anger and compassion! Sufferings, which form at once the torment and pleasure of my existence! Yet in this retreat my bosom would feel tranquil, were it not for the tortures of apprehension. Oh God! oh God! how cruel is a life of fear!—Father! I have given up all; I have abandoned the world and its delights for ever: nothing now remains, nothing now has charms for me, but your friendship, but your affection. If I lose that, father! oh! if I lose that, tremble at the effects of my despair!”
“You apprehend the loss of my friendship? How has my conduct justified this fear? Know me better, Rosario, and think me worthy of your confidence. What are your sufferings? Reveal them to me, and believe, that if ’Tis in my power to relieve them——”
“Ah! ’Tis in no one’s power but yours. Yet I must not let you know them. You would hate me for my avowal! you would drive me from your presence with scorn and ignominy.”
“My son, I conjure you! I entreat you——”
“For pity’s sake, enquire no further! I must not—I dare not—Hark! the bell rings for vespers! Father, your benediction, and I leave you.”
As he said this, he threw himself upon his knees, and received the blessing which he demanded. Then pressing the abbot’s hand to his lips, he started from the ground, and hastily quitted the apartment. Soon after Ambrosio descended to vespers (which were celebrated in a small chapel belonging to the abbey), filled with surprise at the singularity of the youth’s behaviour.
Vespers being over, the monks retired to their respective cells. The abbot alone remained in the chapel to receive the nuns of St. Clare. He had not been long seated in the confessional chair, before the prioress made her appearance. Each of the nuns was heard in her turn, while the others waited with the domina in the adjoining vestry. Ambrosio listened to the confessions with attention, made many exhortations, enjoined penance proportioned to each offence, and for some time every thing went on as usual: till at last one of the nuns, conspicuous from the nobleness of her air and elegance of her figure, carelessly permitted a letter to fall from her bosom. She was retiring, unconscious of her loss. Ambrosio supposed it to have been written by some one of her relations, and picked it up, intending to restore it to her.
“Stay, daughter,” said he; “you have let fall——”
At this moment, the paper being already open, his eye involuntarily read the first words. He started back with surprise. The nun had turned round on hearing his voice: she perceived her letter in his hand, and, uttering a shriek of terror, flew hastily to regain it.
“Hold!” said the friar in a tone of severity; “daughter, I must read this letter.”
“Then I am lost!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together wildly.
All colour instantly faded from her face; she trembled with agitation, and was obliged to fold her arms round a pillar of the chapel to save herself from sinking upon the floor. In the mean while the abbot read the following lines:
“All is ready for your escape, my dearest Agnes! At twelve to-morrow night I shall expect to find you at the garden-door: I have obtained the key, and a few hours will suffice to place you in a secure asylum. Let no mistaken scruples induce you to reject the certain means of preserving yourself and the innocent creature whom you nourish in your bosom. Remember that you had promised to be mine, long ere you engaged yourself to the church; that your situation will soon be evident to the prying eyes of your companions; and that flight is the only means of avoiding the effects of their malevolent resentment. Farewell, my Agnes! my dear and destined wife! Fail not to be at the garden-door at twelve!”
As soon as he had finished, Ambrosio bent an eye stern and angry upon the imprudent nun.
“This letter must to the prioress,” said he, and passed her.
His words sounded like thunder to her ears: she awoke
“You apprehend the loss of my friendship? How has my conduct justified this fear? Know me better, Rosario, and think me worthy of your confidence. What are your sufferings? Reveal them to me, and believe, that if ’Tis in my power to relieve them——”
“Ah! ’Tis in no one’s power but yours. Yet I must not let you know them. You would hate me for my avowal! you would drive me from your presence with scorn and ignominy.”
“My son, I conjure you! I entreat you——”
“For pity’s sake, enquire no further! I must not—I dare not—Hark! the bell rings for vespers! Father, your benediction, and I leave you.”
As he said this, he threw himself upon his knees, and received the blessing which he demanded. Then pressing the abbot’s hand to his lips, he started from the ground, and hastily quitted the apartment. Soon after Ambrosio descended to vespers (which were celebrated in a small chapel belonging to the abbey), filled with surprise at the singularity of the youth’s behaviour.
Vespers being over, the monks retired to their respective cells. The abbot alone remained in the chapel to receive the nuns of St. Clare. He had not been long seated in the confessional chair, before the prioress made her appearance. Each of the nuns was heard in her turn, while the others waited with the domina in the adjoining vestry. Ambrosio listened to the confessions with attention, made many exhortations, enjoined penance proportioned to each offence, and for some time every thing went on as usual: till at last one of the nuns, conspicuous from the nobleness of her air and elegance of her figure, carelessly permitted a letter to fall from her bosom. She was retiring, unconscious of her loss. Ambrosio supposed it to have been written by some one of her relations, and picked it up, intending to restore it to her.
“Stay, daughter,” said he; “you have let fall——”
At this moment, the paper being already open, his eye involuntarily read the first words. He started back with surprise. The nun had turned round on hearing his voice: she perceived her letter in his hand, and, uttering a shriek of terror, flew hastily to regain it.
“Hold!” said the friar in a tone of severity; “daughter, I must read this letter.”
“Then I am lost!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together wildly.
All colour instantly faded from her face; she trembled with agitation, and was obliged to fold her arms round a pillar of the chapel to save herself from sinking upon the floor. In the mean while the abbot read the following lines:
“All is ready for your escape, my dearest Agnes! At twelve to-morrow night I shall expect to find you at the garden-door: I have obtained the key, and a few hours will suffice to place you in a secure asylum. Let no mistaken scruples induce you to reject the certain means of preserving yourself and the innocent creature whom you nourish in your bosom. Remember that you had promised to be mine, long ere you engaged yourself to the church; that your situation will soon be evident to the prying eyes of your companions; and that flight is the only means of avoiding the effects of their malevolent resentment. Farewell, my Agnes! my dear and destined wife! Fail not to be at the garden-door at twelve!”
As soon as he had finished, Ambrosio bent an eye stern and angry upon the imprudent nun.
“This letter must to the prioress,” said he, and passed her.
His words sounded like thunder to her ears: she awoke
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