She looked at the bundle which lay upon her breast. She bent
over it, and kissed it: Then drew back hastily, and shuddered
with disgust.
'It was once so sweet! It would have been so lovely, so like
him! I have lost it for ever! How a few days have changed it!
I should not know it again myself! Yet it is dear to me! God!
how dear! I will forget what it is: I will only remember what it
was, and love it as well, as when it was so sweet! so lovely! so
like him! I thought that I had wept away all my tears, but here
is one still lingering.'
She wiped her eyes with a tress of her hair. She put out her
hand for the Pitcher, and reached it with difficulty. She cast
into it a look of hopeless enquiry. She sighed, and replaced it
upon the ground.
'Quite a void! Not a drop! Not one drop left to cool my
scorched-up burning palate! Now would I give treasures for a
draught of water! And they are God's Servants, who make me
suffer thus! They think themselves holy, while they torture me
like Fiends! They are cruel and unfeeling; And 'tis they who bid
me repent; And 'tis they, who threaten me with eternal perdition!
Saviour, Saviour! You think not so!'
She again fixed her eyes upon the Crucifix, took her Rosary, and
while She told her beads, the quick motion of her lips declared
her to be praying with fervency.
While He listened to her melancholy accents, Lorenzo's
sensibility became yet more violently affected. The first sight
of such misery had given a sensible shock to his feelings: But
that being past, He now advanced towards the Captive. She heard
his steps, and uttering a cry of joy, dropped the Rosary.
'Hark! Hark! Hark!' She cried: 'Some one comes!'
She strove to raise herself, but her strength was unequal to the
attempt: She fell back, and as She sank again upon the bed of
straw, Lorenzo heard the rattling of heavy chains. He still
approached, while the Prisoner thus continued.
'Is it you, Camilla? You are come then at last? Oh! it was
time! I thought that you had forsaken me; that I was doomed to
perish of hunger. Give me to drink, Camilla, for pity's sake! I
am faint with long fasting, and grown so weak that I cannot raise
myself from the ground. Good Camilla, give me to drink, lest I
expire before you!'
Fearing that surprize in her enfeebled state might be fatal,
Lorenzo was at a loss how to address her.
'It is not Camilla,' said He at length, speaking in a slow and
gentle voice.
'Who is it then?' replied the Sufferer: 'Alix, perhaps, or
Violante. My eyes are grown so dim and feeble that I cannot
distinguish your features. But whichever it is, if your breast
is sensible of the least compassion, if you are not more cruel
than Wolves and Tigers, take pity on my sufferings. You know
that I am dying for want of sustenance. This is the third day,
since these lips have received nourishment. Do you bring me
food? Or come you only to announce my death, and learn how long
I have yet to exist in agony?'
'You mistake my business,' replied Lorenzo; 'I am no Emissary of
the cruel Prioress. I pity your sorrows, and come hither to
relieve them.'
'To relieve them?' repeated the Captive; 'Said you, to relieve
them?'
At the same time starting from the ground, and supporting herself
upon her hands, She gazed upon the Stranger earnestly.
'Great God! It is no illusion! A Man! Speak! Who are you?
What brings you hither? Come you to save me, to restore me to
liberty, to life and light? Oh! speak, speak quickly, lest I
encourage an hope whose disappointment will destroy me.'
'Be calm!' replied Lorenzo in a voice soothing and compassionate;
'The Domina of whose cruelty you complain, has already paid the
forfeit of her offences: You have nothing more to fear from her.
A few minutes will restore you to liberty, and the embraces of
your Friends from whom you have been secluded. You may rely upon
my protection. Give me your hand, and be not fearful. Let me
conduct you where you may receive those attentions which your
feeble state requires.'
'Oh! Yes! Yes! Yes!' cried the Prisoner with an exulting
shriek; 'There is a God then, and a just one! Joy! Joy! I shall
once more breath the fresh air, and view the light of the
glorious sunbeams! I will go with you! Stranger, I will go with
you! Oh! Heaven will bless you for pitying an Unfortunate! But
this too must go with me,' She added pointing to the small
bundle which She still clasped to her bosom; 'I cannot part with
this. I will bear it away: It shall convince the world how
dreadful are the abodes so falsely termed religious. Good
Stranger, lend me your hand to rise: I am faint with want, and
sorrow, and sickness, and my forces have quite forsaken me! So,
that is well!'
As Lorenzo stooped to raise her, the beams of the Lamp struck
full upon his face.
'Almighty God!' She exclaimed; 'Is it possible! That look!
Those features! Oh! Yes, it is, it is . . . . .'
She extended her arms to throw them round him; But her enfeebled
frame was unable to sustain the emotions which agitated her
bosom. She fainted, and again sank upon the bed of straw.
Lorenzo was surprized at her last exclamation. He thought that
He had before heard such accents as her hollow voice had just
formed, but where He could not remember. He saw that in her
dangerous situation immediate physical aid was absolutely
necessary, and He hastened to convey her from the dungeon. He
was at first prevented from doing so by a strong chain fastened
round the prisoner's body, and fixing her to the neighbouring
Wall. However, his natural strength being aided by anxiety to
relieve the Unfortunate, He soon forced out the Staple to which
one end of the Chain was attached. Then taking the Captive in his
arms, He bent his course towards the Staircase. The rays of the
Lamp above, as well as the murmur of female voices, guided his
steps. He gained the Stairs, and in a few minutes after arrived
at the iron-grate.
The Nuns during his absence had been terribly tormented by
curiosity and apprehension: They were equally surprized and
delighted on seeing him suddenly emerge from the Cave. Every
heart was filled with compassion for the miserable Creature whom
He bore in his arms. While the Nuns, and Virginia in particular,
employed themselves in striving to recall her to her senses,
Lorenzo related in few words the manner of his finding her. He
then observed to them that by this time the tumult must have been
quelled, and that He could now conduct them to their Friends
without danger. All were eager to quit the Sepulchre: Still to
prevent all possibility of ill-usage, they besought Lorenzo to
venture out first alone, and examine whether the Coast was
clear. With this request He complied. Helena offered to conduct
him to the Staircase, and they were on the point of d
eparting,
when a strong light flashed from several passages upon the
adjacent walls. At the same time Steps were heard of people
approaching hastily, and whose number seemed to be considerable.
The Nuns were greatly alarmed at this circumstance: They
supposed their retreat to be discovered, and the Rioters to be
advancing in pursuit of them. Hastily quitting the Prisoner who
remained insensible, they crowded round Lorenzo, and claimed his
promise to protect them. Virginia alone forgot her own danger by
striving to relieve the sorrows of Another. She supported the
Sufferer's head upon her knees, bathing her temples with
rose-water, chafing her cold hands, and sprinkling her face with
tears which were drawn from her by compassion. The Strangers
approaching nearer, Lorenzo was enabled to dispel the fears of
the Suppliants. His name, pronounced by a number of voices among
which He distinguished the Duke's, pealed along the Vaults, and
convinced him that He was the object of their search. He
communicated this intelligence to the Nuns, who received it with
rapture. A few moments after confirmed his idea. Don Ramirez,
as well as the Duke, appeared, followed by Attendants with
Torches. They had been seeking him through the Vaults, in order
to let him know that the Mob was dispersed, and the riot entirely
over. Lorenzo recounted briefly his adventure in the Cavern, and
explained how much the Unknown was in want of medical
assistance. He besought the Duke to take charge of her, as well
as of the Nuns and Pensioners.
'As for me,' said He, 'Other cares demand my attention. While
you with one half of the Archers convey these Ladies to their
respective homes, I wish the other half to be left with me. I
will examine the Cavern below, and pervade the most secret
recesses of the Sepulchre. I cannot rest till convinced that
yonder wretched Victim was the only one confined by Superstition
in these vaults.'
The Duke applauded his intention. Don Ramirez offered to assist
him in his enquiry, and his proposal was accepted with gratitude.
The Nuns having made their acknowledgments to Lorenzo, committed
themselves to the care of his Uncle, and were conducted from the
Sepulchre. Virginia requested that the Unknown might be given to
her in charge, and promised to let Lorenzo know whenever She was
sufficiently recovered to accept his visits. In truth, She made
this promise more from consideration for herself than for either
Lorenzo or the Captive. She had witnessed his politeness,
gentleness, and intrepidity with sensible emotion. She wished
earnestly to preserve his acquaintance; and in addition to the
sentiments of pity which the Prisoner excited, She hoped that her
attention to this Unfortunate would raise her a degree in the
esteem of Lorenzo. She had no occasion to trouble herself upon
this head. The kindness already displayed by her and the tender
concern which She had shown for the Sufferer had gained her an
exalted place in his good graces. While occupied in alleviating
the Captive's sorrows, the nature of her employment adorned her
with new charms, and rendered her beauty a thousand times more
interesting. Lorenzo viewed her with admiration and delight: He
considered her as a ministering Angel descended to the aid of
afflicted innocence; nor could his heart have resisted her
attractions, had it not been steeled by the remembrance of
Antonia.
The Duke now conveyed the Nuns in safety to the Dwellings of
their respective Friends. The rescued Prisoner was still
insensible and gave no signs of life, except by occasional
groans. She was borne upon a sort of litter; Virginia, who was
constantly by the side of it, was apprehensive that exhausted by
long abstinence, and shaken by the sudden change from bonds and
darkness to liberty and light, her frame would never get the
better of the shock. Lorenzo and Don Ramirez still remained in
the Sepulchre. After deliberating upon their proceedings, it was
resolved that to prevent losing time, the Archers should be
divided into two Bodies: That with one Don Ramirez should
examine the cavern, while Lorenzo with the other might penetrate
into the further Vaults. This being arranged, and his Followers
being provided with Torches, Don Ramirez advanced to the Cavern.
He had already descended some steps when He heard People
approaching hastily from the interior part of the Sepulchre.
This surprized him, and He quitted the Cave precipitately.
'Do you hear footsteps?' said Lorenzo; 'Let us bend our course
towards them. 'Tis from this side that they seem to proceed.'
At that moment a loud and piercing shriek induced him to quicken
his steps.
'Help! Help, for God's sake! cried a voice, whose melodious
tone penetrated Lorenzo's heart with terror.
He flew towards the cry with the rapidity of lightning, and was
followed by Don Ramirez with equal swiftness.
CHAPTER IV
Great Heaven! How frail thy creature Man is made!
How by himself insensibly betrayed!
In our own strength unhappily secure,
Too little cautious of the adverse power,
On pleasure's flowery brink we idly stray,
Masters as yet of our returning way:
Till the strong gusts of raging passion rise,
Till the dire Tempest mingles earth and skies,
And swift into the boundless Ocean borne,
Our foolish confidence too late we mourn:
Round our devoted heads the billows beat,
And from our troubled view the lessening lands retreat.
Prior.
All this while, Ambrosio was unconscious of the dreadful scenes
which were passing so near. The execution of his designs upon
Antonia employed his every thought. Hitherto, He was satisfied
with the success of his plans. Antonia had drank the opiate, was
buried in the vaults of St. Clare, and absolutely in his
disposal. Matilda, who was well acquainted with the nature and
effects of the soporific medicine, had computed that it would not
cease to operate till one in the Morning. For that hour He
waited with impatience. The Festival of St. Clare presented him
with a favourable opportunity of consummating his crime. He was
certain that the Friars and Nuns would be engaged in the
Procession, and that He had no cause to dread an interruption:
From appearing himself at the head of his Monks, He had desired
to be excused. He doubted not, that being beyond the reach of
help, cut off from all the world, and totally in his power,
Antonia would comply with his desires. The affection which She
had ever exprest for him, warranted this persuasion: But He
resolved that should She prove obstinate, no consideration
whatever should prevent him from enjoying her. Secure from a
discovery, He shuddered not at the idea of employing force: If
He felt any repugnance, it arose not from a principle of shame
or compassion, but from his feeling for Antonia the most sincere
and
ardent affection, and wishing to owe her favours to no one
but herself.
The Monks quitted the Abbey at midnight. Matilda was among the
Choristers, and led the chaunt. Ambrosio was left by himself,
and at liberty to pursue his own inclinations. Convinced that no
one remained behind to watch his motions, or disturb his
pleasures, He now hastened to the Western Aisles. His heart
beating with hope not unmingled with anxiety, He crossed the
Garden, unlocked the door which admitted him into the Cemetery,
and in a few minutes He stood before the Vaults. Here He paused.
He looked round him with suspicion, conscious that his business
was unfit for any other eye. As He stood in hesitation, He heard
the melancholy shriek of the screech-Owl: The wind rattled
loudly against the windows of the adjacent Convent, and as the
current swept by him, bore with it the faint notes of the chaunt
of Choristers. He opened the door cautiously, as if fearing to
be overheard: He entered; and closed it again after him.
Guided by his Lamp, He threaded the long passages, in whose
windings Matilda had instructed him, and reached the private
Vault which contained his sleeping Mistress.
Its entrance was by no means easy to discover: But this was no
obstacle to Ambrosio, who at the time of Antonia's Funeral had
observed it too carefully to be deceived. He found the door,
which was unfastened, pushed it open, and descended into the
dungeon. He approached the humble Tomb in which Antonia
reposed. He had provided himself with an iron crow and a
pick-axe; But this precaution was unnecessary. The Grate was
slightly fastened on the outside: He raised it, and placing the
Lamp upon its ridge, bent silently over the Tomb. By the side of
three putrid half-corrupted Bodies lay the sleeping Beauty. A
lively red, the forerunner of returning animation, had already
spread itself over her cheek; and as wrapped in her shroud She
reclined upon her funeral Bier, She seemed to smile at the Images
of Death around her. While He gazed upon their rotting bones and
disgusting figures, who perhaps were once as sweet and lovely,
Ambrosio thought upon Elvira, by him reduced to the same state.
As the memory of that horrid act glanced upon his mind, it was
clouded with a gloomy horror. Yet it served but to strengthen
his resolution to destroy Antonia's honour.
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