“It will not. I must have your soul; must have it mine, and mine forever.”
“Insatiate daemon, I will not doom myself to endless torments. I will not give up my hopes of being one day pardoned.”
“You will not? On what chimaera rest then your hopes? Shortsighted mortal! Miserable wretch! Are you not guilty? Are you not infamous in the eyes of men and angels. Can such enormous sins be forgiven? Hope you to escape my power? Your fate is already pronounced. The eternal has abandoned you; mine you are marked in the book of destiny, and mine you must and shall be!”
“Fiend, ’tis false! Infinite is the almighty’s mercy, and the penitent shall meet his forgiveness. My crimes are monstrous, but I will not despair of pardon: haply, when they have received due chastisement. …”
“Chastisement? Was purgatory meant for guilt like yours? Hope you that your offences shall be bought off by prayers of superstitious dotards and droning monks? Ambrosio, be wise! Mine you must be: you are doomed to flames, but may shun them for the present. Sign this parchment: I will bear you from hence, and you may pass your remaining years in bliss and liberty. Enjoy your existence: indulge in every pleasure to which appetite may lead you: but from the moment that it quits your body, remember that your soul belongs to me, and that I will not be defrauded of my right.”
The monk was silent; but his looks declared that the tempter’s words were not thrown away. He reflected on the conditions proposed with horror: on the other hand, he believed himself doomed to perdition and that, by refusing the daemon’s succour, he only hastened tortures which he never could escape. The fiend saw that his resolution was shaken: he renewed his instances, and endeavoured to fix the abbot’s indecision. He described the agonies of death in the most terrific colours; and he worked so powerfully upon Ambrosio’s despair and fears that he prevailed upon him to receive the parchment. He then struck the iron pen which he held into a vein of the monk’s left hand. It pierced deep, and was instantly filled with blood; yet Ambrosio felt no pain from the wound. The pen was put into his hand: it trembled. The wretch placed the parchment on the table before him, and prepared to sign it. Suddenly he held his hand: he started away hastily, and threw the pen upon the table.
“What am I doing?” he cried—then turning to the fiend with a desperate air, “Leave me! Begone! I will not sign the parchment.”
“Fool!” exclaimed the disappointed daemon, darting looks so furious as penetrated the friar’s soul with horror; “Thus am I trifled with? Go then! Rave in agony, expire in tortures, and then learn the extent of the eternal’s mercy! But beware how you make me again your mock! Call me no more till resolved to accept my offers! Summon me a second time to dismiss me thus idly, and these talons shall rend you into a thousand pieces! Speak yet again; will you sign the parchment?”
“I will not! Leave me! Away!”
Instantly the thunder was heard to roll horribly: once more the earth trembled with violence: the dungeon resounded with loud shrieks, and the daemon fled with blasphemy and curses.
At first, the monk rejoiced at having resisted the seducer’s arts, and obtained a triumph over mankind’s enemy: but as the hour of punishment drew near, his former terrors revived in his heart. Their momentary repose seemed to have given them fresh vigour. The nearer that the time approached, the more did he dread appearing before the throne of God. He shuddered to think how soon he must be plunged into eternity; how soon meet the eyes of his creator, whom he had so grievously offended. The bell announced midnight: it was the signal for being led to the stake! As he listened to the first stroke, the blood ceased to circulate in the abbot’s veins: he heard death and torture murmured in each succeeding sound. He expected to see the archers entering his prison; and as the bell forbore to toll, he seized the magic volume in a fit of despair. He opened it, turned hastily to the seventh page, and as if fearing to allow himself a moment’s thought ran over the fatal lines with rapidity. Accompanied by his former terrors, Lucifer again stood before the trembler.
“You have summoned me,” said the fiend; “Are you determined to be wise? Will you accept my conditions? You know them already. Renounce your claim to salvation, make over to me your soul, and I bear you from this dungeon instantly. Yet is it time. Resolve, or it will be too late. Will you sign the parchment?”
“I must!—Fate urges me! I accept your conditions.”
“Sign the parchment!” replied the daemon in an exulting tone.
The contract and the bloody pen still lay upon the table. Ambrosio drew near it. He prepared to sign his name. A moment’s reflection made him hesitate.
“Hark!” cried the tempter; “They come! Be quick! Sign the parchment, and I bear you from hence this moment.”
In effect, the archers were heard approaching, appointed to lead Ambrosio to the stake. The sound encouraged the monk in his resolution.
“What is the import of this writing?” said he.
“It makes your soul over to me forever, and without reserve.”
“What am I to receive in exchange?”
“My protection, and release from this dungeon. Sign it, and this instant I bear you away.”
Ambrosio took up the pen; he set it to the parchment. Again his courage failed him: he felt a pang of terror at his heart, and once more threw the pen upon the table.
“Weak and puerile!” cried the exasperated fiend: “Away with this folly! Sign the writing this instant,
