She was silent. She shivered, and drew the rug over her naked shoulders:
“I am very cold: I am still unused to the damps of this dungeon: ’Tis strange: but no matter. Colder shall I soon be, and yet not feel it. I shall be cold, cold as thou art.”
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 surprise 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!—Is it 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 breathe 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 strength has 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 surprised 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 stair-case. 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 surprised 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 stair-case, and they were on the point of departing, 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
