The Monk

times on the point of doing. However, he arrived sooner upon solid ground than he had expected: he now found that the thick darkness and impenetrable mists which reigned through the cavern had deceived him into the belief of its being much more profound than it proved upon inspection. He reached the foot of the stairs unhurt: he now stopped, and looked round for the spark which had before caught his attention. He sought it in vain: all was dark and gloomy. He listened for the groans; but his ear caught no sound, except the distant murmur of the nuns above, as in low voices they repeated their Ave-Marias. He stood irresolute to which side he should address his steps. At all events he determined to proceed: he did so, but slowly, fearing lest instead of approaching, he should be retiring from the object of his search. The groans seemed to announce one in pain, or at least in sorrow, and he hoped to have the power of relieving the mourner’s calamities. A plaintive tone, sounding at no great distance, at length reached his hearing; he bent his course joyfully towards it. It became more audible as he advanced; and he soon beheld again the spark of light, which a low projecting wall had hitherto concealed from him.

It proceeded from a small lamp which was placed upon an heap of stones, and whose faint and melancholy rays served rather to point out, than dispell the horrors of a narrow gloomy dungeon formed in one side of the cavern; it also showed several other recesses of similar construction, but whose depth was buried in obscurity. Coldly played the light upon the damp walls, whose dew-stained surface gave back a feeble reflection. A thick and pestilential fog clouded the height of the vaulted dungeon. As Lorenzo advanced, he felt a piercing chillness spread itself through his veins. The frequent groans still engaged him to move forwards. He turned towards them, and by the lamp’s glimmering beams beheld in a corner of this loathsome abode, a creature stretched upon a bed of straw, so wretched, so emaciated, so pale, that he doubted to think her woman. She was half-naked: her long dishevelled hair fell in disorder over her face, and almost entirely concealed it. One wasted arm hung listlessly upon a tattered rug which covered her convulsed and shivering limbs: the other was wrapped round a small bundle, and held it closely to her bosom. A large rosary lay near her: opposite to her was a crucifix, on which she bent her sunk eyes fixedly, and by her side stood a basket and a small earthen pitcher.

Lorenzo stopped: he was petrified with horror. He gazed upon the miserable object with disgust and pity. He trembled at the spectacle; he grew sick at heart: his strength failed him, and his limbs were unable to support his weight. He was obliged to lean against the low wall which was near him, unable to go forward, or to address the sufferer. She cast her eyes towards the staircase: the wall concealed Lorenzo, and she observed him not.

“No one comes!” she at length murmured.

As she spoke, her voice was hollow, and rattled in her throat: she sighed bitterly.

“No one comes!” she repeated; “No! They have forgotten me! They will come no more!”

She paused for a moment: then continued mournfully.

“Two days! Two long, long days, and yet no food! And yet no hope, no comfort! Foolish woman! How can I wish to lengthen a life so wretched! Yet such a death! O! God! To perish by such a death! To linger out such ages in torture! Till now, I knew not what it was to hunger! Hark! No. No one comes! They will come no more!”

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 forever! 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: “Someone comes!”

She strove to raise herself, but her strength was unequal to the attempt: she fell back, and as she sank