Ambrosio; or, The monk. A romance. / By M.G. Lewis, Esq. M.P. author of "Castle spectre," &c. &c. ; Three volumes in two. ; Vol. I[-II].

THE MONK.

CHAP. I.

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

SCARCELY had the Abbey-bell tolled for five minutes, and already was the church of the Capu|chins thronged with auditors. Do not encourage the idea, that the crowd was assembled either from mo|tives of piety, or thirst of information. But very few were influenced with those reasons; and in a city where superstition reigns with such despotic sway as in Madrid, to seek for true devotion would be a fruitless attempt. The audience now assembled in the Capuchin church was collected by various causes, but all of them were foreign to the ostensible motive. The women came to show themselves, the men to see the women: some were attracted by curiosity to hear an orator so celebrated; some came, because they had no better means of employing their time till the play began; some, from being assured that it would be impossible to find places in the church; and one half of Madrid was brought thither by expecting

to meet the other half. The only persons truly anx|ious to hear the preacher, were a few antiquated de|votees, and half a dozen rival orators, determined to find fault with and ridicule the discourse. As to the remainder of the audience, the sermon might have been omitted altogether, certainly without their being disappointed, and very probably without their per|ceiving the omission.

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

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

had followed her with timidity and in silence, profiting by the exertions of her conductress.

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

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

"By all means," replied the old woman's compan|ion; "by all means, Leonella, let us return home immediately: the heat is excessive, and I am terrifi|ed at such a crowd."

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

The voice came from a female, the delicacy and elegance of whose figure inspired the youths with the

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

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

"You are doubtless lately arrived at Madrid?" said Lorenzo to his fair neighbour: "It is impossible that such charms should have long remained unob|served;

and had not this been your first public appear|ance, the envy of the women and adoration of the men would have rendered you already sufficiently re|markable."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Segnor."

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

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

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

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

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

"I never unveil in public, Segnor."

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

"Dear aunt, it is not ••he custom in Murcia—"

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

Her niece was silent, but made no further opposi|tion to Don Lorenzo's efforts, who, armed with the aunt's sanction, hastened to remove the gauze. What a seraph's head presented itself to his admiration!

Yet it was rather bewitching than beautiful; it was not so lovely from regularity of features as from sweetness and sensibility of countenance. The sev|eral parts of her face considered separately, many of them were far from handsome; but, when examined together, the whole was adorable. Her skin, though fair, was not entirely without freckles; her eyes were not very large, nor their lashes particularly long. But then her lips were of the most rosy freshness; her fair and undulating hair, confined by a simple rib|and, poured itself below her waist in a profusion of ringlets; her neck was full and beautiful in the ex|treme; her hand and arm were formed with the most perfect symmetry; her mild blue eyes seemed an heaven of sweetness, and the crystal in which they moved sparkled with all the brilliance of diamonds. She appeared to be scarcely fifteen; an arch smile playing round her mouth, declared her to be possessed of liveliness, which excess of timidity at present re|pressed. She looked round her with a bashful glance; and whenever her eyes accidentally met Lorenzo's, she dropped them hastily upon her rosary; her cheek was immediately suffused with blushes, and she began to tell her beads; though her manner evidently show|ed that she knew not what she was about.

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

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

mouth. Yet she is my own sister, both by father and mother."

"And has so little sense?" said Don Christoval with feigned astonishment, "How very extraordi|nary!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of that, Segnora, I have not the least doubt. But permit me to ask you, Have you then any aver|sion to Matrimony?"

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

Here she intended to throw a tender and significant look upon Don Christoval; but, as she unluckily hap|pened to squint most abominably, the glance fell di|rectly upon his companion. Lorenzo took the com|pliment to himself, and answered it by a profound bow.

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

"The marquis de las Cisternas."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here Don Christoval was interrupted by an uni|versal murmur, which ran through the church; it an|nounced

the preacher's arrival. Donna Leonella rose from her seat to take a better view of him, and Anto|nia followed her example.

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

Antonia, while she gazed upon him eagerly, felt a pleasure fluttering in her bosom which till then had been unknown to her, and for which she in vain en|deavoured ••o account. She waited with impatience till the sermon should begin; and when at length the friar spoke, the sound of his voice seemed to pene|trate into her very soul. Though no other of the spectators felt such violent sensations as did the young Antonia, yet every one listened with interest and emo|tion. They who were insensible to religion's merits, were still enchanted with Ambrosio's oratory. All found their attention irresistibly attracted while he spoke, and the most profound silence reigned through

the crouded aisles. Even Lorenzo could not resist the charm; he forgot that Antonia was seated near him, and listened to the preacher with undivided attention.

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

The discourse was of considerable length; yet, when it concluded, the audience grieved that it had not lasted longer. Though the monk had ceased to speak, enthusiastic silence still prevailed through the church. At length the charm gradually dissolving,

the general admiration was expressed in audible terms. As Ambrosio descended from the pulpit, his auditors crowded round him, loaded him with blessings, threw themselves at his feet, and kissed the hem of his gar|ment. He passed on slowly, with his hands crossed devoutly upon his bosom, to the door opening into the abbey-chapel, at which his monks waited to re|ceive him. He ascended the steps, and then, turn|ing towards his followers, addressed to them a few words of gratitude and exhortation. While he spoke, his rosary, composed of large grains of amber, fell from his hand, and dropped among the surrounding multitude. It was seized eagerly, and immediately divided amongst the spectators. Whoever became possessor of a bead, preserved it as a sacred rel••que; and had it been the chaplet of thrice blessed St. Fran|cis himself, it could not have been disputed with greater vivacity. The abbot, smiling at their eager|ness, pronounced his benediction and quitted the church, while humility dwelt upon every feature. Dwelt she also in his heart?

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

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

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

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

Antonia's heart was so filled with admiration for the monk, that she eagerly seize•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 opportunity of speaking of him: besides, as 〈…〉〈…〉 longer con|sidered Lorenzo as an absolute stranger, she was less embarrassed by her excessive timidity.

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

Lorenzo smiled at the strength of her expressions.

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

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

"In the present instance, I allow that it has not. Ambrosio's character is perfectly without reproach; and a man who has passed the whole of his life within

the walls of a convent, cannot have found the oppor|tunity to be guilty, even were he possessed of the in|clination. But now, when obliged by the duties of his situation, he must enter occasionally into the world, and be thrown into the way of temptation, it is now that it behoves him to show the brilliance of his vir|tue. The trial is dangerous; he is just at that period of life when the passions are most vigorous, unbridled, and despotic; his established reputation will mark him out to seduction as an illustrious victim; novelty will give additional charms to the allurements of pleasure; and even the talents with which nature has endowed him will contribute to his ruin, by fa|cilitating the means of obtaining his object. Very few would return victorious from a contest so severe."

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

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

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

"I entreat her!" replied Leonella: "I promise you that I shall do no such thing. I do not like this same Ambrosio in the least; he has a look of severity about him that made me tremble from head to foot. Were he my confessor, I should never have the courage to avow one half of my peccadilloes, and then I should be in a rare condition! I never saw such a stern looking mortal, and hope that I never

shall see such another. His description of the devil, God bless us! almost terrified me out of my wits, and when he spoke about sinners he seemed as if he was ready to eat them."

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

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

"My proposals? I assure you, Segnora—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So, Lorenzo!" said Don Christoval, as soon as they were alone, "you have procured me an agree|able intrigue! To favor your designs upon Antonia, I obligingly made a few civil speeches which mean nothing to the aunt, and at the end of an hour I find myself upon the brink of matrimony! How will you reward me for having suffered so grievously for your

sake?—What can repay me for having kissed the leathern paw of that confounded old witch? Diavolo! She has left such a scent upon my lips, that I shall smell of garlick for this month to come! As I pass along the Prado I shall be taken for a walking ome|let, or some large onion running to seed!"

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

"From that petition I conclude, that the little An|tonia has made some impression upon you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He said, and darted out of the cathedral. "How wild-brained!" said Lorenzo, "With so excellent a heart, what pity that he possesses so little solidity of judgment!"

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

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

He still fancied himself to be in the church of the Capuchins; but it was no longer dark and solitary. Multitudes of silver lamps shed splendor from the vaulted ••••ofs; accompanied by the captivating chaunt of distant choristers, the organ's melody swelled

through the church; the altar seemed decorated as for some distinguished feast; it was surrounded by a brilliant company; and near it stood Antonia array|ed in bridal white, and blushing with all the charms of virgin modesty.

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

"And where is the bridegroom?" said the imag|inary friar.

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

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

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

Antonia shrieked. The monster clasped her in his arms, and, springing with her upon the altar, tortur|ed

her with his odious caresses. She endeavoured in vain to escape from his embrace. Lorenzo flew to her succour; but ere he had time to reach her, a loud burst of thunder was heard. Instantly the cathedral seemed crumbling into pieces; the monks betook themselves to flight, shrieking fearfully; the lamps were extin|guished, the altar sunk down, and in its place appear|ed an abyss vomiting forth clouds of flame. Utter|ing a loud and terrible cry, the monster plunged into the gulph, and in his fall attempted to drag Antonia with him. He strove in vain. Animated by super|natural powers, she disengaged herself from his em|braces; but her white robe was left in his possession. Instantly, a wing of brilliant splendor spread itself from either of Antonia's arms. She darted upwards, and while ascending, cried to Lorenzo, "Friend! we shall meet above* 1.1!"

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

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

who were celebrating their vespers in the abbey-chapel.

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

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

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

The shadow thrown by the column effectually con|cealed him from the stranger, who continued to ad|vance with caution.

At length he drew a letter from beneath his cloak, and hastily placed it beneath a colossal statue of Saint Francis. Then retiring with precipitation, he con|cealed himself in a part of the church at a considerable distance from that in which the image stood.

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

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

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

"Ha! is it you, Medina?" replied the new comer, whom Lorenzo by his voice now recognised for Don Christoval. "You are the luckiest fellow in the uni|verse, not to have left the church before my return. In, in! my dear lad! they will be here immediately!"

"Who will be here?"

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

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

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

"Oh! Lorenzo, we shall see such a glorious sight! The prioress of St. Clare and her whole train of nuns are coming hither. You are to know that the pious father Ambrosio (the Lord reward him for it!) will

upon no account move out of his own precincts. It being absolutely necessary for every fashionable con|vent to have him for its confessor, the nuns are in con|sequence obliged to visit him at the abbey; since, when the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Ma|homet must needs go to the mountain. Now the pri|oress of St. Clare, the better to escape the gaze of such impure eyes as belong to yourself and your humble servant, thinks proper to bring her holy flock to con|fession in the dusk: she is to be admitted into the ab|bey-chapel by yon private door. The porteress of St. Clare, who is a worthy old soul and a particular friend of mine, has just assured me of their being here in a few moments. There is news for you, you rogue! We shall see some of the prettiest faces in Madrid!"

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

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

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

Scarcely had Don Christoval ceased to speak, when the domina of St. Clare appeared, followed by a long procession of nuns. Each upon entering the church took off her veil. The prioress crossed her hands upon her bosom, and made a profound reverence as she pass|ed the statue of St. Francis, the patron of this cathe|dral. The nuns followed her example, and several moved onwards without having satisfied Lorenzo's cu|riosity.

He almost began to despair of seeing the mys|tery cleared up, when, in paying her respects to St. Francis, one of the nuns happened to drop her rosary. As she stooped to pick it up, the light flashed full in her face. At the same moment she dexterously re|moved the letter from beneath the image, placed it in her bosom, and hastened to resume her rank in the procession.

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

"Agnes, by heaven!" cried Lorenzo.

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

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

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

"Attempt not to fly me?" exclaimed Lorenzo; "I will know who you are, and w••at were the con|tents of that letter."

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

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

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

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

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

The stranger immediately dropped his ••word.

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

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

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

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

"One whom I believe you have seen before," repli|ed Don Christoval, "though probably not at church."

"The condé d'Ossorio?"

"Exactly so, marquis."

"I have no objection to entrusting you with my se|cret, for I am sure that I may depend upon your si|lence."

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

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

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

"You, marquis," said Lorenzo in the accent of sur|prise; "You, Alphonso d'Alvarada!"

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

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

"Well Antonia," said the aunt, as soon as she had quitted the church, "what think you of our gallants? Don Lorenzo really seems a very obliging good sort of young man: he paid you some attention, and no|body knows what may come of it. But as to Don Christoval, I protest to you, he is the very phoe••ix of

politeness; so gallant! so well-bred! so sensible, and so pathetic! Well! if ever man can prevail upon me to break my vow never to marry, it will be that Don Christoval. You see, niece, that every thing turns out exactly as I told you: the very moment that I produced myself in Madrid, I knew that I should be surrounded by admirers. When I took off my veil, did you see. Antonia, what an effect the action had upon the Condé? And when I presented him my hand did you observe the air of passion with which he kissed it? If ever I witnessed real love, I then saw it im|pressed upon Don Christoval's countenance!"

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

The old lady continued her discourse to Antonia in the same strain, till they gained the street in which they lodged. Here a crowd collected before their door permitted them not to approach it; and placing them|selves on the opposite side of the street, they endeavoured to make out what had drawn all th••se people together. After some minutes the crowd formed itself into a circle; and now A••tonia perceived in the midst of it a woman of extraordinary height, who whirled herself repeatedly round and round, using all sorts of extrava|gant gestures. Her dress was composed of shreds of various-coloured silks and linens fantastically arranged, yet not entirely without taste. Her head was covered with a kind of turban ornamented with vine-leaves and wild flowers. She seemed much sun-burnt, and

her complexion was of a deep olive; her eyes looked fiery and strange; and in her hand she bore a long black rod, with which she at intervals traced a variety of singular figures upon the ground, round about which she danced in all the eccentric attitudes of folly and delirium. Suddenly she broke off her dance, whirled herself round thrice with rapidity, and after a mo|ment's pause she sung the following ballad:

THE GIPSY's SONG.

COME, cross my hand! My art surpasses All that did ever mortal know: Come, maidens, come! My magic glasses Your future husband's form can show:

For 'tis to me the power is given Unclosed the book of fate to see; To read the fix'd resolves of heaven, And dive into futurity.

I guide the pale moon's silver waggon; The winds in magic bonds I hold; I charm to sleep the crimson dragon, Who loves to watch o'er buried gold.

Fenc'd round with spells, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Their sabbath strange where witches keep; Fearless the sorcerer's circle enter, And woundless tre••d on shakes asleep.

Lo! here are charms of mighty power! This makes secure an husband's truth; And this, composed at midnight hour, Will force to love the coldest youth.

If any maid too much has granted, Her loss this philtre will repair. This blooms a cheek where red is wanted, And this will make a brown girl fair.

Then silent hear, while I discover In fortune's mirror what I view; And each, when many a year is over, Shall own the Gipsy's sayings true.

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

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

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

THE GIPSY.

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

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

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

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

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

As 〈◊〉〈◊〉 said this, she drew off her glove, and present|ed her hand. The gipsy looked at it for a moment, and then made this reply:

THE GIPSY.

"Your fortune? You are now so old, Good dame, that 'tis already told: Yet, for your money, in a trice I will repay you in advice. Astonish'd at your childish vanity, Your friends all tax you with insanity, And grieve to see you use your art, To catch some youthful lover's heart. Believe me, dame, when all is done, Your age will still be fifty-one; And men will rarely take an hint Of love from two grey eyes that squint. Take then my counsels; lay aside Your paint and patches, whims and pride, And on the poor those sums bestow, Which now are spent on useless show. Think on your Maker, not a suitor; Think on your past faults, not on future; And think Time's scy the will quickly mow The few red hairs which deck your brow."

The audience rang with laughter during the gip|sy's address; and—"fifty-one—squinting eyes—red hair—paint and patches,"—&c. were bandied from mouth to mouth. Leonella was almost choaked with passion, and loaded her malicious adviser with the bitterest reproaches. The swarthy prophetess for some time listened to her with a contemptuous smile: at length she made her a short answer, and then turned to Antonia.

THE GIPSY.

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

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

THE GIPSY.

"Jesus! what a palm is there! Chaste and gentle, young and fair, Perfect mind and form possessing, You would be some good man's blessing: But, alas! this line discovers That destruction o'er you hovers; Vicious man and crafty devil Will combine to work your evil; And from earth by sorrows driven, Soon your soul must speed to heaven. Yet, your sufferings to delay, Well remember what I say. When you one more virtuous see, Than belongs to man to be, One, whose self no crimes assailing, Pities not his neighbour's failing, Call the gipsy's words to mind: Though he seem so good and kind, Fair exteriors oft will hide Hearts that swell with lust and pride.

Lovely maid, with tears I leave you, Let not my prediction grieve you: Rather with submission bending, Camly wait distress impending, And expect eternal bliss In a better world than this."

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

CHAP. II.

F••rse sé tu gustassi una sòl volta La millésima parte délle giòje Ché gusta un còr amato riamando, Diresti ripentita sospirando, Perduto è tutto il tempo Ché in amar non si spènde. TASSO.

Hadst thou but tasted once the thousandth part Of joys which bless the lov'd and loving heart; Your words repentant and your sighs would prove, Lost is the time which is not pass'd in love.

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

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

"Who," thought he, "who but myself has passed the ordeal of youth, yet sees no single stain upon his conscience? Who else has subdued the violence of strong passions and an impetuous temperament, and submitted even from the dawn of life to voluntary re|tirement? I seek for such a man in vain. I see no one but myself possessed of such resolution. Religion cannot boast Ambrosto's equal! How powerful an effect did my discourse produce upon its auditors!

How they crouded round me! How they loaded me with benedictions, and pronounced me the sole un|corrupted pillar of the church! What then now is left for me to do? Nothing, but to watch as carefully over the conduct of my brethren, as I have hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold! May I not be tempted from those paths, which till now I have pur|sued without one moment's wandering? Am I not a man, whose nature is frail and prone to error? I must now abandon the solitude of my retreat; the fairest and noblest dames of Madrid continually pre|sent themselves at the abbey, and will use no other confessor. I must accustom my eyes to objects of temptation, and expose myself to the seduction of luxury and desire. Should I meet, in that world which I am constrained to enter, some lovely female—lovely as yon Madona—!"

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

"What beauty in that countenance!" he continued, after a silence of some minutes; "how graceful is the turn of that head! what sweetness, yet what ma|jesty in her divine eyes! how softly her cheek reclines upon her hand! Can the rose vie with the blush of that cheek? can the lily rival the whiteness of that hand? Oh! if such a creature existed, and existed but for me! were I permitted to twine round my fingers those golden ringlets, and press to my lips that hand of snow! gracious God, should I then resist the

temptation? Should I not barter for a single em|brace the reward of my sufferings for thirty years? Should I not abandon—Fool that I am! Whither do I suffer my admiration of this picture to hurry me? Away, impure ideas! Let me remember, that wom|an is for ever lost to me. Never was mortal form|ed so perfect as this picture. But even did such exist, the trial might be too mighty for common virtue: but Ambrosio's is proof against temptation. Temp|tation, did I say? To me it would be none. What charms me when ideal, and considered as a superior being, would disgust me, becoming a woman and tainted with all the failings of mortality. It is not th•• woman's beauty that fills me with such enthusi|asm: it is the painter's skill that I admire; it is the Divinity that I adore. Are not th•• passions dead in my bosom? Have I not freed myself ••••om the frailty of mankind? Fear not, Ambrosio! Take confidence in the strength of thy virtue. Enter boldly into the world, to whose failings you are superior; reflect that you are now exempted from humanity's defects, and defy all the arts of the spirits of darkness. They shall know you for what you are!"

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

"Who is there?" said Ambrosio at length.

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

"Enter! enter, my son!"

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

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

The youth had carefully avoided the company of the monks: he answered their civilities with sweetness, but reserve, and evidently showed that his inclination led him to ••olitude. To this general rule the superior was the only exception. To him he looked up with a respect approaching idolatry: he sought his com|pany with the most attentive assiduity, and eagerly feized every means to ingratiate himself in his favour. In the abbot's society his heart seemed to be at ease, and an air of gaiety pervaded his whole manners and discourse. Ambrosio on his side did not feel less at|tracted towards the youth; wi••h him alone did he

lay aside his habitual severity. When he spoke to him, he insensibly assumed a tone milder than was usual to him; and no voice sounded so sweet to him as did Rosario's. He repaid the youth's attentions by instructing him in various sciences; the novice re|ceived his lessons with docility; Ambrosio was every day more charmed with the vivacity of his genius, the simplicity of his manners, and the rectitude of his heart: in short, he loved him with all the affection of a father. He could not help sometimes secretly in|dulging a desire to see the face of his pupil; but his rule of self-denial extended even to curiosity, and prevented him from communicating his wishes to the youth.

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

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

"Vicentio della Ronda."

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

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

"Your attentions charm me, my son."

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

"I saw you not in the church this evening, Ro|sario."

"Yet I was present, father. I am too grateful for your protection to lose any opportunity of witness|ing your triumph."

"Alas! Rosario, I have but little cause to tri|umph: the saint spoke by my mouth; to him be|longs all the merit. It seems then you were con|tented with my discourse?"

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

Here the novice heaved an involuntary sigh.

"When was that once?" demanded the abbot.

"When you preached upon the sudden Indisposition of our la••e superior."

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

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

"Sufferings at your age, Rosario?"

"Aye, father; sufferings, which, if known to you, would equally raise your anger and compassion! sufferings, which form at once the torment and pleas|ure

of my existence! Yet in this retreat my bosom would feel tranquil, were it not for the tortures of ap|prehension! Oh God! oh God! how cruel is a life of fear!—Father, I have given up all; I have aban|doned the world and its delights for ever: nothing now remains, nothing now has charms for me, but your friendship, but your affection. If I lose that, father! oh! if I lose that, tremble at the effects of my despair!"

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

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

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

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

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

Vespers being over, the monks retired to their re|spective cells. The abbot alone remained in the chapel, to receive the nuns of St. Clare. He had not been long seated in the confessional chair, before the prioress made her appearance. Each of the nuns was heard in her turn, while the others waited with the domina in the adjoining vestry. Ambrosio list|ened to the confessions with attention, made many ex|hortations▪ enjoined penance proportioned to each of|fence, and for some time every thing went on as usual, till one of the nuns, conspicuous from the nobleness of her air and elegance of her figure, carelessly per|mitted a letter to fall from her bosom. She was re|tiring unconscious of her loss. Ambrosio supposed it to have been written by some one of her relations, and took it up, intending to restore it to her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Amazing confidence! What! shall St. Clare's convent become the retreat of prostitutes? shall I suf|fer the church of Christ to cherish in its bosom de|bauchery and shame? Unworthy wretch! such len|ity would make me your accomplice. Mercy would here be criminal. You have abandoned yourself to a seducer's pleasure; you have defiled the sacred habit by your impurity; and still dare you ••hink yourself deserving my compassion? Hence, nor detain me longer. Where is the lady prioress?" he added, rais|ing his voice.

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

towards those less able to withstand temptation! Let not mercy be the only virtue of which your heart is unsusceptible! Pity me, most reverend! Restore my letter, nor doom me to inevitable destruction!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

While she perused the letter, the domina's counte|nance grew inflamed with passion. What! such a

crime committed in her convent, and made known to Ambrosio, to the idol of Madrid, to the man whom she was most anxious to impress with an opinion of the strictness and regularity of her house! Words were inadequate to express her fury. She was silent; and darted upon the prostrate nun looks of menace and malignity.

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

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

"What!" she exclaimed suddenly, shaking off their hold with distracted gestures, "is all hope then lost? Already do you drag me to punishment? where are you, Raymond? Oh! save me! save me!"—Then casting upon the abbot a frantic look,

"Hear me!" she continued, "man of an hard heart! Hear me, proud, stern, and cruel! You could have saved me; you could have restored me to happiness and virtue, but would not: you are the destroyer of my soul; you are my murderer, and on you fall the curse of my death and my unborn infant's! Insolent in your yet unshaken virtue, you disdained the prayers of a penitent, but God will shew mercy, though you shew none. And where is the merit of your boasted virtue? What temptations have you vanquished? Coward! you have fled from it, not op|posed seduction. But the day of trial will arrive. Oh! then when you yield to impetuous passions; when you feel that man is weak and born to err; when, shudder|ing, you look back upon your crimes, and solicit, with

terror, the mercy of your God, oh! in that fearful moment think upon me! think upon your cruelty! think upon Agnes, and despair of pardon."

As she uttered these last words, her strength was ex|hausted; and she sunk inanimate upon the bosom of a nun who stood near her. She was immediately convey|ed from the chapel, and her companions followed her.

Ambrosio had not listened to her reproaches with|out emotion. A secret pang at his heart made him feel that he had treated this unfortunate with too great severity. He therefore detained the prioress, and ventured to pronounce some words in favour of the delinquent.

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

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

Thus saying, she hastened out of the chapel.

"I 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 my duty," said Ambrosio to himself.

Still did he not feel perfectly satisfied by this re|flection. To dissipate the unpleasant ideas which this

scene had excited in him, upon quitting the chapel he descended into 〈◊〉〈◊〉 abbey 〈◊〉〈◊〉. In all Madrid there was no spot more beautiful, or better regulated. It was laid out with the most exquisite taste; the choicest flowers adorned it in the height of luxuriance, and, though artfully arranged, seemed only planted by the hand of Nature. Fountains, springing from ba|sons of white marble, cooled the air with perpetual showers; and the walls were entirely covered by jessamines, vines, and honey suckles. The hour now added to the beauty of the scene. The full moon, ranging through a blue and cloudless sky, shed upon the trees a trembling lustre, and the waters of the fountains sparkled in the silver beam; a gentle breeze breathed the fragrance of orange blossoms along the alleys, and the nightingale poured forth her melodi|ous murmur from the shelter of an artificial wilder|ness. Thither the abbot bent his steps.

In the bosom of this little grove stood a rustic grotto, formed in imitation of an hermitage. The walls were constructed of roots of trees, and the interstices filled up with moss and ivy. Seats of turf were placed on either 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and a ••atural cascade fell from the rock above. Buried in himself, the monk ap|proached the spot. The universal calm had communi|cated itself to his bosom, and a voluptuous tranquillity spread langour through his soul.

He reached the hermitage, and was entering to re|pose himself, when he stopped on perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one of the banks, lay a man in a melancholy posture. His head was supported upon his arm, and he seemed lost in medita|tion. The monk drew nearer, and recognised Rosa|rio:

he watched him in silence, and entered not the hermitage. After some minutes the youth raised his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the opposite wall.

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

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

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

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

"You must not indulge this disposition to melan|choly," said he▪ "What can possibly have made you view in so desirable a light, misanthropy, of all senti|ments the most hateful?"

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

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

INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE.

Who'er thou art these lines now reading, Think not, though from the world receding, I joy my lonely days to lead in This desert drear; That with remorse a conscience bleeding Hath led me here.

No thought of guilt my bosom sours: Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers; For well I saw in halls and towers That Lust and Pride, The Arch-fiend's dearest darkest powers, In state preside.

I saw mankind with vice incrusted; I saw that Honour's sword was rusted; That few for aught but folly lusted; That he was still deceiv'd who trusted In love or friend; And hither came, with men disgusted, My life to end.

In this lone cave, in garments lowly, Alike a foe to noisy folly And brow-bent gloomy melancholy, I wear away My life, and in my office holy Consume the day.

This rock my shield when storms are blowing; The limpid streamlet yonder flowing Supplying drink; the earth bestowing My simple food; But few enjoy the calm I know in This desert rude. Content and comfort bless me more in This grot, then e'er I felt before in A palace; and with thoughts still soaring To God on high, Each night and morn, with voice imploring This wish I sigh:

"Let me, O Lord! from life retire, Unknown each guilty worldly fire, Remorseful 〈◊〉〈◊〉, or loose desire; And when I die, Let me in this belief expire. To God I fly!" Stranger, if, full of youth and riot, As yet no grief has marred thy quiet, Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at The Hermit's prayer: But if thou hast a cause to sigh at Thy fault, or care; If thou hast known false love's vexation, Or hast been exiled from thy nation, Or guilt affrights thy contemplation, And makes thee pine; Oh! how must thou lament thy station, And envy mine!

"Were it possible," said the friar, "for man to be so totally wrapped up in himself as to live in absolute seclusion from human nature, and could yet feel the contented tranquillity which these lines express, I al|low that the situation would be more desirable, than to live in a world so pregnant with every vice and every folly. But this never can be the case. This inscription was merely placed here for the ornament of the grotto, and the sentiments and the hermit are equally imaginary. Man was born for society. How|ever little he may be attached to the world, he never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by it. Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of mankind, the misanthrope flies from it; he resolves to become an hermit, and buries himself in the cavern of some gloomy rock. While hate inflames his bosom, pos|sibly he may feel contented with his situation: but when his passions begin to cool; when Time has

mellowed his sorrows, and healed those wounds which he bore with him to his solitude, think you that Con|tent becomes his companion? Ah! no, Rosario. No longer sustained by the violence of his passions, he feels all the monotony of his way of living, and his heart becomes the prey of ennui and weariness. He looks round, and finds himself alone in the uni|verse: the love of society revives in his bosom, and he pants to return to that world which he has aban|doned. Nature loses all her charms in his eyes: no one is near him to point out her beauties, or share in his admiration of her excellence and variety. Prop|ped upon the fragment of some rock, he gazes upon the tumbling water fall with a vacant eye; he views without emotion the glory of the setting sun. Slowly he returns to his cell at evening, for no one there is anxious for his arrival: he has no comfort in his sol|itary, un••avoury meal: he throws himself upon his couch of moss despondent and dissatisfied, and wakes only to pass a day as joyless, as monotonous as the former."

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

"I should deceive myself, did I fancy that they could. I am convinced of the contrary, and that all my fortitude would not prevent me from yielding to melancholy and disgust. After consuming the day in study, if you knew my pleasure at meeting my breth|ren in the evening! After passing many a long hour in solitude, if I could express to you the joy which I feel at once more beholding a fellow creature! 'Tis

in this particular that I place the principal merit of a monastic institution. It secludes man from the temp|tations of vice; it procures that leisure necessary for the proper service of the Supreme; it spares him the mortification of witnessing the crimes of the worldly, and yet permits him to enjoy the blessings of society. And do you, Rosario, do you envy an hermit's life? Can you be thus blind to the happiness of your situa|tion? Reflect upon it for a moment. This abbey is become your asylum: your regularity, your gentle|ness, your talents have rendered you the object of uni|versal esteem: you are secluded from the world which you profess to hate; yet you remain in possession of the benefits of society, and that a society composed of the most estimable of mankind."

"Father! father!" 'tis that which causes my torment. Happy had it been for me, had my life been passed among the vicious and abandoned; had I never heard pronounced the name of virtue. 'Tis my unbounded adoration of religion; 'tis my soul's exquis••te sensi|bility of the beauty of the fair and good, that loads me with shame—that hurries me to perdition. Oh! that I had never seen these abbey walls!"

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

"Had never seen you? repeated the novice, start|ing from the bank, and grasping the friar's hand with a frantic air—"You! You! Would to heaven that lightning had blasted them before you ever met my

eyes! Would to heaven that I were never to see you more, and could forget that I had ever seen you!"

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

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

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

"You had a sister?"

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

"What were those sorrows?"

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

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

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

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

"Ere they could find her, she discovered herself. Her love grew too violent for concealment; yet she wished not for Julian's person, she ambitioned but a share of his heart. In an unguarded moment she con|fessed

her affection. What was the return? Doting upon his wife, and believing that a look of pity be|stowed upon another was a theft from what he owed to her, he drove Matilda from his presence: he for|bade her ever again appearing before him. His sever|ity broke her heart: she returned to her father's, and in a few months after was carried to her grave."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have no friend, say you? what then am I? why will you not confide in me, and what can you fear? my severity? have I ever used it with you? the dignity of my habit? Rosario, I lay aside the monk, and bid you consider me as no other than your

friend, your father. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 may I assume that title; for never did parent watch over a child more fondly than I have watched over you. From the moment in which I first beheld you, I perceived sensations in my bosom till then unknown to me; I found a de|light in your society which no one's else could afford; and when I witnessed the extent of your genius and information, I rejoiced as does a father in the perfec|tions of his son. Then lay aside your fears; speak to me with openness; speak to me, Rosario, and say that you will confide in me. If my aid or my pity can alleviate your distress—"

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

"What, my son?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If Ambrosio's surprise was great at her first avowal, upon hearing her second it exceeded all bounds. A|mazed,

embarrassed, and irresolute, he found himself incapable of pronouncing a syllable, and remained in silence gazing upon Matilda. This gave her oppor|tunity to continue her explanation as follows:

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

"I spring from a distinguished family: my father was chief of the noble house of Villanegas: he died while I was still an infant, and left me sole heiress of his immense possessions. Young and wealthy, I was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 in marriage by the noblest youths of Madrid; but no one succeeded in gaining my affections. I had been brought up under the care of an uncle possessed of the most solid judgment and extensive erudition▪ he took pleasure in communicating to me some portion of his knowledge. Under his instructions my under|standing acquired more strength and justness than gen|erally falls to the lot of my sex: the ability of my preceptor being aided by natural curiosity, I not only made a considerable progress in sciences universally studied, but in others revealed but to few, and lying under consure from the blindness of superstition. But

while my guardian laboured to enlarge the sphere of my knowledge; he carefully inculcated every moral precept: he relieved me from the shackles of vulgar prejudice: he pointed out the beauty of religion: he taught me to look with adoration upon the pure and virtuous; and, wo is me! I have obeyed him but too well.

"With such dispositions, judge whether I could observe with any other sentiment than disgust, the vice, dissipation, and ignorance which disgrace our Spanish youth. I rejected every offer with disdain: my heart remained without a master, till chance con|ducted me to the cathedral of the Capuchins. Then was it that I first beheld you: you supplied the supe|rior's place, absent from illness.—You cannot but re|member the lively enthusiasm which your discourse created. Oh! how I drank your words! how 〈◊〉〈◊〉 eloquence seemed to steal me from myself! I scarcely dared to breathe, fearing to lose a syllable; and while you spoke, methought a radiant glory beamed round your head, and your countenance shone with the ma|jesty of a God. I retired from the church, glowing with admiration. From that moment you became the idol of my heart; the never changing object of my meditations. I inquired respecting you. The re|ports which were made me of your mode of life, of your knowledge, piety, and self denial, riveted the chains imposed on me by your eloquence. I was con|scious that there was no longer a void in my heart; that I had found the man whom I had sought till then in vain. In expectation of hearing you again, every day I visited your cathedral: you remained secluded within the abbey walls, and I always withdrew,

wretched and disappointed. The night was more pro|pitious to me, for then you stood before me in my dreams; you vowed to me eternal friendship; you led me through the paths of virtue, and assisted me to support the vexations of life. The morning dis|pelled these pleasing visions: I awoke and found my|self separated from you by barriers which appeared in|surmountable. Time seemed only to increase the strength of my passion: I grew melancholy and de|spondent; I ••led from society, and my health declined daily. At length, no longer able to exist in this state of torture, I resolved to assume the disguise in which you see me. My artifice was fortunate; I was re|ceived into the monastery, and succeeded in gaining your esteem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Impossible, Matilda! your interest commands me to refuse your prayer, since I tremble for you, not for myself. After vanquishing the impetuous ebul|litions

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

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

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

He pronounced these words in a faint and trem|bling voice; then rising from his seat, he would have

hastened towards the monastery. Uttering a loud shriek, Matilda followed, and detained him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I care not, I care not!" she replied passionately: "either your hand guides me to paradise, or my own dooms me to perdition! Speak to me, Ambrosio! Tell me that you will conceal my story; that I shall

remain your friend and your companion, or this poign|ard drinks my blood."

As she uttered these last words, she lifted her arm, and made a motion 〈◊〉〈◊〉 if to stab herself. The friar's eyes followed with ••read the course of the dagger, and saw that its point already rested upon her bosom.

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

He said: and, rushing from the place, hastened to|wards the monastery; he regained his cell, and threw himself upon his couch, distracted, irresolute and con|fused.

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

was wealthy, her favour might be of essential ben|efit to the abbey.

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

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

He awoke heated and unrefreshed; and started from his couch, heartily ashamed when he reflected on

his reasons of the former night, which induced him to authorize Matilda's stay. The cloud was now dissi|pated which had obscured his judgment; he shudder|ed when he beheld his arguments blazoned in their proper colours, and found that he had been a slave to flattery, to avarice and self love. If in one hour's conversation Matilda had produced a change so re|markable in his sentiments, what had he not to dread from her remaining in the abbey? Become sensible of his danger, awakened from his dream of confidence, he resolved to insist on her departing without delay: he began to feel that he was not proof against temp|tation; and that, however Matilda might restrain herself within the bounds of modesty, he was unable to contend with those passions from which he falsely thought himself exempted.

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

He quitted his cell, determined upon dismissing the feigned Rosario. He appeared at matins; but his thoughts were absent, and he paid them but little at|tention: his heart and brain were both of them filled with worldly objects, and he prayed without devo|tion. The service over, he descended into the garden; he bent his steps towards the same spot where on the preceding night he had made this embarrassing discov|ery: he doubted not that Matilda would seek him there. He was not deceived: she soon entered the hermitage, and approached the monk with a timid air. After a few minutes, during which both were silent, she appeared as if on the point of speaking; but the abbot, who during this time had been summoning up

all his resolution, hastily interrupted her. Though still unconscious how extensive was its influence, he dreaded the melodious seduction of her voice.

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

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

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

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

"Matilda!"

"Yes, father, yes; 'tis with justice that I reproach you. Oh! where are your promises? My noviciate

is not expired, and yet will you compel me to quit the monastery? can you have the heart to drive me from you? and have I not received your solemn oath to the contrary?"

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

for your happiness, my friendship, my esteem, and ad|miration: stay, and you become to me the source of danger, of sufferings, of despair. Answer me, Ma|tilda, what is your resolve?" She was silent.—"Will you not speak, Matilda? Will you not name your choice?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What shall I give you?"

"Something—any thing—one of those flowers will be sufficient." [Here she pointed to a bush of roses,

planted at the door of the grotto.] "I will hide it in my bosom, and, when I am dead, the nuns shall find it withered upon my heart."

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

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

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

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

Her distress was beyond the power of description. She rent her hair, beat her bosom, and, not daring to quit Ambrosio, endeavoured, by loud cries, to sum|mon the monks to her assistance. She at length suc|ceeded. Alarmed by her shrieks, several of the broth|ers hastened to the spot, and the superior was con|veyed back to the abbey. He was immediately put to bed, and the monk who officiated as surgeon to the fraternity prepared to examine the wound. By this time Ambrosio's hand had swelled to an extraordinary size: the remedies which had been administered to him, 'tis true, restored him to life, but not to his sen|ses: he raved in all the horrors of delirium, foamed

at the mouth, and four of the strongest monks were scarcely able to hold him in his bed.

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

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

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

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

"From the sudden effects, I suspected that the ab|bot was stung by a cientipedoro:* 1.2 the venom which you see upon my instrument confirms my idea. He cannot live three days."

"And can no possible remedy be found?" inquir|ed Rosario.

"Without extracting the poison, he cannot recov|er; and how to extract it, is to me still a secret. All that I can do is to apply such herbs to the wound as

will relieve the anguish: the patient will be restored to his senses; but the venom will corrupt the whole mass of his blood, and in three days he will exist no longer."

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

He communicated this intelligence to his brethren: their delight was only equalled by their surprise. From the latter sentiment, however, they were soon released, by explaining the circumstance according to their own ideas. They were perfectly convinced that their superior was a saint, and thought that noth|ing could be more natural than for St. Francis to have operated a miracle in his favour. This opinion

was adopted unanimously. They declared it so loudly, and vociferated "A miracle! a miracle!" with such fervour, that they soon interrupted Ambro|sio's slumbers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are in spirits, Matilda."

"Well may I be so: I have just received a pleas|ure unexampled through my whole life."

"What was that pleasure?"

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

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

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

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

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

She soon returned with it.

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

"What you please, Matilda."

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

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

DURANDARTE AND BELERMA.

SAD and fearful is the story Of the Roncevalles fight; On those fatal plains of glory Perished many a gallant knight.

There fel•• Durandarte: never Verse a nobler chieftain named: He, before his lips for ever Closed in silence, thus exclaimed:

"Oh! Belerma! oh! my dear one, For my pain and pleasure born, Seven long years I served thee, fair one, Seven long years my fee was scorn.

"And when now thy heart, replying To my wishes, burns like mine, Cruel fate, my bliss denying, Bids me every hope resign.

"Ah! though young I fall, believe me, Death would never claim a sigh; 'Tis to loose thee, 'tis to leave thee, Makes me think it hard to die!

"Oh! my cousin Montesinos, By that friendship firm and dear Which from youth has lived between us, Now my last petition hear:

"When my soul, these limbs forsaking, Eager seeks a purer air, From my breast the cold heart taking, Give it to Belerma's care.

"Say, I of my lands possessor Named her with my dying breath: Say, my lips I opd to bless her, Ere they closed for aye in death:

"Twice a week, too, how sincerely I ador'd her, cousin, say: Twice a week, for one who dearly Lov'd her, cousin, bid her pray.

"Montesinos, now the hour Marked by fate, is near at hand: Lo! my arm has lost its power! Lo! I drop my trusty brand.

"Eyes, which forth beheld me going, Homewards ne'er shall see me hie: Cousin, stop those ••••ars o'er flowing, Let me on thy bosom die.

"Thy kind hand, my eye-lids closing, Yet one favour I implore: Pray thou for my soul's reposing, When my heart shall throb no more.

"So shall Jesus, still attending Gracious to a Christian's vow, Pleased accept my ghost ascending, And a seat in heaven allow."

Thus spoke gallant Durandarte: Soon his brave heart broke in twain, Greatly joyed the Moorish party, That the gallant knight was slain.

Bitter weeping, Montesinos Took from him his helm and 〈◊〉〈◊〉; Bitter weeping, Montesinos Dug his gallant cousin's grave.

To perform his promise made, he Cut the heart from out the breast, That Belerma•• wretched lady! Might receive the last bequest. Sad was Montesinos' heart, he Felt distress his bosom rend. "Oh! my cousin Durandarte, Wo is me to view thy end! "Sweet in manners, fair in favour, Mild in temper, fierce in fight, Warrior nobler, gentler, braver, Never shall behold the light. "Cousin, lo! my tears bedew thee, How shall I thy loss survive? Durandarte, he who slew thee, Wherefore left he me alive?"

While she sang, Ambrosio listened with delight: never had he heard a voice more harmonious; and he wondered how such heavenly sounds could be pro|duced by any but angels. But though he indulged the sense of hearing, a single look convinced him, that he must not trust to that of sight. The songstress sat at a little distance from his bed. The attitude in which she bent over her harp was easy and graceful: her cowl had fallen more back than usual: two coral lips were visible, ripe, fresh, and melting, and a chin, in whose dimples seemed to lurk a thousand Cupids. Her habit's long sleeve would have swept along the chords of the instrument: to prevent this inconve|nience she had drawn it above her elbow; and by this means an arm was discovered, formed in the most per|fect symmetry, the delicacy of whose skin might have contended with snow in whiteness. Ambrosio dared to look on her but once: that glance sufficed to con|vince him how dangerous was the presence of this se|ducing

object. He closed his eyes, but strove in vain to banish her from his thoughts. There she still mov|ed before him, adorned with all those charms which his heated imagination could supply. Every beauty which he had seen appeared embellished; and those still concealed fancy represented to him in glowing colours. Still, however, his vows, and the necessity of keeping to them, were present to his memory. He struggled with desire, and shuddered when he beheld how deep was the precipice before him.

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

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

She stopped, and was lost in her reflections.

"It was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 yesterday," she continued; "but a few short hours have passed since I was dear to him; he esteemed me, and my heart was satisfied. Now, oh! now, ••ow cruelly is my situation changed! He

looks on me with suspicion; he bids me leave him, leave him for ever. Oh! you, my saint, my idol! You! holding the next place to God in my breast, yet two days, and my heart will be unveiled to you. Could you know my feelings, when I beheld your agony! Could you know how much your sufferings have endeared you to me! But the time will come, when you will be convinced that my passion is pure and disinterested. Then you will pity me, and feel the whole weight of these sorrows."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of this discourse the abbot lost not a syllable! and the tone in which she pronounced these last words

pierced to his heart. Involuntarily he raised himself from his pillow.

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

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

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

"Accident has made you master of a secret which I never would have revealed but on the bed of death: yes, Ambrosio, in Matilda de Villanegas you see the original of your beloved Madona. Soon after I con|ceived my unfortunate passion, I formed the project of conveying to you my picture. Crowds of admir|ers had persuaded me that I possessed some beauty, and I was anxious to know what effect it would pro|duce upon you. I caused my portrait to be drawn by

Martin Galuppi, a celebrated Venetian, at that time resident in Madrid. The resemblance was striking: I sent it to the Capuchin abbey as if for sale; and the Jew from whom you bought it was one of my emissaries. You purchased it. Judge of my rapture, when informed that you had gazed upon it with de|light, or rather with adoration; that you had sus|pended it in your cell, and that you addressed your supplications to no other saint! Will this discov|ery make me still more regarded as an object of suspicion? Rather should it convince you how pure is my affection, and engage you to suffer me in your society and esteem. I heard you daily choral the prais|es of my portrait. I was an eye witness of the trans|ports which its beauty excited in you: yet I forebore to use against your virtue those arms with which yourself had furnished me. I concealed those features from your fight, which you loved unconsciously. I strove not to excite desire by displaying my charms, or to make myself mistress of your heart through the me|dium of your senses. To attract your notice by stu|diously attending to religious duties, to endear myself to you by convincing you that my mind was virtuous, and my attachment sincere, such was my only aim. I succeeded; I became your companion and your friend. I concealed my sex from your knowledge; and, had you not pressed me to reveal my secret, had I not been tormented by the fear of a discovery, never had you known me for any other than Rosario. And still are you resolved to drive me from you? The few hours of life which yet remain for me, may I not pass them in your presence? Oh! speak, Ambrosio, and tell me that I may stay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a dreadful expression in her eyes as she uttered these words, which penetrated the friar's soul

with horror. Again she kissed his hand, and then fled with rapidity from the chamber.

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

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

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

He found himself so perfectly recovered, that when father Pablos visited him again at night, he entreated permission to quit his chamber on the day following. His request was granted. Matilda appeared no more

that evening, except in company with the monks when they came in a body to inquire after the abbot's health. She seemed fearful of conversing with him in private, and staid but a few minutes in his room. The friar slept well.

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

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

Matilda's efforts to appear gay were evidently forced;

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

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

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

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

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

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

She entered her cell and closed the door.

The abbot dispatched to her the physician without losing a moment, and waited his report impatiently; but father Pablos soon returned, and declared that his

errand had been fruitless. Rosario refused to admit him, and had positively rejected his offers of assistance. The uneasiness which this account gave Ambrosio was not trifling; yet he determined that Matilda should have her own way for that night, but that if her situation did not mend by the morning, he would insist upon her taking the advice of father Pablos.

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

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

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

"Father Pablos has seen him, but his art can do noth|ing. He says that he suspects the youth to be poisoned."

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

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

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

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

"What have you done, imprudent woman?" ex|claimed the latter, as soon as they were left alone: "tell me, are my suspicions just? Am I indeed to

lose you? Has your own hand been the instrument of your destruction?"

She smiled, and grasped his hand.

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

"Matilda!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ambrosio, it must not be. When I thought thus. I deceived both you and myself. Oh! since we 〈◊〉〈◊〉 conversed together, a dreadful veil has been rent from before my eyes. I love you no longer with the devo|tion which is paid to a saint; I prize you no more for the virtues of your soul. The woman reigns in my bosom, and I am become a prey to the wild|est of passions. Away with friendship! 'tis a cold unfeeling word: my bosom burns with love, with un|utterable love, and love must be its return. Tremble then, Ambrosio, tremble to succeed in your prayers. If I live, your truth, your reputation, your reward of a life passed in sufferings, all that you value, is irre|trievably lost. No, no, Ambrosio, I feel that I must not live!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Feel this heart, father! It is yet the seat of honor, truth, and chastity: if it beats to-morrow, it must fall a prey to the blackest crimes. Oh! let me then die to-day! Let me die while I yet deserve the tears of the virtuous."

The hour was night. All was silence around. The faint beams of a solitary lamp darted upon Ma|tilda's figure, and shed through the chamber a dim, mysterious light. Nothing was heard but her melo|dious accents. Ambrosio saw before him a young and beautiful woman, the preserver of his life, the adorer of his person; and whom affection for him had re|duced to the brink of the grave: her life or death rest|ed upon his decision: which should he sacrifice, his vows or her existence? A thousand noble feelings, blended with a thousand base ones, impel him to pre|fer the former. He 〈◊〉〈◊〉; his vow is violated! Tremble, Ambrosio 〈…〉〈…〉 step is taken; and he who breaks his faith with heaven, will soon break it with man.—Hark! 'twas the shriek of your better angel: he flies, and leaves you for ever!

CHAP. III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Marquis you wrong me: the intelligence, which I received at Naples, shocked me extremely, and I hastened my return to Madrid for the express purpose of preventing the sacrifice. The moment that I ar|rived, I flew to the convent of St. Clare, in which

Agnes had chosen to perform her noviciate. I re|quested to see my sister. Conceive my surprise, when she sent me a refusal: she declared positively that, apprehending my influence over her mind, she would not trust herself in my society till the day before that on which she was to receive the veil. I supplicated the nuns; I insisted upon seeing Agnes; and hes|itated not to avow my suspicions, that her being kept from me was against her own inclinations. To free herself from the imputation of violence, the prioress brought me a few lines, written in my sister's well known hand, repeating the message already delivered. All future attempts to obtain a moment's conversation with her, were as fruitless as the first. She was in|flexible, and I was not permitted to see her till the day preceding that on which she entered the cloister, never to quit it more. This interview took place in the presence of our principal relations. It was for the first time since her childhood that I saw her, and the scene was most affecting: she threw herself upon my bosom, kissed me, and wept bitterly. By every possible argument, by tears, by prayers, by kneeling, I strove to make her abandon her intention. I rep|resented to her all the hardships of a religious life; I painted to her imagination all the pleasures which she was going to quit; and besought her to disclose to me what occasioned her disgust to the world. At this last question she turned pale, and her tears flowed yet faster. She entreated me not to press her on that sub|ject; that it sufficed me to know that her resolution was taken, and that a convent was the only place where she could now hope for tranquillity. She per|severed in her design, and made her profession. I

visited her frequently at the grate; and every moment that I passed with her made me feel more affliction at her loss. I was shortly after obliged to quit Madrid; I returned but yesterday evening, and, since then, have not had time to call at St. Clare's convent."

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

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

"In 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I easily recognise Donna Rodolpha's per|fidious character. Every word of this account, is stamped with marks of her malice, of her falsehood, of her ••alents for misrepresenting those whom she wishes to injure. Forgive me, Medina, for speaking so freely of your relation. The mischief which she has

done me authorize•• my resentment; and when you have heard my story, you will be convinced that my expressions have not been too severe."

He then began his narrative in the following man|ner:—

HISTORY OF DON RAYMOND, MARQUIS DE LAS CISTERNAS.

LONG experience, my dear Lorenzo, has con|vinced me how generous is your nature: I waited not for your declaration of ignorance respecting your sister's adventures, to suppose that they had been pur|posely concealed from you. Had they reached your knowledge, from what misfortunes should both Agnes and myself have escaped! Fate had ordained it other|wise. You were on your travels when I first became acquainted wit•• ••••ur sister, and as our enemies took care to conceal from her your direction, it was impos|sible for her to implore by letter your pro••ection and advice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is a long way," said he; "you will find it a difficult matter to arrive there without a guide: be|sides,

monsieur seems unaccustomed to the season's ••everity: and 'tis possible that, unable to sustain the excessive cold—"

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

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

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

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

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

He obeyed, and we moved onwards: the horses contrived, with some difficulty, to drag the shattered vehicle after us. My servant was become almost speechless, and I began to feel the effects of the cold

myself before we reached the wished for cottage. It was a small but neat building: as we drew near it I rejoiced at observing through the window the blaze of a comfortable fire. Our conductor knocked at the door: it was some time before any one answered; the people within seemed in doubt whether we should be admitted.

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

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

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

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

Thus saying, he ushered me into the room where I had observed the fire. I was immediately placed in an easy chair, which stood close to the hearth. A female, whom I supposed to be the wife of my host, rose from her seat upon my entrance, and received me with a slight and distant reverence. She made no answer to my compliment, but, immediately reseat|ing herself, continued the work on which she had

been employed. Her husband's manners were as friendly as hers were harsh and repulsive.

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

The wife threw her work hastily upon the table, and proceeded to execute his commands with every mark of unwillingness. Her countenance had dis|pleased me on the first moment of my examining it: yet upon the whole, her features were handsome un|questionably; but her skin was sallow, and her per|son thin and meagre a lowering gloom overspread her countenance, and it bore such visible marks of rancour and ill will, as could not escape being noticed by the most inattentive observer; her every look and action expressed discontent and impatience; and the answers which she gave Baptiste, when he reproached her good-humouredly for her dissatisfied air, were tart, short, and cutting. In fine, I conceived at first sight equal disgust for her, and prepossession in favour of her husband, whose appearance was calculated to inspire esteem and confidence. His countenance was open,

sincere, and friendly; his manners had all the peas|ant's honesty, unaccompanied by his rudeness: his cheeks were broad, full and ruddy; and in the solid|ity of his person he seemed to offer an ample apology for the leanness of his wife's. From the wrinkles on his brow, I judged him to be turned of sixty; but he bore his years well, and seemed still hearty and strong. The wife could not be more than thirty, but in spirits and vivacity she was infinitely older than the husband.

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

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

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

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

To this I readily assented, telling the postillion that my reaching Strasbourg the next day an hour or two later would be perfectly immaterial. He thanked me, and then, leaving the cottage with Stephano, put up

his horses in the woodman's stable. Baptiste followed them to the door, and looked out with anxiety.

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

Marguerite was at this time employed in laying the cloth.

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

"Not I," she replied peevishly; "they are no chil|dren of mine."

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

Marguerite clasped her hands together passionately.

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

She quitted the room hastily, and went up stairs.

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

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

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

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

The halloo was repeated. We now distinguished the trampling of horses; and, soon after, a carriage attended by several cavaliers stopped at the cottage door. One of the horsemen inquired how far they were still from Strasbourg. As he addressed himself

to me, I answered in the number of miles which Claude had told me; upon which a volley of curses was vented against the drivers for having lost their way. The persons in the coach were now informed of the distance of Strasbourg; and also that the horses were so fatigued as to be incapable of proceeding fur|ther. A lady who appeared to be the principal, ex|pressed much chagrin at this intelligence; but as there was no remedy, one of the attendants asked the wood|man whether he could furnish them with lodging for the night.

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

"The baroness Lindenberg," was the answer.

I could not but remark how different a reception our host had given these new comers and myself. His reluctance to admit them was visibly expressed on his countenance; and he prevailed on himself with difficulty to tell the lady that she was welcome. I conducted her into the house, and placed ••er in the arm chair which I had just quitted. She thanked

me very graciously, and made a thousand apologies for putting me to an inconvenience. Suddenly the wood|man's countenance cleared up.

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

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

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

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

Upon this assurance the youths returned. The father presented them to the baroness and myself; after which he withdrew with our domestics, while, at the request of the two waiting women, Margue|rite

conducted them to the room designed for their mistress.

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

"You travel well armed," said I.

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

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

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

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

In the mean while, the baroness expressed her ap|prehensions that her husband would be suffering much anxiety upon her account. She had intended to send on one of her servants to inform the baron of her de|lay;

but the account which the young men gave of the forest rendered this plan impracticable. Claude relieved her from her embarrassment: he informed her, that he was under the necessity of reaching Stras|bourg that night; and that, would she trust him with a letter, she might depend upon its being safely de|livered.

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

"Alas! monsieur, a poor man with a large family must not lose certain profit because 'tis attended with a little danger; and perhaps my lord the baron may give me a trifle for my pains; besides, I have noth|ing to lose except my life, and that will not be worth the robbers taking."

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

The lady declared herself much fatigued by her journey: besides having come from some distance, the drivers had contrived to lose their way in the forest. She now addressed herself to Marguerite, de|siring

to be shewn to her chamber, and permitted to take half an hour's repose. One of the waiting women was immediately summoned; she appeared with a light, and the baroness followed her up stairs. The cloth was spreading in the chamber where I was, and Marguerite soon gave me to understand that I was in her way. Her hints were too broad to be easily mistaken; I therefore desired one of the young men to conduct me to the chamber where I was to sleep, and where I could remain till supper was ready.

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

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

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

He opened the door, and advanced towards a narrow staircase.

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

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

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

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

At that moment a thousand confused ideas passed before my imagination. The robbers who infested the wood, Marguerite's exclamation respecting her children, the arms and appearance of the two young men, and the various anecdotes which I had heard related respecting the secret correspondence which frequently exists between banditti and postillions; all these circumstances flashed upon my mind, and inspir|ed me with doubt and apprehension. I ruminated on the most probable means of ascertaining the truth of my conjectures. Suddenly I was aware of some one be|low, pacing hastily backwards and forwards. Every thing now appeared to me an object of suspicion. With precaution I drew near the window, which, as the room had been long shut up, was left open in spite of the cold. I ventured to look out.

The beams of the moon permitted me to distinguish a man, whom I had no difficulty to recognise for my host. I watched his movements. He walked swiftly, then stopped and seemed to listen: he stamped upon the ground, and beat his stomach with his arms, as if to guard himself from the inclemency of the season: at the least noise, if a voice was heard in the lower part of the house, if a bat flitted past him, or the wind rattled amidst the leafless boughs, he started, and looked round with anxiety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh! how I cursed Stephano's imprudent vanity!

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

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

"'Tis plaguy unlucky that my comrades who drove the coach should be those unacquainted with our con|federacy! But never fear, friend Baptiste: an hour will bring me to the cavern; it is now but ten

o'clock, and by twelve you may expect the arrival of the band. By the bye, take care of your wife; you know how strong is her repugnance to our mode of life, and she may find means to give information to the lady's servants of our design."

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

"And suppose either of the travellers should dis|cover your design?"

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

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

"The reward of courage."

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

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

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

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

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

In spite of all my endeavours to conceal it, my agi|tation was but too visibly expressed upon my counte|nance.

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

rested upon Claude's not finding the banditti. In that case, according to what I had overheard, we should be permitted to depart unhurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marguerite darted upon him a look of mingled an|ger and fear, and left the chamber. His eyes follow|ed her suspiciously till she had closed the door.

She soon returned with a bottle sealed with yellow wax. She placed it upon the table, and gave the key

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

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

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

"You have not suited my taste, honest friend,"

said I, addressing myself to Baptiste: "I never can drink champaign without its producing a violent ill|ness. I swallowed a few mouthfuls ere I was aware of its quality, and fear that I shall suffer for my im|prudence."

Baptiste and Jacques exchanged looks of distrust.

"Perhaps," said Robert, "the smell may be disa|greeable to you?"

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

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

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

I waited with anxiety for the effects which the beverage would produce upon the lady. I doubted not but the grains which I had observed were poison|ous, and lamented that it had been impossible for me to warn her of the danger. But a few minutes had elapsed, before I perceived her eyes grow heavy: her head sunk upon her shoulder, and she fell into a deep sleep. I affected not to attend to this circum|stance, and continued my conversation with Baptiste, with all the outward gaiety in my power to assume. But he no longer answered me without constraint. He eyed me with distrust and astonishment, and I saw that the banditti were frequently whispering among themselves. My situation became every moment more painful: I sustained the character of confidence with

a worse grace than ever. Equally afraid of the arrival of their accomplices, and of their suspecting my knowledge of their designs, I knew not how to dissi|pate the distrust which the banditti evidently entertain|ed for me. In this new dilemma the friendly Mar|guerite again assisted me. She passed behind the chairs of her step sons, stopped for a moment opposite to me, closed her eyes, and reclined her head upon her shoul|der. This hint immediately dispelled my incertitude. It told me, that I ought to imitate the baroness, and pretend that the liquor had taken its full effect upon me. I did so, and in a few minutes seemed perfectly overcome with slumber.

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

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

"And supposing," rejoined the father, "supposing that our friends should not arrive to-night, a pretty figure we should make when the servants inquire for him in the morning! No, no, Jacques; we must wait for our associates. If they join us, we are strong enough to dispatch the domestic as well as their masters, and the booty is our own. If Claude does not find the troop, we must take patience, and suffer the prey to slip through our fingers. Ah! boys, boys, had you arrived but five minutes sooner, the Spaniard

would have been done for, and two thousand pistoles our own. But you are always out of the way when you are most wanted. You are the most unlucky rogues—"

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

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

She replied in the affirmative.

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

At this moment I heard a trampling of horses. Oh! how dreadful was the sound to my ears! A cold sweat flowed down my forehead, and I felt all the terrors of impending death. I was by no means re|assured by hearing the compassionate Marguerite ex|claim, in the accents of despair, "Almighty God! they are lost."

Luckily the woodman and his sons were too much occupied by the arrival of their associates to attend to

me, or the violence of my agitation would have con|vinced them my sleep was feigned.

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

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

Robert hastened to open the door of the cottage.

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

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

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

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

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

"Now! now!" whispered Marguerite. I opened my eyes. Baptiste stood with his back towards me.

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

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

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

I hesitated not to obey her; but unwilling to leave the baroness a victim to the vengeance of the robbers, I raised her in my arms still sleeping, and hastened after Marguerite. The horses of the banditti were fastened near the door. My conductress sprang upon one of them. I followed her example, placed the baroness before me, and spurred on my horse. Our only hope was to reach Strasbourg, which was much nearer than the perfidious Claude had assured me. Marguerite was well acquainted with the road, and gallopped on before me. We were obliged to pass by the barn,

where the robbers were slaughtering our domestics. The door was open: we distinguished the shrieks of the dying, and imprecations of the murderers. What I felt at that moment language is unable to describe.

Jacques heard the trampling of our horses, as we rushed by the barn. He flew to the door with a burn|ing torch in his hand, and easily recognised the fugi|tives.

"Betrayed! betrayed!" he shouted to his com|panions.

Instantly they left their bloody work, and hastened to regain their horses. We heard no more. I buri|ed my spurs in the sides of my courser, and Marguerite goaded on hers with the poignard which had already rendered us such good service. We flew like light|ning, and gained the open plains. Already was Stras|bourg's steeple in sight, when we heard the robbers pursuing us. Marguerite looked back, and distin|guished our followers descending a small hill at no great distance. It was in vain that we urged on our horses, the noise approached nearer with every mo|ment.

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

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

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

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

The foremost, who seemed to act as guide, immedi|ately reined in his steed.

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

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

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

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

"God be thanked!" said he, "she has escaped un|hurt."

I interrupted his joy by pointing out the brigands, who continued to approach. No sooner had I men|tioned them, than the greatest part of the company, which appeared to be chiefly composed of soldiers, hastened forward to meet them. The villains staid not to receive their attack. Perceiving their danger, they turned the heads of their horses, and fled into the wood, whither they were followed by our preservers. In the mean while the stranger, whom I guessed to be

the baron Lindenberg•• after thanking me for my care of his lady, proposed our returnin•• with all speed to the town. The baroness, on who•• he effects of the opiate had not ceased to operate, was placed before him; Marguerite and her son remounted their horses; the baron's domestics followed, and we soon arrived at the inn where he had taken his apartments.

This was at the Austrian Eagle, where my banker, whom before my quitting Paris I had apprized of my intention to visit Strasbourg, had prepared lodgings for me. I rejoiced at this circumstance. It gave me an opportunity of cultivating the baron's acquaintance, which I foresaw would be of use to me in Germany. Immediately upon our arrival, the lady was conveyed to bed. A physician was sent for, who prescribed a medicine likely to counteract the effects of the sleepy potion; and after it had been poured down her throat, she was committed to the care of the hostess. The baron then addressed himself to me, and entreated me to recount the particulars of this adventure. I com|plied with his request instantaneously; for, in pain re|specting Stephano's fate, whom I had been compelled to abandon to the cruelty of the banditti, I found it im|possible for me to repose till I had some news of him. I received but too soon the intelligence that my trusty servant had perished. The soldiers who had pursued the brigands, returned while I was employed in relat|ing my adventure to the baron. By their account, I found that the robbers had been overtaken. Guilt and true courage are incompatible: they had thrown themselves at the fe••t of their pursuers, had surrender|ed themselves without striking a blow, had discovered their secret retreat, made known their signals by which

the rest of the gang might be seized, and, in short, had betrayed every mark of cowardice and baseness. By this means the whole of the band, consisting of near sixty persons, had been made prisoners, bound, and conducted to Strasbourg. Some of the soldiers hastened to the cottage, one of the banditti serving them as guide. Their first visit was to the fatal barn, where they were fortunate enough to find two of the baron's servants still alive, though desperately wounded. The rest had expired beneath the swords of the robbers, and of these my unhappy Stephano was one.

Alarmed at our escape, the robbers, in their haste to overtake us, had neglected to visit the cottage; in con|sequence, the soldiers found 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••wo waiting women unhurt, and buried in the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 death like slumber which had overpowered their mistress. There was no|body else found in the cottage, except a child not above four years old, which the soldiers brought away with them. We were busying ourselves with con|jectures respecting the birth of this little unfortunate, when Marguerite rushed into the room with the baby in her arms. She fell at the feet of the officer who was making us this report, and blessed him a thousand times for the preservation of her child.

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

"Gentlemen 'said she, after a silence of some min|utes, "I would request a favour of you. You have

a right to know on whom you confer an obligation; I will not, therefore, stifle a confession which covers me with shame; but permit me to comprise it in as few words as possible.

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

"He was of noble birth, but he had squandered away his paternal inheritance. His relations consid|ered him as a disgrace to their name, and utterly dis|carded him. His excesses drew upon him the indig|nation of the police. He was obliged to fly from Strasbourg; and saw no other resource from beggary than an union with the banditti who infested the neigh|bouring forest, and whose troop was chiefly composed of young men of family in the same predicament with himself. I was determined not to forsake him. I followed him to the cavern of the brigands, and shared with him the misery inseparable from a life of pillage. But though I was aware that our existence was sup|ported

by plunder, I knew not all the horrible circum|stances attached to my lover's profession: these he concealed from me with the utmost care. He was conscious that my sentiments were not sufficiently depraved to look without horror upon assassination. He supposed, and with justice, that I should fly with detestation from the embraces of a murderer. Eight years of possession had not abated his love for me: and he cautiously removed from my knowledge every circumstance which might lead me to suspect the crimes in which he but too often participated. He succeeded perfectly. It was not till after my sedu|cer's death that I discovered his hands to have been stained with the blood of innocence.

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

once been a monk, pronounced over us a burlesque rather than a religious ceremony: I and my children were delivered into the hands of my new husband, and he conveyed us immediately to his home.

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

"My nature was licentious and warm, but not cruel: my conduct had been imprudent, but my heart was not unprincipled. Judge, then, what I must have 〈◊〉〈◊〉 at being a continual witness of crimes the most horrible and revolting! Judge how I must have griev|ed at being united to a man, who received the unsus|pecting guest with an air of openness and hospitality, at the very moment that he meditated his destruction!

Chagrin and discontent preyed upon my constitution; the few charms bestowed on me by nature withered away, and the dejection of my countenance denoted the sufferings of my heart. I was tempted a thousand times to put an end to my existence; but the remem|brance of my children held my hand. I trembled to leave my dear boys in my tyrant's power, and trem|bled yet more for their virtue than their lives. The second was still too young to benefit by my instruc|tions; but in the heart of my eldest I laboured unceas|ingly to plant those principles which might enable him to avoid the crimes of his parents. He listened to me with docility, or rather with eagerness. Even at is early age, he shewed that he was not calculated for the society of villains; and the only comfort which I en|joyed among my sorrows, was to witness the dawning virtues of my Theodore.

"Such was my situation when the perfidy of Don Alphonso's postillion conducted him to the cottage. His youth, air, and manners interested me most forci|bly in his behalf. The absence of my husband's sons gave me an opportunity which I had long wished to find, and I resolved to risk every thing to preserve the stranger. The vigilance of Baptiste prevented me from warning Don Alphonso of his danger. I knew that my betraying the secret would be immediately punished with death; and however embittered was my life by calamities, I wanted courage to sacrifice it for the sake of preserving that of another person. My only hope rested upon procuring succour from Stras|bourg. At this I resolved to try; and should an op|portunity offer of warning Don Alphonso of his dan|ger unobserved, I was determined to seize it with

avidity. By Baptiste's orders I went up stairs to make the stranger's bed: I spread upon it sheets in which a traveller had been murdered but a few nights before, and which still were stained with blood. I hoped that these marks would not escape the vigilance of our guest, and that he would collect from them the designs of my perfidious husband. Neither was this the only step which I took to preserve the stranger. Theo|dore was confined to his bed by illness. I stole into his room unobserved by my tyrant, communicated to him my project, and he entered into it with eagerness. He rose in spite of his malady, and dressed himself with all speed. I fastened one of the sheets round his arms, and lowered him from the window. He flew to the stable, took Claude's horse, and hastened to Strasbourg. Had he been accosted by the banditti, he was to have declared himself sent upon a message by Baptiste; but fortunately he reached the town with|out meeting any obstacle. Immediately upon his ar|rival at Strasbourg, he entreated assistance from the magistrate: his story passed from mouth to mouth, and at length came to the knowledge of my lord the baron. Anxious for the safety of his lady, who he knew would be upon the road that evening, it struck him that she might have fallen into the power of the robbers. He accompanied Theodore, who guided the soldiers towards the cottage, and arrived just in time to save us from falling once more into the hands of our enemies."

Here I interrupted Marguerite to inquire why the sleepy potion had been presented to me. She said that Baptiste supposed me to have arms about me, and wished to incapacitate me from making resistance: it

was a precaution which he always took, since, as the travellers had no hopes of escaping, despair would have incited them to sell their lives dearly.

The Baron then desired Marguerite to inform him what were her present plans. I joined him in declar|ing my readiness to show my gratitude to her for the preservation of my life.

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

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

The baroness, on recovering, and being informed from what dangers I had rescued her, set no bounds

to the expressions of her gratitude. She was joined so warmly by her husband in pressing me to accompany them to their castle in Bavaria, that I found it impossi|ble to resist their entreaties. During a week which we passed at Strasbourg, the interests of Marguerite were not forgotten. In our application to her father we succeeded as amply as we could wish. The good old man had lost his wife. He had no children but this unfortunate daughter, of whom he had received no news for almost fourteen years. He was surrounded by distant relations, who waited with impatience for his decease, in order to get possession of his money. When therefore Marguerite appeared again so unex|pectedly, he considered her as a gift from Heaven. He received her and her children with open arms, and in|sisted upon their establishing themselves in his house without delay. The disappointed cousins were ob|liged to give place. The old man would not hear of his daughter's retiring into a convent. He said, that she was too necessary to his happiness, and she was easily persuaded to relinquish her designs. But no persuasions could induce Theodore to give up the plan which I had at first marked out for him. He had attached himself to me most sincerely during my stay at Strasbourg; and when I was on the point of leav|ing it, he besought me with tears to take him into my service. He set forth all his little talents in the most favourable colours, and tried to convince me that I should find him of infinite use to me upon the road. I was unwilling to charge myself with a lad scarcely turned of thirteen, who I knew could only be a bur|then to me: however, I could not resist the entreaties of this affectionate youth, who in fact possessed a thou|sand

estimable qualities. With some difficulty he per|suaded his relations to let him follow me; and that permission once obtained, he was dubbed with the title of my page. Having passed a week at Strasbourg, Theodore and myself set out for Bavaria, in company with the baron and his lady. These latter, as well as myself, had forced Marguerite to accept several pres|ents of value, both for herself and her youngest son. On leaving her, I promised his mother faithfully, that I would restore Theodore to her within the year.

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

CHAP. IV.

Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless; thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with! Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence! MACBETH.

CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF DON RAYMOND.

MY journey was uncommonly agreeable. I found the baron a man of some sense, but little know|ledge of the world. He had passed a great part of his life without stirring beyond the precincts of his own domains, and consequently his manners were far from being the most polished; but he was hearty, good hu|moured, and friendly. His attention to me was all that I could wish, and I had every reason to be satis|fied with his behaviour. His ruling passion was hunt|ing, which he had brought himself to consider as a serious occupation; and, when talking over some remarkable chace, he treated the subject with as much gravity as if it had been a battle on which the fate of two kingdoms was depending. I happened to be a tolerable sportsman: soon after my arrival at Lin|denberg, I gave some proofs of my dexterity. The baron immediately marked me down for a man of ge|nius, and vowed to me an eternal friendship.

That friendship was become to me by no means in|different. At the castle of Lindenberg, I beheld for the first time your sister, the lovely Agnes. For me, whose heart was unoccupied, and who grieved at the void, to see her and to love her were the same. I found

in Agnes all that was requisite to secure my affection. She was then scarcely sixteen; her person, light and elegant, was already formed; she possessed several tal|ents in perfection, particularly those of music and drawing: her character was gay, open, and good hu|moured; and the graceful simplicity of her dress and manners formed an advantageous contrast to the art and studied coquetry of the Parisian dames, whom I had just quitted. From the moment that I beheld her, I felt the most lively interest in her fate. I made many inquiries respecting her of the baroness.

"She is my niece," replied that lady. "You are still ignorant, Don Alphonso, that I am your country|woman. I am sister to the duke of Medina Celi. Agnes is the daughter of my second brother, Don Gas|ton: she has been destined to the convent from her cradle, and will soon make her profession at Madrid."

[Here Lorenzo interrupted the marquis by an ex|clamation of surprise—

"Intended for the convent from her cradle!" said he: "〈…〉〈…〉, this is the first word that I ever heard of such a design."

"I believe it, my dear Lorenzo," answered Don Raymond; "but you must listen to me with patience. You will not be less surprised, when I relate some par|ticulars of your family still unknown to you, and which I have learned from the mouth of Agnes herself."

He then resumed his narrative as follows:]

You cannot but be aware, that your parents were unfortunately slaves to the grossest superstition: when

this foible was called into play, their every other sen|timent, their every other passion, yielded to its irresist|ible strength. While she was big with Agnes, your mother was seized by a dangerous illness, and given over by her physicians. In this situation Donna In|esilla vowed, that if she recovered from her malady, the child then living in her bosom, if a girl, should be dedicated to St. Clare; if a boy, to St. Benedict. Her prayers were heard: she got rid of her complaint; Agnes entered the world alive, and was immediately destined to the service of St. Clare.

Don Gaston readily chimed in with his lady's wishes; but knowing the sentiments of the duke, his brother, respecting a monastic life, it was determined that your sister's destination should be carefully concealed from him. The better to guard the secret, it was re|solved that Agnes should accompany her aunt, Donna Rodolpha, into Germany, whither that lady was on the point of following her new married husband, baron Lindenberg. On her arrival at that estate, the young Agnes was put into a convent, situated but a few miles from the castle. The nuns, to whom her education was confided, performed their charge with exactitude: they made her a perfect mistress of many accomplish|ments, and strove to infuse into her mind a taste for the retirement and tranquil pleasures of a convent. But a secret instinct made the young recluse sensible that she was not born for solitude: in all the freedom of youth and gaiety, she scrupled not to treat as ridicu|lous many ceremonies which the nuns regarded with awe: and she was never more happy than when her lively imagination inspired her with some scheme to plague the stiff lady abbess, or the ugly ill tempered

old porteress. She looked with disgust upon the pros|pect before her: however, no alternative was offered to her, and she submitted to the decree of her parents, though not without secret repining.

That repugnance she had not art enough to conceal long: Don Gaston was informed of it. Alarmed, Lorenzo, lest your affection for her should oppose it|self to his projects, and lest you should positively object to your sister's misery, he resolved to keep the whole affair from your knowledge as well as the duke's, till the sacrifice should be consummated. The season for her taking the veil was fixed for the time when you should be upon your travels: in the mean while, no hint was dropped of Donna Inesilla's fatal vow. Your sister was never permitted to know your direction. All your letters were read before she received them, and those parts effaced which were likely to nourish her inclination for the world: her answers were dic|tated either by her aunt, or by dame Cunegonda, her governess. These particulars I learnt partly from Agnes, partly from the baroness herself.

I immediately determined upon rescuing this lovely girl from a fate so contrary to her inclinations, and ill suited to her merit. I endeavoured to ingratiate my|self into her favour: I boasted of my friendship and intimacy with you. She listened to me with avidity; she seemed to devour my words while I spoke in your praise, and her eyes thanked me for my affection to her brother. My constant and unremitted attention at length gained me her heart, and with difficulty I oblig|ed her to confess that she loved me. When, however, I proposed her quitting the castle of Lindenberg, she rejected the idea in positive terms.

"Be generous, Alphonso," she said; "you possess my heart, but use not the gift ignobly. Employ not your ascendancy over me in persuading me to take a step at which I should hereafter have to blush. I am young and deserted: my brother, my only friend, is separated from me, and my other relations act with me as my enemies. Take pity on my unprotected situation. Instead of seducing me to an action which would cover me with shame, strive rather to gain the affections of those who govern me. The baron es|teems you. My aunt, to others ever harsh, proud, and contemptuous, remembers that you rescued her from the hands of murderers, and wears with you alone the appearance of kindness and benignity. Try then your influence over my guardians. If they con|sent to our union, my hand is yours. From your ac|count of my brother, I cannot doubt your obtaining his approbation; and when they find the impossibility of executing their design, I trust that my parents will excuse my disobedience, and expiate by some other sacrifice my mother's fatal vow."

From the first moment that I beheld Agnes, I had endeavoured to conciliate the favour of her relations. Authorized by the confession of her regard, I redoubled my exertions. My principal battery was directed against the baroness. It was easy to discover that her word was law in the castle: her husband paid her the most absolute submission, and considered her as a su|perior being. She was about forty. In her youth she had been a beauty; but her charms had been upon that large scale which can but ill sustain the shock of years: however, she still possessed 〈…〉〈…〉 of them. Her understanding was 〈…〉〈…〉 excellent

when not obscured by prejudice, which unluckily was but seldom the case. Her passions were violent: she spared no pains to gratify them, and pursued with unremitting vengeance those who opposed them|selves to her wishes. The warmest of friends, the most inveterate of enemies, such was the baroness Lindenberg.

I laboured incessantly to please her: unluckily I succeeded but too well. She seemed gratified by my attention, and treated me with a distinction accorded by her to no one else. One of my daily occupations was reading to her for several hours: those hours I should much rather have passed with Agnes; but as I was conscious that complaisance for her aunt would advance our union, I submitted with a good grace to the penance imposed upon me. Donna Rodolpha's library was principally composed of old Spanish ro|mances: these were her favourite studies, and once a day one of these unmerciful volumes was put regu|larly into my hands. I read the wearisome adven|tures of "Perceforest," "Tirante the White," "Pal|merin of England," and "The Knight of the Sun," till the book was on the point of falling from my hands through ennui. However, the increasing pleasure which the baroness seemed to take in my society en|couraged me to persevere; and latterly she showed for me a partiality so marked, that Agnes advised me to seize the first opportunity of declaring our mutual passion to her aunt.

One evening I was alone with Donna Rodolpha, in her own apartment. As our readings generally treated of love, Agnes was never permitted to assist at

them. I was just congratulating myself on having finished The Loves of Tristan and the Queen Iseult—"

"Ah! the unfortunates!" cried the baroness: "How say you, Segnor? Do you think it possible for man to feel an attachment so disinterested and sin|cere?"

"I cannot doubt it," replied I; "my own heart furnishes me with the certainty. Ah! Donna Ro|dolpha, might I but hope for your approbation of my love! might I but confess the name of my mistress, without incurring your resentment!"

She interrupted me—

"Suppose I were to spare you that confession? Suppose I were to acknowledge that the object of your desires is not unknown to me? Suppose I were to say, that she returns your affection, and laments not less sincerely than yourself the unhappy vows which separate her from you?"

"Ah! Donna Rodolpha!" I exclaimed, throwing myself upon my knees before her, and pressing her hand to my lips, "you have discovered my secret! What is your decision? Must I despair, or may I reckon upon your favour?"

She withdrew not the hand which I held; but she turned from me, and covered her face with the other.

"How can I refuse it you?" she replied: "Ah! Don Alphonso, I have long perceived to whom your attentions were directed, but till now I perceived not the impression which they had made upon my heart. At length I can no longer hide my weakness either

from myself or from you. I yield to the violence of my passion, and own that I adore you! For three long months I stifled my desires; but growing strong|er by resistance, I submit to their impetuosity. Pride, fear, and honor, respect for myself, and my engage|ments to the baron, all are vanquished. I sacrifice them to my love for you, and it still seems to me that I pay too mean a price for your possession."

"She paused for an answer.—Judge, my Lorenzo, what must have been my confusion at this discovery. I at once saw all the magnitude of this obstacle, which I had myself raised to my happiness. The baroness had placed those attentions to her own account, which I had merely paid her for the sake of Agnes: and the strength of her expressions, the looks which accom|panied them, and my knowledge of her revengeful disposition, made me tremble for myself and my be|loved. I was silent for some minutes. I knew not how to reply to her declaration: I could only resolve to clear up the mistake without delay, and for the present to conceal from her knowledge the name of my mistress. No sooner had she avowed her passion, than the transports which before were evident in my features gave place to consternation and constraint. I dropped her hand, and rose from my knees. The change in my countenance did not escape her ob|servation.

"What means this silence?" said she in a trem|bling voice: Where is that joy which you led me to expect?"

"Forgive me, Segnora," I answered, "if what necessity forces from me should seem harsh and un|grateful.

grateful. To encourage you in an error, which, how|ever, it may flatter myself, must prove to you the source of disappointment, would make me appear criminal in every eye. Honor obliges me to inform you, that you have mistaken for the solicitude of love what was only the attention of friendship. The lat|ter sentiment is that which I wished to excite in your bosom: to entertain a warmer, respect for you for|bids me, and gratitude for the baron's generous treat|ment. Perhaps these reasons would not be sufficient to shield me from your attractions, were it not that my affections are already bestowed upon another. You have charms, Segnora, which might captivate the most insensible; no heart unoccupied could resist them. Happy is it for me, that mine is no longer in my possession, or I should have to reproach myself for ever, with having violated the laws of hospitality, Recollect yourself, noble lady! recollect what is owed by you to honor, by me to the baron, and replace by esteem and friendship those sentiments which I never can return."

The baroness turned pale at this unexpected and positive declaration; she doubted whether she slept or woke. At length recovering from her surprise, con|sternation gave place to rage, and the blood rushed back in her cheeks with violence.

"Villain!" she cried; "Monster of deceit! Thus is the avowal of my love received? Is it thus that—but, no, no! it cannot, it shall not be! Al|phonso, behold me at your feet? Be witness of my despair! Look with pity 〈◊〉〈◊〉 woman who loves you with sincere affection! She who possesses your heart,

how has she merited suc•• a treasure? What sacrifice has she made 〈◊〉〈◊〉 you? What raises her above Rodol|pha?"

I endeavoured to lift her from her knees.

"For God's sake, Segnora, restrain these trans|ports; they disgrace yourself and me. Your exclama|tions may be heard, and your secret divulged to your attendants. I see that my presence only irritates you; permit me to retire."

I prepared to quit the apartment: the baroness caught me suddenly by the arm.

"And who is this happy rival?" said she in a men|acing tone; "I will know her name, and when I know it!—She is some one in my power; you en|treated my favour, my protection! Let me but find her, let me but know who dares to rob me of your heart, and she shall suffer every torment which jea|lousy and disappointment can inflict. Who is she? Answer me this moment. Hope not to conceal her from my vengeance! Spies shall be set over you; every step, every look shall be watched; your eyes will discover my rival; I shall know her; and when she is found, tremble, Alphonso, for her and for your|self."

As she uttered these last words, her fury mounted to such a pitch as to stop her powers of respiration. She panted, groaned, and at length fainted away. As she was falling I caught her in my arms, and placed her upon a sofa. Then hastening to the door, I summoned her women to her assistance; I committed her to their care, and seized the opportunity of es|caping.

Agitated and confused beyond expression, I bent my steps towards the garden. The benignity with which the baroness had listened to me at first, had raised my hopes to the highest pitch: I imagined her to have perceived my attachment for her niece, and to approve of it. Extreme was my disappointment at understanding the true purport of her discourse. I knew not what course to take: the superstition of the parents of Agnes, aided by her aunt's unfortunate passion, seemed to oppose such obstacles to our union as were almost insurmountable.

As I passed by a low parlour, whose windows looked into the garden, through the door which stood half open I observed Agnes seated at a table. She was occupied in drawing, and several unfinished sketches were scattered round her. I entered, still un|determined whether I should acquaint her with the declaration of the baroness.

"Oh! is it only you?" said she, raising her head: "You are no stranger, and I shall continue my occu|pation without ceremony. Take a chair, and seat yourself by me."

I obeyed, and placed myself near the table. Un|conscious what I was doing, and totally occupied by the scene which had just passed, I took up some of the drawings, and cast my eyes over them. One of the subjects struck me from its singularity. It repre|sented the great hall of the castle of Lindenberg. A door conducting to a narrow staircase stood half open. In the foreground appeared a group of figures, placed in the most grotesque attitudes; terror was expressed upon every countenance. Here was one upon his

knees, with his eyes cast up to heaven, and praying most devoutly; there, another was creeping away upon all fours. Some hid their faces in their cloaks, or the laps of their companions. Some had con|cealed themselves beneath a table, on which the rem|nants of a feast were visible; while others, with gap|ing mouths and eyes wide stretched, pointed to a fig|ure supposed to have created this disturbance. It re|presented a female of more than human stature, cloth|ed in the habit of some religious order. Her face was veiled; on her arm hung a chaplet of beads; her dress was in several places stained with the blood which trickled from a wound upon her bosom. In one hand she held a lamp, in the other a large knife, and she seemed advancing towards the iron gates of the hall.

"What does this mean, Agnes?" said I: "Is this some invention of your own?"

She cast her eyes upon the drawing.

"Oh! no," she replied: "'tis the invention of much wiser heads than mine. But can you possibly have lived at Lindenberg for three whole months with|out hearing of the bleeding nun?"

"You are the first who ever mentioned the name to me. Pray, who may the lady be?"

"That is more than I can pretend to tell you. All my knowledge of her history comes from an old tra|dition in this family, which has been handed down from father to son, and is firmly credited throughout the baron's domain's. Nay, the baron believes it him|self; and as for my aunt, who has a natural turn for

the marvellous, she would sooner doubt the veracity of the bible than of the bleeding nun. Shall I ••ell you this history?"

I answered, that she would oblige me much by re|lating it: she resumed her drawing, and then pro|ceeded as follows in a tone of burlesqued gravity:

"It is surprising that in all the chronicles of past times this remarkable personage is never once men|tioned. Fain would I recount to you her life; but unluckily till after her death she was never known to have existed. Then first did she think it necessary to make some noise in the world, and with that intention she made bold to seize upon the castle of Lindenberg. Having a good taste, she took up her abode in the best room of the house; and once established there, she be|gan to amuse herself by knocking about the tables and chairs in the middle of the night. Perhaps she was a bad sleeper, but this I have never been able to ascer|tain. According to the tradition, this entertainment commenced about a century ago. It was accompan|ied with shrieking, howling, groaning, swearing, and many other agreeable noises of the same kind. But though one particular room was more especially hon|oured with her visits, she did not entirely confine her|self to it. She occasionally ventured into the old gal|leries, paced up and down the spacious halls; or, sometimes stopping at the doors of the chambers, she wept and wailed there to the universal terror of the inhabitants. In these nocturnal excursions she was seen by different people, who all describe her appear|ance as you behold it here traced by the hand of her unworthy historian."

The singularity of this account insensibly engaged my attention.

"Did she never speak to those who met her?" said I.

"Not she. The specimens indeed which she gave nightly of her talents for conversation were by no means inviting. Sometimes the castle rung with oaths and execrations: a moment after she repeated her Paternoster: now she howled out the most horrible blasphemies, and then chanted De profundis as orderly as if still in the choir. In short, she seemed a migh|ty capricious being: but whether she prayed or curs|ed, whether she was impious or devout, she al|ways contrived to terrify her auditors out of their senses. The castle became scarcely habitable; and its lord was so frightened by these midnight revels, that one fine morning he was sound dead in his bed. This success seemed to please the nun mightily, for now she made more noise than ever. But the next baron proved too cunning for her. He made his ap|pearance with a celebrated exorciser in his hand, who feared not to shut himself up for a night in the haunted chamber. There it seems that he had a hard battle with the ghost before she would promise to be quiet. She was obstinate, but he was more so; and at length she consented to let the inhabitants of the castle take a good night's rest. For some time after no news was heard of her. But at the end of five years the exor|ciser died, and then the nun ventured to peep abroad again. However, she was now grown much more tractable and well behaved. She walked about in si|lence, and never made her appearance above once in five years. This custom, if you will believe the baron,

she still continues. He is fully persuaded, that on the fifth of May of every fifth year, as soon as the clock strikes one, the door of the haunted chamber opens. [Observe, that this room has been shut up for near a century.] Then out walks the ghostly nun with her lamp and dagger: she descends the staircase of the eastern tower, and crosses the great hall. On that night the porter always leaves the gates of the castle open, out of respect to the apparition: not that this is thought by any means necessary, since she could easily whip through the keyhole if she chose it: but merely out of politeness, and to prevent her from making her exit in a way so derogatory to the dignity of her ghost|ship."

"And whither does she go on quitting the castle?"

"To heaven, I hope; but if she does, the place certainly is not to her taste, for she always returns after an hour's absence. The lady then retires to her chamber, and is quiet for another five years."

"And you, believe this, Agnes?"

"How can you ask such a question? No, no, Al|phonso! I have too much reason to lament supersti|tion's influence to be its victim myself. However, I must not avow my incredulity to the baroness: she entertains not a doubt of the truth of this history. As to dame Cunegonda, my governess, she protests that fifteen years ago she saw the spectre with her own eyes. She related to me one evening, how she and several other domestics had been terrified while at sup|per by the appearance of the bleeding nun, as the ghost is called in the castle: 'tis from her account that I drew this sketch, and you may be certain that

Cunegonda was not omitted. There she is! I shall never forget what a passion she was in, and how ugly she looked while she scolded me for having made her picture so like herself!"

Here she pointed to a burlesque figure of an old woman in an attitude of terror.

In spite of the melancholy which oppressed me, I could not help smiling at the playful imagination of Agnes: she had perfectly preserved dame Cunegonda's resemblance, but had so much exaggerated every fault, and rendered every feature so irresistably laughable, that I could easily conceive the duenna's anger.

"The figure is admirable, my dear Agnes! I knew not that you possessed such talents for the ridic|ulous."

"Stay a moment," she replied: "I will shew you a figure still more ridiculous than dame Cunegonda's. If it pleases you, you may dispose of it as seems best to yourself."

She rose, and went to a cabinet at some little dis|tance: unlocking a drawer, she took out a small case, which she opened, and presented to me.

"Do you know the resemblance?" said she, smiling.

It was her own.

Transported at the gift, I pressed the portrait to my lips with passion: I threw myself at her feet, and de|clared my gratitude in the warmest and most affec|tionate terms. She listened to me with complaisance,

and assured me that she shared my sentiments; when suddenly she uttered a loud shriek, disengaged the hand which I held, and flew from the room by a door which opened to the garden. Amazed at this abrupt departure, I rose hastily from my knees. I beheld with confusion the baroness standing near me, glow|ing with jealousy, and almost choaked with rage. On recovering from her swoon, she had tortured her im|agination to discover her concealed rival. No one ap|peared to deserve her suspicions more than Agnes. She immediately hastened to find her niece, tax her with encouraging my addresses, and assure herself whe|ther her conjectures were well grounded. Unfortu|nately she had already seen enough to need no other confirmation. She arrived at the door of the room, at the precise moment when Agnes gave me her por|trait. She heard me profess an everlasting attachment to her rival, and saw me kneeling at her feet. She advanced to separate us; we were too much occupied by each other to perceive her approach, and were not aware of it till Agnes beheld her standing by my side.

Rage on the part of Donna Rodolpha, embarrass|ment on mine, for some time kept us both silent. The lady recovered herself first.

"My suspicions then were just," said she; "the coquetry of my niece has triumphed, and 'tis to her that I am sacrificed. In one respect, however, I am fortunate; I shall not be the only one who laments a disappointed passion. You, too, shall know what it is to love without hope! I daily expect orders for restor|ing Agnes to her parents. Immediately upon her arrival in Spain, she will take the veil, and place an

insuperable barrier to your union. You may spare your supplications," she continued, perceiving me on the point of speaking—"my resolution is fixed and immoveable. Your mistress shall remain a close pris|oner in her chamber, till she exchanges this castle for the cloister. Solitude will perhaps recal her to a sense of her duty: but to prevent your opposing that wished event, I must inform you, Don Alphonso, that your presence here is no longer agreeable either to the baron or myself. It was not to make 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to my niece, that your relations sent you to Germany; your business was to travel, and I should be sorry to impede any longer so excellent a design. Farewell, Segnor; re|member, that to-morrow morning we meet for the last time."

Having said this, she darted upon me a look of pride, ••••ntempt, and malice, and quitted the apart|ment. I also retired to mine, and consumed the night in planning the means of rescuing Agnes from the power of her tyrannical aunt.

After the positive declaration of its mistress, it was impossible for me to make a longer stay at the castle of Lindenberg. Accordingly, I the next day announced my immediate departure. The baron declared that it gave him sincere pain; and he expressed himself in my favour so warmly, that I endeavoured to win him over to my interest. Scarcely had I mentioned the name of Agnes when he stopped me short, and said, that it was totally out of his power to interfere in the busin|ess. I saw that it was in vain to argue; the baron|ess governed her husband with despotic sway, and I easily perceived that she had prejudiced him against the

match. Agnes 〈◊〉〈◊〉 not appear. I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 permis|sion to take leave ••••••ner, but my prayer was rejected. I was obliged to depart without seeing her.

At quitting him, the baron shook my hand affection|ately, and assured me, that, as soon as his niece was gone, I might consider his house as my own.

"Farewell, Don Alphonso!" said the baroness, and stretched out her hand to me.

I took it, and offered to carry it to my lips. She prevented me. Her husband was at the other end of the room, and out of hearing.

"Take care of yourself," she continued; "my love is become hatred, and my wounded pride shall not be unatoned. Go where you will, my vengeance shall follow you!"

She accompanied these words with a look sufficient to make me tremble. I answered not, but hastened to quit the castle.

As my chaise drove out of the court, I looked up to the windows of your sister's chamber: nobody was to be seeen there. I threw myself back despondent in my carriage. I was attended by no other servants than a Frenchman, whom I had hired at Strasbourg in Stephano's room, and my little page, whom I before mentioned to you. The fidelity, intelligence, and good temper of Theodore had already made him dear to me; but he now prepared to lay an obligation on me, which made me look upon him as a guardian ge|nius. Scarcely had we proceeded half a mile from the castle, when he rode up to the chaise door.

"Take courage, Segnor!" said he in Spanish, which he had already learnt to speak with fluency and correctness: "While you were with the baron I watched the moment when dame Cunegonda was be|low stairs, and mounted into the chamber over that of Donna Agnes. I sang, as loud as I could, a little German air, well known to her, hoping that she would recollect my voice. I was not disappointed, for I soon heard her window open. I hastened to let down a string with which I had provided myself. Upon hearing the casement closed again, I drew up the string, and fastened to it, I found this scrap of paper."

He then presented me with a small no••e, addressed to me. I opened it with impatience. It contained the following words, written in pencil:

Conceal yourself for the next fortnight in some neighbouring village. My aunt will believe you to have quitted Lindenberg, and I shall be restored to liberty." I will be in the west pavilion at twelve on the night of the thirtieth. Fail not to be there, and we shall have an opportunity of concerting our future plans.

Adieu. AGNES.

At perusing these lines my transports exceeded all bounds; neither did I set any to the expressions of gratitude which I heaped upon Theodore. In fact, his address and attention merited my warmest praise. You will readily believe that I had not entrusted him with my passion for Agnes; but the arch youth had too much discernment not to discover my secret, and too much discretion not to conceal his knowledge of it.

He observed in silence what was going on, nor strove to make himself an agent in the business till my interests required his interference. I equally admired his judgment, his penetration, his address, and his fi|delity. This was not the first occasion in which I had found him of infinite use, and I was every day more convinced of his quickness and capacity. During my short stay at Strasbourg, he ••ad applied himself dili|gently to learn the rudiments of Spanish. He continu|ed to study it, and with so much success, that he spoke it with the same facility as his native language. He passed the greatest part of his time in reading. He had acquired much information for his age; and united the advantages of a lively countenance and prepossessing figure to an excellent understanding and the very best of hearts. He is now fifteen. He is still in my service; and, when you see him, I am sure that he will please you. But excuse this digres|sion; I return to the subject which I quitted.

I obeyed the instructions of Agnes. I proceeded to Munich: there I left my chaise under the care of Lucas, my French servant, and then returned on horseback to a small village about four miles distant from the castle of Lindenberg. Upon arriving there, a story was related to the host at whose inn I alighted, which prevented his wondering at my making so long a stay in his house. The old man fortunately, was credulous and incurious: he believed all I said, and sought to know no more than what I thought proper to tell him. Nobody was with me but Theodore: both were disguised; and as we kept ourselves close, we were not suspected to be other than what we s••emed. In this manner the fortnight passed away.

During that time I had the pleasing conviction that Agnes was once more at liberty. She passed through the village with dame Cunegonda: she seemed in good health and spirits, and talked to her companion with|out any appearance of constraint.

"Who are those ladies?" said I to my host as the carriage passed.

"Baron Lindenberg's niece, with her governess," he replied: "she goes regularly every Friday to the convent of St. Catherine, in which she was brought up, and which is situated about a mile from hence."

You may be certain that I waited with impatience for the ensuing Friday. I again beheld my lovely mistress. She cast her eyes upon me as she passed the inn door. A blush which overspread her cheek told me, that in spite of my disguise I had been recognised. I bowed profoundly. She returned the compliment by a slight inclination of the head, as if made to one inferior, and looked another way till the carriage was out of sight.

The long expected, long wished for night arrived. It was calm, and the moon was at the full. As soon as the clock struck eleven I hastened to my appoint|ment, determined not to be too late. Theodore had provided a ladder; I ascended the garden wall with|out difficulty. The page followed me and drew the ladder after us. I posted myself in the west pavilion, and waited impatiently for the approach of Agnes. Every breeze that whispered, every leaf that fell, I believed to be her footstep, and hastened to meet her. Thus was I obliged to pass a full hour, every minute

of which appeared to me an age. The castle bell at length tolled twelve, and scarcely could I believe the night to be no further advanced. Another quarter of an hour elapsed, and I heard the light foot of my mis|tress approaching the pavilion with precaution. I flew to receive her, and conducted her to a feat. I threw myself at her feet, and was expressing my joy at seeing her, when she thus interrupted me:

"We have no time to lose, Alphonso; the mo|ments are precious; for, though no more a prisoner, Cunegonda watches my every step. An express is arrived from my father; I must depart immediately for Madrid, and 'tis with difficulty that I have ob|tained a week's delay. The superstition of my pa|rents, supported by the representations of my cruel aunt, leaves me no hope of softening them to com|passion. In this dilemma, I have resolved to commit myself to your honor. God grant that you may never give me cause to repent my resolution! Flight is my only resource from the horrors of a convent; and my imprudence must be excused by the urgency of the danger. Now listen to the plan by which I hope to effect my escape.

"We are now at the thirtieth of April. On the fifth day from this the visionary nun is expected to appear. In my last visit to the convent I provided myself with a dress proper for the character. A friend whom I have left there, and to whom I made no scruple to confide my secret, readily consented to supply me with a religious habit. Provide a carriage, and be with it at a little distance from the great gate of the castle. As soon as the clock strikes 'one,' I

shall quit my chamber, dressed in the same apparel as the ghost is supposed to wear. Whoever meets me will be too much terrified to oppose my escape: I shall easily reach the door, and throw myself under your protection. Thus far success is certain: but, oh! Alphonso, should you deceive me; should you despise my imprudence, and reward it with ingrati|tude, the world will not hold a being more wretched than myself! I feel all the dangers to which I shall be exposed. I feel that I am giving you a right to treat me with levity; but I rely upon your love, upon your honor! The step which I am on the point of taking will incense my relations against me; should you desert me; should you betray the trust reposed in you, I shall have no friend to punish your insult, or support my cause. On yourself alone rests all my hope; and if your own heart does not plead in my behalf, I am undone for ever!"

The tone in which she pronounced these words was so touching that, in spite of my joy at receiving her promise to follow me, I could not help being affected. I also repined in secret at not having taken the pre|caution to provide a carriage at the village; in which case, I might have carried off Agnes that very night. Such an attempt was now impracticable; neither carriage nor horses were to be procured nearer than Munich, which was distant from Lindenberg two good day's journey. I was therefore obliged to chime in with her plan, which, in truth, seemed well ar|ranged. Her disguise would secure her from being stopped in quitting the castle, and would enable her to step into the carriage at the very gate, without dif|ficulty or losing time.

Agnes reclined her head mournfully upon my shoul|der, and, by the light of the moon, I saw tears flow|ing down her cheek. I strove to dissipate her melan|choly, and encouraged her to look forward to the pros|pect of happiness. I protested in the most solemn terms that her virtue and innocence would be safe in my keeping; and that, till the church had made her my lawful wife, her honor should be held by me as sacred as a sister's. I told her that my first care should be to find you out, Lorenzo, and reconcile you to our union; and I was continuing to speak in the same strain, when a noise without alarmed me. Sud|denly the door of the pavilion was thrown open, and Cunegonda stood before us. She had heard Agnes steal out of her chamber, followed her into the garden, and perceived her entering the pavilion. Favoured by the trees which shaded it, and unperceived by Theodore, who waited at a little distance, she had ap|proached in silence, and overheard our whole conver|sation.

"Admirable!" cried Cunegonda, in a voice shrill with passion, while Agnes uttered a loud shriek. "By St. Barbara, young lady, you have an excellent inven|tion! You must personate the bleeding nun, truly! What impiety! What incredulity! Marry, I have a good mind to let you pursue your plan. When the real ghost met you, I warrant you would be in a pretty condition! Don Alphonso, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for seducing a young, ignorant creature to leave her family and friends. However, for this time, at least, I shall mar your wicked de|signs. The noble lady shall be informed of the whole affair, and Agnes must defer playing the spectre till a

better opportunity. Farewell, Segnor.—Donna Ag|nes, let me have the honor of conducting your ghost|ship back to your apartment."

She approached the sofa on which her trembling pupil was seated, took her by the hand, and prepared to lead her from the pavilion.

I detained her, and strove by entreaties, soothing promises, and flattery, to win her to my party; but, finding all that I could say of no avail, I abandoned the vain attempt.

"Your obstinacy must be its own punishment," said I; "but one resource remains to save Agnes and myself, and I shall not hesitate to employ it."

Terrified at this menace, she again endeavoured to quit the pavilion; but I seized her by the wrist, and detained her forcibly. At the same moment Theo|dore, who had followed her into the room, closed the door, and prevented her escape. I took the veil of Agnes; I threw it round the duenna's head, who ut|tered such piercing shrieks, that, in spite of our dis|tance from the castle, I dreaded their being heard. At length I succeeded in gagging her so completely that she could not produce a single sound. Theodore and myself, with some difficulty, next contrived to bind her hands and feet with our handkerchiefs; and I advised Agnes to regain her chamber with all dili|gence. I promised that no harm should happen to Cunegonda; bade her remember that, on the fifth of May, I should be in waiting at the great gate of the castle, and took of her an affectionate farewell. Trembling and uneasy, she had scarce power enough

to signify her consent to my plans, and fled back to her apartment in disorder and confusion.

In the mean while Theodore assisted me in carrying off my antiquated prize. She was hoisted over the wall, placed before me upon my horse, like a port|manteau, and I galloped away with her from the cas|tle of Lindenberg. The unlucky duenna never had made a more disagreeable journey in her life. She was jolted and shaken till she was become little more than an animated mummy; not to mention her fright, when we waded through a small river, through which it was necessary to pass in order to regain the village. Before we reached the inn, I had already de|termined how to dispose of the troublesome Cunegon|da. We entered the street in which the inn stood; and while the page knocked, I waited at a little dis|tance. The landlord opened the door with a lamp in his hand.

"Give me the light," said Theodore, "my master is coming."

He snatched the lamp hastily, and purposely let it fall upon the ground. The landlord returned to the kitchen to relight the lamp, leaving the door open. I profited by the obscurity, sprang from my horse with Cunegonda in my arms, darted up stairs, reached my chamber unperceived, and, unlocking the door of a spacious closet, stowed her within it, and then turned the key. The landlord and Theodore soon after ap|peared with lights: the former expressed himself sur|prised at my returning so late, but asked no impertinent questions. He soon quitted the room, and left me to exult in the success of my undertaking.

I immediately paid a visit to my prisoner. I strove to persuade her to submit with patience to her tem|porary confinement. My attempt was unsuccessful. Unable to speak or move, she expresse her fury by her looks; and, except at meals, I n••••er dared to un|bind her, or release her from the gag. At such times I stood over her with a drawn sword, and protested that, if she uttered a single cry, I would plunge it in her bosom. As soon as she had done eating, the gag was replaced. I was conscious that this proceeding was cruel, and could only be justified by the urgency of circumstances.

As to Theodore, he had no scruples upon the sub|ject. Cunegonda's captivity entertained him beyond measure. During his abode in the castle, a continual warfare had been carried on between him and the duenna; and, now that he found his enemy so abso|lutely in his power, he triumphed without mercy: he seemed to think of nothing but how to find out new means of plaguing her. Sometimes he affected to pity her misfortune, then laughed at, abused, and mimicked her: he played her a thousand tricks, each more pro|voking than the other; and amused himself by telling her, that her elopement must have occasioned much surprise at the baron's. This was in fact the case. No one, except Agnes, could imagine what was be|come of dame Cunegonda. Every hole and corner was searched for her, the ponds were dragged, and the woods underwent a thorough examination. Still no dame Cunegonda made her appearance. Agnes kept the secret, and I kept the duenna: the baroness, therefore, remained in total ignorance respecting the old woman's fate, but suspected her to have perished

by suicide. Thus passed away five days, during which I had prepared every thing necessary for my enterprise. On quitting Agnes, I had made it my first business to dispatch a peasant with a letter to Lucas, at Munich, ordering him to take care that a coach and four should arrive about ten o'clock on the fifth of May at the village of Rosenwald. He obeyed my instructions punctually; the equipage arrived at the time appoint|ed. As the period of her lady's elopement drew nearer, Cunegonda's rage increased. I verily believe, that spite 〈◊〉〈◊〉 passion would have killed her, had I not luckily discovered her prepossession in favour of cherry|brandy. With this favourite liquor she was plenti|fully supplied, and, Theodore always remaining to guard her, the gag was occasionally removed. The liquor seemed to have a wonderful effect in softening the acrimony of her nature; and her confinement not admitting of any other amusement, she got drunk regularly once a day, just by way of passing the time.

The fifth of May arrived, a period by me never to be forgotten! Before the clock struck twelve, I be|took myself to the scene of action. Theodore follow|ed me on horseback. I concealed the carriage in a spacious cavern of the hill on whose brow the castle was situated. This cavern was of considerable depth, and, among the peasants, was known by the name of Lindenberg Hole. The night was calm and beauti|ful: the moon beams fell upon the ancient towers of the castle, and shed upon their summits a silver light. All was still around me; nothing was to be heard except the night breeze sighing among the leaves, the distant barking of village dogs, or the owl who had established herself in a nook of the deserted eastern

turret. I heard her melancholy shriek, and looked upwards; she sat upon the ridge of a window, which I recognised to be that of the haunted room. This brought to my remembrance the story of the bleeding nun, and I sighed while I reflected on the influence of superstition, and weakness of human reason. Sud|denly I heard a faint chorus steal upon the silence of the night.

"What can occasion that noise, Theodore?"

"A stranger of distinction," replied he, "passed through the village to-day in his way to the castle: he is reported to be the father of Donna Agnes. Doubt|less the baron has given an entertainment to celebrate his arrival."

The castle bell announced the hour of midnight. This was the usual signal for the family to retire to bed. Soon after I perceived lights in the castle, mov|ing backwards and forwards in different directions. I conjectured the company to be separating. I could hear the heavy doors grate as they opened with diffi|culty; and as they closed again, the rotten casements rattled in their frames. The chamber of Agnes was on the other side of the castle. I trembled lest she should have failed in obtaining the key of the haunted room. Through this it was necessary for her to pass, in order to reach the narrow staircase by which the ghost was supposed to descend into the great hall. Agitated by this apprehension, I kept my eyes con|stantly fixed upon the window, where I hoped to per|ceive the friendly glare of a lamp borne by Agnes. I now heard the massy gates unbarred. By the candle in his hand, I distinguished old Conrad, the porter.

He set the portal doors wide open, and retired. The lights in the castle gradually disappeared, and at length the whole building was wrapped in darkness.

While I sat upon a broken ridge of the hill, the stillness of the scene inspired me with melancholy ideas not altogether unpleasing. The castle, which stood full in my sight, formed an object equally awful and picturesque. Its ponderous walls, tinged by the moon with solemn brightness; its old and partly ru|ined towers, lifting themselves into the clouds, and seeming to frown on the plains around them; its lofty battlements, overgrown with ivy, and folding gates, expanding in honor of the visionary inhabitant, made me sensible of a sad and reverential horror. Yet did not these sensations occupy me so fully as to pre|vent me from witnessing with impatience the slow progress of time. I approached the castle, and ventur|ed to walk round it. A few rays of light still glimmer|ed in the chamber of Agnes. I observed them with joy. I was still gazing upon them, when I perceiv|ed a figure draw near the window, and the curtain was carefully closed to conceal the lamp which burn|ed there. Convinced by this observation that Agnes had not abandoned our plan, I returned with a light heart to my former station.

The half hour struck! The three quarters struck! My bosom beat high with hope and expectation. At length, the wished for sound was heard. The bell tolled 'one,' and the mansion echoed with the noise loud and solemn. I looked up to the casement of the haunted chamber. Scarcely had five minutes elapsed when the expected light appeared. I was now close

to the tower. The window was not so far from the ground, but that I fancied I perceived a female figure with a lamp in her hand moving slowly along the apartment. The light soon faded away, and all was again dark and gloomy.

Occasional gleams of brightness darted from the staircase windows as the lovely ghost passed by them. I traced the light through the hall: it reached the portal, and at length I beheld Agnes pass through the folding gates. She was habited exactly as she had described the spectre. A chaplet of beads hung upon her arm; her head was enveloped in a long white veil; her nun's dress was stained with blood; and she had taken care to provide herself with a lamp and dagger. She advanced towards the spot where I stood. I flew to meet her; and clasping her in my arms, I exclaimed,

"Agnes! Agnes! thou art mine! "Agnes! Agnes! I am thine! "Fairest! Dearest! Thou art mine! "Fairest! Dearest! I am thine! "Leave thee will I never! "Thou art mine! "I am thine! "Body and soul for ever!"

Terrified and breathless, she was unable to speak. She dropped her lamp and dagger, and sunk upon my bosom in silence. I raised her in my arms, and con|veyed her to the carriage. Theodore remained be|hind in order to release dame Cunegonda. I also charged him with a letter to the baroness, explaining the whole affair, and entreating her good offices in reconciling Don Gaston to my union with his daugh|ter.

I discovered to her my real name. I proved to her that my birth and expectations justified my pre|tending to her niece; and assured her, though it was out of my power to return her love, that I would strive unceasingly to obtain her esteem and friendship.

I stepped into the carriage, where Agnes was already seated. Theodore closed the door, and the postillions drove away. At first I was delighted with the rapidity of our progress; but as soon as we were in no danger of pursuit, I called to the drivers, and bade them to moderate their pace. They strove in vain to obey me; the horses refused to answer the rein, and continued to rush on with astonishing swiftness. The postil|lions redoubled their efforts to stop them; but, by kicking and plunging, the beasts soon released them|selves from this restraint. Uttering a loud shriek, the drivers were hurled upon the ground. Immedi|ately thick clouds obscured the sky: the winds howl|ed around us, the lightning flashed, and the thunder roared tremendously. Never did I behold so frightful a tempest! Terrified by the jar of contending ele|ments, the horses seemed every moment to increase their speed. Nothing could interrupt their career; they dragged the carriage through hedges and ditches, dashed down the most dangerous precipices, and seem|ed to vie in swiftness with the rapidity of the winds.

All this while my companion lay motionless in my arms. Truly alarmed by the magnitude of the dan|ger, I was in vain attempting to recal her to her senses, when a loud crash announced that a stop was put to our progress in the most disagreeable manner. The carriage was shattered to pieces. In falling, I struck

my temple against a flint. The pain of the wound, the violence of the shock, and apprehension for the safety of Agnes, combined to overpower me so com|pletely, that my senses forsook me, and I lay without animation on the ground.

I probably remained for some time in this situation, since, when I opened my eyes, it was broad daylight. Several peasants were standing round me, and seemed disputing whether my recovery was possible. I spoke German tolerably well. As soon as I could utter an articulate sound, I inquired after Agnes. What was my surprise and distress, when assured by the peasants that nobody had been seen answering the description which I gave of her! They told me, that in going to their daily labour they had been alarmed by observing the fragments of my carriage, and by hearing the groans of an horse, the only one of the four which remained alive: the other three lay dead by my side. Nobody was near me when they came up, and much time had been lost before they succeeded in recovering me. Uneasy beyond expression respecting the fate of my companion, I besought the peasants to disperse themselves in search of her. I described her dress, and promised immense rewards to whoever brought me any intelligence. As for myself, it was impossible for me to join in the pursuit: I had broken two of my ribs in the fall; my arm being dislocated hung useless by my side; and my left leg was shattered so terribly, that I never expected to recover its use.

The peasants complied with my request; all left me except four, who made a litter of boughs, and pre|pared to convey me to the neighbouring town. I in|quired its name; it proved to be Ratisbon, and I could

scarcely persuade myself that I had travelled to such a distance in a single night. I told the countrymen, that at one o'clock that morning I had passed through the village of Rosenwald. They shook their heads wistfully, and made signs to each other that I must certainly be delirious. I was conveyed to a decent inn, and immediately put to bed. A physician was sent for, who set my arm with success: he then ex|amined my other hurts, and told me that I need be un|der no apprehension of the consequences of any of them, but ordered me to keep myself quiet, and be prepared for a tedious and painful cure. I answered him, that if he hoped to keep me quiet, he must first endeavour to procure me some news of a lady who had quitted Rosenwald in my company the night be|fore, and had been with me at the moment when the coach broke down. He smiled, and only replied by advising me to make myself easy, for that all proper care should be taken of me. As he quitted me, the hostess met him at the door of the room.

"The gentleman is not quite in his right senses," I heard him say to her in a low voice; "'tis the natur|al consequence of his fall, but that will soon be over."

One after another the peasants returned to the inn, and informed me that no traces had been discovered of my unfortunate mistress. Uneasiness now became despair. I entreated them to renew their search in the most urgent terms, doubling the promises which I had already made them. My wild and frantic manner confirmed the by-standers in the idea of my being de|lirious. No signs of the lady having appeared, they believed her to be a creature fabricated by my over heated brain, and paid no attention to my entreaties.

However, the hostess assured me, that a fresh inquiry should be made; but I found afterwards that her promise was only given to quiet me. No further steps were taken in the business.

Though my baggage was left at Munich under the care of my French servant, having prepared myself for a long journey, my purse was amply furnished: besides, my equipage proved me to be of distinction, and in consequence all possible attention was paid me at the inn. The day passed away: still no news ar|rived of Agnes. The anxiety of fear now gave place to despondency. I ceased to rave about her, and was plunged in the depth of melancholy reflections. Per|ceiving me to be silent and tranquil, my attendants be|lieved my delirium to have abated, and that my mala|dy had taken a favourable turn. According to the physician's order, I swallowed a composing medicine; and as soon as the night shut in, my attendants with|drew, and left me to repose.

That repose I wooed in vain. The agitation of my bosom chased away sleep. Restless in my mind, in+spite of the fatigue of my body, I continued to toss about from side to side, till the clock in a neighbour|ing steeple struck 'one.' As I listened to the mourn|ful hollow sound, and heard it die away in the wind, I felt a sudden chiilness spread itself over my body. I shuddered without knowing wherefore; cold dews poured down my forehead, and my hair stood bristling with alarm. Suddenly I heard slow and heavy steps ascending the staircase. By an involuntary movement I started up in my bed, and drew back the curtain. A single rushlight, which glimmered upon the hearth,

shed a faint gleam through the apartment, which was hung with tapestry. The door was thrown open with violence. A figure entered, and drew near my bed with solemn measured steps. With trembling appre|hension I examined this midnight visitor. God Al|mighty! it was the bleeding nun! It was my lost companion! Her face was still veiled, but she no longer held her lamp and dagger. She lifted up her veil slowly. What a sight presented itself to my startled eyes! I beheld before me an animated corse. Her countenance was long and haggard; her cheeks and lips were bloodless; the paleness of death was spread over her features; and her eyeballs, fixed sted|fastly upon me, were lustreless and hollow.

I gazed upon the spectre with horror too great to be described. My blood was frozen in my veins. I would have called for aid, but the sound expired ere it could pass my lips. My nerves were bound up in impotence, and I remained in the same attitude inan|imate as a statue.

The visionary nun looked upon me for some min|utes in silence: there was something petrifying in her regard. At length, in a low sepulchral voice, she pronounced the following words:

"Raymond! Raymond! Thou art mine! "Raymond! Raymond! I am thine! "Leave thee will I never! "I am thine! "Thou art mine, "Body and soul for ever!"

Breathless with fear, I listened while she repeated my own expressions. The apparition seated herself

opposite to me at the foot of the bed, and was silent. Her eyes were fixed earnestly upon mine; they seem|ed endowed with the property of the rattlesnake's, for I strove in vain to look off her. My eyes were fascinated, and I had not the power of withdrawing them from the spectre's.

In this attitude she remained for a whole long hour without speaking or moving; nor was I able to do either. At length the clock struck 'two.' The ap|parition rose from her seat, and approached the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of the bed. She grasped with her icy fingers my 〈◊〉〈◊〉 which hung lifeless upon the coverture, and, prssing her cold lips to mine, again repeated,

"Raymond! Raymond! Thou art mine▪ "Raymond! Raymond! I am thine!" 〈◊〉〈◊〉—

She then dropped my hand, quitted the chamber with slow steps, and the door closed after her. Till that moment the faculties of my body had been all sus|pended; those of my mind had alone been waking. The charm now ceased to operate; the blood which had been frozen in my veins rushed back to my heart with violence; I uttered a deep groan, and sunk life|less upon my pillow.

The adjoining room was only separated from mine by a thin partition; it was occupied by the host and his wife; the former was roused by my groan, and immediately hastened to my chamber; the hostess soon followed him. With some difficulty they succeeded in restoring me to my senses, and immediately sent for the physician, who arrived in all diligence. He de|clared my fever to be very much increased, and that,

if I continued to suffer such violent agitation, he would not take upon him to insure my life. Some medicines which he gave me, in some degree tranquillized my spirits. I fell into a sort of slumber towards day|break, but fearful dreams prevented me from deriving any benefit from my repose. Agnes and the bleeding nun presented themselves by turns to my fancy, and combined to harrass and torment me. I awoke fa|tigued and unrefreshed. My fever seemed rather aug|mented than diminished; the agitation of my mind impeded my fractured bones from knitting: I had frequent fainting fits, and during the whole day the physician judged it expedient not to quit me for two hours together.

The singularity of my adventure made me deter|mine to conceal it from every one, since I could not expect that a circumstance so strange should gain cred|it. I was very uneasy about Agnes. I knew not what she would think at not finding me at the rendez|vous, and dreaded her entertaining suspicions of my fidelity. However, I depended upon Theodore's dis|cretion, and trusted that my letter to the baroness would convince her of the rectitude of my intentions. These considerations somewhat lightened my inquie|tude upon her account; but the impression left upon my mind by my nocturnal visitor grew stronger with every succeeding moment. The night drew near; I dreaded its arrival; yet I strove to persuade myself that the ghost would appear no more, and at all events I desired that a servant might sit up in my chamber.

The fatigue of my body, from not having slept on

the former night, co-operating with the strong opiates administered to me in profusion, at length procured me that repose of which I was so much in need. I sunk into a profound and tranquil slumber, and had already slept for some hours, when the neighbouring clock roused me by striking "one" its sound brought with it to my memory all the horrors of the night be|fore. The same cold shivering seized me. I started up in my bed, and perceived the servant fast asleep in an armchair near me. I called him by his name; he made no answer. I shook him forcibly by the arm, and strove in vain to wake him: he was perfectly in|sensible to my efforts. I now heard the heavy steps ascending the staircase; the door was thrown open, and again the bleeding nun stood before me. Once more my limbs were chained in second infancy: once more I heard those fatal words repeated:

" Raymond! Raymond! Thou art mine! " Raymond! Raymond! I am thine!" &c.—

The scene which had shocked me so sensibly on the former night, was again presented. The spectre again pressed her lips to mine, again touched me with her rotting fingers, and, as on her first appearance, quitted the chamber as soon as the clock told "two."

Every night was this repeated. Far from growing accustomed to the ghost, every succeeding visit inspired me with greater horror. Her idea pursued me con|tinually, and I became the prey of habitual melan|choly. The constant agitation of my mind naturally retarded the re-establishment of my health. Several months elapsed before I was able to quit my bed; and when, at length, I was moved to a sofa, I was so faint,

spiritless, and emaciated, that I could not cross the room without assistance. The looks of my attendants sufficiently denoted the little hope which they enter|tained of my recovery. The profound sadness which oppressed me without remission, made the physician consider me to be an hypochondriac. The cause of my distress I carefully concealed in my own bosom, for I knew that no one could give me relief. The ghost was not even visible to any eye but mine. I had frequently caused attendants to sit up in my room; but the moment that the clock struck "one," irresist|ible slumber seized them, nor left them till the de|parture of the ghost.

You may be surprised that during this time I made no inquiries after your sister. Theodore, who with difficulty had discovered my abode, had quieted my apprehensions for her safety; at the same time he con|vinced me, that all attempts to release her from captiv|ity must be fruitless, till I should be in a condition to return to Spain. The particulars of her adventure, which I shall now relate to you, were partly commu|nicated to me by Theodore, and partly by Agnes her|self.

On the fatal night when her elopement was to have taken place, accident had not permitted her to quit her chamber at the appointed time. At length she ven|tured into the haunted room, descended the staircase leading into the hall, found the gates open as she ex|pected, and lest the castle unobserved. What was her surprise at not finding me ready to receive her! She examined the cavern, ranged ••••••ough every alley of the neighbouring wood, and passed two full hours

in this fruitless inquiry. She could discover no traces either of me or of the carriage. Alarmed and disappoint|ed, her only resource was to return to the castle before the baroness missed her; but here she found herself in a fresh embarrassment. The bell had already tolled "two," the ghostly hour was past, and the careful porter had locked the folding gates. After much ir|resolution, she ventured to knock softly. Luckily for her, Conrad was still awake: he heard the noise and rose, murmuring at being called up a second time. No sooner had he opened one of the doors, and be|held the supposed apparition waiting there for admit|tance, than he uttered a loud cry, and dropped upon his knees. Agnes profited by his terror: she glided by him, flew to her own apartment, and, having thrown off her spectre's trappings, retired to bed, endeavouring in vain to account for my disappearing.

In the mean while, Theodore, having seen my car|riage drive off with the false Agnes, returned joyfully to the village. The next morning he released Cune|gonda from her confinement, and accompanied her to the castle. There he found the baron, his lady, and Don Gaston, disputing together upon the porter's re|lation. All of them agreed in believing the existence of spectres; but the latter contended, that for a ghost to knock for admittance was a proceeding till then un|witnessed, and totally incompatible with the immate|rial nature of a spirit. They were still discussing the subject, when the page appeared with Cunegonda, and cleared up the mystery. On hearing his deposition, it was agreed unanimously, that the Agnes whom Theodore had seen step into my carriage must have been the bleeding nun, and that the ghost who had

terrified Conrad was no other than Don Gaston's daughter.

The first surprise which this discovery occasioned being over, the baroness resolved to make it of use in persuading her niece to take the veil. Fearing lest so advantageous an establishment for his daughter should induce Don Gaston to renounce his resolution, she sup|pressed my letter, and continued to represent me as a needy unknown adventurer. A childish vanity had led me to conceal my real name even from my mis|tress; I wished to be loved for myself, not for being the son and heir of the marquis de las Cisternas. The consequence was, that my rank was known to no one in the castle except the baroness, and she took good care to confine the knowledge to her own breast. Don Gaston having approved his sister's design, Agnes was summoned to appear before them. She was taxed with having meditated an elopement, obliged to make a full confession, and was amazed at the gentleness with which it was received: 〈◊〉〈◊〉 what was her afflic|tion, when informed that the failure of her project must be attributed to me! Cunegonda, tutored by the baroness, told her, that when I released her I had de|sired her to inform her lady that our connection was at an end, that the whole affair was occasioned by a false report, and that it by no means suited my cir|cumstances to marry a woman without fortune or ex|pectations.

To this account, my sudden disappearing gave but too great an air of probability. Theodore, who could have contradicted the story, by Donna Rodolpha's order was kept out of her sight. What proved a still greater

confirmation of my being an impostor, was the ar|rival of a letter from yourself, declaring that you had no sort of acquaintance with Alphonso d'Alvarada.—These seeming proofs of my perfidy, aided by the art|ful insinuations of her aunt, by Cunegonda's flattery, and her father's threats and anger, entirely conquered your sister's repugnance to a convent. Incensed at my behaviour, and disgusted with the world in gene|ral, she consented to receive the veil. She passed an|other month at the castle of Lindenberg, during which, my non-appearance confirmed her in her resolution, and then accompanied Don Gaston into Spain. The|odore was now set at liberty. He hastened to Mu|nich, where I had promised to let him hear from me; but finding from Lucas that I never arrived there, he pursued his search with indefatigable perseverance, and at length succeeded in rejoining me at Ratisbon.

So much was I altered, that scarcely could he recol|lect my features: the distress visible upon his, suffi|ciently testified how lively was the interest which he felt for me. The society of this amiable boy, whom I had always considered rather as a companion that a servant, was now my only comfort. His conversation was gay, yet sensible, and his observations shrewd and entertaining. He had picked up much more know|ledge than is usual at his age; but what rendered him most agreeable to me, was his having a delightful voice, and no mean skill in music. He had also ac|quired some taste in poetry, and even ventured occasion|ally to write verses himself. He frequently composed little ballads in Spanish. His compositions were but indifferent, I must confess, yet they were pleasing to me from their novelty; and hearing him sing them to

his guitar was the only amusement which I was capa|ble of receiving. Theodore perceived well enough that something preyed upon my mind; but as I con|cealed the cause of my grief even from him, respect would not permit him to pry into my secrets.

One evening I was lying upon my sofa, plunged in reflections very far from agreeable: Theodore a|mused himself by observing from the window a battle between two postillions, who were quarrelling in the inn yard.

"Ha! ha!" cried he suddenly, "yonder is the Great Mogul."

"Who?" said I.

"Only a man who made me a strange speech at Munich."

"What was the purport of it?"

"Now you put me in mind of it, Segnor, it was a kind of message to you, but truly it was not worth delivering. I believe the fellow to be mad, for my part. When I came to Munich in search of you, I found him living at 'the King of the Romans,' and the host gave me an odd account of him. By his ac|cent he is supposed to be a foreigner, but of what coun|try nobody ••••n tell. He seemed to have no acquaint|ance in the town, spoke very seldom, and never was seen to smile. He had neither servants nor baggage; but his purse seemed well furnished, and he did much good in the town. Some supposed him to be an Ara|bian astrologer, others to be a travelling mountebank, and many declared that he was Doctor Faustus, whom

the devil had sent back to Germany. The landlord, however, told me, that he had the best reasons to be|lieve him to be the Great Mogul incognito."

"But the strange speech Theodore—"

"True, I had almost forgotten the speech: indeed, for that matter, it would not have been a great loss if I had forgotten it altogether. You are to know, Seg|nor, that while I was inquiring about you of the landlord, this stranger passed by. He stopped, and looked at me earnestly—"Youth," said he, in a solemn voice, "he whom you seek, has found that which he would fain lose. My hand alone can dry up the blood. Bid your master wish for me when the clock strikes "one."

"How?" cried I, starting from my sofa. [The words which Theodore had repeated, seemed to im|ply the stranger's knowledge of my secret] "Fly to him, my boy! entreat him to grant me one moment's conversation."

Theodore was surprised at the vivacity of my man|ner: however, he asked no questions, but hastened to obey me. I waited his return impatiently. But a short space of time had elapsed when he again appear|ed, and ushered the expected guest into my chamber. He was a man of majestic presence; his countenance was strongly marked, and his eyes were large, black, and sparkling: yet there was a something in his look, which, the moment that I saw him, inspired me with a secret awe, not to say horror. He was dressed plainly, his hair hung wildly upon his brow, and a band of black velvet, which encircled his forehead,

spread over his features an additional gloom. His countenance wore the marks of profound melancholy, his step was slow, and his manner grave, stately, and solemn.

He saluted me with politeness; and having replied to the usual compliments of introduction, he motion|ed to Theodore to quit the chamber. The page in|stantly withdrew.

"I know your business," said he, without giving me time to speak. "I have the power of releasing you from your nightly visitor; but this cannot be done before Sunday. On the hour when the Sabbath morning breaks, spirits of darkness have least influ|ence over mortals. After Saturday the nun shall visit you no more."

"May I not inquire," said I, "by what means you are in possession of a secret which I have carefully concealed from the knowledge of every one."

"How can I be ignorant of your distresses when their cause at this moment stands beside you?"

I started. The stranger continued.

"Though to you only visible for one hour in the twenty-four, neither day nor night does she ever quit you; nor will she ever quit you till you have granted her request."

"And what is that request?"

"That she must herself explain: it lies not in my knowledge. Wait with patience for the night of Sat|urday: all shall be then cleared up."

I dared not press him further. He soon after changed the conversation, and talked of various mat|ters. He named people who had ceased to exist for many centuries, and yet with whom he appeared to have been personally acquainted. I could not mention a country, however distant, which he had not visited, nor could I sufficiently admire the extent and variety of his information. I remarked to him, that having travelled, seen and known so much, must have given him infinite pleasure. He shook his head mourn|fully.

"No one," he replied, "is adequate to compre|hending the misery of my lot! Fate obliges me to be constantly in movement; I am not permitted to pass more than a fortnight in the same place. I have no friend in the world, and, from the restlessness of my destiny, I can never acquire one. Fain would I lay down my miserable life, for I envy those who enjoy the quiet of the grave; but death eludes me, and flies from my embrace. In vain do I throw myself in the way of danger. I plunge into the ocean, the waves throw me back with abhorrence upon the shore: I rush into fire; the flames recoil at my approach: I oppose myself to the fury of banditts; their swords become blunted, and break against my breast. The hungry tiger shudders at my approach, and the alli|gator flies from a monster more horrible than itself. God has set his seal upon me, and all his creatures re|spect this fatal mark."

He put his hand to the velvet which was bound round his forehead. There was in his eyes an expres|sion of fury, despair, and malevolence, that struck hor|ror

to my very soul. An involuntary convulsion made me shudder. The stranger perceived it.

"Such is the curse imposed on me," he continued: "I am doomed to inspire all who look on me with terror and detestation. You already feel the influ|ence of the charm, and with every succeeding mo|ment will feel it more. I will not add to your suffer|ings by my presence. Farewell till Saturday. As soon as the clock strikes twelve, expect me at your chamber door."

Having said this he departed, leaving me in aston|ishment at the mysterious turn of his manner and con|versation. His assurances that I should soon be re|lieved from the apparition's visits, produced a good ef|fect upon my constitution. Theodore, whom I rather treated as an adopted child than a domestic, was sur|prised at his return to observe the amendment in my looks. He congratulated me on this symptom of re|turning health, and declared himself delighted at my having received so much benefit from my conference with the Great Mogul. Upon inquiry I found that the stranger had already passed eight days in Ratisbon. According to his own account, therefore, he was only to remain there six days longer. Saturday was still at the distance of three. Oh! with what impatience did I expect its arrival! In the interim the bleeding nun continued her nocturnal visits; but hoping soon to be released from them altogether, the effects which they produced on me became less violent than before.

The wished for night arrived. To avoid creating suspicion, I retired to bed at my usual hour. But as soon as my attendants had left me, I dressed myself

again, and prepared for the stranger's reception. He entered my room upon the turn of midnight. A small chest was in his hand, which he placed near the stove. He saluted me without speaking; I returned the com|pliment, observing an equal silence. He then opened his chest. The first thing which he produced was a small wooden crucifix: he knelt down and gazed upon it mournfully, and cast his eyes towards heaven. He seemed to be praying devoutly. At length he bowed his head respectfully kissed the crucifix thrice, and quitted his kneeling posture. He next drew from the chest a covered goblet; with the liquor which it con|tained, and which appeared to be blood, he sprinkled the floor; and then dipping in it one end of the cru|cifix, he described a circle in the middle of the room. Round about this he placed various reliques, sculls, thigh bones, &c. I observed that he disposed them all in the forms of crosses. Lastly, he took out a large Bible, and beckoned me to follow him into the circle. I obeyed him.

"Be cautious not to utter a syllable!" whispered the stranger; "step not out of the circle, and, as you love yourself, dare not to look upon my face!"

Holding the crucifix in one hand, the Bible in the other, he seemed to read with profound attention. The clock struck one! As usual I heard the spectre's steps upon the staircase; but I was not seized with the accustomed shivering. I waited her approach with confidence. She entered the room, drew near the circle, and stopped. The stranger muttered some words, to me, unintelligible. Then raising his head from the book, and extending the crucifix towards the

ghost, he pronounced in a voice distinct and solemn,

"Beatrice! Beatrice! Beatrice!"

"What wouldst thou?" replied the apparition in a hollow faltering tone.

"What disturbs thy sleep? Why dost thou afflict and torture this youth? How can rest be restored to thy unquiet spirit?"

"I dare not tell! I must not tell! Fain would I repose in my grave, but stern commands force me to prolong my punishment!"

"Knowest thou this blood? Knowest thou in whose veins it flowed? Beatrice! Beatrice! In his name, I charge thee to answer me."

"I dare not disobey my taskers."

"Darest thou disobey me?"

He spoke in a commanding tone, and drew the sable band from his forehead. In spite of his injunc|tions to the contrary, curiosity would not suffer me to keep my eyes off his face; I raised them, and beheld a burning cross impressed upon his brow. For the horror with which this object inspired me I cannot account, but I never felt its equal. My senses left me for some moments: a mysterious dread overcame my courage; and had not the exorciser caught my hand, I should have fallen out of the circle.

When I recovered myself, I perceived that the burn|ing cross had produced an effect no less violent upon the spectre. Her countenance expressed reverence

and horror, and her visionary limbs were shaken by fear.

"Yes!" she said at length, "I tremble at that mark! I respect it! I obey you! Know then, that my bones lie still unburied: they rot in the obscurity of Lindenberg Hole. None but this youth has the right of consigning them to the grave. His own lips have made over to me his body and his soul: never will I give back his promise, never shall he know a night devoid of terror, unless he engages to collect my mouldering bones, and deposit them in the family vault of his Andalusian castle. Then let thirty masses be said for the repose of my spirit, and I trouble this world no more. Now let me depart. Those flames are scorching!"

He let the hand drop slowly which held the crucifix, and which till then he had pointed towards her. The apparition bowed her head, and her form melted into air. The exorciser led me out of the circle. He re|placed the Bible, &c. in the chest, and then addressed himself to me, who stood near him speechless from as|tonishment.

"Don Raymond, you have heard the conditions on which repose is promised you. Be it your business to fulfil them to the letter. For me, nothing more re|mains than to clear up the darkness still spread over the spectre's history, and inform you, that, when liv|ing, Beatrice bore the name of las Cisternas. She was the great aunt of your grandfather. In quality of your relation, her ashes demand respect from you, though the enormity of her crimes must excite your abhorrence. The nature of those crimes no one is

more capable of explaining to you than myself. I was personally acquainted with the holy man who proscribed her nocturnal riots in the castle of Linden|berg, and I hold this narrative from his own lips.

"Beatrice de las Cisternas took the veil at an early age, not by her own choice, but at the express com|mand of her parents. She was then too young to regret the pleasure•• of which her profession deprived her: but no sooner did her warm and voluptuous character begin to be developed, than she abandoned herself freely to the impulse of her passions, and seiz|ed the first opportunity to procure their gratification. This opportunity was at length presented, after many obstacles which only added new force to her desires. She contrived to elope from the convent, and fled to Germany with the baron Lindenberg. She lived at his castle several months as his acknowledged mistress. All Bavaria was scandalized by her impudent and abandoned conduct. Her feasts vied in luxury with Cleopatra's, and Lindenberg became the theatre of the most unbridled debauchery. Not satisfied with dis|playing the incontinence of a prostitute, she professed herself an atheist; she took every opportunity to scoff at her monastic vows, and loaded with ridicule the most sacred ceremonies of religion.

"Possessed of a character so depraved, she did not long confine her affections to one object. Soon after her arrival at the castle, the baron's younger brother attracted her notice by his strong marked features, gi|gantic stature, and herculean limbs. She was not of an humour to keep her inclination long unknown: but she found in Otto von Lindenberg her equal in depravity. He returned her passion just sufficiently to

increase it; and when he had worked it up to the de|sired pitch, he fixed the price of his love at his broth|er's murder. The wretch consented to this horrible agreement. A night was pitched upon for perpetrat|ing the deed. Otto, who resided on a small 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a few miles distant from the castle, promised that, at one in the morning, he would be waiting for her at Lin|denberg Hole; that ••e would bring with him a party of chosen friends, by whose aid he doubted not being able to make himself master of the castle; and that his next step should be the uniting her hand to his. It was this last promise which overruled every scruple of Beatrice; since, in spite of his affection for her, the baron had declared positively, that he never would make her his wife.

"The fatal night arrived. The baron slept in the arms of his perfidious mistress when the castle bell struck 'one.' Immediately Beatrice drew a dagger from underneath her pillow, and plunged it in her paramour's heart. The baron uttered a single dread|ful groan, and expired. The murderess quitted her bed hastily, took a lamp in one hand, in the other the bloody dagger, and bent her course towards the cavern. The porter dared not to refuse opening the gates to one more dreaded in the castle than its master. Beat|rice reached Lindenberg Hole unopposed, where, ac|cording to promise, she found Otto waiting for her. He received, and listened to her narrative with trans|port: but ere she had time to ask why he came unac|companied, he convinced her that he wished for no witnesses to their interview. Anxious to conceal his share in the murder, and to free himself from a woman whose violent and atrocious character made

him tremble with reason for his own safety, he had resolved on the destruction of his wretched agent. Rushing upon her suddenly, he wrested the dagger from her hand. He plunged it, still reeking with his brother's blood, in her bosom, and put an end to her existence by repeated blows.

"Otto now succeeded to the barony of Lindenberg. The murder was attributed solely to the fugitive nun, and no one suspected him to have persuaded her to the action. But though his crime was unpunished by man, God's justice permitted him not to enjoy in peace his blood stained honors. Her bones lying still unburied in the cave, the restless soul of Beatrice con|tinued to inhabit the castle. Dressed in her religious habit, in memory of her vows broken to Heaven, furnished with the dagger which had drank the blood of her paramour, and holding the lamp which had guided her flying steps, every night did she stand before the bed of Otto. The most dreadful confusion reign|ed through the castle. The vaulted chambers re|sounded with shrieks and groans; and the spectre, as she ranged along the antique galleries, uttered an in|coherent mixture of prayers and blasphemies. Otto was unable to withstand the shock which he felt at this fearful vision: its horrors increased with every suc|ceeding appearance. His 〈…〉〈…〉 length became so insupportable, that 〈…〉〈…〉, and one morning he was found in his bed totally deprived of warmth and animation. His death did not put an end to the nocturnal riots. The bones of Beatrice continued to lie unburied, and her ghost continued to haunt the 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

"The domains of Lindenberg now fe•••• to a distant relation. But terrified by the accounts given him of the bleeding nun (so was the spectre called by the multi|tude) the new baron called to his assistance a celebrated exorciser. This holy man succeeded in obliging her to temporary repose: but though she discovered to him her history, he was not permitted to reveal it to others, or cause her skeleton to be removed to hallowed ground. That office was reserved for you; and till your coming her ghost was doomed to wander about the castle, and lament the crime which she had there com|mitted. However, the exorciser obliged her to silence during his lifetime. So long as he existed, the haunt|ed chamber was shut up, and the spectre was invisible. At his death, which happened in five years after, she again appeared, but only once on every fifth year, on the same day and at the same hour when she plunged her knife in the heart of her sleeping lover: she then visited the cavern which held her mouldering skeleton, returned to the castle as soon as the clock struck 'two,' and was seen no more till the next five years had elapsed.

"She was doomed to suffer during the space of a century. That period is past. Nothing now remains but to consign to the grave the ashes of Beatrice. I have been the means of releasing you from your vision|ary tormentor; and amidst all the sorrows which op|press me, to think that I have been of use to you, is some consolation. Youth, farewell! may the ghost of your relation enjoy that rest in the tomb which the Almighty's vengeance has denied to me for ever!"

Here the stranger prepared to quit the apartment.

"Stay yet one moment!" said I; "you have satis|fied my curiosity with regard to the spectre, but you leave me a prey to yet greater respecting yourself. Deign to inform me to whom I am under such real obligations. You mention circumstances long past, and people long dead: you were personally acquaint|ed with the exorciser, who, by your own account, has been deceased near a century. How am I to account for this? What means that burning cross upon your forehead, and why did the sight of it strike such hor|ror to my soul?"

On these points he for some time refused to satisfy me. At length, overcome by my entreaties, he con|sented to clear up the whole, on condition that I would defer his explanation till the next day. With this re|quest I was obliged to comply, and he left me. In the morning my first care was to inquire after the mysterious stranger. Conceive my disappointment, when informed that he had quitted Ratisbon. I dis|patched messengers in pursuit of him, but in vain. No traces of the fugitive were discovered. Since that moment I have never heard any more of him, and 'tis most probable that I never shall."

[Lorenzo here interrupted his friend's narrative:

"How!" said he, "you have never discovered who he was, or even formed a guess?"

"Pardon me," replied the marquis: "when I re|lated this adventure to my uncle, the cardinal duke, he told me, that he had no doubt of this singular man's being the celebrated character known universally by the name of The Wandering Jew. His not being per|mitted to pass more than fourteen days on the same

spot, the burning cross impressed upon his forehead, the effect which it produced upon the beholders and many other circumstances, gave this supposition the colour of truth. The cardinal is fully persuaded of it; and for my own part I am inclined to adopt the only solution which offers itself to this riddle* 2.1" I re|turn to the narrative from which I have digressed.]

From this period I recovered my health so rapidly as to astonish my physicians. The bleeding nun ap|peared no more, and I was soon able to set out for Lindenberg. The baron received me with open arms. I confided to him the sequel of my adventure; and he was not a little pleased to find that his mansion would be no longer troubled with the phantom's quinquen|nial visits. I was ••orry to perceive, that absence had not weakened Donna Rodolpha's imprudent passion. In a private conversation which I had with her during my short stay at the castle, she renewed her attempts to persuade me to return her affection. Regarding her as the primary cause of all my sufferings, I entertained for her no other sentiment than disgust. The skele|ton of Beatrice was found in the place which she had mentioned. This being all that I sought at Linden|berg, I hastened to quit the baron's domains, equally anxious to perform the obsequies of the murdered nun, and escape the importunity of a woman whom I de|tested. I departed, followed by Donna Rodolpha's menaces that my contempt should not be long unpun|ished.

I now bent my course towards Spain with all dili|gence. Lucas with my baggage had joined me dur|ing my abode at Lindenberg. I arrived in my native country without any accident, and immediately pro|ceeded to my father's castle in Andalusia. The re|mains of Beatrice were deposited in the family vault, all due ceremonies performed, and the number of masses said which she had required. Nothing now hindered me from employing all my endeavours to discover the retreat of Agnes. The baroness had as|sured me that her niece had already taken the veil; this intelligence I suspected to have been forged by jealousy, and hoped to find my mistress still at liberty to accept my hand. I inquired after her family; I found that before her daughter could reach Madrid, Donna Inesilla was no more: you, my dear Loren|zo, were said to be abroad, but where I could not discover: your father was in a distant province, on a visit to the duke de Medina; and as to Agnes, no one could or would inform me what was become of her. Theodore, according to promise, had returned to Strasbourg, where he found his grandfather dead, and Marguerite in possession of his fortune. All her per|suasions to remain with her were fruitless: he quitted her a second time, and followed me to Madrid. He exerted himself to the utmost in forwarding my search: but our united endeavours were unattended by success. The retreat which concealed Agnes remained an im|penetrable mystery; and I began to abandon all hopes of recovering her.

About eight months ago, I was returning to my hotel in a melancholy humour, having passed the even|ing at the playhouse. The night was dark, and I

was unaccompanied. Plunged in reflections which were far from being agreeable, I perceived not that three men had followed me from the theatre, till on turning into an unfrequented street, they all attacked me at the same time with the utmost fury. I sprang back a few paces, drew my sword, and threw my cloak over my left arm. The obscurity of the night was in my favour. For the most part the blows of the assassins, being aimed at random, failed to touch me. I at length was fortunate enough to lay one of my adversaries at my feet; but before this I had already received so many wounds, and was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 warmly press|ed, that my destruction would have been inevitable, had not the clashing of swords called a cavalier to my assistance. He ran towards me with his sword drawn: several domestics followed him with torches. His ar|rival made the combat equal: yet would not the bravos abandon their design, till the servants were on the point of joining us. They then fled away, and we lost them in the obscurity.

The stranger now addressed himself to me with po|liteness, and inquired whether I was wounded. Faint with the loss of blood, I could scarcely thank him for his seasonable aid, and entreat him to let some of his servants convey me to the hotel de las Cisternas. I no sooner mentioned the name than he professed him|self an acquaintance of my father's, and declared that he would not permit my being transported to such a distance before my wounds had been examined. He added, that his house was hard by, and begged me to accompany him thither. His manner was so earnest, that I could not reject his offer; and, leaning upon his arm, a few minutes brought me to the porch of a magnificent hotel.

On entering the house, an old greyheaded domestic came to welcome my conductor: he inquired when the duke, his master, meant to quit the country, and was answered, that he would remain there yet some months. My deliverer then desired the family surgeon to be summoned without delay: his orders were obey|ed. I was seated upon a sofa in a noble apartment; and my wounds being examined, they were declared to be very slight. The surgeon, however, advised me not to expose myself to the night air; and the stran|ger pressed me so earnestly to take a bed in his house, that I consented to remain where I was for the present.

Being now left alone with my deliverer, I took the opportunity of thanking him in more express terms than I had done hitherto; but he begged me to be silent on that subject.

"I esteem myself happy," said he, "in having had it in my power to render you this little service; and I shall think myself eternally obliged to my daughter for detaining me so 〈◊〉〈◊〉 at the convent of St. Clare. The high esteem in which I have ever held the marquis de las Cisternas, though accident has not permitted our being so intimate as I could wish, makes me rejoice in the opportunity of making his son's acquaintance. I am certain that my brother, in whose house you now are, will lament his not being at Madrid to receive you himself: but, in the duke's absence, I am master of the family, and may assure you, in his name, that every thing in the hotel de Medina is perfectly at your disposal."

Conceive my surprise, Lorenzo, at discovering, in the person of my preserver, Don Gaston de Medina.

It was only to be equalled by my secret satisfaction at the assurance, that Agnes inhabited the convent of St. Clare. This latter sensation was not a little weakened, when, in answer to my seemingly indifferent questions, he told me that his daughter had really taken the veil. I suffered not my grief at this circumstance to take root in my mind: I flattered myself with the idea, that my uncle's credit at the court of Rome would remove this obstacle, and that, without difficulty, I should ob|tain for my mistress a dispensation from her vows. Buoyed up with this hope, I calmed the uneasiness of my bosom; and I redoubled my endeavours to appear grateful for the attention, and pleased with the society, of Don Gaston.

A domestic now entered the room, and informed me that the bravo whom I had wounded discovered some signs of life. I desired that he might be carried to my father's hotel, and said that, as soon as he recovered his voice, I would examine him respecting his reasons for attempting my life. I was answered, that he was already able to speak, though with difficulty. Don Gaston's curiosity made him press me to interro|gate the assassin in his presence; but this curiosity I was by no means inclined to gratify. One reason was, that, suspecting from whence the blow came, I was unwilling to place before Don Gaston's eyes the guilt of a sister. Another was, that I feared to be re|cognised for Alphonso d'Alvarada, and precautions taken in consequence, to keep me from the sight of Agnes. To avow my passion for his daughter, and endeavour to make him enter into my schemes, what I knew of Don Gaston's character convinced me would be an imprudent step; and considering it to be

essential that he should know me for no other than the Conde de las Cisternas, I was determined not to let him hear the bravo's confession. I insinuated to him, that as I suspected a lady to be concerned in the busi|ness, whose name might accidentally escape from the assassin, it was necessary for me to examine the man in private. Don Gaston's delicacy would not permit his urging the point any longer, and, in consequence, the bravo was conveyed to my hotel.

The next morning I took leave of my host, who was to return to the duke on the same day. My wounds had been so trifling, that, except being obliged to wear my arm in a sling for a short time, I felt no inconvenience from the night's adventure. The sur|geon who examined the bravo's wound declared it to be mortal: he had just time to confess that he had been instigated to murder me by the revengeful Donna Rodolpha, and expired in a few minutes after.

All my thoughts were now bent upon getting to the speech of my lovely nun. Theodore set himself to work, and, for this time, with better success. He attacked the gardener of St. Clare so forcibly with bribes and promises, that the old man was entirely gained over to my interests; and it was settled that I should be introduced into the convent in the character of his assistant. The plan was put into execution without delay. Disguised in a common habit, and a black patch covering one of my eyes, I was presented to the lady prioress, who condescended to approve of the gardener's choice. I immediately entered upon my employment. Botany having been a favourite study with me, I was by no means at a loss in my new

station. For some days I continued to work in the convent garden without meeting the object of my dis|guise. On the fourth morning I was more successful. I heard the voice of Agnes, and was speeding towards the sound, when the sight of the domina stopped me. I drew back with caution, and concealed myself be|hind a thick clump of trees.

The prioress advanced, and seated herself with Ag|nes on a bench at no great distance. I heard her, in an angry tone, blame her companion's continual mel|ancholy. She told her, that to weep the loss of any lover, in her situation, was a crime; but that to weep the loss of a faithless one was folly and absurdity in the extreme. Agnes replied in so low a voice that I could not distinguish her words, but I perceived that she used terms of gentleness and submission. The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a young pensioner, who informed the domina that she was waited for in the parlour. The old lady rose, kissed the cheek of Agnes, and retired. The new comer remained. Agnes spoke much to her in praise of somebody whom I could not make out; but her audi|tor seemed highly delighted and interested by the con|versation. The nun shewed her several letters: the other perused them with evident pleasure, obtained permission to copy them, and withdrew for that pur|pose to my great satisfaction.

No sooner was she out of sight, than I quitted my concealment. Fearing to alarm my lovely mistress, I drew near her gently, intending to discover myself by degrees. But who for a moment can deceive the eyes of love? She raised her head at my approach,

and recognised me, at a single glance. She rose hast|ily from her seat with an exclamation of surprise, and attempted to retire: but I followed her, detained her, and entreated to be heard. Persuaded of my falsehood, she refused to listen to me, and ordered me positively to quit the garden. It was now my turn to refuse. I protested that, however dangerous might be the con|sequences, I would not leave her till she had heard my justification. I assured her, that she had been deceiv|ed by the artifices of her relations; that I could con|vince her, beyond the power of doubt, that my passion had been pure and disinterested; and I asked her what should induce me to seek her in the convent, were I influenced by the selfish motives which my enemies had ascribed to me.

My prayers, my arguments, and vows not to quit her till she had promised to listen to me, united to her fears lest the nuns should see me with her, to her nat|ural curiosity, and to the affection which she still felt for me, in spite of my supposed desertion, at length prevailed. She told me that to grant my request at that moment was impossible; but she engaged to be in the same spot at eleven that night, and to converse with me for the last time. Having obtained this promise, I released her hand, and she fled back with rapidity towards the convent.

I communicated my success to my ally, the old gardener: he pointed out an hiding place, where I might shelter myself till night without fear of a dis|covery. Thither I betook myself at the hour when I ought to have retired with my supposed master, and waited impatiently for the appointed time. The

chillness of the night was in my favour, since it kept the other nuns confined to their cells. Agnes alone was insensible of the inclemency of the air, and, be|fore eleven, joined me at the spot which had witnessed our former interview. Secure from interruption, I related to her the true cause of my disappearing on the fatal fifth of May. She was evidently much affected by my narrative. When it was concluded, she con|fessed the injustice of her suspicio••s, and blamed her|self for having taken the veil through despair at my ingratitude.

"But now it is too late to repine!" she added; "the die is thrown: I have pronounced my vows, and dedicated myself to the service of Heaven. I am sensible how ill I am calculated for a convent. My disgust at a monastic life increases daily: ennui and discontent are my constant companions; and I will not conceal from you, that the passion which I former|ly felt for one so near being my husband, is not yet extinguished in my bosom: but we must part! In|superable barriers divide us from each other, and on this side the grave we must never meet again!"

I now exerted myself to prove, that our union was not so impossible as she seemed to think it. I vaunted to her the cardinal duke of Lerma's influence at the court of Rome. I assured her, that I should easily ob|tain a dispensation from her vows; and I doubted not but Don Gaston would coincide with my views, when informed of my real name and long attachment. Agnes replied, that since I encouraged such an hope, I could know but little of her father. Liberal and kind in every other respect, superstition formed the only

stain upon his character. Upon this head he was in|flexible: he sacrificed his dearest interests to his scru|ples, and would consider it an insult to suppose him capable of authorizing his daughter to break her vows to Heaven.

"But suppose," said I, interrupting her, "suppose that he should disapprove of our union: let him re|main ignorant of my proceedings till I have rescued you from the prison in which you are now confined. Once my wife, you are free from his authority. I need from him no pecuniary assistance; and when he sees his resentment to be unavailing, he will doubtless restore you to his favour. But, let the worst happen; should Don Gaston be irreconcileable, my relations will vie with each other in making you forget his loss; and you will find in my father a substitute for the parent of whom I shall deprive you."

"Don Raymond," replied Agnes, in a firm and res|olute voice, "I love my father: he has treated me harshly in this one instance; but I have received from him, in every other, so many proofs of love, that his affection is become necessary to my existence. Were I to quit the convent, he never would forgive me; nor can I think that, on his death bed, he would leave me his curse, without shuddering at the very idea. Besides, I am conscious myself, that my vows are 〈◊〉〈◊〉. Wilfully did I contract my engagement with Heaven: I cannot break it without a crime. Then banish from your mind the idea of our being ever unit|ed. I am devoted to religion; and however I may grieve at our separation, I would oppose obstacles my|self to what I feel would render me guilty."

I strove to overrule these ill grounded scruples. We were still disputing upon the subject, when the con|vent bell summoned the nuns to matins. Agnes was obliged to attend the•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 but she left me not till I had compelled her to promise, that on the following night she would be at the same place at the same hour. These meetings continued for several weeks uninter|rupted: and 'tis now, Lorenzo, that I must implore your indulgence. Reflect upon our situation, our youth, our long attachment. Weigh all the circum|stances which attended our assignations, and you will confess the temptation to have been irresistible; you will even pardon me when I acknowledge that, in an unguarded moment, the honor of Agnes was sacrificed to my passion."

[Lorenzo's eyes sparkled with fury; a deep crim|son spread itself over his face: he started from his seat, and attempted to draw his sword. The marquis was aware of his movement, and caught his hand: he pressed it affectionately:

"My friend! my brother! hear me to the conclu|sion! Till then restrain your passion; and be at least convinced, that if what I have related is criminal, the blame must fall upon me, and not upon your sister."

Lorenzo suffered himself to be prevailed upon by Don Raymond's entreaties: he resumed his place, and listened to the rest of the narrative with a gloomy and impatient countenance. The marquis thus con|tinued:]

Scarcely was the first burst of passion past, when Agnes, recovering herself, started from my arms with

horror. She called me infamous seducer, loaded me with the bitterest reproaches, and ••eat her bosom in all the wildness of delirium. Ashamed of my impru|dence, I with difficulty found words to excuse my|self. I endeavoured to console her: I threw myself at her feet, and entreated her forgiveness. She forced her hand from me, which I had taken and would have pressed to my lips.

"To••ch me not!" she cried, with a violence which terrified me. "Monster of perfidy and ingratitude, how have I been deceived in you! I looked upon you as my friend, my protector; I trusted myself in your hands with confidence, and, relying upon your honor, thought that mine ran no risk: and 'tis by you, whom I adored, that I am covered with infamy! 'Tis by you that I have been seduced into breaking my vows to God, that I am reduced to a level with the basest of my sex! Shame upon you, villain, you shall never see me more!"

She started from the bank on which she was seated. I endeavoured to detain her; but she disengaged her|self from me with violence, and took refuge in the convent.

I retired, filled with confusion and inquietude. The next morning I failed not, as usual, to appear in the garden; but Agnes was no where to be seen. At night I waited for her at the place where we generally met. I found no better success. Several days and nights passed away in the same manner. At length I saw my offended mistress cross the walk, on whose borders I was working: she was accompanied by the same young pensioner, on whose arm she seemed, from

weakness, obliged to support herself. She looked upon me for a moment, but instantly turned her head away. I waited her return; but she passed on to the convent without paying any attention to me, or the penitent looks with which I implored her forgiveness.

As soon as the nuns were retired, the old gardener joined me with a sorrowful air.

"Segnor," said he, "it grieves me to say, that I can be no longer of use to you; the lady whom you used to meet has just assured me, that if I admitted you again into the garden, she would discover the whole business to the lady prioress. She bade me tell you also, that your presence was an insult, and that, if you still possess the least respect for her, you will never attempt to see her more. Excuse me then for informing you, that I can favour your disguise no longer. Should the prioress be acquainted with my conduct, she might not be contented with dismissing me her service: out of revenge, she might accuse me of having profaned the convent, and cause me to be thrown into the prisons of the Inquisition."

Fruitless were my attempts to conquer his resolu|tion. He denied me all future entrance into the gar|den; and Agnes persevered in neither letting me see or hear from her. In about a fortnight after, a vio|lent illness which had seized my father obliged me to set out for Andalusia. I hastened thither, and, as I imagined, found the marquis at the point of death. Though, on its first appearance, his complaint was declared mortal, he lingered out several months; dur|ing which, my attendance upon him in his malady, and the occupation of settling his affairs after his de|cease,

permitted not my quitting Andalusia. Within these four days I returned to Madrid, and, on arriving at my hot••••, I there found this letter waiting for me.

[Here the marquis unlocked a drawer of a cabinet; he took out a folded paper, which he presented to his auditor. Lorenzo opened it, and recognised his sister's hand. The contents were as follows:

INTO what an abyss of misery have you plunged me! Raymond, you force me to become as crimi|nal as yourself. I had resolved never to see you more; if possible, to forget you; if not, only to re|member you with hate. A being, for whom I al|ready feel a mother's tenderness, solicits me to par|don my seducer, and apply to his love for the means of preservation. Raymond, your child lives in my bosom. I tremble at the vengeance of the prioress. I tremble much for myself, yet more for the inno|cent creature whose existence depends upon mine. Both of us are lost, should my situation be discover|ed. Advise me, then, what steps to take, but seek not to see me. The gardener, who undertakes to deliver this, is dismissed, and we have nothing to hope from that quarter. The man engaged in his place is of incorruptible fidelity. The best means of conveying to me your answer, is by concealing it under the great statue of St. Francis, which stands in the Capuchin cathedral; thither I go every Thursday to confession, and shall easily have an op|portunity of securing your letter. I hear that you are now absent from Madrid. Need I entreat you to write the very moment of your return? I will not think it. Ah! Raymond! mine is a cruel situ|ation!

Deceived by my nearest relations, compelled to embrace a profession the duties of which I am ill calculated to perform, conscious of the sanctity of those duties, and seduced into violating them by one whom I least suspected of perfidy, I am now oblig|ed, by circumstances, to choose between death and perjury. Woman's timidity, and maternal affec|tion, permit me not to balance in the choice. I feel all the guilt into which I plunge myself when I yield to the plan which you before proposed to me. My poor father's death, which has taken place since we met, has removed one obstacle. He sleeps in his grave, and I no longer dread his anger. But from the anger of God, oh! Raymond! who shall shield me? Who can protect me against my conscience, against myself? I dare not dwell upon these thoughts; they will drive me mad. I have taken my resolution. Procure a dispensation from my vows. I am ready to fly with you. Write to me, my husband! Tell me that absence has not abated your love! Tell me that you will rescue from death your unborn child, and its unhappy mother. I live in all the agonies of terror. Every eye which is fixed upon me, seems to read my secret and my shame. And you are the cause of those agonies! Oh! when my heart first loved you, how little did it suspect you of making it feel such pangs!

AGNES

Having perused the letter, Lorenzo restored it in si|lence. The marquis replaced it in the cabinet, and then proceeded:]

Excessive was my joy at reading this intelligence, so

earnestly desired, so little expected. My plan was ••oon arranged. When Don Gaston discovered to me his daughter's retreat, I entertained no doubt of her readiness to quit the convent: I had, therefore, en|trusted the cardinal duke of Lerma with the whole affair, who immediately busied himself in obtaining the necessary bull. Fortunately, I had afterwards neglected to stop his proceedings. Not long since I received a letter from him, stating that he expected daily to receive the order from the court of Rome. Upon this I would willingly have relied; but the car|dinal wrote me word, that I must find some means of conveying Agnes out of the convent, unknown to the prioress. He doubted not but this latter would be much incensed by loosing a person of such high rank from her society, and consider the renunciation of Ag|nes as an insult to her house. He represented her as a woman of a violent and revengeful character, capa|ble of proceeding to the greatest extremities. It was therefore to be feared lest, by confining Agnes in the convent, she should frustrate my hopes, and render the pope's mandate unavailing. Influenced by this consid|eration, I resolved to carry off my mistress, and conceal her in the cardinal duke's estate till the arrival of the expected bull. He approved of my design, and professed himself ready to give a shelter to the fugitive. I next caused the new gardener of St. Clare to be seized pri|vately, and confined in my hotel. By this means I became master of the key to the garden door, and I had now nothing more to do than prepare Agnes for the elopement. This was done by the letter which you saw me deliver this evening. I told her in it, that I should be ready to receive her at twelve to-morrow

night; that I had secured the key of the garden, and that she might depend upon a speedy release.

You have now, Lorenzo, heard the whole of my long narrative. I have nothing to say in my excuse, save that my intentions towards your sister have been ever the most honourable; that it has always been, and still is, my design to make her my wife; and that I trust, when you consider these circumstances, our youth, and our attachment, you will not only forgive our momentary lapse from virtue, but will aid me in repairing my faults to Agnes, and securing a lawful title to her person and her heart.* 3.1

CHAP. V.

O you! whom Vanity's light bark conveys On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of Praise, With what a shifting gale your course you ply, For ever sunk too low or borne too high! Who pants for glory finds but short repose: A breath revives him, and a breath o'erthrows. POPE.

HERE the marquis concluded his adventures. Lo|renzo, before he could determine on his reply, passed some moments in reflection. At length he broke silence.

"Raymond," said he, taking his hand, "strict hon|or would oblige me to wash off in your blood the stain thrown upon my family, but the circumstances of your case forbid me to consider you as an enemy. The temptation was too great to be resisted. 'Tis the su|perstition of my relations which has occasioned these misfortunes, and they are more the offenders than yourself and Agnes. What has passed between you cannot be recalled, but may yet be repaired by uniting you to my sister. You have ever been, you still con|tinue to be, my dearest, and indeed, my only friend. I feel for Agnes the truest affection, and there is no one on whom I would bestow her more willingly than on yourself. Pursue, then, your design. I will ac|company you to-morrow night, and conduct her my|self to the house of the cardinal. My presence will be a sanction for her conduct, and prevent her incurr|ing blame by her flight from the convent."

The marquis thanked him in terms by no means deficient in gratitude. Lorenzo then informed him

that he had nothing more to apprehend from Donna Rodolpha's enmity. Five months had already elapsed since, in an excess of passion, she broke a blood vessel, and expired in the course of a ••ew hours. He then proceeded to mention the interests of Antonia. The marquis was much surprised at hearing of this new relation. His father had carried his hatred of Elvira to the grave, and had never given the least hint that he knew what was become of his eldest son's widow. Don Raymond assured his friend, that he was not mistaken in supposing him ready to acknow|ledge his sister-in-law, and her amiable daughter. The preparations for the elopement would not permit his visiting them the next day; but in the mean while, he desired Lorenzo to assure them of his friendship, and to supply Elvira, upon his account, with any sums which she might want. This the youth promised to do, as soon as her abode should be known to him. He then took leave of his future brother, and returned to the palace de Medina.

The day was already on the point of breaking when the marquis retired to his chamber. Conscious that his narrative would take up some hours, and wishing to secure himself from interruption, on returning to the hotel he ordered his attendants not to fit up for him; consequently, he was somewhat surprised, on entering his anti-room, to find Theodore established there. The page sat near a table, with a pen in his hand, and was so totally occupied by his employment, that he perceived not his lord's approach. The mar|quis stopped to observe him. Theodore wrote a few lines, then paused and scratched out a part of the writ|ing; then wrote again, smiled, and seemed highly

pleased with what he had been about. At last he threw down his pen, sprang from his chair, and clap|ped his hands together joyfully.

"There it is!" cried he aloud: "now they are charming!"

His transports were interrupted by a laugh from the marquis, who suspected the nature of his employ|ment.

"What is so charming, Theodore?"

The youth started, and looked round: he blushed, ran to the table, seized the paper on which he had been writing, and concealed it in confusion.

"Oh! my lord, I knew not that you were so near me. Can I be of use to you? Lucas is already gone to bed."

"I shall follow his example when I have given my opinion of your verses."

"My verses, my lord!"

"Nay I am sure that you have been writing some, for nothing else could have kept you awake till this time in the morning. Where are they, Theodore? I shall like to see your composition."

Theodore's cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson: he longed to shew his poetry, but first chose to be press|ed for it.

"Indeed, my lord, they are not worthy your at|tention."

"Not these verses, which you just now declared to be so charming? Come, come, let me see whether our opinions are the same. I promise that you shall find in me ••n indulgent critic."

The 〈◊〉〈◊〉 produced his paper with seeming reluc|tance; but the satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes betrayed the vanity of his youthful bo|som. The marquis smiled while he observed the emo|tions of an heart as yet but little skilled in veiling its sentiments. He seated himself upon a sofa. Theo|dore, while hope and fear contended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude for his master's decision, while the marquis read the following lines:

LOVE AND AGE.

THE night was dark; the wind blew cold, Anacreon, grown morose and old, Sat by his fire, and fed the kindly flame: Sudden the cottage door expands, And, lo! before him Cupid stands, Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name.

"What! is it thou?" the startled sire In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek: "Wouldst thou again with amorous rage Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age, Vain boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak.

"What seek you in this desert drear? No smiles or sports inhabit here; Ne'er did these valleys witness dalliance sweet: Eternal winter binds the plains; Age in my house despotic reigns; My garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat.

"Begone, and seek the blooming bower, Where some ripe virgin courts thy power,

Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed; On Damon's amorous breast repose; Wanton on Chloe's lip of rose, Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head.

"Be such thy haunts! These regions cold Avoid! Nor think grown wise and old This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear: Remembering that my fairest years By thee were marked with sighs and tears, I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare.

"I have not yet forgot the pains I felt while bound in Julia's chains: The ardent flames with which my bosom burned; The nights I passed deprived of rest; The jealous pangs which racked my breast; My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned.

"Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more! Fly from my peaceful cottage door! No day, no hour, no moment shalt thou stay. I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts, Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts: Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!"—

"Does age, old man, your wits confound?" Replied the offended god, and frowned: (His frown was sweet as is the virgin's smile!) "Do you to me these words address? To me, who do not love you less, Tho' you my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile,

"If one proud fair you chanced to find, An hundred other nymphs were kind, Whose smiles might well for Julia's frowns atone: But such is man! his partial hand Unnumbered favours writes on sand, But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.

"Ingrate! Who led you to the wave, At noon where Lesbia loved to lave?

Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay? And who, when Celia shrieked for aid, Bade you with kisses hush the maid? What other was't than love, oh! false Anacreon, say?

"Then you could call me—'Gentle boy! 'My only bliss! my source of joy!' Then you could prize me dearer than your soul! Could kiss, and dance me on your knees; And swear, not wine itself would please, Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl.

"Must those sweet days return no more? Must I for aye your loss deplore, Banished your heart, and from your favour driven? Ah! no! my fears that smile denies; That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes Declare me ever dear, and all my faults forgiven.

"Again beloved, esteemed, caressed, Cupid shall in thine arms be pressed, Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep: My torch thine age struck heart shall warm; My hand pale winter's rage disarm, And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep."—

A feather now of golden hue He smiling from his pinion drew: This to the poet's hand the boy commits; And straight before Anacreon's eyes The fairest dreams of fancy rise, And round his favoured head wild inspiration slits.

His bosom glows with amorous fire; Eager he grasps the magic lyre; Swift o'er the tuneful chords his fingers move: The feather plucked from Cupid's wing Sweeps the too long neglected string, While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of Love.

Soon as that name was heard, the woods Shook off their snows; the melting floods Broke their ••old chains, and winter fled away. Once more the earth was decked with flowers, Mild zephyrs breathed thro' blooming bowers; High towered the glorious sun, and poured the blaze of day.

Attracted by the harmonious sound, Sylvans and fauns the cot surround, And curious crowd the minstrel to behold: The wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove: Eager they run: they list, they love, And, while they hear the strain, forget the man is old.

Cupid, to nothing constant long, Perched on the harp attends the song, Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes: Now on the poet's breast reposes, Now twines his hoary locks with roses, Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.

Then thus Anecreon—"I no more At other shrines my vows will pour, Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire: From Phoebus or the blue-eye'd Maid Now shall my verse request no aid, For Love alone shall be the patron of my lyre.

"In lofty strain, of earlier days, I spread the king's or heroe's praise, And struck the martial chords with epic fire: But farewell, hero! farewell, king! Your deeds my lips no more shall sing, For love alone shall be the subject of my lyre* 3.2."

The marquis returned the paper with a smile of en|couragement.

"Your little poem pleases me much," said he: "however, you must not count my opinion for any

thing. I am no judge of verses, and for my own part never composed more than six lines in my life: those six produced so unlucky an effect, that I am fully re|solved never to compose another. But I wander from my subject. I was going to say that you cannot em|ploy your time worse than in making verses. An author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom every body is privileged to attack: for though all are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own punishment—contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails upon its author a thousand mortifications: he finds himself assailed by partial and ill humoured criticism: one man finds fault with the plan, another with the style, a third with the precept which it strives to inculcate; and they who cannot succeed in finding fault with the book, employ themselves in stigmatizing its author. They maliciously rake out from obscurity every little circumstance which may throw ridicule upon his pri|vate character or conduct, and aim at wounding the man since they cannot hurt the writer. In short, to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose your|self to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and dis|appointment. Whether you write well or ill, be as|sured that you will not escape from blame. Indeed this circumstance contains a young author's chief con|solation: he remembers that Lope de Vega and Cal|derona had unjust and envious critics, and he modestly conceives himself to be exactly in their predicament. But I am conscious that all these sage observations are thrown away upon you. Authorship is a mania, to conquer which, no reasons are sufficiently strong; and you might as easily persuade me not to love, as I

persuade you not to write. However, if you cannot help being occasionally seized with a poetical par|oxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating your verses to none but those whose partiality for you secures their approbation."

"Then, my lord, you do not think these lines tol|erable?" said Theodore, with an humble and dejected air.

"You mistake my meaning. As I said before, they have pleased me much: but my regard for you makes me partial, and others might judge them less favourably. I must still remark, that even my preju|dice in your favour does not blind me so much as to prevent my observing several faults. For instance, you make a terrible confusion of metaphors; you are too apt to make the strength of your lines consist more in the words than sense; some of the verses seem intro|duced only in order to rhyme with others; and most of the best ideas are borrowed from other poets, though possibly you are unconscious of the theft yourself. These faults may occasionally be excused in a work of length; but a short poem must be correct and per|fect."

"All this is true, Segnor; but you should consider that I only write for pleasure."

"Your defects are the less excuseable. Their in|correctness may be forgiven, who work for money, who are obliged to complete a given task in a given time, and are paid according to the bulk, not value, of their productions. But in those whom no necessity forces to turn author, who merely write for fame, and

have full leisure to polish their compositions, faults are unpardonable, and merit the sharpest arrows of criti|cism."

The marquis rose from the sofa; the page looked discouraged and melancholy; and this did not escape his master's observation.

"However," added he smiling, "I think that these lines do you no discredit. Your ver••ification is toler|ably easy, and your ear seems to be just. The peru|sal of your little poem upon the whole gave me much pleasure; and if it is not asking too great a favour, I shall be highly obliged to you for a copy."

The youth's countenance immediately cleared up. He perceived not the smile, half approving, half iron|ical, which accompanied the request, and he promised the copy with great readiness. The marquis with|drew to his chamber, much amused by the instanta|neous effect produced upon Theodore's vanity by the conclusion of his criticism. He threw himself upon his couch, sleep soon stole over him, and his dreams presented him with the most flattering pictures of hap|piness with Agnes.

On reaching the hotel de Medina, Lorenzo's first care was to inquire for letters. He found several waiting for him; but that which he sought was not amongst them. Leonella had found it impossible to write that evening. However, her impatience to se|cure Don Christoval's heart, on which she flattered herself with having made no slight impression, per|mitted her not to pass another day without informing him where she was to be found. On her return from

the Capuchin church, she had related to her sister, with exultation, how attentive an handsome cavalier had been to her; as also how his companion had un|dertaken to plead Antonia's cause with the marquis de las Cisternas. Elvira received this intelligence with sensations very different from those with which it was communicated. She blamed her sister's im|prudence in confiding her history to an absolute stran|ger, and expressed her fears lest this inconsiderate step should prejudice the marquis against her. The great|est of her apprehensions she concealed in her own breast. She had observed with inquietude, that at the mention of Lorenzo a deep blush spread itself over her daughter's cheek. The timid Antonia dared not to pronounce his name. Without knowing wherefore, she felt embarrassed when he was made the subject of discourse, and endeavoured to change the conversation to Ambrosio. Elvira perceived the emotions of this young bosom: in consequence, she insisted upon Leo|nella's breaking her promise to the cavaliers. A sigh, which on hearing this order escaped from Antonia, confirmed the wary mother in her resolution.

Through this resolution Leonella was determined to break: she conceived it to be inspired by envy, and that her sister dreaded her being elevated above her. Without imparting her design to any one, she took an opportunity of dispatching the following note to Lo|renzo: it was delivered to him as soon as he awoke:

Doubtless, Segnor Don 〈◊〉〈◊〉, you have fre|quently accused me of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and forgetful|ness: but on the word of a virgin it was out of my power to perform my promise yesterday. I know

not in what words to inform you, how strange a reception my sister gave your kind wish to visit her. She is an odd woman, with many good points about her; but her jealousy of me frequently makes her conceive notions quite unaccountable. On hearing that your friend had paid some little at|tention to me, she immediately took the alarm: she blamed my conduct, and has absolutely forbid|den me to let you know our abode. My strong sense of gratitude for your kind offers of service, and—shall I confess it? my desire to behold once more the too amiable Don Christoval, will not permit my obeying her injunctions. I have there|fore stolen a moment to inform you, that we lodge in the strada di San Jago, four doors from the palace d'Albornos, and nearly opposite to the barber's Miguel Coello. Inquire for Donna Elvira Dalfa, since, in compliance with her father-in-law's order, my sister continues to be called by her maiden name. At eight this evening you will be sure of finding us: but let not a word drop, which may raise a suspicion of my having written this letter. Should you see the Condé d'Ossorio, tell him—I blush while I declare it—tell him that his presence will be but too acceptable to the sympathetic

LEONELLA.

The latter sentences were written in red ink, to ex|press the blushes of her cheek while she committed an outrage upon her virgin modesty.

Lorenzo had no sooner perused this note, than he set out in search of Don Christoval. Not being able to find him in the course of the day, he proceeded to Donna Elvira's alone, to Leonella's infinite disappoint|ment.

The domestic by whom he sent up his name having already declared his lady to be at home, she had no excuse for refusing his visit: yet she consented to receive it with much reluctance. That reluctance was increased by the changes which his approach pro|duced in Antonia's countenance; nor was it by any means abated, when the youth himself appeared. The symmetry of his person, animation of his features, and natural elegance of his manners and address, convinced Elvira that such a guest must be dangerous for her daughter. She resolved to treat him with distant po|liteness, to decline his services with gratitude for the tender of them, and to make him feel, without offence, that his future visits would be far from acceptable.

On his entrance he found Elvira, who was indis|posed, reclining upon a sofa; Antonia sat by her em|broidery frame; and Leonella in a pastoral dress, held "Montemayor's Diana." In spite of her being the mother of Antonia, Lorenzo could not help expect|ing to find in Elvira, Leonella's true sister and the daughter of "as honest a pains-taking 〈◊〉〈◊〉 as any in Cordova." A single glance was sufficient to undeceive him. He beheld a woman whose features, though impaired by time and sorrow, still bore the marks of distinguished beauty: a serious dignity reign|ed upon her countenance, but was tempered by a grace and sweetness which rendered her truly enchant|ing. Lorenzo fancied that she must have resembled her daughter in her youth, and readily excused the im|prudence of the late Condé de las Cisternas. She de|sired him to be seated, and immediately resumed her place upon the sofa.

Antonia received him with a simple reverence, and continued her work: her cheeks were suffused with crimson, and she strove to conceal her emotion by leaning over her embroidery frame. Her aunt also chose to play off her airs of modesty: she affected to blush and tremble, and waited with her eyes cast down to receive, as she expected, the compliments of Don Christoval. Finding, after some time, that no sign of his approach was given, she ventured to look round the room, and perceived with vexation that Me|dina was unaccompanied. Impatience would not permit her waiting for an explanation: interrupting Lorenzo, who was delivering Raymond's message, she desired to know what was become of his friend.

He, who thought it necessary to maintain himself in her good graces, strove to console her under her disap|pointment by committing a little violence upon truth.

"Ah! Segnora," he replied in a melancholy voice, how grieved will he be at losing this opportunity of paying you his respects! A relation's illness has oblig|ed him to quit Madrid in haste: but on his return he will doubtless seize the first moment with transport to throw himself at your feet!

As he said this, his eyes met those of Elvira: she punished his falsehood sufficiently by darting at him a look expressive of displeasure and reproach. Neither did the deceit answer his intention. Vexed and dis|appointed, Leonella rose from her seat, and retired in dudgeon to her own apartment.

Lorenzo hastened to repair the fault which had in|jured him in Elvira's opinion. He related his conver|sation

with the marquis respecting her: he assured her that Raymond was prepared to acknowledge her for his brother's widow; and that, till it was in his power to pay his compliments to her in person, Lorenzo was commissioned to supply his place. This intelligence relieved Elvira from an heavy weight of uneasiness: she had now found a protector for the fatherless An|tonia, for whose future fortunes she had suffered the greatest apprehensions. She was not sparing of her thanks to him who had interfered so generously in her behalf: but still she gave him no invitation to repeat his visit. However, when upon rising to depart he requested permission to inquire after her health occa|sionally, the polite earnestness of his manner, gratitude for his services, and respect for his friend the marquis, would not admit of a refusal. She consented reluc|tantly to receive him: he promised not to abuse her goodness, and quitted the house.

Antonia was now left alone with her mother: a temporary silence ensued. Both wished to speak up|on the same subject, but neither new how to intro|duce it. The one felt a bashfulness which sealed up her lips, and for which she could not account; the other feared to find her apprehensions true, or to in|spire her daughter with notions to which she might still be a stranger. At length Elvira began the con|versation.

"That is a charming young man, Antonia; I am much pleased with him. Was he long near you yes|terday in the cathedral?"

"He quitted me not for a moment while I staid in the church: he gave me his seat, and was very oblig|ing and attentive."

"Indeed? Why then have you never mentioned his name to me? Your aunt launched out in praise of his friend, and you vaunted Ambrosio's eloquence: but neither said a word of Don Lorenzo's person and ac|complishments. Had not Leonella spoken of his readiness to undertake our cause, I should not have known him to be in existence."

She paused. Antonia coloured, but was silent.

"Perhaps you judge him less favourably than I do. In my opinion his figure is pleasing, his conversation sensible, and manners engaging. Still he may have struck you differently: you may think him disagreea|ble, and—"

"Disagreeable? Oh! dear mother, how should I possibly think him so? I should be very ungrateful were I not sensible of his kindness yesterday, and very blind if his merits had escaped me. His figure is so graceful, so noble! His manners so gentle, yet so manly! I never yet saw so many accomplishments united in one person, and I doubt whether Madrid can produce his equal."

"Why then were you so silent in praise of this phoenix of Madrid? Why was it concealed from me, that his society had afforded you pleasure?"

"In truth, I know not; you ask me a question which I cannot resolve myself. I was on the point of mentioning him a thousand times; his name was con|stantly on my lips; but when I would have pronoun|ced it, I wanted courage to execute my design. How|ever, if I did not speak of him, it was not that I thought of him the less."

"That I believe. But shall I tell you why you wanted courage? It was because, accustomed to con|fide to me your most secret thoughts, you knew not how to conceal, yet feared to acknowledge, that your heart nourished a sentiment which you were con|scious I should disapprove. Come hither to me, my child."

Antonia quitted her embroidery frame, threw her|self upon her knees by the sofa, and hid her face in her mother's lap.

"Fear not, my sweet girl! Consider me equally as your friend and parent, and apprehend no reproof from me. I have read the emotions of your bosom; you are yet ill skilled in concealing them, and they could not escape my attentive eye. This Lorenzo is dangerous to your repose; he has already made an impression upon your heart. 'Tis true that I perceive easily that your affection is returned: but what can be the consequences of this attachment? You are poor and friendless, my Antonia; Lorenzo is the heir of the duke of Medina Celi. Even should himself mean honourably, his uncle never will consent to your union; nor, without that uncle's consent, will I. By sad experience I know what sorrow she must endure, who marries into a family unwilling to receive her. Then struggle with your affection: whatever pains it may cost you, strive to conquer it. Your heart is ten|der and susceptible: it has already received a strong impression; but when once convinced that you should not encourage such sentiments, I trust that you have sufficient fortitude to drive them from your bosom."

Antonia kissed her hand, and promised implicit obedience. Elvira then continued—

"To prevent your passion from growing stronger, it will be needful to prohibit Lorenzo's visits. The service which he has rendered me permits not my for|bidding them positively; but unless I judge too fa|vourably of his character, he will discontinue them without taking offence, if I confess to him my reasons, and throw myself ••ntirely on his generosity. The next time that I see him, I will honestly avow to him the embarrassment which his presence occasions. How say you, my child? Is not this measure neces|sary?"

Antonia subscribed to every thing without hesitation, though not without regret. Her mother kissed her af|fectionately, and retired to bed. Antonia followed her example, and vowed so frequently never more to think of Lorenzo, that till sleep closed her eyes she thought of nothing el••e.* 4.1

While this was passing at Elvira's, Lorenzo hasten|ed to rejoin the marquis. Every thing was ready for the second elopement of Agnes; and at twelve the two friends with a coach and four were at the garden wall of the convent. Don Raymond drew out his

key, and unlocked the door. They entered, and wait|ed for some time in expectation of being joined by Agnes. At length the marquis grew impatient: be|ginning to fear that his second attempt would succeed no better than the first, he proposed to reconnoitre the convent. The friends advanced towards it. Every thing was still and dark. The prioress was anxious to keep the story a secret, fearing lest the crime of one of its members should bring disgrace upon the whole community, or that the interposition of powerful rela|tions should deprive her vengeance of its intended vic|tim. She took care therefore to give the lover of Ag|nes no cause to suppose that his design was discovered, and his mistress on the point of suffering the punish|ment of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 fault. The same reason made her reject the idea of arresting the unknown seducer in the gar|den: such a proceeding would have created much dis|turbance, and the disgrace of her convent would have been noised about Madrid. She contented herself with confining Agnes closely: as to the lover, she left him at liberty to pursue his designs. What she expected was the result. The marquis and Lorenzo waited in vain till the break of day; they then retired without noise, alarmed at the failure of their plan, and igno|rant of the cause of its ill success.

The next morning Lorenzo went to the convent, and requested to see his sister. The prioress appeared at the grate with a melancholy countenance. She in|formed him that for several days Agnes had appeared much agitated; that she had been pressed by the nuns in vain to reveal the cause, and apply to their tender|ness for advice and consolation; that she had obsti|nately persisted in concealing the cause of her distress;

but that on Thursday evening it had produced so vio|lent an effect upon her constitution, that she had fallen ill, and was actually confined to her bed. Lorenzo did not credit a syllable of this account: he insisted upon seeing his sister; if she was unable to come to the grate, he desired to be admitted to her cell. The prioress crossed herself! she was shocked at the very idea of a man's profane eye pervading the interior of her holy mansion, and professed herself astonished that Lorenzo could think of such a thing. She told him that his request could not be granted; but that, if he returned the next day, she hoped that her beloved daughter would then be sufficiently recovered to join him at the parlour grate. With this answer Lorenzo was obliged to retire, unsatisfied, and trembling for his sister's safety.

He returned the next morning at an early hour. "Agnes was worse; the physician had pronounce•• her to be in imminent danger; she was ordered to re|main quiet, and it was utterly impossible for her to re|ceive her brother's visit." Lorenzo stormed at this answer, but there was no resource. He raved, he en|treated, he threatened; no means were left untried to obtain a sight of Agnes. His endeavours were as fruitless as those of the day before, and he returned in despair to the marquis. On his side, the latter had spared no pains to discover what had occasioned his plot to fail. Don Christoval, to whom the affair was now entrusted, endeavoured to worm out the secret from the old porteress of St. Clare, with whom he had formed an acquaintance; but she was too much upon her guard, and he gained from her no intelligence. The marquis was almost distracted, and Lorenzo 〈◊〉〈◊〉 scarcely less inquietude. Both were convince•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉

the purposed elopement must have been discovered: they doubted not but the malady of Agnes was a pre|tence, but they knew not by what means to rescue her from the hands of the prioress.

Regularly every day did Lorenzo visit the convent: as regularly was he informed that his sister rather grew worse than better. Certain that her indisposition was feigned, these accounts did not alarm him: but his ignorance of her fate, and of the motives which induc|ed the prioress to keep her from him, excited the most serious uneasiness. He was still uncertain what steps he ought to take, when the marquis received a letter from the cardinal duke of Lerma. It enclosed the pope's expected bull, ordering that Agnes should be released from her vows, and restored to her relations. This essential paper decided at once the proceedings of her friends; they resolved that Lorenzo should carry it to the domina without delay, and demand that his sister should be instantly given up to him. Against this mandate illness could not be pleaded: it gave her brother the power of removing her instantly to the palace de Medina, and he determined to use that power on the following day.

His mind relieved from inquietude respecting his sister, and his spirits raised by the hope of soon restor|ing her to freedom, he now had time to give a few moments to love and to Antonia. At the same hour as on his former visit, he repaired to Donna Elvira's. She had given orders for his admission. As soon as he was announced, her daughter retired with Leo|nella; and when he entered the chamber, he found 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••ady of the house alone. She received him with

less distance than before, and desired him to pl•••••• ••••••|self near her upon the sofa. She then, without losing time, opened her business, as had been agreed between herself and Antonia.

"You must not think me ungrateful, Don Lorenzo, or forgetful how essential are the services which you have rendered me with the marquis. I feel the weight of my obligations: nothing under the sun should in|duce my taking the step to which I am now compelled, but the interest of my child, of my beloved Antonia. My health is declining; God only knows how soon I may be summoned before his throne. My daughter will be left without parents, and, should she lose the protection of the Cisternas family, without friends. She is young and artless, uninstructed in the world's perfidy, and with charms sufficient to render her an ob|ject of seduction. Judge then how I must tremble at the prospect before her! Judge, how anxious I must be to keep her from their society who may excite the yet dormant passions of her bosom. You are amiable, Don Lorenzo; Antonia has a susceptible, a loving heart, and is grateful for the favours conferred upon us by your interference with the marquis. Your presence makes me tremble: I fear lest it should in|spire her with sentiments which may embitter the re|mainder of her life, or encourage her to cherish hopes in her situation unjustifiable and futile. Pardon me, when I avow my terrors, and let my frankness plead in my excuse. I cannot forbid you my house, for gratitude restrains me; I can only throw myself upon your generosity, and entreat you to spare the feelings of an anxious, of a doting mother. Believe me when I assure you, that I lament the necessity of rejecting your

acquaintance; but there is no remedy, and Antonia's interest obliges me to beg you to forbear your visits. By complying with my request, you will increase the esteem which I already feel for you, and of which every thing convinces me that you are truly deserv|ing."

"Your frankness charms me," replied Lorenzo: "You shall find, that in your favourable opinion of me you were not deceived; yet I hope that the reasons now in my power to alledge, will persuade you to withdraw a request which I cannot obey without in|finite reluctance. I love your daughter, love her most sincerely; I wish for no greater happiness than to in|spire her with the same sentiments, and receive her hand at the altar as her husband. 'Tis true I am not rich myself, my father's death has left me but little in my own possession; but my expectations justify my pretending to the Condé de las Cisternas' daughter."

He was proceeding, but Elvira interrupted him—

Ah! Don Lorenzo, you forget in that pompous title the meanness of my origin. You forget that I have ••ow passed fourteen years in Spain, disavowed by my husband's family, and existing upon a stipend barely sufficient for the support and education of my daughter. Nay, I have even been neglected by most of my own relations, who out of envy affect to doubt the reality of my marriage. My allowance being dis|continued at my father-in-law's death, I was reduced to the very brink of want. In this situation I was found by my sister, who, amongst all her foibles, pos|sesses a warm, generous, and affectionate heart. She aided me with the little fortune which my father left

her, persuaded me to visit Madrid, and has supported my child and myself since our quitting Murcia. Then, consider not Antonia as descended from the Condé de las Cisternas; consider her as a poor and unprotected orphan, as the grandchild of the tradesman Torribio Dalfa, as the needy pensioner of that tradesman's daughter. Reflect upon the difference between such a situation and that of the nephew and heir of the po|tent duke of Medina. I believe your intentions to be honourable; but as there are no hopes that your uncle will approve the union, I foresee that the consequen|ces of your attachment must be fatal to my child's re|pose."

"Pardon me, Segnora; you are misinformed if you suppose the duke of Medina to resemble the generality of men. His sentiments are liberal and disinterested; he loves me well, and I have no reason to dread his forbidding the marriage, when he perceives that my happiness depends upon Antonia. But supposing him to refuse his sanction, what have I still to fear? My parents are no more; my little fortune is in my own possession; it will be sufficient to support Antonia, and I shall exchange for her hand Medina's dukedom without one sigh of regret."

"You are young and eager; it is natural for you to entertain such ideas. But experience has taught me to my cost, that curses accompany an unequal alliance. I married the Condé de las Cisternas in opposition to the will of his relations; many an heart pang has punished me for the imprudent step. Wherever we bent our course, a father's execration pursued Gonzalvo. Poverty overtook us, and no

friend was near to relieve our wants. Still our mu|tual affection existed, but, alas! not without inter|ruption. Accustomed to wealth and ••ase, ill could my husband support the transition to distress and indigence. He looked back with repining to the comforts which he once enjoyed. He regretted the situation which for my sake he had quitted; and in moments when despair possessed his mind, has reproached me with having made him the companion of want and wretch|edness. He has called me his bane! the source of his sorrows, the cause of his destruction! Ah! God! he little knew how much keener were my own heart's reproaches! He was ignorant that I suffered trebly, for myself, for my children, and for him! 'Tis true that his anger seldom lasted long: his sincere affec|tion for me soon revived in his heart, and then his re|pentance for the tears which he had made me shed, tortured me even more than his reproaches. He would throw himself on the ground, implore my for|giveness in the most frantic terms, and load himself with curses for being the murderer of my repose. Taught by experience, that an union contracted against the inclinations of families on either side must be unfortunate, I will save my daughter from those miseries which I have suffered. Without your uncle's consent, while I live, she never shall be yours. Un|doubtedly he will disapprove of the union; his power is immense, and Antonia shall not be exposed to his anger and persecution.

"His persecution? How easy may that be avoided! Let the worst happen, it is but quitting Spain. My wealth may easily be realised. The Indian islands will offer us a secure retreat. I have an estate, though

not of value, in Hispaniola; thither will we fly, and I shall consider it to be my native country, if it gives me Antonia's undisturbed possession."

"Ah! youth, this is a fond, romantic vision. Gonzalvo thought the same. He fancied that he could leave Spain without regret; but the moment of parting undeceived him. You know not yet what it is to quit your native land: to quit it, never to behold it more! You know not what it is to exchange the scenes where you have passed your infancy, for un|known realms and barbarous climates!—to be for|gotten, utterly, eternally forgotten by the companions of your youth!—to see your dearest friends, the fond|est objects of your affection perishing with diseases in|cidental to Indian atmospheres, and find yourself una|ble to procure for them necessary assistance! I have felt all this! My husband and two sweet babes found their graves in Cuba; nothing would have saved my young Antonia, but my sudden return to Spain. Ah! Don Lorenzo, could you conceive what I suffered during my absence! Could you know how sorely I regretted all that I left behind, and how dear to me was the very name of Spain! I envied the winds which blew towards it: and when the Spanish sailor chanted some well known air as he passed my win|dow, tears filled my eyes, while I thought upon my native land. Gonzalvo too—my husband—"

Elvira paused. Her voice faltered, and she con|cealed her face with her handkerchief. After a short silence she rose from the sofa, and proceeded—

"Excuse my quitting you for a few moments; the remembrance of what I have suffered has much agi|tated

me, and I need to be alone. Till I return, peruse these lines. After my husband's death I found them among his papers. Had I know•• sooner that he entertained such sentiments, grief would have killed me. He wrote these verses on his voyage to Cuba, when his mind was clouded by sorrow, and he forgot that he had a wife and children. What we are losing ever seems to us the most precious. Gonzalvo was quitting Spain for ever, and therefore was Spain dearer to his eyes than all else which the world contained. Read them, Don Lorenzo, they will give you some idea of the feelings of a banished man."

Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo's hand, and retired from the chamber. The youth examined the contents, and found them to be as follows:

THE EXILE.

FAREWELL, oh native Spain! farewell for ever! These banished eyes shall view thy coast no more: A mournful presage tells my heart, that never Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore.

Hushed are the winds; while soft the vessel sailing With gentle motion ploughs the unruffled main: I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing, And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.

I see it! Beneath yo•• blue clear heaven Still do the spires, so well beloved, appear: From yonder craggy point the gale of eve•• Still wafts my native accents to mine ••ar.

Propped on some moss crowned rock, and gaily singing, There in the sun his nets the fisher dries; Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

Ah! happy swain! he waits the accustomed hour, When twilight gloom obscures the closing sky; Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower, And shares the feast his native fields supply.

Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him With honest welcome and with smiles sincere: No threatening woes of present joys bereave him; No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.

Ah! happy swain! such bliss to me denying, Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view; Me, who, from home and Spain an exile flying, Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.

No more mine ear shall 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the well known ditty Sung by some mountain-girl who tends her goats, Some village-swain imploring amorous pity, Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes.

No more my arms a parent's fond embraces, No more my heart domestic calm must know; Far from these joys, with sighs which memory traces, To sultry skies and distant cli••es I go;

Where Indian suns engender new diseases, Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases, The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day.

But not, to feel slow pangs consume my liver, To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age, My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever, And brain delirious with the day-star's rage,

Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever, With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee; To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever, And feel that all thy joys are torn from me!

Ah me! how oft will fancy's spells in slumber, Recall my native country to my mind!

How oft regret will bid me sadly number Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind!

Wild Murcia's vales and loved romantic bowers, The river on whose banks a child I played, My castle's ancient halls, its frowning towers, Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade;

Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre, Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know, Full oft shall memory trace, my soul's tormentor, And turn each pleasure past to present woe.

But, lo! the sun beneath the waves retires; Night speeds apace her empire to restore; Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires, Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.

Oh! breathe not, winds! Still be the water's motion! Sleep, sleep, my bark, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 silence on the main! So, when to-morrow's light shall gild the ocean, Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.

Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning, Fresh blows the ga••e, and high the billows swell: Far shall we be before ••he break of morning: Oh! then, for ever, native Spain, farewell!

Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines, when Elvira returned to him: the giving a free course to her tears had relieved her, and her spirits had regained their usual composure.

"I have nothing more to say, my lord," said she; "you have heard my apprehensions, and my reasons for begging you not to repeat your visits. I have thrown myself in full confidence upon your honor. I am certain that you will not prove my opinion of you to be too favourable."

"But on•• question more, Segnora, and I leave you. Should the duke of Medina approve my love, would my addresses be unacceptable to yourself and the fair Antonia?"

"I will be open with you, Don Lorenzo: there being little probability of such an union taking place, I fear that it is desired but too ardently by my daughter. You have made an impression upon 〈◊〉〈◊〉 young heart which gives me the most serious alarm: to prevent that impression from growing stronger, I am obliged to decline your acquaintance. For me, you may be sure that I should rejoice at establishing my child so advantageously. Conscious that my con|stitution, impaired by grief and illness, forbids me to expect a long continuance in this world, I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a•• the thought of leaving her under the protection of a perfect stranger. The marquis de las Cisternas is to|tally unknown to me. He will marry: his lady may look upon Antonia with an eye of displeasure, and de|prive her of her only friend. Should the duke, your uncle, give his consent, you need not doubt obtaining mine and my daughter's; but, without his, hope not for ours. At all events, whatever steps you may take, whatever may be the duke's decision, till you know it, let me beg your forbearing to strengthen, by your presence, Antonia's prepossession. If the sanction o•• your relations authorizes your addressing her as your wife, my doors fly open to you. If that sanction is refused, be satisfied to possess my esteem and gratitude, but remember that we must meet no more."

Lorenzo promised reluctantly to conform to this de|cree: but he added, that he hoped soon to obtain that

consent which would give him a claim to the renewal of their acquaintance. He then explained to her why the marquis had not called in person; and made no scruple of confiding to her his sister's history. He con|cluded by saying, "that he hoped to set Agnes at lib|erty the next day; and that, as soon as Don Ray|mond's fears were quieted upon this subject, he would lose no time in assuring Donna Elvira of his friend|ship and protection.

The lady shook her head.

"I tremble for your sister," said she; "I have heard many traits of the domina of St. Clare's char|acter from a friend who was educated in the same convent with her: she reported her to be haughty, in|flexible, superstitious, and revengeful. I have since heard, that she is infatuated with the idea of rendering her convent the most regular in Madrid, and never for|gave those whose imprudence threw upon it the slight|est stain. Though naturally violent and severe, when her interests require it, she well knows how to assume an appearance of benignity. She leaves no means un|tried to persuade young women of rank to become members of her community: she is implacable when once incensed, and has too much intrepidity to shrink at taking the most rigorous measures for punishing the offender. Doubtless, she will consider your sister's quitting the convent as a disgrace thrown upon it: she will use every artifice to avoid obeying the man|date of his holiness; and I shudder to think that Don|na Agnes is in the hands of this dangerous woman."

Lorenzo now rose to take leave. Elvira gave him her hand at parting, which he kissed respectfully;

and, telling her that he soon hoped for the permission to salute that of Antonia, he returned to his hotel. The lady was perfectly satisfied with the conversation which had passed between them: she looked forward with satisfaction to the prospect of his becoming her son-in-law; but prudence bade her conceal from her daughter's knowledge the flattering hopes which her|self now ventured to entertain.

Scarcely was it day, and already Lorenzo was at the convent of St. Clare, furnished with the necessary man|date. The nuns were at matins. He waited impa|tiently for the conclusion of the service; and at length the prioress appeared at the parlour grate. Agnes was demanded. The old lady replied with a melan|choly air, that the dear child's situation grew hourly more dangerous: that the physicians despaired of her life; but that they had declared the only chance for her recovery to consist in keeping her quiet, and not to permit those to approach her whose presence was likely to agitate her. Not a word of all this was be|lieved by Lorenzo, any more than he credited the ex|pressions of grief and affection for Agnes with which this account was interlarded. To end the business, he put the pope's bull into the hands of the domina, and insisted that, ill or in health, his sister should be de|livered to him without delay.

The prioress received the paper with an air of hu|mility; but no sooner had her eye glanced over the contents than her resentment baffled all the efforts of hypocrisy. A deep crimson spread itself over her face, and she darted upon Lorenzo looks of rage and me|nace.

"This order is positive," said she, in a voice of an|ger, which she in vain strove to disguise▪ "willing|ly would I obey it, but unfortunately, it is out of my power."

Lorenzo interrupted her by an exclamation of sur|prise.

"I repeat it, Segnor, to obey this order is totally out of my power. From tenderness to a brother's feelings, I would have communicated the sad event to you by degrees, and have prepared you to hear it with fortitude. My measures are broken through; this order commands me to deliver up to you the sister Agnes without delay; I am, therefore, obliged to in|form you, without circumlocution, that on Friday last she expired."

Lorenzo started back with horror, and turned pale. A moment's recollection convinced him that this asser|tion must be false, and it restored him to himself.

"You deceive me!" said he, passionately: "but five minutes past you assured me that, though ill, she was still alive. Produce her this instant! See her I must and will; and every attempt to keep her from me will be unavailing."

"You forget yourself, Segnor: you owe respect to my age as well as my profession. Your sister is no more. If I at first concealed her death, it was from dreading lest an event so unexpected should produce on you too violent an effect. In truth, I am but ill re|paid for my attention. And what interest, I pray you, should I have in detaining her? To know her

wish of quitting our society is a sufficient reason for me to wi••h 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉, and think her a disgrace to the sisterhood of St. Clare: but she has forfeited my affection in a manner yet more culpable. Her crimes were great; and when you know the cause of her death, you will doubtless rejoice, Don Lorenzo, that such a wretch is no longer in existence. She was tak|en ill on Thursday last on returning from confession in the capuchin chapel: her malady seemed attended with strange circumstances; but she persisted in con|cealing its cause. Thanks to the Virgin, we were too ignorant to suspect it! Judge then what must have been our consternation, our horror, when she was delivered the next day of a still born child, whom she immediately followed to the grave. How, Segnor? Is it possible that your countenance expresses no sur|prise, no indignation? Is it possible that your sister's infamy was known to you, and that still she possessed your affection? In that case, you have no need of my compassion. I can say nothing more; except re|peat my inability of obeying the orders of his holiness. Agnes is no more; and, to convince you that what I say is true, I swear by our blessed Saviour, that three days have passed since she was buried."

Here she kissed a small crucifix which hung at her girdle: she then rose from her chair, and quitted the parlour. As she withdrew, she cast upon Lorenzo a scornful smile.

"Farewell, Segnor," said she; "I know no remedy for this accident. I fear that even a second bull from the pope will not procure your sister's resurrection."

Lorenzo also retired, penetrated with affliction▪ but Don Raymond's, at the news of this event, amounted to madness: he would not be convinced that Agnes was really dead; and continued to insist that the walls of St. Clare still confined her. No argu|ments could make him abandon his hopes of regain|ing her. Every day some fresh scheme was invented for procuring intelligence of her, and all of them were attended with the same success.

On his part, Medina gave up the idea of ever see|ing his sister more; yet he believed that she had been taken off by unfair means. Under this persuasion, he encouraged Don Raymond's researches, determin|ed, should he discover the least warrant for his suspi|cions, to take a severe vengeance upon the unfeeling prioress. The loss of his sister affected him sincerely: nor was it the least cause of his distress, that propriety obliged him for some time to defer mentioning Anto|nia to the duke. In the mean while his emissaries constantly surrounded Elvira's door. He had intelli|gence of all the movements of his mistress. As she never failed every Thursday to attend the sermon in the Capuchin cathedral, he was secure of seeing her once a week; though, in compliance with his prom|ise, he carefully shunned her observation. Thus two long months passed away. Still no information was procured of Agnes. All but the marquis credited her death: and now Lorenzo determined to disclose his sentiments to his uncle: he had already dropped some hints of his intention to marry: they had been as fa|vourably received as he could expect; and he har|boured no doubt of the success of his application.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Lovelace dreams, that Clarissa left her robe in his grasp.
• * 1.2

  The cientipedoro is supposed to be a native of Cuba, and to have been brought into Spain, from that island, in the vessel of Columbus.
• * 2.1

  I imagined the tradition of the W••ndering Jew to be known universally. But, as many people have expressed to me their ignorance on the subject, it may be as well to state, that the Wandering Jew is said to have insulted our Saviour, while leading to the Cross, saying "Go, go, Thou King of the Jews!" on which Christ, looking at him, answered "Yea, I will go; but thou shalt tarry till I come again!"
• * 3.1

  There is certainly a very strong resemblance between some parts of the story of "the Bleeding Nun," and that of the Apparition in "Les Chevaliers du Cygne." I can only account for it by supposing that Madame de Genlis had heard, while in ••ermany, the same tradition which I have made use of. It is at least certain, that "The Monk" was already in the press, when I read, for the first time "Les Chevaliers du Cygne."—The story which was related to me, was merely, that the castle of Lauenstein was haunted by a spectre habited as a nun (but not as a bleeding one;) that a young officer by mistake ran away with her, instead of the heiress of Lauenstein; that she used to appear to him every night; that, going to a foreign country, neither he nor the phantom was ever after heard of; and that the words which she used to repeat to him were in the original,

  "Frizchen! Frizchen! Du bist mein! Frizchen! Frizchen! Ich bin dein! Ich dein! Du mein, Mit leib' und seel."
• * 3.2

  The last stanza is taken from the first Ode of Anacreon.
• * 4.1

  Pour chasse•• de sa souvenance ••••objet qui plait, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 donne bien de souffrance Pour peu d'effet. Le souvenir durant la vie Toujours revient; En pensant qu'••l faut qu'on l'oublie On s'en souvient.