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 pickaxe; 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.
“For your sake, fatal beauty!” murmured the monk, while gazing on his devoted prey, “for your sake, have I committed this murder, and sold myself to eternal tortures. Now you are in my power: the produce of my guilt will at least be mine. Hope not that your prayers breathed in tones of unequalled melody, your bright eyes filled with tears, and your hands lifted in supplication, as when seeking in penitence the Virgin’s pardon; hope not that your moving innocence, your beauteous grief, or all your suppliant arts shall ransom you from my embraces. Before the break of day, mine you must, and mine you shall be!”
He lifted her still motionless from the tomb: he seated himself upon a bank of stone, and supporting her in his arms, watched impatiently for the symptoms of returning animation. Scarcely could he command his passions sufficiently, to restrain himself from enjoying her while yet insensible. His natural lust was increased in ardour by the difficulties which had opposed his satisfying it: as also by his long abstinence from woman, since from the moment of resigning her claim to his love, Matilda had exiled him from her arms forever.
“I am no prostitute, Ambrosio;” had she told him, when in the fullness of his lust he demanded her favours with more than usual earnestness; “I am now no more than your friend, and will not be your mistress. Cease then to solicit my complying with desires, which insult me. While your heart was mine, I gloried in your embraces: those happy times are past: my person is become indifferent to you, and ’tis necessity, not love, which makes you seek my enjoyment. I cannot yield to a request so humiliating to my pride.”
Suddenly deprived of pleasures, the use of which had made them an absolute want, the monk felt this restraint severely. Naturally addicted to the gratification of the senses, in the full vigour of manhood, and heat of blood, he had suffered his temperament to acquire such ascendency that his lust was become madness. Of his fondness for Antonia, none but the grosser particles remained: he longed for the possession of her person; and even the gloom of the vault, the surrounding silence, and the resistance which he expected from her, seemed to give a fresh edge to his fierce and unbridled desires.
Gradually he felt the bosom which rested against his, glow with returning warmth. Her heart throbbed again; her blood flowed swifter, and her lips moved. At length she opened her eyes, but still oppressed and bewildered by the effects of the strong opiate, she closed them again immediately. Ambrosio watched her narrowly, nor permitted a movement to escape him. Perceiving that she was fully restored to existence, he caught her in rapture to his bosom, and closely pressed his lips to hers. The suddenness of his action sufficed to dissipate the fumes which obscured Antonia’s reason. She hastily raised herself, and cast a wild look round her. The strange images which presented themselves on every side contributed to confuse her. She put her hand to her head, as if to settle her disordered imagination. At length she took it away, and threw her eyes through the dungeon a second time. They fixed upon the abbot’s face.
“Where am I?” she said abruptly. “How came I here? Where is my mother? Methought I saw her! Oh! a dream, a dreadful dreadful dream told me … But where am I? Let me go! I cannot stay here!”
She attempted to rise, but the monk prevented her.
“Be calm, lovely Antonia!” he replied; “no danger is near you: confide in my protection. Why do you gaze on
