But while Lorenzo was anxious to unmask one religious hypocrite, he was unconscious of the sorrows prepared for him by another. Aided by Matilda’s infernal agents, Ambrosio had resolved upon the innocent Antonia’s ruin. The moment destined to be so fatal to her arrived. She had taken leave of her mother for the night.
As she kissed her, she felt an unusual despondency infuse itself into her bosom. She left her, and returned to her instantly, threw herself into her maternal arms, and bathed her cheek with tears: she felt uneasy at quitting her, and a secret presentiment assured her that never must they meet again. Elvira observed, and tried to laugh her out of this childish prejudice: she chid her mildly for encouraging such ungrounded sadness, and warned her how dangerous it was to encourage such ideas.
To all her remonstrances she received no other answer than,
“Mother! Dear mother! Oh! would to God, it were morning!”
Elvira, whose inquietude respecting her daughter was a great obstacle to her perfect reestablishment, was still labouring under the effects of her late severe illness. She was this evening more than usually indisposed, and retired to bed before her accustomed hour. Antonia withdrew from her mother’s chamber with regret, and till the door closed, kept her eyes fixed upon her with melancholy expression. She retired to her own apartment; her heart was filled with bitterness: it seemed to her that all her prospects were blasted, and the world contained nothing for which it was worth existing. She sank into a chair, reclined her head upon her arm, and gazed upon the floor with a vacant stare, while the most gloomy images floated before her fancy. She was still in this state of insensibility when she was disturbed by hearing a strain of soft music breathed beneath her window. She rose, drew near the casement, and opened it to hear it more distinctly. Having thrown her veil over her face, she ventured to look out. By the light of the moon she perceived several men below with guitars and lutes in their hands; and at a little distance from them stood another wrapped in his cloak, whose stature and appearance bore a strong resemblance to Lorenzo’s. She was not deceived in this conjecture. It was indeed Lorenzo himself, who bound by his word not to present himself to Antonia without his uncle’s consent, endeavoured by occasional serenades, to convince his mistress that his attachment still existed. His stratagem had not the desired effect. Antonia was far from supposing that this nightly music was intended as a compliment to her: she was too modest to think herself worthy such attentions; and concluding them to be addressed to some neighbouring lady, she grieved to find that they were offered by Lorenzo.
The air which was played, was plaintive and melodious. It accorded with the state of Antonia’s mind, and she listened with pleasure. After a symphony of some length, it was succeeded by the sound of voices, and Antonia distinguished the following words.
Serenade
Chorus
Oh! Breathe in gentle strain, my lyre!
’Tis here that beauty loves to rest:
Describe the pangs of fond desire,
Which rend a faithful lover’s breast.Song
In every heart to find a slave,
In every soul to fix his reign,
In bonds to lead the wise and brave,
And make the captives kiss his chain,
Such is the power of love, and oh!
I grieve so well love’s power to know.In sighs to pass the livelong day,
To taste a short and broken sleep,
For one dear object far away,
All others scorned, to watch and weep,
Such are the pains of love, and oh!
I grieve so well love’s pains to know!To read consent in virgin eyes,
To press the lip ne’er pressed till then
To hear the sigh of transport rise,
And kiss, and kiss, and kiss again,
Such are thy pleasures, love, but oh!
When shall my heart thy pleasures know?Chorus
Now hush, my lyre! My voice be still!
Sleep, gentle maid! May fond desire
With amorous thoughts thy visions fill,
Though still my voice, and hushed my lyre.
The music ceased: the performers dispersed, and silence prevailed through the street. Antonia quitted the window with regret: she as usual recommended herself to the protection of St. Rosolia, said her accustomed prayers, and retired to bed. Sleep was not long absent, and his presence relieved her from her terrors and inquietude.
It was almost two o’clock before the lustful monk ventured to bend his steps towards Antonia’s dwelling. It has been already mentioned that the abbey was at no great distance from the Strada di San Iago. He reached the house unobserved. Here he stopped, and hesitated for a moment. He reflected on the enormity of the crime, the consequences of a discovery, and the probability, after what had passed, of Elvira’s suspecting him to be her daughter’s ravisher: on the other hand it was suggested that she could do no more than suspect; that no proofs of his guilt could be produced; that it would seem impossible for the rape to have been committed without Antonia’s knowing when, where, or by whom; and finally, he believed that his fame was too
