it, Conscience pointed out to him the whole extent of his crime.
In hurried accents yet the gentlest He could find, while his eye
was averted, and his voice scarcely audible, He strove to console
her under a misfortune which now could not be avoided. He
declared himself sincerely penitent, and that He would gladly
shed a drop of his blood, for every tear which his barbarity had
forced from her. Wretched and hopeless, Antonia listened to him
in silent grief: But when He announced her confinement in the
Sepulchre, that dreadful doom to which even death seemed
preferable roused her from her insensibility at once. To linger
out a life of misery in a narrow loathsome Cell, known to exist
by no human Being save her Ravisher, surrounded by mouldering
Corses, breathing the pestilential air of corruption, never more
to behold the light, or drink the pure gale of heaven, the idea
was more terrible than She could support. It conquered even her
abhorrence of the Friar. Again She sank upon her knees: She
besought his compassion in terms the most pathetic and urgent.
She promised, would He but restore her to liberty, to conceal her
injuries from the world; to assign any reason for her
reappearance which He might judge proper; and in order to
prevent the least suspicion from falling upon him, She offered to
quit Madrid immediately. Her entreaties were so urgent as to
make a considerable impression upon the Monk. He reflected that
as her person no longer excited his desires, He had no interest
in keeping her concealed as He had at first intended; that He was
adding a fresh injury to those which She had already suffered;
and that if She adhered to her promises, whether She was confined
or at liberty, his life and reputation were equally secure. On
the other hand, He trembled lest in her affliction Antonia should
unintentionally break her engagement; or that her excessive
simplicity and ignorance of deceit should permit some one more
artful to surprize her secret. However well-founded were these
apprehensions, compassion, and a sincere wish to repair his fault
as much as possible solicited his complying with the prayers of
his Suppliant. The difficulty of colouring Antonia's unexpected
return to life, after her supposed death and public interment,
was the only point which kept him irresolute. He was still
pondering on the means of removing this obstacle, when He heard
the sound of feet approaching with precipitation. The door of
the Vault was thrown open, and Matilda rushed in, evidently much
confused and terrified.
On seeing a Stranger enter, Antonia uttered a cry of joy: But
her hopes of receiving succour from him were soon dissipated.
The supposed Novice, without expressing the least surprize at
finding a Woman alone with the Monk, in so strange a place, and
at so late an hour, addressed him thus without losing a moment.
'What is to be done, Ambrosio? We are lost, unless some speedy
means is found of dispelling the Rioters. Ambrosio, the Convent
of St. Clare is on fire; The Prioress has fallen a victim to the
fury of the Mob. Already is the Abbey menaced with a similar
fate. Alarmed at the threats of the People, the Monks seek for
you everywhere. They imagine that your authority alone will
suffice to calm this disturbance. No one knows what is become
of you, and your absence creates universal astonishment and
despair. I profited by the confusion, and fled hither to warn
you of the danger.'
'This will soon be remedied,' answered the Abbot; 'I will hasten
back to my Cell: a trivial reason will account for my having
been missed.'
'Impossible!' rejoined Matilda: 'The Sepulchre is filled with
Archers. Lorenzo de Medina, with several Officers of the
Inquisition, searches through the Vaults, and pervades every
passage. You will be intercepted in your flight; Your reasons
for being at this late hour in the Sepulchre will be examined;
Antonia will be found, and then you are undone for ever!'
'Lorenzo de Medina? Officers of the Inquisition? What brings
them here? Seek they for me? Am I then suspected? Oh! speak,
Matilda! Answer me, in pity!'
'As yet they do not think of you, but I fear that they will ere
long. Your only chance of escaping their notice rests upon the
difficulty of exploring this Vault. The door is artfully hidden:
Haply it may not be observed, and we may remain concealed till
the search is over.'
'But Antonia . . . . . Should the Inquisitors draw near, and her
cries be heard . . . .'
'Thus I remove that danger!' interrupted Matilda.
At the same time drawing a poignard, She rushed upon her devoted
prey.
'Hold! Hold!' cried Ambrosio, seizing her hand, and wresting from
it the already lifted weapon. 'What would you do, cruel Woman?
The Unfortunate has already suffered but too much, thanks to your
pernicious consels! Would to God that I had never followed them!
Would to God that I had never seen your face!'
Matilda darted upon him a look of scorn.
'Absurd!' She exclaimed with an air of passion and majesty which
impressed the Monk with awe. 'After robbing her of all that made
it dear, can you fear to deprive her of a life so miserable? But
'tis well! Let her live to convince you of your folly. I
abandon you to your evil destiny! I disclaim your alliance! Who
trembles to commit so insignificant a crime, deserves not my
protection. Hark! Hark! Ambrosio; Hear you not the Archers?
They come, and your destruction is inevitable!'
At this moment the Abbot heard the sound of distant voices. He
flew to close the door on whose concealment his safety depended,
and which Matilda had neglected to fasten. Ere He could reach
it, He saw Antonia glide suddenly by him, rush through the door,
and fly towards the noise with the swiftness of an arrow. She
had listened attentively to Matilda: She heard Lorenzo's name
mentioned, and resolved to risque every thing to throw herself
under his protection. The door was open. The sounds convinced
her that the Archers could be at no great distance. She
mustered up her little remaining strength, rushed by the Monk ere
He perceived her design, and bent her course rapidly towards the
voices. As soon as He recovered from his first surprize, the
Abbot failed not to pursue her. In vain did Antonia redouble her
speed, and stretch every nerve to the utmost. Her Enemy gained
upon her every moment: She heard his steps close after her, and
felt the heat of his breath glow upon her neck. He overtook
her; He twisted his hand in the ringlets of her streaming hair,
and attempted to drag her back with him to the dungeon. Antonia
resisted with all her strength: She folded her arms round a
Pillar which supported the roof, and shrieked loudly for
assistance. In vain did the Monk strive to threaten her to
silence.
'Help!' She continued to exclaim; 'Help! Help! for God's sake!'
Qu
ickened by her cries, the sound of footsteps was heard
approaching. The Abbot expected every moment to see the
Inquisitors arrive. Antonia still resisted, and He now enforced
her silence by means the most horrible and inhuman. He still
grasped Matilda's dagger: Without allowing himself a moment's
reflection, He raised it, and plunged it twice in the bosom of
Antonia! She shrieked, and sank upon the ground. The Monk
endeavoured to bear her away with him, but She still embraced the
Pillar firmly. At that instant the light of approaching Torches
flashed upon the Walls. Dreading a discovery, Ambrosio was
compelled to abandon his Victim, and hastily fled back to the
Vault, where He had left Matilda.
He fled not unobserved. Don Ramirez happening to arrive the
first, perceived a Female bleeding upon the ground, and a Man
flying from the spot, whose confusion betrayed him for the
Murderer. He instantly pursued the Fugitive with some part of
the Archers, while the Others remained with Lorenzo to protect
the wounded Stranger. They raised her, and supported her in their
arms. She had fainted from excess of pain, but soon gave signs
of returning life. She opened her eyes, and on lifting up her
head, the quantity of fair hair fell back which till then had
obscured her features.
'God Almighty! It is Antonia!'
Such was Lorenzo's exclamation, while He snatched her from the
Attendant's arms, and clasped her in his own.
Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poignard had answered but
too well the purpose of its Employer. The wounds were mortal, and
Antonia was conscious that She never could recover. Yet the few
moments which remained for her were moments of happiness. The
concern exprest upon Lorenzo's countenance, the frantic fondness
of his complaints, and his earnest enquiries respecting her
wounds, convinced her beyond a doubt that his affections were her
own. She would not be removed from the Vaults, fearing lest
motion should only hasten her death; and She was unwilling to
lose those moments which She past in receiving proofs of
Lorenzo's love, and assuring him of her own. She told him that
had She still been undefiled She might have lamented the loss of
life; But that deprived of honour and branded with shame, Death
was to her a blessing: She could not have been his Wife, and
that hope being denied her, She resigned herself to the Grave
without one sigh of regret. She bad him take courage, conjured
him not to abandon himself to fruitless sorrow, and declared that
She mourned to leave nothing in the whole world but him. While
every sweet accent increased rather than lightened Lorenzo's
grief, She continued to converse with him till the moment of
dissolution. Her voice grew faint and scarcely audible; A thick
cloud spread itself over her eyes; Her heart beat slow and
irregular, and every instant seemed to announce that her fate was
near at hand.
She lay, her head reclining upon Lorenzo's bosom, and her lips
still murmuring to him words of comfort. She was interrupted by
the Convent Bell, as tolling at a distance, it struck the hour.
Suddenly Antonia's eyes sparkled with celestial brightness: Her
frame seemed to have received new strength and animation. She
started from her Lover's arms.
'Three o'clock!' She cried; 'Mother, I come!'
She clasped her hands, and sank lifeless upon the ground.
Lorenzo in agony threw himself beside her: He tore his hair,
beat his breast, and refused to be separated from the Corse. At
length his force being exhausted, He suffered himself to be led
from the Vault, and was conveyed to the Palace de Medina scarcely
more alive than the unfortunate Antonia.
In the meanwhile, though closely pursued, Ambrosio succeeded in
regaining the Vault. The Door was already fastened when Don
Ramirez arrived, and much time elapsed, ere the Fugitive's
retreat was discovered. But nothing can resist perseverance.
Though so artfully concealed, the Door could not escape the
vigilance of the Archers. They forced it open, and entered the
Vault to the infinite dismay of Ambrosio and his Companion. The
Monk's confusion, his attempt to hide himself, his rapid flight,
and the blood sprinkled upon his cloaths, left no room to doubt
his being Antonia's Murderer. But when He was recognized for the
immaculate Ambrosio, 'The Man of Holiness,' the Idol of Madrid,
the faculties of the Spectators were chained up in surprize, and
scarcely could they persuade themselves that what they saw was no
vision. The Abbot strove not to vindicate himself, but preserved
a sullen silence. He was secured and bound. The same precaution
was taken with Matilda: Her Cowl being removed, the delicacy of
her features and profusion of her golden hair betrayed her sex,
and this incident created fresh amazement. The dagger was also
found in the Tomb, where the Monk had thrown it; and the dungeon
having undergone a thorough search, the two Culprits were
conveyed to the prisons of the Inquisition.
Don Ramirez took care that the populace should remain ignorant
both of the crimes and profession of the Captives. He feared a
repetition of the riots which had followed the apprehending the
Prioress of St. Clare. He contented himself with stating to the
Capuchins the guilt of their Superior. To avoid the shame of a
public accusation, and dreading the popular fury from which they
had already saved their Abbey with much difficulty, the Monks
readily permitted the Inquisitors to search their Mansion without
noise. No fresh discoveries were made. The effects found in the
Abbot's and Matilda's Cells were seized, and carried to the
Inquisition to be produced in evidence. Every thing else
remained in its former position, and order and tranquillity once
more prevailed through Madrid.
St. Clare's Convent was completely ruined by the united ravages
of the Mob and conflagration. Nothing remained of it but the
principal Walls, whose thickness and solidity had preserved them
from the flames. The Nuns who had belonged to it were obliged
in consequence to disperse themselves into other Societies: But
the prejudice against them ran high, and the Superiors were very
unwilling to admit them. However, most of them being related to
Families the most distinguished for their riches birth and power,
the several Convents were compelled to receive them, though they
did it with a very ill grace. This prejudice was extremely false
and unjustifiable: After a close investigation, it was proved
that All in the Convent were persuaded of the death of Agnes,
except the four Nuns whom St. Ursula had pointed out. These had
fallen Victims to the popular fury; as had also several who were
perfectly innocent and unconscious of the whole affair. Blinded
by resentment, the Mob had sacrificed every Nun who fell into
their hands: They who escaped were entirely indebted to the Duke
de Medina's prudence and moderation. Of t
his they were
conscious, and felt for that Nobleman a proper sense of
gratitude.
Virginia was not the most sparing of her thanks: She wished
equally to make a proper return for his attentions, and to obtain
the good graces of Lorenzo's Uncle. In this She easily succeeded.
The Duke beheld her beauty with wonder and admiration; and while
his eyes were enchanted with her Form, the sweetness of her
manners and her tender concern for the suffering Nun prepossessed
his heart in her favour. This Virginia had discernment enough to
perceive, and She redoubled her attention to the Invalid. When
He parted from her at the door of her Father's Palace, the Duke
entreated permission to enquire occasionally after her health.
His request was readily granted: Virginia assured him that the
Marquis de Villa-Franca would be proud of an opportunity to thank
him in person for the protection afforded to her. They now
separated, He enchanted with her beauty and gentleness, and She
much pleased with him and more with his Nephew.
On entering the Palace, Virginia's first care was to summon the
family Physician, and take care of her unknown charge. Her
Mother hastened to share with her the charitable office. Alarmed
by the riots, and trembling for his Daughter's safety, who was
his only child, the Marquis had flown to St. Clare's Convent, and
was still employed in seeking her. Messengers were now
dispatched on all sides to inform him that He would find her
safe at his Hotel, and desire him to hasten thither immediately.
His absence gave Virginia liberty to bestow her whole attention
upon her Patient; and though much disordered herself by the
adventures of the night, no persuasion could induce her to quit
the bedside of the Sufferer. Her constitution being much
enfeebled by want and sorrow, it was some time before the
Stranger was restored to her senses. She found great difficulty
in swallowing the medicines prescribed to her: But this obstacle
being removed, She easily conquered her disease which proceeded
from nothing but weakness. The attention which was paid her, the
wholesome food to which She had been long a Stranger, and her joy
at being restored to liberty, to society, and, as She dared to
hope, to Love, all this combined to her speedy re-establishment.
From the first moment of knowing her, her melancholy situation,
The Monk - A Romance Page 44
