The Monk

pain; and he expressed himself in my favour so warmly, that I endeavoured to win him over to my interest. Scarcely had I mentioned the name of Agnes when he stopped me short, and said, that it was totally out of his power to interfere in the business. I saw that it was in vain to argue; the Baroness governed her husband with despotic sway, and I easily perceived that she had prejudiced him against the match. Agnes did not appear: I entreated permission to take leave of her, but my prayer was rejected. I was obliged to depart without seeing her.

At quitting him the Baron shook my hand affectionately, and assured me that as soon as his niece was gone, I might consider his house as my own.

“Farewell, Don Alphonso!” said the Baroness, and stretched out her hand to me.

I took it, and offered to carry it to my lips. She prevented me.

Her husband was at the other end of the room, and out of hearing.

“Take care of yourself,” she continued; “My love is become hatred, and my wounded pride shall not be unatoned. Go where you will, my vengeance shall follow you!”

She accompanied these words with a look sufficient to make me tremble. I answered not, but hastened to quit the castle.

As my chaise drove out of the court, I looked up to the windows of your sister’s chamber. Nobody was to be seen there: I threw myself back despondent in my carriage. I was attended by no other servants than a Frenchman whom I had hired at Strasbourg in Stephano’s room, and my little page whom I before mentioned to you. The fidelity, intelligence, and good temper of Theodore had already made him dear to me; but he now prepared to lay an obligation on me, which made me look upon him as a guardian genius. Scarcely had we proceeded half a mile from the castle, when he rode up to the chaise-door.

“Take courage, señor!” said he in Spanish, which he had already learnt to speak with fluency and correctness. “While you were with the Baron, I watched the moment when dame Cunegonda was below stairs, and mounted into the chamber over that of Donna Agnes. I sang as loud as I could a little German air well-known to her, hoping that she would recollect my voice. I was not disappointed, for I soon heard her window open. I hastened to let down a string with which I had provided myself: upon hearing the casement closed again, I drew up the string, and fastened to it I found this scrap of paper.”

He then presented me with a small note addressed to me. I opened it with impatience: it contained the following words written in pencil:

“Conceal yourself for the next fortnight in some neighbouring village. My aunt will believe you to have quitted Lindenberg, and I shall be restored to liberty. I will be in the west pavilion at twelve on the night of the thirtieth. Fail not to be there, and we shall have an opportunity of concerting our future plans. Adieu.

“Agnes.”

At perusing these lines my transports exceeded all bounds; neither did I set any to the expressions of gratitude which I heaped upon Theodore. In fact his address and attention merited my warmest praise. You will readily believe that I had not entrusted him with my passion for Agnes; but the arch youth had too much discernment not to discover my secret, and too much discretion not to conceal his knowledge of it. He observed in silence what was going on, nor strove to make himself an agent in the business till my interests required his interference. I equally admired his judgment, his penetration, his address, and his fidelity. This was not the first occasion in which I had found him of infinite use, and I was every day more convinced of his quickness and capacity. During my short stay at Strasbourg, he had applied himself diligently to learning the rudiments of Spanish: he continued to study it, and with so much success that he spoke it with the same facility as his native language. He passed the greatest part of his time in reading; he had acquired much information for his age; and united the advantages of a lively countenance and prepossessing figure to an excellent understanding and the very best of hearts. He is now fifteen; he is still in my service, and when you see him, I am sure that he will please you. But excuse this digression: I return to the subject which I quitted.

I obeyed the instructions of Agnes. I proceeded to Munich. There I left my chaise under the care of Lucas, my French servant, and then returned on horseback to a small village about four miles distant from the castle of Lindenberg. Upon arriving there a story was related to the host at whose inn I descended, which prevented his wondering at my making so long a stay in his house. The old man fortunately was credulous and incurious: he believed all I said, and sought to know no more than what I thought proper to tell him. Nobody was with me but Theodore; both were disguised, and as we kept ourselves close, we were not suspected to be other than what we seemed. In this manner the fortnight passed away. During that time I had the pleasing conviction that Agnes was once more at liberty. She passed through the village with dame Cunegonda: she seemed in health and spirits, and talked to her companion without any appearance of constraint.

“Who are those ladies?” said I to my host, as the carriage passed.

“Baron Lindenberg’s niece with her governess,” he replied; “She goes regularly every Friday to the convent of St. Catharine, in which she was brought up, and which is situated about a mile from hence.”

You may be certain that I waited with impatience for the ensuing Friday. I again beheld my lovely mistress. She cast her eyes upon