Don Ramirez took care that the populace should remain ignorant both of the crimes and profession of the captives. He feared a repetition of the riots which had followed the apprehending the prioress of St. Clare. He contented himself with stating to the Capuchins the guilt of their superior. To avoid the shame of a public accusation, and dreading the popular fury from which they had already saved their abbey with much difficulty, the monks readily permitted the inquisitors to search their mansion without noise. No fresh discoveries were made. The effects found in the abbot’s and Matilda’s cells were seized, and carried to the inquisition to be produced in evidence. Everything else remained in its former position, and order and tranquillity once more prevailed through Madrid.
St. Clare’s convent was completely ruined by the united ravages of the mob and conflagration. Nothing remained of it but the principal walls, whose thickness and solidity had preserved them from the flames. The nuns who had belonged to it were obliged in consequence to disperse themselves into other societies: but the prejudice against them ran high, and the superiors were very unwilling to admit them. However, most of them being related to families the most distinguished for their riches, birth and power, the several convents were compelled to receive them, though they did it with a very ill grace. This prejudice was extremely false and unjustifiable: after a close investigation, it was proved that all in the convent were persuaded of the death of Agnes, except the four nuns whom St. Ursula had pointed out. These had fallen victims to the popular fury; as had also several who were perfectly innocent and unconscious of the whole affair. Blinded by resentment, the mob had sacrificed every nun who fell into their hands: they who escaped were entirely indebted to the Duke de Medina’s prudence and moderation. Of this they were conscious, and felt for that nobleman a proper sense of gratitude.
Virginia was not the most sparing of her thanks: she wished equally to make a proper return for his attentions, and to obtain the good graces of Lorenzo’s uncle. In this she easily succeeded.
The duke beheld her beauty with wonder and admiration; and while his eyes were enchanted with her form, the sweetness of her manners and her tender concern for the suffering nun prepossessed his heart in her favour. This Virginia had discernment enough to perceive, and she redoubled her attention to the invalid. When he parted from her at the door of her father’s palace, the duke entreated permission to enquire occasionally after her health. His request was readily granted: Virginia assured him that the Marquis de Villa-Franca would be proud of an opportunity to thank him in person for the protection afforded to her. They now separated, he enchanted with her beauty and gentleness, and she much pleased with him and more with his nephew.
On entering the palace, Virginia’s first care was to summon the family physician, and take care of her unknown charge. Her mother hastened to share with her the charitable office. Alarmed by the riots, and trembling for his daughter’s safety, who was his only child, the Marquis had flown to St. Clare’s convent, and was still employed in seeking her. Messengers were now dispatched on all sides to inform him that he would find her safe at his hotel, and desire him to hasten thither immediately. His absence gave Virginia liberty to bestow her whole attention upon her patient; and though much disordered herself by the adventures of the night, no persuasion could induce her to quit the bedside of the sufferer. Her constitution being much enfeebled by want and sorrow, it was some time before the stranger was restored to her senses. She found great difficulty in swallowing the medicines prescribed to her: but this obstacle being removed, she easily conquered her disease which proceeded from nothing but weakness. The attention which was paid her, the wholesome food to which she had been long a stranger, and her joy at being restored to liberty, to society, and, as she dared to hope, to love, all this combined to her speedy reestablishment.
From the first moment of knowing her, her melancholy situation, her sufferings almost unparalleled had engaged the affections of her amiable hostess: Virginia felt for her the most lively interest; but how was she delighted, when her guest being sufficiently recovered to relate her history, she recognized in the captive nun the sister of Lorenzo!
This victim of monastic cruelty was indeed no other than the unfortunate Agnes. During her abode in the convent, she had been well known to Virginia: but her emaciated form, her features altered by affliction, her death universally credited, and her overgrown and matted hair which hung over her face and bosom in disorder at first had prevented her being recollected. The prioress had put every artifice in practice to induce Virginia to take the veil; for the heiress of Villa-Franca would have been no despicable acquisition. Her seeming kindness and unremitted attention so far succeeded that her young relation began to think seriously upon compliance. Better instructed in the disgust and ennui of a monastic life, Agnes had penetrated the
