The Monk: A Romance
revolt at the very idea, and fain would He have wiped from his memory
the scene which had just past. As his gloomy rage abated, in proportion
did his compassion augment for Antonia. He stopped, and would have
spoken to her words of comfort; But He knew not from whence to draw
them, and remained gazing upon her with mournful wildness. Her
situation seemed so hopeless, so woebegone, as to baffle mortal power
to relieve her. What could He do for her? Her peace of mind was lost,
her honour irreparably ruined. She was cut off for ever from society,
nor dared He give her back to it. He was conscious that were She to
appear in the world again, his guilt would be revealed, and his
punishment inevitable. To one so laden with crimes, Death came armed
with double terrors. Yet should He restore Antonia to light, and stand
the chance of her betraying him, how miserable a prospect would present
itself before her. She could never hope to be creditably established;
She would be marked with infamy, and condemned to sorrow and solitude
for the remainder of her existence. What was the alternative? A
resolution far more terrible for Antonia, but which at least would
insure the Abbot’s safety. He determined to leave the world persuaded
of her death, and to retain her a captive in this gloomy prison: There
He proposed to visit her every night, to bring her food, to profess his
penitence, and mingle his tears with hers. The Monk felt that this
resolution was unjust and cruel; but it was his only means to prevent
Antonia from publishing his guilt and her own infamy. Should He release
her, He could not depend upon her silence: His offence was too flagrant
to permit his hoping for her forgiveness. Besides, her reappearing
would excite universal curiosity, and the violence of her affliction
would prevent her from concealing its cause. He determined therefore,
that Antonia should remain a Prisoner in the dungeon.
He approached her with confusion painted on his countenance. He raised
her from the ground. Her hand trembled, as He took it, and He dropped
it again as if He had touched a Serpent. Nature seemed to recoil at the
touch. He felt himself at once repulsed from and attracted towards her,
yet could account for neither sentiment. There was something in her
look which penetrated him with horror; and though his understanding was
still ignorant of it, Conscience pointed out to him the whole extent of
his crime. In hurried accents yet the gentlest He could find, while his
eye was averted, and his voice scarcely audible, He strove to console
her under a misfortune which now could not be avoided. He declared
himself sincerely penitent, and that He would gladly shed a drop of his
blood, for every tear which his barbarity had forced from her. Wretched
and hopeless, Antonia listened to him in silent grief: But when He
announced her confinement in the Sepulchre, that dreadful doom to which
even death seemed preferable roused her from her insensibility at once.
To linger out a life of misery in a narrow loathsome Cell, known to
exist by no human Being save her Ravisher, surrounded by mouldering
Corses, breathing the pestilential air of corruption, never more to
behold the light, or drink the pure gale of heaven, the idea was more
terrible than She could support. It conquered even her abhorrence of
the Friar. Again She sank upon her knees: She besought his compassion
in terms the most pathetic and urgent. She promised, would He but
restore her to liberty, to conceal her injuries from the world; to
assign any reason for her reappearance which He might judge proper; and
in order to prevent the least suspicion from falling upon him, She
offered to quit Madrid immediately. Her entreaties were so urgent as to
make a considerable impression upon the Monk. He reflected that as her
person no longer excited his desires, He had no interest in keeping her
concealed as He had at first intended; that He was adding a fresh
injury to those which She had already suffered; and that if She adhered
to her promises, whether She was confined or at liberty, his life and
reputation were equally secure. On the other hand, He trembled lest in
her affliction Antonia should unintentionally break her engagement; or
that her excessive simplicity and ignorance of deceit should permit
some one more artful to surprize her secret. However well-founded were
these apprehensions, compassion, and a sincere wish to repair his fault
as much as possible solicited his complying with the prayers of his
Suppliant. The difficulty of colouring Antonia’s unexpected return to
life, after her supposed death and public interment, was the only point
which kept him irresolute. He was still pondering on the means of
removing this obstacle, when He heard the sound of feet approaching
with precipitation. The door of the Vault was thrown open, and Matilda
rushed in, evidently much confused and terrified.
On seeing a Stranger enter, Antonia uttered a cry of joy: But her hopes
of receiving succour from him were soon dissipated. The supposed
Novice, without expressing the least surprize at finding a Woman alone
with the Monk, in so strange a place, and at so late an hour, addressed
him thus without losing a moment.
“What is to be done, Ambrosio? We are lost, unless some speedy means is
found of dispelling the Rioters. Ambrosio, the Convent of St. Clare is
on fire; The Prioress has fallen a victim to the fury of the Mob.
Already is the Abbey menaced with a similar fate. Alarmed at the
threats of the People, the Monks seek for you everywhere. They imagine
that your authority alone will suffice to calm this disturbance. No one
knows what is become of you, and your absence creates universal
astonishment and despair. I profited by the confusion, and fled hither
to warn you of the danger.”
“This will soon be remedied,” answered the Abbot; “I will hasten back
to my Cell: a trivial reason will account for my having been missed.”
“Impossible!” rejoined Matilda: “The Sepulchre is filled with Archers.
Lorenzo de Medina, with several Officers of the Inquisition, searches
through the Vaults, and pervades every passage. You will be intercepted
in your flight; Your reasons for being at this late hour in the
Sepulchre will be examined; Antonia will be found, and then you are
undone for ever!”
“Lorenzo de Medina? Officers of the Inquisition? What brings them here?
Seek they for me? Am I then suspected? Oh! speak, Matilda! Answer me,
in pity!”
“As yet they do not think of you, but I fear that they will ere long.
Your only chance of escaping their notice rests upon the difficulty of
exploring this Vault. The door is artfully hidden:
Haply it may not be observed, and we may remain concealed till the
search is over.”
“But Antonia ..... Should the Inquisitors draw near, and her cries be
heard ....”
“Thus I remove that danger!” interrupted Matilda.
At the same time drawing a poignard, She rushed upon her devoted prey.
“Hold! Hold!” cried Ambrosio, seizing her hand, and wresting from it
the already lifted weapon. “What would you do, cruel Woman? The
Unfortunate has already suffered but too much, thanks to your
pernicious consels! Would to God that I had never followed them! Would
to God that I had never seen your face!”
Matilda darted upon him a look of scorn.
“Absurd!” She exclaimed with an air of passion and majesty which
impressed the Monk with awe. “After robbing her of all that made it
dear, can you fear to deprive her of a life so miserable? But ’tis
well! Let her live to convince you of your folly. I abandon you to your
evil destiny! I disclaim your alliance! Who trembles to commit so
insignificant a crime, deserves not my protection. Hark! Hark!
Ambrosio; Hear you not the Archers? They come, and your destruction is
inevitable!”
At this moment the Abbot heard the sound of distant voices. He flew to
close the door on whose concealment his safety depended, and which
Matilda had neglected to fasten. Ere He could reach it, He saw Antonia
glide suddenly by him, rush through the door, and fly towards the noise
with the swiftness of an arrow. She had listened attentively to
Matilda: She heard Lorenzo’s name mentioned, and resolved to risque
every thing to throw herself under his protection. The door was open.
The sounds convinced her that the Archers could be at no great
distance. She mustered up her little remaining strength, rushed by the
Monk ere He perceived her design, and bent her course rapidly towards
the voices. As soon as He recovered from his first surprize, the Abbot
failed not to pursue her. In vain did Antonia redouble her speed, and
stretch every nerve to the utmost. Her Enemy gained upon her every
moment: She heard his steps close after her, and felt the heat of his
breath glow upon her neck. He overtook her; He twisted his hand in the
ringlets of her streaming hair, and attempted to drag her back with him
to the dungeon. Antonia resisted with all her strength: She folded her
arms round a Pillar which supported the roof, and shrieked loudly for
assistance. In vain did the Monk strive to threaten her to silence.
“Help!” She continued to exclaim; “Help! Help! for God’s sake!”
Quickened by her cries, the sound of footsteps was heard approaching.
The Abbot expected every moment to see the Inquisitors arrive. Antonia
still resisted, and He now enforced her silence by means the most
horrible and inhuman. He still grasped Matilda’s dagger: Without
allowing himself a moment’s reflection, He raised it, and plunged it
twice in the bosom of Antonia! She shrieked, and sank upon the ground.
The Monk endeavoured to bear her away with him, but She still embraced
the Pillar firmly. At that instant the light of approaching Torches
flashed upon the Walls. Dreading a discovery, Ambrosio was compelled to
abandon his Victim, and hastily fled back to the Vault, where He had
left Matilda.
He fled not unobserved. Don Ramirez happening to arrive the first,
perceived a Female bleeding upon the ground, and a Man flying from the
spot, whose confusion betrayed him for the Murderer. He instantly
pursued the Fugitive with some part of the Archers, while the Others
remained with Lorenzo to protect the wounded Stranger. They raised her,
and supported her in their arms. She had fainted from excess of pain,
but soon gave signs of returning life. She opened her eyes, and on
lifting up her head, the quantity of fair hair fell back which till
then had obscured her features.
“God Almighty! It is Antonia!”
Such was Lorenzo’s exclamation, while He snatched her from the
Attendant’s arms, and clasped her in his own.
Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poignard had answered but too
well the purpose of its Employer. The wounds were mortal, and Antonia
was conscious that She never could recover. Yet the few moments which
remained for her were moments of happiness. The concern exprest upon
Lorenzo’s countenance, the frantic fondness of his complaints, and his
earnest enquiries respecting her wounds, convinced her beyond a doubt
that his affections were her own. She would not be removed from the
Vaults, fearing lest motion should only hasten her death; and She was
unwilling to lose those moments which She past in receiving proofs of
Lorenzo’s love, and assuring him of her own. She told him that had She
still been undefiled She might have lamented the loss of life; But that
deprived of honour and branded with shame, Death was to her a blessing:
She could not have been his Wife, and that hope being denied her, She
resigned herself to the Grave without one sigh of regret. She bad him
take courage, conjured him not to abandon himself to fruitless sorrow,
and declared that She mourned to leave nothing in the whole world but
him. While every sweet accent increased rather than lightened Lorenzo’s