The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure from the porter the key of the low door opening into the cemetery. Furnished with this, when all was silent in the monastery, he quitted his cell, and hastened to Matilda’s. She had left her bed, and was dressed before his arrival.
“I have been expecting you with impatience,” said she; “My life depends upon these moments. Have you the key?”
“I have.”
“Away then to the garden. We have no time to lose. Follow me!”
She took a small covered basket from the table. Bearing this in one hand, and the lamp, which was flaming upon the hearth, in the other, she hastened from the cell. Ambrosio followed her. Both maintained a profound silence. She moved on with quick but cautious steps, passed through the cloisters, and reached the western side of the garden. Her eyes flashed with a fire and wildness which impressed the monk at once with awe and horror. A determined desperate courage reigned upon her brow. She gave the lamp to Ambrosio; then taking from him the key, she unlocked the low door, and entered the cemetery. It was a vast and spacious square planted with yew trees: half of it belonged to the abbey; the other half was the property of the sisterhood of St. Clare, and was protected by a roof of stone. The division was marked by an iron railing, the wicket of which was generally left unlocked.
Thither Matilda bent her course. She opened the wicket and sought for the door leading to the subterraneous vaults, where reposed the mouldering bodies of the votaries of St. Clare. The night was perfectly dark; neither moon or stars were visible. Luckily there was not a breath of wind, and the friar bore his lamp in full security: by the assistance of its beams, the door of the sepulchre was soon discovered. It was sunk within the hollow of a wall, and almost concealed by thick festoons of ivy hanging over it. Three steps of rough-hewn stone conducted to it, and Matilda was on the point of descending them when she suddenly started back.
“There are people in the vaults!” she whispered to the monk; “Conceal yourself till they are past.”
She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent tomb, erected in honour of the convent’s foundress. Ambrosio followed her example, carefully hiding his lamp lest its beams should betray them. But a few moments had elapsed when the door was pushed open leading to the subterraneous caverns. Rays of light proceeded up the staircase: they enabled the concealed spectators to observe two females dressed in religious habits, who seemed engaged in earnest conversation. The abbot had no difficulty to recognize the prioress of St. Clare in the first, and one of the elder nuns in her companion.
“Everything is prepared,” said the prioress; “Her fate shall be decided tomorrow. All her tears and sighs will be unavailing. No! In five and twenty years that I have been superior of this convent, never did I witness a transaction more infamous!”
“You must expect much opposition to your will,” the other replied in a milder voice; “Agnes has many friends in the convent, and in particular the Mother St. Ursula will espouse her cause most warmly. In truth, she merits to have friends; and I wish I could prevail upon you to consider her youth, and her peculiar situation. She seems sensible of her fault; the excess of her grief proves her penitence, and I am convinced that her tears flow more from contrition than fear of punishment. Reverend mother, would you be persuaded to mitigate the severity of your sentence, would you but deign to overlook this first transgression, I offer myself as the pledge of her future conduct.”
“Overlook it, say you? Mother Camilla, you amaze me! What? After disgracing me in the presence of Madrid’s idol, of the very man on whom I most wished to impress an idea of the strictness of my discipline? How despicable must I have appeared to the reverend abbot! No, mother, no! I never can forgive the insult. I cannot better convince Ambrosio that I abhor such crimes, than by punishing that of Agnes with all the rigour of which our severe laws admit. Cease then your supplications; they will all be unavailing. My resolution is taken: tomorrow Agnes shall be made a terrible example of my justice and resentment.”
The mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point, but by this time the nuns were out of hearing. The prioress unlocked the door which communicated with St. Clare’s chapel, and having entered with her companion, closed it again after them.
Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the prioress was thus incensed, and what connection she could have with Ambrosio. He related her adventure; and he added, that since that time his ideas having undergone a thorough revolution, he now felt much compassion for the unfortunate nun.
“I design,” said he, “to request an audience of the domina tomorrow, and use every means of obtaining a mitigation of her sentence.”
“Beware of what you do!” interrupted Matilda; “Your sudden change of sentiment may naturally create surprise, and may give birth to suspicions which it is most our interest to avoid. Rather, redouble your outward austerity, and thunder out menaces against the errors of others, the better to conceal your own. Abandon the nun to her fate. Your interfering might be dangerous, and her imprudence merits to be punished: she is unworthy to enjoy love’s pleasures, who has not wit enough to conceal them. But in discussing this trifling subject I waste moments which are precious. The night flies apace, and much must be done before morning. The
