At this moment the abbot heard the sound of distant voices. He flew to close the door on whose concealment his safety depended, and which Matilda had neglected to fasten. Ere he could reach it, he saw Antonia glide suddenly by him, rush through the door, and fly towards the noise with the swiftness of an arrow. She had listened attentively to Matilda: she heard Lorenzo’s name mentioned, and resolved to risk everything to throw herself under his protection. The door was open. The sounds convinced her that the archers could be at no great distance. She mustered up her little remaining strength, rushed by the monk ere he perceived her design, and bent her course rapidly towards the voices. As soon as he recovered from his first surprise, the abbot failed not to pursue her. In vain did Antonia redouble her speed, and stretch every nerve to the utmost. Her enemy gained upon her every moment: she heard his steps close after her, and felt the heat of his breath glow upon her neck. He overtook her; he twisted his hand in the ringlets of her streaming hair, and attempted to drag her back with him to the dungeon. Antonia resisted with all her strength: she folded her arms round a pillar which supported the roof, and shrieked loudly for assistance. In vain did the monk strive to threaten her to silence.
“Help!” she continued to exclaim; “Help! Help! for God’s sake!”
Quickened by her cries, the sound of footsteps was heard approaching. The abbot expected every moment to see the inquisitors arrive. Antonia still resisted, and he now enforced her silence by means the most horrible and inhuman. He still grasped Matilda’s dagger: without allowing himself a moment’s reflection, he raised it, and plunged it twice in the bosom of Antonia! She shrieked, and sank upon the ground. The monk endeavoured to bear her away with him, but she still embraced the pillar firmly. At that instant the light of approaching torches flashed upon the walls. Dreading a discovery, Ambrosio was compelled to abandon his victim, and hastily fled back to the vault, where he had left Matilda.
He fled not unobserved. Don Ramirez happening to arrive the first, perceived a female bleeding upon the ground, and a man flying from the spot, whose confusion betrayed him for the murderer. He instantly pursued the fugitive with some part of the archers, while the others remained with Lorenzo to protect the wounded stranger. They raised her, and supported her in their arms. She had fainted from excess of pain, but soon gave signs of returning life. She opened her eyes, and on lifting up her head, the quantity of fair hair fell back which till then had obscured her features.
“God almighty! It is Antonia!”
Such was Lorenzo’s exclamation, while he snatched her from the attendant’s arms, and clasped her in his own.
Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poignard had answered but too well the purpose of its employer. The wounds were mortal, and Antonia was conscious that she never could recover. Yet the few moments which remained for her were moments of happiness. The concern expressed upon Lorenzo’s countenance, the frantic fondness of his complaints, and his earnest enquiries respecting her wounds, convinced her beyond a doubt that his affections were her own. She would not be removed from the vaults, fearing lest motion should only hasten her death; and she was unwilling to lose those moments which she passed in receiving proofs of Lorenzo’s love, and assuring him of her own. She told him that had she still been undefiled she might have lamented the loss of life; but that deprived of honour and branded with shame, death was to her a blessing: she could not have been his wife, and that hope being denied her, she resigned herself to the grave without one sigh of regret. She bad him take courage, conjured him not to abandon himself to fruitless sorrow, and declared that she mourned to leave nothing in the whole world but him. While every sweet accent increased rather than lightened Lorenzo’s grief, she continued to converse with him till the moment of dissolution. Her voice grew faint and scarcely audible; a thick cloud spread itself over her eyes; her heart beat slow and irregular, and every instant seemed to announce that her fate was near at hand.
She lay, her head reclining upon Lorenzo’s bosom, and her lips still murmuring to him words of comfort. She was interrupted by the convent bell, as tolling at a distance, it struck the hour. Suddenly Antonia’s eyes sparkled with celestial brightness: her frame seemed to have received new strength and animation. She started from her lover’s arms.
“Three o’clock!” she cried; “Mother, I come!”
She clasped her hands, and sank lifeless upon the ground. Lorenzo in agony threw himself beside her: he tore his hair, beat his breast, and refused to be separated from the corse. At length his force being exhausted, he suffered himself to be led from the vault, and was conveyed to the Palace de Medina scarcely more alive than the unfortunate Antonia.
In the meanwhile, though closely pursued, Ambrosio succeeded in regaining the vault. The door was already fastened when Don Ramirez arrived, and much time elapsed, ere the fugitive’s retreat was discovered. But nothing can resist perseverance. Though so artfully concealed, the door could not escape the vigilance of the archers. They forced it open, and entered the vault to the infinite dismay of Ambrosio and his companion. The monk’s confusion, his attempt to hide himself, his rapid flight, and
