“With me?” she replied in a faltering voice.
The domina motioned that she must follow her, and retired. The mother St. Ursula obeyed her. Soon after, the refectory bell ringing a second time, the nuns quitted the grate, and Theodore was left at liberty to carry off his prize. Delighted that at length he had obtained some intelligence for the marquis, he flew rather than ran till he reached the hotel de las Cisternas. In a few minutes he stood by his master’s bed with the basket in his hand. Lorenzo was in the chamber, endeavouring to reconcile his friend to a misfortune which he felt himself but too severely. Theodore related his adventure, and the hopes which had been created by the mother St. Ursula’s gift. The marquis started from his pillow. That fire which since the death of Agnes had been extinguished, now revived in his bosom, and his eyes sparkled with the eagerness of expectation. The emotions which Lorenzo’s countenance betrayed were scarcely weaker, and he waited with inexpressible impatience for the solution of this mystery. Raymond caught the basket from the hands of his page: he emptied the contents upon the bed, and examined them with minute attention. He hoped that a letter would be found at the bottom. Nothing of the kind appeared. The search was resumed, and still with no better success. At length Don Raymond observed, that one corner of the blue satin lining was unripped: he tore it open hastily, and drew forth a small scrap of paper, neither folded nor sealed. It was addressed to the marquis de las Cisternas, and the contents were as follow:
“Having recognised your page, I venture to send these few lines. Procure an order from the cardinal-duke for seizing my person, and that of the domina; but let it not be executed till Friday at midnight. It is the festival of St. Clare: there will be a procession of nuns by torchlight, and I shall be among them. Beware, not to let your intention be known. Should a syllable be dropped to excite the domina’s suspicions, you will never hear of me more. Be cautious, if you prize the memory of Agnes, and wish to punish her assassins. I have that to tell, will freeze your blood with horror.
ST. URSULA.”
No sooner had the marquis read the note, than he fell back upon his pillow deprived of sense or motion. The hope failed him which till now had supported his existence; and these lines convinced him but too positively that Agnes was indeed no more. Lorenzo felt this circumstance less forcibly, since it had always been his idea that his sister had perished by unfair means. When he found by the mother St. Ursula’s letter how true were his suspicions, the confirmation excited no other sentiment in his bosom than a wish to punish the murderers as they deserved. It was no easy task to recall the marquis to himself. As soon as he recovered his speech, he broke out into execrations against the assassins of his beloved, and vowed to take upon them a signal vengeance. He continued to rave and torment himself with impotent passion, till his constitution, enfeebled by grief and illness, could support itself no longer, and relapsed into insensibility. His melancholy situation sincerely affected Lorenzo, who would willingly have remained in the apartment of his friend; but other cares now demanded his presence. It was necessary to procure the order for seizing the prioress of St. Clare. For this purpose, having committed Raymond to the care of the best physicians in Madrid, he quitted the hotel de las Cisternas, and bent his course towards the palace of the cardinal-duke.
His disappointment was excessive, when he found that affairs of state had obliged the cardinal to set out for a distant province. It wanted but five days to Friday: yet, by travelling day and night, he hoped to return in time for the pilgrimage of St. Clare. In this he succeeded. He found the cardinal-duke, and represented to him the supposed culpability of the prioress, as also the violent effects which it had produced upon Don Raymond. He could have used no argument so forcible as this last. Of all his nephews the marquis was the only one to whom the cardinal-duke was sincerely attached: he perfectly doted upon him, and the prioress could have committed no greater crime in his eyes, than to have endangered the life of the marquis. Consequently, he granted the order of arrest without difficulty. He also gave Lorenzo a letter to a principal officer of the Inquisition, desiring him to see his mandate executed. Furnished with these papers, Medina hastened back to Madrid, which he reached on the Friday a few hours before dark. He found the marquis somewhat easier, but so weak and exhausted, that without great exertion he could neither speak nor move. Having passed an hour by his bed-side, Lorenzo left him to communicate his design to his uncle, as also to give Don Ramirez de Mello the cardinal’s letter. The first was petrified with horror, when he learned the fate of his unhappy niece. He encouraged Lorenzo to punish her assassins, and engaged to accompany him at night to St. Clare’s convent. Don Ramirez promised his firmest support, and selected a band of trusty archers to prevent opposition on the part of the populace.
But while Lorenzo was anxious to unmask one religious hypocrite, he was unconscious of the sorrows prepared for him by another. Aided by Matilda’s infernal agents, Ambrosio had resolved upon the innocent Antonia’s ruin. The moment destined to be so fatal to her arrived. She had taken leave of her mother for the night. As she kissed her, she felt an unusual despondency infuse itself into her bosom. She left her, and returned to her instantly, threw herself into her maternal arms, and bathed her cheek with tears. She felt uneasy at quitting her, and a secret presentiment assured her that never must they meet again. Elvira observed, and tried to laugh her out of this childish prejudice. She chid her mildly for encouraging such ungrounded sadness, and warned her how dangerous it was to encourage such ideas.
To all her remonstrances she received no other answer than——
“Mother! Dear mother! Oh! would to God it were morning!”
Elvira, whose inquietude respecting her daughter was a great obstacle to her perfect re-establishment, was still labouring under the effects of her late severe illness. She was this evening more than usually indisposed, and retired to bed before her accustomed hour. Antonia withdrew from her mother’s chamber with regret, and, till the door closed, kept her eyes fixed upon her with melancholy expression. She retired to her own apartment: her heart was filled with bitterness. It seemed to her that all her prospects were blasted, and the world contained nothing for which it was worth existing. She sank into a chair, reclined her head upon her arm, and gazed upon the floor with a vacant stare, while the most gloomy images floated before her fancy. She was still in this state of insensibility, when she was disturbed by hearing a strain of soft music breathed beneath her window. She rose, drew near the casement, and opened it to hear it more distinctly. Having thrown her veil over her face, she ventured to look out. By the light of the moon she perceived several men below with guitars and lutes in their hands; and at a little distance from them stood another wrapped in his cloak, whose stature and appearance bore a strong resemblance to Lorenzo’s. She was not deceived in this conjecture. It was indeed Lorenzo himself, who, bound by his word not to present himself to Antonia without his uncle’s consent, endeavoured, by occasional serenades, to convince his mistress that his attachment still existed. His stratagem had not the desired effect. Antonia was far from supposing that this nightly music was intended as a compliment to her. She was too modest to think herself worthy such attentions; and concluding them to be addressed to some neighbouring lady, she grieved to find that they were offered by Lorenzo.
The air which was played, was plaintive and melodious. It accorded with the state of Antonia’s mind, and she listened with pleasure. After a symphony of some length, it was succeeded by the sound of voices, and Antonia distinguished the following words:
SERENADE.
Oh! breathe in gentle strain, my lyre!
’Tis here that beauty loves to rest:
Describe the pangs of fond desire,
Which rend a faithful lover’s breast.
In every heart to find a slave,
In every soul to fix his reign,
In bonds to lead the wise and brave,
And make the captives kiss his chain;
