At this moment the bolt of the outward door was drawn back. The prisoner heard the rattling of chains; the heavy bar fell; the archers were on the point of entering. Worked up to frenzy by the urgent danger, shrinking from the approach of death, terrified by the daemon’s threats, and seeing no other means to escape destruction, the wretched monk complied. He signed the fatal contract, and gave it hastily into the evil spirit’s hands, whose eyes, as he received the gift, glared with malicious rapture.
“Take it!” said the God-abandoned; “Now then save me! Snatch me from hence!”
“Hold! Do you freely and absolutely renounce your creator and his son?”
“I do! I do!”
“Do you make over your soul to me forever?”
“Forever!”
“Without reserve or subterfuge? Without future appeal to the divine mercy?”
The last chain fell from the door of the prison: the key was heard turning in the lock: already the iron door grated heavily upon its rusty hinges.
“I am yours forever and irrevocably!” cried the monk wild with terror: “I abandon all claim to salvation! I own no power but yours! Hark! Hark! They come! Oh! save me! Bear me away!”
“I have triumphed! You are mine past reprieve, and I fulfil my promise.”
While he spoke, the door unclosed. Instantly the daemon grasped one of Ambrosio’s arms, spread his broad pinions, and sprang with him into the air. The roof opened as they soared upwards, and closed again when they had quitted the dungeon.
In the meanwhile, the gaoler was thrown into the utmost surprise by the disappearance of his prisoner. Though neither he nor the archers were in time to witness the monk’s escape, a sulphurous smell prevailing through the prison sufficiently informed them by whose aid he had been liberated. They hastened to make their report to the Grand Inquisitor. The story, how a sorcerer had been carried away by the devil, was soon noised about Madrid; and for some days the whole city was employed in discussing the subject. Gradually it ceased to be the topic of conversation: other adventures arose whose novelty engaged universal attention; and Ambrosio was soon forgotten as totally, as if he never had existed. While this was passing, the monk supported by his infernal guide, traversed the air with the rapidity of an arrow, and a few moments placed him upon a precipice’s brink, the steepest in Sierra Morena.
Though rescued from the inquisition, Ambrosio as yet was insensible of the blessings of liberty. The damning contract weighed heavy upon his mind; and the scenes in which he had been a principal actor had left behind them such impressions as rendered his heart the seat of anarchy and confusion. The objects now before his eyes, and which the full moon sailing through clouds permitted him to examine, were ill-calculated to inspire that calm, of which he stood so much in need. The disorder of his imagination was increased by the wildness of the surrounding scenery; by the gloomy caverns and steep rocks, rising above each other, and dividing the passing clouds; solitary clusters of trees scattered here and there, among whose thick-twined branches the wind of night sighed hoarsely and mournfully; the shrill cry of mountain eagles, who had built their nests among these lonely deserts; the stunning roar of torrents, as swelled by late rains they rushed violently down tremendous precipices; and the dark waters of a silent sluggish stream which faintly reflected the moonbeams, and bathed the rock’s base on which Ambrosio stood. The abbot cast round him a look of terror. His infernal conductor was still by his side, and eyed him with a look of mingled malice, exultation, and contempt.
“Whither have you brought me?” said the monk at length in an hollow trembling voice: “Why am I placed in this melancholy scene? Bear me from it quickly! Carry me to Matilda!”
The fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in silence.
Ambrosio could not sustain his glance; he turned away his eyes, while thus spoke the daemon:
“I have him then in my power! This model of piety! This being without reproach! This mortal who placed his puny virtues on a level with those of angels. He is mine! Irrevocably, eternally mine! companions of my sufferings! Denizens of hell! How grateful will be my present!”
He paused; then addressed himself to the monk—
“Carry you to Matilda?” he continued, repeating Ambrosio’s words: “Wretch! you shall soon be with her! You well deserve a place near her, for hell boasts no miscreant more guilty than yourself. Hark, Ambrosio, while I unveil your crimes! You have shed the blood of two innocents; Antonia and Elvira perished by your hand. That Antonia whom you violated, was your sister! That Elvira whom you murdered, gave you birth! Tremble, abandoned hypocrite! Inhuman parricide! Incestuous ravisher! Tremble at the extent of your offences! And you it was who thought yourself proof against temptation, absolved from human frailties, and free from error and vice! Is pride then a virtue? Is inhumanity no fault? Know, vain man! That I long have marked you for my prey: I watched the movements of your heart; I saw that you were virtuous from vanity, not principle, and I seized the fit moment of seduction. I observed your blind idolatry of the Madonna’s picture. I bad a subordinate but crafty spirit assume a similar form, and you eagerly yielded to the blandishments of Matilda. Your pride was gratified by her flattery; your lust only needed an opportunity to break forth; you ran into the snare blindly, and scrupled not to commit a crime which you blamed in another with unfeeling severity. It was I who threw Matilda in your way; it was I who gave you entrance to Antonia’s chamber; it was I who caused the dagger to be given you which pierced your sister’s bosom; and it was I who warned Elvira in dreams of your designs upon her daughter, and thus, by preventing your profiting by her sleep,
