The monk hesitated not to adopt this infamous plan. His desires, but too violent before, had acquired fresh vigour from the sight of Antonia. As he sat by her bedside, accident had discovered to him some of those charms which till then had been concealed from him: he found them even more perfect, than his ardent imagination had pictured them. Sometimes her white and polished arm was displayed in arranging the pillow: sometimes a sudden movement discovered part of her swelling bosom: but wherever the newfound charm presented itself, there rested the friar’s gloating eyes. Scarcely could he master himself sufficiently to conceal his desires from Antonia and her vigilant duenna. Inflamed by the remembrance of these beauties, he entered into Matilda’s scheme without hesitation.
No sooner were matins over than he bent his course towards the convent of St. Clare: his arrival threw the whole sisterhood into the utmost amazement. The prioress was sensible of the honour done her convent by his paying it his first visit, and strove to express her gratitude by every possible attention. He was paraded through the garden, shown all the relics of saints and martyrs, and treated with as much respect and distinction as had he been the Pope himself. On his part, Ambrosio received the domina’s civilities very graciously, and strove to remove her surprise at his having broken through his resolution. He stated, that among his penitents, illness prevented many from quitting their houses. These were exactly the people who most needed his advice and the comforts of religion: many representations had been made to him upon this account, and though highly repugnant to his own wishes, he had found it absolutely necessary for the service of heaven to change his determination, and quit his beloved retirement. The prioress applauded his zeal in his profession and his charity towards mankind: she declared that Madrid was happy in possessing a man so perfect and irreproachable. In such discourse, the friar at length reached the laboratory. He found the closet: the bottle stood in the place which Matilda had described, and the monk seized an opportunity to fill his phial unobserved with the soporific liquor. Then having partaken of a collation in the refectory, he retired from the convent pleased with the success of his visit, and leaving the nuns delighted by the honour conferred upon them.
He waited till evening before he took the road to Antonia’s dwelling. Jacintha welcomed him with transport, and besought him not to forget his promise to pass the night in the haunted chamber: that promise he now repeated. He found Antonia tolerably well, but still harping upon the ghost’s prediction. Flora moved not from her lady’s bed, and by symptoms yet stronger than on the former night testified her dislike to the abbot’s presence. Still Ambrosio affected not to observe them. The physician arrived, while he was conversing with Antonia. It was dark already; lights were called for, and Flora was compelled to descend for them herself. However, as she left a third person in the room, and expected to be absent but a few minutes, she believed that she risked nothing in quitting her post. No sooner had she left the room, than Ambrosio moved towards the table, on which stood Antonia’s medicine: it was placed in a recess of the window. The physician seated in an armed-chair, and employed in questioning his patient, paid no attention to the proceedings of the monk. Ambrosio seized the opportunity: he drew out the fatal phial, and let a few drops fall into the medicine. He then hastily left the table, and returned to the seat which he had quitted. When Flora made her appearance with lights, everything seemed to be exactly as she had left it.
The physician declared that Antonia might quit her chamber the next day with perfect safety. He recommended her following the same prescription which, on the night before, had procured her a refreshing sleep: Flora replied that the draught stood ready upon the table: he advised the patient to take it without delay, and then retired. Flora poured the medicine into a cup and presented it to her mistress. At that moment Ambrosio’s courage failed him. Might not Matilda have deceived him? Might not jealousy have persuaded her to destroy her rival, and substitute poison in the room of an opiate? This idea appeared so reasonable that he was on the point of preventing her from swallowing the medicine. His resolution was adopted too late: the cup was already emptied, and Antonia restored it into Flora’s hands. No remedy was now to be found: Ambrosio could only expect the moment impatiently, destined to decide upon Antonia’s life or death, upon his own happiness or despair.
Dreading to create suspicion by his stay, or betray himself by his mind’s agitation, he took leave of his victim, and withdrew from the room. Antonia parted from him with less cordiality than on the former night. Flora had represented to her mistress that to admit his visits was to disobey her mother’s orders: she described to her his emotion on entering the room, and the fire which sparkled in his eyes while he gazed upon her. This had escaped Antonia’s observation, but not her attendant’s; who explaining the monk’s designs and their probable consequences in terms much clearer than Elvira’s, though not quite so delicate, had succeeded in alarming her young lady, and persuading her to treat him more distantly than she had done hitherto. The idea of obeying her mother’s will at once determined Antonia. Though she grieved at losing his society, she conquered herself sufficiently to receive the monk with some degree of reserve and coldness. She thanked him with respect and gratitude for his former visits, but did not
