The Monk

flowers, lace, and needlework. All these he was advised to sell, in order to put himself into better case; and he was assured that it would be easy to dispose of them, since the Spaniards hold the performances of the nuns in high estimation. Having received these gifts with seeming respect and gratitude, he remarked that, having no basket, he knew not how to convey them away. Several of the nuns were hastening in search of one, when they were stopped by the return of an elderly woman, whom Theodore had not till then observed: her mild countenance and respectable air prejudiced him immediately in her favour.

“Hah!” said the porteress; “Here comes the Mother St. Ursula with a basket.”

The nun approached the grate, and presented the basket to Theodore: it was of willow, lined with blue satin, and upon the four sides were painted scenes from the legend of St. Genevieve.

“Here is my gift,” said she, as she gave it into his hand; “Good youth, despise it not; though its value seems insignificant, it has many hidden virtues.”

She accompanied these words with an expressive look. It was not lost upon Theodore; in receiving the present, he drew as near the grate as possible.

“Agnes!” she whispered in a voice scarcely intelligible. Theodore, however, caught the sound: he concluded that some mystery was concealed in the basket, and his heart beat with impatience and joy. At this moment the domina returned. Her air was gloomy and frowning, and she looked if possible more stern than ever.

“Mother St. Ursula, I would speak with you in private.”

The nun changed colour, and was evidently disconcerted.

“With me?” she replied in a faltering voice.

The domina motioned that she must follow her, and retired. The Mother St. Ursula obeyed her; soon after, the refectory bell ringing a second time, the nuns quitted the grate, and Theodore was left at liberty to carry off his prize. Delighted that at length he had obtained some intelligence for the Marquis, he flew rather than ran, till he reached the Hotel de las Cisternas. In a few minutes he stood by his master’s bed with the basket in his hand. Lorenzo was in the chamber, endeavouring to reconcile his friend to a misfortune which he felt himself but too severely. Theodore related his adventure, and the hopes which had been created by the Mother St. Ursula’s gift. The Marquis started from his pillow: that fire which since the death of Agnes had been extinguished, now revived in his bosom, and his eyes sparkled with the eagerness of expectation. The emotions which Lorenzo’s countenance betrayed, were scarcely weaker, and he waited with inexpressible impatience for the solution of this mystery. Raymond caught the basket from the hands of his page: he emptied the contents upon the bed, and examined them with minute attention. He hoped that a letter would be found at the bottom; nothing of the kind appeared. The search was resumed, and still with no better success. At length Don Raymond observed that one corner of the blue satin lining was unripped; he tore it open hastily, and drew forth a small scrap of paper neither folded or sealed. It was addressed to the Marquis de las Cisternas, and the contents were as follows:

“Having recognised your page, I venture to send these few lines. Procure an order from the Cardinal-Duke for seizing my person, and that of the domina; but let it not be executed till Friday at midnight. It is the festival of St. Clare: there will be a procession of nuns by torchlight, and I shall be among them. Beware not to let your intention be known: should a syllable be dropped to excite the domina’s suspicions, you will never hear of me more. Be cautious, if you prize the memory of Agnes, and wish to punish her assassins. I have that to tell, will freeze your blood with horror.

“St. Ursula.”

No sooner had the Marquis read the note than he fell back upon his pillow deprived of sense or motion. The hope failed him which till now had supported his existence; and these lines convinced him but too positively that Agnes was indeed no more. Lorenzo felt this circumstance less forcibly, since it had always been his idea that his sister had perished by unfair means. When he found by the Mother St. Ursula’s letter how true were his suspicions, the confirmation excited no other sentiment in his bosom than a wish to punish the murderers as they deserved. It was no easy task to recall the Marquis to himself. As soon as he recovered his speech, he broke out into execrations against the assassins of his beloved, and vowed to take upon them a signal vengeance. He continued to rave and torment himself with impotent passion till his constitution, enfeebled by grief and illness, could support itself no longer, and he relapsed into insensibility. His melancholy situation sincerely affected Lorenzo, who would willingly have remained in the apartment of his friend; but other cares now demanded his presence. It was necessary to procure the order for seizing the prioress of St. Clare. For this purpose, having committed Raymond to the care of the best physicians in Madrid, he quitted the Hotel de las Cisternas, and bent his course towards the palace of the Cardinal-Duke.

His disappointment was excessive, when he found that affairs of state had obliged the cardinal to set out for a distant province.

It wanted but five days to Friday: yet by travelling day and night, he hoped to return in time for the pilgrimage of St. Clare. In this he succeeded. He found the Cardinal-Duke; and represented to him the supposed culpability of the prioress, as also the violent effects which it had produced upon Don Raymond. He could have used no argument so forcible as this last. Of all his nephews, the Marquis was the only one to whom the Cardinal-Duke was sincerely attached: he perfectly doted upon him, and the prioress could have committed no greater crime in his eyes than to