been a slave to flattery, to avarice, and self-love. If in one
hour's conversation Matilda had produced a change so remarkable
in his sentiments, what had He not to dread from her remaining in
the Abbey? Become sensible of his danger, awakened from his
dream of confidence, He resolved to insist on her departing
without delay. He began to feel that He was not proof against
temptation; and that however Matilda might restrain herself
within the bounds of modesty, He was unable to contend with those
passions, from which He falsely thought himself exempted.
'Agnes! Agnes!' He exclaimed, while reflecting on his
embarrassments, 'I already feel thy curse!'
He quitted his Cell, determined upon dismissing the feigned
Rosario. He appeared at Matins; But his thoughts were absent,
and He paid them but little attention. His heart and brain were
both of them filled with worldly objects, and He prayed without
devotion. The service over, He descended into the Garden. He
bent his steps towards the same spot where, on the preceding
night, He had made this embarrassing discovery. He doubted not
but that Matilda would seek him there: He was not deceived. She
soon entered the Hermitage, and approached the Monk with a timid
air. After a few minutes during which both were silent, She
appeared as if on the point of speaking; But the Abbot, who
during this time had been summoning up all his resolution,
hastily interrupted her. Though still unconscious how extensive
was its influence, He dreaded the melodious seduction of her
voice.
'Seat yourself by my side, Matilda,' said He, assuming a look of
firmness, though carefully avoiding the least mixture of
severity; 'Listen to me patiently, and believe, that in what I
shall say, I am not more influenced by my own interest than by
yours: Believe, that I feel for you the warmest friendship, the
truest compassion, and that you cannot feel more grieved than I
do, when I declare to you that we must never meet again.'
'Ambrosio!' She cried, in a voice at once expressive of surprise
and sorrow.
'Be calm, my Friend! My Rosario! Still let me call you by that
name so dear to me! Our separation is unavoidable; I blush to
own, how sensibly it affects me.-- But yet it must be so. I feel
myself incapable of treating you with indifference, and that very
conviction obliges me to insist upon your departure. Matilda,
you must stay here no longer.'
'Oh! where shall I now seek for probity? Disgusted with a
perfidious world, in what happy region does Truth conceal
herself? Father, I hoped that She resided here; I thought that
your bosom had been her favourite shrine. And you too prove
false? Oh God! And you too can betray me?'
'Matilda!'
'Yes, Father, Yes! 'Tis with justice that I reproach you. Oh!
where are your promises? My Noviciate is not expired, and yet
will you compell 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 compell you to quit the Monastery: You have received
my solemn oath to the contrary. But yet when I throw myself upon
your generosity, when I declare to you the embarrassments in
which your presence involves me, will you not release me from
that oath? Reflect upon the danger of a discovery, upon the
opprobrium in which such an event would plunge me: Reflect that
my honour and reputation are at stake, and that my peace of mind
depends on your compliance. As yet my heart is free; I shall
separate from you with regret, but not with despair. Stay here,
and a few weeks will sacrifice my happiness on the altar of your
charms. You are but too interesting, too amiable! I should love
you, I should doat on you! My bosom would become the prey of
desires which Honour and my profession forbid me to gratify. If
I resisted them, the impetuosity of my wishes unsatisfied would
drive me to madness: If I yielded to the temptation, I should
sacrifice to one moment of guilty pleasure my reputation in this
world, my salvation in the next. To you then I 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 anguish!
Give me back my promise; Fly from these walls. Go, and you bear
with you my warmest prayers for your happiness, my friendship, my
esteem and admiration: Stay, and you become to me the source of
danger, of sufferings, of despair! Answer me, Matilda; What is
your resolve?'--She was silent--'Will you not speak, Matilda?
Will you not name your choice?'
'Cruel! Cruel!' She exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony; 'You
know too well that you offer me no choice! You know too well that
I can have no will but yours!'
'I was not then deceived! Matilda's generosity equals my
expectations.'
'Yes; I will prove the truth of my affection by submitting to a
decree which cuts me to the very heart. Take back your promise.
I will quit the Monastery this very day. I have a Relation,
Abbess of a Covent in Estramadura: To her will I bend my steps,
and shut myself from the world for ever. Yet tell me, Father;
Shall I bear your good wishes with me to my solitude? Will you
sometimes abstract your attention from heavenly objects to bestow
a thought upon me?'
'Ah! Matilda, I fear that I shall think on you but too often for
my repose!'
'Then I have nothing more to wish for, save that we may meet in
heaven. Farewell, my Friend! my Ambrosio!-- And yet methinks, I
would fain bear with me some token of your regard!'
'What shall I give you?'
'Something.--Any thing.--One of those flowers will be
sufficient.' (Here She pointed to a bush of Roses, planted at the
door of the Grotto.) 'I will hide it in my bosom, and when I am
dead, the Nuns shall find it withered upon my heart.'
The Friar was unable to reply: With slow steps, and a soul heavy
with affliction, He quitted the Hermitage. He approached the
Bush, and stooped to pluck one of the Roses. Suddenly He uttered
a piercing cry, started back hastily, and let the flower, which
He already held, fall from his hand. Matilda heard the shriek,
and flew anxiously towards him.
'What is the matter?' She cried; 'Answer me, for God's sake!
What has happened?'
'I have received my death!' He replied in a faint voice;
'Concealed among the Roses . . . A Serpent. . . .'
Here the pain of his wound became so exquisite, that Nature was
unable to bear it: His senses abandoned him, and He sank
inanimate into Matilda's arms.
Her distress was beyond the power of description. She rent her
hair, beat her bosom, and not daring to quit Ambrosio,
endeavoured by loud cries to summon the Monks to her assistance.
She at length succ
eeded. Alarmed by her shrieks, Several of the
Brothers hastened to the spot, and the Superior was conveyed back
to the Abbey. He was immediately put to bed, and the Monk who
officiated as Surgeon to the Fraternity prepared to examine the
wound. By this time Ambrosio's hand had swelled to an
extraordinary size; The remedies which had been administered to
him, 'tis true, restored him to life, but not to his senses; He
raved in all the horrors of delirium, foamed at the mouth, and
four of the strongest Monks were scarcely able to hold him in his
bed.
Father Pablos, such was the Surgeon's name, hastened to examine
the wounded hand. The Monks surrounded the Bed, anxiously
waiting for the decision: Among these the feigned Rosario
appeared not the most insensible to the Friar's calamity. He
gazed upon the Sufferer with inexpressible anguish; and the
groans which every moment escaped from his bosom sufficiently
betrayed the violence of his affliction.
Father Pablos probed the wound. As He drew out his Lancet, its
point was tinged with a greenish hue. He shook his head
mournfully, and quitted the bedside.
' 'Tis as I feared!' said He; 'There is no hope.'
'No hope?' exclaimed the Monks with one voice; 'Say you, no
hope?'
'From the sudden effects, I suspected that the Abbot was stung by
a Cientipedoro: The venom which you see upon my Lancet
confirms my idea: He cannot live three days.'
'And can no possible remedy be found?' enquired Rosario.
'Without extracting the poison, He cannot recover; and how to
extract it is to me still a secret. All that I can do is to
apply such herbs to the wound as will relieve the anguish: The
Patient will be restored to his senses; But the venom will
corrupt the whole mass of his blood, and in three days He will
exist no longer.'
Excessive was the universal grief at hearing this decision.
Pablos, as He had promised, dressed the wound, and then retired,
followed by his Companions: Rosario alone remained in the Cell,
the Abbot at his urgent entreaty having been committed to his
care. Ambrosio's strength worn out by the violence of his
exertions, He had by this time fallen into a profound sleep. So
totally was He overcome by weariness, that He scarcely gave any
signs of life; He was still in this situation, when the Monks
returned to enquire whether any change had taken place. Pablos
loosened the 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 Lancet came out pure and unsullied; No
traces of the venom were perceptible; and had not the orifice
still been visible, Pablos might have doubted that there had ever
been a wound.
He communicated this intelligence to his Brethren; their delight
was only equalled by their surprize. From the latter sentiment,
however, they were soon released by explaining the circumstance
according to their own ideas: They were perfectly convinced that
their Superior was a Saint, and thought, that nothing could be
more natural than for St. Francis to have operated a miracle in
his favour. This opinion was adopted unanimously: They declared
it so loudly, and vociferated,--'A miracle! a miracle!'--with
such fervour, that they soon interrupted Ambrosio's slumbers.
The Monks immediately crowded round his Bed, and expressed their
satisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was perfectly in his
senses, and free from every complaint except feeling weak and
languid. Pablos gave him a strengthening medicine, and advised
his keeping his bed for the two succeeding days: He then
retired, having desired his Patient not to exhaust himself by
conversation, but rather to endeavour at taking some repose. The
other Monks followed his example, and the Abbot and Rosario were
left without Observers.
For some minutes Ambrosio regarded his Attendant with a look of
mingled pleasure and apprehension. She was seated upon the side
of the Bed, her head bending down, and as usual enveloped in the
Cowl of her Habit.
'And you are still here, Matilda?' said the Friar at length.
'Are you not satisfied with having so nearly effected my
destruction, that nothing but a miracle could have saved me from
the Grave? Ah! surely Heaven sent that Serpent to punish. . . .'
Matilda interrupted him by putting her hand before his lips with
an air of gaiety.
'Hush! Father, Hush! You must not talk!'
'He who imposed that order, knew not how interesting are the
subjects on which I wish to speak.'
'But I know it, and yet issue the same positive command. I am
appointed your Nurse, and you must not disobey my orders.'
'You are in spirits, Matilda!'
'Well may I be so: I have just received a pleasure unexampled
through my whole life.'
'What was that pleasure?'
'What I must conceal from all, but most from you.'
'But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda. . . .'
'Hush, Father! Hush! You must not talk. But as you do not seem
inclined to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse you with my Harp?'
'How? I knew not that you understood Music.'
'Oh! I am a sorry Performer! Yet as silence is prescribed you
for eight and forty hours, I may possibly entertain you, when
wearied of your own reflections. I go to fetch my Harp.'
She soon returned with it.
'Now, Father; What shall I sing? Will you hear the Ballad which
treats of the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle
of Roncevalles?'
'What you please, Matilda.'
'Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Rosario, call me your Friend!
Those are the names, which I love to hear from your lips. Now
listen!'
She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for some moments
with such exquisite taste as to prove her a perfect Mistress of
the Instrument. The air which She played was soft and plaintive:
Ambrosio, while He listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a
pleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly
Matilda changed the strain: With an hand bold and rapid She
struck a few loud martial chords, and then chaunted the following
Ballad to an air at once simple and melodious.
DURANDARTE AND BELERMA
Sad and fearful is the story
Of the Roncevalles fight;
On those fatal plains of glory
Perished many a gallant Knight.
There fell Durandarte; Never
Verse a nobler Chieftain named:
He, before his lips for ever
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 d
enying
Bids me every hope resign.
'Ah! Though young I fall, believe me,
Death would never claim a sigh;
'Tis to lose thee, 'tis to leave thee,
Makes me think it hard to die!
'Oh! my Cousin Montesinos,
By that friendship firm and dear
Which from Youth has lived between us,
Now my last petition hear!
'When my Soul these limbs forsaking
Eager seeks a purer air,
From my breast the cold heart taking,
Give it to Belerma's care.
Say, I of my lands Possessor
Named her with my dying breath:
Say, my lips I op'd to bless her,
Ere they closed for aye in death:
'Twice a week too how sincerely
I adored her, Cousin, say;
Twice a week for one who dearly
Loved 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 tears o'er-flowing,
Let me on thy bosom die!
'Thy kind hand my eyelids 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 glaive;
Bitter weeping Montesinos
Dug his gallant Cousin's grave.
To perform his promise made, He
Cut the heart from out the breast,
That Belerma, wretched Lady!
Might receive the last bequest.
Sad was Montesinos' heart, He
Felt distress his bosom rend.
'Oh! my Cousin Durandarte,
Woe is me to view thy end!
'Sweet in manners, fair in favour,
Mild in temper, fierce in fight,
Warrior, nobler, gentler, braver,
Never shall behold the light!
'Cousin, Lo! my tears bedew thee!
How shall I thy loss survive!
Durandarte, He who slew thee,
Wherefore left He me alive!'
While She sung, Ambrosio listened with delight: Never had He
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