The Monk: A Romance
so lovely and so sweet! I breathed a prayer for her departed Spirit,
and vowed to revenge her death by the shame and punishment of her
Assassins. With danger and difficulty have I kept my oath. I unwarily
dropped some words at the funeral of Agnes, while thrown off my guard
by excessive grief, which alarmed the guilty conscience of the
Prioress. My every action was observed; My every step was traced. I was
constantly surrounded by the Superior’s spies. It was long before I
could find the means of conveying to the unhappy Girl’s Relations an
intimation of my secret. It was given out that Agnes had expired
suddenly: This account was credited not only by her Friends in Madrid,
but even by those within the Convent. The poison had left no marks upon
her body: No one suspected the true cause of her death, and it remained
unknown to all, save the Assassins and Myself.
“I have no more to say: for what I have already said, I will answer
with my life. I repeat that the Prioress is a Murderess; that she has
driven from the world, perhaps from heaven, an Unfortunate whose
offence was light and venial; that She has abused the power intrusted
to her hands, and has been a Tyrant, a Barbarian, and an Hypocrite. I
also accuse the four Nuns, Violante, Camilla, Alix, and Mariana, as
being her Accomplices, and equally criminal.”
Here St. Ursula ended her narrative. It created horror and surprize
throughout: But when She related the inhuman murder of Agnes, the
indignation of the Mob was so audibly testified, that it was scarcely
possible to hear the conclusion. This confusion increased with every
moment: At length a multitude of voices exclaimed that the Prioress
should be given up to their fury. To this Don Ramirez refused to
consent positively. Even Lorenzo bad the People remember that She had
undergone no trial, and advised them to leave her punishment to the
Inquisition. All representations were fruitless: The disturbance grew
still more violent, and the Populace more exasperated. In vain did
Ramirez attempt to convey his Prisoner out of the Throng. Wherever He
turned, a band of Rioters barred his passage, and demanded her being
delivered over to them more loudly than before. Ramirez ordered his
Attendants to cut their way through the multitude: Oppressed by
numbers, it was impossible for them to draw their swords. He threatened
the Mob with the vengeance of the Inquisition: But in this moment of
popular phrenzy even this dreadful name had lost its effect. Though
regret for his Sister made him look upon the Prioress with abhorrence,
Lorenzo could not help pitying a Woman in a situation so terrible: But
in spite of all his exertions, and those of the Duke, of Don Ramirez,
and the Archers, the People continued to press onwards. They forced a
passage through the Guards who protected their destined Victim, dragged
her from her shelter, and proceeded to take upon her a most summary and
cruel vengeance. Wild with terror, and scarcely knowing what She said,
the wretched Woman shrieked for a moment’s mercy: She protested that
She was innocent of the death of Agnes, and could clear herself from
the suspicion beyond the power of doubt. The Rioters heeded nothing but
the gratification of their barbarous vengeance. They refused to listen
to her: They showed her every sort of insult, loaded her with mud and
filth, and called her by the most opprobrious appellations. They tore
her one from another, and each new Tormentor was more savage than the
former. They stifled with howls and execrations her shrill cries for
mercy; and dragged her through the Streets, spurning her, trampling
her, and treating her with every species of cruelty which hate or
vindictive fury could invent. At length a Flint, aimed by some
well-directing hand, struck her full upon the temple. She sank upon the
ground bathed in blood, and in a few minutes terminated her miserable
existence. Yet though She no longer felt their insults, the Rioters
still exercised their impotent rage upon her lifeless body. They beat
it, trod upon it, and ill-used it, till it became no more than a mass
of flesh, unsightly, shapeless, and disgusting.
Unable to prevent this shocking event, Lorenzo and his Friends had
beheld it with the utmost horror: But they were rouzed from their
compelled inactivity, on hearing that the Mob was attacking the Convent
of St. Clare. The incensed Populace, confounding the innocent with the
guilty, had resolved to sacrifice all the Nuns of that order to their
rage, and not to leave one stone of the building upon another. Alarmed
at this intelligence, they hastened to the Convent, resolved to defend
it if possible, or at least to rescue the Inhabitants from the fury of
the Rioters. Most of the Nuns had fled, but a few still remained in
their habitation. Their situation was truly dangerous. However, as they
had taken the precaution of fastening the inner Gates, with this
assistance Lorenzo hoped to repel the Mob, till Don Ramirez should
return to him with a more sufficient force.
Having been conducted by the former disturbance to the distance of some
Streets from the Convent, He did not immediately reach it: When He
arrived, the throng surrounding it was so excessive as to prevent his
approaching the Gates. In the interim, the Populace besieged the
Building with persevering rage: They battered the walls, threw lighted
torches in at the windows, and swore that by break of day not a Nun of
St. Clare’s order should be left alive. Lorenzo had just succeeded in
piercing his way through the Crowd, when one of the Gates was forced
open. The Rioters poured into the interior part of the Building, where
they exercised their vengeance upon every thing which found itself in
their passage. They broke the furniture into pieces, tore down the
pictures, destroyed the reliques, and in their hatred of her Servant
forgot all respect to the Saint. Some employed themselves in searching
out the Nuns, Others in pulling down parts of the Convent, and Others
again in setting fire to the pictures and valuable furniture which it
contained. These Latter produced the most decisive desolation: Indeed
the consequences of their action were more sudden than themselves had
expected or wished. The Flames rising from the burning piles caught
part of the Building, which being old and dry, the conflagration spread
with rapidity from room to room. The Walls were soon shaken by the
devouring element: The Columns gave way: The Roofs came tumbling down
upon the Rioters, and crushed many of them beneath their weight.
Nothing was to be heard but shrieks and groans; The Convent was wrapped
in flames, and the whole presented a scene of devastation and horror.
Lorenzo was shocked at having been the cause, however innocent, of this
frightful disturbance: He endeavoured to repair his fault by protecting
the helpless Inhabitants of the Convent. He entered it with the Mob,
and exerted himself to repress the prevailing Fury, till the sudden and
alarming progress of the flames compelled him to provide for his own
safety. The People now hurried out, as eagerly as they had before
thronged in; But their numbers clogging up the doorway, and the fire
gaining upon them rapidly, many of them perished ere they had time to
effect their escape. Lorenzo’s good fortune directed him to a small
door in a farther Aisle of the Chapel. The bolt was already undrawn: He
opened the door, and found himself at the foot of St. Clare’s
Sepulchre.
Here he stopped to breathe. The Duke and some of his Attendants had
followed him, and thus were in security for the present. They now
consulted, what steps they should take to escape from this scene of
disturbance: But their deliberations were considerably interrupted by
the sight of volumes of fire rising from amidst the Convent’s massy
walls, by the noise of some heavy Arch tumbling down in ruins, or by
the mingled shrieks of the Nuns and Rioters, either suffocating in the
press, perishing in the flames, or crushed beneath the weight of the
falling Mansion.
Lorenzo enquired, whither the Wicket led? He was answered, to the
Garden of the Capuchins, and it was resolved to explore an outlet upon
that side. Accordingly the Duke raised the Latch, and passed into the
adjoining Cemetery. The Attendants followed without ceremony. Lorenzo,
being the last, was also on the point of quitting the Colonnade, when
He saw the door of the Sepulchre opened softly. Someone looked out, but
on perceiving Strangers uttered a loud shriek, started back again, and
flew down the marble Stairs.
“What can this mean?” cried Lorenzo; “Here is some mystery concealed.
Follow me without delay!”
Thus saying, He hastened into the Sepulchre, and pursued the person who
continued to fly before him. The Duke knew not the cause of his
exclamation, but supposing that He had good reasons for it, he followed
him without hesitation. The Others did the same, and the whole Party
soon arrived at the foot of the Stairs.
The upper door having been left open, the neighbouring flames darted
from above a sufficient light to enable Lorenzo’s catching a glance of
the Fugitive running through the long passages and distant Vaults: But
when a sudden turn deprived him of this assistance, total darkness
succeeded, and He could only trace the object of his enquiry by the
faint echo of retiring feet. The Pursuers were now compelled to proceed
with caution: As well as they could judge, the Fugitive also seemed to
slacken pace, for they heard the steps follow each other at longer
intervals. They at length were bewildered by the Labyrinth of passages,
and dispersed in various directions. Carried away by his eagerness to
clear up this mystery, and to penetrate into which He was impelled by a
movement secret and unaccountable, Lorenzo heeded not this circumstance
till He found himself in total solitude. The noise of footsteps had
ceased. All was silent around, and no clue offered itself to guide him
to the flying Person. He stopped to reflect on the means most likely to
aid his pursuit. He was persuaded that no common cause would have
induced the Fugitive to seek that dreary place at an hour so unusual:
The cry which He had heard, seemed uttered in a voice of terror, and He
was convinced that some mystery was attached to this event. After some
minutes past in hesitation He continued to proceed, feeling his way
along the walls of the passage. He had already past some time in this
slow progress, when He descried a spark of light glimmering at a
distance. Guided by this observation, and having drawn his sword, He
bent his steps towards the place, whence the beam seemed to be emitted.
It proceeded from the Lamp which flamed before St. Clare’s Statue.
Before it stood several Females, their white Garments streaming in the
blast, as it howled along the vaulted dungeons. Curious to know what
had brought them together in this melancholy spot, Lorenzo drew near
with precaution. The Strangers seemed earnestly engaged in
conversation. They heard not Lorenzo’s steps, and He approached
unobserved, till He could hear their voices distinctly.
“I protest,” continued She who was speaking when He arrived, and to
whom the rest were listening with great attention; “I protest, that I
saw them with my own eyes. I flew down the steps; They pursued me, and
I escaped falling into their hands with difficulty. Had it not been for
the Lamp, I should never have found you.”
“And what could bring them hither?” said another in a trembling voice;
“Do you think that they were looking for us?”
“God grant that my fears may be false,” rejoined the First; “But I
doubt they are Murderers! If they discover us, we are lost! As for me,
my fate is certain: My affinity to the Prioress will be a sufficient