“Does that make a saint?” enquired Antonia; “Bless me! Then am I one?”
“Holy St. Barbara!” exclaimed Leonella; “What a question! Fie, child, fie! These are not fit subjects for young women to handle. You should not seem to remember that there is such a thing as a man in the world, and you ought to imagine everybody to be of the same sex with yourself. I should like to see you give people to understand, that you know that a man has no breasts, and no hips, and no. …”
Luckily for Antonia’s ignorance which her aunt’s lecture would soon have dispelled, an universal murmur through the church announced the preacher’s arrival. Donna Leonella rose from her seat to take a better view of him, and Antonia followed her example.
He was a man of noble port and commanding presence. His stature was lofty, and his features uncommonly handsome. His nose was aquiline, his eyes large black and sparkling, and his dark brows almost joined together. His complexion was of a deep but clear brown; study and watching had entirely deprived his cheek of colour. Tranquillity reigned upon his smooth unwrinkled forehead; and content, expressed upon every feature, seemed to announce the man equally unacquainted with cares and crimes. He bowed himself with humility to the audience: still there was a certain severity in his look and manner that inspired universal awe, and few could sustain the glance of his eye at once fiery and penetrating. Such was Ambrosio, abbot of the Capuchins, and surnamed, “The Man of Holiness.”
Antonia, while she gazed upon him eagerly, felt a pleasure fluttering in her bosom which till then had been unknown to her, and for which she in vain endeavoured to account. She waited with impatience till the sermon should begin; and when at length the friar spoke, the sound of his voice seemed to penetrate into her very soul. Though no other of the spectators felt such violent sensations as did the young Antonia, yet everyone listened with interest and emotion. They who were insensible to religion’s merits, were still enchanted with Ambrosio’s oratory. All found their attention irresistibly attracted while he spoke, and the most profound silence reigned through the crowded aisles.
Even Lorenzo could not resist the charm: he forgot that Antonia was seated near him, and listened to the preacher with undivided attention.
In language nervous, clear, and simple, the monk expatiated on the beauties of religion. He explained some abstruse parts of the sacred writings in a style that carried with it universal conviction. His voice at once distinct and deep was fraught with all the terrors of the tempest, while he inveighed against the vices of humanity, and described the punishments reserved for them in a future state. Every hearer looked back upon his past offences, and trembled: the thunder seemed to roll, whose bolt was destined to crush him, and the abyss of eternal destruction to open before his feet. But when Ambrosio, changing his theme, spoke of the excellence of an unsullied conscience, of the glorious prospect which eternity presented to the soul untainted with reproach, and of the recompense which awaited it in the regions of everlasting glory, his auditors felt their scattered spirits insensibly return. They threw themselves with confidence upon the mercy of their judge; they hung with delight upon the consoling words of the preacher; and while his full voice swelled into melody, they were transported to those happy regions which he painted to their imaginations in colours so brilliant and glowing.
The discourse was of considerable length; yet when it concluded, the audience grieved that it had not lasted longer. Though the monk had ceased to speak, enthusiastic silence still prevailed through the church: at length the charm gradually dissolving, the general admiration was expressed in audible terms. As Ambrosio descended from the pulpit, his auditors crowded round him, loaded him with blessings, threw themselves at his feet, and kissed the hem of his garment. He passed on slowly with his hands crossed devoutly upon his bosom, to the door opening into the abbey chapel, at which his monks waited to receive him. He ascended the steps, and then turning towards his followers, addressed to them a few words of gratitude, and exhortation. While he spoke, his rosary, composed of large grains of amber, fell from his hand, and dropped among the surrounding multitude. It was seized eagerly, and immediately divided amidst the spectators. Whoever became possessor of a bead, preserved it as a sacred relic; and had it been the chaplet of thrice-blessed St. Francis himself, it could not have been disputed with greater vivacity. The abbot, smiling at their eagerness, pronounced his benediction, and quitted the church, while humility dwelt upon every feature. Dwelt she also in his heart?
Antonia’s eyes followed him with anxiety. As the door closed after him, it seemed to her as had she lost someone essential to her happiness. A tear stole in silence down her cheek.
“He is separated from the world!” said she to herself; “Perhaps, I shall never see him more!”
As she wiped away the tear, Lorenzo observed her action.
“Are you satisfied with our orator?” said he;
