Guided by the moonbeams, he proceeded up the staircase with slow and cautious steps. He looked round him every moment with apprehension and anxiety. He saw a spy in every shadow, and heard a voice in every murmur of the night breeze. Consciousness of the guilty business on which he was employed appalled his heart, and rendered it more timid than a woman’s. Yet still he proceeded. He reached the door of Antonia’s chamber. He stopped, and listened. All was hushed within. The total silence persuaded him that his intended victim was retired to rest, and he ventured to lift up the latch. The door was fastened, and resisted his efforts: but no sooner was it touched by the talisman, than the bolt flew back. The ravisher stepped on, and found himself in the chamber, where slept the innocent girl, unconscious how dangerous a visitor was drawing near her couch. The door closed after him, and the bolt shot again into its fastening.
Ambrosio advanced with precaution. He took care that not a board should creak under his foot, and held in his breath as he approached the bed. His first attention was to perform the magic ceremony, as Matilda had charged him: he breathed thrice upon the silver myrtle, pronounced over it Antonia’s name, and laid it upon her pillow. The effects which it had already produced permitted not his doubting its success in prolonging the slumbers of his devoted mistress. No sooner was the enchantment performed than he considered her to be absolutely in his power, and his eyes flamed with lust and impatience. He now ventured to cast a glance upon the sleeping beauty. A single lamp, burning before the statue of St. Rosolia, shed a faint light through the room, and permitted him to examine all the charms of the lovely object before him. The heat of the weather had obliged her to throw off part of the bedclothes: those which still covered her, Ambrosio’s insolent hand hastened to remove. She lay with her cheek reclining upon one ivory arm; the other rested on the side of the bed with graceful indolence. A few tresses of her hair had escaped from beneath the muslin which confined the rest, and fell carelessly over her bosom, as it heaved with slow and regular suspiration. The warm air had spread her cheek with higher colour than usual. A smile inexpressibly sweet played round her ripe and coral lips, from which every now and then escaped a gentle sigh or an half-pronounced sentence. An air of enchanting innocence and candour pervaded her whole form; and there was a sort of modesty in her very nakedness which added fresh stings to the desires of the lustful monk.
He remained for some moments devouring those charms with his eyes which soon were to be subjected to his ill-regulated passions. Her mouth half-opened seemed to solicit a kiss: he bent over her; he joined his lips to hers, and drew in the fragrance of her breath with rapture. This momentary pleasure increased his longing for still greater. His desires were raised to that frantic height by which brutes are agitated. He resolved not to delay for one instant longer the accomplishment of his wishes, and hastily proceeded to tear off those garments which impeded the gratification of his lust.
“Gracious God!” exclaimed a voice behind him; “Am I not deceived? Is not this an illusion?”
Terror, confusion, and disappointment accompanied these words, as they struck Ambrosio’s hearing. He started, and turned towards it. Elvira stood at the door of the chamber, and regarded the monk with looks of surprise and detestation.
A frightful dream had represented to her Antonia on the verge of a precipice. She saw her trembling on the brink: every moment seemed to threaten her fall, and she heard her exclaim with shrieks, “Save me, mother! Save me!—Yet a moment, and it will be too late!” Elvira woke in terror. The vision had made too strong an impression upon her mind, to permit her resting till assured of her daughter’s safety. She hastily started from her bed, threw on a loose nightgown, and passing through the closet in which slept the waiting-woman, she reached Antonia’s chamber just in time to rescue her from the grasp of the ravisher.
His shame and her amazement seemed to have petrified into statues both Elvira and the monk: they remained gazing upon each other in silence. The lady was the first to recover herself.
“It is no dream!” she cried; “It is really Ambrosio, who stands before me! It is the man whom Madrid esteems a saint, that I find at this late hour near the couch of my unhappy child! Monster of hypocrisy! I already suspected your designs, but forbore your accusation in pity to human frailty. Silence would now be criminal: the whole city shall be informed of your incontinence. I will unmask you, villain, and convince the church what a viper she cherishes in her bosom.”
Pale and confused the baffled culprit stood trembling before her.
He would fain have extenuated his offence, but could find no apology for his conduct: he could produce nothing but broken sentences, and excuses which contradicted each other. Elvira was too justly incensed to grant the pardon which he requested. She protested that she would raise the neighbourhood, and make him an example to all future hypocrites. Then hastening to the
