! O, how willingly save you from the evils preparing! and that the only chance of doing so is, by prevailing with you to abandon at least the appearance of resistance."

"Your kindness deeply affects me," said Ellena; "and I am fearful of appearing insensible of it, when I reject your advice; yet I cannot adopt it. The very dissimulation, which I should employ in self-defence, might be a means of involving me in de­struction."

As Ellena concluded, and her eyes glanced upon the nun, unaccountable suspicion occurred to her, that Olivia might be insincere, and that, at this very mo­ment, when she was advising dissimulation, she was endeavouring to draw Ellena into some snare, which the abbess had laid. She sickened at this dreadful sup­position, and dismissed it without suffering herself to examine its probability. That Olivia, from whom she had received so many attentions, whose counte­nance and manners announced so fair a mind, and for whom she had conceived so much esteem and affec­tion, should be cruel and treacherous, was a suspicion that gave her more pain than the actual imprisonment in which she suffered; and when she looked again upon her face, Ellena was consoled by a clear convic­tion, that she was utterly incapable of perfidy.

"If it were possible that I could consent to practise deceit," resumed Ellena, after a long pause, "what could it avail me? I am entirely in the power of the abbess, who would soon put my sincerity to the proof; when a discovery of my duplicity would only provoke her vengeance, and I should be punished even for ha­ving sought to avoid injustice."

"If deceit is at any time excusable," replied Olivia, reluctantly, "it is when we pract [...] [...]t in self-defence. [Page 140] There are some rare situations, when it may be resort­ed to without our incurring ignominy, and yours is one of those. But I will acknowledge, that all the good I expect is from the delay which temporizing may procure you. The Superior, when she under­stands there is a probability of obtaining your consent to her wishes, may be willing to allow you the usual time of preparation for the veil, and meanwhile some­thing may occur to rescue you from your present situation."

"Ah! could I but believe so!" said Ellena; "but alas! what power can rescue me? And I have not one relative remaining even to attempt my deliverance. To what possibility do you allude?"

"The Marchesa may relent."

"Does, then, your possibility of good rest with her, my dear friend? If so, I am in despair again; for such a chance of benefit, there would certainly be little po­licy in forfeiting one's integrity."

"There are also other possibilities, my sister," said Olivia; "but, hark! what bell is that? It is the chime which assembles the nuns in the apartment of the abbess, where she dispenses her evening benedic­tion. My absence will be observed. Good night, my sister. Reflect on what I have advised; and re­member, I conjure you, to consider, that the conse­quence of your decision must be solemn, and may be fatal?"

The nun spoke this with a look and emphasis so extraordinary, that Ellena at once wished and dreaded to know more; but before she had recovered from her surprise, Olivia had le [...]t the room.

CHAP. IX.

THE adventurous Vivaldi, and his servant Paulo, after passing the night of Ellena's departure from the villa Altieri in one of the subterraneous chambers of the fort of Palluzz [...], and yielding, at length, to ex­hausted nature, awoke in terror, and utter darkness, for the flambeau had expired. When a recollection of the occurrences of the preceding evening returned, they renewed their efforts for liberty with a [...]dour. The grated window was again examined, and being found to overlook only a confined court of the fortress, no hope appeared of escaping.

The words of the monk returned with Vivaldi's first recollections to torture him with apprehen­sion, that Ellena was no more; and Paulo, unable ei­ther to console or to appease his master, sat down de­jectedly beside him. Paulo had no longer a hope to sug­gest, or a joke to throw away; and he could not forbear seriously remarking that to die of hunger was one of the most horrible means of death, of lamenting the rashness which made them liable to so sad a probability.

He was in the midst of a very pathetic oration, of which, however, his master did not hear a single word, so wholly was his attention engaged by his own melan­choly thoughts, when, on a sudden he became silent, and then, starting to his feet, exclaimed, "Signor, what is yonder? Do you see nothing?"

Vivaldi looked round.

"It is certainly a ray of light," continued Paulo; "and I will soon know where it comes from."

[Page 142] As [...]e said this he sprang forwards, and his surprize almost equalled his joy when [...]e discovered that the light issued through the door of the vault, which stood a little open. He could scarcely believe his senses, since the door had been strongly fastened on the pre­ceding night, and he had not heard its ponderous bolts undrawn. He threw it widely open, but recollecting himself, stopped to look into the adjoining vault before he ventured forth; when Vivaldi darted past him, and bidding him follow instantly, ascended to the day. The courts of the fortress were silent and vacant, and Vivaldi reached the arch way without [...]aving obser­ved a single person, breathless with speed, and scarce­ly daring to believe that he had regained his liberty.

Beneath the arch he stopped to recover breath, and to consider whether he should take the road to Naples, or to the villa Altieri, for it was yet early morning, and at an hour when it appeared improbable that Ellena's family would be risen. The apprehension of her death had vanished as Vivaldi's spirits revived, which the pause of hesitation sufficiently announced: but even this was the pause only of an instant; a strong anxiety concerning her determined him to proceed to the villa Altieri, notwithstanding the un­suitableness of the hour, since he could at least, recon­noitre her residence, and await till some sign of the fa­mily having risen should appear.

"Pray, Signor," said Paulo, while his master was deliberating, "do not let us stop here, least the ene­my should appear again; and do, Signor, take the road which is nearnest to some house where we may get breakfast, for the fear of starving has taken such hold upon me, that it has nearly anticipated the reality of it already."

Vivaldi immediately departed for the villa. Paulo, as he danced joyfully along, expressed all the astonish­ment that filled his mind, as to the cause of their late [Page 143] imprisonment and escape; but Vivaldi, who had now leisure to consider the subject, could not assist him in explaining it. The only certainty that appeared, was, that he had not been confined by robbers; and what interest any person could have in imprisoning him for the night, and suffering him to escape in the morning, did not appear.

On entering the garden at Altieri, he was surprised to observe that several of the lower lattices were open at this early hour, but surprise changed to terror, when, on reaching the portico, he heard a moaning of dis­tress from the hall, and, when, after loudly calling, he was answered by the piteous cries of Beatrice. The hall door was fastened, and, Beatrice being unable to open it, Vivaldi, followed by Paulo, sprang through one of the unclosed lattices; when on reaching the hall, he found the house-keeper bound to a pillar, and learn­ed that Ellena had been carried off during the night by armed men.

For a moment he was almost stupified by the shock of this intelligence, and then asked Beatrice a thou­sand questions concerning the affair, without allowing her time to answer one of them. When, however, he had patience to listen, he learned that the ruffians were four in number; that they were masked; that two of them had carried Ellena thro' the garden, while the others, after binding Beatrice to a pillar, threatening her with death if she made any noise, and watching over her till their comrades had secured their prize, left her a prisoner. This was all the infor­mation she could give respecting Ellena.

Vivaldi, when he could think coolly, believed he had discovered the instigators and the design of the whole affair, and the cause, also, of his late confine­ment. It appeared that Ellena had been carried off by order of his family, to prevent the intended marri­age, and that he had been decoyed into the fort of [Page 144] Paluzzi, and kept a prisoner there, to prevent him from intercepting the scheme, which his presence at the villa Altieri would effectually have done. He had himself spoken of his former adventure at Paluzzi; and it now appeared, that his family had taken advan­tage of the curiosity he had expressed, to lead him into the vaults. The event of this design was the more certain, since, as the fort lay in the direct road to the villa Altieri, Vivaldi could not go thither without be­ing observed by the creatures of the Marchesa, who, by an artful manoeuvre, might make him their pri­soner, without employing violence.

As he considered these circumstances, it appeared certain, also, that father Schedoni was in truth the monk who had so long haunted his steps; that he was the secret adviser of his mother, and one of the authors of the predicted misfortunes which, it seemed, he pos­sessed a too certain means of fulfilling. Yet Vivaldi, while he admitted the probability of all this, reflected with new astonishment on the conduct of Schedoni, during his interview with him in the Marchesa's ca­binet;—the air of dignified innocence with which he had repressed accusation, the apparent simplicity, with which he had pointed out circumstances respecting the stranger, that seemed to make against himself; and Vi­valdi's opinion of the confessor's duplicity began to waver. "Yet what other person," said he, "could be so intimately acquainted with my concerns, or have an interest [...] strong for thus indefatigably thwarting me, except this confessor, who is, no doubt, well rewarded for his perseverance? The monk can be no other than S [...]hedoni, yet it is strange that he should have forborn to disguise his person, and should appear in his mysterious office in the very habit he usually wears!"

Whatever might be the truth as to Schedoni, it was evident that Ellena had been carried away by order of [Page 145] Vivaldi's family, and he immediately returned towards Naples with an intention of demanding her at their hands, not with any hope of their compliance, but be­lieving that they might accidentally afford him some lights on the subject. If, however, he should fail to obtain any hint that might assist him in tracing the route she had been carried, he determined to visit Schedoni, accuse him of perfidy, urge him to a full ex­planation of his conduct, and, if possible, obtain from him a knowledge of Ellena's place of confinement.

When, at length, he obtained an interview with the Marchese, and, throwing himself at his feet, supplicat­ed that Ellena might be restored to her home, the un­affected surprise of his father overwhelmed him with astonishment and despair. The look and manner of the Marchese could not be doubted; Vivaldi was con­vinced that he was absolutely ignorant of any step which had been taken against Ellena.

"However ungraciously you have conducted your­self," said the Marchese, "my honour has never yet been sullied by duplicity; however I may have wished to break the unworthy connection you have formed, I should disdain to employ artifice as the means. If you really design to marry this person, I shall make no other effort to prevent such a measure, than by tel­ling you the consequence you are to expect;—from thenceforth I will disown you for my son."

The Marchese quitted the apartment when he had said this, and Vivaldi made no attempt to detain him. His words expressed little more than they had former­ly done, yet Vivaldi was shocked by the absolute me­nace now delivered. The stronger passion of his heart, however, soon overcame their effect; and this moment, when he began to fear that he had irrecover­ably lost the object of his dearest affection [...], was not the time in which he could feel remoter evils, or cal­culate the force of misfortunes which never might [Page 146] arrive. The nearer interest pressed solely upon his mind, and he was conscious only to the loss of Ellena.

The interview, which followed with his mother, was of a different character from that which had oc­curred with the Marchese. The keen dart of suspi­cion, however, sharpened as it was by love and de­spair, pierced beyond the veil of her duplicity; and Vivaldi as quickly detected her hypocrisy as he had yielded his conviction to the sincerity of the Marchese. But his power rested here; he possessed no means of awakening her pity or actuating her justice, and could not obtain even a hint, that might guide him in his search of Ellena.

Schedoni, however, yet remained to be tried; Vi­valdi had no longer a doubt as to his having caballed with the Marchesa, and that he had been an agent in removing Ellena. Whether he was the person who haunted the ruins of Paluzzi, still remained to be proved, for, though several circumstances seemed to declare that he was, others, not less plausible, asserted the contrary.

On leaving the Marchesa's apartment, Vivaldi re­paired to the convent of the Spirito Santo, and en­quired for father Schedoni. The lay-brother who opened the gate, informed him that the father was in his cell, and Vivaldi stepped impatiently into the court, requesting to be shewn thither.

"I dare not leave the gate, Signor," said the bro­the, "but if you cross the court, and [...] that stair­case which you see yonder beyond the door-way on your right, it will lead you to a gallery, and the third door you will come to is father S [...]hed [...]ni's."

Vivaldi passed on without seeing another human being, and not a sound disturbed the silence of this sanctuary, till, as he ascended the stairs, a feeble note of lamentation proceeded from the gallery, and he con­cluded i [...] was uttered by some penitent at confession.

[Page 147] He stopped, as he had been directed, at the third door, when, as he gently knocked, the sound ceased, and the same profound silence returned. Vivaldi re­peated his summons, but receiving no answer, he ven­tured to open the door. In the dusky cell within no person appeared, but he still looked round, expect­ing to discover some one in the dubious gloom. The chamber contained little more than a mattress, a chair, a table, and a crucifix; some books of devotion were upon the table, one or two of which were written in unknown characters; several instruments of torture lay beside them. Vivaldi shuddered as he hastily ex­amined these, though he did not comprehend the man­ner of their application, and he left the chamber, with­out noticing any other object, and returned to the court. The porter said, that since father Schedoni was not in his cell, he was probably either in the church or in the gardens, for that he had not passed the gates during the morning.

"Did he pass yester-evening?" said Vivaldi, ea­gerly.

"Yes, he returned to vespers," replied the brother with surprise.

"Are you certain as to that, my friend?" rejoined Vivaldi, "are you certain that he slept in the convent last night?"

"Who is it that asks the question?" said the lay-brother, with displeasure, "and what right has he to make it? You are ignorant of the rules of our house, Signor, or you would perceive such questions to be unnecessary; any member of our community is liable to be severely punished if he sleep a night without these walls, and father S [...]h [...]doni would be the last among us so to tr [...]spass. He is one of the most pious of the brotherhood; few indeed have courage to imi­tate his severe example. His voluntary sufferings are sufficient for a saint. He pass the night abroad? G [...] [Page 148] Signor, yonder is the church, you will find him there, perhaps!

Vivaldi did not linger to reply. "The hypocrite!" said he to himself as he crossed to the church, which formed one side of the quadrangle; "but I will un­mask him."

The church, which he entered, was vacant and silent like the court. "Whither can the inhabitants of this place have withdrawn themselves?" said he; "wherever I go, I hear only the echoes of my own scotsteps; it seems as if death reigned here over all! But, perhaps, it is one of the hours of general me­ditation, and the monks have only retired to their cells."

As he paced the long aisles, he suddenly stopped to catch the startling sound that murmured through the lofty roof; but it seemed to be only the closing of a distant door. Yet he often looked forward into the sacred gloom, which the painted windows threw over the remote perspective, in the expectation of perceiv­ing a monk. He was not long disappointed; a per­son appeared, standing silently in an obscure part of the cloister, cloathed in the habit of this society, and he advanced towards him.

The monk did not avoid Vivaldi, or even turn to observe who was approaching, but remained in the same attitude, fixed like a statue. This tall and gaunt figure had, at a distance, reminded him of Schedoni, and Vivaldi, as he now looked under the cowl, disco­vered the ghastly countenance of the confessor.

"Have I found you at last?" said Vivaldi. "I would speak with you, father, in private. This is not a proper place for such discourse as we must hold."

Schedoni made no reply, and Vivaldi, once again looking at him, observed that his features were [...]ixed, and his eyes bent towards the ground. The words of Vivaldi seemed not to have reached his understand­ing, [Page 149] nor even to have made any impression on his senses.

He repeated them in a louder tone, but still not a single line of Schedoni's countenance acknowledged their influence. "What means this mummery?" said he, his patience exhausted, and his indignation aroused; "This wretched subterfuge shall not pro­tect you, you are detected, your stratagems are known! Restore Ellena di Rosalba to her home, or confess where you have concealed her."

S [...]hedoni was still silent and unmoved. A respect for his age and profession with-held Vivaldi from seizing and compelling him to answer; but the agony of impatience and indignation which he suffered, formed a striking contrast to the death-like apathy of the monk. "I now also know you," continued Vi­valdi, "for my tormentor at Paluzzi, the prophet of evils, which you too well practised the means of ful­filling, the predictor of the death of Signora Bianchi." Schedoni frowned. "Forewarner of Ellena's depar­ [...]ure; the phantom who decoyed me into the dungeons of Paluzzi; the prophet and the artificer of all my misfortunes."

The monk raised his eyes from the ground, and fixed them with terrible expression upon Vivaldi, but was still silent.

"Yes, father," added Vivaldi, "I know and will proclaim you to the world. I will strip you of the holy hypocrisy in which you shroud yourself; an­nounce to all your society the despicable artifices you have employed, and the misery you have occasioned. Your character shall be announced aloud."

While Vivaldi spoke, the monk had withdrawn his eyes, and fixed them again on the ground. His coun­tenance had resumed its usual expression.

"Wretch! restore to me Ellena di Rosalba!" cried Vivaldi, with the sudden anguish of renewed despair. [Page 150] "Tell me at least, where she may be found, or you shall be compelled to do so. Whither, whither have you conveyed her?"

As he pronounced this in loud and passionate ac­cents, several ecclesiastics entered the cloisters, and were passing on to the body of the church, when his voice arrested their attention. They paused, and per­ceiving the singular attitude of Schedoni, and the frantic gesticulations of Vivaldi, hastily advanced to­wards them. "Forbear," said one of the strangers, as he seized the cloak of Vivaldi, "do you not observe!"

"I observe a hypocrite," replied Vivaldi, stepping back and disengaging himself, "I observe a destroyer of the peace, it was his duty to protect. I"—

"Forbear this desperate conduct," said the priest, "lest it provoke the just vengeance of Heaven! Do you not observe the holy office in which he is engag­ed?" pointing to the monk. "Leave the church while you are permitted to do so in safety; you suspect not the punishment you may provoke."

"I will not quit the spot till you answer my en­quiries," said Vivaldi to Schedoni, without deigning even to look upon the priest; "Where, I repeat, is Ellena di Rosalba?"

The confessor was still silent and unmoved. "This is beyond all patience and all belief," continued Vi­valdi. "Speak! Answer me, or dread what I may unfold. Yet silent! Do you know the convent del Pianto? Do you know the confessional of the Black Penitents?"

Vivaldi thought he perceived the countenance of the monk suffer some change. "Do you remember that terrible night," he added, "when, on the steps of that confessional, a tale was told?"—

S [...]hedoni raised his eyes, and fixing them once more on Vivaldi, with a look that seemed intended to strike him to the dust, "Avaunt!" cried he in a tremendous [Page 151] voice; "avaunt! sacrilegious boy! Tremble for the consequence of thy desperate impiety!"

As he concluded, he started from his position, and gliding with the silent swiftness of a shadow along the cloister, vanished in an instant. Vivaldi, when at­tempting to pursue him, was seized by the surround­ing monks. Insensible to his sufferings, and exaspe­rated by his assertions, they threatened, that if he did not immediately quit the convent, he should be con­fined, and undergo the severe punishment to which he had become liable, for having disturbed and even in­sulted one of their holy order while performing an act of penance.

"He had need of such acts," said Vivaldi; "but when can they restore the happiness his treachery has destroyed? Your order is disgraced by such a member, reverend fathers; your"—

"Peace!" cried a monk, "he is the pride of our house; he is severe in his devotion, and in self-punish­ment terrible beyond the reach of—But I am throw­ing away my commendations, I am talking to one who is not permitted to value or to understand the sacred mysteries of our exercises."

"Away with him to the Padre Abbate!" cried an enraged priest; "away with him to the dungeon!"

"Away! away!" repeated his companions, and they endeavoured to force Vivaldi through the cloi­st [...]rs. But with the sudden strength which pride and indignation lent him, he burst from their united hold, and, quitting the church by another door, escaped into the street.

Vivaldi returned home in a fl [...]te of mind that would have engaged the pity of any heart, which pre­judice or self-interest had not hardened. He avoided his father, but [...]ought the March [...]sa, who triumphant in the success of her plan, was still insensible to the sufferings of her son.

[Page 152] When the Marchesa had been informed of his ap­proaching marriage, she had, as usual, consulted with her confessor on the means of preventing it, who had advised the scheme she adopted, a scheme which was the more easily carried into effect, since the Marchesa had early in life been acquainted with the abbess of San Stefano, and knew, therefore, enough of her cha­racter and disposition to confide, without hesitation, the management of this important affair to her discretion. The answer of the abbess to her proposal, was not merely acquiescent, but zealous, and it appeared that she too faithfully justified the confidence reposed in her. After this plan had been so successfully prose­cuted, it was not to be hoped that the Marchesa would be prevailed upon to relinquish it by the tears, the an­guish, or all the varied sufferings of her son. Vivaldi now reproved the easiness of his own confidence in having hoped it, and quitted her cabinet with a de­spondency that almost reached despair.

The faithful Paulo obeyed the hasty summons of his master, but he had not succeeded in obtaining in­telligence of Ellena; and Vivaldi, having dismissed him again on the same enquiry, retired to his apart­ment, where the excess of grief, and the feeble hope of devising some successful mode of remedy, alternately agitated and detained him.

In the evening, restless and anxious for change, though scarcely knowing whither to bend his course, he l [...]ft the palace, and strolled down to the sea-beach. A few fishermen and lazzaroni only were loitering along the strand, waiting for boats from St. Lucia. Vivaldi with folded arms, and his hat drawn over his face to shade his sorrow from observation, paced the edge of the waves, listening to their murmur, as they broke gently at his feet, and gazing upon their undulating beauty, while all consciousness was lost in melancholy reverie concerning Ellena. Her late residence ap­peared [Page 153] at a distance, rising over the shore. He remem­bered how often from thence they had together view­ed this lovely scene! Its features had now lost their charm; they were colourless and uninteresting, or im­pressed only mournful ideas. The sea fluctuating be­neath the setting sun, the long mole and its light-house tipped with the last rays, fishermen reposing in the shade, little boats, skimming over the smooth waters, which their oars scarcely dimpled; these were images that brought to his recollection the affecting evening when he had last seen this picture from the villa Altie­r [...], when seated in the orangery with Ellena and Bi­anchi on the night preceding the death of the latter, Ellean herself had so solemnly been given to his care, and had so affectingly consented to the dying request of her relative.

The recollection of that scene came to Vivaldi with all the force of contrast, and renewed all the anguish of despair; he paced the beach with quicker steps, and long groans burst from his heart. He accused himself of indifference and inactivity, for having been thus long unable to discover a single circumstance which might direct his search; and though he knew not whi­ther to go, he determined to leave Naples immediately, and return no more to his father's mansion till he should have rescued Ellena.

Of some fishermen who were conversing together upon the beach, he enquired, whether they could ac­commodate him with a boat, in which he meant to coast the bay; for it appeared probable that Ellena had been conveyed from Altieri by water, to some town or con­vent on the shore, the privacy and facility of such a mode of conveyance being suitable to the designs of her enemies.

"I have but one boat, Signor," said the fisherman, "and that is busy enough in going to and fro between here and Santa Lucia, but my comrade, here, perhaps, can serve you. What, Carlo, can you help the Signor [Page 154] to your little skiff? the other, I know has enough to do in the trade."

His comrade, however, was too much engaged with a party of three or four men, who were listening in deep attention round him, to reply; Vivaldi advancing to urge the question, was struck by the eagerness with which he delivered his narrative, as well as the un­couthness of his gesticulation; and he paused a moment in attention. One of the auditors seemed to doubt of something that had been asserted. "I tell you," re­plied the narrator, "I used to carry fish there two and three times a week, and very good sort of people they were; they have laid out many a ducat with me in their time. But as I was saying, when I got there, and knocked upon the door, I heard, all of a sudden, a huge groaning, and presently I heard the voice of the old housekeeper herself, roaring out for help; but I could give her none, for the door was fastened; and while I ran away for assistance to old Bartoli, you know old Bartoli, he lives by the road side as you go to Naples; well while I ran to him, comes a Signor, and jumps through the window and [...]ets her at liberty at once. So then, I heard the whole story."—

"What story?" said Vivaldi, "and of whom do you speak?"

"All in good time, Maestro, you shall hear," said the fisherman, who looking at him for a moment, ad­ded, "Why, Signor, it should be you I saw there, you should be the very Signor that let Beatrice loose."

Vivaldi, who had scarcely doubted before, that it was Al [...]ieri, of which the man had spoken, now asked a thousand questions respecting the route the ruffians had taken Ellena, but obtained no relief to his anxiety.

"I should not wonder," said a Lazzaro, who had been listening to the relation; "I should not wonder if the carriage that passed Bracelli early on the same morning, with the blinds drawn up, though it was so [Page 155] hot that people could scarcely breathe in the open air, should prove to be it which carried off the lady!"

This hint was sufficient to re-animate Vivaldi, who collected all the information the Lazzaro could give, which was, however, little more than that a carriage, such as he described, had been seen by him, driving furiously through Bracelli, early on the morning men­tioned as that of Signora di Rosalba's departure. Vi­valdi had now no doubt as to its being the one which conveyed her away, and he determined to set out im­mediately for that place, where he hoped to obtain from the post-master further intelligence concerning the road she had pursued.

With this intention he returned once more to his father's mansion, not to acquaint him with his pur­pose, or to bid him farewel, but to await the return of his servant Paulo, who he meant should accompany him in the search. Vivaldi's spirits were now animated with hope, slender as were the circumstances that sup­ported it; and, believing his design to be wholly un­suspected by those who would be disposed to interrupt it, he did not guard either against the measures, which might impede his departure from Naples, or those which might overtake him on his journey.

CHAP. X.

THE Marchesa, alarmed at some hints dropped by Vivaldi in the late interview between them, and by some circumstances of his latter conduct, sum­moned her constant adviser, Schedoni. Still suffer­ing with the insult he had received in the church of Spirito Santo, he obeyed with sullen reluctance, yet not without a malicious hope of discovering some oppor­tunity fo retaliation. That insult, which had pointed forth his hypocrisy, and ridiculed the solemn abstrac­tion he assumed, had sunk deep in his heart, and fer­menting the direct passions of his nature, he meditated a terrible revenge. It had subjected him to mortifi­cations of various kinds. Ambition, it has already appeared, was one of his strongest motives of action, and he had long since assumed a character of severe sanctity, chiefly for the purposes of lifting him to promotion. He was not beloved in the society of which he was a member; and many of the brotherhood, who had laboured to disapp [...]t his views, and to detect his error, who had hated him for his pride, and envied him for his reputed sanctity, now gloried in the mor­tification [...]e had received, and endeavoured to turn the circumstance to their own advantage. They had not scrupled already to display by insinuation and pointed sneers, their triumph, and to menace his reputation; and S [...]h [...]doni, though he deserved contempt, was not of a temper to [...] it.

But above all, some hints respecting his past life, which had fa [...]len from Vivaldi, and which occasioned him so abruptly to leave the church, alarmed him. So much terror, indeed, had they excited, that it is not [Page 157] improbable that he would have sealed his secret in death, devoting Vivaldi to the grave, had he not been restrained by the dreaded vengeance of the Vivaldi fa­mily. Since that hour he had known no peace, and had never slept; he had taken scarcely any food, and was almost continually on his knees upon the steps of the high altar. The devotees who beheld him, paus­ed and admired; such of the brothers as disliked him, sneered and passed on. Schedoni appeared alike in­sensible to each; lost to this world, and preparing for a higher.

The torments of his mind and the severe penance he had observed, had produced a surprising change in his appearance, so that he resembled a spectre rather than a human being. His visage was wan and wasted, his eyes were sunk and become nearly motionless, and his whole air and attitudes axhibited the wild energy of something—not of this earth.

When he was summoned by the Marchesa, his con­science whispered this to be the consequence of cir­cumstances, which Vivaldi had revealed; and, at first, he had determined not to attend her; but, consider­ing that if it was so, his refusal would confirm sus­picion, he, resolved to trust once more to the subtilty of his address for deliverence.

With these apprehensions, tempered by this hope, he entered the Marchesa's closet. She almost started on observing him, and could not immediately withdraw her eyes from his altered visage, while Schedoni was unable wholly to conceal the perturbation which such earnest observation occasioned. "Peace rest with you, daughter!" said he, and he seated him­self, without lifting his eyes from the floor.

"I wish to speak with you, father, upon affairs of moment," said the Marchesa gravely, "which are probably not unknown to you." She paused, and Sche­doni [Page 158] bowed his head, awaiting in anxious expectation what was to follow.

"You are silent, father," resumed the Marchesa. "What am I to understand by this?"

"That you have been misinformed," replied Sche­doni, whose apt conscience betrayed his discretion.

"Pardon me," said the Marchesa, "I am too well informed, and should not have requested your visit if any doubt had remained upon my mind."

"Signora! be cautious of what you credit," said the confessor imprudently; "you know not the con­sequence of a hasty credulity."

"Would that mine were a rash credulity!" replied the Marchesa; "but—we are betrayed."

"We?" repeated the monk, beginning to revive: "What has happened▪"

The Marchesa informed him of Vivaldi's absence, and inferred from its length, for it was now several days since his departure, that he had certainly discovered the place of Ellena's confinement, as well as the au­thors of it.

Schedoni differed from her, but hinted, that the obedience of youth was hopeless, u [...]ss severer mea­sures were adopted.

"Severer!" exclaimed the Marchesa; "good fa­ther, is it not severe enough to confine her for life?"

"I mean severer with respect to your son, lady," replied Schedoni. "When a young man has so far overcome all reverence for an holy ordinance as pub­licly to insult its professors, and yet more, when that professor is in the very performance of his duties, it is time he should be contrould with a strong hand. I am not in the practice of advised to such measures, but the conduct of Signor Vivaldi is such as calls aloud for them. Public decency demands it. For myself, indeed, I should have endured patiently the [...]ndignity which has been offered me, receiving it as [Page 159] a salutary mortification, as one of those inflictions that purify the soul the from pride, which even the holiest men may unconsciously cherish. But I am no longer permitted to consider myself; the public good requires that an example should be made of the horrible impi­ety of which your son, it grieves me, daughter, to dis­close it!—your son, unworthy of such a mother! has been guilty."

It is evident that in the style, at least, of this accu­sation, Schedoni suffered the force of his resentment to prevail over the usual subtilty of his address, the deep and smooth insinuation of his policy.

"To what do you allude, righteous father!" en­quired the astonished Marchesa; "what indignity, what imp [...]ety has my son to answer for? I entreat you will speak explicitly, that I may prove I can lose the mother in the strict severity of the judge."

"That is spoken with the gradeur of sentiment, which has always distinguished you my daughter! Strong minds perceive that justice is the highest of the moral attributes, mercy is only the favourite of weak ones."

Schedoni had a view in this commendation beyond that of confirming the Marchesa's present resolution against Vivaldi. He, wished to prepare her for mea­sures, which might hereafter be necessary to accomplish the revenge he meditated, and he knew that by flat­tering her vanity, he was most likely to succeed. He praised her, therefore, for qualities he wished her to possess, encouraged her to reject general opinions by admiring as the symptoms of a superior understanding, the convenient morality upon which she had occasi­onally acted; and, calling sternness justice, extolled that for strength of mind, which was only callous insensibility.

He then described to her Vivaldi's late conduct in the church of the Spi [...]ito Santo, exaggerated some [Page 160] offensive circumstances of it, invented others, and formed of the whole an instance of monstrous impiety and unprovoked insult.

The Marchesa listened to the relation with no less indignation that surprise, and her readiness to adopt the confessor's advice allowed him to depart-with re­novated spirits and most triumphant hopes.

Meanwhile, the Marchese remained ignorant of the subject of the conference with Schedoni. His opinions had formerly been sounded, and having been found decidedly against the dark policy it was thought expe­dient to practise, he was never afterwards consulted respecting Vivaldi. Parental anxiety and affection began to revive as the lengthened absence of his son was observed. Though jealous of his rank, he loved Vivaldi; and, though he never positively believed that he designed to enter into a sacred engagement with a person, whom the Marchese considered to be so much his inferior as Ellena, he had suffered doubts, which gave him considerable uneasiness. The present ex­traordinary absence of Vivaldi renewed his alarm. He apprehended that if she was discovered at this moment, when the fear of losing her for ever, and the exasperation, which such complicated opposition occa­sioned, had awakened all the passions of his son, this rash young man might be prevailed upon to secure her for his own by the indissoluble vow. On the other hand, he dreaded the effect of Vivaldi's despair, should he fail in the pursuit; and thus, fearing at one moment that for which he wished in the next, the Marchese suffered a tumult of mind inferior only to his son's.

The instructions, which he delivered to the servants whom he sent in pursuit of Vivaldi, were given under such distraction of thought, that scarcely any person perfectly understood his commission; and, as the Mar­chesa had been careful to conceal from him her know­ledge [Page 161] of Ellena's abode, he gave no direction con­cerning the route to San Stefano.

While the Marchese at Naples was thus employed, and while Schedoni was forming further plans against Ellena, Vivaldi was wandering from village to village, and from town to town, in pursuit of her, whom all his efforts had hitherto been unsuccessful to recover. From the people at the post-house at Bracelli, he had obtained little information that could direct him; they only knew that a carriage, such as had been already described to Vivaldi, with the blinds drawn up, chang­ed horses there that morning, which he [...]membered to be that of Ellena's departure, and had proceeded on the road to Morgagni.

When Vivaldi arrived thither, all trace of Ellena was lost; the master of the post could not recollect a single circumstance connected with the travellers, and even if he had noticed them, it would have been insufficient for Vivaldi's purpose, unless he had also observed the road they followed; for at this place se­veral roads branched off into opposite quarters of the country; Vivaldi, therefore, was reduced to chuse of these as chance or fancy directed; and as it appeared probable that the Marchesa had conveyed Ellena to a convent, he determined to make enquires at every one on his way.

He had now passed over some of the wildest tracts of the Appennine, among scenes which seemed aban­doned by civilized society to the banditti who haunted their recesses. Yet even here amidst wilds, that were nearly inaccessible, convents, with each its small de­pendent hamlet, were scattered, and shrouded from the world by woods and mountains, enjoyed unsuspected­ly many of its luxuries, and displayed unnoticed, some of its elegance. Vivaldi, who had visited several of these in search of Ellena, had been surprised at the [Page 162] refined courtesy and hospitality with which he was received.

It was on the seventh day of his journey, and near sun-set, that he was bewildered in the woods of Rugi­eri. He had received a direction for the road he was to take at a village some leagues distant, and had obey­ed it confidently till now, when the path was lost in several tracts that branched out among the trees. The day was closing, and Vivaldi's spirits began to fail, but Paulo, light of heart and ever gay, commend­ed the shade and pleasant freshness of the woods, and observed, that if his master did lose his way, and was obliged to remain here for the night, it could not be very unlucky, for they could climb among the branches of a chesnut, and find a more neat and airy lodging than any inn had yet afforded them.

While Paulo was thus endeavouring to make the best of what might happen, and his master was sunk in reverie, they suddenly heard the sound of instru­ments and voices from a distance. The gloom, which the trees threw round, prevented their distinguish­ing objects afar off, and not a single human being was visible, nor any trace of his art, beneath the sha­dowy scene. They listened to ascertain from what direction the sounds approached, and heard a chorus of voices, accompanied by a few instruments, perform­ing the evening service.

"We are near a convent, Signor," said Paulo, "listen! they are at their devotions."

"It is as you say," replied Vivaldi; "and we will make the best of our way towards it."

"Well, Signor! I must say, if we find as good do­ings here as we had at the Capuchin's, we shall have no reason to regret our beds alfresco among the ches­nut branches."

"Do you perceive any walls or spires beyond the trees?" said Vivaldi, as he led the way.

[Page 163] "None, Signor," replied Paulo; "yet we draw nearer the sounds. Ah, Signor? do you hear that note? How it dies away? And those instruments just touched in symphony! This is not the music of peasants; a convent must be near, though we do not see it."

Still as they advanced, no walls appeared, and soon after the music ceased; but other sounds led Vivaldi forward to a pleasant part of the woods, where the trees opening, he perceived a party of pilgrims seated on the grass. They were laughing and conversing with much gaiety, as each spread before him the supper, which he drew from his scrip; while he, who appear­ed to be the Father-Director of the pilgrimage, sat with a jovial countenance in the midst of the com­pany, dispensing jokes and merry stories, and receiving in return a tribute from every scrip. Wines of vari­ous sorts were ranged before him, of which he drank abundantly, and seemed not, to refuse any dainty that was offered.

Vivaldi, whose apprehensions were now quieted, stopped to observe the groupe, as the evening rays, glancing along the skirts of the wood, threw a gleam upon their various countenances, shewing, however, in each a spirit of gaiety that might have characterised the individuals of a party of pleasure, father than those of a pilgrimage. The Father Director and his [...]lock seemed perfectly to under each other; the Superior willingly resigned the solemn austerity of his office, and permitted the company to make themselves as happy as possible, in consideration of receiving plenty of the most delicate of their viands; yet somewhat of dignity was mingled with his condescensions, that compelled them to receive even his jokes with a de­gree of deference, and perhaps they laughed at them less for their spirit than because they were favours.

Addressing the Superior, Vivaldi requested to be [Page 164] directed how he might regain his way. The father examined him for a moment before he replied, but observing the elegance of his dress, and a certain [...] of distinction; and perceiving, also, that Paulo was his servant, he promised his services, and invited him to take a s [...]at at his right hand, and partake of the supper.

Vivaldi, understanding that the party was going his road, accepted the invitation, when Paulo, having fastened the horses to a tree, soon became busy with the supper. While Vivaldi conversed with the father, Paulo engrosed all the attention of the pilgrims near him; they declared he was the cleverest and the mer­riest fellow they had ever seen, and often expressed [...] a wish that he was going as far with them as to the shrine in a convent of Carmelites which terminated their pilgrimage. When Vivaldi understood that this shrine was in the church of a convent, partly inhabit­ed by nuns, and that it was little more than a league and a half distant, he determined to accompany them, for it was as possible that Ellena was confined there as in any other cloister; and of her being imprisoned in some convent, he had less doubt, the more he consider­ed the character and views of his mother. He set forward, therefore, with the pilgrims, and on foot, having resigned his horse to the weary Father-Di­rector.

Darkness closed over them long before they reach­ed the village where they designed to pass the night; but they beguiled the way with songs and stories, now and then only stopping at command of the Father, to repent some prayer or sing a hymn. But, as they drew near a village, at the base of the mountain on which the shrine stood, they halted to arrange themselves in procession; and the Superior having stopped short in the midst of one of his best jokes, dismounted Vival­di's horse, placed himself at their head, and beginning [Page 165] a loud strain, they proceeded in full chorus of melan­choly music.

The peasants hearing their sonorous voices, came [...]orth to meet and conduct them to their cabins. The village was already crowded with devotees, but these poor peasants, looking up to them with love and re­verence, made every possible contrivance to accommo­date all who came; notwithstanding which, when Paulo soon after turned into his bed of straw, he had more reasons than one to regret his chesnut [...]attress.

Vivaldi passed an anxious night, waiting impati­ently for the dawning of that day, which might possi­bly restore to him Ellena. Considering that a pil­grim's habit would not only conceal him from suspi­cion, but allow him opportunities for observation, which his own dress would not permit, he employed Paulo to provide him one. The address of the ser­vant, assisted by a single ducat, easily procured it, and at an early hour he set forward on his enquiry.

CHAP. XI.

A FEW devotees only had begun to ascend the mountain, and Vivaldi kept aloof even from these, pursuing a lonely track, for his thoughtful mind de­sired solitude. The early breeze sighing among the foliage, that waved high over the path, and the hol­low da [...]hing of distant waters, he listened to with com­placency, for these were sounds which soothed yet promoted his melancholy mood; and he sometimes rested to gaze upon the scenery around him, for this too was in harmony with the temper of his mind. Dis­appointment had subdued the wilder energy of his pas­sions, and produced a solemn and lofty state of feeling; he viewed with pleasing sadness the dark rocks and precipices, the gloomy mountains and vast solitudes, that spread around him; nor was the convent that he was approaching a less sacred feature of the scene, as its gray walls and pinacles appeared beyond the dusky groves. "Ah! if it should enclose her!" said Vival­di, as he caught a first glimpse of its hall. "Vain hope! I will not invite your illusions again, I will not expose myself to the agonies of new disappoint­ment; I will search, but not expect. Yet, if she should be there!"

Having reached the gates of the convent, he pass­ed with hasty steps into the court; where his emo­tion encreased as he paused a moment and looked round its silent cloisters. The porter only appeared, when Vivaldi, fearful lest he should perceive him not to be a pilgrim, drew his hood over his face, and ga­thering up his garments still closer in his folded arms, [Page 167] passed on without speaking, though he know not which of the avenues before him led to the shrine. He ad­vanced, however, towards the church, a stately edi­fice, from the other parts of the convent. Its highly vaulted aisles, extending in twilight perspective, where a monk or a pilgrim only, now and then cross­ed, whose dark figures, passing without sound, vanish­ed like shadows; the universal stillness of the place, the gleam of tapers from the high altar, and of lamps, which gave a gloomy pomp to every shrine in the church: all these circumstances conspired to impress a sacred awe upon his heart.

He followed some devotees through a side aisle to a court, that was overhung by a tremendous rock, in which was a cave, containing the shrine of our Lady of Mount Carmel. This court was enclosed by the rock, and by the choir of the church, except that to the south a small opening led the eye to a glimpse of the land­scape below, which, seen beyond the dark jaws of the cliff, appeared free, and light, and gaily coloured, melt­ing away into the blue and distant mountains.

Vivaldi entered the cave, where, enclosed within a filigree screen of gold, lay the image of the saint, de­corated with flowers, and lighted up by innumer­able lamps and tapers. The steps of the shrine were thronged with kneeling pilgrims, and Vivaldi, to a­void singularity, kneeled also; till a high peal of the organ, at a distance, and the de [...]p voices of choiristers announced that the first mass was begun. He left the cave, and, returning into the church, loitered at an extremity of the aisles, where he listened awhile to the solemn harmony pealing along the roofs, and soften­ing away in distance. It was such full and entranc­ing music as frequently swells in the high festivals of the Sicilian church, and is adapted to inspire that sub­lime enthusiasm, which sometimes elevates its disci­ples. Vivaldi, unable to endure long the excess of [Page 168] feeling, which this harmony awakened was leaving the church, when suddenly it ceased, and the tolling of a bell sounded in its stead. This seemed to be the knell of death, and it occurred to him, that a dying per­son was approaching to receive the last sacrament; when he heard remotely a warbling of female voices, mingling with the deeper tones of the monks, and with the hollow note of the bell, as it struck at intervals. So sweetly, so plaintively, did the strain grow on the air, that those who listened, as well as those, who sung, were touched with sorrow, and seemed equally to mourn for a departing friend.

Vivaldi hastened to the choir, the pavement of which was strewn with palm-branches and fresh flow­ers. A pall of black velvet lay upon the steps of the altar, where several priests were silently attending. Every where appeared the ensigns of solemn pomp and ceremony, and in every countenance the stillness and observance of expectation. Meanwhile the sounds draw nearer, and Vivaldi perceived a procession of nuns approaching from a distant aisle.

As they advanced, he distinguished the lady abbess leading the train, dressed in her pontifical robes, with the mitre on her head; and well he marked her stately step, moving in time to the slow minstrelsy, and the air of proud yet graceful dignity, with which she cha­racterized herself. Then followed the nuns, accord­ing to their several orders, and last came the novices, carrying lighted tapers, and surrounded by other nuns, who were distinguished by a particular habit.

Having reached a part of the church appropriated for their reception, they arranged themselves in order. Vivaldi, with a palpitating heart, enquired the occa­sion of the ceremony, and was told that a nun was going to be professed.

"You are informed, no doubt, brother," added th [...] prior who gave him this intelligence, "that on the [Page 169] morning of our high festival, our Lady's day, it is usual for such as devote themselves to heaven, to receive the veil. Stand bye a while, and you will see the ceremony.

"What is the name of the novice who is now to receive it?" said Vivaldi, in a voice whose tremulous accents betrayed his emotion.

The friar glanced an eye of scrutiny upon him, as he replied, "I know not her name, but if you will step a little this way, I will point her out to you."

Vivaldi, drawing his hood over his face, obeyed in silence.

"It is she on the right of the abbess," said the stranger, "who leans on the arm of a nun, she is covered with a white veil, and is taller than her com­panions."

Vivaldi observed her with a fearful eye, and though he did not recognize the person of Ellena, yet, whe­ther it was that his fancy was possessed with her image, or that there was truth in his surmise, he thought he perceived a resemblance of her. He enquired how long the novice had resided in the convent, and many other par [...]iculars, to which the stranger could not or dared not reply.

With what anxious solicitude did Vivaldi endeavour to look through the veils of several nuns in search of Ellena, whom he believed the barbarous policy of his mother might already have devoted to the cloister! With a solicitude still stronger he tried to catch a glimpse of the features of the novices, but their faces were shaded by hoods, and their white veils, though thrown half back, were disposed in such artful folds that they concealed them from observation, as effectu­ally as did the pendant lawn the features of the nuns.

The ceremony began with the exhortation of the Father-Abbot, delivered with a solemn energy; then the novice kneeling before him, made her pro [...]ssion, [Page 170] for which Vivaldi listened with intense attention, but it was delivered in such low and trembling accents, that he could not ascertain even the tone. But dur­ing the anthem that mingled with the ensuing part of the service, he thought he distinguished the voice of Ellena, that touching and well-known voice, which in the church of San Lorenzo had first attracted his attention. He listened, scarcely daring to draw breath, lest he should lose a note; and again he fancied her voice spoke in a part of the plaintive response deliver­ed by the nuns.

Vivaldi endeavoured to command his emotion, and to await with patience some further unfolding of the truth; but when the priest prepared to withdraw the white veil from the face of the novice, and throw the black one over her, dreadful expectation that she was Ellena seized him, and he with difficulty forbore step­ping forward and discovering himself on the instant.

The veil was at length withdrawn, and a very love­ly face appeared, but not Ellena's. Vivaldi breathed again, and waited with tolerable composure for the conclusion of the ceremony; till in the solemn strain that followed the putting on of the black veil, he heard again the voice, which he was now convinced was her's. Its accents were low, and mournful, and tremulous, yet his heart acknowledged instantaneous­ly their magic influence.

When this ceremony had concluded, another began; and he was told it was that of a noviciation. A young woman, supported by two nuns, advanced to the altar, and Vivaldi thought he beheld Ellena. The priest was beginning the customary exhortation, when she lifted her half-veil, and, shewing a counte­nance where meek sorrow was mingled with heavenly sweetness, raised her blue eyes, all bathed in tears, and waved her hand as if she would have spoken.—It was Ellena herself.

[Page 171] The pri [...]st attempted to proceed.

"I protest in the presence of this congregation," said she solemnly, "that I am brought hither to pro­nounce vows which my heart disclaims. I protest"—

A confusion of voices interrupted her, and at the same instant she perceived Vivaldi rushing towards the altar. Ellena gazed for a moment, and then, stretching forth her supplicating hands towards him, closed her eyes, and sunk into the arms of some per­sons round her, who vainly endeavoured to prevent him from approaching and assisting her. The anguish, with which he bent over her lifeless form, and called upon her name, excited the commiseration even of the nuns, and especially Olivia, who was most assiduous in efforts to revive her young friend.

When Ellena unclosed her eyes, and looking up, once more beheld Vivaldi, the expression with which she regarded him, told that her heart was unchanged, and that she was unconscious of the miseries of impri­sonment while he was with her. She desired to with­draw, and, assisted by Vivaldi and Olivia, was leaving the church, when the abbess ordered that she should be attended by the nuns only; and, retiring from the al­tar, she gave directions that the young stranger should be conducted to the parlour of the convent.

Vivaldi, though he refused to obey an imperious command, yielded to the entreaties of Ellena, and to the gentle remonstrances of Olivia; and bidding El­lena farewell for a while, he repaired to the parlour of the abbess. He was not without some hope of awakening her to a sense of justice, or of pity; but he found that her notions of right were inexorably against him, and that pride and resentment usurped the in­fluence of every other feeling. She began her lecture with expressing the warm friendship she had so long cherished for the Marchesa, proceeded to lament that the son of a friend, whom she so highly esteemed, [Page 172] should have forgotten his duty to his parents, and the observance due to the dignity of his house, so far as to seek connection with a person of Ellena di Rosalba's inferior station; and concluded with a severe repri­mand for having disturbed the tranquility of her con­vent and the decorum of the church by his intrusion.

Vivaldi listened with submitting patience to this mention of morals and decorum from a person, who, with the most perfect self-applause, was violating some of the plainest obligations of humanity and justice; who had conspired to tear an orphan from her home, and who designed to deprive her for life of liberty, with all the blessings it inherits. But, when she pro­ceeded to speak of Ellena with the caustic of severe reprobation, and to hint at the punishment, which her public rejection of the vows had incurred, the pati­ence of Vivaldi submitted no longer; indignation and contempt rose high against the Superior, and he exhi­bited a portrait of herself in the strong colours of truth. But the mind, which compassion could not persuade, reason could not appal; selfishness had hardened it a­like to the influence of each; her pride only was affected, and she retaliated the mortification she suffer­ed by menace and denunciation.

Vivaldi, on quitting her apartment, had no other resource than an application to the Abate, whose in­fluence, at least, if not his authority, might assuage the severity of her power. In this Abate, a mildness of temper, and gentleness of manner were qualities of less value than is usually and deservedly imputed to them; for, being connected with feebleness of mind, they were but the pleasing merits of easy times, which in an hour of difficulty never assumed the character of virtues, by inducing him to serve those, for whom he might feel. And thus, with a temper and disposition directly opposite to those of the severe and violent ab­bess, he was equally selfish, and almost equally culpa­ble, [Page 173] since by permitting evil, he was nearly as injuri­ous in his conduct as those who planned it. Indolence and timidity, a timidity the consequence of want of clear perception, deprived him of all energy of cha­racter; he was prudent rather than wise, and so fear­ful of being thought to do wrong that he seldom did right.

To Vivaldi's temperate representations and earnest entreaties that he would exert some authority towards liberating Ellena, he listened with patience; acknow­ledged the hardships of her situation; lamented the unhappy divisions between Vivaldi and his family, and then declined advancing a single step in so delicate an affair. Signora di Rosalba, he said, was in the care of the abbess, over whom he had no right of control in matters relative to her domestic concerns. Vivaldi then supplicated, that, though he possessed no authority, he would, at least, intercede or remonstrate against so unjust a procedure as that of detaining Ellena a pri­soner, and assist in restoring her to the home, from which she had been forcibly carried.

"And this, again," replied the Abate, "does not come within my jurisdiction; and I make it a rule not to encroach upon that of another person."

"And can you endure, holy father," said Vivaldi, "to witness a flagrant act of injustice and not endea­vour to counteract it? not even step forward to rescue the victim when you perceive the preparation for the sacrifice?"

"I repeat, that I never interfere with the authority of others," replied the Superior; "having asserted my own, I yield to them in their sphere, the obedience which I require in mine."

Is power then," said Vivaldi, "the infallible test of justice? Is it morality to obey where the command is criminal? The whole world have a claim upon the fortitude, the active fortitude of those who are placed [Page 174] as you are, between the alternative of confirming a wrong by your consent, or preventing it by your re­sistance. Would that your heart expanded towards that world, reverend father!"

"Would that the whole world were wrong that you might have the glory of setting it right!" said the Abate, smiling. "Young man! you are an en­thusiast, and I pardon you. You are a knight of chi­valry, who would go about the earth fighting with every body by way of proving your right to do good; it is unfortunate that you were born somewhat [...] late."

"Enthusiasm in the cause of humanity"—said Vi­valdi, but he checked himself; and despairing of touch­ing a heart so hardened by selfish prudence, and indig­nant at beholding an apathy so vicious in its conse­quence, he left the Abate without other effort. He perceived that he must now have recourse to further stratagem, a recourse which his frank and noble mind detested, but he had already tried without success, eve­ry other possibility of rescuing the innocent victim of the Marchesa's prejudice and pride.

Ellena meanwhile had retired to her cell, agitated by a variety of considerations, and contrary emotions, of which, however, those of joy and tenderness were long predominant. Then came anxiety, apprehensi­on, pride, and doubt, to divide and torture her heart. It was true that Vivaldi had discovered her prison, but, if it were possible, that he could release her, she must consent to quit it with him; a step from which a mind so tremblingly jealous of propriety as hers, re­coiled with alarm, though it would deliver her from captivity. And how, when she considered the haugh­ty character of the Marchese di Vivaldi, the imperious and vindictive nature of the Marchesa, and, still mor [...], their united repugnance to a connection with her, how could she endure to think, even for a moment, of in­truding [Page 175] herself into such a family! Pride, delicacy, good sense seemed to warn her against a conduct so humiliating and vexatious in its consequences, and to exhort her to preserve her own dignity by indepen­dence, but the [...]steem, the friendship, the tender af­fection, which she had cherished for Vivaldi, made her pause, and shrink with emotions, of little less than horror, from the eternal renunciation, which so dig­nified a choice required. Though the encourage­ment, which her deceased relative had given to this at­tachment, seemed to impart to it a sacred character, that considerably soothed the alarmed delicacy of El­lena, the approbation thus implied, had no power to silence her own objections, and she would have re­gretted the mistaken zeal, which had contributed to lead her into the present distressing situation, had she revered the memory of her aunt, or loved Vivaldi, less. Still, however, the joy, which his presence had occasi­oned, and which the consciousness that he was still near her had prolonged, was not subdued, though it was frequently obscured by such anxious considerati­ons. With jealous and indiscreet solicitude, she now recollected every look, and the accent of every word, which had told that his affection was undiminished, thus seeking, with inconsistent zeal for a conviction of the very tenderness, which but a moment [...]efore she had thought it would be prudent to lament, and almost necessary to renounce.

She awaited with extreme anxiety the appearance of Olivia, who probably might know the result of Vivaldi's conference with the abbess, and whether he was yet in the convent.

In the evening Olivia came, a messenger of evil; and Ellena, informed of the conduct of the abbess, and the consequent departure of Vivaldi, perceived all her courage, and all the half-formed resolutions, which a consideration of his family had suggested, faulter and [Page 176] expire. Sensible only of grief and despondency, she ascertained, for the first time the extent of her affection and the severity of her situation. She perceived, also, that the injustice which his family had exercised to­wards her, absolved her from all consideration of their displeasure, otherwise than as it might affect herself; but this was a conviction, which it were now proba­bly useless to admit.

Olivia not only expressed the tenderest interest in her welfare but seemed deeply affected with her situ­ation; and, whether it was, that the nun's misfortunes bore some resemblance to Ellena's, or from whatever cause, it is remarkable that her eyes were often filled with tears, while she regarded her young friend, and she betrayed so much emotion that Ellena noticed it with surprise. She was, however, too delicate to hint any curiosity on the subject; and too much engaged by a nearer interest to dwell long upon the circum­stance.

When Olivia withdrew, Ellena retired to her tur­ret, to soothe her spirits with a view of serene and majestic nature, a recourse which seldom failed to ele­vate her mind and soften the asperities of affliction.—It was to her like sweet and solemn music, breathing peace over the soul—like the oaten stop of Milton's Spirit,

While she sat before a window, observing the even­ing light beaming upon the valley, and touching all the distant mountains with misty purple, a reed as sweet, though not as fanciful, sounded from among the rocks below. The instrument and the character of the strain were such as she had been unaccustomed to hear [Page 177] within the walls of San Stefano, and the tone diffused over her spirits a pleasing melancholy, that rapt all her attention. The liquid cadence as it trembled and sunk away, seemed to tell the dejection of no vulgar feelings, and the exquisite taste, with which the com­plaining notes again swelled, almost convinced her, that the musician was Vivaldi.

On looking from the lattice, she perceived a person perched on a point of the cliff below, whither it ap­peared almost impracticable for any human step to have climbed, and preserved from the precipice only by some dwarf shrubs that fringed the brow. The twilight did not permit her immediately to ascertain whether it was Vivaldi, and the situation was so dan­gerous that she hoped it was not he. Her doubts were removed, when, looking up, he perceived Elle­na, and she heard his voice.

Vivaldi had learned from a lay-brother of the con­vent, whom Paulo had bribed, and who when he work­ed in the garden, had sometimes seen Ellena at the window, that she frequented this remote turret; and, at the hazard of his life, he had now ventured thither, with a hope of conversing with her.

Ellena, alarmed at his tremendus situation, refused to listen to him, but he would not leave the spot till he had communicated a plan concerted for her escape, and, entreating that she would confide herself to his care, assured her she would be conducted wherever she judged proper. It appeared that the brother had con­sented to assist his views, in consideration of an ample reward, and to admit him within the walls on this evening, when, in his pilgrim's habit, he might have an opportunity of again seeing Ellena. He conjured her to attend, if possible, in the convent parlour dur­ing supper, explaining, in a few words, the motive for this request, and the substance of the following particulars:

[Page 178] The Lady-abbess, in observance of the custom up­on high festivals, gave a collation to the Padre-abate, and such of the priests as had assisted at the vesper-service. A few strangers of distinction and pilgrims were also to partake of the entertainments of this night, among which was included a concert to be performed by the nuns. At the collation was to be displayed a profusion of delicacies, arranged by the sisters, who had been busy in preparing the pastry and confectionary du­ring several days, and who excelled in these articles no less than in embroid [...]ry and other ingenious arts. This supper was to be given in the abbess's outer parlour, while she herself, attended by some nuns of high rank, and a few favourites, was to have a table in the in­ner apartment, where, separated only by the grate, she could partake of the conversation of the holy fa­thers. The tables were to be ornamented with arti­ficial flowers, and a variety of other fanciful devices upon which the ingenuity of the sisters had been long employed, who prepared for these festivals with as much vanity, and expected them to dissipate the gloomy monotony of their usual life, with as much eagerness of delight, as a young beauty anticipates a first ball.

On this evening, therefore, every member of the convent would be engaged either by amusement or business, and to Vivaldi, who had been careful to in­form himself of these circumstances, it would be easy, with the assistance of the brother, to obtain admittance, and mingle himself among the spectators, disguised in his pilgrim's habit. He entreated, therefore, that El­lena would contrive to be in the abbess's apartment this evening, when he would endeavour to convey to her some further particulars of the plan of escape, and would have mules in waiting at the foot of the moun­tain, to conduct her to the villa Altieri, or to the neighbouring convent of the Santa della Pieta. Vi­valdi secretly hoped that she might be prevailed with [Page 179] to give him her hand on quitting San Stefano, but he forbore to mention this hope, lest it should he mis­taken for a condition, and that Ellena might be either reluctant to accept his assistance, or, accepting it, might consider herself bound to grant a hasty consent.

To his mention of escape she listened with varying emotion; at one moment attending to it with hope and joy, as promising her the only chance of liberation from an imprisonment, which was probably intended to last for her life, and of restoring her to Vivaldi; and at another, recoiling from the thought of departing with him, while his family was so decidedly averse to their marriage. Thus, unable to form any instant resolution on the subject, and entreating that he would leave his dangerous station before the thickening twi­light should encrease the hazard of his descent, Ellena, added, that she would endeavour to obtain admittance to the apartment of the abbess, and to acquaint him with her final determination. Vivaldi understood all the delicacy of her scruples, and though they afflicted him, he honoured the good sense and just pride that suggested them.

He lingered on the rock till the last moments of de­parting light, and then, with a heart fluttering with hopes and fears, bade Ellena farewel, and descended; while she watched his progress thro' the silent gloom, faintly distinguishing him gliding along ledges of the precipice, and making his adventurous way from cliff to cliff, till the winding thick [...]s concealed him from her view. Still anxious, she remained at the lattice, but he appeared no more; no voice announced dis­aster; and, at length, she returned to her cell, to deli­berate on the subject of her departure.

Her considerations were interrupted by Olivia, whofe manner indicated something extraordinary; the usual tranquility of her countenance was gone, and an air of grief mingled with apprehension appeared there. [Page 180] Before she spoke, she exammined the passage and looked round the cell. "It is as I feared," said she abruptly; "my suspicions are justified, and you, my child, are sacrificed, unless it were possible for you to quit the convent this night."

"What is it that you mean?" said the alarmed Ellena.

"I have just learned," resumed the nun, "that your conduct this morning, which is understood to have thrown a premeditated insult upon the abbess, is to be punished with what they call imprisonment; alas! why should I soften the truth—with what I believe is death itself, for who ever returned alive from that hi­deous chamber!"

"With death!" said Ellena, aghast; "Oh, heavens! how have I deserved death?"

"That is not the question, my daughter, but how you may avoid it. Within the deepest recesses of our convent, is a stone chamber, secured by doors of iron, to which such of the sisterhood as have been guilty of any heinous offence have, from time to time, been con­signed. This condemnation admits of no reprieve; the unfortunate captive is left to languish in chains and darkness, receiving only an allowance of bread and water just sufficient to prolong her sufferings, till nature at length, sinking under their intolerable pres­sure, obtains refuge in death. Our records relate several instances of such horrible punishment, which has generally been inflicted upon nuns, who, weary of the life which they have chos [...]n under the first delu­sions of the imagination, or which they have been compelled to accept by the rigour or a [...]rice of parents, have been detected in escaping from the con [...]ent."

The nun paused, but Ellena remaining rapt in silent thought, she resumed: "One miserable instance of this severity has occurred within my memory. I saw [Page 181] the wretched victim enter that apartment—never more to quit it alive! I saw, also, her poor remains laid at rest in the convent garden! During nearly two years she languished upon a bed of straw, denied even the poor consolation of conversing through the grate with such of the sisters as pitied her; and who of us was there that did not pity her! A severe punishment was threatened to those, who should approach with any compassionate intention; thank God! I incurred it, and I endured it, also with secret triumph."

A gleam of satisfaction passed over Olivia's coun­tenance as she spoke this; it was the sweetest that Ellena had ever observed there. With a sympathetic emotion, she threw herself on the bosom of the nun, and wept; for some moments they were both silent. Olivia, at length said, "Do you not believe, my child, that the officious and offended abbess will readily seize upon the circumstance of your disobedience, as a pre­tence for confining you in that fatal chamber? The wishes of the Marchesa will thus surely be accom­plished, without the difficulty of exacting your obe­dience to the vows. Alas! I have received proof too absolute of her intention, and that to-morrow is as­signed as the day of your sacrifice; you may, perhaps, be thankful that the business of the festival has obliged her to defer executing the sentence even till to-morrow."

Ellena replied only with a groan as her head still drooped upon the shoulder of the nun; she was not now hesitating whether to accept the assistance of Vi­valdi, bu [...] desponding lest his utmost efforts for her deliverance should be vain.

Olivia, who mistook the cause of her silence, added, "Other hints I could give, which are strong as they are dreadful, but I will forbear. Tell me how it is possible I may assist you; I am willing to incur a se­cond [Page 182] punishment, in endeavouring to relieve a second sufferer."

Ellena's tears flowed fast at this new instance of the nun's generosity. "But if they should discover you in assisting me to leave the convent," she said in a voice convulsed by her gratitude,—"O! if they should discover you!"—

"I can ascertain the punishment," Olivia replied with firmness, "and do not fear to meet it."

"How nobly generous this is!" said the weeping Ellena; "I ought not to suffer you to be thus care­less of yourself!"

"My conduct is not wholly disinterested," the nun modesty replied; "for I think I could endure any punishment with more fortitude than the sickening anguish of beholding such suffering as I have wit­nessed. What are bodily pains in comparison with the subtile, the exquisite tortures of the mind! Hea­ven knows I can support my own afflictions, but not the view of those of others when they are excessive. The instruments of torture I believe I could endure, if my spirit was invigorated with the consciousness of a generous purpose; but pity touches upon a nerve that vibrates instantly to the heart, and subdues resist­ance. Yes, my child, the agony of pity is keener than any other, except that of remorse, and even in remorse, it is, perhaps, the mingling unavailing pity, that points the sting. But while I am indulging this egotism, I am, perhaps, encreasing your danger of the suffering I deprecate."

Ellena, thus encouraged by the generous sympathy of Olivia, mentioned Vivaldi's proposed visit of this evening; and consulted with her on the probability of procuring admittance for herself to the abbess's parlour. Reanimated by this intelligence, Olivia ad­vised her to repair not only to the suppe [...]-room, but to attend the previous concert, to which several strangers [Page 183] would be admitted, among whom might probably be Vivaldi, When to this Ellena objected her dread of the abbess's observation, and of the immediate seclusion that would follow, Olivia soothed her sears of disco­very, by offering her the disguise of a nun's veil, and promising not only to conduct her to the apartment, but to afford her every possible assistance towards her escape.

"Among the crowd of nuns, who will attend in that spacious apartmen [...]," Olivia added, "it is impro­bable you would be distinguished, even if the sisters were less occupied by amusement, and the abbess were at leisure to scrutinize. As it is, you will hazard little danger of discovery; the Superior, if she thinks of you at all, will believe that you are still a prisoner in your cell, but this is an evening of too much im­portance to her vanity for any consideration, distinct from that emotion, to divide her attention. Let hope, therefore, support you, my child, and do you prepare a few lines to acquaint Vivaldi with your consent to his proposal, and with the urgency of your circum­stances; you may, perhaps, find an opportunity of conveying them through the grate."

They were still conversing on this subject, when a particular chime sounded, which Olivia said summon­ed the nuns to the concert-room; and she immediate­ly hastened for a black veil, while Ellena wrote a few lines that were necessary for Vivaldi.

CHAP. XII.

WRAPT in Olivia's veil, Ellena descended to the music-room, and mingled with the nuns, who were assembled within the grate. Among the monks and pilgrims without it, were some strangers in the usual dress of the country, but she did not perceive any person who resembled Vivaldi; and she considered, that, if he were present, he would not venture to dis­cover himself, while her nun's veil concealed her as effectually from him as from the lady abbess. It would be necessary, therefore, to seek an opportunity of with­drawing it for a moment at the grate, an expedient, which must certainly expose her to the notice of strangers.

On the entrance of the lady Abbess, Ellena's fear of observation rendered her insensible to every other con­sideration; she fancied, that the eyes of the Superior were particularly directed upon herself. The veil seemed an insufficient protection from their penetrat­ing glances, and she almost sunk with terror of instant discovery.

The Abbess, however, passed on, and, having con­versed for a few moments with the padre Abate and some visitors of distinction, took her chair; and the per­formance immediately opened with one of those so­lemn and impressive airs, which the Italian nuns know how to give with so much taste and sweetness. It re­scued even Ellena for a moment from a sense of dan­ger, and she resigned herself to the surrounding scene, of which the coup-d' [...]il, was striking and grand. In [Page 185] a vaulted apartment of considerable extent, lighted by innumerable tapers, and where even the ornaments, though pompous, partook of the solemn character of the institution, were assembled about fifty nuns, who, in the interesting habit of their order, appeared with graceful plainness. The delicacy of their air, and their beauty, softened by the lawn that thinly veiled it, were contrasted by the severe majesty of the lady Ab­bess, who, seated on an elevated chair, apart from the audience, seemed the empress of the scene, and by the venerable figures of the Father Abate, and his attendant monks, who were arranged without that screen of wire-work, extending the whole breadth of the apart­ment, which is called the grate. Near the holy father were placed the strangers of distinction, dressed in the splendid Neapolitan habit, whose gay colouring and airy elegance opposed well with the dark drapery of the ecclesiastics; their plumed hats loftily overtopping the half-cowled heads and grey locks of the monks. Nor was the contrast of countenances less striking; the grave, the austere, the solemn, and the gloomy, intermingling with the light, the blooming, and the debonnaire, expressed all the various tempers, that render life a blessing or a burden, and, as with the spell of magic, transform this world into a transient paradise or purgatory. In the back ground of the picture stood some pilgrims, with looks less joyous and more demure than they had worn on the road the preceding day; and among them were some inferior brothers and attendants of the convent. To this part of the chamber Ellena frequently directed her atten­tion, but did not distinguish Vivaldi; and, though she had taken a station near the grate, she had not courage indecorously to withdraw her veil before so many strangers. And thus, if he even were in the apart­ment, it was not probable he would venture to come forward.

[Page 186] The concert concluded without his having been discovered by Ellena, and she withdrew to the apart­ment where the collation was spread, and where the Ab­bess and her guests soon after appeared. Presently she observed a stranger, in a pilgrim's habit, station him­self near the grate; his face was partly muffled in his cloak, and he seemed to be a spectator rather than a partaker of the feast.

Ellena, who understood this to be Vivaldi, was watchful for an opportunity of approaching, unseen by the abbess, the place where he had fixed himself. Engaged in conversation with the ladies around her, the Superior soon favoured Ellena's wish, who, hav­ing reached the grate, ventured to lift her veil for one instant. The stranger, letting his cloak fall, thanked her with his eyes for her condescension, and she per­ceived, that he was not Vivaldi! Shocked at the in­terpretation which might be given to a conduct appa­rently so improper, as much as by the disappointment, which Vivaldi's absence occasioned, she was hastily retiring, when another stranger approached with quick steps, whom she instantly knew, by the grace and spi­rit of his air, to be Vivaldi; but determined not to expose herself a second time to the possibility of a mis­take, she awaited for some further signal of his identity, before she discovered herself. His eyes were fixed upon her in earnest attention for some moments, be­fore he drew aside the cloak from his face. But he soon did so;—and it was Vivaldi himself.

Ellena, perceiving that she was known, did not raise her veil, but advanced a few steps towards the grate. Vivaldi there deposited a small folded paper, and be­fore she could venture to deliver her own billet, he had retired among the crowd. As she st [...]pped forward to secure his letter, she observed a nun hastily ap­proach the spot where he had laid it, and she paused. The garment of the Recluse wafted it from the place [Page 187] where it had been partly concealed; and when Ellena perceived the nun's foot rest upon the paper, she with difficulty disguised her apprehensions.

A friar, who from without the grate addressed the sister, seemed with much earnestness, yet with a cer­tain air of secresy, communicating some important in­telligence. The fears of Ellena suggested that he had observed the action of Vivaldi, and was making known his suspicions; and she expected, every instant, to see the nun lift up the paper, and deliver it to the abbess.

From this immediate apprehension, however, she was released when the sister pushed it gently aside, without examination, a circumstance that not less sur­prised than relieved her. But, when the conference broke up, the friar, hastily retreating among the crowd, disappeared from the apartment, and the nun approached and whispered the Superior, all her terrors were renew­ed. She scarcely doubted that Vivaldi was detected, and that his letter was designedly left where it had been deposited, for the purpose of alluring her to be­tray herself. Trembling, dismayed, and almost sink­ing with apprehension, she watched the countenance of the Abbess, while the nun addressed her, and thought she read her own fate in the frown that appeared there.

Whatever might be the intentions or the directions of the Superior, no active measure was at present em­ployed; the Recluse, having received an answer, re­tired quietly among the sisters, and the Abbess resumed her usual manner. Ellena, however, supposing she was now observed, did not dare to seize the paper, though she believed it contained momentous informa­tion, and feared that the time was now escaping which might facilitate her deliverance. Whenever she ven­tured to look round, the eyes of the Abbess seemed pointed upon her, and she judged from the position of the nun, for the veil concealed her face, that she also was vigilantly regarding her.

[Page 188] Above an hour had elapsed in this state of anxious suspense, when the collation concluded, and the assem­bly broke up; during the general bustle of which, Ellena ventured to the grate, and secured the paper. As she concealed it in her robe, she scarcely dared to enquire by a hasty glance whether she had been ob­served, and would have withdrawn immediately to ex­amine the contents, had she not perceived, at the same instant, the Abbess quitting the apartment. On look­ing round for the nun, Ellena discovered that she was gone.

Ellena followed distantly in the Abbess's train; and, as she drew nearer to Olivia, gave a signal, and passed on to her cell. There, once more alone, and having secured the door, she sat down to read Vivaldi's billet, trying to command her impatience, and to understand the lines, over which her sight rapidly moved, when, in the eagerness of turning over the paper, the lamp dropt from her trembling hand and expired. Her dis­tress now nearly reached despair. To go forth into the convent for a light was utterly impracticable, since it would betray that she was no longer a prisoner, and not only would Olivia suffer from a discovery of the indulgence she had granted, b [...]t she herself would be immediately confined. Her only hope rested upon Olivia's arrival before it might be too late to practise the instructions of Vivaldi, if, indeed they were still practicable; and she listened with intense solicitude for an approaching footstep, while she yet h [...]ld, igno­rant of its contents, the billet, that probably would decide her fate. A thousand times she turned about the eventful paper, and endeavoured to trace the lines with her singer, and to guess their import, thus enve­loped in mystery; while she experienced all the vari­ous torture that the consciousness of having in her hand the information, on a timely knowledge of which her life, perhaps, depended, without being able to un­derstand it, could inf [...]ict.

[Page 189] Presently she heard advancing steps, and a light gleamed from the passage before she considered they might be some other than Olivia's; and that it was pru­dent to conceal the billet she held. The consideration, however, came too late to be acted upon; for before the rustling paper was disposed of, a person entered the cell, and Ellena beheld her friend. Pale, trembling, and silent, she took the lamp from the nun, and eager­ly running over Vivaldi's note, learned that at the time it was written, brother Jeronimo was in waiting without the gate of the nun's garden, where Vivaldi designed to join him immediately, and conduct her by a private way beyond the walls. He added, that horses were stationed at the foot of the mountain, to convey her wherever she should judge proper; and conjured her to be expeditious, since other circumstances, be­sides the universal engagement of the Recluses, were at that moment particularly favorable to an escape.

Ellena, desponding and appalled, gave the paper to Olivia, requesting she would read it hastily, and advise her how to act. It was now an hour and a half since Vivaldi had said, that success depended upon expedi­tion, and that he had probably watched at the appoint­ed place; in such an interval, how many circumstances might have occurred to destroy every possibility of a retreat, which it was certain the engagement of the Abbess and the sisters no longer favoured.

The generous Olivia, having read the billet, par­took of all her young friend's distress, and was as willing, as Ellena was anxious, to dare every danger for the chance of obtaining deliverance.

Ellena could feel gratitude for such goodness even at this moment of agonizing apprehension. After a pause of deep consideration, Olivia said, "in every a­venue of the convent we are now liable to meet some of the nuns; but my veil, though thin, has hitherto protected you, and we must hope it may still assist [Page 190] your purpose. It will be necessary, however, to pass through the refectory, where such of the sisters as did not partake of the colation, are assembled at supper, and will remain so till the first mattin calls them to the chapel. If we wait till then, I fear it will be to no purpose to go at all."

Ellena's fears perfectly agreed with those of Oli­via; and entreating that another moment might not be lost in hesitation, and that she would lead the way to the nun's garden, they quitted the cell together.

Several of the sisters passed them, as they descend­ed to the refectory, but without particularly noticing Ellena; who, as she drew near that alarming apartment, wrapt her viel closer, and leaned with heavier pressure upon the arm of her faithful friend. At the door they were met by the Abbess, who had been overlooking the nuns assembled at supper, and missing Olivia had enqui­red for her. Ellena shrunk back to allude observation and to let the Superior pass; but Olivia was obliged to answer to the summons, Having, however, unvei­led herself, she was permitted to proceed; and Ellena, who had mingled with the crowd that surrounded the Abbess, and thus escaped detection, followed Olivia with faltering steps, through the refectory. The nuns were luckily too much engaged by the entertainment at this moment, to look round them, and the fugitive reached, unsuspected, an opposite door.

In the hall, to which they descended, the adventurers were frequently crossed by servants bearing dishes from the refectory to the kitchen; and, at the very moment when they were oppening the door, that led into the garden, a sister, who had observed them, de­manded whether thy had yet heard the mattin-bell, since they were going towards the chapel.

Terrified at this critical interruption, Ellena pres­sed Olivia's arm, in signal of silence, and was hasten­ing forward, when the latter, more prudent, paused, [Page 191] and calmly answering the question, was then suffered to proceed.

As they crossed the garden towards the gate, Elle­na's anxiety lest Vivaldi should have been compelled to leave it, encreased so much, that she had scarcely power to proceed. "O if my strength should fail before I reach it!" she said softly to Olivia, "or if I should reach it too late!"

Olivia tried to cheer her, and pointed out the gate, on which the moonlight fell; "At the end of this walk only," said Olivia, "see!—where the shadows of the trees open, is our goal."

Encouraged by the view of it, Ellena fled with lighter steps along the alley; but the gate seemed to mock her approach, and to retreat before her. Fa­tigue overtook her in this long alley, before she could overtake the spot so anxiously sought, and, breathless and exhausted, she was once more compelled to stop, and once more in the agony of terror exclaimed—"O, if my strength should fail before I reach it!—O, if I should drop even while it is in my view."

The pause of a moment enabled her to proceed, and she s [...]pped not again till she arrived at the gate; when Olivia suggested the prudence of ascertaining who was without, and of receiving an answer to the signal, which Vivaldi had proposed, before they ven­tured to make themselves known. She then struck upon the wood, and, in the anxious pause that followed whispering voices were distinctly heard from without, but no signal spoke in reply to the nun's.

"We are betrayed!" said Ellena softly, "but I will know the worst at once;" and she repeated the signal, when to her unspeakable joy, it was answered by three smart raps upon the gate. Olivia, more dis­trustful, would have checked the sudden hope of her friend, till some farther proof [...]ad appeared that it was Vivaldi who waited without, but her precaution came [Page 192] too late; a key already grated in the lock; the door opened, and two persons muffled in their garments ap­peared at it. Ellena was hastily retreating, when a well known voice recalled her, and she perceived, by the rays of a half-hooded lamp, which Jeronimo held, Vi­valdi.

"O heaven!" he exclaimed, in a voice tremu­lous with joy, as he took her hand, "is it possible that you are again my own! If you could but know what I have suffered during this last hour?"—Then ob­serving Olivia, he drew back till Ellena expressed her deep sense of obligation to the nun.

"We have no time to loose," said Jeronimo sul­lenly; "we have stayed too long alr [...]dy, as you will find, perhaps."

"Farewel, dear, Ellena!" said Olivia, "may the protection of heaven never leave you!"

The fears of Ellena now gave way to affectionate sor­row, as weeping on the bosom of the nun; she said "farewel; O farewel, my dear, my tender friend! I must never, never see you more, but I shall always love you; and you have promised, that I shall hear from you; remember the convent della Pieta!"

"You should have settled this matter within," said Jeronimo, "we have been here these two hours al­ready."

"Ah Ellena!" said Vivaldi, as he gently disengag­ed her from the nun, "do I then hold only the second place in your heart?"

Ellena, as she dismissed her tears, replied with a smile more eloquent than words; and when she had again and again bade adieu to Olivia, she gave him her hand, and quitted the gate.

"It is moonlight," observed Vivaldi to Jeronimo, "your lamp is useless, and may betray us."

"It will be necessary in the church," replied Jero­nimo, "and in some circuitous avenues we must pass, [Page 193] for I dare not lead you out through the great gates, Signor, as you well know."

"Lead on, then," replied Vivaldi, and they reach­ed one of the cypress walks, that extended to the church; but, before they entered it, Ellena paused and looked back to the garden gate, that she might see Olivia once more again. The nun was still there, and Ellena perceived her faintly in the moonlight, waving her hand in signal of a last adieu. Ellena's heart was full; she wept, and lingered, and returned the signal, till the gentle violence of Vivaldi withdrew her from the spot.

"I envy your friend those tears," said he "and feel jealous of the tenderness that excites them. Weep no more, my Ellena."

"If you knew her worth," replied Ellena, "and the obligation I owe her!"—Her voice was lost in sighs, and Vivaldi only pressed her hand in silence.

As they traversed the gloomy walk, that led to the church, Vivaldi said, "Are you certain, father, that not any of the brothers are doing penance at the shrines in our way."

"Doing penance on a festival, Signor! they are more likely, by this time, to be taking down the orna­ments."

"That would be equally unfortunate for us," said Vivaldi; "cannot we avoid the church, father?"

Jeronimo assured him, that this was impossible; and they immediately entered one of its lonely aisles, where he unhooded the lamp, for the tapers, which had giv­en splendor, at an earlier hour, to the numerous shrines, had expired, except those at the high altar, which were so remote, that their rays faded into twi­light long before they reached the part of the church where the fugitives passed. Here and there indeed, a dying lamp shot a tremulous gleam upon the shrine below, and vanished again, serving to mark the dis­tances [Page 194] in the long perspective of arches, rather than to enlighten the gloomy solitude; but no sound, not even of a whisper, stole along the pavement.

They crossed to a door communicating with the court, and with the rock, which enshrined the image of our Lady of mount Carmel. There the sudden glare of tapers issuing from the cave, alarmed the fugitives, who had begun to retreat, when Jeronimo, stepping forward to examine the place, assured them, there was no symptom of any person being within, and that lights burned day and night around the sh [...]ine.

Revived by this explanation, they followed into the cave, where their conductor opened a part of the wire­work enclosing the saint, and led them to the extrem­ity of the vault, sunk deep within which appeared a small door. While Ellena trembled with apprehen­sion, Jeronimo applied a key, and they perceived, be­yond the door, a narrow passage winding away into the rock. The monk was leading on, but Vivaldi, who had the suspicions of Ellena, paused at the en­trance, and demanded whither he was conducting them.

"To the place of your des [...]ation," replied the brother, in a hollow voice; an answer which alarmed Ellena, and did not satisfy Vivaldi. "I have given myself to your guidance," he said, "and have confided to you what is dearer to me than existence. Your life," pointing to the short sword concealed beneath his pilg [...]im's vest, "your life, you may rely upon my word, shall answer for your treachery. If your pur­pose is evil, pause a moment, and repent, or you shall not quit this passage alive."

"Do you menace me!" replied the brother, his countenance darkening. "Of what service would be my death to you? Do you not know that every bro­ther in the convent would rise to avenge i [...]?"

"I know only that I will make sure of one traitor, [Page 195] if there be one," said Vivaldi, "and defend this lady against your host of monks; and, since you also know this, proceed accordingly."

At this instant it occuring to Ellena, that the pas­sage in question probably led to the prison chamber, which Olivia had described as situated within some deep recess of the convent, and that Je [...]onimo had cer­tainly betrayed them, she refused to go further. "If your purpose is honest," said she, "why do you not conduct us through some direct gate of the convent? why are we brought into these subterraneous laby­rinths?"

"There is no direct gate but that of the portal," Jeronimo replied, "and this is the only other avenue leading beyond the walls." "And why can we not go out through the portal?" Vivaldi asked.

"Becuse it is beset with pilgrims, and lay brothers," replied Jeronimo. "And though you might pass them safely enough, what is to become of the lady? But all this you knew before, and was willing enough to trust me, then. The passage we are entering opens upon the cliffs, at some distance. I have run hazard enough already, and will waste no more time; for if you do not chuse to go forward, I will leave you, and you may act as you please."

He concluded with a laugh of derision, and was re­locking the door, when Vivaldi, alarmed for the pro­bable consequence of his resentment, and somewhat re­assured by the indifference he discovered as to their pursuing the avenue or not, endeavoured to appease him, as well as to encourage Ellena; and he succeeded in both.

As he fellowed in silence through the gloomy pas­sage, his doubts were, however, not so wholly van­quished, but that he was prepared for attack, and while he supported Ellena with one hand, he held his sword in the other.

[Page 196] The avenue was of considerable length, and before they reached its extremity, they heard music from a distance, winding along the rocks.—"Hark!" cried Ellena, "Whence come those sounds? Listen!"

"From the cave we have left," replied Jeronimo, "and it is midnight by that; it is the last chaunt of the pilgrims at the shrine of our Lady. Make haste, Signor, I shall be called for."

The fugitives now perceived, that all retreat was cut off, and that, if they had lingered only a few mo­ments longer in the cave, they should have been sur­prised by those devotees, some one of whom, however, it appeared possible might wander into this avenue, and still interrupt their escape. When Vivaldi told his apprehensions, Jeromino, with an arch sneer, af­firmed there was no danger of that, "for the pas­sage," he added, "is known only to the brothers of the convent."

Vivaldi's doubts vanished when he further under­stood, that the avenue led only from the cliffs without to the cave, and was used for the purpose of conveying secretly to the shrine, such articles as were judged necessary to excite the superstitious wonder of the devotees.

While he proceeded in thoughtful silence, a distant chime sounded hollowly through the chambers of the rock. "The mattin-bell strikes!" said Jeronimo, in seeming alarm, "I am summoned. Signora, quicken your steps;" an unnecessary request, for Ellena al­ready passed with her utmost speed; and she now re­joiced on perceiving a door in the remote winding of the passage, which she believed would emancipate her from the convent. But, as she advanced, the avenue appeared extended beyond it; and the door, which stood a little open allowed her a glimpse of a chamber in the cliff, duskily lighted.

Vivaldi, alarmed by the light, enquired, when he [Page 197] had passed, whether any person was in the chamber, and received an equivocal answer from Jeronimo, who, however, soon after pointed to an arched gate that terminated the avenue. They proceeded with lighter steps, for hope now cheared their hearts, and, on reaching the gate, all apprehension vanished. Jero­nimo gave the lamp to Vivaldi, while he began to un­bar and unlock the door, and Vivaldi had prepared to reward the brother for his fidelity, before they per­ceived that the door refused to yield. A dreadful agitation seized on Vivaldi. Jeronimo turning round, coolly said, "I fear we are betrayed; the se­cond lock is shot! I have only the key of the first."

"We are betrayed," said Vivaldi, in a resolute tone, "but do not suppose that your dissimulation conceals you. I understand by whom we are betrayed. Re­collect my late assertion, and consider once more, whether it is your interest to intercept us."

"My Signor," replied Jeronimo, "I do not de­ceive you when I protest by our holy Saint, that I have not caused this gate to be fastened, and that I would open it if I could. The lock, which holds it, was not shot an hour ago. I am the more surprised at what has happened, because this place is seldom passed, even by the holiest footstep; and I fear, whoever has passed now, has been led hither by suspicion, and comes to intercept your [...]light."

"Your wily explanation, brother, may serve you for an inferior occasion, but not on this," replied Vi­valdi, "either, therefore, unclose the gate, or prepare for the worst. You are not now to learn, that, how­ever slightly I may estimate my own life, I will never abandon this lady to the horrors which your commu­nity have already prepared for her."

Ellena, summoning her fleeting spirits, endeavour­ed to calm the indignation of Vivaldi, and to prevent the consequence of his suspicions, as well as to prevail [Page 198] with Jeronimo to unfasten the gate. Her efforts were, however, followed by a long altercation; but, at length, the art or the innocence of the brother, ap­peased Vivaldi, who now endeavoured to force the gate, while Jeronimo in vain represented its strength, and the certain ruin that must fall upon himself, if it should be discovered he had concurred in destroy­ing it.

The gate was immoveable; but, as no other chance of escaping appeared, Vivaldi was not easily prevailed with to desist; all possibility of retreating too was gone, since the church and the cave were now crowd­ed with devotees, attending the mattin service.

Jeronimo, however, seemingly did not despair of effecting their release, but he acknowledged that they would probably be compelled to remain concealed in this gloomy avenue all night, and perhaps the next day. At length, it was agreed, that he should return to the church, to examine whether a possibility remained of the fugitives passing unobserved to the great portal; and, having conducted them back to the chamber, of which they had taken a passing glimpse, he proceeded to the shrine.

For a considerable time after his departure, they were not without hope; but, their confidence dimi­nishing as his delay encreased, their uncertainty at length became terrible; and it was only for the sake of Vivaldi, from whom she s [...]rupulously concealed all knowledge of the particular fate, which she was aware must await her in the convent, that Ellena appeared to endure it with calmness. Notwithstanding the plausibility of Jeronimo, suspicion of his treachery re­turned upon her mind. The cold and earthy air of this chamber was like that of a sepulchre; and when she looked round, it appeared exactly to correspond with the description given by Olivia of the prison where the nun had languished and expired. It was [Page 199] walled and valuted with the rock, had only one small grated aperture in the roof to admit air, and contained no furniture, except one table, a bench, and the lamp, which dimly shewed the apartment. That a lamp should be found burning in a place so remote and soli­tary, amazed her still more when she recollected the assertion of Jeronimo,—that even holy steps seldom passed this way; and when she considered also, that he had expressed no surprise at a circumstance, accord­ing to his own assertion, so unusual. Again it ap­peared, that she had been, betrayed into the very pri­son, designed for her by the Abbess; and the horror, occasioned by this supposition was so great, that she was on the point of disclosing it to Vivaldi, but an apprehension of the distraction, into which his despe­rate courage might precipitate him, restrained her.

While these considerations occupied Ellena, and it appeared that any certainty would be less painful than this suspense, she frequently looked round the chamber in search of some object, which might contradict or confirm her suspicion, that this was the death-room of the unfortunate nun. No such circumstance appear­ed, but as her eyes glanced, with almost phrenzied [...]agerness, she perceived something shadowy in a re­mote corner of the floor; and on approaching, dis­covered what seemed a dreadful hieroglyphic, a mat­trass of straw, in which she thought she beheld the death-bed of the miserable recluse; nay more, that the impression it still retained, was that which her form had left there.

While Vivaldi was yet entreating her to explain the occasion of the horror she betrayed, the attention of each was withdrawn by a hollow sigh, that rose near them, Ellena caught unconsciously the arm of Vivaldi, and listened, aghast, for a return of the sound, but all remained still.

"It surely was not fancied!" said Vivaldi, after a long pause, "you heard it also?"

[Page 200] "I did!" replied Ellena.

"It was a sigh, was it not!" he added.

"O yes, such a sigh!"

"Some person is concealed near us," observed Vi­valdi, looking round; but be not alarmed, Ellena, I have a sword."

"A sword! alas! you know not—But hark! there, again!"

"That was very near us!" said Vivaldi. "This lamp burns so fickly!"—and he held it high, endea­vouring to penetrate the furthest gloom of the cham­ber. "Hah! who goes there?" he cried, and step­ped suddenly forward; but no person appeared, and a silence as of the tomb, returned.

"If you are in sorrow, speak!" Vivaldi, at length, said; "from fellow-sufferers you will meet with sym­pathy. If your designs are evils—tremble, for you shall find I am desperate."

Still no answer was returned, and he carried for­ward the lamp to the opposite end of the chamber, where he perceived a small door in the rock. At the same instant he heard from within, a low tremulous sound, as of a person in prayer, or in agony. He pr [...]ssed against the door, which, to his surprise, yielded immediately, and discovered a figure kneeling before a crucific, with an attention so wholly engaged, as not to observe the presence of a stranger, till Vivaldi spoke. The person then rose from his knees, and turning, shewed the silver temples and pale features of an aged monk. The mind and sorrowful character of the countenance, and the lambent lustre of his eyes, which seemed still to retain somewhat of the sire of genius, interested Vivaldi, and encouraged Ellena, who had followed him.

An unaffected surprise appeared in the air of the monk; but Vivaldi, notwithstanding the interesting benignity of his countenance, feared to answer his en­quiries, [Page 201] till the father hinted to him, that an explana­tion was necessary, even to his own safety. Encouraged by his manner, rather than intimidated by his hint, and perceiving that his situation was desperate, Vival­di confided to the friar some partial knowledge of his embarrassment.

While he spoke, the father listened with deep at­tention, looked with compassion alternately upon him and Ellena; and some harrassing objection seemed to contend with the pity which urged him to assist the strangers. He enquired how long Jeronimo had been absent, and shook his head significantly when he learn­ed that the gate of the avenue was fastened by a double lock. "You are betrayed my children," said he, "you have trusted with the simplicity of youth, and the cun­ning of age has deceived you."

The terrible conviction affected Ellena to tears; and Vivaldi, scarcely able to command the indignation which a view of such treachery excited, was unable to offer her any consolation.

"You, my daughter, I remember to have seen in the church this morning," observed the friar; "I re­member too, that you protested against the vows you were brought thither to seal. Alas! my child were you aware of the consequence of such a proceeding?"

"I had only a choice of evils," Ellena replied.

"Holy father," said Vivaldi, "I will not believe, that you are one of those who either assisted in or ap­proved the persecution▪ of innocence. If you were acquainted with the misfortunes of this lady, you would pity, and save her; but there is now no time for detail; and I can only conjure you, by every sacred consideration, to assist her to leave the convent! If there were leisure to inform you of the unjustifiable means, which have been employed to bring her within these walls—if you knew that she was taken, an or­phan, from her home at midnight—that armed ru [...]ians [Page 202] brought her hither—and at the command of strangers—that she has not a single relation surviving to assert her right of independence, or reclaim her o [...] her per­secutors—O, holy father, if you knew all this!"—Vivaldi was unable to proceed.

The friar again regarded Ellena with compassion, but still in thoughtful silence. "All this may be very true," at length he said, "but"—and he hesitated.

"I understand you, father," said Vivaldi—"you require proof; but how can proof be adduced here? You must rely upon the honour of my word. And, if you are inclined to assist us, it must be immediate­ly!—while you hesitate, we are lost. Even now I think I hear the footsteps of Jeronimo."

He stepped softly to the door of the chamber, but all was yet still. The friar, too, listened, but he also de­liberated; while Ellena, with clasped hands and a look of eager supplication and terror, awaited his decision.

"No one is approaching," said Vivaldi, "it is not yet too late!—Good father!—If you would serve us, dispatch."

"Poor innocent!" said the friar, half to himself, "in this chamber—in this fatal place!"—

"In this chamber!" exclaimed Ellena, anticipat­ing his meaning. "It was in this chamber, then, that a nun was suffered to perish! and I, no doubt, am conducted hither to undergo a similar fate!"

"In this chamber!" re-echoed Vivaldi, in a voice of desperation. "Holy father, if you are indeed dis­posed to assist us, let us act this instant; the next, per­haps, may render your best intentions unavailing!"

The friar, who had regarded Ellena while she men­tioned the nun, with the utmost surprise, now with­drew his attention; a few tears fell on his cheek, but he hastily dried them, and seemed struggling to over­come some grief, that was deep in his heart.

[Page 203] Vivaldi, finding that entreaty had no power to hasten his decision, and expecting every moment to hear the approach of Jeronimo, paced the chamber in agonizing perturbation, now pausing at the door to listen, and then calling, though almost hopelessly, upon the humanity of the friar. While Ellena, looking round the room in shuddering horror, repeatedly ex­claimed, "On this very spot! in this very chamber! O what sufferings have these walls witnessed! what are they yet to witness!"

Vivaldi now endeavoured to soothe the spirits of Ellena, and again urged the friar to embrace this cri­tical moment in saving her; "O heaven!" said he, "if she is now discovered, her fate is certain!"

"I dare not say what that fate would be," inter­rupted the father, "or what my own, should I consent to assist you; but, though I am old, I have not quite forgotten to feel for others! They may oppress the few remaining years of my life, but the blooming days of youth should flourish; and they shall flourish, my children, if my power can aid you. Follow me to the gate; we will see whether my key cannot unfasten all the locks that hold it."

Vivaldi and Ellena immediately followed the feeble steps of the old man, who frequently stopped to listen whether Jeronimo, or any of the brothers, to whom the latter might have betrayed Ellena's situation, were approaching; but not an echo wandered along the lonely avenue, till they reached the gate, when distant footsteps beat upon the ground.

"They are approaching, father!" whispered El­lena. "O, if the key should not open th [...]se look [...] in­stantly, we are lost! Har [...], now I hear their voice—they call upon my name! Already they have discover­ed we have left the chamber."

While the friar, with trembling hands, applied the [Page 204] key, Vivaldi endeavoured at once to assist him, and to encourage Ellena.

The locks gave way, and the gate opened at once upon the moonlight mountains. Ellena heard once more, with the joy of liberty, the midnight breeze passing among the pensile branches of the palms, that loftily overshadowed a rude platform before the gate, and rustling with fainter sound among the pendent shrubs of the surrounding cliffs.

"There is no leisure for thanks, my children," said the friar, observing they were about to speak, "I will fasten the gate, and endeavour to delay your pursuers, that you may have time to escape. My blessing go with you!"

Ellena and Vivaldi had scarcely a moment to bid him "farewel!" before he closed the door, and Vi­valdi, taking her arm, was hastening towards the place where he had ordered Paulo to wait with the horses, when on turning an angle of the convent wall, they per­ceived a long train of pilgrims issuing forth from the portal, at a little distance.

Vivaldi drew back; yet dreading every moment, that he lingered near the monestery, to hear the voice of Jeronimo, or other persons, from the avenue, he was sometimes inclined to proceed at any hazard. The only practicable path leading to the base of the moun­tain, however, was now occupied by these devotees, and to mingle with them was little less than certain destruction. A bright moonlight shewed distincttly every figure, that moved in the scene, and the fugi­tives kept within the shadow of the walls, till, warned by an approaching footstep, they crossed to the feet of the cliffs that rose beyond some palmy hillocks on the right, whose dusky recesses promised a temporary shel­ter. As they passed with silent steps along the wind­ing rock, the tranquility of the landscape below afforded [Page 205] an affecting contrast with the tumult and alarm of their minds.

Being now at some distance from the monastery, they rested under the shade of the cliffs; till the pro­cession of devotees, which were traced descending a­mong the thickets and hollows of the mountain, should be sufficiently remote. Often they looked back to the convent, expecting to see lights issue from the ave­nue, or to the portal; and attended in mute anxiety for the sullen murmurs of pursuit; but none came on the breeze; nor did any gleaming lamp betray the steps of a spy.

Released, at length, from immediate apprehension, Ellena listened to the mattin-hymn of the pilgrims, as it came upon the still air and ascended towards the cloudless heavens. Not a sound mingled with the holy strain, and even in the measured pause of voices only the trembling of the foliage above was distinguish­ed. The responses, as they softened away in distance, and swelled again on the wafting breeze, appeared like the music of spirits, watching by night upon the summits of the mountains, and answering each other in celestial airs, as they walk their high boundary, and overlook the sleeping world.

"How often, Ellena, at this hour," said Vivaldi, "have I lingered round your dwelling consoled by the consciousness of being near you! Within those walls, I have said, she reposes; they enclosed my world, all without is to me a de [...]art. Now, I am in your presence! O Ellena! now that you are once more restored to me, suffer not the caprice of possibili­ty again to separate us! Let me lead you to the first altar that will confirm our vows.

Vivaldi forgot, in the anxiety of a stronger interest, the delicate silence he had resolved to impose upon himself, till Ellena should be in a place of safety.

[Page 206] "This is not a moment," she replied, with hesita­tion, "for conversation; our situation is yet perilous, we tremble on the very brink of danger."

Vivaldi immediately rose; into what imminent danger," said he, "had my folly nearly precipitated you! We are lingering in this alarming neighbour­hood, when that feeble strain indicates the pilgrims to be sufficiently remote to permit us to proceed!"

As he spoke, they descended cautiously among the cliffs, often looking back to the convent, where, how­ever, no light appeared, except what the moon shed over the spires and tall windows of its cathedral. For a moment, Ellena fancied she saw a taper in her favo­rite turret, and a belief, that the nuns, perhaps the Abbess herself, were searching for her there, renewed [...]er terror and her speed. But the rays were only those of the moon, striking through opposite casements of the chamber; and the fugitives reached the base of the mountain without further alarm, where Paulo ap­peared with horses. "Ah! Signor mio," said the servant, "I am glad to see you alive and merry; I began to fear, by the length of your stay, that the monks had clapped you up to do penance for life. How glad I am to see you Maestro!"

"Not more so than I am to see you, good Paulo. But where is the pilgrim's cloak I bade you provide?"

Paulo displayed it, and Vivaldi, having wrapt it round Ellena, and placed her on horseback, they took the road towards Naples, Ellena, designing to take refuge in the convent della Pieta. Vivaldi, however, apprehending that their enemies would seek them on this road, proposed leaving it as soon as practicable, and reaching the neighbourhood of villa Altieri by a circuitous way.

They soon arrived at the tremendous pass, through which Ellena had approached the monastery, and whose horrors were considerably heightened at this [Page 207] dusky hour, for the moonlight fell only partially upon the deep barriers of the gorge, and frequently the pre­cipice, with the road on its brow, was entirely shadow­ed by other cliffs and woody points that rose above it. But Paulo, whose spirits seldom owned the influence of local scenery, jogged merrily along, frequently con­gratulating himself and his master on their escape, and carolling briskly to the echoes of the rocks, till Vi­valdi, apprehensive for the consequence of this loud gaiety desired him to desist.

"Ah Signor mio! I must obey you," said he, "but my heart was never so full in my life; and I would fain sing, to unburden it of some of this joy. That scrape we got into in that dungeon there, at what's the name of the place? was bad enough, but it was no­thing to this, because here I was left out of it; and you, Maestro, might have been murdered again and again, while I, thinking of nothing at all, was quietly airing myself on the mountain by moonlight.—But what is that yonder in the sky, Signor? It looks for all the world like a bridge; only it is perched so high, that nobody would think of building one in such an out of the way place, unless to cross from cloud to cloud, much less would take the trouble of clambering up after it, for the pleasure of going over.

Vivaldi looked forward, and Ellena perceived the Alpine bridge, she had formerly crossed with so much alarm, in the moonlight perspective, airily suspended between tremendous cliffs, with the river far below, tumbling down the rocky chasm. One of the sup­porting [...]ffs, with part of the bridge, was in deep shade, but the other feathered with foliage, and the rising surges at its foot, were strongly illumined; and many a thicket wet with the spray sparkled in contrast to the dark rock it overhung Beyond the arch, the longdrawn prospect faded into misty light.

"Well, to be sure! exclaimed Paulo, "to see what [Page 208] curiosity will do! If there are not some people have found their way up to the bridge already."

Vivaldi now perceived figures upon the slender arch, and, as their indistinct forms glided in the moonshine, other emotions than those of wonder disturbed him, l [...]st th [...]se might be pilgrims going to the shrine of our Lady, and who would give information of his route. No possibility, however, appeared of avoiding them, for the precipices that rose immediately above, and fell below, forbade all excursion, and the road itself was so narrow, as scarcely to admit of two horses pas­sing each other.

"They are all off the bridge now, and without having broken their necks, perhaps!" said Paulo, "where, I wonder, will they go next! Why surely, Signor, this road does not lead to the bridge yonder; we are not going to pick our way in the air too? The roar of those waters has made my head dizzy al­ready; and the rocks here are as dark as midnight, and seem ready to tumble upon one; they are enough to make one despair to look at them; you need not have checked my mirth, Signor."

"I would fain check your loquacity," replied Vi­valdi. "Do, good Paulo, be silent and circumspect; those people may be near us, though we do not yet see them."

"The road does lead to the bridge then, Signor!" said Paulo dolorously. "And see! there they are again; winding round that rock, and coming to­wards us."

"Hush! they are pilgrims," whispered Vivaldi, "we will linger under the shade of these rocks while they pass. Remember Paulo, that a single indiscreet wo [...]d may be fatal; and that if they hail us, I alone am to answer."

"You are obeyed, Signor."

The fugitives drew up close under the cliffs, and [Page 209] proceeded slowly, while the words of the devotees, as they advanced, became audible.

"It gives one some comfort, said Paulo, "to hear cheerful voices, in such a place as this. Bless their merry hearts! theirs seems a pilgrimane of pleasure; but they will be demure enough, I warrant, by and by. I wish I"—

"Paulo have you so soon forgot?" said Vivaldi sharply.

The devotees, on perceiving the travellers, became suddenly silent; till he who appeared to be the Father Director, as they passed said "Hail! in the name of Our Lady of mount Carmel!" and they repeated the salutation in chorus.

"Hail!" replied Vivaldi, "the first mass is over," and he passed on.

"But if you make haste, you may come in for the second," said Paulo, jogging after.

"You have just left the shrine, then?" said one of the party, "and can tell us"—"Poor pilgrims, like yourselves," replied Paulo, "and can tell as little. Good morrow, fathers, yonder peeps the dawn!"

He came up with his master, who had hurried for­ward with Ellena, and who now severely reproved his indiscretion; while the voices of the Carmelites, sing­ing the mattin-hymn, sunk away among the rocks, and the quietness of solitude returned.

"Thank heaven! we are quit of this adventure," said Vivaldi.

"And now we have only the bridge to get over," rejoined Paulo, "and, hope, we shall all be safe."

They were now at the entrance of it; as they pass­ed the trembling planks, and looked up the glen, a party of people appeared advancing on the road the fugitives had left, and a chorus of other voices than those of the Carmelites, were heard mingling with the hollow sound of the waters.

[Page 210] Ellena, again alarmed, hastened forward, and Vival­di, though he endeavoured to appease her apprehension of pursuit, encouraged her speed.

"These are nothing but more pilgrims, Signor," said Paulo, "or they would not send such loud shouts before them; they must needs think we can hear."

The travellers proceeded as fast as the broken road would permit; and were soon beyond the reach of the voices; but as Paulo turned to look whether the par­ty was within sight, he perceived two persons, wrapt in cloaks, advancing under the brow of the cliffs, and within a few paces of his horse's heels. Before he could give notice to his master, they were at his side.

"Are you returning from the shrine of our Lady?" said one of them.

Vivaldi, startled by the voice, looked round, and demanded who asked the question?

"A brother pilgrim," replied the man, "one who has toiled up th [...]se steep rocks, till his limbs will scarcely bear him further. Would that you would take compassion on him, and give him a ride."

However compassionate Vivaldi might be to the sufferings of others, this was not a moment when he could indulge his disposition, without endangering the safety of Ellena; and he even fancied that the stranger spoke in a voice of dissimulation. His suspicions strengthened when the traveller, not repulsed by a re­fusal, inquired the way he was going, and proposed to join his party: "For these mountains, they say, are infested with banditti," he added, "and a large com­pany is less likely to be attacked than a small one."

"If you are so very weary, my friend," said Vi­valdi, "how is it possible you can keep pace with our horses? though I acknowledge you have done won­ders in overtaking them."

[Page 211] "The fear of these banditti," replied the stranger, "urged us on."

"You have nothing to apprehend from robbers," said Vivaldi, "if you will only moderate your pace; for a large company of pilgrims are on the road, who will soon overtake you."

He then put an end to the conversation, by clapping spurs to his horse, and the strangers were soon left far behind. The inconsistency of their complaints with their ability, and the whole of the [...] manner, were se­rious subjects of alarm to the fugitives; but when they had lost sight of them, they lost also their appre­hensions; and having, at length, emerged from the pass, they quitted the high road to Naples, and struck into a solitary one that led westward towards Aquila.

CHAP. XII.

FROM the summit of a mountain, the morning light shewed the travellers the distant lake of Celano, gleaming at the feet of other lofty mountains of the Appennine, far in the south. Thither Vivaldi judged it prudent to direct his course, for the lake lay so re­mote from the immediate way to Naples, and from the neighbourhood of San Stefano, that its banks pro­mised a secure retreat. He considered, also, that among the convents scattered along those delightful banks, might easily be found a priest, who would solemnize their nuptials, should Ellena consent to an immediate marriage.

The travellers descended among the olive woods, and soon after were directed by some peasants at work, into a road that leads from Aquila to the town of Celano, one of the very few roads which intrudes among the wild mountains, that on every side seques­ter the lake. As they approached the low grounds, the scent of orange blossoms breathed upon the morn­ing air, and the spicy myrtle sent forth all its fragrance from among the cliffs, which it thickly tufted. Bowers of lemon and orange spread along the valley; and among the cabins of the peasants, who cultivated them, Vivaldi hoped to obtain repose and refreshment for Ellena.

The cottages, however, at which Paulo enquired, were unoccupied, the owners being all gone forth to their labour: and the travellers, again ascending, [Page 213] found themselves soon after among the mountains inhabited by flocks, where the scent of the orange was exchanged for the aromatic perfume of the pasturage.

"My Signor!" said Paulo, "is not that a shep­herd's horn sounding at a distance? If so, the Signora may yet obtain some refreshment."

While Vivaldi listened, a hautboy and a pastoral drum were heard considerably nearer.

They followed the sound over the turf, and came within view of a cabin, sheltered from the sun by a tuft of almond trees. It was a dairy-cabin belonging to some shepherds, who at a short distance were watch­ing their flocks, and, stretched beneath the shade of chesnuts, were amusing themselves by playing upon these rural instruments; a scene of Arcadian manners frequent at this day, upon the mountains of Abbruzzo. The simplicity of their appearance, ap­proaching to wildness, was tempered by a hospitable spirit. A venerable man, the chief shepherd, advanced to meet the strangers: and, learning their wants, con­ducted them into his cool cabin, where cream, cheese made of goat's milk, honey extracted from the delici­ous herbage of the mountains, and dried sigs, were quickly placed before them.

Ellena, overcome with fatigue of anxiety, rather than that of travelling, retired, when she had taken breakfast, for an hour's repose, while Vivaldi rested on the bench before the cottage, and Paulo, keeping watch, discussed his breakfast, together with the cir­cumstances of the late alarm, under the shade of the almond trees.

When Ellena again appeared, Vivaldi proposed that they should rest here during the intense heat of the day; and, since he now considered her to be in a place of temporary safety, he ventured to renew the subject nearest his heart; to represent the evils that [Page 214] might overtake them, and to urge an immediate so­lemnization of their marriage.

Thoughtful and dejected, Ellena attended for some time in silence to the arguments and pleadings of Vi­valdi. She secretly acknowledged the justness of his representations, but she shrunk, more than ever, from the indelicacy, the degradation of intruding herself into his family; a family, too, from whom she had not only received proofs of strong dislike, but had suffered terrible injustice, and been menaced with still severer cruelty. These latter circumstances, however, re­leased her from all obligations of delicacy or generosity, so far as concerned only the authors of her suffering; and she had now but to consider the happiness of Vi­valdi and herself. Yet she could not decide thus pre­cipitately on a subject, which so solemnly involved the fortune of her whole life; nor forbear reminding Vi­valdi, affectionately, gratefully, as she loved him, of the circumstances that with-held her decision.

"Tell me yourself," said she, "whether I ought to give my hand, while your family—your mother"—She paused, blushed, and burst into tears.

"Spare me the view of these tears," said Vivaldi, "and a recollection of the circumstances, that excite them. O, let me not think of my mother, while I see you weep! Let me not remember, that her injustice and cruelty destined you to perpetual sorrow!"

Vivaldi's features became slightly convulsed while he spoke; he rose, paced the room with quick steps, and then quitted it, and walked under the shade of the trees in the front of the cabin.

In a few moments, however, he commanded his emotion and returned. Again he placed himself on the bench beside Ellena, and taking her hand, said so­lemnly, and in a voice of extreme sensibility, "Ellena, you have long witnessed how dear you are to me; you cannot doubt my love; you have long since promised [Page 215] —solemnly promised, in the presence of her who is now no more, but whose spirit may even at this mo­ment look down upon us,—of her, who bequeathed you to my tenderest care, to be mine for ever. By these sacred truths, by these affecting recollections! I conjure you abandon me not to despair, nor in the energy of a just resentment, sacrifice the son to the cruel and mistaken policy of the mother! You, nor I, can conjecture the machinations, which may be spread for us, when it shall be known that you have left San Stefano. If we delay to exchange our vows, I know, and I feel—that you are lost to me for ever!"

Ellena was affected, and for some moments unable to reply. At length, drying her tears, she said ten­derly, "Resentment can have no influence on my con­duct towards you; I think I feel none towards the Marchesa—for she is your mother. But pride, in­sulted pride, has a right to dictate, and ought to be obeyed; and the time is now, perhaps, arrived when, if I would respect myself, I must renounce you."—

"Renounce me!" interrupted Vivaldi, "renounce me! And is it, then, possible you could renounce me?" he repeated, his eyes still fixed upon her face with eagerness and consternation, "Tell me at once, Elle­na, is it possible?"

"I fear it is not," she replied.

"You fear! alas! if you fear, it is too possible, and I have lost you already! Say, O! say but, that you hope it is not, and I, too, will hope again."

The anguish, with which he uttered this, awaken­ed all her tenderness, and, forgetting the reserve she had imposed upon herself, and every half-formed re­solution, she said, with a smile of ineffable sweetness, "I will neither fear nor hope in this instance; I will obey the dictates of gratitude, of affection, and believe that I never can renounce you, while you are un­changed."

[Page 216] "Believe!" repeated Vivaldi, "only believe! And why that mention of gratitude; and why that unne­cessary reservation? Yet even this assurance, feebly as it sustains my hopes, is extorted; you see my mis­ery, and from pity, from gratitude, not affection, would assuage it. Besides, you will neither fear, nor hope! Ah, Ellena! did love ever yet exist without fear—and without hope? O! never, never! I fear and hope with such rapid transition; every assurance, every look of yours gives such force either to the one, or to the other, that I suffer unceasing anxiety. Why, too, that cold, that heart-breaking mention of gratitude? No Ellena! it is too certain that you do not love me!—My mother's cruelty has estranged your heart from me!

"How much you mistake!" said Ellena. "You have already received sacred testimonies of my regard; if you doubt their sincerity, pardon me, if I so far re­spect myself as to forbear entreating you will believe them."

"How calm, how indifferent, how circumspect, how prudent!" exclaimed Vivaldi in tones of mournful reproach. "But I will not distress you; forgive me for renewing this subject at this time. It was my in­tention to be silent till you should have reached a place of more parmanent security than this; but how was it possible, with such anxiety pressing upon my heart, to persevere in that design! And what have I gained by departing from it?—increase of anxiety—of doubt—of fear!"

"Why will you persist in such self-inflictions?" said Ellena. "I cannot endure that you should doubt my affection, even for a moment. And how can you suppose it possible, that I ever can become insensible of your's; that I can ever forget the imminent danger you have voluntarily incurred for my release, or re­membering it, can cease to feel the warmest gratitude?

[Page 217] "That is the very word which tortures me beyond all others!" said Vivaldi; "is it then, only a sense of obligation you own for me? O! rather say you hate me, than suffer me to deceive my hopes with assurances of a sentiment so cold, so circumscribed, so dutiful as that of gratitude!"

"With me the word has a very different acception, replied Ellena smiling. "I understand it to imply all that is tender and generous in affection; and the sense of duty which you say it includes, is one of the sweetest and most sacred feelings of the human heart."

"Ah Ellena! I am too willing to be deceived, to examine your definition rigorously; yet I believe it is your smile, rather than the accuracy of your expla­nation, that persuades me to a confidence in your af­fection; and I will trust, that the gratitude you feel is thus tender and comprehensive. But, I beseech you name the word no more! Its sound is like the touch of the Torpedo, I perceive my confidence chilled even while I listen to my own pronunciation of it."

The entrance of Paulo interrupted the conversati­on, who advancing with an air of mystery, and alarm, said in a low voice,

"Signor! as I kept watch under the almond trees, who should I see mounting up the road from the val­ley yonder but the two bare-footed Carmelites, that overtook us in the pass of Chiari! I lost them again behind the woods, but I dare say they are coming this way, for the moment they spy out this dairy-hut, they will guess something good is to be had here; and the shepherds would believe their flocks would all die if"—

"I see them at this moment emerging from the woods," said Vivaldi, "and now, they are leaving the road and crossing this way. Where is our host, Paulo!

[Page 218] "He is without, at a little distance, Signor. Shall I call him?"

"Yes," replied Vivaldi, "or stay; I will call him myself. Yet, if they see me"—

"Aye, Signor; or, for that matter, if they see me. But we cannot help ourselves now; for if we call the host, we shall betray ourselves, and, if we do not call him, he will betray us; so they must find us out, be it as it may."

"Peace! peace! let me think a moment," said Vi­valdi. While Vivaldi undertook to think, Paulo was peeping about for a hiding place, if occasion should require one.

"Call our host immediately," said Vivaldi, "I must speak with him."

"He passes the lattices at this instant," said Ellena.

Paulo obeyed, and the shepherd entered the cabin.

"My good friend," said Vivaldi, "I must entreat that you will not admit those friars whom you see coming this way, nor suffer them to know what g [...]ests you have. They have been very troublesome to us already on the road; I will reward you for any loss their sudden departure may occasion you."

"Nay for that matter, friend," said Paulo, "it is their visit only that can occasion you loss, begging the Signor's pardon; their departure never occasioned loss to any body. And to [...]ell you the truth, for my master will not speak out, we were obliged to look pretty sharply about us, while they bore us company, or we have reason to think our pockets would have been the lighter. They are designing people, friend, take my word for it; banditti perhaps, in disguise. The dress of a Carmelite would suit their purpose, at this time of the pilgrimage. So be pretty blunt with them, if they want to come in here; and you will do well, when they go, to send somebody to watch which way [Page 219] they take, and see them clear off, or you may lose a stray lamb perhaps."

The old shepherd lifted up his eyes and hands, "to see how the world goes!" said he. "But thank you, Maestro, for your warning; they shall not come within my threshold, for all their holy seeming, and its the first time in my life I ever said nay to one of their garb, and mine has been a pretty long one, as you may guess, perhaps, by my face. How old, Sig­nor, should you take me to be? I warrant you will guess short of the matter though; for one of these high mountains"—

"I will guess when you have dismissed the travel­lers," said Vivaldi, "after having given them some hasty refreshment without, they must be almost at the door by this time. Dispatch, friend."

"If they should fall foul upon me, for refusing them entrance," said the shepherd, "you will come out to help me, Signor? for my lads are at some distance."

Vivaldi assured him that they would, and he left the cabin.

Paulo ventured to peep at the lattice, on what might be going forward without. "They are gone round to the door, Signor, I fancy," said he, "for I see no­thing of them this way; if there was but another window! What foolish people to build a cottage with no window near the door! But I must listen."

He stepped on tip-toe to the door, and bent his head in attention.

"They are certainly spies from the monstery," said Ellena to Vivaldi, "they follow us so closely! If they were pilgrims, it is improbable, too, that their way should lie through this unfrequented region, and still more so, that they should not travel in a larger party. When my absence was discovered, these peo­ple were sent, no doubt, in pursuit of me, and having [Page 220] met the devotees whom we passed, they were enabled to follow our route."

"We shall do well to act upon this supposition," replied Vivaldi, "but though I am inclined to believe them emissaries from San Stefano, it is not improba­ble that they are only Carmelites returning to some convent on the lake of Celano."

"I cannot hear a syllable, Signor," said Paulo. "Pray do listen yourself! and there is not a single chink in this door to afford one consolation. Well! if ever I build a cottage, there shall be a window near—"

"Listen!" said Vivaldi.

"Not a single word, Signor!" cried Paulo, after a pause, "I do not even hear a voice!—But now I hear steps, and they are coming to the door, too; they shall find it no easy matter to open it, though;" he added, placing himself against it. "Ay, ay, you may knock, friend, till your arm aches, and kick and lay about you—no matter for that."

"Silence! let us know who it is," said Vivaldi, and the old shepherd's voice was heard without. "They are gone, Signor," said he, "you may open the door."

"Which way did they go," asked Vivaldi, when the man entered. "I cannot say, as to that, Signor, because I did not happen to see them at all; and I have been looking all about, too."

"Why, I saw them myself, crossing this way from the wood yonder," said Paulo.

"And there is nothing to shelter them from our view between the wood and this cottage, friend," add­ed Vivaldi; "What can they have done with them­selves?"

"For that matter, gone into the wood again, per­haps," said the shepherd.

Paulo gave his master a significant look, and added, [Page 221] "It is likely enough, friend; and you may depend upon it they are lurking there for no good purpose. You will do well to send somebody to look after them; your flocks will suffer for it else. Depend upon it, they design no good."

"We are not used to such sort of folks in these parts," replied the shepherd, "but if they mean us any harm, they shall find we can help ourselves. As he concluded he took down a horn from the roof, and blew a shrill blast that made the mountains echo; when immediately the younger shepherds were seen running from various quarters towards the cottage.

"Do not be alarmed friend," said Vivaldi, "these travellers mean you no harm, I dear say, whatever they may design against us. But, as I think them suspi­cious persons, and should not like to overtake them on the road, I will reward one of your lads if you will let him go a little ways towards Celano, and examine whether they are lurking on that route."

The old man consented, and when the shepherds came up, one of them received directions from Vi­valdi.

"And be sure you do not return till you have found them," added Paulo.

"No, master," replied the lad, "and I will bring them safe here you may trust me."

"If you do, friend, you will get your head broke for your trouble. You are only to discover where they are, and to watch where they go," said Paulo.

Vivaldi, at length, made the lad comprehend what was required of him, and he departed; while the old shepherd went out to keep guard.

The time of his absence was passed in various con­jectures by the party in the cabin, concerning the Carmelites. Vivaldi still inclined to believe they were honest people returning from a pilgrimage, but Paulo was decidedly against this opinion. "They are [Page 222] waiting for us on the road, you may depend upon it, Signor," said the latter. "You may be certain they have some great design in hand, or they would never have turned their steps from this dairy-house when once they had spied it, and that they did spy it, we are sure."

"But if they have in hand the great design you speak of Paulo," said Vivaldi, "it is probable that they have spied us also, by their taking this obsure road. Now it must have occurred to them when they saw a dairy-hut, in so solitary a region, that we might probably be found within—yet they have not examined. It appears, therefore, they have no design against us. What can you answer to this, Paulo! I trust the apprehensions of Signora di Rosalba are un­founded."

"Why! do you suppose, Signor, they would attack us when we're safe housed, and had these good shep­herds to lend us a helping hand? No, Signor, they would not even have shewn themselves if they could have helped it; and being once sure we were here, they would skulk back to the woods, and lurk for us in the road they knew we must go, since, as it happens, there is only one."

"How is it possible," said Ellena, "that they can have discovered us here, since they did not approach the cabin to enquire?"

"They came near enough for their purpose, Sig­nora, I dare say; and, if the truth were known, they spied my face looking at them through the lattice."

"Come, come," said Vivaldi, "you are an inge­nious tormentor, indeed, Paulo, Do you suppose they saw enough of thy face last night by moonlight, in that dusky glen to enable them to recollect it again at a distance of forty yards? Revive, my Ellena, I think every appearance is in our favour."

"Would I could think so too!" said she with a sigh.

[Page 223] "O! for that matter, Signora," rejoined Paulo, "there is nothing to be afraid of; they should find tough work of it, if they thought proper to attack us, lady."

"It is not an open attack that we have to fear," replied Ellena, "but they may surround us with their snares, and defy resistance."

However Vivaldi might accede to the truth of this remark, he would not appear to do so; but he tried to laugh away her apprehensions; and Paulo was silenced for a while by a significant look from his master.

The shepherd's boy returned much sooner than they had expected, and he probably saved his time that he might spare his labour, for he brought no intelligence of the Carmelites. "I looked for them among the woods along the road side in the hollow, yonder," said the lad, "and then I mounted the hill further on, but I could see nothing of them far or near, nor of a single soul, except our goats, and some of them do stray wide enough, sometimes; they lead me a fine dance often. They sometimes, Signor, have wandered as far as Monte Nuvola, yonder, and got to the top of it, up among the clouds, and the crags, where I should break my neck if I climbed; and the rogues seemed to know it, too, for when they have seen me coming, scramb­ling up, puffing and blowing, they have ceased their capering, and stood peeping over a crag so fly, and so quiet, it seemed as if they were laughing at me; as much as to say, "Catch us if you can."

Vivaldi, who during the latter part of this speech had been consulting with Ellena, whether they should proceed on their way immediately, asked the boy some further questions concerning the Carmelites; and be­coming convinced that they had either not taken the road to Celano, or, having taken it, were at a consider­able distance, he proposed setting out, and proceeding leisurely; "For I have now little apprehension of [Page 224] these people," he added, "and a great deal lest night should overtake us before we reach the place of our destination, since the road is mountainous and wild, and, further, we are not perfectly acquainted with it."

Ellena approving the plan, they took leave of the good shepherd, who could with difficulty be prevailed with to accept any recompence for his trouble, and who gave them some further directions as to the road; and their way was long cheered by the sound of the tabor, and the sweetness of the hautboy, wafted over the wild.

When they descended into the woody hollow men­tioned by the boy, Ellena sent forth many an anxious look beneath the deep shade; while Paulo, sometimes silent, and at others whistling and singing loudly, as if to overcome his fears, peeped under every bough that crossed the road, expecting to discover his friends the Carmelites lurking within its gloom.

Having emerged from this valley, the road lay over the mountains covered with flocks, for it was now the season when they had quitted the plains of Apulia, to feed upon the herbage for which this region is cele­brated; and it was near sun-set, when, from a summit to which the travellers had long been ascending, the whole lake of Celano, with its vast circle of moun­tains, burst at once upon their view.

"Ah Signor!" exclaimed Paulo, "what a prospect is here! It reminds me of home; it is almost as pleasant as the bay of Naples! I should never love it like that though, if it were an hundred times finer."

The travellers stopped to admire the scene, and to give their horses rest, after the labour of the ascent. The evening sun, shooting athwart a clear expanse of water, between eighteen and twenty leagues in cir­cumference, lighted up all the town and villages, and towered castles, and spiry convents, that enriched the rising shores; brought out all the various tints of cul­tivation, [Page 225] and coloured with beamy purple the moun­tains which on every side formed the majestic back­ground of the landscape. Vivaldi pointed out to El­lena the gigantic Velino in the north, a barrier moun­tain, between the territories of Rome and Naples. Its peaked head towered far above every neighbour­ing summit, and its white precipices were opposed to the verdant points of the Majella, snow crowned, and next in altitude, loved by the flocks. Westward near woody hills, and rising immediately from the lake, ap­peared Monte Salviano, covered with wild sage, as its name imports, and once pompous with forests of chestnut; a branch from the Appennine extended to meet it. "See," said Vivaldi, "where Monte-Corno stands like a russian, huge, seared, threatening, and horrid!—and in the south, where the sullen mountain of San Nicolo shoots up, barren and rocky! From thence, mark how other overtopping ridges of the mighty Appennine darken the horizon far along the east, and circle to approach the Velino in the north!"

"Mark too," said Ellena, "how sweetly the banks and undulating plains repose at the feet of the moun­tains; what an image of beauty and elegance they op­pose to the awful grandeur that overlooks and guards them? Observe, too, how many a delightful valley, opening from the lake, spreads its rice and corn fields, shaded with groves of the almond far among the wind­ing hills; how gaily vineyards and olives alternately chequer the acclivities, and how gracefully the lofty palms bend over the higher cliffs."

"Ay, Signora!" exclaimed Paulo, "and have the goodness to observe how like are the fishing boats, that sail towards the hamlet below, to those one sees upon the bay of Naples. They are worth all the rest of the prospect, except indeed this fine sheet of water, which is almost as good as the bay, and that mountain, with its sharp head, which is almost as good as Vesuvius—if it would but throw out fire!"

[Page 226] "We must despair of finding a mountain in this neighbourhood, so good as to do that, Paulo," said Vi­valdi, smiling at this stroke of nationalty; "though, perhaps, many that we now see, have been volcanic."

"I honor them for that Signor; and look at them with double satisfaction; but our mountain is the only mountain in the world. O! to see it of a dark night! what a blazing it makes! and what a height it will shoot to! and what a light it throws over the sea! No other mountain can do so. It seems as if the waves were all on fire. I have seen the reflection as far as Capri, trembling all across the gulf, and shewing eve­ry vessel as plain as at noon day; ay, and every sailor on the deck. You never saw such a sight, Signor."

"Why you do, indeed, seem to have forgotten that I ever did, Paulo, and also that a volcano can do any mischief. But let us return, Ellena, to the scene be­fore us. Yonder, a mile or two within the shore, is the town of Celano, whither we are going."

The clearness of an Italian atmosphere permitted him to discriminate the minute through very distant features of the landscape; and on an eminence rising from the plains of a valley, opening to the west, he pointed out the modern Alba, crowned with the ruins of its ancient castle still visible upon the splendor of the horizon, the prison and the tomb of many a Prince, who, "fallen from his high estate," was sent from Imperial Rome to finish here the sad reverse of his days; to gaze from the bars of his tower upon so­litudes where beauty or grandeur administered no as­suaging feeling to him, whose life had passed amidst the intrigues of the world and the feverish contentions of disappointed ambition; to him, with whom reflec­tion brought only remorse, and anticipation de­spair; whom, no horizontal beam enlivened in the crimson evening of life's dusty day."

"And such a scene as this," said Vivaldi, "a Ro­man [Page 227] emperor came, only for the purpose of witnessing the most barbarous exhibition; to indulge the most savage delights! Here, Claudius celebrated the ac­complishment of his arduous work, an aqueduct to carry the overflowing waters of the Celano to Rome, by a naval fight, in which hundreds of wretched slaves perished for his amusement! Its pure and polished surface was stained with human blood, and roughened by the plunging bodies of the slain, while the gilded gallies of the Emperor floated gaily around, and these beautiful shores were made to echo with applauding yells, worthy of the furies!"

"We scarcely dare to trust the truth of history [...]n some of its traits of human nature," said Ellena.

"Signor," cried Paulo, "I have been thinking that while we are taking the air, so much at our ease, here, those Carmelites may be spying at us from some hole or corner that we know nothing of, and may swoop upon us, all of a sudden, before we can help ourselves. Had we not [...] go on, Signor?"

"Our horses are, perhaps, sufficiently rested," re­plied Vivaldi, "but, if I had not long since dismissed all suspicion of the evil intention of those strangers, I should not willingly have stopped for a moment."

"But pray let us proceed," said Ellena.

"Ay, Signora, it is best to be of the safe side," ob­served Paulo. "Yonder, below, is Celano, and I hope we shall get safe housed, there, before it is quite dark, for here we have no mountain, that will light us on our way! Ah! if we were within twenty miles of Naples now—and it was an illumination night!"—

As they descended the mountain, Ellena, silent and dejected, abandoned herself to reflection. She was too sensible of the difficulties of her present situation, and too apprehensive of the influence, which her de­termination must have on all her future life, to be hap­py, though escaped from the prison of San Stesano, and [Page 228] in the presence of Vivaldi, her beloved deliverer and protector. He observed her dejection with grief, and not understanding all the finer scruples that distressed her, interpreted her reserve into indifference towards himself. But he forbore to disturb her again with a mention of doubts, or fears; and he determined not to urge the subject of his late entreaties, till he should have placed her in some secure asylum, where she might feel herself at perfect liberty to accept or reject his proposal. By acting with an honor so delicate, he unconsciously adopted a certain means of encreasing her esteem and gratitude, and deserved them the more, since he had to endure the apprehension of losing her by the delay thus occasioned to their nuptials.

They reached the town of Celano before the even­ing closed; when Vivaldi was requested by Ellena to enquire for a convent, where she might be lodged for the night. He left her at the inn, with Paulo for her guard, and proceeded on his search. The first gate he knocked upon belonged to a convent of Car­melites. It appeared probable, that the pilgrims of that order, who had occasioned him so much disquie­tude, were honest brothers of this house; but as it was probable also, that if they were emissaries of the Abbess of San Stefano, and came to Celano, they would take up their lodgings with a society of their own class, in preference to that of any other, Vivaldi thought it pru­dent to retire from their gates without making him­self known. He passed on, therefore, and soon after arrived at a convent of Dominicans, where he learned, that there were only two houses of nuns in Celano, and that these admitted no other boarders than perma­nent ones.

Vivaldi returned with this intelligence to Ellena, who endeavoured to reconcil [...] herself to the necessity of remaining where she was; but Poulo, ever active and zealous, brought intelligence, that at a little fish­ing [Page 229] town, at some distance, on the bank of the lake, was a convent of Ursalines, remarkable for their hos­pitality of strangers. The obscurity of so remote a place, was another reason for prefering it to Celano, and Vivaldi proposing to remove thither, if Ellena was not too weary to proceed, she readily assented, and they immediately set off.

"It happens to be a fine night," said Paulo, as they left Celano, "and so, Signor, we cannot well lose our way; besides, they say, there is but one. The town we are going to lies yonder on the edge of the lake, about a mile and a half off. I think I can see a gray steeple or two, a little to the right of that wood where the water gleams so."

"No, Paulo," replied Vivaldi, after looking atten­tively. "I perceive what you mean; but those are not the points of steeples, they are only the tops of some tall cypresses."

"Pardon me, Signor, they are too tapering for trees; that must surely be the town. This road, however, will lead us right, for there is no other to puzzle us, as they say."

"This cool and balmy air revives me," said El­lena; "and what a soothing shade prevails over the scene! How softened, yet how distinct, is every near object; how sweetly dubious are the more removed ones; while the mountains beyond character them­selves sublimely upon the still glowing horizon."

"Observe, too," said Vivaldi, "how their broken summits, tipt with the beams that have set to our lower region, exhibit the portraiture of towers and castles, and embattled ramparts, which seemed design­ed to guard them against the enemies, that may come by the clouds."

"Yes," replied Ellena, "the mountains themselves display a sublimity, that seems to belong to a higher [Page 230] world; their besiegers ought not to be of this earth; they can be only spirits of the air."

"They can be nothing else, Signora," said Paulo, "for nothing of this earth can reach them. See! lady, they have some of the qualities of your spirits, too; see! how they change their shapes and colours, as the sunbeams sink. And now, how gray and dim they grow! See but how fast they vanish?"

"Every thing reposes," said Vivaldi. "Who would willingly travel in the day, when Italy has such nights as this!"

"Signor, that is the town before us," said Paulo, "for now I can discern, plain enough, the spires of convents; and there goes a light! Hah! hah! and there is a bell, too, chiming from one of the spires! The monks are going to mass; would we were going to supper, Signor!"

"That chime is nearer than the place you point to, Paulo, and I doubt whether it comes from the same quarter."

"Hark! Signor, the air wafts the sound! and now it is gone again."

"Yes, I believe you are right, Paulo, and that we have not far to go."

The travellers descended the gradual slopes, towards the shore; and Paulo, some time after, exclaimed, "See, Signor, where another light glides along! See! it is reflected on the lake."

"I hear the faint dashing of waves, now," said El­lena, "and the sound of oars, too. But observe, Paulo, the light is not in the town, it is in the boat that moves yonder."

"Now it retreats, and trembles in a lengthening line upon the waters," said Vivaldi. "We have been too ready to believe what we wish, and have yet far to go"

The shore they were approaching formed a spacious [Page 231] bay for the lake immediately below. Dark woods seemed to spread along the banks, and ascend among the cultivated slopes towards the mountains; except where, here and there, cliffs, bending over the water, were distinguished through the twilight by the white­ness of their limestone precipices. Within the bay, the town became gradually visible; lights twinkled between the trees, appearing and vanishing, like the stars of a cloudy night; and, at length was heard the melancholy song of boatmen, who were fishing near the shore.

Other sounds soon after struck the ear. "O, what merry notes!" exclaimed Paulo, "they make my heart dance. See! Signora, there is a groupe, footing it away so gaily on the bank of the lake yonder, by those trees. O, what merry set! Would I were among them! that is, I mean, if you, Maestro, and the Sig­nora were not here."

"Well corrected, Paulo."

"It is a festival, I fancy," observed Vivaldi.—These peasants of the lake can make the moments [...] as gaily as the voluptuaries of the city, it seems."

"O! what merry music!" repeated Paulo. "Ah! how often I have footed it as joyously on the beach at Naples, after sun-set, of a fine night, like this; with such a pleasant fresh breeze to cool one! Ah! there are none like the fishermen of Naples for a dance by moonlight; how lightly they do trip it! O! if I was [...]ut there now! That is, I mean, if you, Maestro, and the Signora were there too. O! what merry notes!"

"We thank you, good Signor Paulo," said Vi­valdi, "and I trust we shall all be there soon; when you shall trip it away, with as joyous a heart as the [...]est of them."

The travellers now entered the town, which con­sisted of one street, straggling along the margin of the [...]; and having enquired for the Ursaline convent, [Page 232] were directed to its gates. The portress appeared immediately upon the ringing of the bell, and carried a message to the Abbess, who as quickly returned an invitation to Ellena. She alighted, and followed the portress to the parlour, while Vivaldi remained at the gate, till he should know whether she approved of her new lodging. A second invitation induced him also to alight; he was admitted to the grate, and offered refreshment, which, however, he declined staying to accept, as he had yet a lodging to seek for the night. The Abbess, on learning this circumstance, courte­ously recommended him to a neighbouring society of Benedictines, and desired him to mention her name to the Abbot.

Vivaldi then took leave of Ellena, and, though it was only for a few hours, he left her with dejection, and with some degree of apprehension for her safety, which, though circumstances could not justify him in admitting, he could not entirely subdue. She shared his dejection, but not his fears, when the door closed after him, and she found herself once more among strangers. The forlornness of her feelings could not be entirely overcome by the attentions of the Abbess; and there was a degree of curiosity, and even of scru­tiny, expressed in the looks of some of the sisters, which seemed more than was due to a stranger. From such examination she eagerly escaped to the repose from which she had so long been withheld.

Vivaldi, meanwhile, had found an hospitable recep­tion with the Benedictines, whose sequestered situa­tion made the visit of a stranger a pleasurable novelty to them. In the eagerness of conversation, and, yield­ing to the satisfaction which the mind receives from exercising ideas that have long slept in dusky indo­lence, and to the pleasure of admitting new ones, the Abbot and a few of the brothers sat with Vivaldi to a late hour. When, at length, the traveller was suf­fered [Page 233] to retire, other subjects than those, which had interested his host, engaged his thoughts; and he re­volved the means of preventing the misery that threat­ened him, in a serious separation from Ellena. Now, that she was received into a respectable asylum, every motive for silence upon this topic was done away. He determined, therefore, that on the following morn­ing, he would urge all his reasons and entreaties for an immediate marriage; and among the brothers of the Benedictines, he had little doubt of prevailing with one to solemnize the nuptials, which he believed would place his happiness and Ellena's peace, beyond the influence of malignant possibilities.

CHAP. XIII.

WHILE Vivaldi and Ellena were on the way from San Stefano, the Marchese Vivaldi was suffering the utmost vexation, respecting his son; and the Mar­chesa felt not less apprehension, that the abode of El­lena might be discovered; yet this fear did not with­hold her from mingling in all the gaieties of Naples. Her assemblies were, as usual, among the most brilliant of that voluptuous city, and she patronized, as zealous­ly as b [...]fore, the strains of her favourite composer. But, notwithstanding this perpetual dissipation, her thoughts frequently withdrew themselves from the scene, and dwelt on gloomy forebodings of disappoint­ed pride.

A circumstance, which rendered her particularly susceptible to such disappointment at this time, was, that overtures of alliance had been lately made to the Marchese, by the father of a lady, who was held suit­able, in every consideration, to become his daughter; and whose wealth rendered the union particularly de­sirable at a time, when the expences of such an esta­blishment as was necessary to the vanity of the Mar­chesa, considerably exceeded his income, large as it was.

The Marchesa's temper had been thus irritated by the contemplation of her son's conduct in an affair, which so materially affected the fortune, and, as she believed, the honour of his family; when a courier [Page 235] from the Abbess of San Stefano brought intelligence of the flight of Ellena with Vivaldi. She was in a disposition, which heightened disappointment into fury; and she forfeited, by the transports to which she yielded, the degree of pity that otherwise was due to a mother, who believed her only son to have sacrificed his family and himself to an unworthy passion. She believed, that he was now married, and irrecoverably lost. Scarcely able to endure the agony of this con­viction, she sent for her antient adviser Schedoni, that she might, at least, have the relief of expressing her emotion; and of examining whether there remained a possibility of dissolving these long-dreaded nuptials. The phrenzy of passion, however, did not so far over­come her circumspection as to compel her to acquaint the Marchese with the contents of the Abbess's letter, before she had consulted with her Confessor. She knew that the principles of her husband were too just, upon the grand points of morality, to suffer him to a­dopt the measures she might judge necessary; and she avoided informing him of the marriage of his son, until the means of counteracting it should have been sug­gested and accomplished, however desperate such means might be.

Schedoni was not to be found. Trifling circum­stances encrease the irritation of a mind in such a state as was her's. The delay of an opportunity for un­burthening her heart to Schedoni, was hardly to be en­dured; another and another messenger were dispatched to her Confessor.

"My mistress has committed some great sin, truely!" said the servant, who had been twice to the convent within the last half hour. "It must lie heavy on her conscience, in good truth, since she cannot support it for one half hour. Well! the rich have this comfort, however, that, let them be ever so guilty, they can buy themselves innocent again, in the twinkling of a [Page 236] ducat. Now a poor man might be a month before he recovered his innocence, and that, too, not till after many a bout of hard flogging."

In the evening Schedoni came, but it was only to confirm her worst fear. He, too, had heard of the escape of Ellena, as well as that she was on the lake of Celano, and was married to Vivaldi. How he had obtained this information he did not chuse to disclose, but he mentioned so many minute circumstances in confirmation of its truth, and appeared to be so per­fectly convinced of the facts he related, that the Mar­chesa believed them, as implicitly as himself; and her passion and despair transgressed all bounds of decorum.

Schedoni observed, with dark and silent pleasure, the turbulent excess of her feelings; and perceived that the moment was now arrived, when he might command them to his purpose, so as to render his as­sistance indispensable to her repose: and probably so as to accomplish the revenge he had long mediated against Vivaldi, without hazarding the favour of the Marche­sa. So far was he from attempting to sooth her suf­ferings, that he continued to irr [...]ate her resentment, and exasperate her pride; effecting this, at the same time, with such imperceptible art, that he appeared on­ly to be palliating the conduct of Vivaldi, and endea­vouring to console his distracted mother.

"This is a rash step, certainly," said the Confessor; "but he is young, very young, and therefore, does not foresee the consequence to which it leads. He does not perceive how seriously it will affect the dignity of his house;—how much it will depreciate his conse­quence with the court, with the nobles of his own rank, and even with the plebeians, with whom he has condescended to connect himself. Intoxicated with the passions of youth, he does not weigh the value of those blessings, which wisdom and the experience of maturer age know how to estimate. He neglects [Page 237] [...]hem only because he does not perceive their influence [...]n society, and that lightly to resign them, is to regard himself in the view of almost every mind. Unhappy young man! he is to be pitied fully as much as blam­ed."

"Your excuses, reverend father," said the tortured Marchesa, "prove the goodness of your heart; but they illustrate, also, the degeneracy of his mind, and detail the full extent of the effects which he has brought upon his family. It affords me no consolation to know, that this degradation proceeds from his head, rather than his heart; it is sufficient that he has incurred it, and that no possibility remains of throw­ing off the misfortune."

"Perhaps that is affirming too much," observed Schedoni.

"How, father!" said the Merchesa.

"Perhaps a possibility does remain," said he.

"Point it out to me, good father! I do not per­ceive it."

"Nay, my lady," replied the subtle Schedoni, co­recting himself, "I am by no means assured, that such possibility does exist. My solicitude, for your tranquility, and for the honour of your house, makes me so unwilling to relinquish hope, that, perhaps, I only imagine a possibility in your favour. Let me con­sider.—Alas! the misfortune, severe as it is, must be endured; there remain no means of escaping from it."

"It was cruel of you, father, to suggest a hope which you could not justify," observed the Marchesa.

"You must excuse my extreme solicitude, then," re­plied the confessor." "But how is it possible for me to see a family of your ancient estimation brought into such circumstances; its honours blighted by the folly of a thoughtless boy, without feeling sorrow and indig­nation, and looking round for even some desperate means of delivering it from disgrace." He paused.

[Page 238] "Disgrace!" exclaimed the Marchesa, "father, you—you—Disgrace!—The word is a strong one, but—it is, alas! just. And shall we submit to this?—Is it possible we can submit to it?"

"There is no remedy," said Schedoni, coolly.

"Good God! exclaimed the Marchesa "that there should be no law to prevent, or, at least, to punish such criminal marriages?"

"It is much to be lamented," replied Schedoni.

"The woman who obtrudes herself upon a family, to dishonour it," continued the Marchesa, "deserves a punishment nearly equal to that of a state criminal, since she injures those who best support the state. She ought to suffer"—

"Not nearly, but quite equal," interrupted the con­fessor, "she deserves—death!"

He paus [...]d, and there was a moment of profound si­lence, till he added—"for death only can obliviate the degradation she has occasioned; her death alone can restore the original splendor of the line she would have sullied."

He paused again, but the Marchesa still remaining silent, he added, "I have often marvelled that our law­givers should have failed to perceive the justness, nay the necessity, of such punishment!"

"It is astonishing," said the Marchesa, thoughtful­ly, "that a regard for their own honor did not sug­gest it."

"Justice does not the less exist, because her laws are neglected," observed Schedoni. "A sense of what she commands lives in our breasts; and when we fail to obey that sense, is is to weakness, not to virtue, that we yield."

"Certainly," replied the Marchesa, "that truth ne­ver yet was doubted."

"Pardon me, I am not so certain as to that," said the Confessor; "when justice happens to oppose pre­judice, [Page 239] we are apt to believe it virtuous to disobey her. For instance, though the law of justice demands the death of this girl, yet because the law of the land forbears to enforce it, you, my daughter, even you! though possessed of a man's spirit, and his clear per­ceptions, would think that virtue bade her live, when it was only fear!"

"Ha!" exclaimed the Marchesa, in a low voice, "What is that you mean? You shall find I have a man's courage also."

"I speak without disguise." replied Schedoni, "my meaning requires none."

The Marchesa mused, and remained silent.

"I have done my duty," resumed Schedoni, at length. "I have pointed out the only way that re­mains for you to escape dishonor. If my zeal is dis­pleasing—but I have none."

"No, good father, no," said the Marchesa; you mistake the cause of my emotion. New ideas, new prospects, open!—they confuse, they distract me My mind has not yet attained sufficient strength to encounter them; some woman's weakness still lin­gers at my heart."

"Pardon my inconsiderate zeal," said Schedoni, with affected humility, "I have been to blame. If your's is a weakness, it is, at least, an amiable one, and, perhaps, deserves to be encouraged, rather than conquered."

"How, father! If it deserves encouragement, it is not a weakness, but a virtue."

"Be it so," said Schedoni, coolly, "the interest I have felt on this subject, has, perhaps, misled my judg­ment, and has made unjust. Think no more of it, or, if you do, let it be only to pardon the zeal I have testified."

"It does not deserve pardon, but thanks," replied the Marchesa, "not thanks only, but reward. Good [Page 240] father, I hope it will some time be in my power to prove the sincerity of my words."

The Confessor bowed his head.

"I trust that the services you have rendered me, shall be gratefully repaid—rewarded, I dare not hope, for what benefit could possibly reward a service so vast, as it may, perhaps, be in your power to confer upon my family! What recompence could be balanced a­gainst the benefit of having rescued the honor of an ancient house!"

"Your goodness is beyond my thanks, or my de­sert," said Schedoni, and he was again silent.

The Marchesa wished him to lead her back to the point, from which she herself had deviated, and he seemed determined, that she should lead him thither. She mused, and hesitated. Her mind was not yet fa­miliar with attrocious guilt; and the crime which Schedoni had suggested, somewhat alarmed her. She seared to think, and still more to name it; yet, so a­cutely susceptible was her pride, so stern her indigna­tion, and so profound her desire of vengeance, that her mind was tossed as on a tempestuous ocean, and these terrible feelings threatened to overwhelm all the resi­due of humanity in her heart. Schedoni observed all its progressive movements, and, like a gaunt tyger, lurked in silence, ready to spring forward at the mo­ment of opportunity.

"Is it your advice, then, father," resumed the Mar­chesa, after a long pause,—"is it your opinion—that Ellena"—She hesitated, desirous that Schedoni should anticipate her meaning; but he chose to spare his own delicacy rather than that of the Marchesa.

"You think, then, that this insidious girl deserves"—She paused again, but the Confessor, still silent, seemed to wait with submission for what the Marchesa should deliver.

"I repeat, father, that it is your opinion this girl deserves severe punishment."—

[Page 241] Undoubtedly replied Schedoni, "It is not also your own?"

"That not any punishment can be too severe?" continued the Marchesa. "That justice, equally with necessity, demands—her life? Is not this your opinion too?"

"O! pardon me," said Schedoni, "I may have erred; that only was my opinion; and when I form­ed it, I was probably too much under the influence of zeal to be just. When the heart is warm, how is it possible that the judgment can be cool?"

"It is not then, your opinion, holy father," said the Marchesa with displeasure.

"I do not absolutely say that," replied the Confessor—"But I leave it to your better judgment to decide upon its justness."

As he said this, he rose to depart. The Marchesa was agitated and perplexed, and requested he would stay; but he excused himself by alledging that it was the hour he must attend a particular mass.

"Well then holy father, I will occupy no more of your valuable moments at present; but you know I highly estimate your advice, and will not refuse, when I shall at some future time request it."

"I cannot refuse to accept an honour," replied the Confessor, with an air of meekness, "but the subject you allude to is delicate,"—

"And therefore I must value, and require your o­pinion upon it," rejoined the Marchesa.

"I would wish you to value your own," replied Schedoni; "you cannot have a better director."

"You flatter, father."

"I only reply, my daughter."

"On the evening of to-morrow, said the Marches­sa, gravely, "I shall be at vespers in the church of San Nicolo; if you should happen to be there, you will probably see me, when the service is over, and the [Page 242] congregation is departed, in the north cloister. We can there converse on the subject nearest my heart, and without observation.—Farewell!"

"Peace be with you, daughter! and wisdom coun­sel your thoughts!" replied Schedoni, I will not fail to visit San Nicholo."

He folded his hands upon his breast, bowed his head, and left the apartment with the silent foot-step, that indicates weariness and conscious duplicity.

The Marchesa remained in her closet, shaken by e­ver verying passions, and ever-fluctuating opinions; meditating misery for others, and inflicting it only up­on herself.

CHAP. XIV.

THE Marchesa repaired, according to her ap­pointment, to the church of San Nicolo, and, ordering her servants to remain with the carriage at a side-door, entered the choir attended only by her woman.

When vespe [...]s had concluded, she lingered till near­ly every person had quitted the choir, and then walk­ed through the solitary aisle, to the north cloister. Her heart was as heavy as her step; for when is it that peace and evil passions dwell together? As she slowly paced the cloisters, she perceived a monk passing between on the pillars, who, as he approached, lifted his crowl, and she knew him to be Schedoni.

He instantly observed the agitation of her spirits, and that her purpose was not yet determined according to his hope. But, though his mind became cloud­ed, his countenance remained unaltered; it was grave and thoughtful. The sternness of his vulture-eye was, however, somewhat softened, and its lids were contrac­ted by subtlety.

The Marchesa bade her woman walk apart, while she conferred with her Confessor.

"This unhappy boy" said she, when the attendant was at some distance, "How much suffering does his folly inflict upon [...]s family! My good father, I have need of all your advice and consolation. My mind is perpetually haunted by a sense of my misfortune; it [Page 244] has no respite; awake, or in my dream, this ungrateful son alike pursues me! The only relief my heart re­ceives is when conversing with you—my only coun­sellor, my only disinterested friend."

The Confessor bowed. "The Marchesa is no doubt, equally afflicted with yourself," said he; "but he is notwithstanding, much more competent to ad­vise you on this delicate subject than I am."

"The Marchesa has prejudices, father, as you well know; he is a sensible man, but he is sometimes mis­taken, and he is incorrigible in error. He has the faults of a mind that is merely well disposed; he is des­titute of the descernment and the energy which would make it great. If it is necessary to adopt a conduct, that departs in the smallest degree from those common rules of morality which he has cherished, without ex­amining them, from his infancy, he is shocked, and shrinks from action. He cannot discrimnate the cir­cumstances, that render the same action virtuous or vicious. How then, father, are we to suppose he would approve of the bold inflictions we meditate?"

"Most true!" said the artful Schedoni, with an air of admiration,

"We therefore, must not consult him," continued the Marchesa, "lest he should now, as formerly, ad­vance and maintain objections, to which we cannot yield. What passes in conversation with you, father, is sacred, it goes no farther,"

"Sacred as a confession!" said Schedoni, crossing himself.

"I know not,"—resumed the Marchesa, and hesi­tated; "I know not"—she repeated in a yet lower voice, "how this girl may be disposed of; and this it is which distracts my mind."

"I marvel much at that," said Schedoni. "With opinions so singularly just, with a mind so accurate, yet so bold as you have displayed, is it possible that you [Page 245] can hesitate at what is to be done! You, my daugh­ter, will not prove yourself one of those ineffectual de­claimers, who can think vigorously, but cannot act so! One way, only, remains for you to pursue, in the pre­sent instance; it is the same which your superiour saga­city pointed out, and taught me to approve. Is it ne­cessary for me to persuade her, by whom I am con­vinced? There is only one way."

"And on that I have been long meditating," re­plied the Marchesa, "and, shall I own my weakness? I cannot yet decide."

"My daughter! can it be possible that you should want courage to soar above vulgar prejudice, in action, though not in opinion?" said Schedoni, who, perceiv­ing that his assistance was necessary to fix her fluctu­ating mind, gradually began to steal forth from the pru­dent reserve, in which he had taken shelter.

"If this person was condemned by the law," he continued, "you would pronounce her sentence to be just; yet you dare not, I am humbled while I re­peat it, you dare not dispense justice yourself."

The Marchesa, after some hesitation, said, "I have not the shield of the law to protect me, father: and the boldest virtue may pause, when it reaches the utmost verge of safety."

"Never!" replied the Confessor, warmly; "vir­tue never trembles; it is her glory, and sublimest attri­bute to be superior to danger, to despise it. The best principle is not virtue till it reaches this eleva­tion."

A philosopher might, perhaps, have been surprized to hear two persons seriously defining the limits of vir­tue, at the very moment in which they medi­tated the most atrocious crime; a man of the world would have considered it to be mere hypocrisy; a sup­position which might have disclosed his general know­ledge of manners, but would certainly have betrayed his ignorance of the human heart.

[Page 246] The Marchesa was for some time silent and thought­ful, and then repeated, deliberately, "I have not the shield of the law to protect me."

"But you have the shield of the church," replied Schedoni; "you should not only have protection, but absolution."

"Absolution!—Does virtue—justice, require ab­solution father?"

"When I mention absolution for the action which you perceive to be so just and necessary," replied Sche­doni, "I accommodated my speech to vulgar preju­dice, and to vulgar weakness. And, forgive me, that since you, my daughter, descended from the loftiness of your spirit to regret the shield of the law, I endea­voured to console you, by offering a shield to consci­ence. But enough of this; let us return to argument. This girl is put out of the way of committing more mischief, of injuring the peace and dignity of a distin­guished family; she is sent to an eternal sleep, before her time.—Where is the crime, where is the evil of this? On the contrary, you perceive, and you have convinced me, that it is only strict justice, only self­defence."

The Marchesa was attentive, and the confessor add­e [...] "She is not immortal; and the few years more, [...] might have been allotted her, she deserves to for­feit, since she would have employed them in cankering the honour of an illustrious house."

"Speak low, father," said the Marchesa, though he spoke almost in a whisper; "the cloister appears soli­tary, yet some person may lurk behind those pillars. Advise me how this business may be managed; I am ignorant of the particular means."

"There is some hazard in the accomplishment of it I grant," replied Schedoni, "I know not whom you may confide in.—The men who make a trade of blood"—

[Page 247] "Hush!" said the Marchesa, looking round through the twilight—"a step!"

"It is the Friar's, yonder, who crosses to the choir," replied Schedoni.

They were watchful for a few moments, and then he resumed the subject, "Mercenaries ought not to be trusted,"—

"Yet who but mercenaries"—interrupted the Mar­chesa, and instantly checked herself. But the question thus implied, did not escape the Confessor.

"Pardon my astonishment," said he, "at the incon­sistency, or, what shall I venture to call it? of your opinions! After the acuteness you have displayed on some points, is it possible you can doubt, that princi­ple may both prompt and perform the deed? Why should we hesitate to do what we judge to be right?"

"Ah! reverend father," said the Marchesa, with emotion, "but where shall we find another like your­self—another, who not only can perceive with justness, but will act with energy?"

Schedoni was silent.

"Such a friend is above all estimation; but where shall we seek him?"

"Daughter!" said the monk, emphatically, "my zeal for your family is above all calculation."

"Good father," replied the Marchesa, comprehend­ing his full meaning, "I know not how to thank you."

"Silence is sometimes eloquence," said Schedoni, significantly.

The Marchesa mused, for her conscience also was eloquent. She tried to overcome its voice, but it would be heard; and sometimes such starts of horrible conviction came over her mind, that she felt as one who, awaking from a dream, opens his eyes only to measure the depth of the precipice on which he totters In such moments she was astonished, that she had paus­ed [Page 248] for an instant upon a subject so terrible as that of murder. The sophistry of the confessor, together with the inconsistencies he had betrayed, and which had not escaped the notice of the Marchesa, even at the time they were uttered, though she had been un­conscious of her own, then became more strongly ap­parent, and she almost determined to suffer the poor Ellena to Live. But returning passion, like a wave that has recoiled from the shore, afterwards came with recollected energy, and swept from her feeble mind, the barriers, which reason and conscience had begun to rear.

"This confidence with which you have thought proper to honor me," said Schedoni, at length, and paused; "This affair so momentous"—

"Ay, this affair," interrupted the Marchesa, in a hurried manner,—"but when, and where, good fa­ther? Being once convinced, I am anxious to have it settled."

"That must be as occasion offers," replied the Monk, thoughtfully.—"On the shore of the Adriatic, in the province of Apulia; not far from Manfredonia, is a house that might suit the purpose. It is a lone dwelling on the beach, and concealed from travellers, among the forests which spread for many miles along the coast."

"And the people?" said the Marchesa.

"Ay, daughter, or why travel so far as Apulia? It is inhabited by one poor man, who sustains a misera­ble existence by fishing. I know him, and could un­fold the reason of his solitary life;—but no matter, it is sufficient that I know him."

"And would trust him, father?"

"Ay, lady, with the life of this girl—though scarcely with my own."

"How! If he is such a villian he may not be trust­ed! [Page 249] think further. But now, you objected to a mer­cenary, yet this man is one!"

"Daughter, he may be trusted, when it is in such a case; he is safe and sure. I have reason to know him."

"Name your reasons, father."

The Confessor was silent and his countenance as­sumed a very peculiar character; it was more terri­ble than usual, and overspread with a dark, cadaverous [...]ue of mingled anger and guilt The Marchesa start­ed involuntarily as, passing by a window, the evening gleam that fell there, discovered it; and for the first time she wished, that she had not committed herself so wholly to his power. But the die was now cast; it was too late to be prudent; and she again demand­ed his reasons.

"No matter," said Schedoni, in a stifled voice—"she dies!"

"By his hands?" asked the Marchesa, with strong emotion. "Think, once more, father."

They were both again silent and thoughtful The Marchesa, at length, said, "Father, I rely upon your integrity and prudence;" and she laid a very flatter­ing emphasis upon the word integrity. "But I con­jure you to let this business be finished quickly; sus­pence is to me the purgatory of [...] world, and not to trust the accomplishment of it to a second person." She paused and then added, "I would not willingly owe so vast a debt of obligation to any other than yourself."

"Your request, daughter, that I would not con­fide this business to a second person, said Schedoni, with displeasure, "cannot be accorded to. Can you suppose, that I myself"—

"Can I doubt that principle may both prompt and perform the deed," interrupted the Marchesa with quicness, and anticipating his meaning, while [Page 250] she retorted upon him his former words. "Why should we hesitate to do what we judge to be right?"

The silence of Schedoni alone indicated his dis­pleasure, which the Marchesa immediately understood.

"Consider, good father," she added significantly, "how painful it must be to me, to owe so infinite an obligation to a stranger, or to any other than so high­ly valued a friend as yourself."

Schedoni, while he detected her meaning, and per­suaded himself that he dispised the flattery, with which she so thinly veiled it, unconsciously suffered his self-love to be soothed by the compliment. He bowed his head, in signal of consent to her wish.

"Avoid violence, if that be possible," she added, immediately comprehending him, "but let her di [...] quickly! The punishment is due to the crime."

The Marchesa happened, as she said this, to cast her eyes upon the inscription over a Confessional, where appeared, in black letters, these awful words, "God hears thee!" It appeared an awful warning. Her countenance changed; it had struck upon her heart. Schedoni was too much engaged by his own thoughts to observe, or understand her silence. She soon recovered herself; and considering that this was a common inscription for Confessionals, disregarded what she at first considered as a peculiar admonition; yet some moments elapsed, before she could renew the subject.

"You were speaking of a place, father," resumed the Marchesa—"you mentioned a"—

"Ay," muttered the Confessor, still musing—"in a chamber of that house there is"—

"What noise is that?" said the Marchesa, inter­rupting him. They listened. A few low and que­rulous notes of the organ sounded at a distance, and stopped again.

"What mournful music is that?" said the Marche­sa [Page 251] in a faultering voice, "It was touched by a fearful hand! Vespers were over long ago."

"Daughter," said Schedoni, somewhat sternly, "you said a man's courage. Alas! you have a woman's heart."

"Excuse me father; I know not why I feel this a­gitation, but I will command it. That chamber?"—

"In that chamber," resumed the Confessor, "is a secret door, constructed long ago."—

"And for what purpose constructed?" said the fearful Marchesa.

"Pardon me daughter; 'tis sufficient that it is there: we will make a good use of it. Through that door—in the night—when she sleeps"—

"I comprehend you," said the Marchesa, "I com­prehend you. But why, you have your reasons, no doubt, but why the necessity of a secret door in a house which you say is so lonely—inhabited by only one person?"

"A passage leads to the sea," continued Schedoni, without replying to the question. "There, on the shore, when darkness covers it; there, plunged amidst the waves, no stain shall hint of"—

"Hark!" interrupted the Marchesa, starting, "that note again!"

The organ sounded faintly from the choir, and paused, as before. In the next moment a flow chaunt­ing of voices was heard, mingling with the rising peal, in a strain particularly melancholy and solemn.

"Who is dead?" said the Marchesa, changing countenance; "it is a requiem!"

"Peace be with the departed!" exclaimed Schedo­ni, and crossed himself; "Peace rest with his soul!"

"Hark! to that chaunt!" said the Marchesa, in a trembling voice; "it is a first requiem; the soul has but just quitted the body!"

They listened in silence. The Marchesa was much [Page 252] affected; her complexion varied at every instant; her breathings were short and interrupted, and she even shed a few tears, but they were those of despair, rather than of sorrow. "That body is now cold," said she to herself, "which but an hour ago was warm and animated! Those fine senses are closed in death! And to this condition would I reduce a being like myself! Oh, wretched, wretched mother! to what has the folly of a son reduced thee."

She turned from the Confessor, and walked alone in the cloister. Her agitation encreased; she wept without restraint, for her veil and the evening gloom concealed her, and her sighs were lost amidst the mu­sic of the choir,

Schedoni was scarcely less disturbed, but his were emotions of apprehension and contempt. "Behold, what is woman!" said he—"The slave of her pas­sions, the dupe of her senses! When pride and revenge speak in her breast, she defies obstacles, and laughs at crimes! Assail but her senses, let music, for instance, touch the feeble chord of her heart, and echo to her fancy, and lo! all her perceptions change:—she shrinks from an act she had but an instant before be­lieved meritorious, yields to some new emotion, and sinks—the victim of a sound! O, weak and contemp­tible being!"

The Marchesa, at least seemed to justify his obser­vations. The desperate passions, which had resisted every remonstrance of reason and humanity, were van­quished only by other passions; and her senses touched by the mournful melody of music, and her superstitious fears awakened by the occurrence of a requiem for the dead, at the very moment when she was planning murder, she yielded, for a while, to the united influence of pity and terror. Her agitation did not subside; but she returned to the Confessor.

"We will converse on this business at some future [Page 253] time." said she; "at present, my spirits are disorder­ed. Good night, father! Remember me in your o­risons."

"Peace, be with you, Lady!" said the confessor, bowing gravely. "You shall not be forgotten. Be resolute, and yourself."

The Marchesa beckoned her woman to approach, when, drawing her veil closer and, leaning upon the attendant's arm, she left the cloister, Schedoni re­mained for a moment on the spot, looking after her, till her figure was lost in the gloom of the long per­spective; he then with thoughtful steps, quitted the cloister by another door. He was disappointed, but he did not dispair.

CHAP. XV.

WHILE the Marchesa and the monk were thus meditating conspiraces against Ellena, she was still in the Ursaline convent on the lake of Celano. In this obscure sanctuary, indisposition, the consequence of the long and severe anxiety she had suffered, compelled her to remain. A fever was on her spirits, and an universal lassitude prevailed over her frame; which became the more effectual, from her very solicitude to conquer it. Every approaching day she hoped she should be able to pursue her journey homeward, yet eve­ry day found her as incapable of traveling as the last, and the second week was already gone, before the fine air of Celano, and the tranquility of her asylum, be­gan to revive her. Vivaldi who was her daily visi­tor at the grate of the convent, and who, watching, o­ver her with intense solicitude, had hitherto forborne to renew a subject, which, by agitating her spirits, might affect her health, now, that her health strength­ened, ventured gradually to mention his fears lest the place of her retreat should be discovered, and lest he yet might irrecoverably lose her, unless she would ap­prove of their speedy marriage. At every visit he now urged the subject, represented the dangers that sur­rounded [Page 255] them; and repeated his arguments and in­treaties; for now, when he believed that time was pressing forward fatal evils, he could no longer attend to the delicate scruples, that bade him be sparing in intreaty. Ellena, had she obeyed the dictates of her heart, would have rewarded his attachment and his ser­vices by a frank approbation of his proposal; but the objections which reason exhibited against such a concession, she could neither overcome or disregard.

Vivaldi, after he had again represented their present dangers, and claimed the promise of her hand, received in the presence of her deceased relative, Signora Bi­anchi, gently ventured to remind her, that an event as sudden as lamentable, had first deferred their nuptials, and that if Bianchi had lived, Ellena would have be­stowed, long since, the vows he now solicited. Again he intreated her, by every sacred and tender recollec­tion, to conclude the fearful uncertainty of their fate, and to bestow upon him the right to protect her, be­fore they ventured forth from this temporary asylum.

Ellena immediately admitted the sacredness of the promise, which she had formerly given, and assured Vivaldi that she considered herself as indissolubly bound to wed him as if it had been given at the altar; but she objected to a confirmation of it, till his family should seem willing to receive her for their daughter; when forgetting the injuries she had received from them, she would no longer refuse their alliance. She added, that Vivaldi ought to be more jealous of the dignity of the woman, whom he honoured with his es­teem, than to permit her making a greater conces­sion..

Vivaldi felt the full force of this appeal; he recol­lected, with anguish, circumstances of which she was happily ignorant, but which served to strengthen with him the justness of her reproof. And, as the aspersi­ons which the Marchesa had thrown upon [...], [Page 256] crowed to his memory, pride and indignation swelled his heart, and so far overcame apprehension of hazard, that he formed a momentary resolution to abandon e­very other consideration, to that of asserting the res­pect which was due to Ellena, and to forbear claim­ing her for his wife, till his family should make an acknowledgment of their error, and willingly admit her in the rank of their child. But this resolution was as transient as plausible; other considerations, and former fears pressed upon him. He perceived the strong improbability, that they would ever make a voluntary sacrifice of their pride to his love; or yield mistakes, nurtured by prejudice, and by willing indulgence, to truth and a sense of justice. In the mean time, the plans, which would be formed for se­parating him from Ellena, might succeed, and he should lose her for ever. Above all, it appeared, that the best, the only method, which remained for confut­ing the daring aspersions that had affected her name, was, by proving the high respect he himself felt for her, and presenting her to the world in the sacred cha­racter of his wife. These considerations quickly de­termined him to persevere in his suit; but it was im­possible to urge them to Ellena, since the circumstan­ces they must unfold, would not only shock her deli­cacy and afflict her heart, but would furnish the pro­per pride she cherished with new arguments against approaching a family, who had thus grossly insulted her.

While these considerations occupied him, the emo­tion they occasioned did not escape Ellena's observa­tion; it increased, as he reflected on the impossibility of urging them to her, and on the hopelessness of pre­vailing with her, unless he could produce new argu­ments in his favour. His unaffected distress awaken­ed all her tenderness and gratitude; she asked herself whether she ought any longer to assert her own rights, [Page 257] when by doing so, she sacrificed the peace of him, who had incurred so much danger for her sake, who had rescued her from severe oppression, and had so long and so well proved the strength of his affection.

As she applied these questions, she appeared to her­self an unjust and selfish being, unwilling to make any sacrifice for the tranquility of him, who had given her liberty, even at the risk of his life. Her very vir­tues, now that they were carried to excess, seemed to her to border on vices; her sense of dignity appeared, to be narrow pride; her delicacy weakness; her mo­derated affection cold ingratitude; and her circum­spection, little less than prudence degenerated into meanness.

Vivaldi, as apt in admitting hope as fear, immedi­ately perceived her resolution beginning to yield, and he urged again every argument which was likely to prevail over it. But the subject was too important for Ellena, to be immediately decided upon; he depart­ed with a faint assurance of encouragement; and she forbade him to return till the following day, when she would acquaint him with her final determination.

This interval was, perhaps, the most painful he had ever experienced. Alone, and on the banks of the lake, he passed many hours in alternate hope and fear; in endeavouring to anticipate the decision, on which seemed suspended all his future peace, and abruptly recoiling from it, as often as imagination represented it to be adverse.

Of the walls, that enclosed her he scarcely ever lost sight; the view of them seemed to cherish his hopes, and, while he gazed upon their rugged surface, Elle­na alone was pictured on his fancy; till his anxiety to learn her disposition towards him arose to agony, and he would abruptly leave the spot. But an invisible spell still seemed to attract him back again, and even­ing [Page 258] found him pacing slowly beneath the shade of those melancholy boundaries that concealed his Ellena.

Her day was not more tranquil. Whenever pru­dence and decorous pride forbade her to become a member of the Vivaldi family, as constantly did gra­titude, affection, irresistible tenderness plead the cause of Vivaldi. The memory of past times returned; and the very accents of the deceased seemed to murmur from the grave, and command her to fulfil the engage­ment, which had soothed the dying moments of Bi­anchi.

On the following morning, Vivaldi was at the gates of the convent, long before the appointed hour, and he lingered in dreadful impatience, till the clock struck the signal for his entrance.

Ellena was already in the parlour; she was alone, and rose in disorder on his approach. His steps faul­tered, his voice was lost, and his eyes only, which he fixed with a wild earnestness on her's, had power to inquire her resolution. She observed the paleness of his countenance, and his emotion, with a mixture of concern and approbation. At that moment, he per­ceived her smile, and hold out her hand to him; and fear, care, and doubt vanished at once from his mind. He was incapable of thanking her, but sighed deeply as he pressed her hand, and, overcome with joy, sup­ported himself against the grate that separated them.

"You are, then, indeed my own!" said Vivaldi, at length recovering his voice—"We shall be no more parted—you are mine for ever! But your countenance changes! O heaven! surely I have not mistaken! Speak! I conjure you, Ellena; relieve me from these terrible doubts!"

"I am yours, Vivaldi," replied Ellena faintly, "op­pression can part us no more."

She wept, and drew her veil over her eyes,

"What mean those tears?" said Vivaldi, with a­larm. [Page 259] "Ah! Ellena," he added in a softened voice, "should tears mingle with such moments as these! [...]ould your tears fall upon my heart now! They tell me, that your consent is given with reluctance—with grief; that your love is feeble, your heart—yes Elle­na! that your whole heart is no longer mine!"

"They ought rather to tell you," replied Ellena, "that it is all your own; that my affection never was more powerful than now, when it can overcome every consideration with respect to your family, and urge me to a step which must degrade me in their eyes.—and, I fear, in my own,"

"O retract that cruel assertion!" interrupted Vi­valdi, "Degrade you in your own!—degrade you in their eyes!" He was much agitated; his countenance was flushed, and air of more than usual dignity dilat­ed his figure,

"The time shall come, my Ellena." he added with energy, "when they shall understand your worth, and acknowledge your excellence. O! that I were an Emperor, that I might shew to all the world how much I love and honour you!"

Ellena gave him her hand, and, withdrawing her veil, smiled on him through her tears, with gratitude and reviving courage.

Before Vivaldi retired to the convent, he obtained her consent to consult with an aged Benedictine, whom he had engaged in his interest, as to the hour in which the marriage might be solemnized with least observation. The priest informed him, that at the conclusion of the vesper-service, he should be disen­gaged for several hours; and that, as the first hour after sun-set was more solitary than any other, the brotherhood being then assembled in the refactory, he would meet Vivaldi and Ellena at that time, in a chapel on the edge of the lake, a short distance from [Page 260] the Benedictiue convent, to which it belonged, and celebrate their nuptials.

With this proposal, Vivaldi immediately returned to Ellena; when it was agreed that the party should assemble by the hour mentioned by the priest. Elle­na, who had thought it proper to mention her inten­tion to the Abbess of the Ursalines, was, by her par­mission, to be attended by a lay-sister; and Vivaldi was to meet her without the walls, and conduct her to the altar. When the ceremony was over, the fuji­tives were to embark in a vessel, hired for the purpose, and crossing the lake, proceed towards Naples. Vi­valdi again withdrew to engage a boat, and Ellena to prepare for the continuance of her journey.

As the appointed hour drew near, her spirits sunk, and she watched with melancholy foreboding, the sun retiring amidst stormy clouds, and his rays fading from the highest points of the mountains, till the gloom of twilight prevailed over the scene. She then left her apartment, took a grateful leave of the hospitable Ab­bess, and, attended by the lay-sister, quitted the con­vent.

Immediately without the gate she was met by Vi­valdi, whose looks, as he put her arm within his, gent­ly reproached her for the dejection of her air.

They walked in silence towards the chapel of San Sebastian. The scene appeared to sympathize with the spirits of Ellena. It was a gloomy evening, and the lake, which broke in dark waves upon the shore, mingled its hollow sounds with those of the wind, that bowed the lofty pines, and swept in gusts among the rocks. She observed with alarm the heavy thunder clouds, that rolled along the sides of the mountains and the birds circling swiftly over the waters, and scudding away to their nests among the cliffs; and she noticed to Vivaldi, that, as a storm seemed approaching, she wished to avoid crossing the lake. He immediately [Page 261] ordered Paulo to dismiss the boat, and to be in waiting with a carriage, that, if the weather should become clear, they might not be detained longer than was o­therwise necessary.

As they approached the chapel, Ellena fixed her eyes on the mournful cypresses which waved over it, and sighed. "Those," she said, "are funeral mementos—not such as should grace the altar of marriage! Vi­valdi, I could be superstitious.—Think you not they are portentous of future misfortune? But forgive me my spirits are weak,"

Vivaldi endeavoured to soothe her mind, and tender­ly reproached her for the sadness she indulged. Thus they entered the chapel. Silence, and a kind of gloo­my sepulchral light prevailed within. The venerable Benedictine, with a brother, who was to serve as guardian to the bride, were already there, but they were kneeling, and engaged in prayer.

Vivaldi led the trembling Ellena to the altar, where they waited till the Benedictines should have finished, and these were moments of great emotion. She often looked round the dusky chapel, in fearful expectation of discovering some lurking observer; and though she knew it to be very improbable, that any person in this neighbourhood could be interested in interrupting the ceremony, her mind involuntarily admitted the pos­sibility of it. Once, indeed, as her eyes glanced over a casement, Ellena fancied she distinguished a hu­man face laid close to the glass, as if to watch what was passing within; but when she looked again, the apparition was gone. Notwithstanding this, she list­ened with anxiety to the uncertain sounds without, and sometimes started as the surges of the lake dashed over the rock below, almost believing she heard the steps and whispering voices of men in the avenues of the chapel. She tried, however, to subdue apprehension, by considering, that if this were true, an harmless cu­riosity [Page 262] might have attracted some inhabitants of the convent hither, and her spirits became more compos­ed, till she observed a door open a little way, and a dark countenance looking from behind it. In the next instant it retreated, and the door was closed.

Vivaldi, who perceived Ellena's complexion change, as she laid her hand on his arm, followed her eyes to the door, but no person appearing, he enquired the cause of her alarm.

"We are observed," said Ellena, "some person ap­peared at that door!"

"And if we are observed, my love," replied Vival­di, "who is there in this neighbourhood whose obser­vation we can have reason to fear? Good father, dis­patch," he added, turning to the priest, "you forget that we are waiting."

The officiating priest made a signal that he had nearly concluded his orison; but the other brother rose immediately, and spoke with Vivaldi, who desired that the doors of the chapel might be fastened to prevent intrusion.

"We dare not bar the gates of this holy temple," replied the Benedictine, "it is a sanctuary, and never may be closed."

"But you will allow me to repress idle curiosity," said Vivaldi, "and to enquire who watches beyond that door? The tranquility of this lady demands thus much."

The brother assented, and Vivaldi stepped to the door; but perceiving no person in the obscure passage beyond, it, he returned with lighter steps to the altar, from which the officiating priest now rose.

"My children," said he, "I have made you wait,—but an old man's prayers are not less important than a young man's vows, though this is not a moment when you will admit that truth."

"I will allow whatever you please, good father." [Page 263] replied Vivaldi, "if you will administer those vows, without further delay;—time presses."

The venerable priest took his station at the altar, and opened the book. Vivaldi placed himself on his right hand, and with looks of anxious love, endeavour­ed to encourage Ellena, who with a dejected counte­nance, which her veil but ill concealed, and eyes fixed on the ground, learned on her attendant sister. The figure and homely features of this sister; the tall sta­ture and harsh visage of the brother, clothed in the grey habit of his order; the silvered head and placid phy­siognomy of the officiating priest, enlighted by a gleam from the lamp above, opposed to the youthful grace and spirit of Vivaldi, and the milder beauty and sweet­ness of Ellena, formed altogether a group worthy of the pencil.

The priest had begun the ceremony, when a noise from without again alarmed Ellena, who observed the [...] once cautiously opened, and a man bend forward his gigantic figure from behind it. He carried a [...]orch, and its glare, as the door gradually enclosed, dis­covered other persons in the passage beyond, looking forward over his shoulder into the chapel. The [...] of their dress instantly convinced Ellena that they were not inhabitants of the Benedictine convent, but some terrible messengers of evil. Her half-stifled shriek alarmed Vivaldi, who caught her before she fell to the ground: but, as he had not faced the door, he did not understand the occasion of her terror, till the sudden rush of footsteps made him turn, when he obser­ved several men armed, and very singularly habited, advancing towards the altar.

"Who is he that intrudes upon this sanctuary?" he demanded sternly, while he half rose from the ground where Ellena had sunk.

"What sacrilegious footsteps," cried the priest, "thus rudely violate this holy place?"

[Page 264] Ellena was now insensible; and the men continuing to advance, Vivaldi drew his sword to protect her.

The priest and Vivaldi now spoke together, but the words of neither could be distinguished, when a voice, tremendous from his loudness, like bursting thunder, dissipated the cloud of mystery."

"You Vincentio di Vivaldi, and of Naples." it said, "and you Ellena di Rosalba, of the Villa Altieri, we summon you to surrender, in the name of the most holy Inquisition!"

"The Inquisition!" exclaimed Vivaldi, scarcely believing what he heard. "Here is some mistake!"

The official repeated the summons, without deign­ing to reply.

Vivaldi, yet more astonished, added, "Do not ima­gine you can so far impose upon my credulity, as that I can believe myself to have fallen within the cogni­zance of the Inquisition."

"You may believe what you please, Signor," re­plied the chief Officer, "but you and that lady are our prisoners."

"Begone, impostor!" said Vivaldi, springing from the ground, where he had supported Ellena, or my sword shall teach you to repent your audacity!"

"Do you insult an officer of the inquisition!" ex­claimed the ruffian. "That holy Community will in­form you what you incur by resisting its mandate."

The priest interrupted Vivaldi's retort. "If you are really officers of that tremendous tribunal," he said, "produce some proof of your office. Remem­ber this place is sanctified, and tremble for the conse­quence of imposition. You do wrong to believe, that will deliver up to you persons who have taken refuge here, without an unequivocal demand from that dread power."

"Produce your form of summons," demanded Vi­valdi, with haughty impatience.

[Page 265] "It is here," replied the official, drawing forth a black scroll, which he delivered to the priest, "Read and be satisfied!"

The Benedictine started the instant he beheld the scroll, but he received and deliberately examined it. The kind of parchment, the impression of the seal, the particular form of words, the private signals, under­stood only by the initiated—all announced this to be a true instrument of arrestation from the Holy Office. The scroll dropped from his hand, and he fixed his eyes, with surprize and unalterable compassion, upon Vivaldi, who stopped to reach the parchment, when it was snatched by the official.

"Unhappy young man!" said the priest, "it is too true; you are summoned by that awful power, to an­swer to your crime, and I am spared from the commis­sion of a terrible offence!"

Vivaldi appeared thunderstruck. "For what crime, holy father, am I called upon to answer? This is some bold and artful imposture, since it can delude even you? What crime—what offence?"

"I did not think you had been thus hardened in guilt!" replied the priest. "Forbear! add not the audacity of falsehood to the headlong passions of youth. You understand too well your crime."

"Falsehood!" retorted Vivaldi, "But your years, old man, and those sacred vestments, protect you. For these ruffians, who have dared to implicate that inno­cent victim," pointing to Ellena, "in the charge, they shall have justice from my vengeance."

"Forbear! forbear?" said the priest, seizing his arm, "have pity on yourself and on her. Know you not the punishment you in [...]ur from resistance!"

"I know not, nor care," replied Vivaldi, "but I will defend Ellena di Rosalba to the last moment. Let them reproach if they dare."

"It is on her, on her who lies senseless at your [Page 266] feet," said the priest, "that they will wreak their ven­geance for these insults; on her—the partner of your guilt."

"The partner of my guilt!" exclaimed Vivaldi, with mingled astonishment and indignation—"of my guilt."

"Rash young man! does not the very veil she wears betray it? I marvel how it could pass my ob­servation!"

"You have stolen a nun from her convent," said the chief officer, "and must answer for the crime. When you have wearied yourself with these heroics, Signor, you must go with us; our patience is wearied already."

Vivaldi observed, for the first time, that Ellena was shrouded in a nun's veil; it was the one which Olivia had lent, to conceal her from the notice of the Abbess, on the night of her departure from San Stefano, and which, in the hurry of that departure, she had forgot­ten to leave with the nun. During this interval, her mind had been too entirely occupied by cares and ap­prehension to allow her once to notice, that the veil she wore was other than her usual one; but it had been too well observed by some of the Ursaline sisters.

Though he knew not how to account for the cir­cumstance of the veil, Vivaldi began to perceive others which gave colour to the charge brought against him, and to ascertain the wide circumference of the snare that was spread around him. He fancied, too, that he perceived the hand of Schedoni employed upon it, and that his dark spirit was now avenging itself for the exposure he had suffered in the church of the Spirito Santo, and for all the consequent mortifications. As Vivaldi was ignorant of the ambitious hopes which the Marchesa had encouraged in father Schedoni, he did not see the improbability, that the Confessor would have dared to hazard her favour by this arrest of her [Page 267] son; much less could he suspect, that Schedoni, hav­ing done so, had secrets in his possession, which en­abled him safely to defy her resentment, and bind her in silence to his decree.

With the conviction, that Schedoni was the ma­ster-hand that directed the present manoeuvre, Vival­di stood aghast, gazing in silent unutterable anguish on Ellena, who, as she began to revive, stretched forth her helpless hands, and called upon him to save her, "Do not leave me," said she in accents the most sup­plicating, "I am safe while you are with me."

At the sound of her voice, he started from his trance, and turning fiercely on the ruffians, who stood in sul­len watchfulness around, bade them depart, or prepare for his fury. At the same instant they all drew their swords, and the shrieks of Ellena, and the supplications of the officiating priest, were lost amidst the tumult of the combatants.

Vivaldi, most unwilling to shed blood, stood, mere­ly on the defensive, till the violence of his antagonists compelled him to exert all his skill and strength. He then disabled one of the ruffians; but his skill was insufficient to repel the other two, and he was nearly overcome, when steps were heard approaching, and Paulo rushed into the chapel. Perceiving his master beset, he drew his sword, and came furiously to his aid. He fought with unconquerable audacity and fierceness, till nearly at the moment when his adversary fell, other ruffians entered the chapel, and Vivaldi with his faith­ful servant was wounded, and, at length disarmed.

Ellena, who had been withheld from throwing her­self between the combatants, now, on observing that Vivaldi was wounded, renewed her efforts for liberty, accompanied by such agony of supplication and com­plaint, as almost moved to pity the hearts of the sur­rounding ruffians.

Disabled by his wounds, and also held by his enemies, [Page 268] Vivaldi was compelled to witness her distress and dan­ger, without a hope of rescuing her. In frantic ac­cents he called upon the old priest to protect her.

"I dare not oppose the orders of the Inquisition," replied the Benedictine, "even if I had sufficient strength to defy its officials. Know you not, unhap­py young man, that it is death to resist them?"

"Death!" exclaimed Ellena, "death!"

"Ay lady, too surely so?"

"Signor, it would have been well for you," said one of the officers, "if you had taken my advice: you will pay dearly for what you have done," pointing to the ruffian who lay severely wounded on the ground.

"My master will not have that to pay for, friend," said Paulo, "for if you must know, that is a piece of my work; and, if my arms were now at liberty, I would try if I could not match it among one of you, though I am so flashed,"

"Peace, good Paulo! the deed was mine," said Vi­valdi; then addressing the official, "For myself I care not, I have done my duty—but for her!—Can you, look upon her, innocent and helpless as she is, and not relent! Can you, will you, barbarains! drag her, al­so to destruction upon a charge too so daringly false?"

"Our relenting would be of no service to her," re­plied the official, we must do our duty. Whether the charge is true or false, she must answer to it before her judges."

"What charge demanded Ellena.

"The charge of having broken your nun's vows." replied the priest.

Ellena raised her eyes to heaven; "Is it even so!" she exclaimed.

"You hear she acknowledges the crime," said one of the ruffians.

"She acknowledges no crime," replied Vivaldi; "she only perceives the extent of the malice that per­secutes [Page 269] her. O! Ellena must, I then abandon you to their power! leave you for ever!"

The agony of this thought re-animated him with momentary strength; he burst from the grasp of the officials, and once more clasped Ellena to his bosom, who, unable to speak, wept, with the anguish of a breaking heart, as her head sunk upon his shoulder. The ruffians around them so far respected their grief, that, for a moment, they did not interrupt it.

Vivaldi's exertion was transient; faint from sor­row, and from loss of blood, he became unable to sup­port himself, and was compelled again to relinquish Ellena.

"Is there no help?" said she, with agony; "will you suffer him to expire on the ground?"

The priest directed, that he should be conveyed to the Benedictine convent, where his wounds might be examined, and medical aid administered. The dis­abled ruffians were already carried thither; but Vival­di refused to go, unless Ellena might accompany him. It was contrary to the rules of the place, that a wo­man should enter it, and before the priest could reply, his Benedictine brother eagerly said that they dared not transgress the law of the convent.

Ellena's fears for Vivaldi entirely overcame those for herself, and she entreated, that he would suffer him­self to be conveyed to the Benedictines; but he could not be prevailed with to leave her. The officials, however, prepared to separate them; Vivaldi in vain urged the useless cruelty of dividing him from Ellena, if, as they had hinted, she also was to be carried to the Inquisition; and as ineffectually demanded, whither they really designed to take her.

"We shall take good care of her, Signor," said an officer, "that is sufficient for you, It signifies no­thing whether you are going the same way, you must not go together."

[Page 270] "Why, did you ever hear, Signor, of arrested per­sons being suffered to remain in company?', said ano­ther ruffian, "Fine plots they would lay; I warrant [...]hey would not contradict each other's evidence a ti­tle."

"You shall not seperate me from my master though," vociferated Paulo; "I demand to be sent to the In­quisition with him, or to the devil, but all is one for that."

"Fair and softly," replied the officer; "you shall be sent to the Inquisition first, and to the devil after­wards; you must be tried before you are condemned.'

"But waste no more time," he added to his fol­lowers, and pointing to Ellena, "away with her."

As he said this they lifted Ellena in their arms.—"Let me loose!" cried Paulo, when he saw they were carrying her from the place, "let me loose, I say!" and the violence of his struggles burst asunder the cords which held him; a vain release, for he was instantly seized again.

Vivaldi, already exhausted by the loss of blood and the anguish of his mind, made however, a last effort to save her; he tried to raise himself from the ground, hut a sudden film came over his sight, and his senses forsook him, while yet the name of Ellena faultered on his lips,

As they bore her from the chapel, she continued to call upon Vivaldi, and alternately to supplicate that she might once more behold him, and take one last adieu. The ruffians were inexorable and she heard his voice no more, for he no longer heard—no longer was able to reply to her's.

"O! once again!" she cried in agony, "One word, Vivaldi! Let me hear the sound of your voice yet once again!" But it was silent.

As she quitted the chapel, with eyes still bent to­wards the spot where he lay, she exclaimed in the [Page 271] piercing accents of despair, "Farewel, Vivaldi!—O! for ever—ever, farewel!"

The tone, in which she pronounced the last "fare­wel!" was so touching, that even the cold heart of the priest could not resist it; but he impatiently wiped away the few tears, that rushed into his eyes, before they were observed. Vivaldi heard i [...]—it seemed to arouse him from death!—he heard her mournful voice for the last time, and turning his eyes, saw her veil floating away through the portal of the chapel. All suffering, all efforts, all resistance were vain; the ruffians bound him bleeding as he was, and conveyed him to the Benedictine convent, together with the wounded Paulo, who unceasingly vociferated on the way thither. "I demand to be sent to the In­quisition!" I demand to be sent to the Inquisition!"

CHAP. XVI.

THE wounds of Vivaldi, and of his servant, were pronounced by the Benedictine, who had examined and dressed them, not to be dangerous, but those of one of the ruffians were declared doubtful. Some few of the brothers displayed much compassion and kindness towards the prisoners; but the greater part seemed fearful of expressing any degree of sympathy for pre­sons who had fallen within the cognizance of the Ho­ly Office, and even kept aloof from the chamber, in which they were confined. To this self-restriction, however, they were not long subjected; for Vivaldi and Paulo were compelled to begin their journey as soon as some short rest had sufficiently revived them. They were placed in the same carriage, but the pre­sence of two officers prevented all interchange of con­jecture as to the destination of Ellena, and with res­pect to the immediate occasion of their misfortune. Paulo, indeed, now and then hazarded a surmise, and did not scruple to affirm, that the Abbess of San Ste­fano was their chief enemy; that the Carmelite friars, who had overtaken them on the road, were her agents; and that having traced their route, they had given in­telligence where Vivaldi and Ellena might be found.

"I guessed we never should escape the Abbess," said Paulo, "though I would not disturb you Signor Mio, nor the poor lady Ellena, by saying so. But your Abbessess are as cunning as Inquisitors, and are [Page 273] so fond of governing that they had rather, like them, send a man to the devil, than send him no where.

Vivaldi gave Paulo a significant look, which was meant to repress his imprudent loquacity, and then sunk again into silence and the abstractions of deep grief. The officers, mean while, never spoke, but were observant of all that Paulo said, who perceived their watchfulness, but because he despised them as spies, he thoughtlessly despised them also as enemies, and was so far from concealing opinions, which they might repeat to his prejudice, that he had a pride in exaggerating them, and in daring the worst, which the exasperated tempers of these men, shut up in the same carriage with him, and compelled to hear what­ever he chose to say against the institution to which they belonged, could effect. Whenever Vivaldi, re­called from his abstractions by some bold assertion, endeavoured to check his imprudence, Paulo was con­tented to solace his conscience, instead of protecting himself, by saying, "It is their own fault; they would thrust themselves into my company; let them have enough of it; and if ever they take me before their reverences, the Inquisitiors, they shall have enough of it too. I will play up such a tune in the Inquisi­tion, as is not heard there every day. I will jingle all the bells on their fool's caps, and tell them a little honest truth, if they make me smart for it ever so."

Vivaldi, aroused once more, and seriously alarmed for the consequences which honest Paulo might be drawing upon himself, now insisted on his silence, and was obeyed.

They travelled during the whole night, stopping only to change horses. At every post house, Vival­di looked for a carriage that might inclose Ellena, but none appeared, nor any sound of wheels told him that she followed.

With the morning light he perceived the dome of [Page 274] St. Peter appearing faintly over the plains that sur­rounded Rome and he understood, for the first time, that he was going to the prisons of the Inquisition in that city. The travellers descended upon the Cam­pania, and then rested for a few hours at a small town on its borders.

When they again set forward, Vivaldi perceived that the guard was changed, the officer who had re­mained with him in the apartment of the inn, only appearing among the new faces which surrounded him, The dress and manners of these men differed consid­erably from those of the other. Their conduct was more temperate, but their countenances expressed darker cruelty, mingled with a sly demureness, and a solemn self-importance, that announced them at once as be­longing to the Inquisition.—They were almost in­variably silent; and when they did speak, it was only in a few sententious words. To the abounding ques­tions of Paulo, and the few earnest entreaties of his master, to be informed of the place of Ellena's desti­nation, they made not the least reply; and listened to all the flourishing speeches of the servant against In­quisitors and the Holy Office with the most profound gravity.

Vivaldi was struck with the circumstance of the guard being changed, and still more with the appear­ance of the party, who now composed it. When he compared the manners of the late, with those of the present guard, he thought he discovered in the first the mere ferocity of ruffians; but in the latter, the prin­ciples of cunning and cruelty, which seemed particu­larly to characterize Inquisitors; he was inclined to believe, that a stratagem had enthralled him, and that now, for the first time, he was in the custody of the Holy Office.

It was near midnight when the prisoners entered the Porto del Popolo, and found themselves in the [Page 275] midst of the Carnival at Rome. The Corso, through which they were obliged to pass, was crowded with gay carriages masks, with processions of musicians, monks, and mountebanks, was lighted up with innu­merable flambeaux, and resounded with the heterogene­ous rattling of wheels, the music of serenaders, and the jokes and laughter of the revellers, as they sportively threw about their sugar-plumbs. The heat of the weather made it necessary to have the windows of the coach open; and the prisoners, therefore, saw all that passed without. It was a scene which contrasted cru­elty with the feelings and circumstances of Vivaldi; torn as he was from her he most loved, in dreadful uncertainty as to her fate, and himself about to be brought before a tribunal, whose mysterious and ter­rible proceedings appalled even the bravest spirits. Altogether, this was one of the most striking exam­ples, which the chequer-work of human life could shew, or human feelings endure. Vivaldi, sickened as he looked upon the splendid crowd, while the car­riage made its way slowly with it; but Paulo, as he gazed, was reminded of the Corso of Naples, such as it appeared at the time of Carnival, and, comparing the present scene with his native one, he found fault with every thing he beheld. The dresses were taste­less, the equipages without splendor, the people with­out spirit; yet, such was the propensity of his heart to sympatize with whatever was gay, that, for some moments, he forgot that he was a prisoner on his way to the Inquisition; almost forgot that he was a Nea­politan; and while he exclaimed against the dullness of a Roman Carnival, would have sprung through the carriage window to partake of its spirit, if his [...]etters and his wounds had not withheld him. A deep sigh from Vivaldi recalled his wandering imagination; and when he noticed again the sorrow in his master's look, all his lightly joyous spirits fled.

[Page 276] "My maestro my dear maestro!"—he said, and knew not how to finish what he wished to express.

At that moment they passed the theatre of San Car­lo, the doors of which were thronged with equipa­ges, where Roman ladies, in their gala habits, courti­ers [...]n their fantastic dresses, and masks of all descrip­tions, were hastening to the opera. In the midst of this gay bustle, where the carriage was unable to proceed, the officials of the Inquisition looked on in solemn silence, not a muscle of their features relaxing in sympathy, or yielding a single wrinkle of the self-importance that lifted their brows; and, while they regarded with secret contempt, those who could be thus lightly pleased, the people, in return, more wise­ly, herhaps, regarded with contempt the proud mo­roseness, that refused to partake of innocent pleasures, because they were trifling, and shrunk from counte­nances furrowed with the sternness of cruelty. But when their office was distinguished, part of the crowd pressed back from the carriage in affright, while ano­ther part advanced with curiosity; through, as the majority retreated, space was left for the carriage to move on. After quitting the Corso, it proceeded for some miles through dark and deserted streets, were on­ly here and there a lamp, hung on high before the image of a saint, shed its glimmering light, and where a melancholy and universal silence prevailed. At in­tervals, indeed, the moon, as the clouds passed away, shewed, for a moment, some of those mighty monu­ments of Rome's eternal name, those sacred ruins, those gigantic skeletons which once enclosed a soul, whose energies governed a world! Even Vivaldi could not behold with indifference the grandeur of these re­liques, as the rays fell upon the hoary walls and co­lumns, or pass among these scences of ancient story, without feeling a melancholy awe, a sacred enthusiasm, that withdrew him from himself. But the illusion [Page 277] was transient; his own misfortunes pressed too hea­vily upon him to be long unfelt, and his enthusiasm vanished like the moon light.

A returning gleam lighted up, soon after, the rude and extensive area, which the carriage was crossing. It appeared, from its desolation, and the ruins scat­tered distantly along its skirts, to be a part of the city entirely abandoned by the modern inhabitants to the reliques of its former granduer. Not even the sha­dow of a human being crossed the waste, nor any build­ing appeared, which might be supposed to shelter one. The deep tone of a bell, however, rolling on the si­lence of the night, announced the haunts of man to be not far off; and Vivaldi perceived in the distance, to which he was approaching, an extent of lofty walls and towers, that, as far as the gloom would permit his eye to penetrate, bounded the horizon. He judged these to be the prisons of the inquisition. Paulo pointed them out at the same moment. "Ah, Signor!' said he despondingly, "that is the place! what strength! If, my Lord, the Marchese were but to see where we are going! Ah!"—

He concluded with a deep sigh, and sunk again in­to the state of apprehension and mute expectation, which he had suffered from the moment that he quit-th [...] Corso.

The carriage having reached the walls, followed their bendings to a considerable extent. These walls, of immense height, and strengthened by innumerable massy bulwarks, exhibited neither window or grate, put a vast and dreary blank; a small round tower only, perched here and there upon the summit, breaking their monotony,

The prisoners passed what seemed to be the princi­pal entrance, from the granduer of its portal, and the gigantic loftiness of the towers that rose over it; and after the carriage stopped at an arch-way in the walls, [Page 278] strongly barricadoed. One of the escort alighted, and hav­ing struck upon the bars, a folding door within was immediately opened, and a man, bearing a torch ap­peared behind the barricado, whose countenance, as he looked through it, might have been copied for the

of the poet.

No words were exchanged between him and the guard; but on perceiving who were without, he open­ed the iron gate, and the prisoners having alighted, passed with the two officials beneath the arch, the guard following with a torch.—They descended a flight of broad steps, at the foot of which another iron gate admitted them to a kind of hall; such, however, it at first appeared to Vivaldi, as his eyes glanced through its gloomy extent, imperfectly ascertaining it by the lamp, which hung from the centre of the roof. No person appeared, and a death like silence prevailed; for neither the officials nor the guard yet spoke; nor did any distant sound contradict the notion, that they were traversing the chambers of the dead. To Vivaldi it occurred, that this was one if the bu­rial vaults of the victims, who suffered in the Inqui­sition, and his whole frame thrilled with horror. Se­veral avenues, opening from the apartment, seemed to lead to distant quarters of this immense fabric, but still no footstep whispering along the pavement, or voice murmuring through the arched roofs, indicated it to be the residence of the living.

Having entered one of the passages, Vivaldi per­ceived a person cloathed in black, and who bore a lighted taper, crossing silently in the remote perspec­tive, and he understood too well from his habit, that he was a member of this dreadful tribunal.

The sound of footsteps seemed to reach the strang­er, for he turned, and, then paused while the officers advanced. They then made signs to each other, and [Page 279] exchanged a few words, which neither Vivaldi or his servant could understand, when the stranger, pointing with his taper along another avenue, passed away. Vivaldi followed him with his eyes, till a door at the extremity of the passage opened, and he saw the In­quisitor enter an apartment, whence a great light pro­ceeded, and where several other figures habited like himself, appeared waiting to receive him. The door immediately closed; and, whether the imagination of Vivaldi was affected, or that the sounds were real, he thought, as it closed, he distinguished half-stifled groans, as of a person in agony.

The avenue, through which the prisoners passed, opened at length, into an apartment gloomy like the first they had entered, but more extensive. The roof was supported by arches, and long arcades branch­ed off from every side of the chamber, as from a cen­tral point, and where lost in the gloom, which the rays of the small lamps, suspended in each, but feebly pe­nenetrated.

They rested here, and a person soon after advanced, who appeared to be the jailor, into whose hands Vi­valdi and Paulo were delivered. A few mysterious words having been exchanged, one of the officials crossed the hall and ascended a wide stair-case, while the other, with the jailor and the guard, remained be­low as if awaiting his return.

A long interval elapsed, during which the stillness of the place was sometimes interrupted by a closing door, and, at others, by indistinct sounds, which yet appeared to Vivaldi like lamentations and extorted groans. Inquisitors, in their long black robes, issued from time to time from the passages, and crossed the hall to other avenues. They eyed the prisoners with curiosity, but without pity. Their visages, with few exceptions, seemed stamped with the characters of de­mons. Vivaldi could not look upon the grave cru­elty, [Page 280] or the ferocious impatience, their countenances severally expressed, without reading in them the fate of some fellow creature, the fate which these men seem­ed going, even at this moment, to confirm; and as they passed with soundless steps, he shrunk from ob­servation, as if their very look [...] possessed some super­natural power, and could have struck death. But he followed their fleeting figures, as they proceeded on their work of horror, to where the last glimmering ray faded into darkness, expecting to see other doors of other chambers open to receive them. While meditating upon these horrors, Vivaldi lost every sel­fish consideration in astonishment and indignation of the sufferings, which the frenzied wickedness of man prepares for man, who, even at the moment of inflic­tion, insults his victim with assertions of the justice and necessity of procedure. "Is this possible!" said Vivaldi internally: "Can this be in human nature!—Can such horrible perversion of right be permit­ted! Can man, who calls himself endowed with rea­son, and immeasurably superior to every other created being, argue himself into the commission of such hor­rible folly, such inveterate cruelty, as exceeds all the acts of the most irrational and ferocious brute. Brutes do not deliberately slaughter their species; it remains for man only, man, proud of his prerogative of reason, and boasting of his sense of justice, to unite the most terrible extremes of folly and wickedness!"

Vivaldi had been no stranger to the existence of this tribunal; he had long understood the nature of the establishment, and had often received particular ac­counts of its customs and laws; but, though he had believed before, it was now only that conviction ap­peared to impress his understanding. A new view of human nature seemed to burst, at once, upon his mind, and he could not have experienced greater astonish­ment, if this had been the first moment, in which he [Page 281] had heard of the institution—But, when he thought of Ellena, considered that she was in the power of this tribunal, and that it was probable she was, at this moment within the same dreadful walls, grief, indig­nation, and despair irritated him almost to frenzy. He seemed suddenly animated with supernatural strength and ready to attempt impossibilities for her deliverance. It was by a strong effort for self-com­mand, that he forbore bursting the bonds, which held him, and making a desperate attempt to seek her through the vast extent of these prisons. Reflection, however, had not so entirely forsaken him, but that he saw the impossibility of succeeding in such an effort the moment he had conceived it, and he forbore to rush upon the certain destruction to which it must have led. His passions, thus restrained, seemed to become virtues, and to display themselves in the energy of his courage and his fortitude. His soul became stern and vigorous in despair, and his manner and countenance assumed a calm dignity, which seemed to awe, in some degree, even his guards. The pain of his wounds was no longer felt; it appeared as if the strength of his in­tellectual self had subdued the infirmities of the body, and, perhaps, in these moments of elevation, he could have endured the torture without shrinking.

Paulo, meanwhile, mute and grave, was watchful of all that passed; he observed the revolutions in his masters mind, with grief first, and then with surprize, but he could imitate the noble fortitude, which now gave weight and steadiness to Vivaldi's thoughts. And when he looked on the power and gloom around him. and on the visages of the passing inquisitors, he began to repent, that he had so freely delivered his opinion of this tribunal, in the presence of tis agents, and to perceive, that if he played up the kind of tune he had threatened, it would probably be the last he should ever be permitted to perform in this world.

[Page 282] At length, the chief officer descended the stair-case, and immediately bade Vivaldi follow him. Paulo was accompanying his master, but was withheld by the guard, and told he was to be disposed of in a different way. This was the moment of his severest trial; he declared he would not be separated from his master.

"What did I demand to be brought here for," he cried, "if it was not that I might go shares with the signor in all his troubles? This is not a place to come for pleasure, I warrant; and I can promise ye, gentle­men, I would not have come within a hundred miles of you, if it had not been for my master's sake."

The guards roughly interrupted him, and were car­rying him away, when Vivaldi's commanding voice arrested them. He returned to speak a few words of consolation to his faithful servant, and since they were to be separated, to take leave of him.

Paulo embraced his knees, and, while he wept, and his words were almost stifled by sobs, declared no force should drag him from his master, while he had life; and repeatedly appealed to the guards, with—"what did I demand to be brought here for? Did ever any body come here to seek pleasure? What right have you to prevent my going shares with my master in his troubles?"

"We do not intend to deny you that pleasure, friend," replied one of the guards.

"Don't you? Then heaven bless you!" cried Paulo, springing from his knees, and shaking the man by the hand with a violence, that would nearly have dislocated the shoulder of a person less robust.

"So, come with us," added the guard, drawing him away from Vivaldi. Paulo now become outra­geous, and, struggling with the guards, burst from them, and again fell at the feet of his master, who raised and embraced him, endeavouring to prevail with [Page 283] him to submit quietly to what was inevitable, and to encourage him with hope.

"I trust that our separation will be short," said Vi­valdi, "and that we shall meet in happier circum­stances, My innocence must soon appear."

"We shall never, never meet again, Signor-mio, in this world," said Paulo, sobbing violently, "so don't make me hope so. That old Abbess knows what she is about too well to let us escape; or she would not have catched us up so cunningly as she did; so, what signifies innocence! O! if my old lord, the Marchese, did but know where we are!"

Vivaldi interrupted him, and turning to the guards, said, "I recommend my faithful servant to your com­passion; he is innocent. It will some time, perhaps, be in my power to recompence you for any indulgence, you may allow him, and I shall value it a thousand times more highly, than any you could shew to my­self! Farewell, Paulo,—farewell! Officer, I am read."

"O stay! Signor, for one moment—stay," said Paulo.

"We can wait no longer," said the guard, and again drew Paulo away, who looking piteously after Vi­valdi, alternately repeated, Farewell, dear maestro! farewell dear, dear maestro!" and "What did I de­mand to be brought here for?—What did I demand to be brought here for?—what was it for, if not to go shares with my maestro?" till Vivaldi was beyond the reach of sight and of hearing.

Vivaldi, having followed the Officer up the stair-case, passed through a gallery to an antichamber, where, being delivered into the custody of some persons in waiting, his conductor disappeared beyond a folding door, that led to an inner apartment. Over this door was an inscription in Hebrew characters, traced in blood-colour. Dante's inscription on the entrance of [Page 284] the infernal regions, would have been suitable to a place, where every circumstance and feature seemed to say, "Hope, that comes to all, comes not here!"

Vivaldi conjectured that in this chamber, they were preparing for him the instruments which were to ex­tort a confession; and though he knew little of the re­gular proceedings of this tribunal, he had always un­derstood, that the torture was inflicted upon the accu­sed person, till he made confession of the crime, of which he was suspected. By such a mode of proceed­ing, the innocent were certain of suffering longer than the guilty; for, as they had nothing to confess, the In­quisitor, mistaken innocence for obstinacy, persever­ed in his inflictions, and it frequently happened that he compelled the innocent to become criminal, and assert a falsehood, that they might be released from an­guish, which they could no longer sustain. Vivaldi considered this circumstance undauntedly; every fa­culty of his soul was bent up to firmness and endurance. He believed that he understood the extent of the charge, which would be brought against him, a charge as false, as a specious confirmation of it, would be ter­rible in its consequence both to Ellena and himself. Yet every art would be practised to bring him to an acknowledgement of having carried off a nun, and he knew also, that, since the prosecutor and the witnesses are never confronted with the prisoner in cases of se­vere accusation, and since their very names are con­cealed from him, it would be scarcely possible for him, to prove his innocence. But he did not hesitate an instant whether to sacrifice himself for Ellena, deter­mining rather to expire beneath the merciless inflic­tions of the Inquisitors, than to assert a flasehood, which must involve her in destruction.

The officer, at length, appeared, and, having beck­oned Vivaldi to advance, uncovered his head, and bar­ed his arms. He then led him forward through the [Page 285] folding door into the chamber; having done which, he immediately withdrew, and the door, which shut out Hope, closed after him.

Vivaldi found himself in a spacious apartment, where only two persons were visible, who were seated at a large table, that occupied the centre of the room. They were both habited in black; the one, who seem­ed by his piercing eye, and extraordinary physiogno­my, to be an Inquisitor, wore on his head a kind of black turban, which heightened the natural ferocity of his visage; the other was uncovered, and his arms bared to the elbows. A book, with some instruments of singular appearance lay before him. Round the table were several unoccupied chairs, on the backs of which appeared figurative signs, at the upper end of the apartment, a gigantic crucifix stretched nearly to the vaulted roof; and, at the lower end, suspended from an arch in the wall, was a dark curtain, but whether it veiled a window, or shrowded some object or person, necessary to the designs of the Inquisitor, there were little means of judging. It was, however, suspended from an arch such as sometimes contains a casement, or leads to a deep recess.

The Inquisitor called on Vivaldi to advance, and when he had reached the table, put a book into his hands, and bade him swear to reveal the truth, and keep for ever secret whatever he might see or hear in the apartment.

Vivaldi hesitated to obey so unqualified a command. The Inquisitor reminded him, by a look, not to be mistaken, that he was absolute here; but Vivaldi still hesitated. "Shall I consent to my own condemna­tion?" said he to himself, "The malice of demons like these may convert the most innocent circum­stances into matter of accusation, for my destruction, and I must answer whatever questions they choose to ask. And shall I swear, also, to conceal whatever I [Page 286] may witness in this chamber, when I know that the most diabolical cruelties are hourly practised here?"

The Inquisitor, in a voice which would have made a heart, less fortified than was Vivaldi's tremble, again commanded him to swear; at the same time, he made a signal to the person, who sat at the opposite end of table, and who appeared to be an inferior officer.

Vivaldi was still silent, but he began to consider that, unconscious as he was of crime, it was scarcely possible for his words to be tortured into self-accusa­tion; and that, whatever he might witness, no retribu­tion would be prevented, no evil withheld by the oath, which bound him to secresy, since his most severe de­nunciation could avail nothing against the supreme power of the tribunal. As he did not perceive any good, which could arise from refusing the oath; and saw much immediate evil from resistance, he consented to receive it. Notwithstanding this, when he put the book to his lips, and uttered the tremendous vow prescrib­ed to him, hesitation and reluctance returned upon his mind, and an icy coldness struck to his heart. He was so much affected, that circumstances, apparently the most trivial, had at this moment influence upon his imagination. As he accidentally threw his eyes upon the curtain, which he had observed before with­out emotion, and now thought it moved, he almost started in expectation of seeing some person, an Inqui­sitor perhaps, as terrific as the one before him, or an accuser as malicious as Schedoni, steal from behind it

The Inquisitor having administered the oath, and the attendant having noted it in his book, the exami­nation began. After demanding, as is usual, the names and titles of Vivaldi and his family, and his place of residence, to which he fully replied, the In­quisitor asked, whether he understood the nature of the accusation on which he had been arrested.

"The order for my arrestation informed me," re­plied Vivaldi.

[Page 287] "Look to your words!" said the Inquisitor, "and re­member your oath. What was the ground of accu­sation?"

"I understood," said Vivaldi, "that I was accused of having stolen a nun from her sanctuary."

A faint degree of surprize appeared on the brow of the Inquisitor. "You confess it, then?" he said, after a pause of a moment, and making a signal to the Se­cretary, who immediately noted Vivaldi's words.

"I solemnly deny it," replied Vivaldi: "the accu­sation is false and malicious."

"Remember the oath you have taken! repeated the Inquisitor: learn, also, that mercy is shewn to such as make full confession; but that the torture is applied to those, who have the folly and obstinacy to withhold the truth."

"If you torture me till I acknowledge the justness of this accusation," said Vivaldi, "I must expire under your inflictions, for suffering never shall compel me to assert a falshood. It is not the truth, which you seek; it is not the guilty whom you punish; the innocent, ha­ving no crimes to confess, are the victims of your cru­elty, or, to escape from it, become criminal, and pro­claim a lie."

"Recollect yourself," said the Inquisitor, sternly. "You are not brought hither to accuse, but to answer accusation. You say you are innocent; yet acknow­ledge yourself to be acquainted with the subject of the charge which is to be urged against you! How could you know this, but from the voice of conscience?"

"From the words of your own summons," replied Vivaldi, "and from those of your officials who arrested me."

"How!" exclaimed the Inquisitor: "note that," pointing to the Secretary, "he says by the words of our summous; now we know, that you never read that summons. He says also by the words of our officials; it appears, then, he is ignorant, that death would fol­low such a breach of confidence."

[Page 288] "It is true, I never did read the summons," replied Vivaldi, "and as true, that I never a [...]ted I did; the friar, who read it, told of what it accused me, and your officials confirmed the testimony."

"No more of this equivocation!" said the Inqui­sitor, "Speak only to the question."

"I will not suffer my assertions to be misrepresent­ed," replied Vivaldi, "or my words to be perverted against myself. I have sworn to speak the truth on­ly; since you believe I violate my oath, and doubt my direct and simple words, I will speak no more,"

The Inquisitor half rose from his chair, and his coun­tenance grew paler. "Audacious heretic!" he said, "will you dispute, insult, and disobey, the commands of our most holy tribunal! You will be taught the consequence of your desperate impiety To the tor­ture with him!"

A stern smile was on the features of Vivaldi; his eyes were calmly fixed on the Inquisitor, and his at­titude was undaunted and firm. His courage, and the cool contempt, which his looks expressed, seemed to touch his examiner, who perceived that he had not a common mind to operate upon. He abandoned, therefore, for the present, terrific measures, and, resum­ing his usual manner proceeded in the examination.

"Where were you arrested?"

"At the chapel of San Sebastian on the lake of Ce­lano."

You are certain as to this?" asked the Inquisitor, "you are sure it was not at the village of Legano, on the high road betwen Celano and Rome?"

Vivaldi while he confirmed his assertion, recollect­ed, with some surprize, that Legano was the place where the guard had been changed, and he mentioned the cir­cumstance. The Inquisitor, however, [...] in his questions, without appearing to notice it. "Was any person arrested with you?"

[Page 289] "You cannot be ignorant," replied Vivaldi, "that Signora di Rosalba, was seized at the same time, upon the false charge of being a nun, who had broken her vows, and eloped from her convent; nor that Paulo Mendrico, my faithful servant! was also made a pri­soner, though upon what pretence he was arrested I am utterly ignorant."

The Inquisitor remained for some moments in thoughtful silence, and then enquired slightly concern­ing the family of Ellena, and her usual place of resi­dence. Vivaldi, fearful of making some assertion that might be prejudicial to her, referred him to herself; but the inquiry was repeated.

"She is now within these walls," replied Vivaldi, hoping to learn from the manner of his examiner whe­ther his fears were just," and can answer these ques­tions better than myself."

The Inquisitor merely bade the notary write down her name, and then remained for a few moments me­ditating. At length, he said, "Do you know where you now are?"

Vivaldi, smiling at the question, replied, "I under­stand that I am in the prisons of the Inquisition at Rome."

"Do you know what are the crimes that subject persons to the cognizance of the Holy Office?"

Vivaldi was silent.

"Your conscience informs you, and your silence confirms me. Let me admonish you, once more, to make a full confession of your guilt; remember that this is a merciful tribunal, and shews favour to such as acknowledge their crimes?"

Vivaldi smiled; but the Inquisitor proceeded.

"It does not resemble some severe, yet just courts, where immediate execution follows the confession of a criminal. No! it is merciful, and though it punishes guilt, it never applies the torture but in cases of neces­sity, [Page 290] when the obstinate silence of the prisoner re­quires such a measure, You see, therefore, what you may avoid, and what expect."

"But if the prisoner has nothing to confess?" said Vivaldi.—"Can your tortures make him guilty? They may force a weak mind to be guilty of falsehood; to [...]ape present anguish, a man may unwarily con­demn himself to the death! You will find that I am not such an one."

"Young man," replied the Inquisitor, "you will understand too soon, that we never act, but upon sure authority; and will wish, too late, that you had made an honest confession. Your silence cannot keep from us a knowledge of your offences; we are in possession of facts; and your obstinacy can neither wrest from us the truth, or pervert it. Your most secret offences are already written on the table [...]s of the Holy Office; your conscience cannot reflect them more justly.—Tremble therefore, and revere. But understand, that, though we have sufficient proof of your guilt, we re­quire you to confess; and that the punishment of ob­stinacy is as certain, as that of any other offence."

Vivaldi made no reply, and the Inquisitor, after a momentary silence, added, "Was you ever in the church of the Spirito Santo, at Naples!"

"Before I answer the question," said Vivaldi "I require the name of my accuser."

"You are to recollect, that you have no right to demand any thing in this place," observed the [...], "not can o [...] be ignorant that the name of the [...] is always kept sacred from the knowledge of the accused. Who would [...] to do his duty, if his name was arbitrarily to be exposed to the ven­g [...]ance of the criminal against whom he informs? It is only in a particular proces that the accuser is brought forward."

The names of the Witnesses?" demanded Vival­di. [Page 291] "The same justice conceals them also from the knowledge of the accused," replied the Inquisitor.

"And is no justice left for the Accused," said Vi­valdi, "Is he to be tried and condemned without be­ing confronted with either his Prosecutor or the Wit­nesses!"

"Your questions are too many," said the Inquisitor, "and your answers too few. The Informer is not al­so the Prosecutor; the Holy Office before which the information is laid, is the Prosecutor, and the dispen­ser of justice; its Public Accuser lays the circum­stances, and the testimonies of the Witnesses, before the Court. But too much of this."

"How!" exclaimed Vivaldi, "is the tribunal at once the Prosecutor, Witness and Judge! What can private malice wish for more, than such a court of jus­tice, at which to arraign its enemy? The stiletto of the Assassin is not so sure, or so fatal to innocence. I now perceive, that it avails me nothing to be guiltless; a single enemy is sufficient to accomplish my destruc­tion."

"You have an enemy then?" observed the Inqui­sitor.

Vivaldi was too well convinced that he had one, but there was not sufficient proof, as to the person of this enemy, to justify him in asserting that it was Sche­doni. The circumstance of Ellena having been ar­rested, would have compelled him to suspect another person as being at least accessary to the designs of the Confessor; had not credulity started in horror from the supposition, that a mother's resentment could possibly betray her son into the prisons of the Inquisition, though this mother had exhibited a temper of remorse­less cruelty towards a stranger, who had interrupted her views for that son.

"You have an enemy then?" repeated the Inqui­sitor.

[Page 292] "That I am her [...] sufficiently proves it," replied Vivaldi. "But I am so little any man's enemy, that I know not who to call mine."

"It is evident, then, that you have no enemy," ob­served the subtle Inquisitor, "and that this accusation is brought against you by a respecter of truth, and a faithful servant of the Roman interest."

Vivaldi was shocked to perceive the insidious art, by which he had been betrayed into a declaration ap­parently so harmless, and the cruel dexterity with which it had been turned against him. A lofty and contemptuous silence was all that he opposed to the treachery of his examiner, on whose countenance ap­peared a smile of triumph and self congratulation, the life of a fellow-creature being, in his estimation, of no comparative importance with the self-applauses of suc­cessful art; the art, too, upon which he most valued himself—that of his profession.

The Inquisitor proceeded, "You persist, then, in withholding the truth?" He paused, but Vivaldi mak­ing no reply, he resumed.

"Since it is evident, from your own declaration, that you have no enemy, whom private resentment might have instigated to accuse you; and, from other circumstances which have occured in your conduct, that you are conscious of more than you have con­fessed—it appears, that the accusation which has been urged against you, is not a malicious slander. I ex­hort you, therefore, and once more conjure you, by our how faith, to make an ingenuous confession of your offences, and to save yourself from the means, which must of necessity be enforced to obtain a confession before your trial commences. I adjure you, also, to consider, that by such open conduct only, can mercy b [...] won to soften the justice of this most righteous tribunal!"

Vivaldi, perceiving that it was now necessary for [Page 293] him to reply, once more solemnly asserted his innocence of the crime alleged against him in the summons, and of the consciousness of any act, which might lawfully subject him to the notice of the Holy Office.

The inquisitor again demanded what was the crime alledged, and, Vivaldi having repeated the accusation, he again bade the Secretary note it; as he did which, Vivaldi thought he perceived upon his features some­thing of a malignant satisfaction, for which he knew not how to account. When the Secretary had finish­ed, Vivaldi was ordered to subscribe his name and qua­lity to the depositions, and he obeyed.

The Inquisitor then bade him consider of the ad­monition he had received, and prepare either to con­fess on the morrow, or to undergo the question. As he concluded, he gave a signal, and the officer, who had conducted Vivaldi into the chamber, immediately ap­peared.

"You know your orders, said the Inquisitor, "re­ceive your prisoner, and see that they are obeyed."

The official bowed, and Vivaldi followed him from the apartment in melancholy silence.

CHAP. I.

ELLENA, meanwhile, when she had been carried from the chapel of San Sebastian, was placed up­on a horse in waiting, and, guarded by the two men who had seized her, commenced a journey, which con­tinued with little interruption during two nights and days. She had no means of judging whither she was going, and listened in vain expectation, for the feet of horses, and the voice of Vivaldi, who, she had been told was following on the same road.

The steps of travellers seldom broke upon the si­lence of these regions, and during the journey, she was met only by some market people passing to a neighbour­ing town, or now and then by the vine-dressers or la­bourers in the olive grounds; and she descended up­on the vast plains of Apulia, still ignorant of her si­tuation. An encampment, not of warriors, but of [Page 4] shepherds, who were leading their flocks to the moun­tains of Abruzzo, enlivened a small tract of these lev­els, which were shadowed on the north and east by the mountainous ridge of the Garganus, streching from the Apennine far into the Adriatic.

The appearance of the shepherds was nearly as wild and savage as that of the men, who conducted Ellena; but their pastoral instruments of flageolets and tabors spoke of more civilized feelings, as they sounded sweet­ly over the desert. Her guards rested, and refreshed themselves with goats milk, barly cakes, and almonds, and the manners of these shepherds, like those she had formerly met with on the mountains, proved to be more hospitable than their air had indicated.

After Ellena had quitted this pastoral camp, no ves­tage of a human residence appeared for several leagues, except here and there the towers of a decayed fortress, perched upon the lofty acclivities she was approach­ing, and half concealed in the woods. The evening of the second day was drawing on, when her guards drew near the forest, which she had long observed in the distance, spreading over the many-rising steeps of the Garganus, They entered by a track, a road it could not be called, which led among oaks and gi­gantic chesnuts, apparently the growth of centuries, and so thickly interwoven, that their branches formed a canopy which seldom admitted the sky. The gloom which they threw around, and the thickets of cystus, juniper, and lenticus, which flourished beneath the shade, gave a character of fearful wildness to the scene.

Having reached an eminence, where the trees were more thinkly scattered, Ellena perceived the forests spreading on all sides among hills and vallies, and de­scending towards the Adriatic, which bounded the dis­tance in front. The coast, bending into a bay, was rocky and bold. Lofty pinacles, wooded to their sum­mits, rose over the shores, and cliffs of naked marble [Page 5] of such gigantic proportions, that they were awful even at a distance, obtruded themselves far into the waves, breasting their eternal fury. Beyond the mar­gin of the coast, as far as the eye could reach, appear­ed pointed mountains, darkened with forrests, rising ridge over ridge, in many successions. Ellena, as she surveyed this wild scenery, felt as if she was going into eternal banishment from society. She was tran­quil, but it was with the quietness of exhausted grief, not of resignation; and she looked back upon the past, and awaited the future, with a kind of out breathed despair.

She had travelled for some miles through the forest, her guards only now and then uttering to each other a question, or an observation concerning the changes which had taken place in the bordering scenery, since they last past it, when night began to close in upon them

Ellena perceived her approach to the sea, only by the murmurs of its surge upon the rocky coast, till having reached an eminence, which was, however, no more than the base of two woody mountaims that towered closely over it, she saw dimly its grey surface spreading in the bay below. She now ventured to ask how much farther she had to go, and whether she was to be taken on board one of the little vessels, ap­parently fishing smacks, that she could just discern at anchor.

"You have not far to go now," replied one of the guards, furlily; "you will soon be at the end of your journey, and at rest."

They descended to the shore, and presently came to a lonely dwelling, which stood so near the margin of the sea, as almost to be washed by the waves. No light appeared at any of the lattices; and, from the silence that reigned within, it seemed to be uninhabit­ed. The guard had probably reason to know other­wise, [Page 6] for they halted at the door, and shouted with all their strength. No voice, however, answered to their call, and, while they persevered in efforts to rouse the inhabitants, Ellena anxiously examined the building, as exactly as the twilight would permit. It was of an ancient and peculiar structure, and though scarcely important enough for a mansion, had evidently never been designed for the residence of peasants.

The walls of unhewn marble, were high, and strength­ened by bastions; and the edifice had turreted corners, which, with the porch in front, and the sloping roof, were falling fast into numerous symtoms of decay. The whole building, with its dark windows and soundless avenues, had an air strikingly forlorn and solitary. A high wall surrounded the small court in which it stood, and probably had once served as a de­fence to the dwelling; but the gates, which should have closed against intruders, could no longer per­form their office; one of the folds had dropped from its fastenings, and lay on [...]he ground almost conceal­ed in a deep bed of weeds, and the other creaked on its hinges to every blast, at each swing seeming ready to follow the fate of its companion.

The repeated calls of the guard were at length an­swered by a rough voice from within; when the door of the porch was lazily unbarred, and opened by a man, whose visage was so misery-struck, that Elle­na could not look upon it with indifference, though wr [...]pt in misery of her own. The lamp he held threw a gleam athwart it, and shewed the gaunt ferocity of famine, to which the shadow of his [...] eyes added a terrific wildness. Ellena shrunk while she gazed. She had never before seen villainy and suffering so strongly pictured on the same face, and she observed him with a degree of thrilling curiosity, which for a moment excluded from her mind all consciousness of the evils to be apprehended from him.

[Page 7] It was evident that this house had not been built for his reception; and she conjectured that he was he servant of some cruel agent of the Marchesa di Vi­valdi.

From the porch she followed into an old hall, ruin­ous and destitute of any kind of furniture. It was not extensive but lofty, for it seemed to ascend to the roof of the edifice, and the chambers above opened around it into a corridor.

Some half-sullen salutations were exchanged between the guard and the stranger, whom they called Spalatro, as they passed into a chamber, where it appeared that he had been sleeping on a mattress laid in a corner. All the other furniture of the place were two or three broken chairs and a table. He eyed Ellena with a shrewd contracted brow, and then looked significant­ly at the guard, but was silent, till he desired them all to sit down, adding, that he would dress some fish for supper. Ellena discovered that this man was the master of the place; it appeared also that he was the only inhabitant; and, when the guard soon after in­formed her their journey conluded here, her worst ap­prehensions were confirmed. The efforts she made to sustain her spirits, were no longer successful. It seem­ed that she was brought hither by ruffians to a lonely house on the sea-shore inhabited by a man, who had "villain" engraved in every line of his face, to be the victim of enexorable pride and an insatiable desire of revenge. After considering these circumstances, and the words, which had just told her she was to go no further, conviction struck like lightning upon her heart; and, believing she was brought hither to be assassinated, horror chilled all her frame, and her senses forsook her.

On recovering, she found herself surrounded by the guard and the stranger, and she would have supplica­ted for their pity, but that she feared to exasperate [Page 8] them by betraying her suspicions. She complained of fatigue, and requested to be shewn to her room. The men looked upon one another, hesitated, and then asked her to partake of the fish that was preparing. But Ellena having declined the invitation with as good a grace as she could assume, they consented that she should withdraw. Spalatro, taking the lamp, lighted her across the hall, to the corrodor above, where he opened the door of a chamber, in which he said she was to sleep.

"Where is my bed?" said the afflicted Ellena, fear­fully as she looked round.

"It is there—on the floor," replied Spalatro, point­ing to a miserable mattress, over which hung the tat­tered curtain [...] of what had once been a canopy. "If you want the lamp," he added, "I will leave it, and come for it in a minute or two."

"Will you not let me have a lamp for the night?" she said in a supplicating and timid voice.

"For the night!" said the man gruffly; "What! to set fire to the house."

Ellena still entreated that he would allow her the comfort of a light.

"Aye, aye." replied Spalatro, with a look she could not comprehend, "it would be a great comfort to you, truly! You do not know what you ask."

"What is it that you mean?" said Ellena, eagerly; "I conjure you, in the name of our holy church, to tell me!"

Spalatro stepped suddenly back, and looked upon her with surprise, but without speaking.

"Have mercy on me!" said Ellena, greatly alarm­ed by his manner; "I am friendless, and without help!"

"What do you fear," said the man, recovering him­self; and then, without waiting her reply, added— [Page 9] "Is it such and an unmerciful deed to take away a lamp?"

Ellena, who again feared to betray the extent of her suspicions, only replied, that it would be merciful to leave it, for that her spirits were low, and she required light to cheer them in a new abode.

"We do not stand upon such conceits here," repli­ed Spalatro, "we have other matters to mind. Be­sides. it's the only lamp in the house, and the compa­ny below are in darkness while I am losing time here. I will leave it for two minutes, and no more." El­lena made a sign for him to put down the lamp; and, when he left the room, she heard the door barred up­on her.

She employed these two minutes in examining the chamber, and the possibility it might afford of an es­cape. It was a large apartment, unfurnished and un­swept of the cobwebs of many years. The only door she discovered was the one, by which she had entered, and the only window a lattice, which was grated. Such preparation for preventing escape seemed to hint how much there might be to escape from.

Having examined the chamber, without finding a single circumstance to encourage hope, tried the strength of the bars, which she could not shake, and sought in vain for an inside fastening to her door, she placed the lamp beside it, and awaited the return of Spalatro. In a few moments he came and offered her a cup of sour wine with a slice of bread; which, being somewhat soothed by this attention, she did not think proper to reject.

Spalatro then quitted the room, and the door was again barred. Left once more alone, she tried to overcome apprehension by prayer; and after offering up her vespers with a fervent heart, she became more confiding and composed.

But it was impossible that she could so far forget the [Page 10] dangers of her situation as to seek sleep, however wea­ried she might be, while the door of her room remain­ed unsecured against the intrusion of the ruffians be­low; and, as she had no means of fastening it, she de­termined to watch during the whole night. Thus left to solitude and darkness, she seated herself upon the mattress to await the return of morning, and was soon lost in sad reflection; every minute occurrence of the past day, and of the conduct of her guards, moved in review before her judgment: and, combin­ing these with the circumstances of her present situ­ation, scarcely a doubt as to the fate designed for her remained. It seemed highly improbable that the Marchesa di Vivaldi had sent her hither merely for imprisonment, since she might have confined her in a convent with much less trouble; and still more so when Ellena considered the character of the Marchesa, such as she had already experienced it. The appearance of this house, and of the man who inhabited it, with the circumstance of no woman be­ing found residing here, each and all of these signified, that she was brought hither not for long imprison­ment, but for death. Her utmost efforts for forti­tude or resignation could not overcome the cold trem­blings, the sickness of heart, the faintness and univer­sal horror that assailed her. How often, with tears of mingled terror and grief, did [...]he call upon Vivaldi—Vivaldi, alas! far distant—to save her; how often exclaim in agony, that she should never, never see him more!

She was spared, however, the horror of believing that he was an inhabitant of the inquisition, Hav­ing detected the imposition which had been practised towards herself, and that she was neither on the way to the Holy Office, nor conducted by persons belong­ing to it, she concluded, that the whole affair of Vi­valdi's arrest, had been planned by the Marchesa, mere­ly [Page 11] as a pretence for confining him till she should be placed beyond the reach of his assistance. She hop­ed, therefore, that he had only been sent to some pri­vate residence belonging to his family, and that, when her fate was decided, he would be released, and she be the only victim. This was the sole consideration that afforded any degree of assuagement to her suffer­ings.—

The people below sat till a late hour. She listen­ed often to their distant voices, as they were distin­guishable in the pauses of the surge, that broke loud and hollow on the shore; and every time the creak­ing hinges of their room door moved, apprehended they were coming to her. At length it appeared they had left the apartment, or had fallen asleep there, for a profound stillness reigned whenever the murmur of the waves sunk. Doubt did not long deceive her, for, while she yet listened, she distinguished footsteps ascending to the corridor. She heard them approach her chamber, and stop at the door; she heard, also, the low whispering of their voices, as they seemed con­sulting on what was to be done, and she scarcely ven­tured to draw breath, while she intensely attended to them. Not a word, however, distinctly reached her, till, as one of them was departing, another called out in a half whisper, "It is below on the table, in my girdle; make haste." The man came back, and said something in a lower voice, to which the other replied, "she sleeps," or Ellena was deceived by the hissing con­sonants of some other words. He then descended the stairs; and its a few minutes she perceived his com­rade also pass away from the door; she listened to his retreating steps, till the roaring of the sea was alone heard in their stead.

Ellena's terrors were relieved only for a moment Considering the import of the words, it appeared that he man who had descended, was gone for the stiletto [Page 12] of the other, such an instrument being usually worn in the girdle, and from the assurance, "she sleeps," he seemed to fear that his words had been overheard; and she listened again for their steps; but they came no more.

Happily for Ellena,s peace, she knew not that her chamber had a door, so contrived as to open without sound, by which assassins might enter unsuspectedly at any hour of the night. Believing that the inhabi­tants of this house had now retired to rest, her hopes and her spirits began to revive; but she was yet sleep­less and watchful. She measured the chamber with unequal steps, often starting as the old boards shook and groaned where she passed; and often pausing to listen whether all was yet still in the corridor. The gleam which a rising moon threw between the bars of her window, now began to shew many shadowy ob­jects in the chamber, which she did not recollect to have observed while the lamp was there. More than once, she fancied she saw something glide along towards the place where the mattress was laid, and, almost congealed with terror, she stood still to watch it; but the illusion, if such it was, disappeared where the moon-light faded, and even her fears could not give shape to it beyond. Had she not known that her chamber door remained strongly barred, she would have believed this was an assassin stealing to the bed where it might be supposed she slept. Even now the thought occurred to her, and, vague as it was, had power to strike an anguish, almost deadly, through her heart, while she considered that her immediate situa­tion was nearly as perilous as the one she had imaged.

Again she listened, and scarcely dared to breathe; but not the lighest sound occurred in the pauses of the waves, and she believed herself convinced that no per­son except herself was in the room, That she was de­ceived in this belief, appeared from her unwilling­ness [Page 13] to approach the mattress, while it was yet in­volved in shade. Unable to overcome her reluctance, she took her station at the window, till the strength­ening rays should allow a clearer view of the chamber, and in some degree restore her confidence; and she watched the scene without as it gradually became vi­sible. The moon, rising over the ocean, shewed its restless surface spreading to the wide horizon; and the waves, which broke in foam upon the rocky beach below, retiring in long white lines far upon the wa­ters. She listened to their measured and solemn sound, and, somewhat soothed by the solitary grandeur of the view, remained at the lattice till the moon had risen high into the heavens; and even till morning began to dawn upon the sea, and purple the eastern clouds.

Re-assured by the light that now prevaded her room, she returned to the mattress; where anxiety at length yielded to her weariness, and she obtained a short repose.

CHAP. II.

ELLENA was awakened from profound sleep, by a loud noise at the door of her chamber; when start­ing from her mattress, she looked around her with sur­prise and dismay, as imperfect recollections of the past began to gather on her mind. She distinguished the undrawing of iron bars, and the countenance of Spa­latro at her door, before she had a clear remembrance of her situation—that she was a prisoner in a house on a lonely shore, and that this man was her jailor. Such sickness of the heart returned with these convictions, such faintness and terror, that unable to support her trembling frame, she sunk again upon the mattress, without demanding the reason of this abrupt intru­sion.—

"I have brought you some breakfast," said Spala­tro, "if you are awake to take it; but you seem to be asleep yet. Surely you have had sleep sufficient for one night; you went to rest soon enough."

Ellena made no reply, but, deeply affected with a sense of her situation, looked with beseeching eyes at the man, who advanced, holding forth an oaten cake and bason of milk. "Where shall I set them?" said he," you must need be glad of them, since you had no supper."

[Page 15] Ellena thanked him, and desired he would place them on the floor, for there was neither table nor chair in the room. As he did this, she was struck with the expression of his countenance, which exhi­bited a strange mixture of archness and malignity.—He seemed congratulating himself upon his ingenuity, and anticipating some occasion of triumph; and she was so much interested, that her observation never quitted him while he remained in the room. As his eyes accidentally met her's, he turned them away, with the abruptness of a person who is conscious of evil intentions, and fears lest they should be detected; nor once looked up till he hastily left the chamber, when she heard the door secured as formerly.

The impression, his look had left on her mind, so wholly engaged her in conjecture, that a considerable time elapsed before she remembered that he had brought the refreshment she so much required; but, as she now lifted it to her lips, a horrible suspicion ar­rested her hand; it was not however, before she had swallowed a small quantity of the milk. The look of Spalatro, which occasioned her surprise, had ac­companied the setting down of the breakfast, and it occured to her, that poison was infused in this liquid. She was thus compelled to refuse the sustenance, which was become necessary to her, for she feared to taste even of the oaten cake, since Spalatro had offered it, but the little milk she had unwarily taken, was so very small that she had no apprehension concerning it.

The day, however, passed in terror, and almost in despondency; she could neither doubt the purpose, for which she had been brought hither, nor discover any possibility of escaping from her persecutors; yet that propensity to hope, which buoys up the human heart, even in the severest hours of trial, sustained, in some degree, her fainting spirits.

During these miserable hours of solitude, and sus­pense, [Page 16] the only alleviation to her suffering arose from a belief, that Vivaldi was safe, at least from danger, though not from grief; but she now understood too much of the dexterous contrivances of the Marche­sa, his mother, to think it was practicable for him to escape from her designs, and again restore her to liberty.

All day Ellena either leaned against the bars of her window, lost in reverie, while her unconscious eyes were fixed upon the ocean, whose murmurs she no longer heard; or she listened for some sound from within the house, that might assist her conjectures, as to the number of persons below, or what might be passing there. The house, however, was profoundly still, except where now and then a footstep saunter­ed along a distant passage, or a door was heard to close; but not the hum of a single voice arose from the lower room, nor any symptom of there being more than one person, beside herself, in the dwelling. Though she had not heard her former guards depart, it appeared certain that they were gone, and that she was left alone in this place with Spalatro. What could be the purport of such a proceeding, Ellena could not i­magine; if her death was designed, it seemed strange that one person only should be left to the hazard of the deed, when three must have rendered the completion of it certain. But this surprize vanished, when her sus­picion of poison returned; for it was probable, that these men had believed their scheme to be already near­ly accomplished, and had abandoned her to die alone, in a chamber from whence escape was impracticable, leaving Spalatro to dispose of her remains. All the incongruities she had separately observed in their con­duct, seemed now to harmonize and unite in one plan; and her death, designed by poison, and that poison to be conveyed in the disguise of nourishment, appeared to have been the object of it, Whether it was that the [Page 17] strength of this conviction affected her fancy, or the cause was real, Ellena, remembering at this moment that she had tasted the milk, was siezed with an univer­sal shuddering, and thought she felt that the poison had been sufficiently potent to affect her, even in the in­considerable quantity she might have taken.

While she was thus agitated, she distinguished foot­steps loitering near the door, and attentively listening, became convinced, that some person was in the corri­dor. The steps moved softly, sometimes stopping for an instant, as if to allow time for listening, and soon af­ter passed away.

"It is Spalatro!" said Ellena; "he believes that I have taken the poison, and he comes to listen for my dying groans! Alas! he is only come somewhat too soon, perhaps!"

As this horrible suposition occurred, the shuddering returned with encreased violence, and she sunk almost fainting, on the mattress; but the fit was not of long continuance. When it gradually left her, and recollec­tion revived, she perceived, however, the prudence of suffering Spalatro to suppose she had taken the beverage he brought her, since such belief would at least procure some delay of further schemes, and every delay afforded some possibility for hope to rest upon. Ellena, there­fore, poured through the bars of her window, the milk which she believed Spalatro had designed should be fa­tal in its consequence.

It was evening, when she again fancied footsteps were lingering near her door, and the suspicion was confirmed, when, on turning her eyes, she perceived a shade on the floor, underneath it, as of some person sta­tioned without. Presently the shadow glided away, and at the same time she distinguished departing steps treading cautiously.

"It is he!" said Ellena; "he still listens for my moans!"

[Page 18] This further confirmation of his designs affected her nearly as much as the first; when anxiously turn­ing her looks toward, [...]he corridor, the shadow again appeared beneath the door, but she heard no step. El­lena now watched it with intense solicitude and expec­tation: fearing every instant that Spalatro would con­clude her doubts by entering the room. "And O! when he discovers that I live," thought she, "what may I not expect during the first moments of his dis­appointment! what less than immediate death!"

The shadow, after remaining a few minutes station­ary, moved a little, and then glided away as before. But it quickly returned, and a low sound followed, as of some person endeavouring to unfasten bolts with­out noise. Ellena heard one bar gently undrawn, and then another; she observed the door begin to move, and then to give way, till it gradually unclosed, und the face of Spalatro presented itself from behind it. Without immediately entering, he threw a glance round the chamber, as if he wished to ascertain some circumstance before he ventured further. His look was more than usually haggard as it rested upon Elle­na, who apparently reposed on her mattress.

Having gazed at her for an instant, he ventured to­wards the bed with quick and unequal steps; his countenance expressed at once impatience, alarm, and the consciousness of guilt. When he was within a few paces, Ellena raised herself, and he started back as if a sudden spectre had crossed him. The more than usual wildness and wanness of his looks, with the whole of his conduct, seemed to confirm all her for­mer terrors; and when he roughly asked her how she did, Ellena had not the sufficient presence of mind to answer that she was ill. For some moments he regard­ed her with an earnest and sullen attention, and then a sly glance of scrutiny, which he threw round the [...] her that he was inquiring whether she [Page 19] had taken the poison. On perceiving that the baso [...] was empty, he lifted it from the floor, and Ellena fan­cied a gleam of satisfaction passed over his visage.

"You have had no dinner," said he, "I forgot you; but supper will soon be ready; and you may walk up the beach till then, if you will,"

Ellena, extremly surprised and perplexed by this offer of a seeming indulgence, knew not whether to accept or reject it. She suspected that some treachery lurked within it. The invitation appeared to be only a stra­tagem to lure her to destruction, and she determined to decline accepting it; when again she considered, that to accomplish this, it was not necessary to with­draw her from the chamber, where she was already sufficiently in the power of her persecutors. Her si­tuation could not be more desperate than it was at present, and almost any change might make it less so.

As she descended from the corridor, and passed through the lower part of the house, no person ap­peared but her conductor; and she ventured to en­quire, whether the men who had brought her hither were departed. Spalatro did not return an answer, but led the way in silence to the court, and, having passed the ga [...]es, he pointed toward the west, and said she might walk that way.

Ellena bent her course towards the "many sounding waves," followed at a short distance by Spalatro, and, wrapt in thought, pursued the windings of the shore, scarcely noticing the objects around her, till, on pas­sing the foot of a rock, she lifted her eyes to the scene that unfolded beyond, and observed some huts scatter­ed at a considerable distance, apparently the residence of fishermen. She could just distinguish the dark sails of some skiffs turning the cliffs, and entering the little bay, where the hamlet margined the beach; but, though she saw the sails lowered, as the boats approach­ed the shore, they were too far off to allow the figures [Page 20] of the men to appear. To Ellena, who had believed that no human habitation, except her prison, interrupt­ed the vast solitudes of these forests and shores, the view of the huts, remote as they were, imparted a fee­ble hope, and even somewhat of joy. She looked back, to observe whether Spalatro was near: he was alrea­dy within a few paces; and, casting a wistful glance forward to the remote cottages, her heart sunk a­gain.

It was a lowering evening, and the sea was dark and swelling; the screams of the sea birds too, as they wheeled among the clouds, and [...]ought their high nests in the rocks, seemed to indicate an approaching storm. Ellena was not so wholly engaged by selfish sufferings, but that she could sympathise with those of others, and she rejoiced that the fishermen, whose boats she had ob­served, had escaped the threatening tempest, and were safely sheltered in their little homes, where as they heard the loud waves break along the coast, they could look with keener pleasure upon the social circle, and the warm comforts around them. From such considera­tions, however, she returned again to a sense of her own forlorn and friendless situation.

"Alas!" said she, "I have no longer a home, a cir­cle to smile welcomes upon me! I have no longer even one friend to support, to rescue me! I—a miserable wanderer on a distant shore! tracked, per­haps, by the footsteps of the assassin, who at this in­stant eyes his victim with silent watchfulness, and awaits the moment of opportunity to sacrifice her!"

Ellena shuddered as she said this, and turned again to observe whether Spalatro was near. He was not within view, and while she wondered, and congratu­lated herself on a possibility of escaping, she perceived a Monk walking silently beneath the dark rocks that overbrowed the beach, His black garments were folded round him; his face was inclined toward the [Page 21] ground, and he had the air of a man in deep medita­tion.

"His, no doubt, are worthy musings!" said Elle­na, as she observed him, with mingled hope and sur­prize. "I may address myself, without fear, to one-of his order. It is probably as much his wish, as it is his duty, to succour the unfortunate. Who could have hoped to find on this sequestered shore so sacred a pro­tector! his convent cannot be far off!"

He approached, his face still bent towards the ground, and Ellena advanced slowly, and with trem­bling steps, to meet him. As he drew near, he view­ed her askance, without lifting his head; but she per­ceived his large eyes looking from under the shade of his cowl, and the upper part of his peculiar counte­nance. Her confidence in his protection began to fail, and she faultered, unable to speak, and scarcely daring to meet his eyes. The Monk stalked past her in silence, the lower part of his visage still muffled in his drapery, and, as he passed her, looked neither with curiosity, nor surprise.

Ellena paused, and determined, when he should be at some distance, to endeavour to make her way to the hamlet, and throw herself upon the humanity of its in habitants, rather than solicit the pity of this forbidding stranger. But in the next moment she heard a step behind her, and, on turning, saw the Monk again ap­proaching. He stalked by as before, surveying her, however with a sly and scrutinizing glance from the corners of his eyes. His air and countenance were equally repulsive, and still Ellena could not summon cou­rage enough to attempt engaging his compassion; but shrunk as from an enemy.—There was something also terrific in the silent stalk of so gigantic a form; it an­nounced both power and treachery. He passed slow­ly on to some distance, and disappeared among the rocks.

[Page 22] Ellena turned once more with an intention of hast­ening towards the distant hamlet, before Spalatro should observe her, whose strange absence she had scarcely time to wonder at; but she had not proceed­ed far, when suddenly she perceived the Monk again at her shoulder. She started, and almost shrieked; while he regarded her with more attention than before. He paused a moment, and seemed to hesitate; after which he again passed on in silence. The distress of Ellena encreased; he was gone the way she had de­signed to run, and she feared almost equally to follow him, and to return to her prison. Presently he turn­ed, and passed her again, and Ellena hastened forward. But, when fearful of being pursued, she again looked back, she observed him conversing with Spalatro. They appeared to be in consultation, while they slow­ly advanced, till, probably observing her rapid pro­gress, Spalatro called on her to stop, in a voice that echoed among all the rocks. It was a voice, which would not be disobeyed. She looked hopelessly at the still distant cottages, and slackened her steps.—Pre­sently the Monk again passed before her, and Spalatro had again disappeared. The frown with which the former now regarded Ellena, was so terrific, that she shrunk trembling back, though she knew him not for her persecutor, since she had never consciously seen Schedoni. He was agitated, and his look became darker.

"Whither go you?" said he, in a voice that was stifled by emotion.

"Who is it, father, that asks the question?" said Ellena, endeavouring to appear composed.

"Whither go you, and who are you!" repeated the Monk more sternly.

"I am an unhappy orphan," replied Ellena, sigh­ing deeply; "If you are, as your habit denotes, a friend to the charities, you will regard me with com­passion."

[Page 23] Schedoni was silent, and then said—"Who and what is that you fear?"

"I fear even for my life," replied Ellena, with hesi­tation. She observed a darker shade pass over his countenance. "For your life!" said he, with apparent surprise, "who is there that would think it worth the taking."

Ellena was struck with these words.

"Poor insect!" added Schedoni, "who would crush thee?"

Ellena made no reply; she remained with her eyes fixed in amazement upon his face. There was some­thing in his manner of pronouncing this, yet more ex­traordinary than in the words themselves. Alarmed by his manner, and awed by the encreasing gloom, and swelling surge, that broke in thunder on the beach, she at length turned away, and again walked towards the hamlet which was yet very remote.

He soon overtook her; when rudely seizing her arm, and gazing earnestly on her face, "Who is it, that you fear?" said he, "say who!"

"That is more then I dare say," replied Ellena, scarcely able to sustain herself.

"Hah! is it even so!" said the Monk, with en­creased emotion. His visage now became so terrible, that Ellena struggled to liberate her arm, and suppli­cated that he would not detain her. He was silent, and still gazed upon her, but his eyes, when she had ceased to struggle, assumed that fixt and vacant glare of a man, whose thoughts have retired within them­selves, and who is no longer conscious to surrounding objects.

"I beseech you to release me!" repeated Ellena, "it is late, and I am far from home."

"That is true," muttered Schedoni, still grasping her arm, and seeming to reply to his own thoughts rather than to her words,—"that is very true."

[Page 24] "The evening is closing fast," continued Ellena, "and I shall be overtaken by the storm."

Schedoni still mused, and then muttered—"The storm, say you? Why ay, let it come."

As he spoke, he suffered her arm to drop, but still held it, and walked slowly towards the house. Elle­na, thus compelled to accompany him, and yet more alarmed both by his looks, his incoherent answers, and his approach to her prison, renewed her supplications and her efforts for liberty, in a voice of piercing dis­tress, adding "I am far from home, father; night is coming on. See how the rocks darken! I am far from home, and shall be waited for."

"That is false!" said Schedoni, with emphasis; "and you know it to be so."

"Alas! I do," replied Ellena, with mingled shame and grief, "I have no friends to wait for me!"

"What do those deserve, who deliberately utter falsehoods," continued the Monk, "who deceive, and flatter young men to their destruction?"

"Father!" exclaimed the astonished Ellena.

"Who disturb the peace of families—who tre­pan with wanton arts, the heirs of noble houses—who—hah! what do such deserve!"

Overcome with astonishment and terror, Ellena remained silent. She now understood that Schedoni, so far from being likely to prove a protector, was an agent of her worst, and as she had believed, her only enemy; and an apprehension of the immediate and terrible vengeance, which such an agent seemed wil­ling to accomplish, subdued her senses; she tottered, and sunk upon the beach. The weight, which strain­ed the arm Schedoni held, called his attention to her situation.

As he gazed upon her helpless and faded form, he became agitated. He quitted it, and traversed the beach in short turns, and with hasty steps; came back [Page 25] make his way between them when, Vivaldi demanded who passed. No answer was returned, and a long silence followed.

"We are observed," said Bonarmo, at length, "and are even now, perhaps, almost beneath the poniard of the assassin: let us be gone.

"O that my heart were as secure from the darts of love, the assassin of my peace," exclaimed Vivaldi, "as yours is from those of bravos! My friend, you have little to interest you, since your thoughts have so much leisure for apprehension."

"My fear is that of prudence, not of weakness," retorted Bonarmo, with acrimony; "you will find, perhaps, that I have none, when you most wish me to possess it."

"I understand you," replied Vivaldi "let us finish this business, and you shall receive reparation, since you beleive yourself injured: I am as anxious to re­pair an offence, as jealous of receiving one."

"Yes," replied Bonarmo, "you would repair the injury you have done your friend with his blood.

"Oh! never, never!" said Vivaldi, falling on his neck. "Forgive my hasty violence; allow for the distraction of my mind."

Bonarmo returned the imbrace, "It is enough," said he; "no more, no more! I hold again my friend to my heart."

While this conversation passed, they had quitted the orangery, and reached the walls of the villa, where they took their station under a balcony that overhung the lattice, through which Vivaldi had seen Ellena on the preceding night. They tuned their instruments, and opened the serenade with a duet.

Vivaldi's voice was a fine tenor, and the same sus­ceptibility, which made him passionately fond of mu­sic, taught him to modulate its cadence with exqui­site delicacy, and to give his emphasis with the most [Page 26] simple and pathetic expression, His soul seemed to breathe in the sounds,—so tender, so imploring, yet so energetic. On this night, enthusiasm inspired him with the highest eloquence, perhaps, which music is capable of attaining; what might be its effect on Ellena he had no means of judging, for she did not ap­pear either at the balcony or the lattice, nor give any hint of applause. No sounds stole on the stillness of the night, except those of the serenade, nor did any light from within the villa break upon the obscurity without; once, indeed, in a pause of the instruments Bonarmo fancied he distinguished voices near him, as of persons who feared to be heard, and he listened at­tentively, but without ascertaining the truth. Some­times they seemed to sound heavily in his ear, and then a death-like silence prevailed. Vivaldi affirmed the sound to be nothing more than the confused murmur of the distant multitude on the shore, but Bonarmo was not thus easily convinced.

The musicians, unsuccessful in their first endeavour to attract attention, removed to the opposite side of the building, and placed themselves in front of the portico, but with as little success, and, after having exercised their powers of harmony and of patience for above an hour, they resigned all further effort to win upon the obdurate Ellena. Vivaldi, notwith­standing the feebleness of his first hope of seeing her, now suffered an agony of disappointment; and Bo­narmo, alarmed for the consequence of his despair, was as anxious to persuade him that he had no rival, as he had lately been pertinacious in affirming that he had one.

At length they left the gardens, Vivaldi, protest­ing that he would not rest until he had discovered the stranger, who so wantonly destroyed his peace, and had compelled him to explain his ambiguous warn­ings; and Bonarmo remonstrating on the imprudence [Page 27] and difficulty of the search, and representing that such conduct would probably be the means of spreading a report of his attachment, where most he dreaded it should be known,

Vivaldi refused to yeild to remonstrance or consi­derations of any kind. "We shall see," said he, "whether this demon in the garb of a monk, will haunt me again at the accustomed place; if he does, he shall not escape my grasp; and if he does not, I will watch as vigilantly for his return, as he seems to have done for mine. I will lurk in the shade of the ruin, and wait for him, though it be till death!"

Bonarmo was particularly struck by the vehemence which he pronounced the last words, but he no longer opposed his purpose, and only bade him consider whe­ther he was well armed, "For" he added, "you may have need of arms there, though you had no use for them at the villa Altieri. Remember that the strang­er told you that your steps were watched."

"I have my sword," replied Vivaldi, "and the dagger which I usually wear; but I ought to enquire what are your weapons of defence."

"Hush!" said Bornarmo, as they turned the foot of a rock that overhung the road," we are approach­ing the spot; yonder is the arch!" It appeared duski­ly in the perspective, suspended between two cliffs, where the road wound from sight, on one of which were the ruins of the Roman fort it belonged to, and on the other, shadowing pines, and thickets of oak that tufted the rock to its base.

They proceeded in silence, treading lightly, and of­ten throwing a suspicious glance around, expecting every instant that the monk would steal out upon them from some recess of the cliffs. But they passed on un­molested to the arch-way. "We are here before him, however," said Vivaldi as they entered the dark­ness, "Speak low▪ my friend," said Bonarmo, "o­thers [Page 28] besides ourselves may be shrouded in this obscu­rity. I like not the place."

"Who but ourselves would chuse so dismal a re­treat?" whispered Vivaldi, "unless indeed, it were banditti; the savageness of the spot would, in truth, suit their humour, and it suits well also with my own."

"It would suit their purpose too, as well as their humour," observed Bonarmo. "Let us remove from this deep shade, into the more open road, where we can as closely observe who passes.

Vivaldi objected that in the road they might them­selves be observed, "and if we are seen by my un­known tormentor, our design is defeated, for he comes upon us suddenly, or not at all, lest we should be pre­pared to detain him.

Vivaldi, as he said this, took his station within the thickest gloom of the arch, which was of considerable depth, and near a flight of steps that was cut in the rock, and ascended to the fortress. His friend step­ped close to his side. After a pause of silence, du­ring which Bonarmo was meditating, and Vivaldi was impatiently watching, "do you really believe," said the former, "that any effort to detain him would be effectual? He glided past me with a strange faci­lity, it was surely more than human!"

"What is it you mean?" enquired Vivaldi.

"Why, I mean that I could be superstitious. This place, perhaps, infects my mind with congenial gloom, for I find that, at this moment, there is scarce­ly a superstition too dark for my credulity."

Vivaldi smiled. "And you must allow," added Bonarmo, "that he has appeared under circumstan­ces somewhat extraordinary. How should he know your name, by which you say he addressed you at the first meeting? How should he know from whence you came, or whether you designed to return? By what magic could he become acquainted with your plans?"

[Page 29] "Nor am I certain that he is acquainted with them," observed Vivaldi; "but if he is, there was no necessity for superhuman means to obtain such knowledge."

"The result of this evening surely ought to con­vince you that he is acquainted with your designs," said Bonarmo. Do you believe it possible that Elle­na could have been insensible to your attentions, if her heart had not been pre-engaged, and that she would not have shewn herself at a lattice?"

"You do not know Ellena," replied Vivaldi, "and therefore I once more pardon you the question. Yet had she been disposed to accept my addresses, surely some sign of approbation,"—he checked himself.

"The stranger warned you not to go to the villa Altieri," resumed Bonarmo, "he seemed to anticipate the reception which awaited you, and to know a dan­ger, which hitherto you have happily escaped."

"Yes, he anticipated too well that reception," said Vivaldi, losing, his prudence in passionate exclamati­on; "and he is himself, perhaps, the rival, whom he has taught me to suspect. He has assumed a disguise only the more effectually to impose upon my credulity, and do [...] me from addressing Ellena. And shall I tamely lie in wait for his approach? Shall I lurk like a guilty assassin for his rival?"

"For heaven's sake!" said Bonarmo, "moderate these transports; consider where you are. This sur­mise of yours is in the highest degree improbable." He gave his reasons for thinking so, and these convin­ced Vivaldi, who was prevailed upon to be once more patient.

They had remained watchful and still for a consi­derable time, when Bonarmo saw a person approach the end of the arch-way nearest to Altieri. He heard no step, but he perceived a shadowy figure sta­tion itself at the entrance of the arch, where the twi­light [Page 30] of this brilliant climate was, for a few paces, ad­mitted. Vivaldi's eyes were fixed on the road lead­ing towards Naples, and he, therefore, did not perceive the object of Bonarmo's attention, who, fearful of his friend's precipitancy, forbore to point out immediate­ly what he observed, judging it more prudent to watch the motions of this unknown person, that he might ascertain whether it really were the monk. The size of the figure, and the dark drapery in which it seem­ed wrapt, induced him, at length, to believe that this was the expected stranger; and he seized Vivaldi's arm to direct his attention to him, when the form glided forward disappeared in the gloom, but not be­fore Vivaldi had understood the occasion of his friend's gesture and significant silence. They heard no foot­step pass them, and, being convinced that this person, whatever he was, had not left the arch-way, they kept their station in watchful stillness. Presently they heard a rustling, as of garments, near them, and Vi­valdi, unable longer to command his patience, started from his concealment, and with arms extended to prevent any one from escaping, demanded who was there.

The sound ceased, and no reply was made. Bonarmo drew his sword, protesting he would stab the air till he found the person who lurked there; but if the latter would discover himself, he should receive no injury. This assurance Vivaldi confirmed by his promise. Still no answer was returned; but as they listened for a voice, they thought something passed them, and the avenue was not narrow enough to have prevent­ed such a circumstance. Vivaldi rushed forward, but did not perceive any person issue from the arch in­to the highway, where the stronger twilight must have discovered him.

"Somebody certainly passed," whispered Bonar­mo, "and I think I hear a sound from yonder steps, that lead to the fortress."

[Page 31] "Let us follow," cried Vivaldi, and he began to ascend.

"Stop, for heaven's sake stop!" said Bonarmo; "consider what you are about! Do not brave the ut­ter darkness of these ruins; do not pursue the assassin to his den!"

"It is the monk himself! exclaimed Vivaldi, still ascending; "he shall not escape me!"

Bonarmo paused a moment at the foot of the steps, and his friend disappeared; he hesitated what to do, till ashamed of suffering him to encounter danger a­lone, he sprang to the flight, and not without difficul­ty surmounted the rugged steps.

Having reached the summit of the rock, he found himself on a terrace, that ran along the top of the arch­way and had once been fortified; this, crossing the road, commanded the defile each way. Some remains of massy walls, that still exhibited loops for archers, were all that now hinted of its former use. It led to a watch-tower almost concealed in thick pines, that crowned the opposite cliff, and had thus served not only for a strong battery over the road, but connecting the opposite sides of the defile, had formed a line of communication between the fort and this out-post.

Bonarmo looked round in vain for his friend, and the echoes of his own voice only, among the rocks, replied to his repeated calls. After some hesitation whether to enter the walls of the main building, or to cross to the watch-tower, he determined on the former, and entered a rugged area, the walls of which, following the declivities of the precipice, could scarce­ly now be traced. The citadel, a round tower, of majestic strength, with some Roman arches scattered near, was all that remained of this once important fortress; except, indeed, a mass of ruins near the edge of the cliff, the construction of which made it difficult to guess for what purpose it had been designed.

[Page 32] Bonarmo entered the immense walls of the citadel, but the utter darkness within checked his progress, and, contenting himself with calling loudly on Vi­valdi, he returned to the open air.

As he approached the mass of ruins, whose sin­gular form had interested his curiosity, he thought he distinguished the low accents of a human voice, and while he listened in anxiety, a person rushed forth from a door-way of the ruin, carrying a drawn sword. It was Vivaldi himself. Bonarmo sprang to meet him; he was pale and breathless, and some moments elapsed before he could speak, or appeared to hear the repeated enquiries of his friend.

"Let us go," said Vivaldi, "let us leave this place."

"Most willingly," replied Bonarmo, "but where have you been, and who have you seen, that you are thus affected?"

"Ask me no more questions, let us go," repeated Vivaldi.

They descended the rock together, and when having reached the arch way, Bonarmo enquired, half spor­tively, whether they should remain any longer on the watch, his friend answered, "No!" with an emphasis that startled him. They passed hastily on the way to Naples, Bonarmo repeating enquiries which Vivaldi seemed reluctant to satisfy, and wondering no less at the cause of this sudden reserve, than anxious to know whom he had seen.

"It was the monk, then," said Bonarmo; "you secured him at last?"

"I know not what to think," replied Vivaldi, "I am more perplexed than ever."

"He escaped you then?"

"We will speak of this in future," said Vivaldi; "but be it as it may, the business rests not here. I will return in the night of to-morrow with a torch; dare you venture yourself with me?"

[Page 33] "I know not," replied Bonarmo, "whether I ought to do so, since I am not informed for what purpose?"

"I will not press you to go," said Vivaldi; my purpose is already known to you."

"Have you really failed to discover the stranger—have you still doubts concerning the person you pur­sued?"

I have doubts, which to-morrow night, I hope will dissipate."

"This is very strange!" said Bonarmo, "It was but now that I witnessed the horror, with which you left this fortress of Puluzzi, and already you speak of returning to it!. And why at night—why not in the day, when less danger would beset you?"

"I know not as to that," replied Vivaldi, "you are to observe that day-light never pierces within the recess, to which I penetrated; we must search the place with torches at whatsoever hour we would ex­amine it."

"Since this is necessary," said Bonarmo, "how happens it that you found your way in total darkness?"

"I was too much engaged to know how; I was led on, as by an invisible hand."

"We must, notwithstanding," observed Banarmo▪ "go in day-time, if not by day-light, provided I ac­company you. It would be little less than insanity to go twice to a place, which is probably infested with robbers, and at their own hour of midnight."

"I shall watch again in the accustomed place," re­plied Vivaldi, "before I use my last resource, and this cannot be done during the day. Besides, it is neces­sary that I should go at a particular hour, the hour when the monk has usually appeared.

"He did escape you, then?" said Bonarmo, "and you are still ignorant concerning who he is?"

Vivaldi rejoined only with an enquiry whether his friend would accompany him. "If not," he added▪ "I must hope to find another companion."

[Page 34] Bonarmo said, that he must consider of the proposal, and would acquaint him with his determination be­fore the following evening.

While this conversation concluded, they were in Naples, and at the gates of the Vivaldi palace, where they separated for the remainder of the night.

[Page 37] He opened it, and proceeded along the silent passages, towards the private stair-case, often pausing to listen and then stepping more lightly;—the terrific Schedoni, in this moment of meditative guilt, feared even the feeble Ellena. At the foot of the stair-case, he again stopped to listen. "Do you here any thing?"' said he in a whisper.

"I hear only the sea," replied the man.

"Hush! it is something more!" said Schedoni; "that is the murmur of voices!"

They were silent. After a pause of some length, "It is, perhaps, the voice of the spectres I told you of, Signor," said Spalatro, with a sneer. "Give me the dagger," said Schedoni.

Spalatro, instead of obeying, now grasped the arms of the Confessor, who, looking at him for an explana­tion of this extraordinary action, was still more sur­prised to observe the paleness and horror of his coun­tenance. His starting eyes seemed to follow some ob­ject along the passage, and Schedoni, who began to partake of his feelings, looked forward to discover what occasioned this dismay, but could not perceive any thing that justified it. "What is it you fear?" said he at length.

Spaltro's eyes were still moving in horror. "Do you see nothing!" said he pointing. Schedoni look­ed again, but did not distinguish any object in the re­mote gloom of the passage, whether Spalatro's sight was now fixed.

"Come, come," said he, ashamed of his own weak­ness, "this is not a moment for such fancies. Awake from this idle dream."

Spalatro withdrew his eyes, but they retained all their wildness "It was no dream," said he in the voice of a man who is exhausted by pain, and begins to breathe somewhat more freely again "I saw it as plainly as I now see you."

[Page 38] "Dotard! what did you see!" enquired the Con­fessor.

"It came before my eyes in a moment, and shewed itself distinctly and outspread."

"What [...] itself? repeated Schedoni."

"And then it beckoned—yes it beckoned me, with that blood-stained finger! and glided away down the passage still beckoning—till it was lost in the darkness."

"This is very frenzy!" said Schedoni, excessively agitated. "Arouse yourself, and be a man!

"Frenzy! would it were, Signor. I saw that dreadful hand—I see it now—it is there again!—there!"

Schedoni, shocked, embarrassed, and once more in­fected with the strange emotions of Spalatro, looked forward, expecting to discover some terrific object, but, still nothing was visible to him, and he soon re­covered himself sufficiently to endeavour to appease the fancy of this conscience-struck ruffian. But Spalatro was insensible to all he could urge, and the Confessor, fearing that his voice, though weak and stifled, would awaken Ellena, tried to withdraw him from the spot, to the apartment they had quitted.

"The wealth of San Loretto, should not make me go that way, Signor," replied he, shuddering—"that was they way it beckoned, it vanished that way!"

Every emotion now yielded with Schedoni, to that of apprehension, lest Ellena, being awakened, should make his task more horrid by a struggle, and his em­barrassment encreased at each instant, for neither com­mand, menace or entreaty could prevail with Spala­tro to retire, till the Monk luckily remembered a door which opened beyond the stair-case, would conduct them by another way to the opposite side of the house. The man consented so to depart, when Schedoni, un­locking a suit of rooms, of which he had always kept [Page 39] the keys, they passed in silence through an ex­tent of desolate chambers, till they reached the one which they had lately left.

Here, relieved from apprehension respecting Ellena, the Confessor expostulated more freely with Spalatro; but neither argument nor menace could prevail, and the man persisted in refusing to return to the stair-case, though protesting, at the same time, that he would not remain alone in any part of the house, till the wine, with which the Confessor abundantly sup­plied him, began to overcome the terrors of his ima­gination. At length, his courage was so much re­animated, that he consented to resume his station, and await at the foot of the stairs the accomplishment of Schedoni's dreadful errand, with which agreement they returned thither by the way they had lately pass­ed. The wine, with which Schedoni also had found it necessary to strengthen his own resolution, did not secure him from severe emotion, when he found him­self again near Ellena; but he made a strenous effort for self subjection, as he demanded the dagger of Spa­latro.

"You have it, already, Signor," replied the man.

"True," said the Monk;" ascend softly, or our steps may awaken her."

"You said I was to wait at the foot of the stairs, Signor, while you"—

"True, true, true!" muttered the Confessor, and had begun to ascend, when his attendant desired him to stop. "You are going in darkness, Signor, you have forgotten the lamp. I have another here."

Schedoni took it angrily, without speaking, and was again ascending, when he hesitated, and once more paused. "The glare will disturb her," thought he, "it is better to go in darkness—Yet—"He considered, that he could nor strike with certainty without light to direct his hand, and he kept the [Page 40] lamp, but returned once more to charge Spalatro not to stir from the foot of the stairs till he called, and to ascend to the chamber upon the first signal.

"I will obey, Signor, if you, on your part, will promise not to give the signal till all is over."

"I do promise," replied Schedoni. "No more!"

Again he ascended, nor stopped till he reached El­lena's door, where he listened for a sound; but all was as silent as if death already reigned in the chamber. This door was from long disuse, difficult to be opened; formerly it would have yielded without sound, but now Schedoni was fearful of noise from every effort he made to move it. After some difficulty, however, it gave way, and he perceived, by the stillness within the apartment, that he had not disturbed Ellena. He shaded the lamp with the door for a moment, while he threw an enquiring glance forward, and when he did venture farther, held part of his dark drapery before the light to prevent the rays from spreading through the room.

As he approached the bed, her gentle breathings informed him that she still slept, and the next moment he was at herside. She lay in deep and peaceful [...]lum­ber, and seemed to have thrown herself upon the mat­tress, after having been wearied by her griefs; for, though [...] pressed heavily upon her eyes, their lids were yet wet with tears.

While Schedoni gazed for a moment upon her in­nocent countenance, a faint smile stole over it. He step­ped back." She smiles in her murderer's face!" said he, shuddering, "I must be speedy."

He searched for the dagger, and it was some time before his trembling hand could disengage it from the folds of his garment; but, having done so, he again drew near, and prepared to strike. Her dress per­plexed him; it would interrupt the blow, and he stop­ped to examine whether he could turn her robe asid [Page 41] without waking her. As the light passed over her face, he perceived that the smile had vanished—the visions of her sleep were changed, for tears stole from beneath her eye lids, and her features suffered a slight convulsion. She spoke! Schedoni, apprehending that the light had disturbed her, suddenly drew back, and again irresolute, shaded the lamp and concealed him­self behind the curtain, while he listened. But her words were inward and indistinct, and convinced him that she still slumbered.

His agitation and repugnance to strike, encreased with every moment of delay, and as often as he pre­pared to plunge the poignard in her bosom, a shudder­ing horror restrained him. Astonished at his own feelings, and indignant at what he termed a dastardly weakness, he found it necessary to argue with himself, and his rapid thoughts said, "Do I not feel the neces­sity of this act? Does not what is dearer to me than existence—does not my consequence depend on the ex­ecution of it? Is she not also beloved by the young Vivaldi?—have I already forgotten the church of the Spirito Santo?" This consideration reanimated him; vengeance nerved his arm, and drawing aside the lawn from her bosom, he once more raised it to strike; when after gazing for an instant, some new cause of horror seemed to seize all his frame, and he stood for some moments aghast and motionless like a statue. His respiration was short and laborious, chilly drops stood on his fore hand, and all his faculties of the mind seemed supended. When he recovered, he stooped to examine again the miniature, which had occasioned this revolution, and which had lain concealed beneath the lawn that he withdrew. The terrible certainty was almost confirmed, and forgetting, in his impati­ence to know the truth, the imprudence of suddenly discovering himself to Ellena at this hour of the night, and with a dagger at his feet, he called loudly. "A­wake! [Page 42] awake! Say, what is your name! Speak speak quickly!

Ellena, aroused by a man's voice, started from her mattress, when, perceiving Schedoni, and by the pale glare of the lamp, his haggard countenance, she shriek­ed, and sunk back on the pillow. She had not faint­ed; and believing that he came to murder her, she now exerted herself to plead for mercy. The ener­gy of her feelings enabled her to rise and throw herself at his feet. "Be merciful, O father! be merciful! said she, in a trembling voice.

"Father, interrupted Schedoni▪ with earnestness; and then seeming to restrain himself, he added, with unaffected surpise, "Why are you thus terrified?" for he had lost, in new interests and emotions, all con­sciousness of evil intention, and of the singularity of his situation. "What do you fear?" he repeated.

"Have pity, holy father!" exclaimed Ellena in agony.

"Why do you not say whose portrait that is?" de­manded he, forgetting that he had not asked the ques­tion before.

"Whose portrait?" repeated the Confessor in a loud voice.

"Whose portrait!" said Ellena, with extreme sur­prise.

"Ay, how came you by it? Be quick—whose re­semblance is it?"

"Why should you wish to know?" said Ellena.

"Answer my question," repeated Schedoni, with encreasing sternness.

"I cannot part with it, holy father," replied El­lena, pressing it to her bosom, "you do not wish me to part with!"

"Is it impossible to make you answer my question!" said he, in extreme perturbation, and turning away from her, "has fear utterly confounded you!" Then, again stepping towards her, and seizing her wrist, he epeated the demand in a tone of desperation.

[Page 43] "Alas! he is dead! or I should not now want a protector, replied Ellena, shrinking from his grasp, and weeping.

"You trifle," said Schedoni, with a terrible look, "I once more demand an answe [...]—whose picture?"—

Ellena lifted it, gazed upon it for a momemt, and then pressing it to [...]er lips, "This was my father."

"Your father!" he repeated in an inward voice, "your father!" and shuddering turned away.

Ellena looked at him with surprise. "I never knew a father's care," she said, nor till lately did I perceive the want of it.—But now."—

"His name?" interrupted the Confessor.

"But now," continued Ellena—"if you are not as a father to me—to whom can I look for pro­tection?"

"His name," repeated Schedoni, with sterner em­phasis.

"It is sacred," replied Ellena, "for he was unfor­tunate!"

"His name?" demanded the Confessor, furiously,

"I have promised to conceal it, father."

"On your life, I charge you tell it; remember, on your life!"

Ellena trembled, was silent, and with supplicating looks implored him to desist from enquiry, but he urg­ed the question more irresistibly. "His name than," said she. "was Marinella."

Schedoni groaned and turned away; but in a few seconds, struggling to command the agitation that shattered his whole frame, he returned to Ellena, and raised her from her knees, on which she had thrown herself to implore mercy.

"The place of his residence?" said the Monk.

"It was far from hence," she replied; but he de­manded an unequivocal answer, and she reluctantly gave one.

[Page 44] Schedoni turned away as before, groaned heavily, and paced the chamber without speaking; while El­lena in her turn, enquired the motive of his questions, and [...]e occasion of his agitation. But he seemed not to notice any thing she said, and, wholl gi [...]en up to his feelings, was inflexibly silent, while he stalk­ed, with measured steps along the room, and his face half hid by his cowl, was bent towards the ground.

Ellena's terror began to yield to astonishment, and this emotion encreased, when Schedoni approaching her, she perceived tears swell in his eyes, which were fixt on her's and his countenance soften from the wild disorder that had marked it. Still he could not speak. At length he yielded to the fullness of his heart, and Schedoni, the stern Schedoni wept and sighed! He seated himself on the mattress beside Ellena, took her hand, which, she affrighted, attempted to withdraw, and when he could command his voice, said, "Unhappy child!—behold your more unhappy father!" As he concluded, his voice was evercome by groans, and he drew the cowl entirely over his face.

"My father!" exclaimed the astonished and doubt­ing Ellena—"my father!" and fixed her eyes up­on him. He gave no reply, but when, a moment af­ter, he lifted his head, "Why do you reproach me with those looks! said the conscious Schedoni.

"Reproach you!—reproach my father!" repeated Ellena, in accents softening into tenderness, Why should I reproach my father!

"Why?" exclaimed Schedoni, starting from his seat, "Great God!"

As he moved, he stumbled over the dagger at his foot; at that moment it might be said to strike into his heart. He pushed it hastily from his sight, El­lena had not observed it; but she observed his labour­ing breast, his distracted looks, and quick steps as he walked to and fro in the chamber; and she asked, with [Page 45] the most soothing accents of compassions, and looks of anxious gentleness, what made him so unhappy, and tried to assuage his sufferings. They seemed to en­crease with every wish she expressed to dispel them; at one moment he would pause to gaze upon her, and in the next would quit her with a frenzied start.

"Why do you look so piteously upon me, father?" Ellena said, "why are you so unhappy? Tell me, that I may comfort you,"

This appeal renewed all the violence of remorse and grief, and he pressed her to his bosom, and wetted her cheek with his tears. Ellena wept to see him weep till her doubts began to take alarm. Whatever might be the proofs, that had convinced Schedoni of the rela­tionship between them, he had not explained these to her, and, however strong was the eloquence of nature which she witnessed, it was not sufficient to justify an entire confidence in the assertion he had made, or to allow her to permit his caresses without trembling. She shrunk, and endeavoured to disengage herself; when, immediately understanding her, he said, "Can you doubt the cause of these emotions? these signs of paternal affection?"

"Have I not reason to doubt," replied Ellena, timid­ly "since I never witnessed them before?"

He withdrew his arms, and fixing his eyes earnest­ly on hers, regarded her for some moments, in expres­sive silence, "Poor Innocent!" said he, at length, "you know not how much your words convey!—It is too true, you never have known a father's tender­ness till now!"

His countenance darkened while he spoke, and he rose again from his seat. Ellena, meanwhile, asto­nished, terrified and oppressed by a variety of emotoins and no power to demand his reasons for the belief that so much agitated him, or any explanation of his con­duct; but she appealed to the portrait, and endeavour­ed [Page 46] by tracing some resemblance between it and Sche­doni, to decide her doubts. The countenance of each was as different in character as in years. The mini­ature displayed a young man, rather handsome, of a gay and smiling countenance; yet the smile expressed triumph, rather than sweetness, and his whole air and features were distinguished by a consciousness of su­periority that rose even to haughtiness.

Schedoni, on the contrary, advanced in years, exhi­bited a severe physiognomy, furrowed by thought, no less than by time, and darkened by the habitual indulgence of morose passions. He looked as if he had never smiled since the portrait was drawn; and it seemed as if the painter, prophetic of Schedoni's future disposition, had arrested and embodied that smile to prove, hereafter, that cheerfulness had once played upon his features.

Though the expression was so different between the countenance, which Schedoni formerly owned, and that he now wore the same character of haughty pride was visible in both; and Ellena did trace a re­semblance in the bold outline of the features, but not sufficient to convince her, without farther evidence, that each belonged to the same person, and that the Confessor had ever been the young cavalier in the portrait. In the first tumult of her thoughts, she had not had leisure to dwell upon the singularity of Sche­doni's visiting her at this deep hour of the night, or to urge any questions, except vague ones, concerning the truth of her relationship to him. But now, that her mind was somewhat recollected, and that his looks were less terrific, she ventured to ask a fuller explana­tion of these circumstances, and his reasons for the late extraordinary assertion. "It is past midnight, father said Ellena, "you may judge then how anxious I am to learn, what motive led you to my chamber at this lonely hour?"

[Page 47] Schedoni made no reply.

"Did you come to warn me of my danger?" she continued, "had you discovered the cruel designs of Spalatro? Ah! when I supplicated for your compas­sion on the shore this evening, you little thought what perils surrounded me! or you would—."

"You say true! interrupted he, in a hurried man­ner, "but name the subject no more. Why will you persist in returning to it?"

His words surprized Ellena, who had not even al­luded to the subject till now; but the returning wild­ness of his countenance, made her fearful of dwelling upon the topic, even so far as to point out his error.

Another deep pause succeeded, during which Sche­doni continued to pace the room, sometimes stopping for an instant, to fix his eyes on Ellena, and regard­ing her with an earnestness that seemed to partake of frenzy, and then gloomily withdrawing his regards, and sighing heavily, as he turned away to a distant part of the room. She, meanwhile, agitated with asto­nishment at his conduct, as well as at her own circum­stances, and with the fear of offending him by further questions, endeavoured to summon courage to solicit the explanation which was so important to her tran­quillity. At length she asked, how she might ven­ture to believe a circumstance so surprising, as that of which he had just assured her, and to remind him that he had not yet disclosed his reason for admitting the belief.

The Confessor's feelings were eloquent in reply; and, when at length they were sufficiently subdued, to permit him to talk coherently, he mentioned some cir­cumstances concerning Ellena's family, that proved him at least to have been intimately acquainted with it; and others, which she believed were known only to Bianchi and herself, that removed every doubt of his identity.

This, however, was a period of his life too big with [Page 48] remorse, horror, and the first pangs of parental affec­tion, to allow him to converse long; deep solitude was necessary for his soul. He wished to plunge where no eye might restrain his emotions or observe the overflowing anguish of his heart. Having obtained sufficient proof to convince him that Ellena was in­deed his child, and assured her that she should be re­moved from this house on the following day, and be restored to her home, he abruptly left the chamber.

As he descended the stair-case, Spalatro stepped for­ward to meet him, the cloak which had been designed to wrap the mangled form of Ellena, when it should be carried to the shore. "Is it done?" said the ruf­fian, in a stiffled voice; "I am ready;" and he spread forth the cloak, and began to ascend.

"Hold! villian, hold! said Schedoni, lifting up his head for the first time, "Dare to enter that chamber, and your life shall answer fo [...] it."

"What!" exclaimed the man, shinking back aston­ished—"will not her's satisfy you?"

He trembled for the consequence of what he had said, when he observed the changing countenance of the [...]. But Schedoni spoke not: the tumult in [...] breast was too great for utterance, and he pressed hastily forward. Spalatro followed. "Be pleased to tell me what I am to do," said he, again holding forth the cloak.

"Avaunt!" exclaimed the other, turning fiercely upon him; "leave me."

"How!" sai [...] the man, whose spirit was now a roused, "has your courage failed too, Signor? If so, I will prove myself no dastard, though you called me one; I'll do the business myself."

"Villian! fiend! [...] cried Schedoni, seizing the ruf­fian by the throat, with a grasp that seemed intended to annihilate him; when, recollecting that the fellow was only willing to obey the very instructions he had [Page 49] himself but lately delivered to him, or other emotions succeeded to that of rage; he slowly liberated him, and in accents broken, and softening from sternness, bade him retire to rest. "To-morrow," he added, "I will speak further with you. As for this night—I have changed my purpose. Begone!"

Spalatro was about to express the indignation, which astonishment and fear had hitherto overcome, but his employer repeated his command in a voice of thunder, and closed the door of his apartment with vio­lence, as he shut out a man whose presence was be­come hateful to him. He felt relieved by his absence, and began to breathe more freely, till remembering that this accomplice had just boasted that he was no dastard, he dreaded lest by way of proving the asser­tion, he should attempt to commit the crime, from which he had lately shrunk. Terrified at the possibil­ity, and even apprehending that it might already have become a reality, he rushed from the room, and found Spalatro in the passage leading to the private stair-case; but, whatever might have been his purpose, the situation and looks of the latter were sufficiently alarm­ing. At the approach of Schedoni, he turned his sul­len [...] malignant countenance towards him, without answering the call, or the demand as to his business there; and with slow steps obeyed the order of his master, that he should withdraw to his room. Thither Sche­doni followed, and, having locked him in it for the night, he reparied to the apartment of Ellena, which he secured from the possibility of intrusion. He then returned to his own, not to sleep, but to abandon himself to the agonies of remorse and horror; and he yet shuddered, like a man who has just recoiled from the brink of a precipice, but who still me sures the gulf with his eye.

CHAP. III.

EELLENA, when Schedoni had left her, recol­lected all the particulars, which he had thought proper to reveal concerning her family, and comparing them with such circumstances as the late Bianchi had related on the same subject, she perceived nothing that was contradictory between the two accounts But she knew not even yet enough of her own story, to understand why Bianchi had been silent as to some particulars, which had just been disclosed. From Bianchi she had always understood, that her mother had married a nobleman of the duchy of Milan, and of the house of Marinella; that the marriage had been unfortunate; and that she herself, even before the death of the Countess, had been committed to the care of Bianchi, the only sister of that lady. Of this event, or of her mo­ther, Ellena had no remembrance; for the kindness of Bianchi had obliterated from her mind the loss and the griefs of her early infancy; and she recollected only the accident which had discovered to her, in Bianchi's cabinet, after the death of the latter, the minature and the name of her father. When she had enquired the reason of this injunction Bianchi replied, that the de­graded fortune of her house rendered privacy desira­ble; and answered her further questions concerning her father, by relating, that he had died while she was an infant. The picture, which Ellena had discover­ed, Bianchi had found among the trinkets of the depar­ted Countess, and designed to present it at some future [Page 51] perid to Ellena, when her discretion might he trusted with a knowledge of her family. This was the whole of what Signora Bianchi had judged it necessary to explain, though in her last hours it appeared that she wished to reveal more; but it was then too late.

Though Ellena perceived that many circumstances of the relations given by Schedoni, and by Signora Bianchi, coincided, and that none were contradictory, except that of his death, she could not yet subdue her amazement at this discovery or even the doubts which occasionally recurred to her as to its truth. Schedo­ni, on the contrary, had not even appeared surprized, when she assured him, that she always understood her father had been dead many years; though when she asked if her mother too was living, both his distress and his assurances confirmed the relations made by Bianchi.

When Ellena's mind became more tranquil she noticed again the singularity of Schedoni's visit to her apartment at so sacred an hour; and her thoughts glanced back involuntarily to the scene of the preceed­ing evening on the sea-shore, and the image of her father appeared in each, in the terrific character of an agent of the Marchesa di Vivaldi. The suspicions, however, which she had formerly admitted, respect­ing his designs, were now impatiently rejected, for she was less anxious to discover truth, than to release her­self from horrible suppositions; and she willingly be­lieved that Schedoni having misunderstood her charac­ter, had only designed to assist in removing her be­yond the reach of Vivaldi—The ingenuity of hope suggested also, that, having just heard from her con­ducters, or from Spalatro, some circumstances of her story, he had been led to a suspicion of the relationship between them, and that in the first impatience of par­ental anxiety, he had disregarded the hour and come, though at midnight, to her apartment to ascertain the truth.

[Page 52] While she soothed herself with this explanation of a circumstance, which had occasioned her considerable surprise, she perceived on the floor the point of a dag­ger peeping from beneath the curtains! Emotions al­most too horrible to be sustained, followed this dis­covery; she took the instrument, and gazed upon it aghast, and trembling; for a suspicion of the real motive of Schedoni's visit glanced upon her mind. But it was only for a moment; such a supposition was too terrible to be willingly endured; she again believed that Spalatro alone had meditated her des­truction, and she thanked the Confessor as her deliv­erer, instead of shrinking from him as an assassin. She now understood that Schedoni, having discovered the ruffian's design, had rushed into the chamber to save a stranger from his murderous poignard, and had unconscionslly rescued his own daughter, when the portrait at her bosom informed him of the truth. With this conviction, Ellena's eyes overflowed with gratitude, and her heart was hushed to peace.

Schedoni, meanwhile, shut up in his chamber, was agitated by feelings of a very opposite nature. When their first excess was exhausted, and his mind was calm enough to reflect, the images that appeared on it struck him with solemn wonder. In pursuing Ellena as the criminal instigation of the Marchesa di Vivaldi, it ap­peared that he had been persecuting his own child; and in thus consenting to conspire against the inno­cent, he had, in the event, been only punishing the guilty, and preparing mortification for himself on the exact subject to which he had sacrificed his conscience. Every step that he had taken, with a view of gratify­ing his ambition was r [...]t [...]ograde, and while he had been wickedly intent to serve the Merchesa and him­self, by preventing the marriage of Vivaldi and El­lena, he had been labouriously counteracting his own fortune. An alliance with the illustrious house of Vi­valdi, [Page 53] was above his loftiest hope of advancement, and this event he had himself nearly prevented by the very means which had been adopted, at the expence of every virtuous consideration, to obtain an inferior promotion. Thus, by a singular retribution, his own crimes had recoiled upon himself.

Schedoni perceived the many obstacles, which lay between him and his newly-awakened hopes, and that much was to be overcome before those nuptials could be publicly solemnized, which he was now still more anxious to promote, then he had lately been to pre­vent. The approbation of the Marchesa was, at least, desirable, for she had much at her disposal, and with­out it, though his daughter might be the wife of Vi­valdi, he himself would be no otherwise benefited at present than by the honour of the connection. He had some peculiar reasons for believing, that her consent might be obtained, and, though there was hazard in delaying the nuptials till such an experiment had been made, he resolved to encounter it, rather than forbear to solicit her concurrence. But, if the Marchesa should prove inexorable, he determined to bestow the hand of Ellena, without her knowledge; and in doing so he well knew that he incurred little danger from her resentment, since he had secrets in his possession, the consciousness of which must awe her into a speedy neutrality. The consent of the Marchese, as he des­paired of obtaining it, he did not mean to solicit, and the influence of the Marchesa was such, that Schedoni did not regard that as essential.

The first steps, however, to be taken, were those that might release Vivaldi from the Inquisition, the tremendous prison into which Schedoni himself, little foreseeing that he should so soon wish for his liberation, had caused him to be thrown. He had always under­stood, indeed, that if the Informer forbore to appear against the Accused in this Court, the latter would [Page 54] of course, be liberated, and he also believed, that Vi­valdi's freedom could be obtained whenever be should think proper to apply to a person at Naples, whom he knew to be connected with the Holy Office of Rome. How much the Confessor had suffered his wishes to deceive him, may appear hereafter. His motives for having thus confined Vivaldi, were partly those of self-defence. He dreaded the discovery and the ven­geance, which might follow the loss of Ellena, should Vivaldi be at liberty immediately to pursue his enqui­ries. But he believed that all trace of her must be loft, after a few weeks had elapsed, and that Vivaldi's sufferings, from confinement in the Inquisition, would have given interests to his mind, which must weaken the one he left for Ellena. Yet, though in this in­stance, self-defence had been a principal motive with Schedoni, a desire of revenging the insult he had re­ceived in the church of the Spirito Santo, and all the consequent mortifications he experienced had been a second; and, such was the blackness of this hatred, and the avarice of his revenge, that he had not consi­dered the suffering, which the loss of Ellena would oc­casion Vivaldi, as sufficient retaliation.

In adopting a mode of punishment so extraordinary as that of imprisonment in the Inquisiton, it appears, therefore, that Schedoni was influenced, [...]partly by the difficulty of otherwise confining Vivaldi, during the pe­riod of which confinement was absolutely necessary to the success of his own schemes, and partly by a desire of inflicting the tortures of terror. He had also been encouraged by his discovery of this opportunity for conferring new obligations on the Marchesa. The very conduct, that must have appeared to the first glance of an honest mind fatal to his interests, he thought might be rendered beneficial to them, and that his dex­terity could so command the business, as that the Mar­chesa should eventually thank him as the deliverer of [Page 55] her son, instead of discovering and execrating him as his Accuser; a scheme favoured by the unjust and cru­el rule enacted by the tribunal he approached, which permitted anonymous Informers.

To procure the arrestation of Vivaldi, it had been only necessary to send a written accusation, without a name, to the Holy Office, with a mention of the place where the accused person migh be seized; but the suf­fering, in consequence of this, did not always proceed further than the question; since, if the Informer failed to discover himself to the inquisitors, the prisoner after many examinations, was released, unless he happened unwarily to criminate himself. Schedoni, as he did not intend to prosecute, believed, therefore, that Vi­valdi would, of course, be discharged after a certain pe­riod, and supposing it also utterly impossible that he could ever discover his Accuser, the Confessor deter­mined to appear anxious and active in effecting his re­lease. This character of a deliverer, he knew he should be the better enabled to support by means of a person officially connected with the Holy Office, who had already unconsciously assisted his views. In the apartment of this man, Schedoni had accidently seen a formula of arrestation against a person suspect­ed of Heresy, the view of which had not only suggest­ed to him the plan he had since adopted, but had, in some degree, assisted him to carry it into effect. He had seen the scroll only for a short time, but his obser­vations were so minute, and his memory so clear, that he was able to copy it with at least sufficient exact­ness to impose upon the Benedictine priest, who had, perhaps, seldom, or never seen a real instrument of this kind, Schedoni had employed this artifice for the purpose of immediately securing Vivaldi, apprehend­ing that, while the Inquisitors were slowly delibera­ting upon his arrest, he might quit Celano, and elude discovery. If the deception succeeded, it would ena­ble [Page 56] him also to seize Ellena, and to mislead Vivaldi respecting her destination. The charge of having carried off a nun, might appear to be corroborated by many circumstances, and Schedoni would probably have made these the subject of real denunciation, had he not forseen the danger and the trouble in which it might implicate himself; and that, as the charge could not be substantiated, Ellena would finally es­cape. As far as his plan ow went, it had been suc­cessful; some of the bravoes whom he hired to person­ate officiels, had conveyed Vivaldi to the town, when the real officers of the Inquisition were appointed to receive him; while the others carried Ellena to the shore of the Adriatic. Schedoni had much applauded his own ingenuity, in thus contriving, by the matter of the forged accusation, to throw an impenetrable veil over the fate of Ellena, and to secure himself from the suspicions or vengeance of Vivaldi, who, it appeared, would always believe that she had died, or was still confined in the unsearchable prisons of the Inquisition.

Thus he had betrayed himself in endeavouring to betray Vivaldi, whose release, however, he yet suppos­ed could be easily obtained; but how much his policy had, in this instance, outrun his sagacity, now remain­ed to be proved.

The subject of Schedoni's immediate perplexity, was the difficulty of conveying Ellena back to Na­ples; since, not chusing to appear, at present, in the character of her father, he could not decorously ac­company her thither himself, nor could he prudent­ly entrust her to the conduct of any person [...] he knew in this neighbourhood. It was, however, neces­sary to form a speedy determination, for he could nei­ther endure to pass another day in a scene which must continually impress him with the horrors of the preced­ing night, nor that Ellena should remain in it; and the morning-light already gleamed upon his casements.

[Page 57] After some further deliberation, he resolved to be himself her conductor, as far, at least, as through the forests of the Garganus, and at the first town where conveniencies could be procured, to throw aside his Monk's habit, and, assuming the dress of a layman, ac­company her in this disguise towards Naples, till he should either discover some secure means of sending her forward to that city, or a temporary asylum for her in a convent on the way.

His mind was scarcely more tranquil, after having formed this determination, than before, and he did not attempt to repose himself even for a moment. The circumstances of the late discovery were almost per­petually recurring to his affrighted conscience, accom­panied by a fear that Ellena might suspect the real purpose of his midnight visit; and he alternately form­ed and rejected plausible falsehoods, that might as­suage her curiosity, and delude her apprehension.

The hour arrived, however, when it was necessa­ry to prepare for departure, and found him still unde­cided as to the explanation he should form.

Having released Spalatro from his chamber, and given him directions to procure horses and a guide immediately from the neighbouring hamlet, he repair­ed to Ellena's room, to prepare her for this hasty re­moval. On approaching it, a remembrance of the purpose, with which he had last passed through these same passages and staircase, appealed so powerfully to his feelings, that he was unable to proceed, and he turned back to his own apartment to recover some command over himself. A few moments restored to him his usual address, though not his tranquillity, and he again approached the chamber; it was now, how­e [...]er by way of the corridor. As he unbarred the door, his hand trembled; but, when he entered the room, his countenance and manner had resumed their usual solemnity, and his voice only would have betray­ed, [Page 58] to an attentive observer, the agitation of his mind.

Ellena was considerably affected on seeing him a­gain, and he examined with a jealous eye the emo­tions he witnessed. The smile with which she met him was tender, but he perceived it pass away from her features, like the aerial colouring that illumines a mountain's brow; and the gloom of doubt and ap­prehension again overspread them. As he advanced, he held forth his hand for her's, when suddenly per­ceiving the dagger he had left in the chamber, he in­voluntarily withdrew his proffered courtesy, and his countenance changed. Ellena, whose eyes followed his to the object that attracted them, pointed to the instrument, took it up, and approached him, said, "This dagger I found last night in my chamber! O my father!"—

"That dagger!" said Schedoni, with affected sur­prise.

"Examine it," continued Ellena, while she held it up, "Do you know to whom it belongs? and who brought it hither?"

"What is it you mean?" asked Schedoni, betray­ed by his feelings.

"Do you know, too, for what purpose it was brought?" said Ellena mournfully.

The Confessor made no reply, but irresolutely at­tempted to seize the instrument.

"O yes, I perceive you know too well," continu­ed Ellena, "here, my father, while I slept."—

"Give me the dagger," interrupted Schedoni, in a frightful voice.

"Yes, my father, I will give it as an offering of my gratitude," replied Ellena, but as she raised her eyes, filled with tears, his look and fixed attitude ter­rified her, and she added with a still more persuasive tenderness, "Will you not accept the offering of your child, for having preserved her from the poignard of an assassin.

[Page 59] Schedoni's looks became yet darker; he took the dagger in silence, and threw it with violence to the fur­thest end of the chamber, while his eyes remained fixed on her's. The force of the action alarmed her; "Yes, it is in vain that you would conceal the truth," she added, weeping unrestrainedly, "your goodness can­not avail; I know the whole."—

The last words aroused Schedoni again from his trance, his features became convulsed, and his look fu­rious. "What do you know?" he demanded in a sub­due voice, that seemed ready to burst in thunder.

"All that I owe you," replied Ellena, that last night, while I slept upon this mattress, unsuspicious of what was designed against me, an assassin entered the chamber with that instrument in his hand, and—"

A stifled groan from Schedoni checked Ellena; she observed his rolling eyes, and trembled; till be­lieving that his agitation was occasioned by indigna­tion against the assassin, she resumed, "Why should you think it necessary to conceal the danger which has threatened me, since it is to you that I owe my deli­verence from it? O! my father, do not deny me the pleasure of shedding these tears of gratitude, do not refuse the thanks which are due to you! While I slept upon that couch, while a ruffian stole upon my [...]lumber—it was you, yes! can I ever forget that it was my father, who saved me from his poignard!"

Schedoni's passions were changed, but they were not less violent; he could scarcely controul them, while he said, in a tremulous tone—" It is enough, say no more; and he raised Ellena, but turned away without embracing her.

His strong emotion, as he paced in silence, the fur­thest end of the apartment, excited her surprise, but she then attributed it to a remembrance of the peri­lous moment, from which he had rescued her.

Schedoni, meanwhile, to whom her [...] were [Page 60] daggers, was trying to subdue the feelings of remorse that tore his heart; and was so enveloped in a world of his own, as to be for some time unconcious of all around him. He continued to stalk in gloomy silence along the chamber, till the voice of Ellena, entreating him rather to rejoice that he had been permitted to save her than so deeply to consider dangers which were past, again touched the cord that vibrated to his con­science, and recalled him to a sense of his situation. He then bid her prepare for immediate departure, and abruptly quitted the room.

Vainly hoping that in flying from the scene of his mediated crime, he should leave with it the acuteness of remembrance, and the agonizing stings of remorse, he was now more anxious than ever to leave this place. Yet he should still be accompanied by Ellena, and her innocent looks, her affectionate thanks, in­flicted an anguish which was scarcely endurable. Sometimes, thinking that her hatred, or what to him would be still severer, her contempt, must be more tolerable than this gratitude, he almost resolved to undeceive her respecting his conduct, but as constantly and impatiently repelled the thought with horror, and finally determined to suffer her to account for his late extraordinary visit in the away she had chosen.

Spalatro, at length, returned from the hamlet with horses, but without having procured a guide to con­duct the travellers through a tract of the long-devolv­ing forests of the Garganus, which it was necessary for them to pass. No person had been willing to un­dertake so arduous a task; and Spalatro, who was well acquainted with all the labyrinths of the way, now of­fered his services

Schedoni, though he could scarcely endure the pre­sence of this man, had no alternative but to accept him, since he had dismissed the guide who had con­ducted him hither. Of personal violence Schedoni [Page 61] had no apprehension, though he too well understood, the villainy of his proposed companion; for he con­sidered that he himself should be well armed, and he determined to ascertain that Spalatro was without weapons, he knew, also, that in case of a contest, his own superior stature would easily enable him to over­come such an antagonist.

Every thing being now ready for departure, Ellena was summoned, and the Confessor led her to his own apartment, where a slight breakfast was prepared.

Her spirits being revived by the speed of this depar­ture, she would again have expressed her thanks, but he peremptorily interrupted her, and forbade any fur­ther mention of gratitude.

On entering the court where the horses were in wait­ing and perceiving Spalatro, Ellena shrunk and put her arm within Schedoni's for protection. "What recollections does the presence of that man revive!" said she, "I can scarcely venture to believe myself safe, even with you, when he is here."

Schedoni made no reply, till the remark was re­peated, "You have nothing to fear from him," mut­tered the Confessor, while he hastened her forward, "and we have no time to lose in vague apprehension."

"How?" exclaimed Ellena, "is not he the assas­sin from whom you saved me? I cannot doubt, that you know him to be such, though you would spare me the pain of believing so."

"Well, well, be it so," replied the Confessor; "Spa­latro lead the horses this way."

The party were soon mounted, when, quitting this eventful mansion, and the shore of the Adriatic, as Ellena hoped for ever, they entered upon the gloomy wilderness of the Garganus. She often turned her eyes back upon the house with emotions of inexpressible awe, astonishment, and thankfulness, and gazed while a glimpse of its turretted walls could be caught beyond [Page 62] the dark branches, which, closing over it, at length shut it from her view. The joy of this departure however, was considerably abated by the presence [...] Spalatro, and her fearful countenance enquired [...] Schedoni the meaning of his being suffered to accom­pany them. The Confessor was reluctant to speak concerning a man, of whose very existence he would willingly have ceased to think. Ellena guided [...] horse still closer to Schedoni's, but forbearing to [...] the enquiry otherwise than by looks, she received [...] reply, and endeavouring to quiet her apprehensions, [...] considering that he would not have permitted this [...] to be their guide, unless he had believed he might [...] trusted. This consideration, though it relieved [...] fears, encreased her perplexity respecting the late [...] signs of Spalatro, and her surprise that Schedoni, [...] he had really understood them to be evil, should [...] his presence. Every time she stole a glance [...] the dark countenance of this man, rendered still da [...] ­er by the shade of the trees, she thought "assassin was written on each line of it, and could scarcely [...] that he, and not the people who had conducted her [...] the mansion, had dropped the dagger in her chamber▪ Whenever she looked round through the deep glade [...] and on the forest mountains that on every side close [...] the scene, and seemed to exclude all cheerful haunt [...] man, and then regarded her companions, her hear sunk, notwithstanding the reasons she had for be­lieving herself in the protection of a father. Nay the very looks of Schedoni himself, more than [...] reminding her of his appearance on the sea-shore, re­newed the impressions of alarm and even of dismay which she had there experienced, At such moment it was sarcely possible for her to consider him as he parent, and, in spite of every late appearance, strang [...] and unaccountable doubts began to gether on [...] mind.

[Page 63] Schedoni, meanwhile, lost in thought, broke not, by a single word, the deep silence of the solitudes through which they passed. Spalatro was equally mute and e­qually engaged by his reflections on the sudden change in Schedoni's purpose, and by wonder as to the motive, which could have induced him to lead Ellena in safety, from the very spot whither she was brought by his ex­press command to be destroyed. He, however, was not so wholly occupied, as to be unmindful of his situ­ation, or unwatchful of an opportunity of serving his own interests, and retaliating upon Schedoni for the treatment he had received on the preceding night.

Among the various subjects that distracted the Confessor, the difficulty of disposing of Ellena, with­out betraying at Naples that she was his relative, was not the least distressing. Whatever might be the reason which could justify such feelings, his fears of a premature discovery of the circumstance to the society with whom he lived, were so strong, as often to pro­duce the most violent effect upon his countenance, and it was, perhaps, when he was occupied by this subject, that its terrific expression revived with Ellena the late scence upon the shore. His embarrassment was not less, as to the excuse to be offered the Marchesa, for having failed to fulfil his engagement, and res­pecting the means by which he might interest her in favour of Ellena, and even dispose her to approve the marriage, before she should be informed of the family of this unfortunate young woman. Perceiving all the necessity for ascertaining the probabilities of suc [...] consent, before he ventured to make an avowal of her origin, he determined not to reveal himself till he should be perfectly sure that the discovery would be acceptable to the Marchesa. In the mean time, as it would be necessary to say something of Ellena's birth, he meant to declare, that he had discovered it to be no­ble, and her family worthy in every respect, of a con­nection with that of the Vivaldi,

[Page 64] An interview with the Marchesa, was almost e­qually wished for and dreaded by the Confessor. He shuddered at the expectation of meeting a woman, who had instigated him to the murder of his own child, which though he had been happily prevented from committing it, was an act that would still be wished for by the Marchesa. How could he endure her reproach­es, when we should discover that he had failed to ac­complish her will! How conceal the indignation of a father, and dissimulated all a father's various feelings, when, in reply to such reproaches, he must form ex­cuses, and act humility, from which his whole soul would revolt! Never could his arts of dissimulation have been so severely tried, not, even in the late scenes with Ellena, never have returned upon himself in punishment so severe, as in that which awaited him with the Marchesa. And from its approach the [...] and politic Schedoni often shrunk in such horror, that he almost determined to avoid it at any hazard, and se­cretly to unite Vivaldi and Ellena, without even soli­citing the consent of the Marchesa.

A desire, however, of the immediate preferment so necessary to his pride, constantly checked this scheme, and finally made him willing to subject every honest feeling, and submit to any meanness, however, vicious, rather than forego the favourite object of his errone­ous ambition. Never, perhaps, was the paradoxical union of pride and abjectness, more strongly exibited than on this occasion.

While thus the travellers silently proceeded, Elle­na's thoughts often turned to Vivaldi, and she consi­dered, with trembling anxiety, the effect which the late discovery was likely to have upon their future lives. It appeared to her, that Schedoni must ap­prove of a connection thus flattering to the pride of a father, though he would probably refuse his, con­ent to a private marriage. And, when she further [Page 65] considered the revolution, which a knowledge of her family might occasion towards herself in the minds of the Vivaldi, her prospects seemed to brighten, and her cares began to dissipate. Judging that Schedoni must be acquainted with the present situation of Vivaldi she was continually on the point of mentioning him, but was as constantly restrained by timidity, though, had she suspected him to be an inhabitant of the Inquisi­tion, her scruples would have vanished before an irresistable interest. As it was, believing that he like herself, had been imposed upon by the Marchesa's a­gents, in the disguise of officials, she concluded, as has before appeared, that he now suffered a temporary imprisonment by order of his mother, at one of the family vilas. When, however, Schedoni awaking from his reverie, abruptly mentioned Vivaldi, her spi­rits fluttered with impatience to learn his exact situ­ation, and she enquired respecting it.

"Im no stranger to your attachment," said Schedoni, evading the question, "but I wish to be informed of some circumstances relative to its commencement."

Ellena, confused, and not knowing what to reply, was for a moment silent, and then repeated her en­quiry.

"Where did you first meet?" said the Confessor, still disregarding her question. Ellena related, that she had first seen Vivaldi, when attending her aunt from the church of San Lorenzo. For the present she was spared the embarrassment of further explanation by Spalatro, who riding up to Schedoni, informed him they were approaching the town of Zanti. On look­ing foward, Ellena perceived houses peeping from a­mong the forest-trees, at a short distance, and present­ly heard the cheerful bark of a dog, that sure herald and faithful servant of man!

Soon after the travellers entered Zanti, a small town surrounded by the forest, where, however, the [Page 66] poverty of the inhabitants seemed to forbid a longer stay than was absolutely necessary for repose, and [...] slight refreshment. Spalatro led the way to a cabin, in which the few persons, that journied this road were usually entertained. The appearance of the people, who owned it, was as wild as their country, and the inter­ior of the dwelling was so dirty and comfortless, that Schedoni, preferring to take his repast in the open air, a table was spread under the luxuriant shade of the forest-trees, at a little distance. Here, when the host had withdrawn, and Spalatro had been dispatched to examine the post-horses, and to procure a lay-habit for the Confessor, the latter, once more alone with Ellena, began to experience again somewhat of the embarrassments of conscience; and Ellena, whenever her eyes glanced upon him, suffered a solemnity of fear that rose almost to terror. He, at length, termi­nated this emphatic silence, by renewing his mention of Vivaldi, and his command that Ellena should re­late the history of their affection. Not daring to refuse, she obeyed, but with as much brevity as pos­sible, and Schedoni did not interrupt her by a single observation. However eligible their nuptials now appeared to him, he forebore to give any hint of ap­probation, till he should have extricated the object of her regards from his perilous situation. But, with Ellena, this very silence implied the opinion it was meant to conceal, and, encouraged by the hope it im­parted, she ventured once more to ask, by whose order Vivaldi had been arrested; whither he had been con­veyed, and the circumstance of his present situation.

Too politic to intrust her with a knowledge of his actual condition, the Confessor spared her the anguish of learning that he was a prisoner in the Inquisition. He affected ignorance of the late transaction at Celano, but ventured to believe, that both Vivaldi and herself had been arrested by order of the Marchesa, who, [...]e [Page 67] conjectured, had thrown him into temporary confine­ment, a measure which she, no doubt, had meant to en­force also towards Ellena.

"And you, my father," observed Ellena, "what brought you to my prison,—you who was not inform­ed with the Marchesa's designs?—What accident conducted you to that remote solitude, just at the moment when you could save your child!"

"Informed of the Marchesa's designs!" said Sche­doni, with embarrassment and displeasure: "Have you ever imagined that I could be accessary—that I coul [...] consent to assist, I mean could consent to be a confident of such atrocious"—Schedoni, bewildered, confounded, and half betrayed, checked himself.

"Yet you [...] have said, the Marchesa meant only to confine me!" observed Ellena; "was that design so atrocious? Alas, my father! I know too well that her plan was more atrocious, and since you had too much reason to know this, why do you say that impri­sonment only was intended for me? But your solicitude for my tranquillity leads you to?"—

"What means," interrupted the suspicious Schedo­ni, "can I particularly have of understanding the Marchesa's schemes? I repeat, that I am not her confi­dent; how, then, is it to be supposed I should know that they extended further than to imprisonment?"

"Did you not save me from the arm of the assassin!" said Ellena tenderly; "did not you wrench the very dagger from his grasp!"

"I had forgotten, I had forgotten," said the Con­fessor, yet more embarrassed.

"Yes, good minds are ever thus apt to forget the benefits they confer," replied Ellena. "But you shall find, my father, that a greatful heart is equally tenacious to remember them; it is the indelible regi­ster of every act that is dismissed from the memory of the benefactor."

[Page 68] "Mention no more of benefits." said Schedoni, impatiently; "let silence on this subject henceforth indicate your wish to oblige me."

He r [...]se, and joined the host, who was at the door of his abin. Schedoni wished to dismiss Spalatro as soon as possible, and he enquired for a guide to con­duct him through that part of the forest, which re­mained to be traversed. In this poor town, a person willing to undertake that office was easily to be found, but the host went inquest of a neighbour whom he had recommended.

Meanwhile Spalatro returned, without having suc­ceeded in his commission. Not any lay-habit could be procured, upon so short a notice, that suited Sche­doni. He was obliged, therefore, to continue his journey to the next town at least, in his own dress, but the necessity was not very serious to him, since it was improbable that he should be known in this obscure region.

Presently the host appeared with his neighbour, when Schedoni, having received satisfactory answers to his questions, engaged him for the remainder of the forest-road and dismissed Spalatro, The ruffian de­parted with sullen reluctance and evident ill will, cir­cumstances which the Confessor scarcely noticed, while occupied by the satisfaction of escaping from the presence of the atrocious partner of his conscience. But Ellena, as he passed her, observed the maligant disappointment of his look, and it served only to heighten the thankfulness his departure occasioned her.

It was ofternoon before the travellers proceeded. Schedoni had calculated that they could easily reach the town, at which they designed to pass the night, be­fore the close of evening, and he had been in no haste to depart during the heat of the day. Their track now lay through a country less savage, though scarcely less wild than that they had passed in the morning. [Page 69] It emerged from the interior towards the border of the forest; they were no longer enclosed by impending mountains; the with drawing shades were no longer impenetrable to the eye, but now and then opened to gleams of sunshi [...]e-landscape, and blue distances; and in the immediate scene, many a green glade spread its bosom to the sun. The grandeur of the trees, howe­ver, did not decline; the plane, the oak, and the ches­nut still threw a pomp of foliage round these smiling spots, and seemed to consecrate the mountain streams, that descended beneath their solemn shade.

To the harrassed spirits of Ellena the changing scenery was refreshing and she frequently yielded her cares to the influence of majestic nature. Over the gloom of Schedoni, no scenery had, at any moment, power; the shape and paint of external imagery gave neither impression nor colour to his fancy. He con­temned the sweet illusions, to which other spirits are liable, and which often confer a delight more exqui­site and not less innocent, than any, which delibera­tive reason can bestow.

The same thoughtful silence, that had wrapt him at the beginning of the journey, he still preserved, ex­cept when occasionally he asked a question of the guide concerning the way, and received answers too loqua­cious for his humour. This loquacity, however, was not easily oppressed, and the peasant had already begun to relate some terrible stories of murder, com­mitted in these forests upon people, who had been har­dy enough to venture into them without a guide, be­fore the again abstracted Schedoni even noticed that he spoke. Tho [...]gh Ellena did give much credit to these narratives, they had some effect upon her fears, when soon after she entered the deep shades of a part of the forest, that lay along a narrow defile, whence every glimpse of cheerful landscape was again exclud­ed by precipices, which towered on either side. The [Page 70] stilness was not less effectual than the gloom, for no sounds were heard, except such as seemed to charact­erize solitude, and impress its awful power more deep­ly on the heart,—the hollow dashing of torrents descending distantly, and the deep sighings of the wind, as it passed among trees, which threw their broad arms over the cliffs, and crowned the highest summits. Onward, through the narrowing winding of the de­file, no living object appeared; but, as Ellena looked fearfully back, she thought she distinguished a human figure, advancing beneath the dusky umbrage that closed the view. She communicated her suspicion to Schedoni, though not her fears, and they stopped for a moment, to observe further. The object advanced slowly, and they perceived the stature of a man, who, having continued to approach, suddenly paused, and then glided away behind the fol [...]age that crossed the perspective, but not before Ellena fancied she discri­minated the figure of Spalatro. None but a purpose the most desperate, she believed, could have urged him to follow into this, instead of returning, as he had pre­tended, to his home. Yet it appeared improbable, that he alone should be willing to attack two armed persons, for both Schedoni and the guide had weapons of defence. This consideration afforded▪ her only a momentary respite from apprehension, since it was pos­sible that he might not be alone, though only one per­son had yet been seen among the shrouding branches of the woods. "Did you not think he resembled Spalatro?" said Ellena to the Confessor, "was he not of the same stature and air? You are well armed, or I should fear for you, as well as for myself."

"I did not observe a resemblance," replied Schedoni, throwing a glance back, "but whoever he is, you have nothing to apprehend from him, for he has disappear­ed."

"Yes, Signor, so much the worse," observed the [Page 71] guide, "so much the worse, if he means us any harm, for he can steal along the rocks behind these thickets, and strike out upon us before we are aware of him. Or, if he knows the path that runs among those old oaks yonder, on the left where the ground rises, he has us sure at the turning of the next cliff."

"Speak lower," said Schedoni, "unless you mean that he should benefit by your instructions."

Though the Confessor said this without any suspi­cion of evil intention from the guide, the man imme­diately began to justify himself, and added, "I'll give him a hint of what he may expect, however, if he at­tacks us." As he spoke, he fired his trombone in the air, when every rock reverberated the sound, and the faint and fainter thunder retired in murmurs through all the windings of the defile. The eagerness, with which the guide had justified himself, produced an ef­fect upon Schedoni contrary to what he designed; and the Confessor, as he watched him suspiciously observed, that after he had fired, he did not load his peace again. "Since you have given the enemy sufficient intimation where to find us," said Schedoni, "you will do well to prepare for his reception; load again, friend. I have arms too, and they are ready."

While the man sullenly obeyed, Ellena, again alarm­ed, looked back in search of the stranger, but not any person appeared beneath the gloom, and no foot-step broke upon the stilness. When, however, she sudden­ly heard a rustling noise, she looked to the bordering thickets, almost expecting to see Spalatro break from among them, before she perceived that it was only the sounding pinions of birds, which, startled by the re­port of the trombone from their high nests in the cliffs, winged their way from danger.

The suspicions of the Confessor had, probably, been slight, for they were transient; and when Ellena next addressed him, he had again retired within himself. [Page 72] He was ruminating upon an excuse to be offered the Marchesa, which might be sufficient both to as­suage her disappointment and baffle her curiosity, and he could not, at present, fabricate one that might soothe her resentment without risk of betraying his secret.

Twilight had added its gloom to that state of the rocks, before the travellers distinguished the town, at which they meant to pass the night. It terminated the defile, and its grey houses could scarely be discern­ed from the precipice upon which they hung, or from the trees that embosomed them. A rapid stream roll­ed below, and over it a bridge conducted the wonder­ers to the little inn, at which they were to take up their abode. Here, quietly lodged, Ellena dismissed all present apprehension of Spalatro, but she still be­lieved she had seen him and her suspicions, as to the motive of his extraordinary journey, were not appeas­ed.

As this was a town of ampler accommodation than the one they had left, Schedoni easily procured a lay-habit, that would disguise him for the remainder of the journey; and Ellena was permitted to lay aside the nun's veil, for one of a more general fashion; but, in dismissing it, she did not forget that it had been the veil of Olivia, and she preserved it as a sacred relique of her favourite recluse.

The distance between this town and Naples was still that of several days journey, according to the usual mode of travelling; but the most dangerous part of the way was now overcome, the road having emerged from the forests; and when Schedoni, on the follow­ing morning was departing, he would have discharg­ed the guide, had not the host assured him, he would find one still ncessary in the open, but wild, country through which he must pass. Schedoni's distrust of this guide had never been very serious, and, as the re­sult of the preceding evening proved favourable, he [Page 73] had restored him so entirely to his confidence, as will­ingly to engage him for the present day. In this con­fidence, however, Ellena did not perfectly coincide; she had observed the man while he loaded the trombone on Schedoni's order, and his evident reluctance had almost persuaded her, that he was in league with some person who designed to attack them; a conjecture, perhaps, the more readily admitted while her mind was suffering from the impression of having seen Spa­latro. She now ventured to hint her distrust to the Confessor, who paid little attention to it, and remind­ed her, that sufficient proof of the man's honesty had appeared, in their having been permitted to pass in safety, a defile so convenient for the purpose of rapine as that of yesterday. To a reply apparently so rea­sonable, Ellena could oppose nothing, had she even dared to press the topic; and she re-commenced the journey with gayer hopes.

CHAP. V.

ON this day, Schedoni was more communicative than on the preceding one. While they rode apart from the guide, he conversed with Ellena on va­rious topics relative to herself, but without once al­luding to Vivaldi; and even condescended to mention his design of disposing of her in a convent at some distance from Naples, till it should be convenient for him to acknowledge her for his daughter. But the difficulty of finding a suitable situation embarrassed him, and he was disconcerted by the aukwardness of introducing her himself to strangers, whose curiosity would be heightened by a sense of their interest.

These circumstances induced him the more easily to attend to the distress of Ellena, on her learning, that she was again to be placed at a distance from her home, and among strangers; and the more willingly to listen to the account she gave of the convent of Santa Maria della Pieta, and to her request of returning thither. But in whatever-degree he might be inclined to ap­prove, he listened without consenting, and Ellena had only the consolation of perceiving that he was not ab­solutely determined to adopt his first plan.

Her thoughts were too deeply engaged upon her fu­ture prospects to permit leisure for present fears, or probably she would have suffered some return of those of yesterday, in traversing the lonely plains and rude vallies, through which the road lay. Schedoni was thankful to the landlord, who had advised him to keep [Page 75] the guide, the road being frequently obscured amongst the wild heaths that stretched around, and the eye often sweeping over long tracts of country, without perceiving a villiage or any human dwelling.—Dur­ing the whole morning, they had not met one travel­ler, and they continued to proceed beneath the heat of noon, because Schedoni had been unable to discover even a cottage, in which shelter and repose might be obtained,

It was late in the day when the guide pointed out the grey walls of an edifice which crowned the acclivi­ty they were approaching. But this was so shrouded among woods, than no feature of it could be distinctly seen, and it did but slightly awaken their hopes of ap­proaching a convent, which might receive them with hospitality.

The high banks overshadowed with thickets, be­tween which the road ascended, soon excluded even [...] glimpse of the walls, but, as the travellers turned the next projection, they perceived a person on the sum­mit of the road, crossing as if towards some place of residence, and concluded that the edifice they had seen was behind the trees, among which he had dis­appeared.

A few moments brought them to the spot, where, retired at a short distance mong the woods that brow­ed the hill, they discovered the extensive remains of what seemed to have been a villa, and which, from the air of desolation it exhibited, Schedoni would have judged to be wholly deserted, had he not already seen a person enter. Wearied and exhausted, he determined to ascertain whether any refreshment could be procured from the inhabitants within, and the party alighted be­fore the portal of a deep and broad avenue of arched stone, which seemed to have been the grand approach to the villa. The entrance was obstructed by fallen fragments of columns, and by the underwood that had [Page 76] taken root amongst them. The travellers, however, easily overcame these interruptions: but as the avenue was of considerable extent, and as its only light pro­ceeded from the portal, except what a few narrow loops in the walls admitted, they soon found themselves involved in an obscurity that rendered the way diffi­cult, and Schedoni endeavoured to make himself heard by the person he had seen. The effort was unsuccess­ful, but as they proceeded, a bend in the passage shewed a distant glimmering of light, which served to guide them to the opposite entrance, where an arch opened immediately into a court of the villa. Schedoni paus­ed here in disappointment, for every object seemed to bear evidence of abandonment and desolation; and he looked, almost hopelessly, round the light colonnade which ran along three sides of the court, and to the trees that waved over the fourth, in search of the per­son, who had been seen from the road. No human figure stole upon the vacancy; yet the apt fears of Ellena almost imagined the form of Spalatro gliding behind the columns, and she started as the air shook over the wild plants that wreathed them, before she discovered that is was not the sound of steps, At the extravagance of her suspicions, however, and the weakness of her terrors, she blushed, and endeavoured to resist that propensity to fear, which nerves long pressed upon had occasioned in her mind.

Schedoni, meanwhile, stood in the court, like the evil spirit of the place, examining its desolation, and endeavouring to ascertain whether any person lurked in the interior of the building.—Several door-ways in the colonade appeared to lead in chambers of the villa, and, after a short hesitation, Schedoni, having deter­mined to pursue his enquiry, entered one of them, and passed through a marble hall to a suite of rooms, whose condition told how long it was since they had been inhabited. The roofs had entirely vanished, and even [Page 77] portions of the walls had fallen, and lay in masses amongst the woods without.

Perceiving that it was as useless as difficult to pro­ceed, the Confessor returned to the court, where the shade of the palmetos, at least, offered an hospitable shelter to the wearied travellers. They reposed them­selves beneath the branches, on some fragments of a marble fountain, whence the court opened to the ex­tensive landscape, now mellowed by the evening beams, and partook of the remains of a repast, which had been deposited in the wallet of the guide.

"This place appears to have suffered from an earth­quake, rather than from time," said Schedoni, "for the walls, though shattered, do not seem to have decay­ed, and, much that has been strong, lies in ruin, while what is comparatively slight remains uninjured; these are certainly symptoms of partial shocks of the earth. Do you know any thing of the history of this place, friend?"

"Yes, Signor," replied the guide.

"Relate it, then,"

"I shall never forget the earthquake that destroy­ed it Signor; for it was felt all through the Gargan­us. I was then about sixteen, and I remember it was near an hour before midnight that the great shock was felt. The weather had been almost stifling for several days, scarcely a breath of air had stirred, and slight tremblings of the ground were noticed by many people. I had been out all day, cutting wood in the forest with my father, and tired enough we were, when—"

"This is the history of yourself," said Schedoni, interrupting him, "Who did this place belong to?"

"Did any person suffer here?" said Ellena.

"The Barone di Cambrusa lived here," replied the guide,

[Page 78] "Hah! the Barone!" repeated Schedoni, and sunk into one of his accustomary fits of abstraction.

"He was a Signor little loved in the country," continued the guide, "and some people said it was a judgment upon him for—"

"Was it not rather a judgment upon the country," interrupted the Confessor, lifting up his head, and then sinking again into silence.

"I know not for that, Signor, but he had committed crimes enough to make one's hair stand on end. It was here that he—"

"Fools are always wondering at the actions of those above them," said Schedoni, testily; "Where is the Barone now.

"I cannot tell, Signor, but most likely where he deserves to be, for he has never been heard of since the night of the earthquake, and it is believed he was bu­ried under the ruins."

"Did any other person suffer?" repeated Ellena.

"You shall hear, Signora," replied the peasant, "I happen to know something about the matter, because a cousin of our's lived in the family at that time, and my father has often told me all about it, as well as of the late lords goings-on. It was near midnight when the great shock came, and the family, thinking of no­thing at all, had supped and been asleep some time, Now it happened that the Barone's chamber was in a tower of the old building, at which people often won­derered, because, said they, why should he choose to sleep in the old part where there are so many fine rooms in the new villa? but so it was."

"Come, dispatch your meal," said Schedoni, awake­ing from his deep musing," "the sun is setting, and we have yet far to go."

"I will finish the meal and the story together, Sig­nor, with your leave," replied the guide.—Schedoni did not notice what he said, and as the man was not forbidden, he proceeded with his relation.

[Page 79] "Now it happened that the Barone's chamber was in that old tower,—if you will look this way, Signo­ra, you may see what is left of it."

Ellena turned her attention to where the guide pointed, and perceived the shattered remains of a tow­er rising beyond the arch, through which she had en­tered the court.

"You see that corner of a window-case left, in the highest part of the wall, Signora," continued the guide, "just by that tuft of ash, that grows out of the stone."

"I observe," said Ellena.

"Well, that was one of the windows of the very chamber, Signora, and you see scarcely any thing else is left of it. Yes, there is the door-case, too, but the door itself is gone; that little stair-case, which you see beyond it, led up to another story, which nobody now would guess had ever been; for roof and flooring, and all are fallen. I wonder how that little stair-case in the corner happened to hold so fast!"

"Have you almost done?" inquired Schedoni, who had not apparently attended to any thing the man said, and now alluded to the refreshment he was taking.

"Yes, Signor, I have not a great deal more to tell, or to eat either, for that matter," replied the guide; "but you shall hear. Well, yonder was the very chamber, Signora, at that door-case, which is still in the wall, the Barone came in, ah! he little thought, I warrant, that he should never more go out at it! How long he had been in the room I do not know, nor whether he was a sleep or awake, for there is no­body that can tell; but when the great shock came, it split the old tower at once, before any other part of the buildings. You see that heap of ruins, yonder, on the ground, Signora, there lie there mains of the chamber; the Barone, they say, was buried under them!"

[Page 80] Ellena shuddered while she gazed upon this de­structive mass. A groan from Schedoni startled her and she turnned towards him, but, as he appeared shrouded in meditation, she again directed her atten­tion to this awful memorial. As her eye passed upon the neighbouring arch, she was struck with the gran­deur of its proportions, and with its singular appear­ance, now that the evening rays glanced upon the over­hanging shrubs, and darted a line of partial light ath­wart the avenue beyond. But what was her emotion, when she perceived a person gliding away in the per­spective of the avenue, and, as he crossed where the gleam fell, distinguished the figure and countenance of Spalatro! She had scarcely power, faintly to ex­claim, "Steps go there!" before he had disappeared; and, when Schedoni looked round, the vacuity and silence of solitude every where prevailed.

Ellena now did not scruple positively to affirm that she had seen Spalatro, and Schedoni fully sensible, that if her imagination had not deluded her, the purpose of his thus tracing their route must be desperate, immedi­ately rose, and, followed by the peasant, passed into the avenue to ascertain the truth, leaving Ellena alone in the court. He had scarcely disappeared before the danger of his adventuring into that obscure passage. where an assassin might strike unseen, forcibly occur­red to Ellena, and she loudly conjured him to return. She listened for his voice, but heard only his retreat­ing steps; when, too anxious to remain where she was, she hastened to the entrance of the avenue. But all was now hushed; neither voice, nor steps were di­stinguished. Awed by the gloom of the place, she feared to venture further, yet almost equally dreaded to remain alone in any part of the ruin, while a man so desperate as Spalatro was hovering about it.

As she yet listened at the entrance of the avenue, a faint cry, which seemed to issue from the interior of [Page 81] the villa, reached her. The first dreadful surmise that struck Ellena was, that they were murdering her fa­ther, who had probably been decoyed, by another pas­sage, back into some chamber of the ruin; when, in­stantly forgetting every fear for herself, she hastened towards the spot whence she judged the sound to have issued. She entered the hall, which Schedoni had no­ticed, and passed on through a suit of apartments be­yond. Every thing here, however, was silent, and the place apparently deserted. The suit terminated in a passage, that seemed to lead to a distant part of the villa, and Ellena, after a momentary hesitation, deter­mined to follow it.

She made her way with difficulty between the half-demolished walls, and was obliged to attend so much to her steps, that she scarcely noticed whither she was going, till the depening shade of the place recalling her attention, she perceived herself among the ruins of the tower, whose history had been related by the guide; and, on looking up, observed she was at the foot of the stair-case, which still wound up the wall, that had led to the chamber of the Barone.

At a moment less anxious, the circumstance would have affected her; but now she could only repeat her calls upon the name of Schedoni, and listen for some signal that he was near. Still receiving no answer, nor hearing any further sound of distress, she began to hope that her fears had deceived her, and having as­certained that the passage terminated here, she quitted the spot.

On regaining the first chamber, Ellena rested for a moment to recover breath; and, while she leaned upon what had once been a window, opening to the court, she heard a distant report of fire-arms. The sound swelled, and seemed to revolve along the avenue through which Schedoni had disappeared.—Sup­posing that the combatants were engaged at the farthest [Page 82] entrance, Ellena was preparing to go thither, when a sudden step moved near her, and on turning, she dis­covered with a degree of horror that almost depriv [...] her of recollection, Spalatro himself, stealing along the very chamber in which she was.

That part of the room which he stood in fell into a kind of recess; and whether it was this circum­stance that prevented him from immediately perceiv­ing her, or that, his chief purpose being directed a­gainst another object, he did not choose to pause here, he passed on with skulking steps; and, before Ellena had determined whither to go, she observed him cross the court before her, and enter the avenue. As he had passed, he looked up at the window; and it was certain he then saw her, for he instantly faultered, [...] in the next moment proceeded swiftly, and disappear in the gloom.

It seemed that he had not yet encountered Schedoni, but it also occured to Ellena that he was gone into the avenue for the purpose of waiting to assassinate him in the darkness. While she was meditating some means of giving the Confessor a timely alarm of his danger, she once more distinguished his voice. It ap­proached from the avenue, and Ellena immediately cal­ling aloud that Spalatro was there, entreated him to be on his guard. In the next instant a pistol was [...]ired there.

Among the voices that succeeded the report, Ellena thought she distinguished groans. Schedoni's voice was in the next moment heard again, but it seemed faint and low, The courage which she had before exerted was now exhausted; she remained fixed to the spot, unable to encounter the dreadful spectacle that▪ probably awaited her in the avenue, and al­most sinking beneath the expectation of it.

All was now hushed; she listened for Schedoni's voice, and even for a footstep, in vain. To endure this [Page 83] state of uncertainty much longer was scarcely possible, and Ellena was edenavouring to collect fortitude to meet a knowledge of the worst, when suddenly a feeble groaning was again heard. It seemed near, and to be approaching still nearer. At that moment, Ellena, on looking towards the avenue, perceived a figure covered with blood, pass into the court. A film, which drew over her eyes, prevented her noticing farther, she tottered a few paces back, and caught at the frag­ment of a pillar, by which she supported herself. The weakness was transient; immediate assistance ap­peared necessary to the wounded person, and pity soon predominating over horror, she recalled her spirits, and hastened to the court.

When on reaching it, she looked round in search of Schedoni, he was no where to be seen; the court was again solitary and silent, till she awakened all its echoes with the name of father. While she repeated her calls, she hastily examined the colonnade, the separated chamber which opened immediately from it, and the shadow ground beneath the palmetos, but without discovering any person.

As she turned towards the avenue, however, a tract of blood on the ground told her too certainly where the wounded person had passed. It guided her to the entrance of a narrow passage, that seemingly led to the foot of the tower; but here she hesitated, fearing to trust the obscurity beyond. For the first time, El­lena conjectured, that not Schedoni, but Spalatro might be the person she had seen, and that, though he was wounded, vengeance might give him, strength to strike his stilletto at the heart of whomsoever ap­proached him, while the duskiness of the place would favour the deed.

She was yet at the entrance of the passage fearful to enter, and reluctant to leave it, listening for a sound, and still hearing at intervals, swelling though feeble [Page 84] groans; when quicksteps were suddenly heard advanc­ing up the grand avenue, and presently her own name was repeated loudly in the voice of Schedoni. His manner was hurried as he advanced to meet her, [...] he threw an eager glance round the court. "We must be gone," said he, in a low tone, and taking her arm within his. "Have you seen any one pass!"

"I have seen a wounded man enter the court," re­plied Ellena, "and feared he was yourself."

"Where?—Which way did he go!" inquired Schedoni, eagerly, while his eyes glowed▪ and his countenance became fell,

Ellena instantly comprehending his motive for the question, would not acknowledge that she knew whi­ther Spalatro had withdrawn; and, reminding him [...]of the danger of their situation, she entreated that they might quit the villa immediately.

"The sun is already set," she added. "I tremble at what may be the perils of this place at such an ob­scure hour, and even at what may be those of our road at a later!"

"You are sure he was wounded?" said the Con­fessor.

"Too sure," replied Ellena, faintly.

"Too sure!" sternly exclaimed Schedoni.

"Let us depart, my father; O let us go this in­stant!" repeated Ellena.

"What is the meaning of all this!" asked Schedo­ni, with anger. You cannot, surely, have the weak­ness to pity this fellow!"

"It is terrible to see any one suffer," said Ellena. "Do not, by remaining here, leave me a possibility of grieving for you. What anguish it would occasion you to see me bleed; judge then, what must be mine, if you are wounded by the dagger of an assassin!"

Schedoni stifled the groan which swelled from his heart, and abruptly turned away.

[Page 85] "You trifle with me," he said, in the next mo­ment: "you do not know that the villain is wound­ed. I fired at him, it is true, at the instant I saw him enter the avenue, but he has escaped me. What reason have you for your supposition?"

Ellena was going to point to the tract of blood on the ground, at a little distance, but checked herself; considering that this might guide him on to Spala­tro, and again she entreated they might depart, ad­ding, "O! spare yourself, and him!"

"What! spare an assassin!" said Schedoni, impa­tiently,

"An assassin! He has, then, attempted your life?" exclaimed Ellena.

"Why no, not absolutely that," said Schedoni, recol­lecting himself,—"but what does the fellow do here? Let me pass, I will find him.

Ellena still hung upon his garment, while with persuasive tenderness, she endeavoured to awaken his humanity. "O! if you had ever known what it was [...] expect instant death," she continued, "you would pity this man now, as he, perhaps has some times pitied others! I have known such suffering, my fath­er, and can therefore, feel even for him!"

"Do you know for whom you are pleading?" said the distracted Schedoni, while every word she had ut­tered seemed to have penetrated his heart. The sur­prise which this question awakened in Ellena's coun­tenance, recalled him to a consciousness of his impru­dence: he recollected that Ellena did not certainly know the office, with which Spalatro had been com­missioned against her: and when he considered that this very Spalatro whom Ellena had with such simplicity supposed to have, at some time spared a life through pity, had in truth spared her own, and, yet more, had been eventually a means of preventing him from de­stroying his own child, the Confessor turned in hor­ror [Page 86] from his design; all his passions changed, and he abruptly quitted the court, nor paused till he reached the farthest extremity of the avenue, where the guide was in waiting with the horses.

A recollection of the conduct of Spalatro respecting Ellena had thus induced Schedoni to spare him; but this was all; it did not prevail with him to enquire into the condition of this man, or to mitigate his punishment; and, without remorse, he now left him to his fate.

With Ellena it was otherwise; though she was ignorant of the obligation she owed him, she could not know that any human being was left under such circumstances of suffering and solitude, without ex­periencing very painful emotions; but considering how expeditiously Spalatro had been able to remove himself, she endeavoured to hope that his wound was not mortal.

The travellers, mounting their horses in silence, left the ruin, and were for some time too much engaged by the impression of the late occurrences, to converse together. When, at length, Ellena inquired the par­ticulars of what had passed in the avenue, she under­stood that Schedoni, on pursu [...]ing Spalatro, had seen him there only for a moment. Spalatro had escaped by some way unknown to the Confessor, and had regained the interior of the ruin, while his pursurers were yet following the avenue. The cry, which El­lena had imagined to proceed from the interior, was uttered, as it now appeared, by the guide, who, in his haste, had fallen over some fragments of the wall that lay scattered in the avenue: the first report of arms had been from the trombone, which Schedoni had discharged on reaching the portal; and the last, when he fired a pistol, on perceiving Spalatro passing from the court.

"We have had trouble enough in running after this [Page 87] fellow," said the guide, "and could not catch him at last. It is strange, that if he came to look for us, he should run away so when he had found us! I do not think he meant us any harm, after all, else he might have done it easily enough in that dark passage; in­stead whereof he only took to his heels!"

"Silence!" said Schedoni, "fewer words, friend."

"Well, Signor, he's peppered now, however; so we need not be afraid; his wings are clipped for one while, so he cannot overtake [...]s. We need not be in such a hurry, Signor, we shall get to the inn in good time yet. It is upon a mountain yonder, whose top you may see upon that red streak in the west. He cannot come after us; I myself saw his arm was wounded."

"Did you so?" said Schedoni, sharply:" and pray where was you when you saw so much? It was more than I saw."

"I was close at your heels, Signor, when you fired the pistol."

"I do not remember to have heard you there," ob­served the Confessor: "and why did you not come for­ward, instead of retreating? And where, also, did you hide yourself while I was searching for the fellow, in­stead of assisting me in the pursuit?"

The guide gave no answer, and Ellena, who had been attentively observing him during the whole of this conversation, perceived that he was now consi­derably emba [...]rassed; so that her former suspicions as to his integrity began to revive, notwithstanding the se­veral circumstances, which had occured to render them improbable. There was, however, at present no opportunity for further observation, Schedoni ha­ving, contrary to the advice of the guide, immediately quickened his pace, and the horses continuing on the full gallop, till a steep ascent compelled them to relax their speed.

[Page 88] Contrary to his usual habit, Schedoni now, while they slowly ascended, appeared desirous of conversing with this man, and asked him several questions rela­tive to the villa they had left; and, whether it was that he really felt an interest on the subject, or that he wished to discover if the man had deceived him in the circumstances he had already narrated, from which he might form a judgment as to his general character, he pressed his enquiries with a patient minuteness, that somewhat surprised Ellena. During this con­versation, the deep twilight would no longer permit her to notice the countenances of either Schedoni, or the guide, but she gave much attention to the chang­ing tones of their voices, as different circumstances and emotions seemed to affect them. It is to be ob­served, that during the whole of this discourse, the guide rode at the side of Schedoni.

While the Confessor appeared to be musing upon something which the peasant had related respecting the Barone di Cambrusca, Ellena inquired as to the fate of the other inhabitants of the villa,

"The falling of the old tower was enough for them," replied the guide; "the crash waked them all directly, and they had time to get out of the new buildings, before the second and third shocks laid them also in in ruins. They ran out into the woods for safety, and found it too, for they happened to take a different road from the earthquake. Not a soul suf­fered, except the Barone, and he deserved it well enough. O! I could tell such things that I have heard of him!—"

"What became of the rest of the family?" inter­rupted Schedoni.

"Why, Signor, they were scattered here and there, and every where; and they none of them ever re­turned to the old spot. No! no! they had suffered enough there already, and might have suffered to this day, if the earthquake had not happened."

[Page 89] "If it had not happened!" repeated Ellena.

"Aye, Signora, for that put an end to the Barone. If those walls could but speak, they would tell strange things for they have looked upon sad doings: and that chamber, which I shewed you, Signora, nobody ever went into it but himself, except the servant to kept it in order, and that he would scarcely suffer, and al­ways staid in the room the while."

"He had probably treasure secreted there," said El­lena.

"No, Signora, no treasure! He had always a lamp burning there; and sometimes in the night he has been heard—Once, indeed, his valet happened to—"

"Come on," said Schedoni, interrupted him; "keep pace with me. What idle dream are you relating now?"

"It is about the Barone di Cambrusca, Signor, him that you was asking me so much about just now. I was saying what strange ways he had, and how that, on one stormy night in December, as my cousin Fran­cisco told my father, who told me, and he lived in the family at the time it happened—"

"What happened?" said Schedoni, hastily.

"What I am going to tell, Signor. My cousin lived there at the time; so, however unbelievable it may seem, you may depend upon it, it is all true. My father knows I would not believe it myself till—"

"Enough of this," said Schedoni; "no more. What family had this Barone—had he a wife at the time of this destructive shock?"

"Yes, truly, Signor, he had, as I was going to tell, if you would but condescend to have patience."

"The Barone had more need of that, friend; I have no wife."—"The Barone's wife had most need of it, Signor, as you shall hear. A good soul, they say, was the Baronessa! but luckily she died many years [Page 90] before. He had a daughter, also, and, young as she was, she had lived too long, but for the earthquake which set her free."

"How far is it to the inn?" said the Confessor, roughly.

"When we get to the top of this hill, Signor, you will see it on the next, if any light is stirring, for there will only be the hollow between us. But do not be alarmed, Signor, the fellow we left cannot overtake us. Do you know much about him, Signor?"

Schedoni inquired whether the trombone was char­ed; and, discovering that it was not, ordered the man to load immediately.

"Why, Signor, if you knew as much of him as I do, you could not be more afraid!" said the peasant, while he stopped to obey the order.

"I understood that he was a stranger to you!" observed the Confessor, with surprise.

"Why, Signor, he is, and he is not; I know more about him than he things for."

"You seem to know a vast deal too much of other persons affairs," said Schedoni, in a tone that was meant to silence him.

"Why, that is just what he would say, Signor; but bad deeds will out, whether people like them to be known or not. This man comes to our town some­times to market, and nobody knew where he came from for a long while; so they set themselves to work and found it out at last."

"We shall never reach the summit of this hill," said Schedoni, testily.

"And they found out, too, a great many strange things about him," continued the guide.

Ellena, who had attended to this discourse with a degree of curiosity that was painful, now listened im­patiently for what might be farther mentioned con­cerning Spalatro, but without daring to invite, by a [Page 91] single question, any discovery on a subject which ap­peared to be so intimately connected with Schedoni.

"It was many years ago," rejoined the guide. "that this man came to live in that strange house on the sea-shore. It had been shut up ever since—"

"What are you talking of now?" interrupted the Confessor.

"Why, Signor, you never will let me tell you. You always snap me up so short at the beginning, and then ask—what am I talking about! I was going to begin the story, and it is a pretty long one. But first of all, Signor, who do you suppose this man belonged to! And what do you think the people determined to do, when the report was first set a going? only they could not be sure it was true, and any body would be unwilling enough to believe such a shocking—"

"I have no curiosity on the subject," replied the Confessor, sternly interrupting him; "and desire to hear no more concerning it."

"I meant no harm, Signor," said the man; "I did not know it concerned you."

"And who sa [...]s that it does concern me!"

"Nobody, Signor, only you seemed to be in a bit of a passion, and so I though [...]—But I meant no harm, Signor, only as he happened to be your guide part of the way, I guessed you might like to know something of him."

"All that I desire to know of my guide is, that he does his duty," replied Schedoni "that he conducts me safely, and understands when to be silent."

To this the man replied nothing, but slackened his pace, and slunk behind his reprover.

The travellers reaching, soon after, the summit of this long hill, looked out for the inn of which they had been told; but darkness now confounded every object, and no domestic light twinkling, however dis­tantly, through the gloom, gave signal of security and [Page 92] comfort. They descended dejectedly into the hollow of the mountains, and found themselves once more immerged in woods. Schedoni again called the pea­sant to his side, and bade him to keep abreast of him, but he did not discourse; and Ellena was too thought­ful to attempt conversation. The hints which the guide had thrown out respecting Spalatro, had increas­ed her curiosity on that subject, but the conduct of Schedoni, his impatience, his embarrassment, and the decisive manner in which he had put an end to the talk of the guide, excited a degree of surprize, that bordered on astonishment. As she had, however, no [...] to lead her conjectures to any point, she was utterly bewildered in surmise, understanding only that Sche­doni had been much more deeply connected with Spalatro than she had hitherto believed.

The travellers having descended into the hollow, [...] commenced the ascent of the opposite height, without discovering any symptom of a neighbouring town, began again to fear that their conductor▪ had deceive [...] them. It was now so dark that the road, though the soil was a lime-stone, could scarcely be discerned, the woods on either side forming "a close dungeon of in­numerous boughs," that totally excluded the twilight of the stars.

While the Confessor was questioning the man, with some severity, a faint shouting was heard from a dis­tance, and he stopped the horses to listen from what quarter it came.

"That comes the way we are going, Signor," said the guide.

"Hark!" exclaimed Schedoni, "those are strains of revelry!"

A confused sound of voices, laughter, and musical instruments, was heard, and, as the air blew stronger, tamborines and flutes were distinguished.

"Oh! Oh! we are near the end of our journey!" [Page 93] said the peasant; "all this comes from the town we are going to. But what makes them all so merry I wonder!"

Ellena, revived by this intelligence, followed with alacrity the sudden speed of the Confessor; and present­ly reaching a point of the mountain, where the woods opened a cluster of lights on another summit, a little higher, more certainly announced the town.

They soon after arrived at the ruinous gates, which had formerly led to a place of some strength, and pass­ed at once from darkness and desolated walls, into a market-place, blazing with light and resounding with the multitude. Booths, fantastically hung with lamps, and filled with merchandize of every kind, disposed in the gayest order, were spread on all sides, and peasants in their holiday cloaths, and parties of masks crouded every evenue. Here was a bank of musicians, and there a group of dancers; on one spot the outre hu­mour of a zanni provoked the never failing laugh of an Italian rabble, in another the improvisatore, by the pathos of his story, and the persuasive sensibility of his strains, was holding the attention of his auditors, as in the bands of magic. Farther on was a stage rais­ed for a display of fire works, and near this a theatre, where a mimic opera, the "shadow of a shade," was exhibiting, whence the roar of laughter, excited by the principal buffo within, mingled with the heteroge­neous voices of the venders of ice, maccaroni, sherbet, and diavoloni, without.

The Confessor looked upon this scene with disap­pointment and ill-humour, [...] [...]ade the guide go be­fore him, and shew the way to the best inn; an office which the latter undertook with great glee, though he made his way with difficulty. "To think I should not know it was the time of the fair!" said he, "though to say truth, I never was at it but once in my life, so it is not so surprising, Signor."

[Page 94] "Make way through the crowd," said Schedoni.

"After jogging on so long in the dark, Signor, [...] nothing at all to be seen," continued the man, without attending to the direction, "then to come, all of a sud­den, to such a place as this, why, it is like coming out of purgatory into paradise! Well! Signor, you have forgot all your quandaries now; you think nothing now about that old ruinous place where we had such a race after the man, that would not murder us; but that shot I fired did his business."

"You fired!" said Schedoni, aroused by the asser­tion.

"Yes, Signor, as I was looking over your shoul­der; I should have thought you must have heard it▪"

"I should have thought so, too, friend."

"Aye, Signor, this fine place has put all that out of your head, I warrant, as well as what I said about that same fellow; but, indeed Signor, I did not know he was related to you, when I talked so of him. But, per­haps, for all that you may not know, the piece of his story I was going to tell you, when you cut me off so short, though you are better acquainted with one another than I guessed for; so, when I come in from the fair, Signor, if you please, I will tell it you; and it is a pretty long history, for I happen to know the whole of it; though, where you cut me short, when you was in one of those quandaries, was only just a [...] the beginning, but no matter for that, I can begin, it again for—"

"What is all this!" said Schedoni, again recalled from one of the thoughtful moods in which he had so habitually indulged, that even the bustle a round him had failed to interrupt the course of his mind. He now bade the peasant be silent; but the man was too happy to be tractable, and proceeded to express all he felt, as they advanced slowly through the crowd. Every object here was to him new and delightful; [Page 95] and, nothing doubting that it must be equally so to every other person, he was continually pointing out to the proud and gloomy Confessor the trivial subjects of his own admiration. "See, Signor, there is Punchinello, see! how he eats the hot maccaroni! And look there, Signor! there is a juggler! O! good Sig­nor, stop one minute, to look at his tricks. See! he has turned a monk into a devil already, in the twink­ling of an eye!"

"Silence! and proceed," said Schedoni.

"That is what I say, Signor:—silence! for the people make such a noise that I cannot hear a word you speak.—Silence, there!"

"Considering that you could not hear, you have answered, wonderfully to the purpose," said Ellena.

"Ah! Signora! is not this better than those dark woods and hills? But what have we here? Look, Signor, here is a fine sight!"

The croud which was assembled round a stage on which some persons grotesquely dressed, were perform­ing, now, interrupting farther progress, the travellers were compelled to stop at the foot of the platform. The people above were acting what seemed to have been intended for a tragedy, but what their strange gestures, uncouth recitation, and incongruous coun­tenances, had transformed into a comedy.

Schedoni thus obliged to pause, withdrew his atten­tion from the scene; Ellena consented to endure it, and the peasant, with gaping mouth and staring eye, stood like a statue, yet not knowing whether he ought to laugh or cry, till suddenly turning round to the Confessor, whose horse was, of necessity, close to his, he seized his arm, and pointing to the stage, called out, "Look! Signor, see! Signor, what a scoundrel! what a villain! See! he has murdered his own daughter!"

[Page 96] At these terrible words, the indignation of Schedo­ni was done away by other emotions; he turned his eyes upon the stage, and perceived that the actors were performing the story of Virginia. It was at a moment when she was dying in the arms of her fa­ther, who was holding up the poignard, with which he had stabbed her. The feelings of Schedoni, at this instant, inflicted a punishment almost worthy of the crime he had meditated.

Ellena, struck with the action, and with the con­trast which it seemed to offer to what she had believ­to have been the late conduct of Schedoni towards herself, looked at him with most expressive tender­ness, and as his glance met her's she perceived, with surprize, the changing emotions of his soul, and the inexplicable character of his countenance. Stung to the heart, the Confessor furiously spurred his horse that he might escape from the scene, but the poor animal was too spiritless and jaded, to force its way through the crowd; and the peasant, vexed at being hurried from a place, where, almost for the first time in his life, he was suffering under the strange de­lights of artificial grief, and, half angry, to observe a [...] animal of which he had the care, ill-treated, loudly re­monstrated, and seized the bridle of Schedoni, who, still more incensed, was applying the whip to the shoulders of the guide, when the crowd suddenly fell back and opened a way through which the travellers passed, and arrived, with little further interruption, at the door of the inn.

Schedoni was not in a humour which rendered him sit to encounter difficulties, and still less the vulgar squabbles of a place already crowded with guests; yet it was not without much opposition, that he at length obtained a lodging for the night. The pea­sant was not less anxious for the accommodation of his horses; and when Ellena heard him declare, that [Page 97] the animal, which the Confessor had so cruelly spurred, should have a double feed, and a bed of straw as high as his head, if he himself went without one, she gave him, unnoticed by Schedoni, the only ducat she had left.

CHAP. VI.

SCHEDONI passed the night without sleep. The incident of the pr [...]ceding evening had not only renew­ed the agonies of remorse, but excited those of pride and apprehension. There was something in the con­duct of the peasant towards him, which he could not clearly understand, though his suspicions were suffici­ent to throw his mind into a state of the utmost per­turbation. Under an air of extreme simplicity, this man had talked of Spalatro, had discovered that he was acquainted with much of his history, and had hinted, that he knew by whom he had been employed; yet, at the same time, appeared unconscious, that Schedoni's was the master-hand, which had directed the principal ac­tions of the ruffian. At other times, his behaviour had seemed to contradict the supposition of his igno­rance on this point; from some circumstances he had mentioned, it appeared impossible but that he must have known who Schedoni really was, and even his own conduct had occasionally seemed to acknowledge this, particularly when, being interrupted in his history of Spalatro, he attempted an apology, by saying, he did not know it concerned Schedoni: nor could the conscious Schedoni believe, that the very pointed man­ner in which the peasant had addressed him at the re­presentation of Virginia, was merely accidental. He wished to dismiss the man immediately, but it was first necessary to ascertain what [...]e knew concerning him, and then to decide on the measures to be taken. It was, however, a difficult matter to obtain this in­formation, [Page 99] without manifesting an anxiety, which might betray him, if the guide had, at present, only a general suspicion of the truth; and no less difficult to determine how to proceed towards him, if it should be evident that his suspicions rested on Spalatro. To take him forward to Naples, was to bring an informer to his home; to suffer him to return with his disco­very, now that he probably knew the place of Sche­doni's residence, was little less hazardous. His death only could secure the secret,

After a night passed in the tumult of such consider­ations, the Confessor summoned the peasant to his chamber, and, with some short preface, told him he had no further occasion for his services, adding, care­lessly, that he advised him to be on his guard as he passed the villa, lest Spalatro, who might yet [...]urk there, should revenge upon him the injury he had re­ceived. "According to your account of him, he is a very dangerous fellow," said Schedoni; "but your in­formation is, perhaps, erroneous."

The guide began, testily, to justify himself for his assertions, and the Confessor then endeavoured to draw from him what he knew on the subject. But, whether the man was piqued by the treatment he had lately received, or had other reasons for reserve, he did not at first appear so willing to communicate as for­merly.

"What you hinted of this man," said Schedoni, "has, in some degree, excited curiosity: I have now a few moments of leisure, and you may relate, if you will, something of the wonderful history you talked of."

"It is a long story, Signor, and you would be tired before I got to the end of it," replied the peasant; "and, craving your pardon, Signor I don't much like to be snapped up so!"

"Where did this man live?" said the Confessor.

[Page 100] "You mentioned something of a house at the sea side."

"Aye, Signor, there is a strange history belong­ing to that house, too; but this man, as I was say­ing, came there all of a sudden, nobody knew how! and the place had been shut up ever since the Marchese—"

"The Marchese!" said Schedoni, coldly, "what Marchese, friend?"—"Why, I mean the Barone di Cambrusca, Signor, to be sure, as I was going to have told you, of my own accord, if you would only have let me. Shut up ever since the Barone—I left off there, I think."

"I understood that the Barone was dead!" observed the Confessor.

"Yes, Signor," replied the peasant, fixing his eyes on Schedoni; "but what has his death to do with what I was telling? This happened before he died."

Schedoni, some what disconcerted by this unexpect­ed remark, forgot to resent the familiarity of it. "This man, then, this Spalatro, was Connected with the Barone di Cambrusca?" said he.

"It was pretty well guessed so, Signor."

"How! no more than guessed?"

"No, Signor, and that was more than enough for the Barone's liking, I warrant. He took too much care for any thing certain to appear against him, and he was wi [...]e so to do, for if it had—it would have been worse for him. But I was going to tell you the story, Signor."

"What reasons were there for believing this was an agent of the Barone di Cambrusca, friend?"

"I thought you wished to hear the story, Signor."

"In good time; but first, what were your reasons?"

"One of them is enough, Signor, and if you would only have let me gone straight on with the sto­ry, [Page 100] you would have found it out by this time, Signor."

Schedoni frowned, but did not otherwise reprove the impertinence of the speech.

"It was reason enough, Signor, to my mind," continued the peasant, "that it was such a crime as no­body but the Barone di Cambrusca could have com­mitted; there was nobody wicked enough, in our parts, to have done it but him. Why is not this rea­son enough, Signor? What makes you look at me so, why the Barone himself could hardly have looked worse, if I had told him as much!"

"Be less prolix," said the Confessor, in a restrain­ed voice.

"Well then, Signor, to begin at the beginning. It is a good many years ago, that Marco came first to our town. Now the story goes, that one stormy night—"

"You may spare yourself the trouble of relating the story," said Schedoni, abruptly, "Did you ever see the Barone you was speaking of friend?"

"Why did you bid me tell it, Signor, since you know it already! I have been here all this while, just a-going to begin it, and all for nothing!"

"It is very surprising," resumed the artful Schedo­ni, without having noticed what had been said, "that if this Spalatro was known to be the villian you say he is, not any step should have been taken to bring him to justice! now happened that? But, perhaps, all this story was nothing more than a report."

"Why, Signor, it was every body's business, and nobody's as one may say; then, besides, nobody could prove what they had heard, and, though every body believed the story just the same as if they had seen the whole, yet that, they said, would not do in law, but they should be made to prove it. Now, it is not one time in ten that any thing can be proved, Signor, as you well know, yet we none of us believe it the less for that!"

[Page 102] "So then, you would have had this man punished for a murder, which, probably, he never commit­ted!" said the Confessor.

"A murder!" repeated the peasant.

Schedoni was silent, but, in the next instant, said "Did you not say it was a murder?"

"I have not told you so, Signor!"

"What was the crime, then?" resumed Schedoni, after another momentary pause, "you said it was attro­cious, and what more so than—murder?" His lip qui­vered [...] [...]ronounced the last word.

The [...] made no reply, but remained with his eyes fixed upon the Confessor, and, at length repeated, "Did I say it [...] murder, Signor?

"If it was not that, say what it was," demanded the Confessor, haughtily; but let it be in two words."

"As if a Story could be told in two words Signor!

"Well, well, be breif."

"How can I Signor, when the story is so long!"

"I will waste no more time," said Schedoni, going.

"Well, Signor, I will do my best to make it short. It was one stormy night in December, that Marco Torma had been out fishing. Marco, Signor, was an old man that lived in our town when I was a boy; I can but just remember him, but my father knew him well and loved old Marco, and used often to say—"

"To the story!" said Schedoni.

"Why I am telling it, Signor, as fast as I can. This old Marco did not live in our town at the time it happened, but in some place, I have forgot the name of it, near the sea shore. What can the name be! it is something like—"

"Well, what happened to this old dotard?"

"You are out there, Signor, he was no old dotard; but you shall hear. At that time, Signor, Marco li­ved in this place that I have forgot the name of, and was a fisherman, but better times turned up after af­terwards, [Page 103] but that is neither here nor there. Old Mar­co had been out fishing; it was a stormy night and he was glad to get on shore, I warrant. It was quite dark, as dark Signor, as it was last night, and he was ma­king the best of his way, Signor, with some fish along the shore, but it being so dark, he lost it notwithstan­ding. The rain beat, and the wind blew, and he wan­dered about a long while, and could see no light, nor hear any thing, but the surge near him, which some­times seemed as if it was coming to wash him away. He got as far off as he could, but he knew there were high rocks over the beach, and he was afraid he should run his head against them, if he went too far, I sup­pose. However at last, he went up close to them, and as he got a little shelter, he resolved to try no further for the present. I tell it you, Signor, just as my father told it me, and he had it from the old man himself."

"You need not be so particular," replied the Con­fessor: "speak to the point."

"Well, Signor, as old Marco lay snug under the rocks, he thought he heard somebody coming, and he lifted up his head, I warrant, poor old soul! as if he could have seen who it was; however he could hear, though it was so dark, and he heard the steps coming on; but he said nothing yet, meaning to let them come close up to him, before he discovered himself. Presently he sees a little moving light, and it comes nearer and nearer, till it was just opposite to him, and then he saw the shadow of a man on the ground, and then spied the man himself, with a dark lanthorn, passing along the beach."

"Well well, to the purpose," said Schedoni.

"Old Marco, Signor, my father says, was never stout hearted, and he took it into his head this might be a robber, because he had the lanthorn, though, for that matter, he would have been glad enough of a lanthorn himself, and so he lay quiet. But, presently [Page 104] he was in a rare fright, for the man stopped to rest [...] load he had upon his back, on a piece of a rock [...] him, and old Marco saw him throw off a heavy [...], and heard him breathe hard, as if he was hugely [...]. I tell it, Signor, just as my father does.

"What was in the sack?" said Schedoni, coolly.

"All in good time, Signor;" perhaps old [...] never found out; but you shall hear. He was afraid, when he saw the sack, to stir a limb, for he thought [...] held booty. But, presently, the man, without saying a word, heaved it on his shoulders again, and stagger­ed away with it along the beach, and Marco saw [...] more of him."

"Well! what has he to do with your story, the [...] ▪" said the Confessor, "Was this Spalatro?"

"All in good time, Signor; you put me [...] When the storm was down a little, Marco crept [...] and thinking there must be a village, or a hamlet, [...] a cottage, at no great distance, since this man had [...], he thought he would try a little further. He [...] better have staid where he was, for he wandered [...] a long while, and could see nothing, and what [...] worse, the storm came on louder than before, he [...] no rocks to shelter him now. While he was in the quandary, he sees a light at a distance, and it came in­to his head this might be the lanthorn again, but [...] determined to go notwithstanding, for if it was, he could stop short, and if [...] was not, he should get shel­ter, perhaps; so on he went, and I suppose I should have done the same, Signor."

"Well! this history never will have and end?" said Schedoni.

"Well! Signor, he had not gone far when he found out that it was no lanthorn, but a light at a win­dow. When he came up to the house he knocked softly at the door, but nobody came."

"What house?" inquired the Confessor, sharply. [Page 105] "The rain beat hard, Signor, and I warrant poor old Marco waited a long time before he knocked again, for he was main patient, Signor O! how I have seen him listen to a story, let it be ever so long!"

"I have need of his patience!" said Schedoni.

"When he knocked again, Signor, the door gave way a little, and he found it was open, and so, as no­body came, he thought fit to walk in of his own ac­cord"

"The dotard! what business had he to be so curi­ous?" exclaimed Schedoni.

"Curious! Signor, he only sought shelter! He stumbled about in the dark, for a good while, and could find nobody, nor make nobody hear, but at last, he came to a room where there was some fire not quite out, upon the hearth, and he went up to it, to warm himself, till somebody should come."

"What! was there nobody in the house?" said the Confessor.

"You shall hear, Signor. He had not been there, he said, no, he was sure, not above two minutes, when he heard a strange sort of a noise in the very room where he was, but the fire gave such a poor light, he could not see whether any body was there."

"What was the noise?"

"You put me out, Signor. He said he did not much like it, but what could he do! So he stirred up the fire, and tried to make it blaze a little, but it was as dusky as ever; he could see nothing. Presently, however, he heard somebody coming and saw a light and then a man coming towards the room where he was, so he went up to him to ask shelter."

"Who was this man?" said Schedoni.

"Ask shelter. He, says the man, when he came to the door of the room, turned as white as a sheet, as well he might, to see a stranger, to find a stranger there, at that time of the night. I suppose I should have done the same myself. The man did not seem very will­ing [Page 106] to let him stay, but asked what he did there and, such like; but the storm was very loud, and so Mar­co did not let a little matter daunt him, and, when he shewed the man what fine fish he had in his bask­et, and said he was welcome to it, he seemed more willing."

"Incredible!" exclaimed Schedoni, "the block­head!"

"He had wit enough for that matter, Signor; Mar­co says he appeared to be main hungry—"

"Is that any proof of his wit?" said the Confessor, peevishly.

"You never will let me finish, Signor; main hun­gry; for he put more wood on the fire directly, to dress some of the fish. While he was doing this, Morco says his heart, somehow, misgave him, that this was the man he saw on the beach, and he looked at hi [...] pretty hard, till the other asked him, crossly, what [...]e stared at him so for; but Marco took care not to-tell. While he was busy making ready the fish, however, Marco had an opportunity of eying him the more, and every time the man looked round the room, which happened to be pretty often, he had a notion it was the same,"

"Well, and if it was the same," said Schedoni.

"But when Marco happened to spy the sack, lying in a corner, he had no doubt about the matter. He says his heart then misgave him sadly, and and he wish­ed himself safe out of the house and determined, in his own mind, to get away as soon as he could, without letting the man suspect what he thought of him. He now guessed, too, what made the man look round the room so often, and though Marco thought before it was to find out if he had brought any body with him, he now beleived it was to see whether his treasure was safe."

"Aye, likely enough," observed Schedoni.

"Well, old Marco sat not much at his case, while [Page 107] the fish was preparing, and thought it was "out of the fryingpan into the fire' with him; but what could he do?"

"Why, get up and walk away to be sure," said the Confessor, 'as I shall do, if your story lasts much longer'

"You shall hear, Signor; he would have done so, if he had thought this man would have let him, but—"

"Well, this man was Spalatro, I suppose," said Sche­doni, impatiently, "and this was the house on the shore you formerly mentioned."

"How well you have guessed it, Signor! though to say truth, I have been expecting you to find it out this half hour."

Schedoni did not like the significant look, which the peasant assumed while he said this, but he bade [...]im proceed.

"At first, Signor, Spalatro hardly spoke a word, but he came to by degrees, an [...] by the time the fish was nearly ready, he was talkative enough."

Here the Confessor rose, with some emotion, and paced the room.

"Poor old Marco, Signor began to think better of him, and when he heard the rain at the casements, he was loath to think of stirring. Presently Spalatro went out of the room for a plate to eat the fish on—"

"Out of the room?" said Schedoni, and checking his steps.

"Yes, Signor, but he took care to carry the light with him. However, Marco, who had a deal of curi­osity to—"

"Yes, he appears to have had a great deal, indeed! said the Confessor, and turning away, renewed his pace.

"Nay, Signor; I am not come to that yet; he has shewn none yet;—a great deal of curiosity to know what was in the sack, before he consented to let him­self stay much longer, thought this a good opportunity for looking, and as the fire was now pretty bright, he determined to see. He went up to the sack, therefore, Signor, and tried to li [...]t it, but it was too heavy for him though it did not seem full."

[Page 108] Schedoni again checked his steps, and stood [...] before the peasant.

"He raised it, however, a little, Signor, but it [...] from his hands, and with such a heavy weight upon the floor, that he was sure it held no common booty. Just then, he says, he thought he heard Spalatro coming, and the sound of the sack was enough to have frighten­ed him, and so Marco quitted it; but he was mista­ken, and he went to it again. But you don't seem to hear me, Signor, for you look as you do when you are are in those quandaries, so busy a thinking, and I—"

"Proceed," said Schedoni, sternly, and renewed his steps, "I hear you."

"Went to it again,"—resumed the peasant, cauti­ously taking up the story at the last words he had drop­ped. "He untied the string Signor, that held the sack, and opened the cloth a little way, but think, Sig­nor, what he must have thought when he felt— [...] flesh! O Signor! and when he saw by the light of the fire, the face of a corpse within!, O, Signor!"

The peasant, in the eagerness with which he relat­ed this circumstance, had followed Schedoni to the o­ther end of the chamber, and he now took hold of his garment, as if to secure his attention to the remainder of the story. The Confessor, however, continued his steps, and the peasant kept pace with him, still loosely holding his garment.

"Marco," he resumed, "was so terrified, as my fa­ther says, that he hardly knew where he was, and I warrant, if one could have seen him, he looked a [...] white, Signor as you do now."

The Confessor abruptly withdrew his garment from the peasant's grasp, and said, in an inward voice, " [...] I am shocked at the mere mention of such a spectacle no wonder he was, who beheld it!" After the pause of a moment, he added,—"But what followed?"

"Marco says he had no power to tie up the clo [...] [Page 109] again, Signor, [...] when he came to his thoughts, his only fear was, lest Spalatro should return, though he had hardly been gone a minute, before he could get out of the house, for he cared nothing about the storm now. And sure enough he heard him coming, but he manag­ed to get out of the room, into a passage another way from that Spalatro was in. And luckily, too it was the same passage he had come in by, and it led him out of the house. He made no more ado, but ran straight off, without stoping to chuse which way, and many per­ils and dangers he got into among the woods, that night, and—"

"How happened it, that this Spalatro was not taken up, after this discovery?" said Schedoni. "What was the consequence of it?▪

"Why Signor, old Marco had like to have caught his death that night; what with wet, and what with fright, he was laid up with a fever, and was light-head­ed, and raved of such strange things, that people would not believe any thing he said when he came to his senses,"

"Aye, said Schedoni, the narrative resembles a de­lerious dream, more than a reality; I perfectly accord with them in their opinion of this feverish old man."

"But you shall hear, Signor; after a while they be­gan to think better of it, and there was some stir made about it; but what could poor folks do, for nothing could be proved! The house was searched, but the man was gone, and nothing could be found! From that time the place was shut up; till many years after, this Spalatro appeared, and old Marco then said he was pretty sure he was the man, but he could not swear it, and so nothing could be done."

"Then it appears, after all, that you are not certain that this long history belongs to this Spalatro!" said the Confessor; "nay not even that the history itself is any thing more than the vision of a distempered brain!"

[Page 110] "I do not konw Signor, what you may call cert [...]in; but I know what we all believe. But the strangest part of the story is to come yet, and that which nobo­dy would believe, hardly if—"

"I have heard enough," said Schedoni, "I will hear no more!"

"Well but, Signor, I have not told you half yet; and I am sure when I heard it myself, it so terrified me.

"I have listened too long to this idle history," said the Confessor, "there seems to be no rational found­ation for it. Here is what I owe you; you may de­part."

"Well, but, Signor, 'tis plain you know the rest already, or you never would go without it. But you don't know perhaps, Signor what an unaccountable—I am sure it made my hair stand on end to hear of it what an unaccountable—"

"I will hear no more of this absurdity," interrupt­ed Schedoni, with sternness. "I reproach myself for having listened so long to such a gossip's tale, and have no further curiosity concerning it. You may with­draw; and bid the host attend me."

"Well, Signor, if you are so easily satisfied," re­plied the peasant, with disappointment, "there is no more to be said, but—"

"You may stay, however, while I caution you," said Schedoni, "how you pass the villa, where this Spalatro may yet linger, for, though I can only smile at the story you have related—"

"Related, Signor! why I have not told it half; and if you should only please to be patient—"

"Though I can only smile at that simple narra­tive,"—repeated Schedoni in a louder tone.

"Nay, Signor, for that matter, you can frown at it too, as I can testify," muttered the guide.

"Listen to me!" said the Confessor, in a yet more insisting voice. "I say, that though I give no credit [Page 111] to your curious history, I think this same Spalatro appears to be a desperate fellow, and therefore, I would have you be on your guard. If you see him, you may depend upon it, that he will attempt your life in re­venge of the injury I have done him. I give you, there­fore, in addition to your trombone, this stiletto to defend you."

Schedoni, while he spoke, took an instrument from his bosom, but it was not the one he usually wore, or, at least, that he was seen to wear. He delivered it to the peasant, who received it with a kind of stupid sur­prise, and then gave him some directions as to the way in which it should be managed.

"Why, Signor," said the man, who had listened with much attention, "I am kindly obliged to you for thinking about me, but is there any thing in this stiletto different from others, that it is to be used so?"

Schedoni looked gravely on the peasant for an in­stant, and then replied, "Certainly not, friend, I would only instruct you to use it to the best advantage; fare­well!"

"Thank you kindly, Signor, but—but I think I have no need of it, my trombone is enough for me."

"This will defend you more adroitly," replied Schedoni, refusing to take back the stiletto, "and moreover, while you were loading the trombone, your adversary might use his poignard to advantage. Keep it, therefore, friend; it will protect you better than a dozen trombones. Put it up."

Perhaps it was Schedoni's particular look, more than his argument, that convinced the guide of the value of his gift; he received it submissively, though with a stare of stupid surprise; probable it had been better if it had been suspicious surprise. He thanked Schedoni again, and was leaving the room, when the Confessor called out, "Send the landlord to me imme­diately, [Page 112] I shall set off for Rome without delay!"

"Yes, Signor," replied the peasant, "you are at the right place, the road parts here; but I thought you was going for Naples!"

"For Rome," said Schedoni.

"For Rome, Signor! Well, I hope you will get safe, Signor, with all my heart!" said the guide, and quitted the chamber.

While this dialogue had been passing between Schedoni and the peasant, Ellena, in solitude, was con­sidering on the means of prevailing with the Confessor to allow her to return either to Altieri, or to the neigh­bouring cloister of "Our Lady of Pity," instead of placing her at a distance from Naples, till he should think proper to acknowledge her. The plan, which he had mentioned, seemed to her long-harrassed mind to exile her for ever from happiness, and all that was dear to her affections; it appeared like a second ban­ishment to San Stefano, and every abbess, except that of the Santa della Pieta, came to her imagination in the portraiture of an inexorable jailor. While this sub­ject engaged her, she was summoned to attend Schedo­ni, whom she found impatient to enter the carriage, which at this town they had been able to procure. El­lena, on looking out for the guide, was informed that he had already set off for his home, a circumstance, for the suddenness of which she knew not how to account.

The travellers immediately proceeded on their jour­ney; Schedoni, reflecting on the late conversation, said little, and Ellena read not in his countenance any thing that might encourage her to introduce the subject of her own intended solicitation. Thus separately occu­pied, they advanced, during some hours, on the road to Naples, for thither Schedoni had designed to go, not­withstanding his late assertion to the guide, whom it appears, for whatever reason, he was anxious to deceive, as to the place of his actual residence.

[Page 113] They stopped to dine at a town of some considerati­on, and, when Ellena heard the Confessor enquire con­cerning the numerous convents it contained, she per­ceived that it was necessary for her no longer to defer her petition. She therefore represented immediately what must be the forlornness of her state, and the anx­iety of her mind, if she were placed at a distance from the scenes and the people, which affection and early ha­bit seemed to have consecrated; especially at this time, when her spirits had scarcely recovered from the severe pressure of long suffering, and when to sooth and ren­ovate them, not only quiet, but the consciousness of se­curity, were necessary; a consciousness which it was impossible, and especially so after her late experience, that she could acquire among strangers till they should cease to be such.

To these pleadings Schedoni thoughtfully attended, but the darkness of his aspect did not indicate that his compassion was touched; and Ellena proceeded to re­present, secondly, that, which, had she been more art­ful, or less disdainful of cunning, she would have urged the first.

As it was, she had begun with the mention of cir­cumstances, which, though the least likely to prevail with Schedoni, she felt to be most important to her­self, and she concluded with representing that, which was most interesting to him. Ellena suggested, that her residence in the neighborhood of Altieri might be so managed, as that his secret would be as effectually preserved, as if she were an hundred miles from Naples.

It may appear extraordinary, that a man of Schedo­ni's habitual coolness, and exact calculation, should have suffered fear, on this occasion, to obscure his per­ceptions, and this instance strongly proved the magni­tude of the cause, which could produce so powerful an effect. While he now listened to Ellena, he began to perceive circumstances that had eluded his own obser­vation; [Page 114] and he, at length, acknowledged, that it might be safer to permit her to return to the Villa Altieri, and that she should from thence go, as she had former­ly intended, to the Santa della Pieta, than to place her in any convent, however remote, where it would be necessary for himself to introduce her. His only re­maining objection to the neighborhood of Naples, now rested on the chance it would offer the Marchesa di Vivaldi of discovering Ellena's abode, before he should judge it convenient to disclose to her his family; and his knowledge of the Marchesa justified his most hor­rible suspicion, as to the consequence of such a pre­mature discovery,

Something, however, it appeared, must be risked in any situation he might choose for Ellena; and her residence at the Santa della Pieta, a large convent, well secured, and where, as she had been known to them from her infancy, the abbess and the sisters might be supposed to be not indifferent concerning her welfare, seemed to promise security against any actual violence from the malice of the Marchesa; against her artful du­plicity every place would be almost equally insuffici­ent. Here, as Ellena would appear in the character she had always been known in, no curiosity could be excited, or suspicion awakened, as to her family; and here therefore Schedoni's secret would more probably be preserved, than elsewhere. As this was, after all, the predominant subject of his anxiety, to which, how­ever unnatural it may seem, even the safety of Ellena was secondary, he finally determined, that she should return to the Santa della Pieta; and she thanked him almost with tears, for a consent which she received as a generous indulgence, but which was in reality little more than an effect of selfish apprehension.

The remainder of the journey, which was of some days, passed without any remarkable occurrence: Sche­doni, with only short intervals, was still enveloped in [Page 115] gloom and silence; and Ellena, with thoughts engaged by the one subject of her interest, the present situation and circumstances of Vivaldi, willingly submitted to this prolonged stillness.

As, at length, she drew near Naples, her emotions be­came more various and powerful; and, when she distinguished the top of Vesuvius peeping over every intervening summit, she wept as her imagination cha­ractered all the well-known country it overlooked. But when, having reached an eminence, that scenery was exhibited to her senses, when the Bay of Naples, stretching into remotest distance, was spread out be­fore her; when every mountain of that magnificent horizon, which inclosed her native landscape, that country which she believed Vivaldi to inhabit, stood unfolded, how affecting, how overwhelming were her sensations! Every object seemed to speak of her home, of Vivaldi, and of happiness that was passed! and so exquisitely did regret mingle with hope, the tender grief of remembrance with the interest of ex­pectation, that it were difficult to say which pre­vailed.

Her expressive countenance disclosed to the Con­fessor the course of her thoughts and of her feelings, feelings which, while he contemned, he believed he perfectly comprehended, but of which, having never in any degree experienced them, he really understood nothing. The callous Schedoni, by a mistake not uncommon, especially to a mind of his character, sub­stituted words for truths; not only confounding the limits of nighbouring qualities, but mistaking their very principles. Incapable of perceiving their nice distinctions, he called the persons who saw them, mere­ly fanciful; thus making his very incapacity an argu­ment for his superior wisdom. And, while he con­founded delicacy of feeling with satiety of the mind, taste with caprice, and imagination with error, he [Page 116] yielded, when he most congratulated himself on hi [...] sagacity, to illusions, no less [...], because they were less brilliant, than those which are incident to sentiment and feeling.

The better to escape observation, Schedoni ha [...] contrived not to reach Naples till the close of the even­ing, and it was entirely dark before the carriage stop­ped at the villa Altieri. Ellena with a mixture of melancholy and satisfaction, viewed, once more, her long deserted home, and while she waited till a servant should open the gate, remembered how often she had thus waited when there was a beloved friend within, to welcome her with smiles, which were now gone for ever. Beatrice, the old housekeeper, at length, however, appeared, and received her with an affection as sincere, if not as strong, as that of the relative for whom she mourned.

Here Schedoni alighted, and, having dismissed the carriage, entered the house for the purpose of relin­quishing also his disguise, and resuming his monk's habit. Before he departed, Ellena ventured to men­tion Vivaldi, and to express her wish to hear of his exact situation; but, though Schedoni was too well enabled to inform her of it, policy which had hitherto kept him silent on this subject still influenced him; and he re­plied only, that if he should happen to learn the cir­cumstances of his condition, she should not remain ig­norant of them.

This assurance revived Ellena, for two reasons; it afforded her a hope of relief from her present un­certainty, and it also seemed to express an approbation of the object of her affection, such as the Confessor never had yet disclosed. Schedoni added, that he should see her no more, till he thought proper to ac­knowledge her for his daughter; but that, if circum­stances made it necessary, he should, in the mean time, write to her; and he now gave her a direction by [Page 117] which to address him under a fictitious name, and at a place remote from his convent. Ellena, though assur­ed of the necessity for this conduct, could not yield to such disguise, without an aversion that was strongly expressed in her manner, but of which Schedoni took no notice. He bade her, as she valued her existence, watchfully to preserve the secret of her birth; and to waste not a single day at Villa Altieri, but to retire to the Santa della Pieta; and these injunctions were delivered in a manner so solemn & energetic, as not only deeply to impress upon her mind the necessity of fulfil­ing them, but to excite some degree of amazement.

After a short and general direction respecting her further conduct, Schedoni bade her farewell, and, privately quitting the villa, in his ecclesiastical dress, repaired to the dominican convent, which he entered as a brother returned from a distant pilgrimage. He was received as usual, by the society, and found him­self, once more, the austere father Schedoni of the Spi­rito Sancto.

The cause of his first anxiety was the necessity for justifying himself to the Marchesa di Vivaldi, for as­certaining how much he might venture to reveal of the truth, and for estimating what would be her de­cision, were she informed of the whole. His second step would be to obtain the release of Vivaldi; and, as his conduct in this instance would be regulated, in a great degree, by the result of his conference with the Marchesa, it would be only the second. However painful it must be to Schedoni to meet her, now that he had discovered the depth of the guilt, in which she would have involved him, he determined to seek this eventful conference on the following morning: and he passed this night partly in uneasy expectation of the approaching day, but chiefly in inventing circum­stances, and arranging arguments, that might bear him triumphantly towards the accomplishment of his grand design.

CHAP. VII.

SCHEDONI, on his way to the Vivaldi pala [...], again reviewed and arranged every argument, [...] rather specious circumstance, which might induce the Marchesa's consent to the nuptials he so much desired. His family was noble, though no longer wealthy, and he believed that as the seeming want of descent had hitherto been the chief objection to Ellena, [...]he Marchesa might be prevailed with to overlook [...] wreck of his fortune.

At the palace he was told, the Marchesa was at one of her villas on the bay; and he was too anxious [...] to follow her thither immediately. This delightful residence was situated on an airy promontory, that overhung the water, and was nearly embosomed a­mong the woods, that spread far along the heights, and descended with great pomp of foliage and colouring, to the very margin of the waves. It seemed scarce­ly possible that misery could inhabit so enchanting an abode; yet the Marchesa was wretched amidst all these luxuri [...]s of nature and art, which would have perfected the happiness of an innocent mind. Her heart was possessed by evil passions, and all her per­ceptions were distorted and discoloured by them, which, like a dark magician, ha [...] power to change thefairest scenes into those of gloom and desolation.

The servants had orders to admit father Schedoni [Page 119] at all times, and he was shewn into a saloon in which the Marchesa was alone. Every object in this apart­ment announced taste, and even magnificence. The hangings were of purple and gold; the vaulted cieling was designed by one of the first painters of the Vene­cian school; the marble statues that adorned the re­cesses were not less exquisite, and the whole symmetry and architecture airy, yet rich; gay, yet chastened; resembled the palace of a fairy, and seemed to possess almost equal fascinations. The lattices were thrown open, to admit the prospect, as well as the air loaded with fragrance from an orangery that spread before them. Lofty palms and plantains threw their green and refreshing tint over the windows, and on the lawn that sloped to the edge of the precipice, a shadowy perspective, beyond which appeared the am­ple waters of the gulf, where the light sails of feluccas, and the spreading canvass of larger vessels, glided up­on the scene and passed away, as in a camera obscura. Vesuvius and the city of Naples were seen on the coast beyond, with many a bay and lofty cape of that long tract of bold and gaily-coloured scenery, which extends towards Cape Campanella, crowned by fading ranges of mountains, lighted up with all the magic of Italian sunshine. The Marchesa reclined on a sofa before an open lattice; her eyes were fixed upon the prospect without, but her attention was wholly occupied by the visions that evil passions painted to her imagina­tion. On her still beautiful features was the languor of discontent and indisposition; and, though her man­ners, like her dress, displayed the elegant negligence of the graces, they concealed the movements of a care­ful, and even a tortured heart. On perceiving Sche­doni, a faint smile lightened upon her countenance, and she held forth her hand to him; at the touch of which he shuddered.

"My good father, I rejoice to see you," said the [Page 120] Marchesa; "I have felt the want of your conver [...] ­tion much, and at this moment of indisposition espe­cially."

She waved the attendant to withdraw; while Sche­doni, stalking to a window, could with difficulty con­ceal the perturbation with which he now, for the first time, consciously beheld the willing destroyer of his child. Some farther compliment from the Marchesa recalled him; he soon recovered all his address, and approaching her, said.

"Daughter! you always send me away a worse Dominican than I come; I approach you with humili­ty, but depart elated with pride, and am obliged to suf­fer much from self-infliction before I can descend to my proper level."

After some other flatteries had been exchanged, a silence of several moments followed, during which neither of the parties seemed to have sufficient cou­rage to introduce the subjects that engaged their thoughts, subjects upon which their interests were now so directly and unexpectedly opposite. Had Schedoni been less occupied by his own feelings, he might have perceived the extreme agitation of the Marchesa, the tremor of her nerves, the faint flush that crossed her che [...]k, wanness that succeeded, the languid movement of her eyes, and the laborious [...]igh [...] that interrupted her breathing, while she wished, yet dared not ask, whether Ellena was no more and avert­ed her regards from him, whom she almost believed to be a murderer.

Schedoni, not less affected, though apparently tran­quil, as sedulously avoided the face of the Marchesa, whom he considered with a degree of contempt almost equal to his in dignotion: his feelings had reversed, for the present, all his opinions on the subject of their former arguments, and had taught him, for once, to think justly. Every moment of silence now [Page 121] encreased his embarrassment, and his reluctance even to name Ellena. He feared to tell that she lived, yet despised himself for suffering such fear, and shuddered at a recollection of the conduct, which had made any assurance concerning her life necessary. The insinu­ation, that he had discovered her family to be such as would not degrade that of the Marchesa, he knew not how to introduce with such delicacy of gradation as might win upon the jealousy of her pride, and soothe her disappointment; and he was still meditating how he might lead to this subject, when the Marchesa her­self broke the silence.

"Father," she said, with a sigh, "I always look to you for consolation, and am seldom disappointed. You are too well acquainted with the anxiety which has long oppressed me; may I understand that the cause of it is removed?" She paused, and then added, "May I hope that my son will no longer be led from the ob­servance of his duty?"

Schedoni, with his eyes fixed on the ground, re­mained silent, but, at length, said, "the chief occasion of your anxiety is certainly removed,"—and he was again silent.

"How!" exclaimed the Marchesa, with the quick­fightedness of suspicion, while all her dissimulation yielded to the urgency of her fear, "Have you sailed? Is she not dead?"

In the earnestness of the question, she fixed her eyes on Schedoni's face and perceiving there symptoms of extraordinary emotion, added, "Relieve me from my apprehensions, good father, I entreat; tell me that you have succeeded, and that she has paid the debt of justice."

Schedoni raised his eyes to the Marchesa, but in­stantly averted them; indignation had lifted them, and disgust and stifled horror turned them away. Though very little of these feelings appeared, the Marchesa [Page 122] perceived such expression as she had never been ac­customed to observe in his countenance; and, her sur­prise and impatience encreasing, she once more repeat­ed the question, and with a yet more decisive air than before.

"I have not failed in the grand object," replied Schedoni: "your son is no longer in danger of form­ing a disgraceful alliance."

"In what, then, have you failed?" asked the Mar­chesa; for I perceive that you have not been complete­ly successful."

"I ought not to say that I have failed in any res­pect," replied Schedoni, with emotion, "since the honor of your house is preserved, and—a life is spared."

His voice faultered as he pronounced the last words, and he seemed to experience again the horror of that moment, when, with an uplifted poignard in his grasp, he had discovered Ellena for his daughter.

"Spared!" repeated the Marchesa, doubtingly; explain yourself, good father!"

"She lives," replied Schedoni; "but you have nothing, therefore, to apprehend."

The Marchesa, surprised no less by the tone in which he spoke, and shocked at the purport of his words, chan­ged countenance, while she said, impatiently—"You speak in enigmas, father,"

"Lady! I speak plain truth—she lives."

"I understand that sufficiently," said the Marchesa, out when you tell me, I have nothing to apprehend."

"I tell you truth, also" rejoined; "the Confessor "and the benevolence of your nature may be per­mitted to rejoice, for justice no longer has forbade the exercise of mercy."

"This is all very well in its place," said the Mar­chesa, betrayed by the vexation she suffered; such sen­timents and such compliments are like gala suits, to be put on in fine weather. My day is cloudy; let me [Page 123] have a little plain sense: inform me of the circumstan­ces which have occasioned this change in the course of your observations, and, good father! be brief."

Schedoni, then unfolded, with his usual art, such circumstances relative to the family of Ellena as he hoped would soften the aversion of the Marchesa to the connection, and incline her in consideration of her son's happiness, finally to approve it; with which disclosure he mingled a plausible relation of the way, in which the discovery had been made.

The Marchesa's patience would scarcely await the conclusion of his narrative, or her disappointment sub­mit to the curb of discretion. When at length, he had finished his history "Is it possible," said she, with fret­ful displeasure, "that you have suffered yourself to be deceived by the plausibility of a girl, who might have been expected to utter any falshood, which should ap­pear likely to protect her! Has a man of your discern­ment given faith to the idle and improbable tale! Say, rather, father, that your resolution failed in the criti­cal moment, and that you are now anxious to form ex­cuses to yourself for a conduct so pusillanimous."

"I am not apt to give an easy faith to appearances," replied Schedoni, gravely, "and still less to shrink from the performance of any act, which I judge to be neces­sary and just. To the last intimation, I make no re­ply; it does not become my character to vindicate myself from an implication of falshood."

The Marchesa, perceiving that her passion had be­trayed her into imprudence, condescended to apolo­gize for that which she termed an effect of her extreme anxiety, as to what might follow from an act of such indiscreet indulgence; and Schedoni as willingly ac­cepted the apology, each believing the assistance of the other necessary to success.

Schedoni then informed her, that he had better au­thority for what he advanced than the assertion of [Page 124] Ellena; and he mentioned some circumstances, which proved him to he more anxious for the reputation than for the truth of his word. Believing that his origin was entirely unknown to the Marchesa, he ventured to disclose some particulars of Ellena's fami­ly, without apprehending that it could lead to a sus­picion of his own.

The Marchesa, though neither appeased or con­vinced, commanded her feelings so far as to appear tranquil, while the Confessor represented, with the most delicate address, the unhappiness of her son, and the satisfaction, which must finally result to herself from an acquiescence with his choice, since the object of it was known to be worthy of his alliance. He added, that while he had believed the contrary, he had proved himself as strenuous to prevent, as he was now sincere in approving their marriage; and concluded with gently blameing her for suffering prejudice and some remains of resentment to obscure her excellent understanding. "Trusting to the natural clearness of your perception," he added, "I doubt not that wh [...] you have maturely considered the subject, eve [...] objection will yield to a consideration of your son's happiness."

The earnestness with which Schedoni pleaded for Vivaldi, excited some surprize; but the Marchesa, without condescending to reply either to his argument or remonstrance inquired whether Ellena had a suspi­cion of the design, with which she had been carried in­to the forests of the Garganus, or concerning the iden­tity of her persecutor. Schedoni immediately perceiv­ing to what these questions tended, replied, with the facility with which he usually accommodated his con­science to his interest, that Ellena was totally ignorant as to who were her immediate persecutors, and equal­ly unsuspicious of any other evil having been intended her, than that of a temporary confinement.

[Page 125] The last assertion was admitted by the Marchesa to be probable, till the boldness of the first made her doubt the truth of each, and occasioned her new sur­prize and conjecture as to the motive, which could induce Schedoni to venture these untruths. She then inquired where Ellena was now disposed of, but he had too much prudence to disclose the place of her re­treat, however plausible might be the air with which the inquiry was urged; and he endeavoured to call off her attention to Vivaldi. The Confessor did not, however, venture, at present to give a hint as to the pretended discovery of his situation in the inquisition, but reserved to a more favourable opportunity such mention, together with the zealous offer of his servi­ces to extricate the prisoner. The Marchesa, believ­ing that her son was still engaged in pursuit of Ellena, made many inquiries concerning him, but without ex­pressing any solicitude for his welfare; resentment ap­pearing to be the only emotion she retained towards him. While Schedoni replied with circumspection to her questions, he urged inquiries of his own, as to the manner in which the Marchesa endured the long absence of Vivaldi; thus endeavouring to ascertain how far he might hereafter venture to appear in any efforts for liberating him, and how shape his conduct respecting Ellena. It seemed that the Marchese was not indifferent as to his son's absence; and though he had at first believed the search for Ellena to have occa­sioned it, other apprehensions now disturbed him, and taught him the feelings of a father. His numerous avocations and interests, however, seemed to prevent such anxiety from preying upon his mind; and having dismissed persons in search of Vivaldi, he passed his time in the usual routine of company and the court. Of the actual situation of his son, it was evident that neither he, nor the Marchesa, had th [...] least apprehen­sion, and this was a circumstance, which the Confes­sor was very careful to ascertain.

[Page 126] Before he took leave he ventured to renew the men­tion of Vivaldi's attachment, and gently to plead f [...] him. The Marchesa, however, seemed inattentive [...] what he represented, till, at length, awaking from [...] reverie, she said—"Father, you have judged ill—and, before she concluded the sentence, she relap [...] again into thoughtful silence. Believing that he an­ticipated her meaning, Schedoni began to repeat hi [...] own justification respecting his conduct towards El­lena.

"You have judged erroniously, father" resumed th [...] Marchesa with the same considering air, "in placing the girl in such a situation; my son cannot fail to dis­cover her there."

"Or wherever she may be" replied the Confessor, believing that he understood the Marchesa's aim, "it may not be possible to conceal her long from his search."

"The neighbourhood of Naples ought at least to have been avoided," observed the Marchesa,

Schedoni was silent, and she added, "So near, also, to his own residence! How far is the Santa della Pie­ta from the Vivaldi palace?"

Though Schedoni had thought that the Marchesa, while displaying a pretended knowledge of Ellena's retreat, was only endeavouring to obtain a real one, this mention of the place of her actual residence shocked him; but he replied almost immediately, "I am ignorant of the distance, for, till now, I was unac­quainted that there is a convent of the name you men­tion. It appears, however, that this Santa della Pie­ta is the place, of all other, which ought to have been avoided. How could you suspect me, lady, of imprudence thus extravagant!"

While Schedoni spoke, the Marchesa regarded him attentively, and then replied, "I may be allowed, good father, to suspect your prudence in this instance, [Page 127] since you have just given me so unequivocal a proof of it in another."

She would then have changed the subject but, Schedoni, believing this inclination to be the conse­quence of her having assured herself, that she had ac­tually discovered Ellena's asylum, and too reasonably suspecting the dreadful use she designed to make of the discovery, endeavoured to unsettle her opinion, and mislead her as to the place of Ellena's abode. He not only contradicted the fact of her present residence at the Santa della Pieta, but, without scruple, made a po­sitive assertion, that she was at a distance from Na­ples, nameing at the same time, a fictious place, whose obscurity, he added, would be the best protection from the pursuit of Vivaldi.

"Very true, father," observed the Marchesa; "I believe that my son will not readily discover the girl in the place you have named."

Whether the Marchesa believed Schedoni's asser­tion or not, she expressed no farther curiosity on the subject, and appeared considerably more tranquil than before. She now chatted with ease on general topics, while the Confessor dared no more to urge the sub­ject of his secret wishes; and having supported for some time, a conversation most uncongenial with his temper, he took his leave, and returned to Naples. On the way thither, he reviewed with exactness, the late behaviour of the Marchesa, and the result of this examination was a resolution—never to renew the subject of their conversation, but to solemnize, with­out her consent, the nuptials of Vivaldi and El­lena.

The Marchesa, meanwhile, on the departure of Schedoni, remained in the attitude in which he had left her, and absorbed by the interest, which his visit excited. The sudden change in his conduct no less astonished and perplexed, than disappointed her, She [Page 128] could not explain it by the supposition of any princi­ple, or motive. Sometimes it occurred to her, that Vivaldi had bribed him with rich promises, to promote the marriage, which he contributed to thwart; but, when she considered the high expectations she had herself encouraged him to cheri [...]n, the improbability of the conjecture was apparent. That Schedoni, from whatever cause, was no longer to be trusted in this business, was sufficiently clear, but she endeavoured to console herself with a hope that a more confidential person might yet be discovered. A part of Schedoni's resolution she also adopted, which was, never again to introduce the subject of their late conversation. But while she should silently pursue her own plans, she determined to conduct herself, towards Schedoni i [...] every other respect, as usual, not suffering him to sus­pect that she had withdrawn her confidence, but induc­ing him to believe that she had relinquished all farther design against Ellena.

CHAP. VIII.

ELLENA, obedient to the command of Schedo­ni, withdrew from her home on the day that followed her arrival there, to the Santa della Pieta. The Superior, who had known her from her infancy, and from the acquaintance which such long observation af­forded, had both esteemed and loved her, received El­lena with a degree of satisfaction proportionate to the concern she had suffered when informed of her disas­trous removal from the Villa Altieri.

Among the quiet groves of this convent, however, Ellena vainly endeavoured to moderate her solicitude respecting the situation of Vivaldi; for, now that she had a respite from immediate calamity, she thought with more intense anxiety as to what might be his suf­ferings, and her fears and impatience encreased, as each day disappointed her expectation of intelligence from Schedoni.

If the soothings of sympathy and the delicate arts of benevolence could have restored the serenity of her mind, Ellena would now have been peaceful; for all these were offered her by the abbess and the sisters of the Santa della Pieta. They were not acquainted [Page 130] with the cause of her sorrow, but they perceived that, she was unhappy, and wished her to be otherwise. The society of Our Lady of Pity, was such as a con­vent does not often shroud; to the wisdom and virtu [...] of the Superior, the sisterhood was principally indebt­ed for the harmony and happiness which distinguished them. This lady was a shining example to gove [...] ­nesses of religious houses, and a striking instance [...] the influence, which a virtuous mind may acquire o­ver others, as well as of the extensive good that it may thus diffuse. She was dignified without haughtiness, re­ligeous without bigotry, and mild, though dicisive and firm. She possessed penetration to discover what wa [...] just, resolution to adhere to it, and temper to practice it with gentleness and grace; so that even correction from her, assumed the winning air of courtesy: [...] person, whom she admonished, wept in sorrow for the offence, instead of being secretly irritated by the re­proof, and loved her as a mother, rather than feared her as a judge. Whatever might be her failings they were effectually concealed by the general benevolence of her heart, and the harmony of her mind; a harmo­ny, not the effect of torpid feelings, but the accom­plishment of correct and vigilant judgment. Her re­ligion was neither gloomy nor bigotted; it was the sentiment of a grateful heart offering itself up to a Deity, who delights in the happiness of his creatures and she conformed to the customs of the Roman church without supposing a faith in all of them to be necessa­ry to salvation. This opinion, however, she was obliged to conceal, lest her very virtue should draw upon her the punishment of a crime, from some fierce ecclesiastics, who contradicted in their practice the ve­ry essential principles, which the christianity they professed would have taught them.

In her lectures to the nuns she seldom touched upon points of faith, but explained and enforced the moral [Page 131] duties, particularly such as were most practicable in the society to which she belonged; such as tended to soften and harmonize the affections, to impart that repose of mind, which persuades to the practice of sisterly kind­ness, universal charity, and the most pure and elevated devotion. When she spoke of religion, it appeared so interesting, so beautiful, that her attentive auditors re­vered and loved it as a friend, a refiner of the heart, a sublime consoler; and experienced somewhat of the meek and holy ardour, which may belong to angelic natures.

The society appeared like a large family, of which the lady abbess was the mother, rather than an assem­blage of strangers: and particularly when gathered a­round her, they listened to the evening sermon, which she delivered with such affectionate, interest, such per­suasive eloquence, and sometimes with such pathetic energy, as few hearts could resist.

She encouraged in her convent every innocent and liberal pursuit, which might sweeten the austerities of confinement, and which were generally rendered in­strumental to charity. The Daughters of Pity parti­cularly excelled in music; not in those difficulties of the art, which display florid graces, and intricate exe­cution, but in such eloquence of sound as steals upon the heart, and awakens its sweetest and best affections. It was probably the well regulated sensibility of their own minds, that enabled these sisters to diffuse, through [...]heir strains a character of such finely tempered taste, as drew crouds of visitors, on every festival, to the church of the Santa della Pieta.

The local circumstances of this convent were scarce­ly less agreeable than the harmony of its society was interesting. These extensive domains included olive­grounds, vineyards, and some corn-land; a considera­ble tract was devoted to the pleasures of the garden, whose groves supplied walnuts, almonds, oranges, and [Page 132] citrons, in abundance, and almost every kind of [...] and flower, which this luxurious climate nurtu [...] These gardens hung upon the slope of a hill, about mile within the shore, and afforded extensive [...] of the country round Naples, and of the [...] But from the terraces, which extended along a [...] circular range of rocks that rose over the convent, [...] formed a part of the domain, the prospects were infi­nitely finer. They extended on the south to the [...] of Capraea, where the gulph expands into the sea; the west appeared the island of Ischia, distinguished by the white pinnacles of the lofty mountain Epomeo; and near it Prosida with its many coloured cliffs, rose [...] of the waves. Overlooking many points towards Pua­zuloli, the eye caught beyond other promontories, an [...] others further still, to the north, a glimpse of the sea that bathes the now desolate shores of Baia; with Capua, and all the towns and villas, that speckle the garden-plains between Caserta and Naples.

In the nearer scene were the rocky heights of Pa [...] ­silippo, and Naples itself, with all its crowded subur [...] ascending among the hills, and mingling with vine­yards and overtoping cypress; the castle of San El­mo, conspicuous on its rock, overhanging the magni­ficent monastery of the Chartreux; while in the seen below appeared the Castle Nuovo, with its clustered to [...] ­ers, the long-extended Corso, the mole, with its [...] ­pharos, and the harbour gay with painted shipping and full to the brim with the blue waters of the bay Beyond the hills of Naples, the whole horizon to the north and east was bounded by the mountains of the Appenine, an amphitheatre proportioned to the gran­deur of the plain, which the gulph spread out below.

These terraces, shaded with acacias and plane trees were the favourite haunt of Ellena. Between the o­pening branches, she looked down upon Villa Alti­eri, which brought to her remembrance the affectio­nate [Page 133] Bianchi, with all the sportive years of her child­hood; and where some of her happiest hours had been passed in the society of Vivaldi. Along the windings of the coast, too, she could distinguish many places rendered sacred by affection, to which she had made excursions with her lamented relative and Vivaldi; and though sadness mingled with the recollections a view of them restored, they were precious to her heart. Here, alone and unobserved, she frequently yielded to the melancholy which she endeavoured to suppress in society; and at other times tried to deceive, with books and pencil, the lingering moments of uncertainty con­cerning the state of Vivaldi; for day after day still elap­sed without bringing any intelligence from Schedoni. Whenever the late scenes connected with the discovery of her family recurred to Ellena, she was struck with almost as much amazement as if she was gazing upon a vision, instead of recalling realities. Contrasted with the sober truth of her present life, the past appeared like romance; and there were moments when she shrunk from the relationship of Schedoni with unconquera­ble affright. The first emotions his appearance had excited were so opposite to those of filial tenderness, that she perceived it was now nearly impossible to love and revere him as her father, and she endeavoured, by dwelling upon all the obligations, which she believed he had lately conferred upon her, to repay him a gra­titude, what was withheld in affection.

In such melancholy considerations, she often linger­ed under the shade of the accacias, till the sun had sunk behind the far distant promontory of Miseno▪ and the last bell of vespers summoned her to the convent below.

Among the nuns, Ellena had many favourites, but not one that she admired and loved equally with Oli­via of San Stefano, the remembrance of whom was al­ways accompanied with a fear lest she should have suf­fered [Page 134] from her generous compassion, and a wish that she had taken up her abode with the happy society of the Daughters of pity instead of being subjected to the tyranny of the abbess of San Stefano. To Ellena, the magnificent scenes of the Santa della Pieta seem­ed to open a secure, and perhaps a last asylum; for, is her present circumstances, she could not avoid perceiv­ing how menancing and various were the objections to her marriage with Vivaldi, even should Schedoni prove propitious to it. The character of the Mar­chesa di Vivaldi, such as it stood unfolded by the late occurrences, struck her with dismay, for her designs appeared sufficiently atrocious, whether they had ex­tended to the utmost limit of Ellena's suspicions, or had stopped where the affected charity of Schedoni had pointed out. In either case, the pertinacity of her aversion, and the vindictive violence of her nature, were obvious. In this view of her character, how­ever, it was not the inconvenience threatened to those who might become connected with her, that princi­pally affected Ellena, but the circumstance of such a woman being the mother of Vivaldi; and to alleviate so afflicting a consideration, she endeavourd to believe all the palliating suggestions of Schedoni, respecting the Marchesa's late intentions. But if Ellena was griev­ed on discovering crime, in the character of Vivaldi's parent, what would have been her suffering, had she suspected the nature of Schedoni?—what, if she had been told that he was the adviser of the Mar­chesa's plans?—if she had known that he had been the partner of her intentional guilt? From such suffering she was yet spared, as well▪ as from that which a knowledge of Vivaldi's present situation and of the result of Schedoni's efforts to procure a release from the perils, among which he had preci­pitated him, would have inflicted. Had she know [...] this, it is probable that in the first despondency of [...] [Page 135] mind, she would have relinquished what is called the world, and sought a lasting asylum with the society of the holy sisters. Even as it was, she sometimes en­deavoured to look with resignation upon the events which might render such a step desirable; but it was an effort that seldom soothed her even with a tempo­rary self-delusion. Should the veil, however, prove her final refuge, it would be by her own choice; for the lady abbess of the Santa della Pieta employed no art to win a recluse, nor suffered the nuns to seduce votaries to the order.

CHAP. IX.

WHILE the late events had been passing in the Garganus, and at Naples, Vivaldi and his ser­vent Paulo, remained imprisoned in distinct chambers of the Inquisition. They were again separately inter­rogated. From the servant no information could be obtained; he asserted only his master's innocence, with­out once remembring to mention his own; clamoured, with more justice than prudence, against the persons who had occasioned his arrest; seriously endeavouring to convince the inquisitors, that he himself had no other mo­tive in having demanded to be brought to these prisons than that he might comfort his master, he gravely re­monstrated on the injustice of separating them, adding, that he was sure when they knew the rights of the matter, they would order him to be carried to the pri­son of Signor Vivaldi.

"I do assure your Serenissimo Illustrussimo," contin­ued Paulo, addressing the chief inquisitor with pro­found gravity, "that this is the last place I should have thought of coming to, on any other account; and if you will only condescend to ask your officials, who took my master up, they will tell you as g [...]od. They knew well enough all along, what I came here for, and if they had known it would be all in vain' it would have been but civil of them to have told me as much, and not have brought me; for this is the last place in the world I would have come to, otherwise, of my own accord."

Paulo was permitted to harangue in his own way, [Page 137] because his examiners hoped that his prolixity would be a means of betraying circumstances connected with his master. By this veiw, however, they were misled, for Paulo, with all his simplicity of heart, was both vi­gilant and shrewd in Vivaldi's interest. But, when he perceived them really convinced, that his sole motive for visiting the Inquisition was that he might console his master, yet still persisting in the resolution of sepa­rately confining him, his indignation knew no bounds. He depised alike their reprehension, their thunder­ing menaces, and their more artful exhibitions; told them of all they had to expect both here and here­after, for their cruelty to his dear master, and said they might do what they would with him; he defied them to make him more miserable than he was.

It was not without difficulty that he was removed from the chamber, where he left his examiners in a state of astonishment at his rashness, and indignation of his honesty, such as they had, probably never experi­enced before.

When Vivaldi was again called up to the table of the Holy Office, he underwent a longer examination than on a former occasion. Several inquisitors atten­ded, and every art was employed to induce him to con­fess crimes, of which he was suspected, and to draw from him a discovery of others which might have elu­ded even suspicion. Still the examiners cautiously a­voided informing him of the subject of the accusation on which he had been arrested, and it was, therefore, only on the former assurances of the Benedictine, and the officials in the chaple of San Sebastian, that Vi­valid understood he was accused of having carried off a nun. His answers on the present occasion were con­cise and firm, and his whole deportment undaunted. He felt less apprehension for himself, than indignation of the general injustice and cruelty, which the tribunal was permitted to exercise upon others; and this virtu­ous [Page 138] indignation gave a loftiness, a calm heroic gran­duer to his mind, which never, for a moment, [...] him, except when he conjectured what might be the sufferings of Ellena. Then, his fortitude and magna­nimity failed, and his tortured spirit rose almost to fren [...].

On this, his second examination, he was urged by the same dark questions, and replied to them with the same open sincerity, as during the first. Yet the sim­plicity and energy of truth failed to impress conviction on minds, which, no longer possessing the virtue them­selves, were not competent to understand the symptom [...] of it in others, Vivaldi was again threatened wi [...] the torture, and again dismissed to his prison.

On the way to this dreadful abode, a person passed him in one of the avenues, of whose air and figure [...] thought he had some recollection; and, as the stranger stalked away, he suddenly knew him to be the prophe­tic monk, who had haunted him among the ruins of Paluzzi. In the first moment of surprise, Vivaldi lost his presence of mind so far, that he made no attempt to interrupt him. In the next instance, however, he pau­sed and looked back, with an intention of speaking; but this mysterious person was already at the extremi­ty of the avenue. Vivaldi called, and besought him to stop. Without either speaking or turning his head, however, he immediately disappeared beyond a door that opened at his approach. Vivaldi on attempting to take the way of the monk, was withheld by his guards, and, when he inquired who was the stranger he had seen, the officials asked, in their turn, what stran­ger he alluded to.

"He who has just passed us," replied Vivaldi.

The officials seemed surprized, "Your spirits are disordered, Signor," observed one of them, "I saw no person pass!

"He passed so closely," said Vivaldi, "that it was hardly possible you could avoid seeing him!"

[Page 139] "I did not even hear a footstep!" added the [...].

"I do not recollect that I did," answered Vivaldi, "but I saw his figure as plainly as I now see your's; his black garments almost touched me! Was he an inquisitor?"

The official appeared astonished; and, whether his surprize was real, or affected for the purpose of conceal­ing his knowledge of the person alluded to, his em­barrassment and awe seemed natural. Vivaldi observ­ed, with almost equal curiosity and surprize, the fear which his face expressed; but perceived also, that it would avail nothing to repeat his questions.

As they proceeded along the avenue, a kind of half­stifled groan was sometimes audible from a distance. "Whence come these sounds?" said Vivaldi, "they strike to my heart!"

"They should do so," replied the guard.

"Whence come they?" repeated Vivaldi, more impatiently, and shuddering.

"From the place of torture," said the official.

"O God! O God!" exclaimed Vivaldi, with a deep groan,

He passed with hasty steps the door of that terrible chamber, and the guard did not attempt to stop him. The officials had brought him, in obedience to the customary orders they had received, within hearing of those doleful sounds for the purpose of impressing upon his mind the horrors of the punishment, with which he was threatened, and of inducing him to confess without incurring them.

On the same evening, Vivaldi was visited, in his prison, by a man whom he had never consciously seen before. He appeared to be between forty and fifty; was of a grave and observant physiognomy, and of manners, which, though somewhat austere, were not alarming. The account he gave of himself, and of his [Page 140] motive for this visit, was curious. He said that he also was a prisoner in the inquisition, but, as the ground of accusation against him was light, he had been fa­voured so far as to be allowed some degree of liberty within certain bounds▪ that, having heard of Vivaldi's situation, he had asked and obtained leave to converse with him, which he had done in compassion, & with a desire of assuaging his sufferings, so far as an expression of sympathy and commiseration might relieve them.

While he spoke, Vivaldi regarded him with deep at­tention, and the improbability that those pretension should be true, did not escape him▪ but the suspicion which they occasioned he prudently concealed. The stranger conversed on various subjects. Vivaldi's an­swers were cautious and concise; but not even long pauses of silence wearied the compassionate patience of his visitor. Among other topics, he, at length, in­troduced that of religion.

"I have myself, been accused of heresy," said he, "and know how to pity others in the same situation,"

"It is of heresy, then, that I am accused!" inter­rupted Vivaldi, "of heresy!"

"It availed me nothing that I asserted my innocence," continued the stranger, without noticing Vivaldi's ex­clamation, "I was condemned to the torture. My sufferings were too terrible to be endured! I confessed my offence—"

"Pardon me," interrupted Vivaldi, "but allow me to observe, that since your sufferings were so severe, your's against whom the ground of accusation was light, what may be the punishment of those, whose offences are more serious!"

The stranger was somewhat embarrassed. "My offence was slight," he continued, without giving a full answer.

"Is it possible," said Vivaldi, again interrupting him, "that heresy can be considered as a slight offence before the tribunal of the [...]."

[Page 141] "It was only of a slight degree of heresy," replied he visitor, reddening with displeasure, "that I was [...]ected, and—"

"Does then the Inquisition allow of degrees in cresy?" said Vivaldi.

"I confessed my offence," added the stranger with [...]louder emphasis, and the consequence of this confes­io [...] was a remission of punishment. After a trifling [...]enance I shall be dismissed, and probably, in a few [...], leave the prison. Before I left it, I was [...] of administering some degree of consolation to a [...] sufferer; if you have any friends whom you [...] to inform of your situation, do not fear to confide [...] names and your message to me."

The latter part of the speech was delivered in a low [...]oice, as if the stranger feared to be overheard. Vi­valdi remained silent, while he examined, with closer attention, the countenance of his visitor. It was of he utmost importance to him, that his family should [...]e made acquainted with his situation; yet he knew not exactly how to interpret, or to confide in this offer. Vivaldi had heard that informers sometimes visited the prisoners, and, under the affectation of kindness and sympathy, drew from them a confession of opinions, which were afterwards urged against them; and obtained discoveries relative to their con­nections and friends, who were, by these insidious means, frequently involved in their destruction. Vi­valdi, conscious of his own innocence, had on his first examination, acquainted the inquisitor with the names and residence of his family; he had, therefore. nothing new to apprehend from revealing them to this stranger; but he perceived that if it should be known he had attempted to convey a message, however con­cise and harmless, the discovery would irritate the jea­lous inquisitors against him, and might be urged as a new presumption of his guilt. These conside­rations, [Page 142] together with the distrust which the incon­sistency of his visitor's assertions, and the occasional embarrassment of his manner, had awakened, deter­mined Vivaldi to resist the temptation now offered to him; and the stranger, having received his thanks, reluctantly withdrew, observing however, that should any unforeseen circumstance detain him in the Inqui­sition longer than he had reason to expect, he should beg leave to pay him another visit. In reply to this, Vivaldi only bowed, but he remarked, that the strang­er's countenance changed, and that some dark brood­ing appeared to cloud his mind, as he quitted the chamber.

Several days elapsed, during which Vivaldi heard no more of his new acquaintance. He was then sum­moned to another examination, from which he was dismissed as before; and some weeks of solitude and of heavy uncertainty succeeded, after which he wa [...] a fourth time called up to the table of the Holy Office. It was then surrounded by inquisitors, and a more tha [...] usual solemnity appeared in the proceedings,

As proofs of Vivaldi's innocence had not been de­tained, the suspicions of the examiners, of course, were not removed; and, as he persisted in denying the truth of the charge which he understood would be exhibited against him, and refused to make any confession of crimes, it was ordered that he should, within three hours, be put to the question. Till then, Vivaldi was once more dismissed to his prison chamber. He resolution remained unshaken, but he could not lo [...] unmoved, upon the horrors which might be preparing for him. The interval of expectation between the sentence and the accomplishment of this preliminary punishment, was, indeed, dreadful. The seeming ig­nominy of his situation, and his ignorance as to [...] degree of torture to he applied, overcame the calm­ness he had before exhibited, and as he paced his [...] [Page 143] cold damps, which hung on his forehead, betrayed the agony of his mind. It was not long, however, that he suffered from a sense of ignominy; his better judg­ment shewed him, that innocence cannot suffer dis­grace from any situation or circumstance, and he once more resumed the courage and the firmness which be­long to virtue.

It was about midnight, that Vivaldi heard steps approaching, and a murmer of voices at the door of his cell. He understood these to [...]e the persons come to summon him to the torture. The door was un­barred, and two men, habited in black, appeared at it. Without speaking, they advanced, and throwing over him a singular▪ kind of mantle, led him from the chamber.

Along the galleries, and other avenues through which they passed, not any person was seen, and, by the profound stillness that reigned, it seemed as if death had already anticipated his work in these regions of horror, and had condemned alike the tortured and the torturer.

They descended to the large hall, where Vivaldi had waited on the night of his entrance, and thence through an avenue, and down a long flight of steps that led to subterranean chambers. His conductors did not utter a syllable during the whole progress; Vivaldi knew too well that questions would only sub­ject him to greater severity, and he asked none.

The doors, through which they passed, regularly o­pened at the touch of an iron rod, carried by one of the officials, and without the appearance of any per­son. The other man bore a torch, and the passages were so dimly lighted that the way could scarcely have been found without one. They crossed what seemed to be a burial vault, but the extent and obscurity of the place [...] not allow it to be ascertained; and, having reached an iron door, they, stopped. One of [Page 144] the officials struck upon it three times with the [...] but it did not open as the others had done. [...] they waited, Vivaldi thought he heard, from wit [...] low intermitting sounds, as of persons in their last [...] ­tremity, but, though within they appeared to [...] from a distance. His whole heart was chilled, not [...] fear, for at that moment he did not remember [...] but with horror.

Having waited a considerable time, during which the official did not repeat the signal, the door was part­ly opened by a person whom Vivaldi could not dis­tinguish in the gloom beyond, and with whom one of his conductors communicated by signs; after whi [...] the door was closed.

Several minutes had elapsed, when tones of deep voices aroused the attention of Vivaldi. They were loud and hoarse, and spoke in a language unknown to him. At the sounds, the official immediately extin­guished his torch. The voices drew nearer, and, the door again unfolding, two figures stood before Vival­di, which shewn by a glimmering light within struck him with astonishment and dismay. The [...] were cloathed, like his conductors, in black, but in a different fashion, for their habits were made close to the shape. Their faces were entirely concealed beneath a very peculiar kind of cowl, which descended from the head to the feet; and their eyes only were visible through small openings contrived for the sight. It occured to Vivaldi that these men were torturers their appearance was worthy of demons. Proba­bly they were thus habited, that the persons whom they afflicted might not know them; or, perhaps, it was only for the purpose of striking terror upon the minds of the accused, and thus compelling them to confess without further difficulty. Whatever motive might have occasioned their horrisic appearance, and whatever was their office, Vivaldi was delivered into [Page 145] their hands, and, in the same moment, heard the iron door shut which enclosed him with them in a narrow passage, gloomily lighted by a lamp suspended from the arched roof. They walked in silence on each side of their prisoner, and came to a second door which ad­mitted them instantly into another passage. A third door, at a short distance; admitted them to a third a­venue, at the end of which, one of his mysterious guides struck upon a gate, and they stopped. The un­certain sounds that Vivaldi had fancied he heard, were now more audible, and he distinguished, with inex­pressible horror, that they were uttered by persons suf­fering.

The gate was at length opened by a figure habited like his conductors, and two other doors of iron, placed very near each other, being also unlocked, Vivaldi found himself in a spacious chamber, the walls of which were hung with black, duskily lighted by lamps that gleamed in the lofty vault. Immediately on his en­trance, a strange sound ran along the walls, and echoed among other vaults, that appeared, by the progress of the sound, to extend far beyond this.

It was not immediately that Vivaldi could sufficient­ly recollect himself to observe any object before him; and even when he did so, the gloom of the place pre­vented his ascertaining many appearances. Shadowy countenances and uncertain forms seemed to flit through the dusk, and many instruments, the application of which he did not comprehend, struck him with horri­ble suspicions. Still he heard, at intervals, half sup­pressed groans, and was looking round to discover the wretched people from whom they were extorted, when a voice from a remote part of the chamber, called on him to advance.

The distance, and the obscurity of the spot whence the voice issued, had prevented Vivaldi from noticing any person there, and he was now slowly obeying, when [Page 146] on a second summons, his conductors seized his [...] and hurried him forward.

In a remoet part of this extensive chamber, he per­ceived three persons seated under a black canopy, [...] chairs raised several steps from the floor, and who ap­peared to preside [...]here in the office of either judges [...] examiners, or directors of the punishments. Below, at a table, sat a secretary, over whom was suspended, the only lamp that could enable him to commit to pa­per what should occur during the examination. Vi­valdi now understood, that the three persons who com­posed the tribunal were the vicar-general, or grand in­quisitor, the advocate of the exchequer, and an ordina­ry inquisitor, who was seated between the other two and who appeared more eagerly to engage in the du­ties of his cruel office. A portentious obscurity en­velloped alike their persons and their proceedings.

At some distance from the tribunal stood a large i­ron frame, which Vivaldi conjectured to be the rack, and near it another, resembling, in shape, a coffin but, happily, he could not distinguish through the re­mote obscurity, [...] person undergoing actual suffer­ing. In the vaults beyond, however, the diabolical decrees of the inquisitors seemed to be fulfilling; for whenever a distant door opened for a moment, sounds of lamentation issued forth, and men whom he judges to be familiars, habited like those who stood beside him were seen passing to and fro within.

Vivaldi almost believed himself in the infernal re­gions; the dismal aspect of this place, the horrible pre­paration for punishment, and, above all, the disposition and appearance of the persons that were ready to in­flict it, confirmed the resemblance. That any human being, should afflict a fellow being who had never in­jured, or even offended him; that, unswayed by passi­on, he should deliberately become the means of tortur­ing him, appeared to Vivaldi nearly incredible! But [Page 147] when he looked at the three persons who composed the tribunal, and considered that they had not only volun­tarily undertaken the cruel office they fulfilled, but had probably long regarded it as the summit of their ambi­tion, his astonishment & indignation were unbounded.

The grand inquisitor having again called on Vival­di by name, admonished him to confess the truth, and avoid the suffering that awaited him.

As Vivaldi had, on former examinations, spoken the truth, which was not believed, he had no chance of es­caping present suffering, but by asserting falshood: in doing so, to avoid such monstrous injustice and cruelty he might, [...]erhaps, have been justified, had it been cer­tain, that such assertion could affect himself alone; but since he knew that the consequence must extend to o­thers, and above all, believed that Ellena di Rosalba must be involv [...]d in it, he did not hesitate for an in­stant, to dare whatever torture his firmness might provoke. But even if morality could have forgiven falshood in such extraordinary circumstances as these, policy, after all, would have forbidden it, since a disco­very of the artifice would probably have led to the fi­nal destruction of the accused person.

Of Ellena's situation he would now have asked, however desperate the question; would again have as­serted her innocence, and supplicated for compassion, even to inquisitors, had he not perceived that, in doing so, he should only furnish them with a more exquisite means of torturing him than any other they could ap­ply; for if, when all the terrors of his soul concerning her were understood, they should threaten to increase her sufferings, as the punishment of what was termed his obstinacy, they would, indeed, become masters of his integrity, as well as of his person.

The tribunal again, and repeatedly, urged Vivaldi to confess himself guilty; and the inquisitor, at length concluded, with saying that the judges were innocent [Page 148] of whatever consequence might ensue from his ob [...] ­nacy; so that, if he expired beneath his suffering himself only, not they, would have occasioned his [...].

"I am innocent of the charges which I understand are urged against me; said Vivald, with solemnity. "I repeat, that I am innocent! If to escape the horror of these moments, I could be weak enough to declare myself guilty, not all your racks could alter truth, and make me so, except in that assertion. The consequence of your tortures, therefore, be upon your own heads!

While Vivaldi spoke, the vicar-general listened with attention, and when he had ceased to speak, ap­peared to meditate; but the inquisitor was irritated by the boldness of his speech, instead of being convinced by the justness of his representation and made a signal for the officers to prepare for the question. While they were obeyiug, Vivaldi observed, notwithstanding the agitation he suffered. a person cross the chamber, whom he immediately knew to be the same that had passed him in the avenue of the inquisition on a formernight, and whom he had then fancied to be the mysterious stranger of Paluzzi. Vivaldi now fixed his eyes upon him, but his own peculiar situation prevented his fee­ling the interest he had formerly suffered concerning him.

The figure, air, and stalk, of this person were stri­king, and so strongly resembled those of the monk of Paluzzi, that Vivaldi had no longer a doubt as to their identity. He pointed him out to one of the officials, and enquired who he was. While he spoke, the stran­ger was passing forward, and, before any reply was given, a door leading to the farther vaults shut him from veiw. Vivaldi, however, repeated the inquiry which the official appeared unable to answer, and a re­proof from the tribunal reminded him that he must not ask questions there. Vivaldi observed it was the grand Inquisitor who spoke, and that the manner [...] the official immediately changed,

[Page 149] The familiars, who were the same that had con­ducted Vivaldi into the chamber, having made ready the instrument of torture, approached him, and after taking off his cloak and vest, bound him with strong cords. They threw over his head the customary black garment, which entirely enveloped his figure, and prevented his observing what was farther prepar­ing. In this state of expectation, he was again in­terrogated by the inquisitor.

"Was you ever in the church of the Spirito Santo at Naples?" said he.

"Yes," replied Vivaldi.

"Did you ever express there, a contempt for the Catholic faith?"

"Never," said Vivaldi.

"Neither by word or action?" continued the in­quisitor.

"Never, by either!"

"Recollect yourself," added the inquisitor. "Did you never insult there, a minister of our most holy church?"

Vivaldi was silent: he began to perceive the real nature of the charge which was to be urged against him, and that it was too plausible to permit his escape from the punishment, which is adjudged for heresy. Questions so direct and minute had never been put to him here on his former examinations; they had been reserved for a moment when it was believed he could not evade them; and the real charge had been conceal­ed from him, that he might not be prepared to elude it.

"Answer," repeated the inquisitor.—

"Did you ever insult a minister of the Catholic faith, in the church of the Spirito Santo, at Naples?"

"Did you not insult him while he was performing an act of holy penance?" said another voice.

Vivaldi started, for he instantly recollected the well­known [Page 150] tones of the monk of Paluzzi. "Who asks the question?" demanded Vivaldi.

"It is you who are to answer here," resumed the inquisitor. "Answer to what I have required."

"I have offended a minister of the church," replied Vivaldi, "but never could intentionally insult our ho­ly religion. You are not acquainted, fathers, with the injuries that provoked—"

"Enough!" interrupted the inquisitor; "speak to the question. Did you not, by insult and menace, force a pious brother to leave unperformed, the act of penance in which he had engaged himself? Did you not compel him to quit the church, and fly for refuge to his convent?"

"No," replied Vivaldi. "Tis true, he left the church, and that in consequence of my conduct there; but the consequence was not necessary; if he had only replied to my enquiry, or promised to restore her, of whom he had treacherously robbed me, he might have remained quietly in the church till this moment, had that depended upon my forbearance."

"What!" said the vicar-general, "would you have compelled him to speak, when he was engaged in si­lent penance? You confess, that you occasioned him to leave the church. That is enough."

"Where did you first see Ellena di Rosalba?" said the voice which had spoken once before.

"I demand again, who gives the question," answer­ed Vivaldi.

"Recollect yourself," said the inquisitor, "a cri­minal cannot make a demand."

"I do not perceive the connection between your admonition and your assertion," observed Vivaldi.

"You appear to be rather too much at your ease," said the inquisitor. "Answer to the question which was last put to you, or the familiars shall do their du­ty."

[Page 151] "Let the same person ask it," replied Vivaldi.

The question was repeated in the former voice,

"In the church of San L [...]renzo, at Naples," said Vivaldi, with a heavy sigh, "I first beheld Ellena di Rosalba."

'Was she then professed?' asked the vicar-general.

"She never accepted the veil," replied Vivaldi, "nor ever intended to do so."

"Where did she reside at that period?"

"She lived with a relative at Villa Altieri, and would yet reside there, had not the ma [...]inations of a monk occasioned her to be torn from her home, and confined in a convent, from which I had just assisted to release her when she was again seized, and upon a charge most false and cruel.—O reverend fathers! I conjure, I supplicate—" Vivaldi restrained himself, for he was going to have betrayed, to the mercy of inquisitors, all the feelings of his heart.

"The name of the monk? said the stranger, ear­nestly.

"If I mistake not," replied Vivaldi, "you are al­ready acquainted with it. The monk is called father Schedoni. He is of the Dominican convent of the Spirito Sancto, in Naples, and the same who accuses me of having insulted him in the church of that name."

"How did you know him for your accuser?" asked the same voice.

"Because he is my only enemy," replied Vivaldi.

"Your enemy!" observed the inquisitor; "a for­mer deposition says, you were unconscious of having one! You are inconsistent in your replies."

"You were warned not to visit Villa Altieri," said the unknown person. "Why did you not profit by the warning?"

"I was warned by yourself," answered Vivaldi. "Now I know you well."

[Page 152] "By me!" said the stranger, in a solemn tone.

"By you!" repeated Vivaldi; "you who al [...] foretold the death of Signora Bianchi; and you are that enemy—that father Schedoni, by whom I am ac­cused."

"Whence come these questions?" demanded the vicar general. "Who has been authorised thus to interrogate the prisoner?"

No reply was made. A busy hum of voices from the tribunal succeeded the silence. At length the murmuring subsided, and the monk's voice was heard again.

"I will declare thus much," it said, addressing Vivaldi; "I am not father Schedoni."

The peculiar tone and emphasis, with which this was delivered, more than the assertion itself, persuad­ed Vivaldi that the stranger spoke truth; and, though he still recognized the voice of the monk of Paluzzi, he did not know it to be that of Sche [...]oni. Vivaldi was astonished! He would have torn the veil from his eyes, and once more viewed the mysterious stran­ger, had his hands been at liberty. As it was, he could only conjure him to reveal his name, and the motives for his former conduct.

"Who is come among us?" said the vicar general, in the voice of a person who means to inspire in others the awe he himself suffers.

"Who is come amongst us?" he repeated in a loud­er tone. Still no answer was returned; but again a confused murmur sounded from the tribunal, and a ge­neral consternation seemed to prevail. No person spoke with sufficient pre-eminence to be understood by Vivaldi; something extraordinary appeared to be passing, and he awaited the issue with all the patience he could command. Soon after he heard doors open­ed, and the noise of persons quitting the chamber. A deep silence followed; but he was certain that the [Page 153] familiars were still beside him, waiting to begin their work of torture.

After a considerable time had elapsed, Vivaldi heard footsteps advancing, and a person give orders for his release, that he might be carried back to his cell.

When the veil was removed from his eyes, he per­ceived that the tribunal was dissolved, and that the stranger was gone. The lamps were dying away, and the chamber appeared more gloomily terrific than be­fore.

The familiars conducted him to the spot at which they had received him; whence the officers who had led him thither, guarded him to his prison. There, stretched upon his bed of straw, in solitude and in darkness, he had leisure enough to reflect upon what had passed, and to recollect with minute exactness e­very former circumstance connected with the stranger. By comparing those with the present, he endeavoured to draw a more certain conclusion as to the identity of this person, and his motives for the very extraordi­nary conduct he had pursued, The first appearance of this stranger, among the ruins of Paluzzi, when he had said that Vivaldi's steps were watched, and had cauti­oned him against returning to the villa Altieri, was recalled to his mind. Vivaldi re-considered, also, his second appearance on the same spot, and his second warning; the circumstances, which had attended his own adventures within the fortress;—the monk's prediction of Bianchi's death, and his evil tidings respecting Ellena, at the very hour when she had been seized and carried from her home. The longer he considered these several instances, as they were now connected in his mind, with the certainty of Schedoni's evil disposition towards him, the more he was inclined to believe, notwithstanding the voice of seeming truth which had just affirmed the contrary, that the unknown person was Schedoni himself, and [Page 154] that he had been employed by the Marchesa, to pre­vent Vivaldi's visits to the villa Altieri. Being thus an agent in the events of which he had warned Vival­di, he was too well enabled to predict them, Vival­di paused upon the remembrance of Signora Bianchi's death; he considered the extraordinary and dubious circumstances that had attended it, and shuddered as a new conjecture crossed his mind—The thought was too dreadful to be permitted, and he dismissed it instantly.

Of the conversation, however, which he had after­wards held with the Confessor in the Marchesa's ca­binet, he recollected many particulars that served to renew his doubts as to the identity of the Stranger; the behaviour of Schedoni when he was obliquely chal­lenged for the monk of Paluzzi, still appeared that of a man unconscious of disguise; and above all, Vi­valdi was struck with the seeming candour of his hav­ing pointed out a circumstance, which removed the probability that the stranger was a brother of the San­ta della Pianto.

Some particulars, also, of the stranger's conduct did not agree with what might have been expected from Schedoni, even though the Confessor had really been Vivaldi's enemy; a circumstance which the latter was no longer permitted to doubt. Nor did those parti­cular circumstances accord, as he was inclined to be­lieve, with the manner of a being of this world; and when Vivaldi considered the suddenness and mystery, with which the stranger had always appeared and re­tired, he felt disposed to adopt again one of his earliest conjectures, which undoubtedly the horrors of his pre­sent abode disposed his imagination to admit, as those of his former situation in the vaults of Paluzzi, toge­ther with a youthful glow of curiosity concerning the marvellous, had before contributed to impress them upon his mind.

He concluded his present reflections as he had began [Page 155] them—in doubt and perplexity; but at length found a respite from thought and from suffering in sleep.

Midnight had been passed in the vaults of the In­quisition: but it was probably not yet two o'clock, when he was imperfectly awakened by a sound, which he fancied proceeded from within his chamber. He raised himself to discover what had occasioned the noise; it was, however, impossible to discern any object, for all was dark, but he listened for a return of the sound. The wind only was heard moaning among the inner buildings of the prison, and Vivaldi concluded, that his dream had mocked him with a mimic voice,

Satisfied with this conclusion, he again laid his head on his pillow of straw, and soon sunk in­to a slumber. The subject of his waking thoughts still haunted his imagination, and the stranger, whose voice he had this night recognized as that of the monk of Paluzzi, appeared before him. Vivaldi, on per­ceiving the figure of this unknown, felt, perhaps, near­ly the same degrees of awe, curiosity, and impatience that he would have suffered, had he beheld the sub­stance of the shadow. The monk, whose face was still shrowded, he thought advanced, till, having come within a few paces of Vivaldi, he paused, and lifting the awful cowl that had hitherto concealed him, dis­closed—not the countenance of Schedoni, but one of which Vivaldi did not recollect ever having seen be­fore! It was not less interesting to curiosity, than striking to the feelings. Vivaldi at the first glance shrunk back;—something of that strange and inde­scribable air, which we attach to the idea of a superna­tural being, prevailed over the features; and the in­tense and fiery eyes resembled those of an evil spirit, ra­ther than of a human character. He drew a poig­nard from beneath a fold of his garment, and, as he displayed, it, pointed with a stern frown to the spots which discoloured the blade; Vivaldi perceived they [Page 156] were of blood! He turned away his eyes in horror and, when he again looked round in his dream the fi­gure was gone.

A groan awakened him but what were his feelings, when on looking up, he perceived the same figure standing before him! It was not, however, immedi­ately that he could convince himself the appearance was more than the phantom of his dream, strongly impressed upon an alarmed fancy. The voice of the monk, for his face was as usual concealed; recalled Vivaldi from his error; but his emotion cannot easily be conceived, when the stranger, slowly lifting that mysterious cowl, discovered to him the same awful countenance, which had characterized the vision i [...] his slumber. Unable to inquire the occasion of this appearance, Vivaldi gazed in astonishment and terror, and did not immediately observe, that, instead of a dag­ger, the monk held a lamp, which gleamed over every deep furrow of his features, yet left their shadow [...] markings to hint the passions and the history of an extraordinary life.

"You are spared for this night," said the stranger, "but for to-morrow"—he paused.

"In the name of all that is most sacred," said Vi­valdi, endeavouring to recollect his thoughts, "who are you, what is your errand?"

"Ask no questions," replied the monk, solemnly;—"but answer me."

Vivaldi was struck by the tone, with which he said this, and dared not to urge the inquiry at the present moment.

"How long have you known father Schedoni?" continued the stranger, "Where did you first meet?"

"I have known him about a year, as my mother's confessor," replied Vivaldi "I first saw him from a corridor of the Vivaldi palace it was evening, and he was returning from the Marchesa's closet."

[Page 157] "Are you certain as to this?" said the monk with peculiar emphasis. "It is of consequence that you should be so."

"I am certain," repeated Vivaldi,

"It is strange," observed the monk, after a pause, "that a circumstance, which must have appeared tri­vial to you at the moment, should have left so strong a mark on your memory! In two years we have time to forget many things!" He sighed as he spoke.

"I remember the circumstance," said Vivaldi, "be­cause I was struck with his appearance; the evening was far advanced—it was dusk, and he came upon me suddenly. His voice startled me; as he passed he said to himself—"It is for vespers." At the same time I heard the bell of the Spirito Santo.

"Do yo [...] know who he is?" said the stranger, so­lemnly.

I "know only what he appears to be," replied Vi­valdi.

"Did you never hear any report of his past life?"

"Never," answered Vivaldi.

"Never any thing extraordinary concerning him?" added the monk.

Vivaldi paused a moment; for he now recollected the obscure and imperfect story, which Paulo had re­lated while they were confined in the dungeon of Pa­luzzi, respecting a confession made in the church of the Black Penitents; but he could not presume to af­firm that it concerned Schedoni. He remembered al­so the monk's garments stained with blood, which he had discovered in the vaults of that fort. The con­duct of the mysterious being, who now stood before him, with many other particulars of his own adven­tures there, passed like a vision over his memory. His mind resembled the glass of a magician, on which the apparitions of long buried events arise, and as they fleet away, point portentiously to shapes half hid in [Page 158] the [...]uskiness of futurity. An unusual dread seized upon him; and a superstition, such as he had never before admitted in an equal degree, usurped his judg­ment. He looked up to the shadowy countenance of the stranger; and almost believed he beheld an inha­bitant of the world of spirits.

The monk spoke again, repeating in a severer tone, "Did you never hear any thing extraordinary con­cerning father Schedoni?"

"Is it reasonable," said Vivaldi, recollecting his courage, "that I should answer the questions, the mi­nute questions of a person who refuses to tell me even his name?

"My name is passed away—it is no more remem­bered," replied the stranger, turning from Vivaldi,—"I leave you to your fate."

"What fate?" asked Vivaldi," and what is the purpose of this visit? I conjure you in the tremendous name of the Inquisition, to say!"

"Yo! will know full soon; have mercy on your­self!"

"What fate?" repeated Vivaldi.

"Uurge me no further," said the stranger; "but answer to what I shall demand. Schedoni—"

"I have told you all that I certainly know con­cerning him," interrupted Vivaldi, the rest is only conjecture."

"What is that conjecture? Does it relate to a con­fession made in the church of the Black Penitents of the Santa Maria del Pianto?

"It does!" replied Vivaldi with surprise.

"What was that confession?"

"I know not," answered Vivaldi.

"Declare the truth," said the stranger, sternly.

"A confession," replied Vivaldi, "is sacred, and forever buried in the bosom of the priest to whom it [Page 159] is made. How then, is it to be supposed that I can be acquainted with the subject of this?"

"Did you never hear, that father Schedoni had been guilty of some great crimes, which he endeavours to erase from his conscience by the severity of pen­ance?

"Never! said Vivaldi.

"Did you never hear that he had a wife—a bro­ther?"

"Never!"

"Nor the means he used—no hint of—murder, of"—

"The stranger paused, as if he wished Vivaldi to fill up his meaning. Vivaldi was silent and aghast.

"You known nothing then, of Schedoni," resum­ed the monk after a deep pause—"nothing of his past life?"

"Nothing, except what I have mentioned," replied Vivaldi.

"Then listen to what I shall unfold!" continued the monk, with solemnity. To morrow night you will be again carried to the place of torture; you will be taken to a chamber beyond that in which you were this night. You will there witness many extraordi­nary things, of which you have not now any suspicion. Be not dismayed; I shall be there, though, perhaps, not visible."

"Not visible!" exclaimed Vivaldi.

"Interrupt me not, but listen.—When you are as­ked of father Schdoni, say—that he has lived for fifteen years in the disguise of a monk, a member of the Do­minicans of the Sprito Santo, at Naples. When you are asked who he is, reply—Fernando Count di Bruon. You will be asked the motive for such disguise. In reply to this, refer them to the Black Penitents of the Santa Maria del Pianto, near that city; bid the inqui­sitors summon before their tribunal one father Ansaldo [Page 160] di Rovalli, the grand penitentiary of the society, and command him to divulge the crimes confessed to him in the year 1752, on the evening of the twenty-fourth of April, which was then the vigil of Santo Marco in a confessional of the Santo del Pianto,"

"It is probable he may have forgotten such confessi­on, at this distance of time," observed Vivaldi.

"Fear not but he will remember," replied the stranger.

"But will his conscience suffer him to betray the secrets of a confession?" said Vivaldi.

"The tribunal command, and his conscience is ab­solved," answered the monk. "He may not refuse to obey! You are further to direct your examiners to summon father Schedoni, to answer for the crimes which Ansaldo shall reveal." The monk paused, and seemed waiting the reply of Vivaldi, who after a mo­mentary consideration, said.

"How can I do all this, and upon the instigation of a stranger! Neither conscience nor prudence will suf­fer me to assert what I cannot prove is true, that I have reason to beleive Schedoni is my bitter enemy, but I will not be unjust even to him. I have no proof that he is the Count di Bruno, nor that he is the perpetrator of the crimes you allude to, whatever those may be; and I will not be made an instrument to summon any man before a tribunal, where innocence is no protection from ignominy, and where suspicion alone may inflict death."

"You doubt, then, the truth of what I assert?" said the monk, in a haughty tone.

"Can I believe that of which I have no proof?" replied Vivaldi.

"Yes, there are cases which do not admit of proof; under your peculiar circumstances, this is one of them; you can act only upon assertion. I attest," continu­ed the monk, raising his hollow voice to a tone of sin­gular solemnity, "I attest the powers which are be­yond [Page 161] this earth, to witness to the truth of what I have delivered!"

As the stranger uttered this adjuration, Vivaldi observed, with emotion, the extraordinary expression, of his eyes; Vivaldi's presence of mind, however, did not forsake him, and, in the next moment, he said, "But who is he that thus attests? It is upon the asser­tion of a stranger that I am to rely, in defect of proof! It is a stranger who calls upon me to bring solemn charges against a man, of whose guilt I know noth­ing!

"You are not required to bring charges; you are only to summon him who will."

"I should still assist in bringing forward accusa­tions, which may be founded in error," replied Vival­di. "If you are convinced of their truth, why do you not summon Ansaldo yourself?"

"I shall do more," said the monk.

"But why not summon also?" urged Vivaldi.

"I shall appear," said the stranger, with emphasis.

Vivaldi, though somewhat awed by the manner, which accompanied these words, still urged his in­quiries, "As a witness! said he.

"Aye, as a dreadful witness!" replied the monk.

"But may not a witness summon others before the tribunal of the inquisition?" continued Vivaldi faul­teringly.

"He may," said the stranger.

"Why when," observed Vivaldi," am I, a strang­er to you, called upon to do that which you could per­form yourself?"

"Ask no further," said the monk, "but answer, whether you will deliver the summons?"

"The charges which must follow," replied Vi­valdi, "appears to be of a nature too solemn to justi­fy my promoting them. I resign the task to you."

"When I summon," said the stranger, "you shall obey!"

[Page 162] Vivaldi, again awed by his, manner, again justified his refusal, and concluded with repeating his surprize, that he should be required to assist in his mysterious affair, "Since I neither know you, father," he added, "nor the Penitentiary Ansaldo, whom you bid me ad­monish to appear."

"You shall know me hereafter," said the stranger, frowningly; and he drew from beneath his garment a dagger!

Vivaldi remembered his dream.

"Mark those spots," said the Monk.

Vivaldi looked, and beheld blood!

"This blood, added the stranger, pointing to the blade, "would have saved your's! Here is some [...] of truth! To-morrow night you will meet me in the chambers of death!"

As he spoke, he turned away; and, before Vivaldi had recovered from his consternation, the light disap­peared. Vivaldi knew that the stranger had quitte [...] the prison; only by the silence which prevailed there.

He remained sunk in thought, till, at the dawn o [...] day, the man on watch, unfastened the door of his cell, and brought as usual a jug of water, and some bread. Vivaldi inquired the name of the stranger who had visited him in the night. The centinel looked sur­prised, and Vivaldi repeated the question before he could obtain an answer.

"I have been on guard since the first hour,▪ said the man, and no person, in that time, has passed through this door!"

Vivaldi regarded the centinel with attention, while he made this assertion, and did not receive in his man­ner any consciousness of falsehood; yet he knew not how to believe what he had affirmed. "Did you hear no noise, either?" said Vivaldi. "Has all been silent during the night?"

"I have heard only the bell of San Dominico strike [Page 163] upon the hour," replied the man, "and the watch word of the centinels."

"This is incomprehensible!" exclaimed Vivaldi, "What! no footsteps, no voice?"

The man smiled contemptuously. "None, but of the centinels," he replied.

"How can you be certain you heard only the centi­nels, friend?" added Vivaldi.

"They speak only to pass the watch word, and the clash of their arms is heard at the same time."

"But their footsteps!—how are they distinguished from those of other persons?"

"By the heaviness of their tread; our sandals are braced with iron. But why these questions, Signor?"

"You have kept guard at the door of this cham­ber?" said Vivaldi.

"Yes, Signor."

"And you have not once heard, during the whole night, a voice from within it?"

"None, Signor."

"Fear nothing from discovery, friend; confess that you have slumbered."

"I had a comrade," replied the centinel, angrily, "has he, too, slumbered! and if he had, how could admittance be obtained without our keys?"

And those might easily have been procured, friend; if you were overcome with sleep. You may rely upon my promise of secrecy."

"What! said the man, "have I kept guard for three years in the inquisition, to be suspected, by a he­retic, of neglecting my duty?"

"If you were suspected by an heretic" replied Vi­valdi, "you ought to console yourself by recollecting that his opinions are considered to be erroneous.

"We were watchful every minute of the night," said the centinel, going.

"This is incomprehensible!" said Vivaldi. "By [Page 164] what means could the stranger have entered my pri­son?"

"Signor, you still dream!" replied the centinel, pausing. "No person has been here."

"Still dream!" repeated Vivaldi, "how do you know that I have dream [...] at all?" His mind deeply affected by the extraordinary circumstances of the dream, and the yet more extraordinary incident that had followed, Vivaldi gave a meaning to the words of the centinel, which did not belong to them.

"When people sleep, they are apt to dream," re­plied the man, dryly. "I supposed you had slept, Sig­nor."

"A person, habited▪ like a monk, came to me in the night," resumed Vivaldi, "and he described the ap­pearance of the stranger. The centinel, while he lis­tened, became grave and thoughtful."

"Do you know any person resembling the one I have mentioned?" said Vivaldi.

"No!" replied the guard.

"Though you have not seen him enter my prison," continued Vivaldi, "you may, perhaps, recollect such a person, as an inhabitant of the Inquisition."

"San Dominico forbid!"

Vivaldi, surprised at this exclamation, inquired the reason for it.

"I know him not," replied the centinel, changing countenance, and abruptly left the prison. Whatever consideration might occasion this sudden departure, his assertion that he had been for three years a guard of the inquisition could scarcely be credited, since he had held so long a dialogue with the prisoner, and was, apparently, insensible of the danger he incurred by so doing.

CHAP. X.

AT about the same hour, as on the preceeding night, Vivaldi heard persons approaching his prison, and, the door unfolding, his former conductors appear­ed. They threw over him the same mantle as before, and in addition, a black veil, that completely [...] his eyes; after which, they led him from the chamber. Vivaldi heard the door shut, on his depar­ture, and the centinels followed his steps, as if their du­ty was finished, and he was to return thither no more. At this moment, he remembered the words of the stranger, when he had displayed the poignard, and Vi­valdi apprehended the worst, from having thwarted the designs of a person apparently so malignant; but he exulted in the rectitude, which had preserved him from debasement; and, with the magnanimous enthu­siasm of virtue, he almost welcomed sufferings, which would prove the firmness of his justice towards an ene­my; for he determined to brave every thing, rather than impute to Schedoni circumstances, the truth of which he possessed no means of ascertaining.

While Vivaldi was conducted, as on the preceeding night, through many passages, he endeavoured to dis­cover, by their length, and the abruptness of their tur­nings, whether they where the same he had traversed before. Suddenly, one of his conductors cried 'Steps!' It was the first word Vivaldi had ever heard him utter immediately perceived that the ground sunk, and, he began to descend; as he did whch, he tried to count, [Page 166] the number of steps, that he might form some judg­ment whether this was the flight he had passed before. When he had reached the bottom, he inclined to believe it was not so; and the care which had been observed i [...] blinding him, seemed to indicate that he was going [...] some new place.

He passed through several avenues, and then ascen­ded; soon after which, he again descended a very long stair-case, such as he had not a remembrance of, and they passed over a considerable extent of level ground. [...] the hollow sounds which his steps returned, he judged that he was walking over vaults. The footsteps of the centinels who had followed from the cell were no lon­ger heard, and he seemed to be left with his conductor only. A second flight appeared to lead him into sub­terraneous vaults, for he perceived the air change, and felt a damp vapour wrapt round him. The menace of the monk, that he should meet him in the chambers of death, frequently occurred to Vivaldi.

His conductors stopped in this vault, and seemed to hold a consultation, but they spoke in such low accents, that their words were not distinguishable, except a few unconnected ones, that hinted of more than Vivaldi could comprehended. He was, at length, again led for­ward; and soon after, he heard the heavy grating of hinges, and perceived that he was passing through sev­eral doors, by the situation of which Vivaldi judge [...] they were the same he had entered the night before, and concluded, that he was going to the hall of the tribunal.

His conductors stopped again, and Vivaldi heard the iron [...]od strike three times upon a door; immedi­ately a strange voice spoke from within, and the door unclosed. Vivaldi passed on, and imagined that he was admitted into a spacious vault; for the air was free­er, and his steps sounded to a distance.

Presently a voice, as on the preceeding night, sum­moned [Page 167] him to come forward, and Vivaldi understood that he was again before the tribunal. It was the voice of the inquisitor who had been his chief examiner.

"You, Vincentio di Vivaldi," it said, "answer to your name, and to the questions which shall be [...] to you, without equivocation, on pain of the torture."

As the monk had predicted, Vivaldi was asked what he knew of father Schedoni, and, when he replied, as he had formerly done to his mysterious visitor, he was told that he knew more than he acknowledged.

"I know no more," replied Vivaldi.

"You equivocate," said the inquisitor. "Declare what you have heard, and remember that you for­merly took an oath to that purpose."

Vivaldi was silent, till a tremendous voice from the tribunal commanded him to respect his oath.

"I do respect it," said Vivaldi; and I conjure to believe that I also respect truth, when I declare, that what I am going to relate, is a report to which I give no confidence, and concerning even the probability of which I cannot produce the smallest proof."

"Respect truth!" said another voice from the tri­bunal, and Vivaldi fancied he distinguished the tones of the monk. He paused a moment, and the exorta­tion was repeated. Vivaldi then related what the stranger had said concerning the family of Schedoni, and the disguise which the father had assumed in the convent of the Spirito Santo; but forbore even to name the penitentiary Ansaldo, and any circumstance connected with the extraordinary confession. Vival­di concluded, with again declaring, that he had not sufficient authority to justify a belief in those reports.

"On what authority do you repeat them?" said the vicar-generally.

Vivaldi was silent.

"On what authority?" inquired the inquisitor. sternly.

[Page 168] Vivaldi, after a momentary hesitation, said, "what I am about to declare, holy fathers, is so extraordi­nary—"

"Tremble!" said a voice close to his ear, which he instantly knew to be the monk's, and the sudden­ness of which electrified him. He was unable to conclude the sentence.

"What is your authority for the reports?" demand­ed the inquisitor.

"It is unknown, even to myself!" answered Vi­valdi.

"Do not equivocate!" said the vicar-general.

"I solemnly protest," rejoined Vivaldi, "that I know not either the name or the condition of my in­former, and that I never even beheld his face, till the period when he spoke of father Schedoni.

"Tremble!' repeated the same low, but emphatic voice in his ear. Vivaldi started, and turning involuntary towards the sound, though his eyes could not assist [...] curiosity.

"You did well to say, that you had something ex­traordinary to add," observed the inquisitor. " [...] evident, also, that you expected something extraordi­nary from your judges, since you supposed they would credit these assertions."

Vivaldi was too proud to attempt the justifying himself against so gross an accusation, or to make any reply.

"Why do you not summon father Ansaldo?" said the voice. "Remember my words!"

Vivaldi, again awed by the voice, hesitated, for an instant, how to act, and in that instant his courage re­turned.

"My infomer stands beside me!" said Vivaldi boldly; "I know his voice! Detain him; it is of con­sequence"

"Whose voice?" demanded the inquisitor. No person spoke but myself!"

[Page 169] "Whose voice?" said the vicar-general.

"The voice was close beside me," replied Vivaldi. "It spoke low but I knew it well."

"This is either the cunning, or the frenzy of des­pair!" observed the vicar-general.

"Not any person is now beside you, except the fa­miliars," said the inquisitor, "and they wait to do their office, if you shall refuse to answer the questions put to you."

"I persist in my assertion," replied Vivaldi; "and I supplicate that my eyes may be unbound, that I may know my enemy."

The tribunal after a long private consultation, grant­ed the request; the veil was withdrawn, and Vivaldi perceived beside him only the familiars! Their faces, as is usual, were concealed. It appeared that one of these torturers must be the mysterious enemy, who pursued him, if, indeed, that enemy was an inhabitant of the earth! and Vivaldi requested that they might be ordered to uncover their features. He was sternly rebuked for so presumptuous a requisition, and remind­ed of the inviolable law and faith, which the tribunal had pledged, that persons appointed to their awful office should never be exposed to the revenge of the crimin­al, whom it might be their duty to punish.

"Their duty!" exclaimed Vivaldi, thrown from his guard by strong indignation. "And is faith held sacred with demons!"

Without awaiting the order of the tribunal, the familiars immediately covered Vivaldi's face with the veil, and he felt himself in their grasp. He endeavour­ed, however, to disentangle his hands, and, at length, shook these men from their hold, and again unveiled his eyes; but the familiars were instantly ordered to replace the veil.

The inquisitor bade Vivaldi to recollect in whose presence he then was, and to dread the punishment [Page 170] which his resistance had incurred, and which would be inflicted without delay, unless he could give some instance, that might tend to prove the truth of his late assertions.

"If you expect that I should say more," replied Vi­valdi, "I claim, at least, protection from the unbidden violence of the men who guard me. If they are suf­fered, at their pleasure, to sport with the misery of their prisoner, I will be inflexibly silent; and, since I must suffer, it shall be according to the laws of the tribunal."

The vicar-general, or, as he is called, the grand inquisitor, promised Vivaldi the degree of protection he claimed, and demanded, at the same time, what were the words he had just heard.

Vivaldi considered, that though justice bade him avoid accusing an enemy of suspicious circumstances, concerning which he had no proof, yet, that neither justice nor common sense required he should make a sacrafice of himself to the dilemma in which he was placed: he, therefore, without further scruple, ac­knowledged, that the voice had bidden him require of the tribunal to summon one father Ansaldo, the grand penitentiary of the Santa del Pianto, near Naples, and also father Schedoni, who was to answer to extraordi­nary charges, which would be brought against him by Ansaldo. Vivaldi anxiously and repeatedly de­clared, that he knew not the nature of the charges, nor that any just grounds for them existed.

These assertions seemed to throw the tribunal into new perplexity. Vivaldi heard their busy voices in low debate, which continued for a considerable time. In this interval he had leisure to perceive the many improbabilities that either of the familiars should be the stranger who so mysteriously haunted him; and among these was the circumstance of his having resided so long at Naples

[Page 171] The tribunal, after some had time elapsed in consulta­tion, proceeded on the examination, & Vivaldi was ask­ed what he knew of father Ansaldo. He immediately replied, that Ansaldo was an utter stranger to him, and that he was not even acquainted with a single person residing in the Santa del Pianto who had any know­ledge of the penitentiary.

"How!" said the grand inquisitor, "You forget that the person, who bade you require of this tribunal to summon Ansaldo, has knowledge of him."

"Pardon me, I do not forget," replied Vivaldi; "and I request it may be remembered that I am not acquainted with that person. If, therefore, he had given me any account of Ansaldo, I could not have relied upon its authenticity." Vivaldi again required of the tribunal to understand that he did not summon Ansaldo, or any other person, before them, but had merely obeyed their command to repeat what the stran­ger had said.

The tribunal acknowledged the justness of this in­junction and exculpated him from any harm that should be the consequence of the summons. But this assurance of safety for himself was not sufficient to ap­pease Vivaldi, who was alarmed lest he should be the means of bringing an innocent person under suspicion. The grand inquisitor again addressed him, after a gen­eral silence had been commanded in the court.

"The account you have given of your informer," said he, "is so extraordinary, that it would not deserve credit, but that you have discovered the utmost reluct­ance to reveal the charges he gave you, from which it appears, that, on your part, at least, the summons is not malicious. But are you certain that you have not de­luded yourself, and that the voice beside you was not an imaginary one, conjured up by your agitated spi­rits?"

"I am certain," replied Vivaldi, with firmness▪

[Page 172] "It is true," resumed the grand inquisitor, "that several persons were near you, when you exclaimed, that you heard the voice of your informer; yet no person heard it besides yourself!"

"Where are those persons now?" demanded Vi­valdi.

"They are dispersed; alarmed at your accusation."

"If you will summon them," said Vivaldi, "and or­der, that my eyes may be uncovered, I will point out to you, without hesitation, the person of my informer, should he remain among them."

The tribunal commanded that they should appear, but new difficulties arose. It was not remembered of whom the crowd consisted, a few individuals only were recollected, and these were summoned.

Vivaldi, in solemn expectation, heard steps and the hum of voices gathering round him, and impatiently awaited for the words that would restore him to sight, and, perhaps release him from uncertainty. In a few moments he heard the command given: the veil was once more removed from his eyes, and he was order­ed to point out the accuser. Vivaldi threw an hasty glance upon the surrounding strangers.

"The lights burn dimly," said he, "I cannot dis­tinguish these faces."

It was ordered that a lamp should be lowered from the roof, and that the strangers should arrange them­selves on either side of Vivaldi. When this was done▪ and he glanced his eyes again upon the crowd, "He is not here!" said Vivaldi; not one of these counte­nances resembles the monk of Paluzzi. Yet, stay▪ who is he that stands in the shade behind those per­sons on the left? Bid him lift his cowl!"

The crowd fell back, and the person, to whom Vi­valdi had pointed, was left alone within the circle.

"He is an officer of the Inquisition, "said a [...] near Vivaldi, "and he may not be compelled to dis­cover [Page 173] his face, unless by an express command from the tribunal."

"I call upon the tribunal to command it!" said Vivaldi.

"Who calls!" exclaimed a voice, and Vivaldi re­cognized the tones of the monk, but he knew not ex­actly whence they came.

"I Vincentio di Vivaldi," replied the prisoner, "I claim the privilege that has been awarded me, and bid you unveil your countenance."

There was a pause of silence in the court, except that a dull murmur ran through the tribunal▪ Meanwhile, the figure within the circle stood motionless, and re­mained veiled.

"Spare him," said the man, who had before addres­sed Vivaldi; "he has reasons for wishing to remain unknown, which you cannot conjecture. He is an of­ficer of the Inquisition, and not the person you ap­prehend.

"Perhaps I can conjecture his reasons," replied Vi­valdi, who, raising his voice, added, "I appeal to this tribunal, and command you, who stand alone within the circle, you in black garments, to unveil your fea­tures!"

Immediately a loud voice issued from the tribunal, and said,

"We command you, in the name of the most holy Inquisition, to reveal yourself!"

The stranger trembled, but, without presuming to hesitate, uplifted his cowl. Vivaldi's eyes were ea­gerly fixed upon him; but the action disclosed, not the countenance of the monk? but an official whom [...]e recollected to have seen once before, though exact­ [...]y on what occasion he did not now remember.

"This is not my informer!" said Vivaldi, turning [...]rom him with deep disappointment, while the stran­ger dropped the cowl, and the crowd closed upon him. [Page 174] At the assertion of Vivaldi, the members of the tribu­nal looked upon each other doubtingly, and were silent, till the grand inquisitor waving his hand, as if to com­mand attention, addressed Vivaldi.

"It appears, then, that you have formerly seen the face of your informer!"

"I have already declared so," replied Vivaldi.

The grand inquisitor demanded when, and where, he had seen it.

"Last night, and in my prison," answered Vi­valdi.

"In your prison!" said the ordinary inquisitor, contemptuously, who had before examined him, "and in your dreams, too, no doubt!"

"In your prison!" exclaimed several members of the lower tribunal.

"He dreams still!" observed an inquisitor. "Ho­ly fathers! he abuses your patience, and the frenzy of terror has deluded his credulity. We neglect the mo­ments."

"We must inquire farther into this," said another inquisitor. "Here is some deception. If you, Vin­centio di Vivaldi, have asserted a falshood—tremble!"

Whether Vivaldi's memory still vibrated with the voice of the monk, or that the tone in which this same word was now pronounced, did resemble it, he almost started, when the inquisitor had said tremble! and he demanded who spoke then.

"It is ourself," answered the inquisitor.

After a short conversation among the members of the tribunal, the grand inquisitor gave orders that the centinels, who had watched on the preceding night at the prison door of Vivaldi, should be brought into the hall of justice. The persons, who had been lately summoned into the chamber, were now bidden to withdraw, and all further examination was suspended till the arrival of the centinels: Vivaldi heard only [Page 175] the low voices of the inquisitors, as they conversed privately together, and he remained silent, thoughtful, and amazed.

When the centinels appeared, and were asked who had entered the prison of Vivaldi during the last night, they declared, without hesitation, or confusion; that not any person had passed through the door after the hour when the prisoner had returned from examina­tion, till the following morning, when the guard had carried in the usual allowance of bread and water. In this assertion, they persisted, without the least equivo­cation, notwithstanding which they were ordered into confinement, till the affair should be cleared up.

The doubts, however, which were admitted, as to the integrity of these men, did not contribute to dis­sipate those, which had prevailed over the opposite side of the question. On the contrary, the suspicions of the tribunal, augmenting with their perplexity, seemed to fluctuate equally over every point of the subject before them, till, instead of throwing any light upon the truth, they only served to involve the whole in deeper obscurity. More doubtful than before of the honesty of Vivaldi's extraordinary assertions, the inquisitor informed him, that if, after further inquiry into this affair, it should appear he had been trifling with the credulity of his judges, he would be severely punished for his audacity; but that on the other hand, should there be reason to believe that the centinels had failed in their duty, and that some person had entered his prison during the night, the tribunal would proceed in a different manner.

Vivaldi, perceiving that, to be believed, it was ne­cessary he should be more circumstantial, described, with exactness, the person and appearance of the monk, without, however, mentioning the poignard which had been exhibited. A profound silence reigned in the chamber while he spoke; it seemed a silence not [Page 176] merely of attention, but of astonishment. Vivaldi himself was awed, and, when he had concluded, almost expected to hear the voice of the monk uttering defi­ance, or threatning vengeance; but all remained hushed, till the inquisitor, who had first examined him, said in a solemn tone.

"We have listened with attention to what you have delivered, and will give the case a full inquiry. Some points, on which you have touched, excite our amazement, and call for particular regard. Retire whence you came—and sleep this night without fear; you will soon know more."

Vivaldi was immediately led from the chamber, and still blindfolded, re-conducted to the prison to which he had supposed it was designed he should return no more. When the veil was withdrawn, he perceived that his guard was changed.

Again left to the silence of his cell, he reviewed all that had passed in the chamber of justice; the questions which had been put to him; the different manners of the inquisitors; the occurrence of the monk's voice; and the similarity, which he had fancied he perceived between it and that of an inquisitor, when the latter pronounced the word tremble; but the consideration of all these circumstances did not in any degree relieve him from his perplexity. Sometimes he was inclin­ed to think that the monk was an inquisitor, and the voice had more than once appeared to proceed from the tribunal; but he remembered, also, that, more than once, it had spoken close to his ear, and he knew that a member of this tribu [...]al might not leave his station during the examination of a prisoner, and that, even if he had dared to do so, his singular dress would have pointed him out to notice, and consequently to suspi­cion, at the moment when Vivaldi had exclaimed, that he heard the voice of his informer.

Vivaldi, however, could not avoid meditating, with [Page 177] surprize, on the last words which the inquisitor, who had been his chief examiner, had addressed to him, when he was dismissed from before the tribunal. These were the more surprizing, because they were the first from him that had in any degree indicated a wish to console or quiet the alarm of the prisoner; and Vivaldi even fancied that they betrayed some fore­knowledge that he would not be disturbed this night by the presence of his awful visitor. He would en­tirely have ceased to apprehend, though not to expect, had he been allowed a light, and any weapon of de­fence, if, in truth, the stranger was of a nature to fear a weapon; but, to be thus exposed to the designs of a mysterious and powerful being, whom he was con­scious of having offended, to sustain such a situation, without fuffering anxiety, required somewhat more than courage, or less than reason.

CHAP. XI.

IN consequence of what had transpired at the last examination of Vivaldi, the grand penitentiary Ansal­do, together with the father Schedoni, were cited to appear before the table of the holy office.

Schedoni was arrested on his way to Rome, whi­ther he was going privately to make further efforts for the liberation of Vivaldi, whose release he had found it more difficult to effect, than his imprisonment; the person upon whose assistance the Confessor relied in the first instance, having boasted of more influence than he possessed, or perhaps thought it prudent to ex­ert. Schedoni had been the more anxious to pro­cure an immediate release for Vivaldi, lest a report of his situation should reach his family, notwithstanding the precautions, which are usually employed to throw an impenetrable shrowd over the prisoners of this dreadful tribunal, and bury them for ever from the knowledge of their friends. Such premature discove­ry of Vivaldi's circumstances, Schedoni apprehended might include also a discovery of the persecutor, and draw down upon himself the abhorrence and the ven­geance of a family, whom it was now, more than ever, his wish and his interest to conciliate. It was still his intention, that the nuptials of Vivaldi and Ellena should be privately solemnized immediately on the release of the prisoner, who, even if he had reason to suspect Schedoni for his late persecutor, would then be [Page 179] interested in concealing his suspicions for ever, and [...]rom whom therefore, no evil was to be apprehended.

How little did Vivaldi foresee, that in repeating to [...]he tribunal the stranger's summons of father Schedo­ni, he was deferring, or, perhaps, wholly preventing his own marriage with Ellena di Rosalba! How little, [...]lso, did he apprehend what would be the further con­sequence of a disclosure, which the peculiar circum­stances of his situation had hardly permitted him to withhold, though, could he have understood the proba­ble event of it, he would have braved all the terrors of the tribunal, and death itself, rather than incur the re­morse of having promoted it.

The motive for his arrestation was concealed from Schedoni, who had not the remotest suspicion of its nature, but attributed the arrest, to a discovery, which the tribunal had made of his being the accuser of Vi­valdi. This disclosure he attributed to his own im­prudence, in having stated as an instance of Vivaldi's contempt for the Catholic faith, that he had insulted a priest while doing penance in the church of the spi­rito Santo. But by what art the tribunal had disco­vered that he was the priest alluded to, and the author of the accusation, Schedoni could by no mean con­jecture. He was willing to believe that this arrest was only for the purpose of obtaining proof of Vival­di's guilt; and the Confessor knew that he could so conduct himself in evidence, as in all probability to exculpate the prisoner, from whom, when he should explain himself, no resentment on account of his for­mer conduct was to be apprehended. Yet Schedoni was not perfectly at ease; for it was possible that a knowledge of Vivaldi's situation, and of the author of it, had reached his family, and had produced his own arrest. On this head, however, his fears were not powerful; since, the longer he dwelt upon the sub­ject, the more improbable it appeared that such a dis­closure, [Page 180] at least so far as it related to himself, could have been affected.

Vivaldi, from the night of his late examination, [...] not called upon, till Schedoni and father Ansaldo ap­peared together in the [...] of the tribunal. The two latter had already been separately examined, and An­saldo had privately stated the particulars of the [...] he had received on the vigil of the Santo Marco in the year 1752, for which disclosure he had received formal absolution. What had passed at that examina­tion does not appear, but on this his second interroga­tion, he was required to repeat the subject and the cir­cumstances of the confession. This was probably with a veiw of observing its effect upon Schedoni and on Vivaldi, which would direct the opinion of the tribunal [...]s to the guilt of the confessor, and the veracity of the young prisoner.

On this night a very exact inquiry was made, con­cerning every person, who had obtained admission into the hall of justice; such officials as were not immedi­ately necessary to assist in the ceremonies of the tribu­nal were excluded, together with every other person belonging to the Inquisition not material to the evi­dence, or to the judges. When this scrutiny was o­ver, the prisoners were brought in, and their conduc­tors ordered to withdraw. A silence of some moments prevailed in the hall; and, however different might be the reflections of the several prisoners, the degree of anxious expectation was in each, probably, nearly the same.

The grand-vicar having spoken a few words in pri­vate to a person on his left hand, an inquisitor rose.

"If any person in this court," said he, "is known by the name of father Schedoni, belonging to the Do­minican society of the Spirito Santo at Naples, let him appear!"

Schedoni answered the summons. He came for­ward [Page 181] with a firm step, and having crossed himself, and bowed to the tribunal, awaited in silence its commands.

The penitentiary Ansaldo was next called upon. Vivaldi observed that he faultered as he advanced: and that [...]is obeisance to the tribunal was more profound than Schedoni's had been. Vivaldi himself was then summoned; his air was calm and dignified, and his countenance expressed the solemn energy of his feel­ings, but nothing of dejection.

Schedoni and Ansaldo were now, for the first time, confronted. Whatever might be the feelings of Sche­doni on beholding the penitentiary of the Santa del Pianto, he effectually concealed them.

The grand-vicar himself opened the examination. "you father Schedoni, of the Spirito Santo," he said, "answer and say whether the person who stands before you, bearing the title of grand penitentiary of the or­der of the Black Penitents, and presiding over the con­vent of the Santa Maria del Pianto at Naples, is known to you."

To this requisition, Schedoni replied with firmness in the negative.

"You have never, to your knowledge, seen him be­fore this hour?"

"Never!" said Schedoni.

"Let the oath be administered▪" added the grand-vicar. Schedoni having accepted it; the same questi­ons were put to Ansaldo concerning the Confessor, when to the astonishment of Vivaldi and of the grea­ter part of the court, the penitentiary denied all know­ledge of Schedoni. His negative was given, however, in a less decisive manner than that of the Confessor, and when the usual oath was offered, Ansaldo declined to accept it.

Vivaldi was next called upon to identify Schedoni: he declared, that the person who was then pointed out to him, he had never known by any other denomina­tion [Page 182] than that of father Schedoni; and that he had al­ways understood him to be a monk of the Spirito San­to; but Vivaldi was at the same time careful to repeat, that he knew nothing further relative to his life.

Schedoni was somewhat surprized at this apparent candor of Vivaldi towards himself, but accustomed to impute an evil motive to all conduct, which he could not clearly comprehend, he did not scruple to believe, that some latent mischief was directed against him in this seemingly honest declaration.

After [...]ome further preliminary forms had passed, Ansaldo was ordered to relate the particulars of the confession, which had been made to him on the eve of the Santo Marco. It must be remembered, that this was still what is called in the Inquisition, a private examination.

After he had taken the customary oaths to relate neither more nor less than the truth of what had pass­ed before him, Ansaldo's depositions were written down nearly in the following words; to which Vival­di listened with almost trembling attention, for besides the curiosity which some previous circumstances had excited respecting them, he believed that his own fate in a great measure depended upon a discovery of the fact to which they led. What, if he had surmised how much! and that the person, whom he had been in some degree instrumental in citing before this tremendous tribunal was the father of his Ellena di Rosalba!

Ansaldo having again answered to his name and ti­tles, gave his deposition as follows:

"It was on the eve of the twenty-fifth of April, and in the year 1752, that as I sat, according to my custom, in the confessional of San Marco, I was alar­med by deep groans, which came from the box on my left hand."

Vivaldi observed, that the date now mentioned a­greed with that recorded by the stranger, and he was [Page 183] thus prepared to believe what might follow, and to give his confidence to this extraordinary and unseen personage.

Ansaldo continued, "I was more alarmed by these sounds, because I had not been prepared for them; I knew not that any person was in the confessional nor had observed any one pass along the aisle—but the duskiness of the hour may account for my having failed to do so; it was after sun-set, and the tapers at the shrine of San Antonio as yet burned feebly in the twilight."

"Be brief, holy father," said the inquisitor, who had formerly been most active in examining Vivaldi; speak closely to the point."

"The groans would sometimes cease," resumed Ansaldo, "and long pauses of silence follow; they were those of a soul in agony, struggling with the consciousness of guilt, yet wanting resolution to con­fess it. I tried to encourage the penitent, and held forth every hope of mercy and forgiveness which my duty would allow, but for a considerable time with­out effect;—the enormity of the sin seemed too big for utterance, yet the penitent appeared equally un­able to endure the concealment of it. His heart was bursting with the secret, and required the comfort of absolution, even at the price of the severest penance."

"Facts!" said the inquisitor; "these are only sur­mises."

"Facts will come too soon?" replied Ansaldo, and bowed his head: "the mention of them will petrify you, holy fathers! as they did me, though not for the same reasons. While I endeavoured to encourage the penitent, and assured him, that absolution should fol­low the acknowledgement of his crimes, however heinous those crimes might be if accompanied by sin­cere repentance, he more than once began his confe [...] ­sion, and abruptly dropt it. Once, indeed, he quit­ted [Page 184] the confessional; his agitated spirit required liber­ty; and it was then, as he walked with perturbed steps along the aisle, that I first observed his figure. He was in the habit of a white friar, and as nearly as I can recollect, was about the stature of him, the father, Schedoni, who now stands before me."

As Ansaldo delivered these words, the attention of the whole trib [...]nal was turned upon Schedoni, who stood unmoved, and with his eyes bent towards the ground.

"His face." continued the penitentiary, "I did not see; he was, with good reason, careful to conceal it; other resemblance, therefore, than the stature, [...] cannot point out between them. The voice, indeed, the voice of the penitent, I think I shall never forget; I should know it again at any distance of time."

"Has it not struck your ear, since you came with­in these walls!" said a member of the tribunal.

"Of that hereafter," observed, the inquisitor, "you wander from the point father."

The vicar-general remarked, that the circumstan­ces just related were important, and ought not to be passed over as irrevalent. The inquisitor submitted to this opinion, but objected that they were not perti­nent to the moment; and Ansaldo was again bidden to repeat what he had heard at confession.

"When the stranger returned to the steps of the confessional, he had acquired sufficient resolution to go through with the task he had imposed upon him­self, and a thrilling voice spoke through the grate the facts I am about to relate."

father Ansaldo paused, and was somewhat agitated; he seemed endeavouring to recollect courage to go through with what he had begun During this pause, the silence of expectation rapt the court, and the eyes of the tribunal were directed alternately to Ansaldo and Schedoni, who certainly required something more [Page 185] than human firmness to support unmoved the severe scrutiny, and the yet severer suspicions, to which he stood exposed. Whether, however, it was the forti­tude of conscious innocence, or the hardihood of atro­cious vice, that protected the Confessor, he certainly did not betray any emotion. Vivaldi, who had un­ceasingly observed him from the commencement of the depositions, felt inclined to believe that he was not the penitent described. Ansaldo, having, at length, recol­lected himself, proceeded as follows:

"I have been through life," said the penitent, the [...]lave of my passions, and they have led me into horri­excesses. I had once a brother!"—He stopped, and deep groans again told the agony of his soul; at length, he added,—"that brother had a wife."—Now listen, father, and say, whether guilt like mine may hope for absolution? She was beautiful—I loved her: she was virtuous, and I despaired. You, father,' he continued in a frightful tone, 'never knew the fury of despair! It overcame or communicated its own force to every other passion of my soul, and I sought to release myself from its tortures by any means." My brother died!'—The penitent paused again,' con­tinued Ansaldo, 'I trembled while I listened; my lips were sealed. At length, I bade him proceed, and he spoke as follows.—'My brother died a distance from home.'—Again the penitent paused, and the silence continued so long, that I thought it proper to enquire of what disorder the brother had expired, 'Father, I was his murderer?' said the penitent, in a voice which I never can forget; it sunk into my heart."

Ansaldo appeared affected by the remembrance, and was for a moment silent. At the last words Vivaldi had particularly noticed Schedoni, that he might judge by their effect upon him whether he was guilty; but he remained in his former attitude, and his eyes were still fixed upon the ground.

[Page 186] "Proceed, father!" said the inquisitor, "what was your reply to this confession?"

"I was silent," said Ansaldo; "but at length I [...] the penitent go on. 'I contrived, said he, that my brother should die at a distance from home, and I so con­ducted the affair that his widow never suspected the cause of his death. It was not till long, after the usu­al time of mourning had expired, that I ventured to solicit her hand: but she had not yet forgotten my bro­ther, and she rejected me. My passion would no lon­ger be trifled with. I caused her to be carried from her house, and she was afterwards willing to retrieve her honour by the marriage vow. I had sacrified my conscience, without having found happiness;—she did not even condescend to conceal her disdain. Mortified, exasperated by her conduct, I began to sus­pect that some other emotion than resentment occasion­ed this disdain; and last of all, jealousy—jealousy came to crown my misery—to light up all my passions into madness!"

"The penitent," added Ansaldo, "appeared, by the manner in which he uttered this, to be nearly frantic at th [...] moment, and convulsive sobs soon stifled his words▪ when he resumed his confession, he said, "I soon found an object for my jealousy. Among the few persons who visited us in the retirement of our country resi­dence, was a gentleman, who, I fancied, loved my wife I fancied too, that whenever he appeared, an air of particular satisfaction was visible on her countenance.' She seemed to have pleasure in conversing with, and shewing him distinction. I even sometimes thought, she had pride in displaying to me the preference she entertained for him, and that an air of triumph, and even of scorn, was addressed to me, whenever she mentioned his name. Perhaps I mistook resentment for love, and she only wished to punish me, by exciting my jealousy. Fatal error! she punished herself also.

[Page 187] "Be less circumstantial, father," said the inquisitor.

Ansaldo bowed his head, and continued, "One e­vening" continued the penitent, "that I returned home unexpectedly, I was told that a visitor was with my wife! As I approached the apartment where they sat, I heard the voice of Sacchi; it seemed mournful and supplicating. I stopped to listen, and distinguished though to fire me with vengeance. I restrained my­self, however, so far as to step softly to a lattice that opened from the passage, and overlooked the apartment. The traitor was on his knee before her. Whether she had heard my step, or observed my face, through the high lattice, or that she resented his conduct, I know not, but she rose immediately from her chair. I did not pause to question her motive; but, seizing my stiletto, I rushed into the room, with intent to strike it to the villain's heart. The supposed assassin of my honor escaped into the garden, and was heard of no more"—But your wife? said I. "Her bosom receives the poignard!" replied the penitent."

Ansaldo's voice faultered, as he repeated this part of the confession, and he was utterly unable to proceed. The tribunal, observing his condition, allowed him a chair, and, after a struggle of some moments, he added, "Think, holy father, O think! what must have been my feelings at that instant! I was myself the lover of the woman, whom he confessed himself to have mur­dered."

"Was she innocent?" said a voice; and Vivaldi, whose attention had latterly been fixed upon Ansaldo, now, on looking at Schedoni, perceived that it was he who had spoken. At the sound of his voice, the peni­tentiary turned instantly towards him. There was a pause of a general silence, during which Ansaldo's eyes were earnestly fixed upon the accused. At length, he spoke, "She was innocent!" He replied, with so­lemn emphasis, "She was most virtuous!"

[Page 188] Schedoni had shrunk back within himself; he asked no further. A murmur ran through the tribunal, which rose by degrees, till it broke forth into audible conversation; at length, the secretary was directed [...] note the question of Schedoni.

"Was that the voice of the penitent, which you have just heard?" demanded the inquisitor of Ansaldo. "Remember, you have said that you should know it again!"

"I think it was," replied Ansaldo; "but I cannot swear to that."

"What infirmity of judgment is this!" said the same inquisitor, who himself was seldom troubled with the modesty of doubt, upon any subject. Ansaldo was bidden to resume the narrative.

"On this discovery of the murderer," said the pen­itentiary, "I quitted the confessional, and my senses forsook me before I could deliver orders for the detec­tion of the assassin. When I recovered it was too late; he had escaped! From that hour to the present, I have never seen him, nor dare I affirm that the person now before me is he."

The inquisitor was about to speak, but the grand-vicar waved his hand, as a signal for attention, and addressing Ansaldo, said, "Although you may be un­acquainted with Schedoni, the monk of the Spirito Santo reverend father, can you not recollect the person of the Count di Bruno, your former friend?"

Ansaldo again looked at Schedoni, with a scrutini­zing eye▪ he fixed it long; but the countenance of Sche­doni suffered no change.

"No!" said the penitentiary, at length, "I dare not take upon me to assert that this is the Count di Bruno. If it is he, years have wrought deeply on his features. That the penitent was the Count di Bruno I have proof; he mentioned my name as his visitor, and particular circumstances known [Page 189] only to the Count and myself; but that father Schedoni was the penitent, I repeat it, I dare not af­firm."

"But that dare I!" said another voice; and Vival­di, turning towards it, beheld the mysterious stranger advancing, his cowl now thrown back, and an air of [...] overspreading very terrific features. Sche­doni, in the instant that he perceived him, seemed agi­tated; his countenance, for the first time, suffered some change.

The tribunal was profoundly silent, but surprize, and a kind of restless expectation, marked every brow. Vivaldi was about to exclaim, "That is my inform­er!" when the voice of the stranger checked him.

"Dost thou know me?" said he sternly, to Sche­doni, and his attitude became fixed.

Schedoni gave no reply.

"Dost thou know me?" repeated the accuser, in a steady solemn voice.

"Know thee?" uttered Schedoni, faintly,

"Dost thou know this?" cried the stranger, rai­sing his voice, as he drew from his garment what ap­peared to be a dagger. "Dost thou know these in­delible stains?" said he, lifting the poignard, and with an outstretched arm, pointing it towards Schedoni.

The confessor turned away his face; it seemed as if his heart sickened.

"With this dagger was thy brother slain!" said the terrible stranger. "Shall I declare myself?"

Schedoni's courage forsook him, and he sunk a­gainst a pillar of the hall for support.

The Consternation was now general: the extra­ordinary appearance and conduct of the stranger seem­ed to strike the greater part of the tribunal, a tribunal of the inquisition itself! with dismay. Several of the members rose from their seats; others called aloud for the officials, who kept guard at the doors of the hall, [Page 190] and inquired who had admitted the stranger, while the vicar-general and a few inquisitors conversed private­ly together, during which they frequently looked [...] the stranger and at Schedoni, as if they were the sub­jects of the discourse. Meanwhile the Monk remain­ed with the dagger in his grasp, and his eyes fixed on the Confessor, whose face was still averted; and who yet supported himself against the pillar.

At length, the vicar-general called upon the mem­bers who had risen to return to their seats, and or­dered that the officials should withdraw to their posts.

"Holy brethern!" said the vicar, we recommend to you, at this important hour, silence and delibera­tion. Let the examination of the accused proceed; and hereafter let us inquire as to the admittance of the accuser. For the present, suffer him also to have hearing and the father Schedoni to reply.

"We suffer him!" answered the tribunal, and bow­ed their heads.

Vivaldi, who, during the tumult, had ineffectually endeavoured to make himself heard, now profited by the pause which followed the assent of the inquisitors, to claim attention: but the instant he spoke, several members impatiently bade that the examination should proceed, and the grand-vicar was again oblig­ed to command silence, before the request of Vivaldi could be understood. Permission to speak being grant­ed him, "That person," said he, pointing to the stranger, "is the same who visited me in my prison; and the dagger the same he now displays! It was he, who commanded me to summon the penitentiary An­saldo, and the father Schedoni. I have acquitted my­self, and have nothing further to do in this struggle."

The tribunal was again agitated, and the murmurs of private conversation again prevailed.

Meanwhile Schedoni appeared to have recovered some degree of self-command; he raised himself, and [Page 191] [...]owing to the tribunal, seemed preparing to speak; but waited till the confusion of sound that filled the hall should subside. At length he could be heard, and, addressing the tribunal, he said,

"Holy fathers! the stranger who is now before you is an impostor! I will prove that my accuser was once my friend;—you may perceive how much the discovery of his perfidy affects me. The charge [...] brings is most false and malicious!"

"Once thy friend!" replied the stranger, with pe­culiar emphasis, "and what has made me thy enemy! View these spots," he continued, pointing to the blade of the poignard, "are they also false and mali­cious? are they not, on the contrary, reflected on thy conscience!"

"I know them not," replied Schedoni, "my con­science is unstained."

"A brother's blood has stained it!" said the stran­ger in a hollow voice.

Vivaldi, whose attention was now fixed upon Sche­doni, observed a lived hue over-spread his complexion, and that his eyes were averted from this extraordinary person with horror; the spectre of his deceased brother could scarcely have called forth a stronger expression. It was not immediately that he could command his voice; when he could, he again appealed to the tri­bunal,

"Holy fathers!" said he, suffer me to defend my­self."

"Holy fathers!" said the accuser, with solemnity, "hear! hear what I shall unfold!"

Schedoni, who seemed to speak by a strong effort only, again addressed the inquisitors; "I will prove," said he, "that this evidence is not of a nature to be trusted."

"I will bring such proof to the contrary, said the monk "And here," pointing to Ansaldo, "is sufficient tes­timony, [Page 192] that the Count di Bruno did confess himself guilty of murder."

The court commanded silence, and upon the [...] of the stranger to Ansaldo, the penitentiary was asked whether he knew him. He replied that he did not,

"Recollect yourself," said the grand inquisitor:▪ it is of the utmost consequence that you should be cor­rect on this point."

The penitentiary observed the stranger with deep attention, and then repeated his assertion.

"Have you never seen him before?" said an in­quisitor.

"Never, to my knowledge!" replid Ansaldo.

The inquisitors looked upon each other in silence.

"He speaks the truth," said the stranger.

This extraordinary fact did not fail to strike the tribunal, and to astonish Vivaldi. Since the accuser confirmed it, Vivaldi was at a loss to understand the means by which he could have become acquainted with the guilt of Schedoni, who it was not to be sup­posed, would have acknowledged crimes of such mag­nitude as those contained in the accusation, to any per­son, except, indeed, to his confessor, and this confes­sor, it appeared, was so far from having betrayed his trust to the accuser, that he did not even know him. Vivaldi was no less perplexed as what would be the nature of the testimony with which the accuser design­ed to support his charges; but the pause of general amazement, which had permitted Vivaldi these consi­derations, was now at an end: the tribunal resumed the examination, and the grand inquisitor called aloud.

"You, Vincentio di Vivaldi, answer with exact­ness to the questions that shall be put to you."

He was then asked some questions relative to the person who had visited him in prison. In his answers, Vivaldi was clear and concise, constantly affirming, that the stranger was the same who now accused Schedoni.

[Page 193] When the accuser was interogated, he acknowledg­ed, without hesitation, that Vivaldi had spoken the truth. He was then asked his motive for that extraor­dinary visit.

"It was," replied the monk, "that a murderer might be brought to justice."

"This," observed the grand inquisitor, "might have been accomplished by fair and open accusation. If you had known the charge to be just, it is probable that you would have appealed directly to this tribunal, instead of endeavouring insiduously to obtain an influ­ence over the mind of a prisoner, and urging him to become the instrument of bringing the accused to pu­nishment."

"Yet I have not shrunk from discovery," observed the stranger, calmly; I have voluntarily appeared,"

At these words, Schedoni seemed again much agita­ted, and even drew his hood over his eyes.

"That is just," said the grand inquisitor, addressing the stranger:—but you have neither declared your name, or whence you come!"

To this remark the monk made no reply; but Sche­doni, with reviving spirit, urged the circumstance, in evidence of the malignity a [...]d falshood of the accuse [...].

"Wilt thou compel me to reveal my proof?" said the stranger: "Darest thou to do so?"

"Why should I fear thee?" answered Schedoni.

"Ask thy conscience, said the stranger, with a teri­ble frown.

The tribunal again suspended the examination, and consulted in private together.

To the last exhortation of the monk, Schedoni was silent. Vivaldi observed, that during this short dia­logue, the Confessor had never once turned his eyes towards the stranger, but apparently avoided him, as an object too affecting to be looked upon. He judg­ed, from this circumstance, and from some other ap­pearances [Page 194] in his conduct, that Schedoni was guilty▪ yet the consciousness of guilt alone did not perfectly account, he thought, for the strong emotion, with which he avoided the sight of his accuser—unless, in­deed, he knew the accuser to have been, not only an accomplice in his crime, but the actual assassin. In this case, it appeared natural even for the stern and subtle Schedoni to betray his horror, on beholding the person of the murderer, with the very instrument of the crime in his grasp. On the other hand, Vivaldi could not but perceive it to be highly improbable, that the very man who had really committed the deed, should come voluntarily into a court of justice, for the purpose of accusing his employer; that he should dare publicly to accuse him, whose guilt, however enormous, was not more so than his own.

The extraordinary manner, also, in which the accuser had proceeded in the commencement of the af­fair, engaged Vivaldi's consideration; his apparent reluctance to be seen in this process, and the artful and mysterious plan by which he had caused Schedoni to be summoned before the tribunal, and had endea­voured that he should be [...] accused by Ansaldo, indicated, at least to Vivaldi's apprehension, the fear­fulness of guilt, and, still more, that malice, and a thirst of vengeance, had instigated his conduct in the prose­cution. If the stranger had been actuated only by a love of justice, it appeared that he would not have pro­ceeded toward it in a way thus dark and circuitous, but have sought it by the usual process, and have pro­duced the proofs which he even now asserted he pos­sessed, of Schedoni's crimes. In addition to the cir­cumstances, [...] seemed to strengthen a supposition of the guiltlessness of Schedoni was that, of the accu­ser's avoiding to acknowledge who he was, and whence he came. But Vivaldi paused again upon this point; it appeared to be inexplicable, and he could not ina­gine [Page 195] why the accuser had adopted a style of secrecy, which, if, he persisted in it, must probably defeat the very purpose of the accusation; for Vivaldi did not believe that the tribunal would condemn a prisoner upon the testimony of a person, who, when called up­on▪ should publicly refuse to reveal himself, even to them. Yet the accuser must certainly have consider­ed this circumstance before he ventured into court; notwithstanding which, he had appeared!

These reflections led Vivaldi to various conjectures relative to the visit he had himself received from the monk, the dream that had preceded it, the extraor­dinary means by which he had obtained admittance to the prison, the declaration of the continels, that not any person had passed the door, and many other unac­countable particulars; and while Vivaldi now looked upon the wild physiognomy of the stranger, he almost fancied, as he had formerly done, that he beheld some­thing not of this earth.

"I have heard of the spirit of the murdered." said he, to himself—"restless for justice, becoming visible in our world—" But Vivaldi checked the imperfect thought, and, though his imagination inclined him to the marvellous and to admit ideas which, filling and expanded all the faculties of the soul, produce feelings that partake of the sublime, he now resisted the pro­pensity, and dismissed, as absurd, a supposition which had begun to thrill his every nerve with horror. He awaited, however the result of the examination, and what might be the further conduct of the stranger, with intense expectation.

When the tribunal had, at length, finally determined on the method of their proceedings, Schedoni was first called upon, and examined as to his knowledge of the accuser." It was the same inquisitor who had formerly interrogated Vivaldi, that now spoke. "You, father Schedoni, a monk of the Spirito Santo convent, at Na­ples, [Page 196] otherwise Ferando Count di Bruno, answer to the questions which shall be put to you. Do you know the name of this man who now appears as your accuser?"

"I answer not to the title of Count di Bruno," re­plied the Confessor, "but I will declare that I know this man. His name is Nicola di Zampari."

"What is his condition?"

"He is a monk of the Dominican convent of the Spirito Santo," replied Schedoni. "Of his family I know little."

Where have you seen him?"

"In the city of Naples, where he has resided, during some years, beneath the same roof with me, when I was of the convent of San Angiolo, and since that time, in the Spirito Santo."

"You have been a resident at the San Angiolo?" said the inquisitor.

"I have," replied Schedoni; "and it was there that we first lived together in the confidence of friend­ship."

"You now perceive how ill placed was that confi­dence," said the inquisitor, "and repent, no doubt, of your imprudence?"

The very Schedoni was not entrapped by this ob­servation.

"I must lament a discovery of ingratitude," he re­plied, calmy, "but the subjects of my confidence were too pure to give occasion for repentance."

"This Nicola di Zampari was ungrateful, then? You had rendered him services? said the inqui­sitor.

"Explain," said the stranger, solemnly.

Schedoni hesitated, some sudden consideration seem­ed to occasion him perplexity.

"I call upon you, in the name of your deceased bro­ther," said the accuser, "to reveal the cause of my enmity!"

[Page 197] Vivaldi, struck by the tone in which the stranger spoke this, turned his eyes upon him, but knew not how to interpret the emotion visible on his counte­nance

The inquisitor commanded Schedoni to explain himself; the latter could not immediately reply, but, when he recovered a self-command he added,

"I promised this accuser, this Nicola di Zampari, to assist his preferment with what little interest I possessed; it was but little. Some succeeding cir­cumstances encouraged me to believe that I could more than fulfil my promise. His hopes were eleva­ted, and in the fulness of expectation—he was disap­pointed, for I was myself deceived, by the person in whom I had trusted. To the disappointment of a cho­leric man, I am to attibute this unjust accusation."

Schedoni paused, and an air of dissatisfaction and anxiety appeared upon his features. His accuser re­mained silent, but a malicious smile announced his triumph.

You must declare, also the services," said the in­quisitor, "which merited the reward you promised."

"Those services were inestimable to me," resum­ed Schedoni, after a momentary hesitation; "though they cost di Zampari little: they were the consolations of sympathy, the intelligence of friendship, which he administered, and which gratitude told me never could be repaid."

"Of sympathy! of friendship!" said the grand-vi­car. Are we to believe that a man, who brings false accusation of so dreadful a nature as the one now be­fore us, is capable of bestowing the consolations of sympathy, and of friendship? You must either ac­knowledge, that services of a less disinterested nature won your promises of reward; or we must conclude hat your accuser's charge is just. Your assertions [...] inconsistent, and your explanation too trivial, to [...] for a moment."

[Page 198] "I have declared the truth," said Schedoni haugh­tily.

"In which instance?" asked the inquisitor; "for your assertions contradict each other!

Schedoni was silent. Vivaldi could not judge whether the pride which occasioned his silence was that of innocence or of remorse.

"It appears from your own testimonies," said the inquisitor, "that the ingratitude was your's, not your accuser's, since he consoled you with kindness, which you have never returned him!—Have you any thing further to say?"

Schedoni was still silent.

"This, then, is your only explanation?" added the inquisitor.

Schedoni bowed his head. The inquisitor, then ad­dressing the accuser, demanded what he had to reply.

"I have nothing to reply," said the stranger, with malicious triumph; "the accused has replied for me!"

"We are to conclude, then, that he has spoken truth, when he asserted you to be a monk of the Spiri­to Santo, at Naples?" said the inquisitor.

"You holy father," said the stranger, gravely, ap­pealing to the inquisitor, "can answer for me whether I am."

Vivaldi listened with emotion.

The inquisitor rose from his chair, and with solem­nity replied, "I answer then, that you are not a monk of Naples."

"By that reply," said the vickar-general, in a low voice to the inquisitor, "I perceive you think father Schedoni is guilty."

The rejoinder of the inquisitor was delivered in so low a tone that Vivaldi could not understand it. He [...] perplexed to interpret the answer given to the appeal of the stranger, He thought that the inquisitor would not have ventured an assertion thus p [...]tive, if [Page 199] his opinion had been drawn from inference only; and that he should know the accuser, while he was conduct­ing himself towards him as a stranger, amazed Vival­di, no less than if he had understood the character of an inquisitor to be as artless as his own. On the o­ther hand he had so frequently seen the stranger at Pa­luzzi, and in the habit of a monk, [...]hat he could hard­ly question the assertion of Schedoni, as to his identity.

The inquisitor, addressing Schedoni, said.—"Your evidence we know to be in part erroneous your ac­cuser is not a monk of Naples, but a servant of the most holy Inquisition. Judging from this part of your evidence, we must suspect the whole."

"A servant of the Inquisition!" exclaimed Sche­doni, with unaffected surprize. Reverend father! your assertion astonishes me! You are deceived! You doubt the cre [...]it of my word; I, therefore, will assert no more. But enquire of Signor Vivaldi ask him, whether he has not often, and lately, seen my accuser at Naples, and in the habit of a monk."

"I have seen him at the ruins of Paluzzi, near Naples, and in the ecclesiastical dress," replied. Vi­valdi, without waiting for the regular question, "and under circumstances no less extraordinary than those which have attended him here, But, in retur [...] [...]or this frank acknowledgement, I require of you, father Sche­doni, to answer some questions which I shall venture to suggest to the tribunal: By what means were you informed that I have often seen the stranger at Paluz­zi—and was you interrested or not in his mysterious conduct towards me there?"

To these questions, though formally delivered from the tribunal, Schedoni did not deign to reply.

"It appears, then," said the vicar-general, "that the accuser and the accused were once accomplices."

The inquisitor objected, that this did not certainly appear; and that, on the contrary, Schedoni seemed to [Page 200] have given his last questions in despair; an obser­vation which Vivaldi thought extraordinary from an Inquisitor.

"Be it accomplices, if it so please you," said Schedo­ni, bowing to the grand vicar, without noticing the inquisitor: you may call us accomplices—but, I say, that we were friends. Since it is necessary to my own peace, that I should more fully explain some cir­cumstances attending our intimacy, I will own that my accuser was occasionally my agent, and assisted in preserving the dignity of an illustrious family at Na­ples, the family of the Vivaldi. And there, holy fa­ther," added Schedoni, pointing to Vincentio, "is the son of that ancient house, for whom I have attempted so much!"

Vivaldi was almost overwhelmed by this confes­sion of Schedoni, though he had already suspected a part of the truth. In the stranger he believed he saw the slanderer of Ellena, the base instrument of the Marchesa's policy, and of Schedoni's ambition; and the whole of his conduct at Paluzzi, at least, seemed now intelligible. In Schedoni he beheld his secret ac­cuser, and the inexorable enemy whom he believed to have occasioned the imprisonment of Ellena. At this latter consideration, all circumspection, all prudence, forsook him; he declared, with energy, that, from what Schedoni had just acknowledged to be his con­duct, he knew him for his secret accuser, and the accuser also, of Ellena di Rosalba; and he called upon the tribunal to examine into the Confessor's motives for the accusation, and afterwards to give hearing to what he would himself unfold.

To this the grand-vicar replied, that Vivaldi's ap­peal would be taken into consideration: and he then ordered that the present business should proceed.

The inquisitor, addressing Schedoni said,—"The disinterested nature of your friendship is now suffici­ently [Page 201] explained, and the degree of credit, which is due to your late assertions, understood. Of you we ask no more, but turn to father Nicola di Zampari, and de­mand what he has to say in support of his accusation. What are your proofs, Nicola di Zampari, that he who calls himself father Schedoni is Ferando Count di Bruno; and that he has been guilty of murder, the murder of his brother, and of his wife? Answer to our charge!"

"To your first question," said the monk, I reply, that he has himself acknowledged to me, on an occa­sion, which it is not necessary to mention, that he was the Count di Bruno; to the last, I produce the poig­dard which I received, with the dying confession of the assassin whom he employed."

"Still these are not proofs, but assertions," observ­ed the vicar-general, "and the first forbids our con­fidence in the second.—If as you declare, Schedoni himself acknowleaged to you that he was Count di Bruno, you must have been to him the intimate friend he has declared you were, or he would not have co [...]id­ed to you a secret so dangerous to himself and if you were that friend, what confidence ought we to give to your assertions respecting the dagger? since, whether our accusations be true or false, you prove yourself guil­ty of treachery in bringing them forward at all.

Vivaldi was surprised to hear such candour from an Inquisitor.

"Here is my proof," said the stranger, who now produced a paper containing what he asserted to be the dying confession of the assassin It was signed by a priest of Rome, as well as by himself, and appeared, from the date, to have been given only a very few weeks before. The priest, he said, was living, and might be summoned. The tribunal issued an order for the apprehension of this priest, and that he should [...] brought to give evidence on the following evening; [Page 202] after which, the business of this night proceeded without further interruption, towards its conclu­sion.

The vicar-general spoke again, "Nicola di Zam­pari, I call upon you to say, why, if your proof of Schedoni's guilt is so clear, as the confession of the as­sassin himself must make it, why you thought it ne­cessary to summon father Ansaldo to attest the crimin­ality of the Count di Bruno! the dying confession of the assassin is certainly of more weight than any other evidence."

"I summoned the father Ansaldo," replied the stranger, "as a means of proving that Schedoni is the Count di Bruno. The confession of the assassin suf­ficiently proves the Count to have been the insti­gator of the murder, but not that Schedoni is the Count."

"But that is more than I will engage to prove," replied Ansaldo. "I know it was the Count di Bruno who confessed to me, but I do not know that the father Schedoni, who is now before me, was the person who [...]o confessed."

"Conscientiously observed!" said the vicar-general, interruptihg the stranger, who was about to reply, but you, Nicola di Zampari, have not on this head, been sufficiently explicit. How do you know that Schedoni is the penitent who confessed to Ansaldo on the vigil of San Marco?"

"Reverend father, that is the point I was about to explain," replied the monk. "I myself accompanied Schedoni, on the eve of San Marco, to the church of the Santa Maria del Pianto, at the very hour when the confession is said to have been made. Schedoni told me he was going to confession; and, when I observed to him his unusual agitation, his behaviour implied a consciousness of extraordinary guilt; he even be­trayed it by some words which he dropt in the confu­sion [Page 203] of his mind. I parted with him at the gates of [...] church. He was then of an order of white friars, and habited as father Ansaldo has described. Within a few weeks after this confession, he left his convent, for what reason I never could learn, though I have of­ten surmised it, and came to reside at the spirito Santo, whither I also had removed;"

"Here is no proof," said the vicar-general: "other friars, of that order, might confess at the same hour, in the same church."

"But here is a strong presumption for proof," ob­served the inquisitor. "Holy father, we must judge from probabilities, as well as from proof."

"But probabilities themselves," replied the vicar-general, "are strongly against the evidence of a man, who would betray another, by means of words dropped in the ungarded moments of powerful emotion."

"Are these the sentiments of an Inquisitor!" said Vivaldi to himself, "can such glorious candour ap­pear amidst the tribunal of an Inquisition!" Tears fel [...] fast on Vivaldi's cheek, while he gazed upon this just judge, whose candour, had it been exerted in his cause, could not have excited more powerful sensations of esteem and admiration. "An Inquisitor!" he re­peated to himself, "an Inquisitor!"

The inferior Inquisitor, howevr, was so far from possessing any congeniallity of character with his su­perior, that he was evidently disappointed by the ap­pearance of liberality, which the vicar-general disco­vered, and immediately said, "Has the accuser any thing further to urge in evidence, that the father, Sche­doni, is the penitent, who confessed to the penitentia­ry Ansaldo?"

"I have," replied the monk, with asperity "When I had left Schedoni in the church, I lingered without [...]he walls for his return, according to appointment. But he appeared considerably sooner than I expected, [Page 204] and in a state of disorder, such as I had never witnes­sed in him before. In an instant he passed me, nor could my voice arrest his progress. Confusion seem­ed to reign within the church and the convent, and, when I would have entered, for the purpose of inquir­ing the occasion of it, the gates were suddenly closed, and all entrance forbidden. It has since appeared, that the monks were then searching for the penitent. A rumour afterwards reached me, that a confession had caused this disturbance; [...]hat the father-confessor, who happened at that time to be the grand penitenti­ary Ansaldo, had left the chair in horror of what had been divulged from the grate, and had judged it ne­cessary that a search should be made for the penitent. who was a white friar. This report, reverend fathers, excited general attention; with me it did more—for I thought I knew the penitent. When on the fol­lowing day, I questioned Schedoni as to his sudden de­parture from the Black Penitents, his answers were dark, but emphatic, and he extorted from me a pro­mise, thoughtless that I was! never to disclose his visit of the preceeding evening to the Santa del Pian­to. I then certainly discovered who was the penitent,"

"Did he, then confess to you also?" said the vicar-general.

"No father. I understood him to be the penitent to whom the report alluded, but I had no suspicion of the nature of his crimes, till the assassin began his confession, the conclusion of which clearly explained the subject of Schedoni's; it explained also his motive for endeavouring ever after to attach me to his inter­est."

"You have now, said the Vicar-general," you have now confessed yourself a member of the covent of the Spirito Santo at Naples, and an intimate of the father Schedoni; one whom for many years he has endea­voured to attach to him. Not an hour has passed since [Page 205] you denied all this; the negative to the latter circum­stance was given, it is true, by implication only; but to the first, a direct and absolute denial was pronounc­ed!"

"I denied that I am a monk of Naples," replied the accuser, "and I appealed to the Inquisitor for the truth of my denial. He has said, that I am now a servant of the most holy Inquisition."

The vicar-general, with some surprize, looked at the Inquisitor for explanation, other members of the tribunal did the same; the rest appeared to understand more than they had thought it necessary to avow. The Inquisitor—who had been called upon, rose, and re­plied.

"Nichola di Zampari has spoken the truth. It is not many weeks since he entered the holy office. A certificate from his convent at Naples bears testimony to the truth of what I advance, and procured him ad­mittance here."

"It is extraordinary, that you should not have dis­closed your knowledge of this person before!" said the vickar general.

"Holy father, I had reasons," replied the Inqui­sitor, "you will recollect that the accused was pre­sent, and you will understand them."

"I comprehend you, said the vicar-general, "but I do neither approve of, nor perceive any necessity for your countenancing the subterfuge of this Nicola di Zampari, relative to his identity. But more of this in private."

"I will explain all there," answered the Inquisitor.

"It appears then" resumed the vicar-general, speaking aloud, "that this Nicola di Zampari was for­merly the friend and confidant of father Schedoni, whom he now accuses. The accusation is evidently malicious; whether it be also false, remains to be decided. A material question naturally arises out of [Page 206] the subject—Why was not the accusation brought forward before this period?"

The monk's visage brightened with the satis­faction of anticipated triumph, and he immediately re­plied.

"Most holy father! as soon as I ascertained the crime, I prepared to prosecute the perpetrator of it—A short period only has elapsed since the assassin gave his confession. In this interval I discovered, in these prisons, Signor Vivaldi, and immediately compre­hended by whose means he was confined. I knew enough both of the accuser and the accused, to under­stand which of these was innocent, and had then a double motive for causing Schedoni to be summoned;—I wished equally to deliver the innocent and punish the criminal. The question as to the mo­tive for my becoming the enemy of him, who was once my friend, is already answered: it was a sense of justice, not a suggestion of malice."

The grand-vicar smiled, but asked no further; and this long examination concluded with committing Schedoni again into close custody, till full evidence should be obtained of his guilt, or his innocence should appear. Respecting the manner of his wife's death, there was yet no other evidence than that which was asserted to be his own confession, which though perhaps sufficient to condemn a criminal before the tribunal of the Inquisition, was not enough to satisfy the present vicar-general, who gave direction, that means might be employed towards obtaining proof of each article of the accusation; in order that, Sche­doni be acquitted of the charge of having murdered his brother, documents might appear for prosecuting him respecting the death of his wife.

Schedoni, when he withdrew from the hall, bowed respectfully to the tribunal, and whether, notwith­standing late appearances, he were innocent, or that [Page 107] subtlety enable him to re-assume his usual address, it is certain his manner no longer betrayed any symptom of conscious guilt. His countenance was firm and even tranquil, and his air dignified. Vivaldi, who, during the greater part of this examination, had been convinced of his criminality, now only doubted his innocence. Vivaldi was himself reconducted to his prison, and the fitting of the tribunal was dissolved.

CHAP. XII.

WHEN the night of Schedoni's trial arrived, Vivaldi was again summoned to the hall of the tribu­nal. Every circumstance was now arranged accord­ing to the full ceremonies of the place; the members of the tribunal were more numerous than formerly at the examinations; the chief inquisitors wore habits of a fashion different from those, which before dis­tinguished them, and their turbans, of a singular form and larger size, seemed to give an air of sterner fero­city to their features. The hall, as usual, was hung with black, and▪ every person who appeared there, whether inquisitor, official, witness or prisoner, was habited in the same dismal hue, which together with the kind of light diffused through the chamber from lamps hung high in the vaulted roof, and from torches held by parties of officials who kept watch at the se­veral doors, and in different parts of this immense hall, gave a character of gloomy solemnity to the assembly, which was almost horrofic.

Vivaldi was situated in a place, whence he beheld the whole of the tribunal, and could distinguish what­ever was passing in the hall. The countenance of every member was now fully displayed to him by the torchmen, who, arranged at the steps of the platform on which the three chief inquisitors were elevated, ex­tended [Page 209] in a semicircle on either hand of the place oc­cupied by the inferior members. The red glare, which the torches threw upon the latter, certainly did not soften the expression of faces, for the most part sculptured by passions of dark malignity, or fiercer cruelty? and Vivaldi could not bear even to examine them long.

Before the bar of the tribunal, he distinguished Schedoni, and little did he suspect that in him, a cri­minal brought thither to answer for the guilt of mur­der—the murder of a brother, and of a wife, he be­held the parent of Ellena di Rosalba!

Near Schedoni was seated the penitentiary Ansal­do: the Roman priest, who was to be a principal wit­ness, and father Nicola di Zampari, upon whom Vi­valdi could not even now look without experiencing some what of the awe, which had prevailed over his mind when he was inclined to consider the stranger, rather as the vision of another world, than as a being of this. The same wild and indescribable character still distinguished his air, his very look and movement, and Vivaldi could not but believe that something in the highest degree extraordinary would yet be disco­vered concerning him.

The witnesses being called over, Vivaldi under­stood the he was placed among them, though he had only repeated the words which father Nicola had spo­ken, and which, since Nicola himself was present as a witness against Schedoni, he did not perceive could be in the least material on [...]he trial.

When Vivaldi had, in his turn, answered to his name, a voice, bursting forth from a stistant part of the hall, exclaimed, "It is my master! my dear mas­ter!" and on directing his eyes whence it came, he perceived the faithful Paulo struggling with his guard. Vivaldi called to him to be patient, and to forbear re­sistance, an exhortation, however, which served only [Page 210] to increase the efforts of the servant for liberty, and in the next instant he broke from the grasp of the offi­cials, and darting towards Vivaldi, fell at his feet, sob­bing, and clasping his knees, and exclaiming, "O my master! my master! have I found you at last?"

Vivaldi, much affected by this meeting as Paulo, could not immediately speak. He would, however, have raised and embraced his affectionate servant, but Paulo, still clinging to his knees and sobbing, was so much agitated that he scarcely understood any thing said to him, and to the kind assurances and gentle re­monstrances of Vivaldi constantly replied as if to the officers, whom he fancied to be forcing him away.

"Remember your situation, Paulo," said Vivaldi, "consider mine also, and be governed by prudence."

"You shall not force me hence!" cried Paulo, "you can take my life only once; if I must die, it shall be here."

"Recollect yourself, Paulo, and he composed. Your life, I trust, is in no danger."

Paulo looked up, and again, bursting into a passion of tears, repeated, "O! my master! my master! where have you been all this while? are you indeed alive? I thought I never should see you again! I have dreamt an hundred times that you were dead and bu­ried! and I wished to be dead and buried with you. I thought you was gone out of this world into the next. I feared you was gone to heaven, and so be­lieved we should never meet again. But now, I see you once more, and know that you live! O! my master! my master!"

The officers who had followed Paulo, now en­deavouring to withdraw him, he became more outra­geous.

"Do your worst at once," said Paulo, "but you shall find tough work of it, if you try to force me from [Page 211] hence; so you had better be contented with killing me here."

The incensed officials were laying violent hands upon him, when Vivaldi interposed. "I entreat, I supplicate you, said he, "that you will suffer him to remain near me."

"It is impossible," replied an officer, "we dare not."

"I will promise that he shall not even speak to me, if you will allow him to be near," added Vivaldi.

"Not speak to you, master!" exclaimed Paulo, "but I will stay by you, and speak to you as long as I like, till my last gasp. Let them do their worst at once; I defy them all, and all the devils of inquisitors it their heels too, to force me away. I can die but once, and they ought to be satisfied with that,—so what is there to be afraid of? Not speak!

"He knows not what he says," said Vivaldi to the officials, while he endeavoured to silence Paulo with his hand: "I am certain that he will submit to what­ever I shall require of him, and will be entirely si­lent; or if he does speak now and then, it shall be only in a whisper."

"A whisper!" said an officer, sneeringly, "do you suppose, Signor, that any person is suffered to speak in a whisper here?"

"A whisper!" shouted Paulo, "I scorn to speak in a whisper. I will speak so loud, that every word I say shall ring in the ears of all these old black devils on the benches yonder; aye, and those on that moun­tebank stage too, that sit there looking so grim and an­gry as if they longed to tear us in pieces. They"—

"Silence," said Vivaldi, with emphasis: "Paulo, I command you to be silent."

"They shall know a bit of my mind," continued Paulo, without noticing Vivaldi: "I will tell them what they have to expect for all their cruel usage of [Page 212] my poor master. Where do they expect to go when they die. I wonder? though for that matter, they can­not go to a worse place than they are in already, and I suppose it is, knowing that, which makes them not af­fraid of being ever so wicked. They shall hear a lit­tle plain truth, for once in their lives, however, they shall hear"—

During the whole of this harangue, Vivaldi, a­larmed for the consequence of such imprudent, though honest indignation, had been using all possible, effort to silence him, and was the more alarmed, since the officials made no further attempt to interrupt Paulo, a forbearance, which Vivaldi attributed to malignity, and to a wish that Paulo might be entrapped by his own act. At length, he made himself heard.

"I entreat," said Vivaldi.

Paulo stopped for a moment.

"Paulo!" rejoined Vivaldi, earnestly; "do [...] love your master?"

"Love my master!" said Paulo resentfully, without allowing Vivaldi to finish his sentence, "Have I [...] gone through fire and water for him? or, what is [...] good, have I not put myself into the Inquisition, and all on his account? and now to be asked, "Do I [...] my master!" If you believe, Signor, that any thing, else made me come here, into these dismal holes, you are quite entirely out; and when they have made an end of me, as I suppose they will do, before all is o­ver, you will, perhaps, think better of me than to sus­pect that I came here for my own pleasure."

'All that may be as you say, Paulo,' replied Vivaldi coldly, while he, with difficulty, commanded his tears "but your immediate submission is the only conduct that can convince me of the sincerity of your profes­sions. I entreat you to be silent."

"Entreat me!" said Paulo, "O my master! what [Page 213] have I done that it should come to this? Entreat me!" he repeated, sobbing.

"You will then give me this proof of your attach­ment?" asked Vivaldi.

"Do not use such a heart-breaking word again, master," replied Paulo, while he dashed the tears from [...] cheek, "such a heart-breaking word, and I will do [...] thing."

"You submit to what I require then, Paulo?"

"Aye, Signor, if—if it is even to kneel, at the feet of that devil of an Inquisitor, yonder."

"I shall only require you to be silent," replied Vi­valdi, "and you may then be permitted to remain [...] me."

"Well, Signor, well; I will do as you bid me, then, [...] only just say"—

"Not a syllable! Paulo," interrupted Vivaldi.

"Only just say, master"—

"Not a word, I entreat you!" added Vivaldi, "or you will be removed immediately."

"His removal does not depend on that," said one of the officials, breaking from his watchful silence he must go, and that without more delay."

"What! after I have promised not to open my [...]!" said Paulo, "do you pretend to break your a­greement?"

"There is no pretence, and there was no agree­ment," replied the man sharply, "so obey directly, or will be the worse for you."

The officials were provoked, and Paulo became [...] more enraged and clamorous, till, at length, the roar reached the tribunal, at the other end of the [...], and silence having been commanded, an in­spiry was made into the cause of the confusion. The consequence of this was, an order that Paulo [...]ould withdraw from Vivaldi; but, as at this mo­ment, he feared no greater evil, he gave his refusal [Page 214] to the tribunal with as little ceremony as he had [...] before to the officials.

At length, after much difficulty, a sort of compro­mise was made, and Paulo being soothed by his master into some degree of compliance, was suffered to remain within a short distance of him.

The business of the trial soon after commence [...]. Ansaldo, the penitentiary, and father Nicola, appeared as witnesses, as did, also the Roman priest, who ha [...] assisted in taking the depositions of the dying assassin. He had been privately interrogated, and had given clear and satisfactory evidence as to the truth of the paper produced by Nicola. Other witnesses, also, [...] been subpoenaed, whom Schedoni had no expection a meeting.

The deportment of the Confessor, on first entering the hall, was collected and firm; it remained unchanged when the Roman priest was brought forward; but, [...] the appearance of another witness his courage seem [...] to faulter. Before this evidence was however, [...] for, the depositions of the assassin were publicly [...]. They stated, with the closest conciseness, the chief fact [...] of which the following as a somewhat more [...] narrative.

It appeared, that about the year 1742, the late Count di Bruno had passed over into Greece, a journey which his brother, the present Confessor, having long [...] ­pected, had meditated to take advantage of. Though a lawless passion had first suggested to the dark [...] of Schedoni, the atrocious act, which should destroy brother, many circumstances and considerations he conspired to urge him towards its accomplish­ment. Among these was the conduct of the law Count towards himself. which however reasonable as it had contradicted his own selfish gratification and added strong reproof to opposition, had [...] his most inveterate hatred. Schedoni, who, as younger brother of his family, bore, at that time, [...] [Page 215] title of Count di Marinella, had dissipated his small patrimony at a very early age; but, though, suffering, might then have taught him prudence, it had only en­couraged him in duplicity, and rendered him more ea­ger to seek a temporary refuge in the same habits of extravagance which had led to it. The Count di Bruno, though his fortune was very limited, had af­forded frequent supplies to his brother; till, finding that he was incorrigible, and that the sums which he himself spared with difficulty from his family were wished, without remorse, by Marinella, instead of [...]eing applied, with economy, to his support, he re­fused further aid than was sufficient for his absolute necessities.

It would be difficult for a candid mind to believe how a conduct so reasonable could possibly excite hatred in any breast, or that the power of selfishness could so far warp any understanding, as to induce Marinella, whom we will, in future again call Sche­doni, to look upon his brother with detestation, because he had refused to ruin himself that his kinsman might level! Yet it is certain that Schedoni, terming the necessary prudence of di Bruno to be meanness and cold insensibility to the comfort of others, suffered full as much resentment towards him from system, as he [...] from passion, though the meanness and the insensi­bility he imagined in his brother's character were not only real traits in his own, but were displaying them­selves in the very arguments he urged against them.

The rancour this excited was cherished by innu­merable circumstances, and ripened by envy, that meanest and most maligment of the human passions; by envy of di Bruno's blessings, of an unencumbered estate, and, of a beautiful wife, he was tempted to per­petrate the deed, which might transfer these blessings [...]o himself. Spalatro, whom he [...] to this pur­pose, was well known to him, and he did not fear to [Page 216] confide the conduct or the crime to this man, who was to purchase a little habitation on the remote she of the Adriatic, and, with a certain stipend, to reside there. The ruinous dwelling, to which Ellena had been carried, as its solitary situation suited Schedoni's views, was taken for him.

Schedoni, who had good intelligence of all di Bru­no's movement, acquainted Spalatro, from time to time with his exact situation; and it was after di Bruno, on his return, had crossed the Adriatic, from Ragusi to Manfredonia, and was entering upon the woods of the Garganus, that Spalatro, with his comrade overtook him. They fired at the Count and his attendants, who were only a valet, and a guide of the country [...] and concealed among the thickets, they securely re­peated the attack. The shot did not immediately succeed, and the Count, looking round to discover his enemy, prepared to defend himself, but the firing was so rapidly sustained, that, at length, both di Bruno and his servant fell, covered with wounds. The guide fled.

The unfortunate travellers were buried by their as­sassins on the spot; but, whether the suspicion which attends upon the consciousness of guilt prompted Spa­latro to guard against every possibility of being be­trayed by the accomplice of his crime, or whatever was the motive, he returned to the forest alone; and, shrouded by night, removed the bodies to a pit, which he had prepared under the flooring of the house where he lived; thus displacing all proof, should his accom­plice hereafter point out to justice the spot in which he had assisted to deposit the mangled remains of di Bruno.

Schedoni contrived a plausible history of the ship­wreck of his brother upon the Adriatic, and of the loss of the whole crew; and, as no persons but the assassins were acquainted with the real cause of his death, the [Page 217] guide, who had fled, and the people at the only town he had passed through, since he landed, being igno­rant even of the name of di Bruno, there was not any circumstance to contradict the falshood. It was uni­versally credited, and even the widow of the Count had, perhaps, never doubted its truth; or if, after her com­pelled marriage with Schedoni, his conduct did awaken a suspicion, it was too vague to produce any serious consequence.

During the reading of Spalatro's confession, and par­ticularly at the conclusion of it, the surprize and dis­may of Schedoni were too powerful for concealment; and it was not the least considerable part of his won­der, that Spalatro should have come to Rome for the purpose of making these depositions; but further con­sideration gave him a conjecture of the truth.

The account, which Spalatro had given of his mo­tive for this journey to the priest, was, that, having lately understood Schedoni to be resident at Rome, he had followed him thither, with an intention of reliev­ing his conscience by an acknowledgment of his own crimes, and a disclosure of Schedoni's. This, however, was not exactly the fact. The design of Spalatro was to extort money from the guilty Confessor; a design, from which the latter beleived he had protected him­self, as well as from every other evil consequence, when he missed his late accomplice, respecting his place of residence; little foreseeing that the very artifice, which should send this man in search of him to Rome, in­stead of Naples, would be the means of bringing his crimes before the public.

Spalatro had followed the steps of Schedoni as far as the town at which he steps, on the first night of his journey; and, having there passed him, had reached the villa di Cambrusca, when, perceiving the Confessor approaching, he had taken shelter from observation, within the ruin. The motive, which before made [Page 218] him shrink from notice, had contributed, and still did so, to a suspicion that he aimed at the life of Sche­doni, who in wounding him, believed he had saved himself from an assassin. The wounds, however, of Spalatro did not so much disable him, but that he pro­ceeded towards Rome from the town whence the parting road had conducted his master towards Na­ples.

The fatigue of a long journey, performed chiefly on foot, in Spalatro's wounded condition, occasioned a fever, that terminated together his journey and his life; and in his last hours he had unburdened his conscience by a full confession of his guilt. The priest, who, on this occasion, had been sent for alarmed by the im­portance of the confession, since it implicated a living person, called in a friend as witness to the depositions This witness was father Nicola, the former intimate of Schedoni, and who was of a character to rejoice in any discovery, which might punish a man from whose repeated promises he had received only severe disap­pointments.

Schedoni now perceived that all his designs against Spalatro had failed, and he had meditated more than have yet been fully disclosed. It may be remembered, that on parting with the peasant, his conductor, the Confessor, gave him a stiletto to defend him, as he said, from the attack of Spalatro, in case of encounter­ing him on the road. The point of this instrument was tipped with poison; so that a scratch from it was sufficient to inflict death. Schedoni had, for many years secretly carried about him such an envenomed instrument, for reasons known only to himself. He had hoped, that, should the peasant meet Spalatra, and he provoked to defend himself, this stiletto would ter­minate the life of his accomplice, and relieve him from all probability of discovery, since the other assassin, whom he employed, had been dead several years. The [Page 219] expedient failed in every respect; the peasant did not even see Spalatro; and, before he reached his home, he luckily lost the fatal stiletto, which, as he had disco­vered himself to be acquainted with some circumstances connected with the crimes of Schedoni, the Confessor would have wished him to keep, from the chance, that he might some time injure himself in using it. The poignard, as he had no proper means of fastening it to his dress, had fallen, and was carried away by the tor­rent he was crossing at that moment.

But, if Schedoni had been shocked by the confession of the assassin, his dismay was considerably greater, when a new witness was brought forward, and he per­ceived an ancient domestic of his house. This man identified Schedoni for Ferando Count di Bruno, with whom he had lived as a servant after the death of the Count his brother. And not only did he bear testi­mony to the person of Schedoni, but to the death of the Countess, his wife. Giovanni declared himself to be one of the domestics who had assisted in convey­ing her to her apartment, after she had been struck by the poignard of Schedoni, and who had afterwards at­tended her funeral in the church of the Santa del Mir­acoli, a convent near the late residence of di Bruno. He further affirmed, that the physicians had reported her death to be in consequence of the wound she had received, and he bore witness to the flight of his ma­ster, previous to the death of the Countess, and im­mediately upon the assassination, and that he had never publicly appeared upon his estate since that period.

An inquisitor asked, whether any measures had been taken by the relations of the deceased lady toward a prosecution of the Count.

The witness replied, that a long search had been made for the Count, for such a purpose, but that he had wholly eluded discovery, and that, of course, no fur­ther [Page 220] step had been taken in the affair. This reply ap­peared to occasion dissatisfaction;—the tribunal was silent, and seemed to hesitate: the vicar-general then addressed the witness.

"How can you be certain that the person now be­fore you, calling himself father Schedoni, is the Count di Bruno, your former master, if you have never seen him during the long interval of years you mention?"

Giovanni, without hesitation, answered,—that though years had worn the features of the Count he re­collected them the moment he beheld him; and not the Count only, but the person of the penitentiary Ansaldo, whom he had seen a frequent visiter at the house of di Bruno, though his appearance, also, was considerably changed by time, and by the ecclesiastical habit which he now wore.

The vicar-general seemed still to doubt the evi­dence of this man, till Ansaldo himself, on being call­ed upon remembered him to have been a servant of the Count, though he could not identify the Count himself.

The grand inquisitor remarked, that it was extra­ordinary he should recollect the face of the servant, yet forget that of the master, with whom he had liv­ed in habits of intimacy. To this Ansaldo replied, that the stronger passions of Schedoni, together with [...] particular habits of life, might reasonably be sup­posed to have wrought a greater change upon the fea­tures of the Count than the character and circum­stances of Giovanni's could have effected on his.

Schedoni, not without reason, was appalled, on the appearance of this servant, whose further testimony gave such clearness and force to some other parts of the evi­dence, that the tribunal pronounced sentence upon Schedoni, as the murderer of the Count his brother; and as this, the first charge, was sufficient for his con­demnation to death, they did not proceed upon the se­cond, that which related to his wife.

[Page 221] The emotion betrayed by Schedoni on the appear­ance of the last witness, and during the delivery of the evidence, disappeared when his fate became certain; and when the dreadful sentence of the law was pro­nounced, it made no visible impression on his mind. From that moment, his firmness or his hardihood ne­ver forsook him.

Vivaldi, who witnessed his condemnation, appeared infinitely more affected by it than himself, and, though in revealing the circumstance of father Nicola's sum­mons, which had eventually led to the discovery of Schedoni's crimes, he had not been left a choice in his conduct, he felt, at this moment, as miserable as if he had actually borne witness against the life of a fellow being: what, then, would have been his feelings, had he been told that this Schedoni, thus condemned, was the father of Ellena di Rosalba! But, whatever these might be, he was soon condemned to experience them. One of the most powerful of Schedoni's passions ap­peared even in this last scene; and as, in quitting the tribunal, he passed near Vivaldi he uttered these words—"In me you have murdered the father of Ellena di Rosalba!

Not with any hope that the intercession of Vivaldi, himself also a prisoner, could in the least mitigate a sentence pronounced by the Inquisition, did he say this, but for the purpose of revenging himself for the evil, which Vivaldi's evidence had contributed to produce, and inflicting the exquisite misery such information must give. The attempt succeeded too well.

At first, indeed, Vivaldi judged this to be only the desperate assertion of a man, who believed his last chance of escaping the rigour of the law to rest with him; and, at the mention of Ellena, forgetting every precaution, he loudly demanded to know her situation. Schedoni, throwing upon him an horrible smile of tri­umph and derision, was passing forward without [Page 222] re­plying, but Vivaldi, unable to support this state of uncertainty, asked permission, of the tribunal to con­verse a few mements, with the prisoner; a request which was granted with extreme reluctance, and only on condition that the conversation should be public.

To Vivaldi's questions, as to the situation of Elle­na, Schedoni only replied, that she was his daughter, and the solemnity, which accompanied these repeated assertions, though it failed to convince Vivaldi of this truth, occasioned him agonizing doubt and apprehen­sion; but when the Confessor, perceiving the policy of disclosing her place of residence to Vivaldi, softened from his desire of vengeance of secure the interest of his family, and named the Santa della Pieta as her present asylum, the joy of such intelligence overcame for a short time, every other consideration.

To this dialogue, however, the officials put a spee­dy conclusion; Schedoni was led back to his cell, and Vivaldi was soon after ordered to his former close con­finement.

But Paulo became again outrageous, when he was about to be separated from his master, till the latter, having petitioned the tribunal, that his servant might accompany him to his prison, and received an abso­lute refusal, endeavoured to calm the violence of his despair. He fell at his master's feet, and shed tears, but he uttered no further complaints. When he rose he turned his eyes in silence upon Vivaldi, and they seemed to say "Dear master! I shall never see you more!" and with this sad expression, he continued to gaze on him till he had left the hall.

Vivaldi notwithstanding the various subjects of his distress, could no [...] bear to meet the piteous looks of this poor man, and he withdrew his eyes; yet, at every o­ther step he took, they constantly returned to his faith­ful servant, till the doors folded him from sight.

When he had quitted the hull, Vivaldi pleaded, [Page 223] however hopelessly, to the officials, in favour of Paulo, entreating that they would speak to the persons who kept guard over him, and prevail with them to shew him every allowable indulgence.

"No indulgence can be allowed him," replied one of the men, "except bread and water, and the liberty of walking in his cell."

"No other!" said Vivaldi.

"None," repeated the official. "This prisoner has been near getting one of his guards into a scrape already, for, somehow or other, he so talked him over, and won upon him, (for he is but a young one here) that the man let him have a light, and a pen and ink; but luckily, it was found out before any harm was done."

"And what became of this honest; fellow?" inqui­red Vivaldi.

"Honest! he was none so honest, either Signor, if he could not mind his duty."

"Was he punished, then?"

"No, Signor," replied the man, pausing, and look­ing back upon the long avenue they were passing, to inquire whether he was observed to hold this conver­sation with a prisoner: "no, Signor, he was a younk­er, so they let him off for once, and sent him to guard a man, who was not so full of his coaxing ways."

"Paulo made him merry, perhaps?" asked Vi­valdi. "What were the coaxing ways you spoke of?"

"Merry, Signor! no! he made him cry, and that was as bad."

"Indeed!" said Vivaldi, "The man must have been here, than, a very short time."

"Not more than a month, or so, Signor."

"But the coaxing ways you talked of," repeated Vivaldi, "what were they;—a ducat, or so?"

"A ducat!" exclaimed the man, "no! not a Poolo!"

[Page 224] "Are you sure of that? cried Vivaldi, shrewdly.

"Aye, sure enough, Signor. This fellow is not worth a ducat in the world!"

"But his master is friend," observed Vivaldi, in a very low voice, while he put some money into his hand.

The officer made no answer, but concealed the mo­ney, and nothing further was said.

Vivaldi had given this as a bribe to procure some kindness for his servant, not from any consideration of himself, for his own critical situation had ceased at this time to be a subject of anxiety with him. His mind was at present strangely agitated between emotions the most opposite in their nature, the joy which a discovery of Ellena's safety inspired, and the horrible suspicions that Schedoni's assurances of re­lationship occasioned. That his Ellena was the daughter of a murderer, that the father of Ellena should be brought to an ignominious death, and that he himself, however unintentionally, should have assist­ed to this event, were considerations almost too horrible to be sustained! Vivaldi sought refuge from them in various conjectures as to the motive, which might have induced Schedoni to assert a flashood in this instance; but that of revenge alone appeared plau­sible; and even this surmise was weakened, when he considered that the confessor had assured him of Elle­na's safety, an assurance which, as Vivaldi did not de­tect the selfish policy connected with it, he believed Schedoni would not have given, had his general in­tent towards him been malicious. But it was pos­sible, that this very information, on which all his com­fort reposed might be false, and had been given only for the purpose of inflicting the anguish a discovery of the truth must load to! With an anxiety so in­tense, as almost to overcome his faculty of judging, he examined every minute probability relative to this [Page 225] point, and concluded with beleiving that Schedoni, had in this last instance, at least, spoken honestly.

Whether he had done so in his first assertion was a question, which had raised in Vivald's mind a tempest of conjecture and of horror; for, while the subject of it was too astonishing to be fully believed, it was, also, too dreadful, not to be apprehended even as a possibi­lity.

CHAP. XIII.

WHILE these events were passing in the prisons of the Inquisition at Rome, Ellena, in the sanctuary of Our Lady of Pity, remained ignorant of Schedoni's ar­rest, and of Vivaldi's situation. She understood that the Confessor was preparing to acknowledge her for his daughter, and believed that she comprehended also the motive for his absence; but, though he had forbid­den her to expect a visit from him till his arrangement should be completed, he had promised to write in the mean time, and inform her of all the present circum­stances of Vivaldi; his unexpected silence had excited, therefore apprehensions as various, though not so terri­ble, as those Vivaldi had suffered for her; nor did the silence of Vivaldi himself appear less extraordinary.

"His confinement must be severe indeed," said the afflicted Ellena, "since he cannot relieve my anxiety by a single line of intelligence. Or, perhaps, harrassed by unceasing opposition, he has submitted to the com­mand of his family, and has consented to forget me. Ah! why did I leave the opportunity for that com­mand to his family; why did I not enforce it myself!

Yet, while she uttered this self-reproach, the tears she shed contradicted the pride which had suggested it; and a conviction lurking in her heart that Vivaldi could not so resign her, soon dissipated those tears. But other conjectures recalled them; it was possible that he was ill—that he was dead!

[Page 227] In such vague and gloomy surmise, her days passed away; employment could no longer withdraw her from herself, nor music, even for a moment, charm away the sense of sorrow; yet she regularly partook of the vari­ous occupations of the nuns; and was so far from per­mitting herself to indulge in any useless expression of anxiety, that she had never once disclosed the sacred sub­ject of it; so that, though she could not assume an air of cheerfulness, she never appeared otherwise than tran­quil. Her most soothing, yet perhaps most melancho­ly hour, was when about sun-set she could wit draw unnoticed, to the terrace among the rocks, that over­looked the convent, and formed a part of its domain. There, alone and relieved from all ceremonial restraints of the society, her very thoughts seemed more at liberty As, from beneath the light foliage of the accacias, or the more majestic shade of the plane-trees that waved their branches over the many coloured cliffs of this ter­race, Ellena looked down upon the magnificent scenery of the bay, it brought back to memory, in sad, yet plea­sing detail, the many happy days she had passed on those blue waters, or on the shores, in the society of Vivaldi and her departed relative Bianchi; and every point of the prospect marked by such remembrance, which the veiling distance stole, was rescued by imagination, and pictured by affection in tints more animated than those of brightest nature.

One evening Ellena had lingered on the terrace la­ter than usual. She had watched the rays retiring from the highest points of the horizon, and the fading imagery of the lower scene, till, the sun having sunk into the waves, all colouring was withdrawn, except an empur­pling and reposing hue, which overspread the waters and the heavens, and blended in soft confusion every feature of the landscape. The roofs and slender spires of the Santa del Pieta, with a single tower of the church rising loftily over every other part of the buildings that [Page 228] composed the convent, were fading fast from the eye; but the solemn tint that invested them accorded so well with their style, that Ellena was unwilling to relinquish this interesting object. Suddenly she perceived through the dubious light an unusual number of moving figures in the court of the great cloister, and listening, she fan­cied she could distinguish the murmuring of many voices. The white drapery of the nuns rendered them conspi­cuous as they moved, but it was impossible to ascertain who were the individuals engaged in this bustle. Pre­sently the assemblage dispersed; and Ellena, curious to understand the occasion, of what she had observed, pre­pared to descend to the convent.

She had left the terrace, and was about to enter a long avenue of chesnuts that extended to a part of the convent, communicating immediately with the great court, when she heard approaching steps, and, on turn­ing into the walk, perceived several persons advan­cing in the shady distance. Among the voices, as they drew nearer, she distinguished one whose inte­resting tone engaged all her attention, and began also to awaken memory. She listened, wondered, doubted, hoped and feared!—It spoke again! Ellena though she could not be deceived in those tender accents, so full of intelligence, so expressive of sensibility and re­finement. She proceeded with quicker steps, yet fal­tered as she drew near the group, and paused to dis­cern whether among them was any figure that might accord with the voice and justify her hopes.

The voice spoke again; it pronounced her name; pronounced it with the tremblings of tenderness and impatience, and Ellena scarcely dared to trust her sen­ses, when she beheld Olivia, the nun on San Stefano, in the cloisters of the Della Pieta!

Ellena co [...]ld find no words to express her joy and surprize on beholding her preserver in safety, and in these quiet groves; but Olivia repaid all the affectio­ate [Page 229] caresses of her young friend, and, while she promis­ed to explain the circumstance that had led to her pre­sent appearance here, she, in her turn, made numerous enquiries relative to Ellena's adventures after she had quitted San Stefano. They were now, however, surrounded by too many auditors to allow of unreser­ed conversation; Ellena, therefore, led the nun to her apartment, and Olivia then explained her reasons for having left the convent of San Stefano, which were indeed sufficient to justify, even with the most rigid devotee, her conduct as to the change. This unfor­tunate recluse, it appeared, persecuted by the suspicions of the abbess, who understood that she had assisted in the liberation of Ellena, had petitioned the bishop of her diocese for leave to remove to the Santa della Pic­ta. The abbess had not proof, to proceed formally against her, as an accomplice in the escape of a no­vice, for though Jeronimo could have supplied the re­quisite evidence, he was too deeply implicated in this adventure to do so, without betraying his own con­duct. From his having withheld such proof, it ap­pears, however, that accident, rather than design, had occasioned his failure on the evening of Ellena's de­parture from the monastery. But, though the abbess had not testimony enough for legal punishment, she was acquainted with circumstances sufficient to justi­fy suspicions, and had both the inclination and the power to render Olivia very miserable.

In her choice of the Santa della Pieta, the nun was influenced by many considerations some of which were the consequence of conversations she had held with Ellena respecting the state of that society. Her design she had been unable to disclose to her freind, lest by a discovery of such correspondence, the abbess of San Stefano should obtain grounds on which to pro­ceed against her. Even in her appeal to the bishop the utmost caution and secrecy had been necessary, till [Page 230] the order for her removal, procured not without con­siderable delay and difficulty, arrived, and when it came, the jealous anger of the superior rendered an imme­diate departure necessary.

Olivia, during many years, had been unhappy in her local circumstances, but it is probable she would have concluded her days within the walls of San Ste­fano, had not the aggravated oppression of the abbess aroused her courage and activity, and dissipated the despondency, with which severe misfortune had ob­scured her views.

Ellena was particular in her inquiries whether any person of the monastery had suffered for the assistance they had given her; but learned, that not one, except Olivia, had been suspected of befriending her; and then understood, that the venerable friar, who had dar­ed to unfasten the gate which restored her with Vival­di to liberty, had not been involved by his kindness.

"It is an embarrassing and rather an unsual cir­cumstance," concluded Olivia, "to change one's con­vent; but you perceive the strong reasons which de­termined me upon a removal. I was, however, per­haps, the more impatient of severe treatment, since you, my sister, had described to me the society of Our Lady of Pity, and since I believed it possible that you might form a part of it. When, on my arrival here, I learned that my wishes had not deceived me on this point, I was impatient to see you once more, and as soon as the ceremonies attending an introduction to the superior were over, I requested to be conduct­ed to you, and was in search of you when we met in the avenue. It is unnecessary for me to insist upon the satisfaction, which this meeting gives me; but, you may not, perhaps, understand how much the man­ners of our lady abbess, and of the sisterhood in gene­ral, as far as a first interview will allow me to judge of them, have re-animated, me. The gloom, which [Page 231] has long hung over my prospects, seems now to open, and a distant gleam promises to light up the evening of my stormy day."

Olivia paused and appeared to recollect herself; this was the first time she had made so direct a reference to own her misfortunes: and, while Ellena silently remarked it, and observed the dejection, which was already stealing upon the expressive countenance of the nun, she wished, yet feared to lead her back to­wards the subject of them.

Endeavouring to dismiss some painful remem­brance, and assuming a smile of languid gaiety, Oli­via said, "Now that I have related the history of my removal, and sufficiently indulged my egotism, will you, let me hear what adventures have befallen you, my young friend, since the melancholy adieu you gave me in the gardens of San Stefano."

This was a task, to which Ellena's spirits, though revived by the presence of Olivia, were still unequal, Over the scenes of her past distress. Time had not yet drawn his shadowing veil; the colours were all too fresh and garish for the meek dejection of her eye, and the subject was too intimately connected with that of her present anxiety, to be reviewed without very painful feelings. She therefore requested Oli­via to spare her from a detail of particulars, which she could not recollect but with extreme reluctance; and, scrupulously observing the injunction of Schedoni, she merely mentioned her separation from Vivaldi upon the banks of the Celano, and that a variety of distres­sing circumstances had intervened before she could re­gain the sanctuary of the della Pieta.

Olivia understood too well the kind of feelings, from which Ellena was desirous of escaping, willingly to subject her to renewal of them and felt too much generous compassion for her sufferings not to endea­vour to soothe the sense of them by an exertion of [Page 232] those delicate and nameless arts, which, while they mock detection, fascinate, the weary spirits as by a charm of magic!

The friends continued in conversation, till a chime from a chapel of the convent summoned them to the last vespers; and when the service had concluded, they separated for the night

With the society of the Santa della Pieta, Olivia had this found an asylum such as till lately she had never dared to hope for; but though she frequently expressed her sense of this blessing, it was seldom without tears; and Ellena observed, with some surprise and more dis­appointment, within a few days after her arrival, a cloud of melancholy spreading again over her mind.

But a nearer interest soon withdrew Ellena's atten­tion from Olivia to fix it upon Vivaldi; and, when she saw her infirm old servant, Beatrice, enter a cham­ber of the convent, she anticipated that the knowledge of some extraordinary, and probably unhappy event, had brought her. She knew too well the circum­spection of Schedoni to believe that Beatrice came commissioned from him: and as the uncertain situa­tion of Vivaldi was so constantly the subject of her anxiety, she immediately concluded that her servant came to announce some evil relative to him.—His in­disposition, perhaps his actual confinement in the Inquisition, which lately she had sometimes been in­clined to think might not have been a mere menace to Vivaldi, though it had proved to be no more to her­self;—or possibly she came to tell of his death—his death in those prisons! This last was a possibility that almost incapacitated her for inquiring what was the errand of Beatrice.

The old servant, trembling and wan, either from the fatigue of her walk, or from a consciousness of dis­astrous intelligence, seated herself without speaking, and some moments elapsed before she could be pre­vailed [Page 233] with to give an answer the repeated inquiries of Ellena.

"O Signora!" said she, at length, "you do not know what it is to walk up hill such a long way, at my age! Well! heaven protect you, I hope you ne­ver will!"

"I perceive you bring ill news," said Ellena; "I am prepared for it, and you need not fear to tell me all you know."

"Holy San Marco!" exclaimed Beatrice, "if death be ill news, you have guessed right, Signora, for I do bring news of that, it is certain. How came you, La­dy, to know my errand? They have been before­hand with me, I see, though I have not walked so fast up hill this many a day, as I have now to tell you what has happened."

She stopped on observing the changing countenance of Ellena, who tremulously called upon her to ex­plain what had happened—who was dead; and en­treated her to relate the particulars as speedily as pos­sible.

"You said you was prepared, Signora," said Bea­trice, "but your looks tell another tale."—

"What is the event you would disclose?" said El­lena, almost breathless. "When did it happen?—be brief."

"I cannot tell exactly when it happened, Signora, but it was an own servant of the Marchese's that I had it from.

"The Marchese's?" interrupted Ellena in a faul­tering voice.

"Aye, Lady; you will say that is pretty good au­thority."

"Death! and in the Marchese's family!" exclaim­ed Ellena.

"Yes, Signora, I had it from his own servant. He was passing by the garden-gate just as I happened to [Page 234] be speaking to the maccaroni-man.—But you are ill, Lady!—

"I am very well, if you will but proceed," replied Ellena, faintly, while her eyes were fixed upon Bea­trice, as if they only had power to enforce her mean­ing.

"Well, dame," he says to me, "I have not seen you of along time." "No," says I, "that is a great grievance truly! for old women, now-a-days, are not much thought of; out of sight, out of mind with them, now a-days!"

"I beseech you to the purpose," interrupted Ellena. "Whose death did he announce?" She had not cour­age to pronounce Vivaldi's name.

"You shall hear, Signora. I saw he looked in a sort of bustle, so I asked him how all did at the Palaz­zo; so he answers, "Bad enough, Signora Beatrice, have not you heard?" "Heard," says I; "what should I have heard?" "Why," says he, "of what has just happened in our family."

"O heavens!" exclaimed Ellena, "he is dead! Vivaldi is dead!"

"You shall hear, Signora," continued Bea­trice."

"Be brief!" said Ellena, "answer me simply yes or no,"

"I cannot, till I come to the right place, Signora; if you will but have a little patience, you shall hear all. But if you fluster me so, you will put me quite out."

"Grant me patience!" said Ellena, endeavouring to calm her spirits.

"With that, Signora, I asked him to walk in and rest himself, and tell me all about it. He answered, he was in a great hurry, and could not stay a moment, and a great deal of that sort; but I, knowing that whatever happened in that family, Signora, was some­thing [Page 235] to you, would not let him go off so easily; and so, when I asked him to refresh himself with a glass of lemon-ice, he forgot all his business in a minute, and we had a long chat."

And Beatrice might now have continued her cir­cumlocution, perhaps, as long as she had pleased, for Ellena had lost all power to urge inquiry, and was scarcely sensible of what was said. She neither spoke, nor shed a tear; the one image that possseed her fancy, the image of Vivaldi dead, seemed to held all her faculties, as by a spell.

"So, when I asked him," added Beatrice, "again what had happened, he was ready enough to tell all a­bout it. "It is near a month ago," said he, "since she was first taken; the Marchesa had been"—

"The Marchesa!" repeated Ellena, with whom that one word had dissolved the spell of terror—"the Marchesa!"

"Yes, Signora, to be sure. Who else did I say it was!"

"Go on, Beatrice; the Marchesa?"—

"What makes you look so glad all of a sudden, Sig­nora? I thought just now you were very sorry about it. What! I warrant you was thinking about my young lord, Vivaldi."

"Proceed," said Ellena.

"Well added Beatrice, "It was about a month ago that the Marchesa was first taken," continued the var­let. "She had seemed poorly a long time, but it was from a conversazione at the di Voglio palazzo, that she came home so ill. It is supposed she had been long in a bad state of health, but nobody thought her so near her end, till the doctors were called together; and then matters looked very bad indeed. They found out that she had been dying, or as good, for many years, though nobody else had suspected it, and the Marchesa's own physician was blamed for not finding it out before. But he added the rougue, "He had a regard for my [Page 236] lady. He was very obstinate too, for he kept saying almost to the last, there was no danger, when every body else saw how it was going. The other doctors soon made their words good, and my lady died."

"And her son',—said Ellena, "was he with the Marchesa when she expired?"

"What, Signor Vivaldi, lady? No, the Signor was not there."

"That is very extraordinary!" observed Ellena, with emotion' "Did the servant mention him?"

Yes, Signora; he said what a sad thing it was that he should be out of the way at that time, and nobody know where?"

"Are his family, then, ignorant where he is?" as­ked Ellena with encreased emotion.

"To be sure they are, lady, and have been for these many weeks. They have heard nothing at all of the Signor, or one Paulo Mendrico, his servant, though the Marchesa's people have been riding post after them from one end of the kingdom to the other all the time!"

Shocked with the conviction of a circumstance, which, till lately she scarcely believed was possible, the imprisonment of Vivaldi in [...]he Inquisition, Ellena lost for a while all power of further inquiry; but Beatrice proceeded.

"The Lady Marchesa seemed to lay something much to heart, as the man told me, and often inquir­ed for Signor Vincentio."

"The Marchesa you are sure then was ignorant where he was?" said Ellena, with new astonishment and perplexity as to the person who, after betraying him into the Inquisition, could yet have suffered her, though arrested at the same time to escape.

"Yes, Signora, for she wanted sadly to see him. And when she was dying, she sent for her Confessor, one father Schedoni, I think they call him and"—

"What of him?" said Ellena incautiously.

[Page 237] "Nothing, Signora, for he could not he found."

"Not to be found!" repeated Ellena.

"No, Signora, not just then; he was Confessor, I warrant, to other people beside the Marchesa, and I dare say they had sins enough to confess, so he could not get away in a hurry."

Ellena recollected herself sufficiently to ask no fur­ther of Schedoni; and when she considered the pro­pable cause of Vivaldi's arrest, she was again consol­ed by a belief that he had not fallen into the power of [...]eal officials, since the comrades of the men who had arrested him, had proved themselves otherwise; and she thought it highly probable, that while undiscovered by his family, he had been, and was still engaged in searching for the place of her confinement.

"But I was saying," proceeded Beatrice, "what a bustle there was when my lady, the Marchesa was dying. As this father Schedoni was not to be found, another Confessor was sent for, and shut up with her for a long while indeed! And then my Lord Marchese was called in, and there seemed to be a deal going forward, for my Lord was heard every now and then by the attendants in the anti-chamber, talking loud, and sometimes my Lady Marchesa's voice was heard too, though she was so ill! At last all was silent, and a [...]ter some time my Lord came out of the room, and he seemed very much flustered they say, that he is, very angry and yet very sorrowful. But the Confessor re­mained with my Lady for a long while after; and, when he departed, my Lady appeared more unhappy than ever. She lived all that night and part of the next day, and something seemed to lie very heavy at her heart, for she sometimes wept, but oftener groaned, and would look so that, it was piteous to see her. She frequently asked for the Marchese, and when he came, the attendants were sent away, and they held long conferences by themselves. The Confessor, also was [Page 238] sent for again, just at the last, and they were all shut up together. After this, my Lady appeared more easy in her mind, and not long after she died."

Ellena, who had attended closely to this little narra­tive, was prevented, for the present from asking the few questions which it had suggested by the en­trance of Olivia, who, on perceiving a stranger, was retiring, but Ellena, not considering these inquiries as important, prevailed with the nun to take a chair at the embroidery frame she had lately quitted.

After conversing for a few moments with Olivia, she returned to a consideration of her own interests. The absence of Schedoni still appeared to her as some­thing more than accidental; and, and though she could not urge any inquiry with Beatrice, concerning the monk of the Spirito Santo, she ventured to ask whether she had lately seen the stranger, who had re­stored her to Altieri, for Beatrice knew him only in the character of Ellena's deliver.

"No, Signora," replied Beatrice, rather sharply, "I have never seen his face since he attended you to the villa, though for that matter, I did not see much of it there; and then how he contrived to let himself out of the house that night without my seeing him, I cannot divine, though I have thought of it often enough since. I am sure he need not to have been a­shamed to have shewn his face to me, for I should on­ly have blessed him for bringing you safe home again."

Ellena was somewhat surprized to find that Bea­trice had noticed a circumstance apparently so trivial, and replied, that she had herself opened the door for her protector.

While Beatrice spoke, Olivia raising her eyes from the embroidery, had fixed them upon the old servant, who respectfully withdrew her's; but, when the nun was again engaged on her work, she resumed her ob­servation. Ellena fancied she perceived something [Page 239] extraordinary in this mutual examination, although the curiosity of strangers towards each other might have accounted for it,

Beatrice then received directions from Ellena as to, s [...]me drawings, which she wished to have sent to the convent, and when the servant spoke in reply, Olivia again raised eyes, and fixed them on her face with intense curiosity.

"I certainly ought to know that voice," said the nun, with great emotion, "thought I dare not judge from your features. Is it,—can it be possible?—is it Beatrice Olca, to whom I speak? So many years have passed."—Beatrice, with equal surprise, ans­wered, "It is, Signora; you are right in my name. But, lady, who are you that know me?"

While she earnestly regarded Olivia, there was an expression of dismay in her look, which increased El­lena's perplexity. The nun's complexion varied every instant, and her words failed when she attempt­ed to speak. Beatrice meanwhile, exclaimed "My eyes deceive me! yet there is a strange likeness. San­ta della Pieta! how it has fluttered me! my heart beats still—you are so like her, lady, yet you are very different too."

Olivia, whose regards were now entirely fixed up­on Ellena, said in a voice that was scarcely articulate, while her whole frame seemed sinking beneath some irresistible feeling, "Tell me, Beatrice, I conjure you, quickly say, who is this?"—She pointed to Ellena, and the sentence died on her lips.

Beatrice, wholly occupied by interests of her own, [...]ave no reply, but exclaimed, "It is, in truth, the Lady Olivia! It is herself! In the name of all that is sacred, how came you here? O! how glad you must have been to find one another out!" She looked, still gasping with astonishment at Olivia, while Ellena unheard, repeatedly enquired the meaning of her words, [Page 240] and in the next moment found herself pressed to the bosom of the nun, who seemed better to have under­stood them, and who weeping, trembling, and almost fainting, held her there in silence.

Ellena, after some moments had thus passed, re­quested an explanation of what she witnessed, and Bea­trice, at the same time, demanded the cause of all this emotion. "For can it be that you did not know one another?" she added.

"What new discovery is this?" said Ellena, fear­fully to the nun. "It is but lately that I have found my father! O tell me by what tender name I am to call you?"

"Your father! exclaimed Olivia.

"Your father, lady!" echoed Beatrice.

Ellena, betrayed by strong emotion into this pre­mature mention of Schedoni, was embarrassed and re­mained silent.

"No, my child!" said Olivia, softening from a­mazement into tones of ineffable sorrow, while she a­gain pressed Ellena to her heart—"No! thy father is in the grave!"

Ellena no longer returned her caresses; surprize and doubt suspended every tender emotion; she gazed upon Olivia with an intenseness that partook of wildness. At length, she said, slowly—"It is my mother, then, whom I see! When will these discove­ries end!"

"It is your mother!" replied Olivia, solemnly: a mother's blessing rests with you!"

The nun endeavoured to soothe the agitated spirits of Ellena, though she was herself nearly overwhelmed by the various and acute feelings this disclosure occa­sioned. For a considerable time they were unable to speak but in short sentences of affectionate exclama­tion, but joy was evidently a more predominant feel­ing with the parent than with the child. When, how­ever, [Page 241] Ellena could weep, she became more tranquil, and, by degrees, was sensible of a degree of happiness, such as she had, perhaps, never experienced.

Meanwhile Beatrice seemed lost in amazement mingled with fear. She expressed no pleasure, not­withstanding the joy she witnessed, but was uniform­ly grave and observant.

Olivia, when she recovered some degree of com­posure, inquired for her sister Bianchi. The silence and sudden dejection of Ellena indicated the truth. On this mention of her late mistress, Beatrice recovered the use of speech.

"Alas! lady," said the old servant, "she is now where I believed you were! and I should as soon have expected to see my dear mistress here as yourself.

Olivia, though affected by this intelligence, did not feel it with the acuteness she would have done proba­bly at any other moment. After she had indulged her tears, [...]he added, that from the unusual silence of Bi­anchi, she had suspected the truth, and particularly since not any answer had been returned to the letter she had sent to Altieri upon her arrival at the Santa del­la Pieta.

"Alas!" said Beatrice, "I wonder much my lady abbess failed to tell you the sad news, for she knew it too well!—My dear mistress is buried in the church here! as for the letter, I have brought it with me for Signora Ellena to open."

"The lady abbess is not informed of our relation­ship," replied Olivia, "and I have particular reasons for wishing that at present she should remain ignorant of it. Even you my Ellena, must appear only as my friend, till some enquiries have been made which are essential to my peace."

Olivia required an explanation of Ellena's late ex­traordinary assertion respecting her father, but this was a request made with emotions very different from [Page 242] those which hope or joy inspire. Ellena believing that the same circumstances which had deceived herself during so many years, as to his death, had also misled Olivia, was not surprised at the incredulity her mother had shewn, but she was considerably embarrassed how to answer her enquiries. It was now too late to ob­serve the promise of secrecy extorted from her by Sche­doni: the first moments of surprise had betrayed her; yet while she trembled further to transgress his injunc­tion, she perceived that a full explanation was now unavoidable. And, since Ellena considered, that as Schedoni could not have foreseen her present peculiar situation, his command had no reference to her mother, her scruples on this head disappeared. When, there­fore, Beatrice had withdrawn, Ellena repeated her as­sertion, that he father still lived; which, though it encreased the amazement of Olivia, did not vanquish her incredulity. Olivia's tears flowed fast, while in con­tradiction to this assurance, she mentioned the year in which the Count di Bruno died, with some circum­stances relative to his death; which however, as El­lena understood that her mother had not witnessed it, she still believed it had not happened. To confirm her late assertion, Ellena then related a few particulars of her second interview with Schedoni, and some confir­mation that he lived, offered to produce the portrait, which he had claimed as his own. Olivia, in great agitation, requested to see the minature, and Ellena left the apartment in search of it.

Every moment of her absence was to Olivia's ex­pectation [...] hour; she p [...]ced the room listened [...]or a [...] endeavoured to tranquilize her spirit [...], and [...] did not return. Some strange mystery seemed to lurk in the narrative she had just [...], which she wished, yet dreaded to develope; and when, at length, Ellena appeared with the mina­ure, she took it in trembling [...] and having [Page 243] gazed upon it for an instant, her complexion faded and she fainted.

Ellena had now no doubt respecting the truth of Schedoni's declaration, and blamed herself for not hav­ing more gradually prepared her mother for the know­ledge of a circumstance, which she believed had over­whelmed her with joy. The usual applications, however, soon restored Olivia, who, when she was again alone with her daughter, desired to behold once more the portrait. Ellena attributing the strong emo­tion with which she still regarded it, to surprise, and fear lest she wa [...] admitting a fallacious hope, endea­voured to comfort her by renewed assurances, that not only the Count di Bruno yet existed, but that he lived at this very time in Naples, and further, that he would probably be in her presence within the hour. "When I quitted the room for the minature," added Ellena, "I dispatched a person with a note, requesting to see my father immediately, being impatient to re­alize the joy, which such a meeting between my long lost parents must occasion."

In this instance, Ellena had certainly suffered her generous sympathy to overcome her discretion, for, [...]hough the contents of the note to Schedoni could not positively have betrayed him, had he even been in Naples at this time, her sending it to the Spirito San­to, instead of the place which he had appointed for his letters, might have led to a premature inquiry respect­ing herself.

While Ellena had acquainted Olivia that Schedo­ni would probably be with them soon, she watched eagerly for the joyful surprise she expected would appear on her countenance; how severe th [...]n was her disappointment when only terror and dismay were expressed there! and, when, in the next moment, her mother uttered exclamations of distress and even of despair!

[Page 244] "If he sees me," said Olivia, "I am irrecoverably lost! O! unhappy Ellena! your precipitancy has destroyed me. The original of this portrait is not the Count di Bruno, my dear lord, nor, your parent, but his brother, the cruel husband."—

Olivia, left the sentence unfinished, as if she was betraying more than was at present discreet; but Elle­na, whom astonishment had kept silent, now entreated that she would explain her words, and the cause of her distress.

"I know not said Olivia, "by what means that portrait has been conveyed to you; but it is the resem­blance of the Count Ferando di Bruno, the brother of my lord, and my"—second husband she should have said, but her lips refused to honor him with the title.

She paused and was much affected, but presently added—

"I cannot at present explain the subject more fully, for it is to me a very distressing one. Let me rather consider the means of avoiding an interview with di Bruno, and even of concealing, if possible, that I exist."

Olivia was however, soothed when she understood that Ellena had not named her in the note, but had merely desired to see the Confessor upon a very par­ticular occasion.

While they were consulting upon the excuse it would be necessary to form for this imprudent sum­mons, the messenger returned with the note unopened, and with information that father Schedoni was abroad on a pilgrimage, which was the explanation the bro­thers of the Spirito Santo chose to give of his ab­sence; judging it prudent, for the honor of their con­vent, to conceal his real situation.

Olivia, thus released from her fears, consented to ex­plain some points of the subject so interesting to El­lena; [Page 245] but is was not till several days after this dis­covery, that she could sufficiently command her spirits to relate the whole of her narrative. The first part of it agreed perfectly with the account delivered in the confession to the penitentiary Ansaldo; that which follows was known only to herself, her sister Bianchi, a physician, and one faithful servant, who had been considerably entrusted with the conduct of the plan.

It may be recollected that Schedoni left his house immediately after the act, which was designed to be fa­tal to the Countess his wife, and that she was carried senseless to her chamber. The wound as appears was not mortal. But the atrocity of the intent determin­ed her to seize the opportunity thus offered by the ab­sence of Schedoni, and her own peculiar circum­stances to release herself from his tyranny without ha­ving recourse to a court of justice, which would have covered with infamy the brother of her first husband. She withdrew, therefore, from his house for ever, and with the assistance of the three persons before men­tioned, retired to a remote part of Italy, and sought refuge in the convent of San Stefano, while at home the report of her death was confirmed by a public funeral. Bianchi remained for some time after the de­parture of Olivia, in her own residence near the vil­la di Bruno, having taken under her immediate care the daughter of the Countess and of the first Count di Bruno, as well as an infant daughter of the second.

After some time had clapsed, Bianchi withdrew with her young charge, but not to the neighbourhood of San Stefano. The indulgence of a mother's tender­ness was denied to Olivia, for Bianchi could not re­side near the convent without subjecting her to the ha­zard of discovery, since Schedoni, though he now believed the report of her death, might be led to doubt it by the conduct of Bianchi, whose steps would pro­bably be observed by him. She chose a refider [...], [Page 246] therefore, at a distance from Olivia, though not yet at Altieri. At this period, Ellena was not two years old; the daughter of Schedoni was scarcely as many months, as she died before the year concluded. It was this his child for whom the Confessor, who had too well concealed himself to permit Bianchi to acquaint him with her death, had mistaken Ellena, and to which mistake his own portrait, affirmed by Ellena to be that of her father, had contributed. This minature she had sound in the cabinet of Bianchi after her aunt's decease, and, observing it inscribed with the title of Count di Bruno, she had worn it with a filial fondness ever since that period.

Bianchi, when she had acquainted Ellena with the secret of her birth, was withheld both by prudence and humanity, from intrusting her with a knowledge that her mother lived; but this, no doubt, was the circum­stance she appeared so anxious to disclose on her death­bed, when the suddenness of her disorder had deprived her of the power. The abruptness of that event had [...] contributed to keep the mother and daughter un­known to each other, even when they afterwards acci­dentally met, to which concealment the name of Rosal­ba, given to Ellena from her infancy by Bianchi, for the purpose of protecting her from discovery by her uncle, had assisted. Beatrice, who was not the domes­tic intrusted with the escape of Olivia, had believed the report of her death, and thus, though she knew Ellena to be the daughter of the Countess di Bruno, she could never have been a means of discovering them to each other, had it not happened that Olivia re­cognized this ancient servant of Bianchi, while Ellena was present.

When Bianchi came to reside in the neighbourhood of Naples, she was unsuspicious that Schedoni, who has never been heard of since the night of the assassi­nation, inhabited there; and she so seldom left her [Page 247] house, that it is not surprising she should never hap­pen to meet him, at least consciously; for her veil, and the monk's cowl, might easily have concealed them from each other if they had met.

It appears to have been the intention of Bianchi to disclose to Vivaldi the family of Ellena, before their nuptials, were solemnized; since, on the evening of their last conversation, she had declared, when her spi­rits were exhausted by the exertion she had made, that much remained for her to say, which weakness obliged her to defer till another opportunity. Her unexpected death prevented any future meeting. That she had not sooner intended to make a communication, which might have removed, in a considerable degree, the objection of the Vivaldi to a connection with El­lena, appears extraordinary till other circumstances of her family, than that of its nobility, are considered. Her present indigence, and yet more, the guilt attach­ed to an individual of the di Bruno, it was reasonable to suppose would operate as a full antidote of the al­lurement of rank, however jealous of birth the Vival­di had proved themselves.

Ferando di Bruno had contrived, even in the short interval between the death of his brother and the sup­posed decease of his wife, again to embarrass his affairs, and soon after his flight, the income arrising from what remained of his landed property had been seized upon by his creditors, whether lawfully or not, he was then in a situation which did not permit him to con­test and Ellena was thus left wholly dependant upon her aunt. The small fortune of Bianchi had been di­minished by the assistance she afforded Olivia, for whose admittance into the convent of San Stefano it had been necessary to advance a considerable sum; and her original income was afterwards reduced by the purchase of the villa Altieri. This expenditure, how­ever, was not an imprudent one, since she preferred [Page 248] the comforts and independence of a pleasant home; with industry, to the indulgence of an indolence which must have confined her to an inferior residence; and was acquainted with the means of making this industry profitable without being dishonourable. She excelled in many elegant and ingenious arts, and the produc­tions of her pencil and needle were privately disposed of to the nuns of the Santa della Pieta. When Elle­na was of an age to assist her, she resigned much of the imployment and profit to her niece, whose genius hav­ing unfolded itself, the beauty of her designs and the elegance of her execution, both in drawing and em­broidery, were so highly valued by the purchasers at the grace of the convent, that Bianchi committed to Ellena altogether the exercise of her art

Olivia meanwhile had dedicated her life to devo­tion in the monastery of San Stefano, a choice which was willingly made while her mind was yet softened by grief for the death of her first lord, and wearied by the cruelty she had afterwards experienced. The first years of her retirement were passed in tranquility, ex­cept when the remembrance of her child, whom she did not dare to see at the convent, awakened a paren­tal pang. With Bianchi, she, however, correspond­ed as regularly as opportunity would allow, and had at least the consolation of knowing, that the object most dear to her lived, till, within a short period of Ellena's arrival at the very asylum chosen by her mo­ther, her apprehensions were in some degree excited by the unusual silence of Bianchi.

When Oliva had first seen Ellena in the chapel of San Stefano, she was struck with a slight resemblance she bore to the late Count di Bruno, and had fre­quently afterwards examined her features with a most painful curiosity; but, circumstanced as she was, Oli­via could not reasonably suspect the stranger to be her daughter. [...], however, a sense of this possibility [Page 249] so far overcame her judgment, as to prompt an inqui­ry for the sirname of Ellena; but the mention of Ro­salba had checked all further conjecture. What would have been the feelings of the nun, had she been told when her generous compassion was assisting a stran­ger to escape from oppression, that she was preserving her own child! It may be worthy of observation, that the virtues of Olivia, exerted in a general cause, had thus led her unconsciously to the happiness of saving her daughter; while the vices of Schedoni had as unconsciously urged him nearly to destroy his niece, and had always been preventing by the means they prompted him to employ, the success of his constant aim.

CHAP. XIV.

THE Marchesa di Vivaldi, of whose death Bea­trice had given an imperfect account, struck with re­morse of the crime she had meditated against Ellena, and with terror of the punishment due to it, had sent, when on her death bed, for a Confessor, to whom she unburthened her conscience and from whom she hoped to receive, in return, an alleviation of her des­pair. This confessor was a man of good sense and humanity; and, when he fully understood the story of Vivaldi and Ellena di Rosalba, he declared, that her only hope of forgiveness both for the crime she had meditated, and the undeserved sufferings she had occa­sioned, rested upon her willingness to make those now happy, whom she had formerly rendered miserable. Her conscience had already given her the same lesson; and, now that she was sinking to that grave which levels all distinctions, and had her just fear of retribu­tion no longer opposed by her pride, she became as anxious to promote the marriage of Vivaldi with Ellena, as she had ever been to prevent it. She sent, therefore, for the Marchese; and, having made an avowal of the arts she had practised against the peace and reputation of Ellena, without, however, confessing the full extent of her intended crimes, she made it her last request, that he would consent to the happiness of his son.

The Marchese, however, shocked as he was at this discovery of the duplicity and cruelty of his wife, had neither her terror of the future, or remorse for the [Page 251] past, to overcome his objection to the rank of Ellena; and he resisted all her importunity, till anguish of her last hours overcame every consideration but that of affording her relief; he then gave a solemn promise, in the presence of the Confessor, that he would no longer oppose the marriage of Vivaldi and Ellena, should the former persist in his attachment to her. This promise was sufficient for the Marchesa, and she died with some degree of resignation. It did not, however, appear probable, the Marchese would soon be called upon to fulfil the engagements, into which he had so unwillingly entered, every inquiry after Vival­di having been hitherto ineffectual.

During the progress of this fruitless search for his son, and while the Marchese was almost lamenting him as dead, the inhabitants of the Vivaldi place were, one night, aroused from sleep by a violent knocking at the great gate of the court. The noise was so loud and incessant, that, before the porter could obey the summons, the Marchesa, whose apartment looked up­on the court, was alarmed, and sent an attendant from his anti-room, to inquire the occasion of it.

Presently a voice was heard from the first anti­chamber, exclaiming, "I must see my Lord Marchese directly; he will not be angry to be waked, when he knows all about it," and, before the Marchese could order that no person, on whatever, pretence should be admitted, Paulo, haggard, ragged, and covered with dirt, was in the chamber. His [...] and affrighted coun­tenance, his disordered dress, and his very attitude, as on entering he half turned to look back upon the anti­rooms, like one, who just escaped from bondage, listens to the fancied sounds of [...], were altogether so striking and and terrific, that the Marchese, anticipa­ting some dreadful news of Vivaldi, had scarcely pow­er to inquire for him. Paulo, however, rendered questions unnecessary; for, without any circumloca­tion [Page 252] or preface, he immediately informed the Mar­chese, that the Signor, his dear master was in the pri­sons of the Inquisition, at Rome, if, indeed, they had not put an end to him before that time."

"Yes, my Lord," said Paulo, "I am just got out myself, for they would not let me be with the Signor so it was of no use to stay there any longer. Yet it was a hard matter with me to go away, and leave my dear master within those dismal walls; and nothing should have persuaded me to do so, but that I hoped, when your Lordship knew where the Signor was, yet might be able to get him out. But there is not minute to be lost, my Lord, for when once a gentle­man has got within the claws of those inquisitors, there as no knowing how soon they may take it in their heads to tear him in pieces. Shall I order horses for Rome, my Lord? I am ready to set off again directly.

The suddenness of such intelligence, concerning an only son, might have agitated stronger nerves that those of the Marchese, and so much was he shocked be it, that he could not immediately determine how [...] proceed or give any answer to Paulo's repeated ques­tions. When, however, he became sufficiently [...] collected to make further inquiry into the situation Vivaldi he perceived the necessary of an [...] journey; but, first, it would be prudent to consult with some friends, whose connections at Rome might be means of greatly facilitating the important purpose which led him thither, and this could not be done [...] the following morning. Yet he gave orders, that pre­paration should be made for his setting out at a mo­ment's notice; and, having listened to as full an ac­count as Paulo could give of the past and present cir­cumstances of Vivaldi, he dismissed him to repose for the remainder of the night.

Paulo, however, though much in want of rest, [...] in too great an agitation of Spirits either to seek or [Page 253] find it; and the fear he had indicated, on entering the Marchese's apartment, proceeded from the hurry of his mind, rather than from any positive apprehension of new evil. For his liberty he was indebted to the young centinel, who had, on a former occasion, been removed from the door of his prison, but who, by means of the guard, to whom Vivaldi had given mo­ney, as he returned one night from the tribunal, had since been able to communicate with him. This man, of a nature too humane for his situation, was become wretched in it, and he determined to escape from his office before the expiration of the time, for which he had been engaged. He thought, that to be a guard [...]ver prisoners was nearly as miserable as being a pri­soner himself. "I see no difference between them," [...] he, "except that the prisoner watches on one side of the door, and the centinel on the other."

With the resolution to release himself, he conferred with Paulo, whose good nature and feeling heart, a­mong so many people of a contrary character, had won [...]is confidence and affection, and he laid his plan of escape so well, that it was on the point of succeeding, when Paulo's obstinacy, in attempting an impossibility and nearly counteracted the whole. It went to his heart, he said, to leave his master in prison, while he himself was to march off in safety, and he would run [...] risk of his neck, rather than have such a deed upon [...] head. He proposed, therefore, as Vivaldi's guards were of too ferocious a nature to be tampered with, to scale, a wall of the court into which a grate of Vi­valdi's dungeon looked. But had this lofty wall been practicable, the grate was not; and the attempt had nearly cost Paulo not only his liberty, but his life.

When, at length, he had made his way through the perilous avenues of the prison, and was fairly beyond the walls, he could hardly be prevailed upon by his companion to leave them. For near an hour, he [Page 254] wandered under their shade, weeping and exclaiming, and calling upon his dear master, at the evident ha­zard of being retaken; and probably would have re­mained there much longer, had not the dawn of morn­ing rendered his companion desperate. Just, however, as the man was forcing him away, Paulo fancied he distinguished, by the strengthening light, the roof of that particular building, in whose dungeon his master was confined, and the appearance of Vivaldi himself, could scarcely have occasioned a more sudden burst of joy; succeeded, by one of grief, "It is the roof, it is the very roof!" exclaimed Paulo, vaulting from the ground, and clapping his hands: "it is the roof, the roof! O, my master, my master! the roof, the roof!" He continued, alternately, to exclaim, "My master! the roof! my master! the roof! till his companion began to fear he was frantic, while tears streamed down his cheeks, and every look and gesture expressed the most extravagant and whimsical union of joy and sor­row. At length the absolute terror of discovery com­pelled his companion to force him from the spot; when, having lost sight of the building which inclosed Vivaldi, he set off for Naples with a speed that defied all interruption, and arrived there in the condition, which has been mentioned, having taken no sleep, and scarcely any sustenance, since he left the inquisition. Yet, though in this exhausted state, the spirit of his affection remained unbroken and when, on the follow­ing morning, the Marchese quitted Naples neither his weariness, nor the iminent danger, to which this jour­ney must expose him, could prevent his attending him to Rome.

The rank of the Marchese, and the influence he was known to possess at the court of Naples, were circum­stances that promised to have weight with the Holy Office, and to procure Vivaldi a speedy release; but yet more than these, were the high connections which the [Page 255] Count di Maro, the friend of the Marchese, had in the church of Rome.

The applications, however, which were made to the Inquisitors, were not so soon replied to as the wishes of the Marchese had expected, and he had been above a fortnight in that city, before he was even per­mitted to visit his son. In this interview, affection predominated on both sides over all [...]emembrance of the past. The condition of Vivaldi, his faded appear­ance to which the wounds he had received at Celano, and from which he was scarcely recovered, had contri­buted; and his situation in a melancholy and terrible prison, were circumstances that awakened all the ten­derness of the father; his errors were forgiven, and the Marchese felt disposed to consent to all that might re­store him to happiness, could he but be restored to liberty.

Vivaldi, when informed of his mother's death, shed bitter tears of sorrow and remorse, for having occasion­ed her so much uneasiness. The unreasonableness of her claims was forgotten, and her faults were extenua­ted; happily, indeed, for his peace, the extent of her criminal designs he had never understood; and when he learned that her dying request had been intended to promote his happiness, the cruel consciousness of having interrupted her's, occasioned him severe an­guish, and he was obliged to recollect her former con­duct towards Ellena at San Stefano, before he could become reconciled to himself.

CHAP. XV.

NEAR three weeks had elapsed since the Mar­chese's arrival at Rome, and not any decisive answer was returned, by the Inquisition, to his application when he and Vivaldi received, at the same time, a sum­mons to attend father Schedoni in his dungeon. To meet the man who had occasioned so much suffering to his family, was extremely painful to the Marchese, but he was not allowed to refuse the interview; and at the hour appointed he called at the chamber of Vivaldi; and, followed by two officials, they passed on together to that of Schedoni.

While they waited at the door of the prison-room, till the numerous bars and locks were unfastened, the agitation, which Vivaldi had suffered, on receiving the summons, returned with redoubled force, now that he was about to behold, once more, that wretched man, who had announced himself to be the parent of Ellena di Rosalba. The Marchese suffered emotions of a dif­ferent nature, and with his reluctance to see Schedoni, was mingled a degree of curiosity, as to the event, which had occasioned this summons.

The door being thrown open, the officials entered first, and the Marchese and Vivaldi, on following, dis­covered the confessor lying on a mattress. He did not rise to receive them, but, as he li [...]ted his head, and bow­ed it in obeisance, his countenance, upon which the little light admitted through the triple grate of his dun­geon gleamed, seemed more than usually ghastly; his eyes were hollow, and his shrunk features appeared as [Page 257] if death had already touched them.—Vivaldi, on per­ceiving him, groaned, and averted his face; but, soon recovering a command of himself, he approached the mattress.

The Marchese, suppressing every expression of re­sentment towards an enemy, who was reduced to this deplorable condition, inquired what he had to commu­nicate.

"Where is father Nicola?" said Schedoni, to an official, without attending to the question: "I do not, see him here. Is he gone so soon, and without having heard the purport of my summons? Let him be called."

The official spoke to a centinel, who immediately left the chamber.

"Who are these that surround me?" said Schedo­ni. "Who is he that stands at the foot of the bed?" While he spoke, he bent his eyes on Vivaldi, who rested in deep dejection there, and was lost in thought, till aroused by Schedoni's voice, he replied,

"It is I, Vincentio di Vivaldi; I obey your requisi­tion, and inquire the purpose of it?"

The Marchese repeated the demand. Schedoni ap­peared to meditate; sometimes he fixed his eyes upon Vivaldi, for an instant, and when he withdrew them, he seemed to sink into deeper thoughtfulness. As he raised them once again, they assumed a singular ex­pression of wildness, and then settling, as if on vacancy, a sudden glare shot from them, while he said—"Who is he that glides there in the dusk?"

His eyes were directed beyond Vivaldi, who, on turning, perceived the monk, father Nicola, passing behind him.

"I am here," said Nicola: "what do you require of me?"

"That you will bear testimony to the truth of what I shall declare," replied Schedoni.

Nicola and an Inquisitor who had accompanied [Page 258] him, immediately arranged themselves on one side of the bed, while the Marchese stationed himself on the other. Vivaldi remained at its foot.

Schedoni, after a pause began: "That which I have to make known relates to the cabal formerly carried on by him, the father Nicola, and myself, against the peace of an innocent young woman, whom, at my in­stigation, he has basely traduced."

At these words, Nicola attempted to interrupt the Confessor, but Vivaldi restrained him.

"Ellena di Rosalba is known to you?" continue Schedoni, addressing the Marchese.

Vivaldi's countenance changed at this abrupt men­tion of Ellena, but he remained silent.

"I have heard of her," replied the Marchese, coldly.

"And you have heard falsely of her rejoined Sche­doni, "Lift your eyes, my lord Marchese, and say, do you not recollect that face?" pointing to Nicola.

The Marchese regarded the monk attentively. "It is a face not easily to be forgotten," he replied; "I re­member to have seen it more than once."

"Where have you seen him, my Lord?"

"In my own palace, at Naples; and you yourself introduced him to me there."

"I did," replied Schedoni.

"Why, then, do you now accuse him of falsehood," observed the Marchese, "since you acknowledge your­self to have been the instigator of his conduct?"

"O heavens!" said Vivaldi: "this monk, then, this father Nicola, is, as I suspected, the slanderer of Ellena di Rosalba!"

"Most true," rejoined Schedoni; "and it is for the purpose of vindicating—"

"And you acknowledge yourself to be the author of those infamous slanders!" passionately interrupted Vivaldi:—"you, who but lately declared yourself to be her father!"

[Page 259] In the instant, that Vivaldi had uttered this, he be­came sensible of his indiscretion, for till now he had avoided informing the Marchese that Ellena had been declared the daughter of Schedoni. This abrupt dis­closure, and at such a moment, he immediately perceiv­ed might be fatal to his hopes, and that the Marchese would not consider the promise he had given to his dy­ing wife, however, solemn, as binding, under circum­stances so peculiar and unforeseen as the present. The astonishment of the Marchese, upon this discovery, can­not easily be imagined; he looked at his son for an ex­planation of what he had heard, and then, with in­creased detestation, at the Confessor; but Vivaldi was not in a state of mind to give any explanation at this moment, and he requested his father to suspend even his conjectures till he could converse with him alone.

The Marchese desisted, for the present, from fur­ther inquiry, but it was obvious that his opinion and his resolution, respecting the marriage of Vivaldi, was already formed.

"You, then, are the author of those slanders!" re­peated Vivaldi.

"Hear me!" cried Schedoni, in a voice which the strength of his spirit, contending with the feebleness of his condition, rendered hollow and terrible—"Hear me!"

He stopped, unable to recover immediately from the effect of the exertion he had made.—At length, he resumed:

"I have declared, and I continue to declare, that Ellena di Rosalba, as she has been named for the pur­pose, I conjecture, of concealing her from an unwor­thy father, as my daughter!"

Vivaldi groaned in the excess of his despair, but made no further attempt to interrupt Schedoni, The Marchese was not equally passive.—"And was it to listen to a vindication of your daughter," said he, [Page 260] "that I have been summoned hither? But let this Sig­nora Rosalba, be who she may, of what inport­ance can it be to me whether she is innocent or other­wise!"

Vivaldi, with the utmost difficulty, forbore to ex­press the feelings, which this sentence excited. It appeared to recall all the spirit of Schedoni. "She is the daughter of a noble house, "said the Confessor, haughtily, while he half raised himself from his mat­tress. "In me you behold the last of the Count's di Bruno."

The Marchese smiled contemptuously."

Schedoni proceeded. "I call upon you, Nicola di Zampari, who have declared yourself, on a late occasi­on so strenuous for justice, I call upon you now to do justice in this instance, and to acknowledge, before these witnesses, that Ellena Rosalba is innocent of every circumstance of misconduct, which you have formerly related to the Marchese di Vivaldi!"

"Villain! do you hesitate," said Vivaldi to Nicola, "to retract the cruel slanders which you have thrown upon her name, and which have been the means of de­stroying her peace, perhaps for ever? Do you per­sist—"

The Marchese interrupted his son:—

"Let me put an end to the difficulty, by conclud­ing the interview; I perceive that my presence has been required for a purpose that does not concern me."

Before the Confessor could reply, the Marchese had turned from him to quit the chamber; but the ve­hemence of Vivaldi's distress prevailed with him to pause, and thus allowed him to understand from Sche­doni, that the justification of the innocent Ellena, [...]hough it had been mentioned first, as being the ob­ject nearest to his heart, was not the only one that had urged him to require this meeting.

"If you consent," added Schedoni, "to listen to the [Page 261] vindication of my child, you shall afterwads perceive, Signor, that I, fallen though I am, have still been de­sirous of counteracting, as far as remains for me, the evil I, have occasioned. You shall acknowledge, that what I then made known is of the utmost consequence to the repose the of Marchese di Vivaldi, high in influ­ence, and haughty in prosperity as he now appears."

The latter part of this assurance threatened to over­come the effect of the first; the pride of the Mar­chese swelled high; he took some steps towards the door, but then stopped, and conjecturing that the subject, to which Schedoni alluded, concerned the liberation of his son, he consented to attend to what Nicola should disclose.

This monk, meanwhile, had been balancing the necessity for acknowledging himself a slanderer against the possibility of avoiding it; and it was the resolute manner of Vivaldi, who appeared to have no doubt as to his guilt in this instance, that made him apprehend the consequence of persisting in falshood, not either remorse of conscience, or the appeal of Schedoni. He acknowledged then, after considerable circumlocution, in which he contrived to defend himself, by throwing all the odium of the original design upon the Con­fessor, that he had been prevailed upon by his arts to impose on the credulity of the Marchese, respecting the conduct of Ellena di Rosalba. This avowal was made upon oath, and Schedoni, by the questions he put to him, was careful it should be so full and circumstantial that even the most prejudiced hearer must be convinced of its truth; while the most unfeeling must have yielded for once to indig­nation against the asperser, and pity of the aspersed. Its effect upon the present auditors was various. The Marchese had listened to the whole explanation with an unmoved countenance, but with profound attention. Vivaldi had remained in a sixt attitude, with eyes [Page 262] bent on father Nicola, in such eager and stern regard, as seemed to search into his very soul; and, when the monk concluded, a smile of triumphant joy lighted up his features, as he looked upon the Marchese, and claimed an acknowledgment of his conviction, that Ellena had been calumniated. The cold glance, which the Marchese, returned, struck the impassioned and generous Vivaldi to the heart, who perceived that he was not only totally indifferent as to the injustice, which an innocent and helpless young woman had suf­fered, but fancied that he was unwilling to admit the truth, which his judgment would no longer allow him to reject.

Schedoni, meanwhile, appeared almost to writhe un­der the agony, which his mind inflicted upon him, and it was only by strong effort, that he sustained his spi­rit so far as to go through with the interrogations he had judged it necessary to put to Nicola. When the subject was finished, he sunk back on his pillow, and, closing his eyes, a hue so pallid, succeeded by one so livid, overspread his features, that Vivaldi for an in­stant believed he was dying; and in this supposition he was not singular, for even an official was touched with the Confessor's condition, and had advanced to assist him, when he unclosed his eyes, and seemed to revive.

The Marchese, without making any comment up­on the avowal of father Nicola, demanded on its con­clusion, the disclosure, which Schedoni had asserted to be intimately connected with his peace; and the latter now inquired of a person near him, whether a secre­tary of the Inquisition was in the chamber, who he had requested might attend, to take a formal deposi­tion of what he should declare. He was answered, that such an one was already in waiting. He then, asked, what other persons were in the room, adding, that he should require Inquisitorial witnesses to his [Page 263] deposition; and was answered, that an Inquisitor and two officials were present, and that their evidence was more than sufficient for his purpose.

A lamp was then called for by the Secretary; but, as that could not immediately be procured, the torch of one of the centinels, who watched in the dark ave­nue without, was brought in its stead, and this disco­vered to Schedoni the various figures assembled in his dusky chamber, and to them the emaciated form and ghastly visage of the Confessor. As Vivaldi now be­held him by the stronger light of the torch, he again fancied that death was in his aspect.

Every person was now ready for the declaration of Schedoni; but he himself seemed not fully prepared. He remained for some moments reclining on his pil­low in silence, with his eyes shut, while the changes in his features indicated the strong emotion of his mind. Then, as if by a violent effort, he half raised himself, and made an ample confession of the arts he had prac­tised against Vivaldi. He declared himself to be the anonimous accuser who had caused him to be ar­rested by the Holy-Office, and that the charge of here­sy, which he had brought against him, was false and malicious.

At the moment when Vivaldi received this confir­mation of his suspicions, as to the identity of his accu­ser, he discovered more fully that the charge was not what had been stated to him at the chapel of San Se­bastian, in which Ellena was implicated; and he de­manded an explanation of this circumstance. Sche­doni acknowledged, that the persons, who had there arrested him, were not officers of the inquisition, and that the instrument of arrest, containing the charge of elopement with a nun, was forged by himself, for the purpose of empowering the ruffians to carry off Elle­na without opposition from the inhabitants of the con­vent, in which she was then lodged.

To Vivaldi's enquiry, why it had been thought ne­cessary [Page 264] to employ stratagem in the removal of Ellena, since, if Schedoni had only claimed her for his daugh­ter, he might have removed her without any, the Con­fessor replied, that he was then ignorant of the rela­tionship which existed between them. B [...]t to the fur­ther enquiries, with what design, and whither Ellena had been removed, and the means by which he had discovered her to be his daughter, Schedoni was silent; and he sunk back, overwhelmed by the recollections they awakened.

The depositions of Schedoni having been taken down by the Secretary, were formally signed by the Inquisitor and the officials present; and Vivaldi thus saw his innocence vindicated by the very man who had thrown him among the perils of the Inquisition. But the near prospect or release now before him failed to affect him with joy, while he understood that El­lena was the daughter of Schedoni, the child of a murderer, whom he himself had been, in some degree, instrumental in bringing to a dreadful and ignomi­nous death. Still, however, willing to hope, that Schedoni had not spoken the truth concerning his relationship to Ellena he claimed, in consideration of the affection he had so long cherished for her, a full explanation of the circumstance connected with the discovery of her family.

At this public avowed of his attachment, a haughty impatience appeared on the countenance of the Mar­chese, who forbade him to make further enquiry on the subject, and was immediately retiring from the chamber.

"My presence is no longer necessary," he added: "the prisoner has concluded the only detail which I could be interested to hear from him; and, in consi­deration of the confession he has made as to the inno­cence of my son, I pardon him the suffering, which his false charge has occasioned to me and my family [Page 265] The paper containing his depositions is given to your responsibility, holy father," addressing the Inqui­sitor; "and you are required to lay it upon the table of the Holy Office, that the innocence of Vincentio di Vivaldi may appear, and that he may be released from these prisons without further delay. But first I demand a copy of those declarations, and that the copy also shall be signed by the present witnesses."

The secretary was now bidden to copy them, and, while the Marchese waited to receive the paper, (for he would not leave the chamber till he had secured it) Vivaldi was urging his claim for an explanation res­pecting the family of Ellena, with unconquerable per­severance. Schedoni, no longer permitted to evade the inquiry, could not, however, give a circumstantial explanation, without partly disclosing, also, the fatal designs which had been meditated by him and the late Marchesa di Vivaldi, of whose death he was ignorant; he related, therefore, little more respecting Ellena than that a portrait, which she wore as being her father's, had first led to the discovery of her family.

While the Confessor had been giving this brief ex­planation, Nicola, who was somewhat withdrawn from the circle, stood gazing at him with the malignity of a demon. His glowing eyes just appeared under the edge of his cowl, while, rolled up in his dark drape­ry, the lower features of his face were muffled; but the intermediate part of his countenance, receiving the full glare of the torch, displayed all its speaking and terrific lines. Vivaldi, as his eye glanced upon him, saw again the very monk of Paluzzi, and he thought he beheld also a man capable of the very crimes of which he had accused Schedoni. At this instant he remem­bered the dreadful garment that had been discovered in a dungeon of the fortress; and, yet more, he remem­bered the extraordinary circumstances attending the death of Bianchi, together with the immediate know­ledge which the monk had displayed of that event. Vi­valdi's [Page 266] suspicions respecting the cause of her death, being thus revived, he determined to obtain, if possi­ble, either a relief from or a confirmation of them; and he solemnly called upon Schedoni, who, already condemned to die, had no longer any thing to fear from a disclosure of the truth, whatever it might be to de­clare all that he knew on the subject. As he did so, he looked at Nicola, to observe the effect of this de­mand, whose countenance was, however, so much shrouded, that little of its expression could be seen; but Vivaldi remarked, that while he had spoken, the monk drew his garment closer over the lower part of his face, and that he had immediately turned his eyes from him upon the Confessor.

With most solemn protestations, Schedoni declared himself to be both innocent and ignorant of the cause of Bianchi's death.

Vivaldi then demanded by what means his agent, Nicola, had obtained such immediate information, as the warning he had delivered at Paluzzi proved him to have, of an event, in which it appeared that he could be so little interested; and why that warning had been given.

Nicola did not attempt to anticipate the reply of Schedoni, who, after a momentary silence, said, "That warning, young man, was given to deter you from visiting Altieri, as was every circumstance of ad­vice or intelligence, which you received beneath the arch of Paluzzi."

"Father," replied Vivaldi, "you have never loved, or you would have spared yourself the practice of arti­fices so ineffectual to mislead or to conquer a lover. Did you believe that an anonymous adviser could have more influence with me than my affection, or that I could be terrified by such stratagems into a renuncia­tion of its object?"

"I believed," rejoined the Confessor, "that the disinterested advice if a stranger might have some [Page 267] weight with you; but I trusted more to the impres­sion of awe, which the conduct and seeming fore­knowledge of that stranger were adapted to inspire in a mind like your's; and I thus endeavoured to avail myself of your prevailing weakness."

"And what do you term my prevailing weakness?" said Vivaldi, blushing.

"A susceptibility which renders you especially lia­ble to superstition," replied Schedoni.

"What! does a monk call superstition a weak­ness!" rejoined Vivaldi. "But grant he does, on what occasion have I betrayed such weakness?"

"Have you forgotten a conversation which I once held with you on invisible spirits?" said Schedoni.

As he asked this, Vivaldi was struck with the tone of his voice; he thought it was different from what he had remembered ever to have heard from him; and he looked at Schedoni more intently, that he might be certain it was he who had spoken. The Confessor's eyes were fixed upon him, and the repeated slowly in the same tone, "Have you forgotten?

"I have not forgotten the conversation to which you allude," replied Vivaldi, "and I do not recollect that I then disclosed any opinion that may justify your assertion."

"The opinions you avowed were rational," said Schedoni, "but the ardour of your imagination was apparent, and what ardent imagination ever was con­tended to trust to plain reasoning, or to the evidence of the senses? It may not willingly confine itself to the dull truths, of this earth, but, eager to expand its facul­ties, to fill its capacity, and to experience its own pe­culiar delights, soars after new wonders into a world of its own!"

Vivivaldi blushed at this reproof, now conscious of its justness; and was surprised that Schedoni should so well have understood the nature of his mind, while he himself, with whom conjecture had never assumed [Page 268] the stability of opinion, on the subject to which the Confessor alluded, had been ignorant even of its pro­pensities,

"I acknowledge the truth of your remark," said Vi­valdi, "as far as it concerns myself. I have, however, enquiries to make on a point less abstracted, and to­wards explaining which the evidence of my senses them­selves have done little. To whom belonged the bloody garments, I found in the dungeon of Paluzzi, and what became of the person to whom they had pertained?

Consternation appeared for an instant on the fea­tures of Schedoni. "What garments?" said he.

"They appeared to be these of a person who had died by violence," replied Vivaldi, "and they were discovered in a place frequented by your avowed a­gent, Nicola the monk."

As he concluded the sentence, Vivaldi looked at Nicola, upon whom the attention of every person present now directed.

"They were my own," said this monk.

"Your own! and in that condition!▪ exclaimed Vivaldi. "They were covered with gore!"

"They were my own." repeated Nicola. "For their condition, I have to thank you,—the wound your pistol gave me occasioned it."

Vivaldi was astonished by this apparent subterfuge. "I had no pistol," he rejoined, "my sword was my only weapon!"

"Pause a moment," said the monk.

"I repeat that I had no fire-arms," replied Vi­valdi.

"I appeal to father Schedoni▪' rejoined Nicola, "whether I was not wounded by a pistol shot."

"To me you have no longer any right of appeal," said Schedoni. "Why should I save you from sus­picions, that may bring you to a state like this, to which you have reduced me!"

"Your crimes have reduced you to it," replied [Page 269] Nicola, "I have only done my duty, and that which another person could have affected without my aid—the priest to whom Spalatro made his last confession."

"It is, however a duty of such a kind," observed Vivaldi, "as I would not willingly have upon my conscience. You have betrayed the life of your for­mer friend, and have compelled me to assist in the des­truction of a fellow being,"

"You, like me, have assisted to destroy a destroy­er," replied the monk. "He has taken life, and de­serves, therefore, to lose it. If, however, it will af­ford you consolation to know that you have not mate­rially assisted in his destruction, I will hereafter give you proof for this assurance. There were other means of shewing that Schedoni was the Count di Bruno, than the testimony of Ansaldo, though I was ignorant of them when I bade you summon the penitentiary."

"If you had sooner avowed this," said Vivaldi, "the assertion would have been more plausible. Now, I can only understand that it is designed to win my silence, and present my retorting upon you your own maxim—that he who has taken the life of another de­serves to loose his own. To whom did those bloody garments belong?"

"To myself, I repeat," said Nicola, "Schedoni can bear testimony that I received at Paluzzi a pistol wound"

"Impossible", said Vivaldi, "I was armed only with my sword!"

"You had a companion," observed the monk, "had not he fire-arms?"

Vivaldi, after a momentary consideration, recollect­ed that Paulo had pistols, and that he had fired one be­neath the arch of Paluzzi, on the first alarm occasion­ed by the strangers voice. He immediately acknow­ledged the recollection. "But I heard no groan, no symptom of distress!" he added. "Besides, the gar­ments were at a considerable distance from the spot [Page 270] where the pistol was fired! How could a person, so severely wounded as those garments indicated, have silently withdrawn to a remote dungeon, or, having done so, is it probable he would have thrown aside his dress!"

"All that is nevertheless true," replied Nicola. "My resolution enabled me to stifle the expression of my anguish; I withdrew to the interior of the ruin, to escape from you, but you pursued me even to the dun­geon, where I threw off my discoloured vestments, in which I dared not return to my convent, and depart­ed by a way which all your ingenuity failed to disco­ver. The people who were already in the fort, for the purpose of assisting to confine you and your servant during the night on which Signora Rosalba was tak­en from Altieri, procured me another habit, and relief for my wound. But, though I was unseen by you during the night, I was not entirely unheard, for my groans reached you more than once from an adjoining chamber, and my companions were entertained with the alarm which your servant testified.—Are you now convinced?"

The groans were clearly remembered by Vivaldi, and many other circumstances of Nicola's narration accorded so well with others, which he recollected to have occurred on the night alluded to, that he had no longer a doubt of its veracity. The suddenness of Bianchi's death, however, still occasioned him suspi­cions as to its cause; yet Schedoni had declared not only that he was innocent, but ignorant of this cause, which it appeared from his unwillingness to give tes­timony in favour of his agent, he would not have af­firmed, had he been conscious that the monk was in any degree guilty in this instance. That Nicola could have no inducement for attempting the life of Bianchi other than a reward offered him by Schedoni, was clear; and Vivaldi, after more fully considering these circumstances, become convinced that her death [Page 271] was in consequence of some accident or natural decay.

While this conversation was passing, the Marchese, impatient to put a conclusion to it, and to leave the chamber, repeatedly urged the secretary to dispatch; and, while he now earnestly renewed his request, an­other voice answered for the secretary, that he had nearly concluded. Vivaldi thought that he had heard the voice on some former occasion, and on turning his eyes upon the person who had spoken, discovered the stranger to be the same who had first visited him in prison. Perceiving by his dress, that he was an officer of the Inquisition, Vivaldi now understood too well the purport of his former visit, and that he had come with a design to betray him by affected sympathy into a confession of some heretical opinions. Similar in­stances of treachery Vivaldi had heard were frequent­ly practised upon accused persons, but he had never fully believed such cruelty possible till now, that it had been attempted towards himself.

The visit of this person bringing to his recollection the subsequent one he had received from Nicola, Vivaldi inquired whether the centinels had really ad­mitted him to his cell, or he had entered it by other means! a question to which the monk was silent, but the smile on his features, if so strange an expression deserved to be called a smile, seemed to reply, "Do you believe that I, a servant of the Inquisition, will be­tray its secrets?"

Vivaldi, however, urged the inquiry, for he wished to know whether the guard, who appeared to be faith­ful to their office, had escaped the punishment that was threatened.

"They were honest," replied Nicola, "seek no fur­ther."

"Are the tribunal convinced of their integrity?"

Nicola smiled again in derison, and replied, "They never doubted it."

"How!" said Vivaldi. "Why were these men [Page 272] put under arrest, if their faithfulness was not even sus­pected?"

"Be satisfied with the knowledge, which experi­ence has given you of the secrets of the Inquisition," replied Nicola solemnly, "seek to know no more!"

"It has terrible secrets!" said Schedoni, who had been long silent. "Know, young man, that almost every cell of every prisoner has a concealed entrance, by which the ministers of death may pass unnoticed to their victims. This Nicola is now one of those dread­ful summoners, and is acquainted with all the secret avenues, that lead to murder."

Vivaldi shrunk from Nicola in horror, and Schedo­ni paused; but while he had spoken, Vivaldi had again noticed the extraordinary change in his voice, and shuddered at its sound no less than at the information it had given. Nicola was silent; but his terrible eyes were fixed in vengeance on Schedoni.

"His office has been short," resumed the Confes­sor, turning his heavy eyes upon Nicola, "and his task is almost done!" As he pronounced the last words, his voice faultered, but they were heard by the monk, who drawing nearer to the bed demanded an explana­tion of them. A ghastly smile triumphed in the fea­tures of Schedoni; "Fear not but that an explanation will come full soon," said he.

Nicola fixed himself before the Confessor, and bent his brows upon him as if he would have searched into his very soul, When Vivaldi again looked at Sche­doni, he was shocked on observing the sudden altera­tion in his countenance, yet still a faint smile of tri­umph lingered there. But, while Vivaldi gazed, the features suddenly became agitated: in the next instant his whole frame was convulsed, and heavy groans la­boured from his breast. Schedoni was now evidently dying.

The honour of Vivaldi, and of the Marchese, who endeavouring to leave the chamber, was equalled only [Page 273] by the general confusion that reigned there; every per­son present seemed to feel at least a momentary com­passion, except Nicola, who stood unmoved, beside Schedoni, and looked stedfastly upon his pangs, while a smile of derison marked his countenance. As Vi­valdi observed, with detestation, this expression, a slight spasm darted over Nicola's face, and his muscles also seemed to labour with sudden contraction; but the af­fection was transient, and vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. The monk, however, turned from the miserable spectacle before him, and as he turned he caught involuntarily at the arm of a person near him, and leaned on his shoulder for support. His manner appeared to betray that he had not been permitted to triumph in the sufferings of his enemy, without parti­cipating at least in their horror.

Schedoni's struggles now began to abate, and in a short time he lay motionless. When he unclosed his eyes, death was in them. He was yet nearly insensible; but presently a faint gleam of recollection shot from them, and gradually lighting them up, the character of his soul appeared there; the expression was indeed fee­ble, but it was true. He moved his lips as if he would have spoken, and looked languidly round the chamber, seemingly in search of some person. At length, he uttered a sound but he had not yet sufficient command of his muscles, to modulate that sound into a word, till by repeated efforts the name of Nicola be­came intelligible. At the call, the monk raised his head from the shoulder of the person on whom he had reclined, and turning round, Schedoni, as was evident from the sudden change of expression in his counte­nance, discovered him; his eyes, as they settled on Ni­cola seemed to recollect all their wonted fire, and the malignant triumph, lately so prevalent in his physiog­nomy, again appeared as in the next moment, he point­ed to him. His glance seemed suddenly impowered with the destructive fascination attributed to that of [Page 274] the basilisk, for while it now met Nicola's that monk seemed as if transfixed to the spot, and unable to with­draw his eyes from the glare of Schedoni's; in their expression he read the dreadful sentence of his fate, the triumph of revenge and cunning. Struck with this terrible conviction, a pallid hue overspread his face; at the same time an involuntary motion convulsed his features, cold trembling seized open his frame, and, uttering a deep groan, he fell back, and was caught in the arms of the people near him. At the instant of his fall, Schedoni uttered a sound so strange and horrible, so convulsed, yet so loud, so exulting, yet so unlike any human voice, that every person in the chamber, except those who were assisting Nicola, struck with irresistable terror, endeavoured to make their way out of it. This, however, was impracticable, for the door was fastened, until a physician, who had been sent for, should arrive, and some investigation could be made into this mysterious affair. The consternation of the Marchese and of Vivaldi, compelled to witness this scene of horror, cannot easily be imagined.

Schedoni, having uttered that demonical sound of exultation, was not permitted to repeat it, for the pangs he had lately suffered, returned upon him, and he was again in strong convulsions, when the physician en­tered the chamber. The moment he beheld Schedoni, he declared him to be poisoned; and he pronounced a similar opinion on father Nicola [...] affirming, also, that the drug, as appeared from the violence of the effect, was of two subtle and inveterate a nature to allow of antidote. He was however, willing to administer the medicine usual in such cases.

While he was giving orders to an attendant, with respect to this, the violence of Schedoni' convulsions once more relaxed; but Nicola appeared in the last extremity. His sufferings were, incessant, his senses never for a moment returned, and he expired, before the medicine, which had been sent for, could he [Page 275] brought. When it came, however, it was admini­stered with some success to Schedoni, who recovered not only his recollection, but his voice; and the first word he uttered was, as formerly, the name of Nicola.

"Does he live? added the Confessor with the ut­most difficulty, and after a long pause. The persons around him were silent, but the truth, which this si­lence indicated, seemed to revive him.

The inquisitor, who had attended, perceiving that Schedoni had recovered the use of his intellects, now judged it prudent to ask some questions relative to his present condition, and to the cause of Nicola's death.

"Poison," replied Schedoni readily.

"By whom administered?" said the inquisitor, "consider that while you answer, you are on your death-bed."

"I have no wish to conceal the truth," rejoined Schedoni, "nor the satisfaction"—he was obliged to cause, but presently added, "I have destroyed him, who would have destroyed me, and—and I have es­caped an ignominous death."

He paused again; it was with difficulty that he had said thus much, and he was now overcome by the ex­ertion he had made. The secretary, who had not been permitted to leave the chamber, was ordered to note Schedoni's words.

"You avow then," continued the Inquisitor, "that the poison was administered, both in the case of father Nicola, and in your own, by yourself?"

Schedoni could not immediately reply; but when he did he said "I avow it."

He was asked by what means he had contrived to procure the poison, and was bidden to name his accom­plice.

"I had no accomplice," replied Schedoni.

"How did you procure the poison then?"

Schedoni, slowly and with difficulty, replied, "It was concealed in my vest."

[Page 276] "Consider that you are dying," said the inquisitor, "and confess the truth. We cannot believe what you, have last asserted. It is improbable that you should have had an opportunity of providing yourself with poi­son after your arrest, and equally improbable that you should have thought such provision necessary before that period. Confess who is your accomplice.'

This accusation of falsehood recalled the spirit of Schedoni, which, contending with, and conquering, for a moment, corporeal suffering, he said in a firmer tone, "It was the person, in which I dip my poig­nard, the better to defend me."

The Inquisitor smiled in contempt of this explana­tion, and Schedoni, observing him, desired a particular part of his vest might be examined, where would be found some remains of the drug concealed as he had affirmed. He was indulged in his request, and the poison was discovered within the broad hem of his gar­ment.

Still it was inconceivable how he had contrived to administer it to Nicola, who, though he had been for some time alone with him on this day, would scarcely have so far confided in an enemy, as to have accept­ed any see­ming sustenance that might have been offered by him. The Inquisitor, still anxious to discover an accomplice, asked Schedoni who had assisted to ad­minister the drug to Nicola, but the Confessor was no longer in a condition to reply. Life was now sink­ing a pace: the gleam of spirit and of character that had returned to his eyes, was departed, and left them haggard and fixed; and presently a lived corpse was all that remained of the once terrible Schedoni!

While this awful event had been accomplishing, the Marchese, suffering under the utmost perturbation, had withdrawn, to the distant grate of the dungeon, where he conversed with an official as to what might be the probable consequence of his present situation to himself; but Vivaldi, in an agony of horror, had been [Page 277] calling incessantly for the medicine, which might pos­sibly afford some relief to the anguish he witnessed; when it was brought, he had assisted to support the sufferers.

At length, now that the worst was over, and when several witnesses had signed to the last avowal of Sche­doni, every person in the chamber was suffered to de­part; and Vivaldi was reconducted to his prison, ac­companied by the Marchese, where he was to remain till the decision of the holy office respecting his in­nocence, as asserted by the deposition of Schedoni, should be known. He was too much affected by the late scene to give the Marchese any explanation at pre­sent, respecting the family of Ellena di Rosalba, and the Marchese, having remained for some time with his son, withdrew to the residence of his friend.

CHAP. XVI.

IN consequence of the dying confession of Schedo­ni, an order was sent from the holy office for the re­lease of Vivaldi, within a few days after the death of the Confessor; and the Marchese conducted his son from the prisons of the inquisition to the mansion of his friend the Count di Maro, with whom he had resided since his arrival at Rome.

While they were receiving the ceremonious con­gratulations of the Count, and of some nobles assem­bled to welcome the emancipated prisoner, a loud voice was heard from the anti-chamber exclaiming, "Let me pass! It is my Master, let me pass! May all those who attempt to stop me, be sent to the Inquisition themselves!"

In the next instant Paulo burst into the saloon, followed by a group of lacqueys, who, however, paused at the door, fearful of the displeasure of their lord, yet scarcely able to stifle a laugh; while Paulo, springing forward, had nearly overse some of the com­pany, who happened at that moment to be bowing with profound joy to Vivaldi.

"It is my master! it is my master!" cried Paulo, and, sending off a nobleman with each elbow, as he made his way between them, he hugged Vivaldi in his arms, repeating, "O, my master! my master!" till a a passion of joy and affection overcame his voice and he fell at his master's feet and wept.

This was a moment of finer joy to Vivaldi, than he had known since his meeting with his father, and he [Page 279] was too much interested by his faithful servant, to have leisure to apoligize to the astonished company for his rudeness. While the lacqueys were repairing the mischief Paulo had occasioned, were picking up the rolling snuff-boxes he had jerked away in his passage, and wiping the snuff from the soiled clothes, Vivaldi was participating in all the delight, and returning all the affection of his servant, and was so wholly occupi­ed by these pleasurable feelings as scarcely to be sensi­ble that any persons, besides themselves, were in the room. The Marchese, meanwhile, was making a thousand apologies for the disasters Paulo had occasi­oned; was alternately calling upon him to recollect in whose presence he was, and to quit the apartment immediately: explaining to the company that he had not seen Vivaldi since they were together in the inqui­sition and remarking profoundly, that he was much attached to his master. But Paulo, insensible to the repeated commands of the Marchese, and to the en­deavours of Vivaldi to raise him, was still pouring forth his whole heart at his master's feet. "Ah! my Signor," said he, "If you could but know how mis­rable I was when I got out of the inquisition!"—

"He raves!" observed the count to the Marchese, "you perceive that joy had rendered him delirious!"

"How I wandered about the walls half the night, and what it cost me to leave them! But when I lost sight of them, Signor, O! San Dominico! I thought my heart would have broke. I had a great mind to have gone back again and given myself up: and per­haps, should I too, if it had not been for my friend, the centinel, who escaped with me, and I would not do him an injury, poor fellow! for he meant nothing but kindness when he let me out. And sure enough, as [...] has proved, it was all for the best, for now I am here, too, Signor, as well as you; and can tell you all I felt when I believed I should never see you again."

The contrast of his present joy, to his remembered [Page 208] grief, again brought tears into Paulo's eyes: he smiled and wept, and sobbed and laughed with such rapid transition, that Vivaldi began to be alarmed for him; when, suddenly becoming calm, he looked up in his master's face, and said gravely, but with eagerness, "Pray Signor, was nor the roof of your little prison peaked, and was there not a little turret stuck up at one corner of it? and was there not a battlement round the turret? and was there not"—Vivaldi, after regarding him for a moment, replied smilingly, "Why, truly, my good Paulo, my dungeon was so far from the roof, that I never had an opportunity of observing it."

"This is very true Signor." replied Paulo, "very true, indeed; but I did not happen to think of that. I am certain, though it was as I say, and I was sure of it at the time. O Signor! I thought that roof would have broke my heart, O how I did look at it! and now to think that I am here, with my dear master once a­gain!"

As Paulo concluded, his tears and sobs returned with more violence than before; and Vivaldi, who could not perceive any necessary connection between this mention of the roof of his late prison, and tee joy his servant expressed on seeing him again, began to fear that his senses were bewildered, and desired an ex­planation of his words. Paulo's account, rude and simple as it was, soon discovered to him the relation of these apparently heterogeneous circumstances to each other; when Vivaldi, overcome by this new instance of the power of Paulo's affection, embraced him with his whole heart, and compelling him to rise, pre­sented him to the assembly as his faithful friend and chief deliverer.

The Marchese affected by the some he had wit­nessed, and with the truth of Vivaldi's words, conde­scended to give Paulo a hearty shake by the hard, and to thank him warmly for the bravery and fidelity he [Page 281] had displayed in his master's interest. "I never can fully reward your attachment, added the Marchese, "but what remains for me to do, shall be done. From this moment I make you independent, and promise in the presence of this noble company, to give you a thousand sequins as some acknowledgment of your ser­vices."

Paulo did not express all the gratitude for this gift which the Marchese expected. He stammered, and bowed and blushed, and at length burst into tears; and when Vivaldi inquired what distressed him, he replied, "Why, Signor, of what use are the thousand, sequins to me, if I am to be independent! what use if I am not to stay with you?"

Vivaldi cordially assured Paulo, that he should al­ways remain with him, and that he should consider it as his duty to render his future life happy. "You shall henceforth," added Vivaldi, "be placed at the head of my houshold; the management of my servants, and the whole conduct of my domestic concerns shall be committed to you, as a proof of my entire confi­dence in your integrity and attachment; and because this is a situation which will allow you to be always near me."

"Thank you, my Signor," replied Paulo, in a voice rendered almost inarticulate by his gratitude, "Thank you with my whole heart! if I stay with you, that is enough for me, I ask no more. But I hope my Lord Marchese will not think me ungrate­ful for refusing to accept of the thousand sequins he was so kind as to offer me, if I would be but independent, for I thank him as much as if I had received them, and a great deal more too."

The Marchese, smiling at Paulo's mistake, rejoin­ed, "As I do not perceive, my good friend, how your remaining with your master can be a circumstance to disqualify you from accepting a thousand sequins, I command you, on pain of my displeasures, to receive [Page 282] them; and whenever you marry, I shall expect that you will shew your obedience to me again, by accept­ing another thousand from me with your wife, as her dower."

"This is too much, Signor," said Paulo, sobbing—"too much to be borne!" and ran out of the saloon. But amidst the murmur of applause which his con­duct drew from the noble spectators, for Paulo's warm heart had subdued even the coldness of their pride, a convulsive sound from the anti-chamber betrayed the excess of emotion, which he had thus abruptly with­drawn himself to conceal.

In a few hours, the Marchese and Vivaldi took leave of their friends, and set out for Naples, where they arrived, without any interruption, on the fourth day. But it was a melancholy journey to Vivaldi, notwithstanding the joy of his late escape; for the Marchese having introduced the mention of his at­tachment to Ellena di Rosalba, informed him, that, under the present unforeseen circumstances, he could not consider his late engagement to the Marchesa on that subject binding, and that Vivaldi must relinquish Ellena, if it should appear that she really was the daughter of the late Schedoni.

Immediately on his arrival at Naples, however, Vi­valdi, with a degree of impatience, to which his utmost speed was inadequate, and with a revived joy so pow­erful as to overcome every fear, and every melancho­ly consideration, which the late conversation with his father had occasioned, hastened to the Santa della Pieta.

Ellena heard his voice from the grate, enquiring for her of a nun, who was in the parlour, and in the next instant they, beheld each other yet once again.

In such a meeting, after the long uncertainty and terror which each had suffered for the fate of the other, and the dangers and hardships they had really incur­red, joy was exalted almost to agony. Ellena wept, [Page 283] and some minutes passed before she could answer to Vivaldi's few words of tender exclamation: it was long ere she was tranquil enough to observe the alte­ration, which severe confinement had given to his ap­pearance. The animated expression of his counten­ance was unchanged; yet, when the first glow of joy had faded from it, and Ellena had leisure to observe its wanness, she understood, too certainly, that he had been a prisoner in the Inquisition.

During this interview, he related, at Ellena's re­quest, the particulars of his adventures, since he had been separated from her in the chapel of San Sebas­tain; but, when he came to that part of the narration where it was necessary to mention Schedoni, he paused in unconquerable embarrassment and a distress not un­mingled with horror. Vivaldi could scarcely endure even to hint to Ellena any part of the unjust conduct, which the confessor had practised towards him, yet it was impossible to conclude his account without ex­pressing much more than hints; nor could he bear to afflict her with a knowledge of the death of him who he believed to be her parent, however the dreadful cir­cumstances of that event might be concealed. His embarrassment became obvious, and was still increased by Ellena's inquiries.

At length, as an introduction to the information it was necessary to give, and to the fuller explanation he wished to receive upon a subject, which, though it was the one that pressed most anxiously upon his mind, he had not yet dared to mention, Vivaldi ventured to de­clare his knowledge of her having discovered her pa­rent to be living. The satisfaction immediately ap­parent upon Ellena's countenance heightened his dis­tress, and his reluctance to proceed; believing, as he did, that the event he had to communicate must change her gladness to grief.

Ellena, however, upon his mention of a topic so interesting to them both, proceeded to express the hap­piness [Page 284] she had received from the discovery of a parent, whose virtues had even won her affection long before she understood her own interest in them. It was with some difficulty, that Vivaldi could conceal his surprize at such an avowal of prepossession; the manners of Schedoni, of whom he believed her to speak, having certainly never been adapted to inspire tenderness. But his surprize soon changed its objects when Oli­via, who had heard that a stranger was at the grate entered the parlour, and was announced as the mother of Ellena di Rosalba.

Before Vivaldi left the convent, a full explanation, as to family, was given on both sides, when he had the infinite joy of learning, that Ellena was not the daughter of Schedoni; and Olivia had the satisfaction to know that she had no future evil to apprehend from him who had hitherto been her worst enemy. The manner of his death, however, with all the cir­cumstances of his character, as unfolded by his late trial, Vivaldi was careful to conceal.

When Ellena had withdrawn from the room, Vi­valdi made a full acknowledgment to Olivia of his long attachment to her daughter, and supplicated for her consent to their marriage. To this application, how­ever, Olivia replied, that, though she had long been no stranger to their mutual affection, or to the several circumstances which had both proved its durability, and tried their fortitude, she never could consent that her daughter should become a member of any family, whose principal was either insensible of her value, or unwilling to acknowledge it; and that in this instance it would be necessary to Vivaldi's success, not only that he, but that his father should be a suitor; on which condition only, she allowed him to hope for her ac­quiescence.

Such a stipulation scarcely chilled the hopes of Vi­valdi, now that Ellena was proved to be the daughter, not of the murderer Schedoni but of a Count di Bru­no [Page 285] no, who had been no less respectable in character than in rank; and he had little doubt that his father would consent to fulfil the promise he had given to the dying Marchesa.

In this belief he was not mistaken. The Marchese, having attended to Vivaldi's account of Ellena's fami­ly, promised, that if it should appear there was no se­cond mistake on the subject, he would not longer op­pose the wishes of his son.

The Marchese immediately caused a private inqui­ry to be made, as to the identity of Olivia the present Countess di Bruno; and though this was not pursued without difficulty, the physician, who had assisted in the plan of her escape from the cruelty of Ferando di Bruno, and who was living, as well as Beatrice, who clearly remembered the sister of her late mistress, at length rendered Olivia's identity unquestionable.—Now, therefore, that the Marchese's every doubt was removed he paid a visit to the Santa della Pieta, and solicited, in due form, Olivia's consent to the nuptials of Vivaldi with Ellena; which she granted him with an entire satisfaction. In this interview, the Mar­chese was so fascinated by the manners of the Coun­tess, and pleased with the delicacy and sweetness, which appeared in those of Ellena, that his consent was no longer a constrained one, and he willingly relinquish­ed the views of superiour rank and fortune, which he had formerly looked to for his son, for those of virtue & permanent happiness that were now unfolded to him.

On the twentieth of May, the day on which Ellena completed her eighteenth years, her nuptials with Vi­valdi were solemnised in the church of the Santa Ma­ria della Pieta, in the presence of the Marchese and of the Countess di Bruuo. As Ellena advanced through the church, she recollected, when on a former occasion she had met Vivaldi at the altar, and, the scenes of San Sebastian rising to her memory, the happy cha­racter of those, which her present situation opposed to [Page 286] them, drew tears of tender joy and gratitude to her eyes. Then, irresolute, desolate, surrounded by stran­gers, and ensnared by enemies, she had believed she saw Vivaldi for the last time; now, supported by the presence of a beloved parent, and by the willing appro [...] ­ [...]oation of the persons, who had hitherto so strenuously opposed her, they were met to part no more; and, as a recollection of the moment when she had been car­ried from the chapel glanced upon her mind, that mo­ment when she had called upon him for succour, sup­plicated even to hear his voice once more, and when a blank silence, which, as she believed, was that if death, had succeeded; as the anguish of that moment was now remembered, Ellena became more than ever sensible of the happiness of the present.

Olivia, in thus relinquishing her daughter so soon after she had found her, suffered some pain, but she was consoled by the fair prospect of happiness, that opened to Ellena, and cheered by considering, that, though she relinquished, she should not lose her, since the vi­cinity of Vivaldi's residence to La Pieta, would per­mit a frequent intercourse with the convent.

As a testimony of singular esteem, Paulo was per­mitted to be present at the marriage of his master, when as perched in a high gallery of the church, he looked down upon the ceremony, and witnessed the de­light in Vivaldi's countenance, the satisfaction in that of my "old Lord Marchese," the pensive happiness in the Countess di Bruno's, and the tender compla­cency of Ellena's which her veil, partly undrawn, allowed him to observe, he could scarcely refrain from expressing the joy he felt, and shouting aloud, "O! giorno felice! O! giorno felice!"^*

CHAP. XVII.

THE fete which, some time after the nuptials, was given by the Marchese, in celebration of them, was held at a delightful villa, belonging to Vivaldi, a few miles distant from Naples, upon the border of the gulf, and on the opposite shore to that which had been the frequent abode of the Marchese. The beauty of its situation, and its interior elegance induced Vival­di and Ellena to select it as their chief residence. It was, in truth, a scence of fairy-land. The pleasure grounds extended over a valley, which opened to the bay, and the house stood at the entrance of this valley, upon a gentle slope that margined the water, and com­manded the whole extent of its luxuriant shores, from the lofty cape of Miseno to the bold mountains of the south, which, stretching across the distance, appeared to rise out of the sea, and divided the gulf of Naples, from that of Salerno.

The marble porticoes and arcades of the villa were shadowed by groves of the beautiful magnolia flow­ering ash, cedrati camellias, and majestic palms; and the cool and airy hills, opening on two oppo­site fires to a colonade, admitted beyond the rich foliage all the seas and shores of Naples, from the west; and to the cast, views of the valley of the do­main, withdrawing among winding hills, wooded [...]o thei [...] sum [...], except where cliffs of various coloured granites, [...]low, green, and purple, lifted their tall [Page 288] heads, and threw gay gleams of light amidst the um­brageous landscape.

The style of the gardens, where lawns and groves and woods varied the undulating surface, was that of England, and of the present day, rather than of Italy; except "Where a long alley peeping on the main," exhibited such gigantic loftiness of shade, and gran­deur of perspective, as characterize the Italian taste.

On this jubilee, every avenue and grove, and pavili­on was richly illuminated. The villa itself, where each airy hall and arcade was resplendent with lights, and lavishly decorated with flowers and the most beau­tiful shrubs, whose buds seemed to pour all Arabia's presumes upon the air, this villa resembled a fabric call­ed up by enchantment, rather than a structure of hu­man art.

The dresses of the higher rank of visitors were as splendid as the scenery, of which Ellena was, in every respect, the queen. But this entertainment was not given to persons of distinction only, for both Vivaldi and Ellena had wished that all the tenants of the do­main should partake of it, and share the abundant hap­piness which themselves possessed; so that the grounds, which were extensive enough to accommodate each rank, were relinquished to a general gaiety. Paulo was on this occasion, a sort of master of the revels; and surrounded by a party of his own particular associ­ates, danced once more, as he had so often wished, up­the moonlight shore of Naples.

As Vivaldi and Ellena were passing the spot, which Paulo, had chosen for the scene of his festivity, they paused to observe his strange capers and extravagant gesticulation, as he mingled in the dance, while every now-and-then, he shouted forth, though half breathless with the heartiness of the exercise—"O! giorno felice! O! giorno felice!"

On perceiving Vivaldi, and the smiles with which he and Ellena regarded him, he quitted his sports, and [Page 289] advancing, "Ah! my dear master," said he, "do you remember the night, when we were travelling on the banks of the Celano, before that diabolical acci­dent happened in the chapel of San Sebastian; don't you remember how these people, who were tripping it away so joyously, by moonlight, reminded me of Naples and the many merry dances I had footed on the beach here?"

"I remember it well," replied Vivaldi.

"Ah! Signor mi [...], you said at the time, that you hoped we should soon be here, and that then I should frisk it away with as glad a heart as the best of them. The first part of your hope, my dear master, you was out in; for, as it happened, we had to go through purgatory before we could reach paradise; but the second part is come at last; for here I am, sure enough! dancing by moonlight, in my own dear bay of Na­ples, with my own dear master and mistress, in safety, and as happy almost as myself; and with that old mountain yonder, Vesuvius, which I, forsooth! thought I was never to see again, spouting up fire, just as it used to do before we got ourselves put into the In­quisition! O! who could have foreseen all this! O! giorno felice! O! giorno felice!

"I rejoice in your happiness my good Paulo," said Vivaldi, "almost as much as in my own; though I do not entirely agree with you as to the comparative proportion of [...]ach."

"Paulo!" said Ellena, "I am indebted to you be­yond any ability to repay: for, to your intrepid affec­tion your master owes his present safety. I will not attempt to thank you for your attachment to him; my care of your welfare shall prove how well I know it; but I wish to give to all your friends this acknow­ledgment of your worth, and of my sense of it."

Paulo, bowed, and stammered, and writhed and blushed, and was unable to reply; till, at length, giv­ing [Page 290] a lofty spring from the ground, the emotion which had nearly stifled him burst forth in words, and "O! giorno felice! O! giorno felice!" flew from his lips with the force of an electric shock. They communi­cated his enthusiasm to the whole company, the words passed like lightning from one individual to another, till Vivaldi and Ellena withdrew amidst a choral shout, and all the woods and strands of Naples re-ech­oed with—"O! giorno felice! O! giorno felice!"

"You see," said Paulo, when they had departed and he came to himself again, "you see how people get through their misfortunes, if they have but a heart to bear up against them, and do nothing that can lie on their conscience afterwards: and how suddenly one comes to be happy, just when one is beginning to think one never is to be happy again! Who would have guessed that my dear master and I, when we were clapped up in that diabolical place, the Inquisition, should ever come out again into this world! Who would have guessed when we were taken before those old devils of Inquisitors, sitting there all of a row in a place under ground, hung with black, and nothing but torches all around, and faces grinning at us, that but looked as black as the gentry aforesaid; and when I was not so much as suffered to open my mouth, no I they would not let me open my mouth to my master!—who, I say, would have guessed we should ever be let loose again! who would have thought we should ever know what it is to be happy! Yet here we are all abroad once more! All at liberty! And may run, if we will, straight forwards, from one end of the earth to the other, and back again without be­ing stopped! May fly in the sea, or swim in the sky, or tumble over head and heels into the moon! For, remember, my good friends, we have no lead in our consciences to keep us down!"

"You mean swim in the sea, and fly in the sky, I suppose," observed a grave personage near him, "but [Page 291] as for tumbling over head and heels into the moon! I don't know what you mean by that!"

"Pshaw!" replied Paulo, "who can stop, at such a time as this, to think about what he means! I wish that all those, who on this night are not merry enough to speak before they think, may ever after be grave enough to think before they speak! But you, none of you, no! not one of you! I warrant, ever saw the roof of a prison, when your master happened to be below in the dungeon, nor know what it is to be forced to run away, and leave him, behind to die by himself. Poor souls! But no matter for that, you can be tolerably happy, perhaps, notwithstanding; but as for guessing how happy I am, or knowing any thing about the matter—O! its quite beyond what you can understand. O! giorno felice! O! giorno felice!" repeated Paulo, as he bounded forward to mingle in the dance, and "O! giorno felice" was again shouted in chorus by his joyful companions.