The Monk

die at present, or expire by the lingering torments of unsatisfied desire. Oh! since we last conversed together, a dreadful veil has been rent from before my eyes. I love you no longer with the devotion which is paid to a saint: I prize you no more for the virtues of your soul; I lust for the enjoyment of your person. The woman reigns in my bosom, and I am become a prey to the wildest of passions. Away with friendship! ’tis a cold unfeeling word. My bosom burns with love, with unutterable love, and love must be its return. Tremble then, Ambrosio, tremble to succeed in your prayers. If I live, your truth, your reputation, your reward of a life past in sufferings, all that you value is irretrievably lost. I shall no longer be able to combat my passions, shall seize every opportunity to excite your desires, and labour to effect your dishonour and my own. No, no, Ambrosio; I must not live! I am convinced with every moment, that I have but one alternative; I feel with every heart-throb, that I must enjoy you, or die.”

“Amazement!⁠—Matilda! Can it be you who speak to me?”

He made a movement as if to quit his seat. She uttered a loud shriek, and raising herself half out of the bed, threw her arms round the friar to detain him.

“Oh! do not leave me! Listen to my errors with compassion! In a few hours I shall be no more; yet a little, and I am free from this disgraceful passion.”

“Wretched woman, what can I say to you! I cannot⁠ ⁠… I must not⁠ ⁠… But live, Matilda! Oh! live!”

“You do not reflect on what you ask. What? Live to plunge myself in infamy? To become the agent of hell? To work the destruction both of you and of myself? Feel this heart, Father!”

She took his hand: confused, embarrassed, and fascinated, he withdrew it not, and felt her heart throb under it.

“Feel this heart, Father! It is yet the seat of honour, truth, and chastity: if it beats tomorrow, it must fall a prey to the blackest crimes. Oh! let me then die today! Let me die, while I yet deserve the tears of the virtuous! Thus will I expire!”⁠—(She reclined her head upon his shoulder; her golden hair poured itself over his chest.)⁠—“Folded in your arms, I shall sink to sleep; your hand shall close my eyes forever, and your lips receive my dying breath. And will you not sometimes think of me? Will you not sometimes shed a tear upon my tomb? Oh! Yes! Yes! Yes! That kiss is my assurance!”

The hour was night. All was silence around. The faint beams of a solitary lamp darted upon Matilda’s figure, and shed through the chamber a dim mysterious light. No prying eye, or curious ear was near the lovers: nothing was heard but Matilda’s melodious accents. Ambrosio was in the full vigour of manhood. He saw before him a young and beautiful woman, the preserver of his life, the adorer of his person, and whom affection for him had reduced to the brink of the grave. He sat upon her bed; his hand rested upon her bosom; her head reclined voluptuously upon his breast. Who then can wonder, if he yielded to the temptation? Drunk with desire, he pressed his lips to those which sought them: his kisses vied with Matilda’s in warmth and passion. He clasped her rapturously in his arms; he forgot his vows, his sanctity, and his fame: he remembered nothing but the pleasure and opportunity.

“Ambrosio! Oh! my Ambrosio!” sighed Matilda.

“Thine, ever thine!” murmured the friar, and sank upon her bosom.

III

—These are the villains
Whom all the travellers do fear so much.

—Some of them are gentlemen
Such as the fury of ungoverned youth
Thrust from the company of awful men.

Two Gentleman of Verona

The Marquis and Lorenzo proceeded to the hotel in silence. The former employed himself in calling every circumstance to his mind, which related might give Lorenzo’s the most favourable idea of his connection with Agnes. The latter, justly alarmed for the honour of his family, felt embarrassed by the presence of the Marquis; the adventure which he had just witnessed forbad his treating him as a friend; and Antonia’s interests being entrusted to his mediation, he saw the impolicy of treating him as a foe. He concluded from these reflections, that profound silence would be the wisest plan, and waited with impatience for Don Raymond’s explanation.

They arrived at the Hotel de las Cisternas. The Marquis immediately conducted him to his apartment, and began to express his satisfaction at finding him at Madrid. Lorenzo interrupted him.

“Excuse me, my lord,” said he with a distant air, “if I reply somewhat coldly to your expressions of regard. A sister’s honour is involved in this affair: till that is established, and the purport of your correspondence with Agnes cleared up, I cannot consider you as my friend. I am anxious to hear the meaning of your conduct, and hope that you will not delay the promised explanation.”

“First give me your word, that you will listen with patience and indulgence.”

“I love my sister too well to judge her harshly; and till this moment I possessed no friend so dear to me as yourself. I will also confess, that your having it in your power to oblige me in a business which I have much at heart, makes me very anxious to find you still deserving my esteem.”

“Lorenzo, you transport me! No greater pleasure can be given me, than an opportunity of serving the brother of Agnes.”

“Convince me that I can accept your favours without dishonour, and there is no man in the world to whom I am more willing to be obliged.”

“Probably, you have already heard your sister mention the name of Alphonso d’Alvarada?”

“Never. Though I feel for Agnes an affection truly fraternal, circumstances have prevented us from being much together. While yet a child she was consigned