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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74640 ***





  THE _ITALIAN_,

  OR THE

  CONFESSIONAL of the BLACK PENITENTS.

  _A ROMANCE._


  BY
  ANN RADCLIFFE,
  AUTHOR OF THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO, &C. &C.

  He, wrapt in clouds of mystery and silence,
  Broods o'er his passions, bodies them in deeds,
  And sends them forth on wings of Fate to others
  Like the invisible Will, that guides us,
  Unheard, unknown, unsearchable!


  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. II.

  LONDON:
  Printed for T. CADELL Jun. and W. DAVIES
  (successors to Mr. CADELL) in the STRAND.

  1797.




THE _ITALIAN_.




CHAPTER I.

          That lawn conceals her beauty
  As the thin cloud, just silver'd by the rays,
  The trembling moon: think ye 'tis shrouded from
  The curious eye?


Wrapt in Olivia's veil, Ellena descended to the music-room, and mingled
with the nuns, who were assembled within the grate. Among the monks
and pilgrims without it, were some strangers in the usual dress of the
country, but she did not perceive any person who resembled Vivaldi;
and she considered, that, if he were present, he would not venture to
discover himself, while her nun's veil concealed her as effectually
from him as from the lady Abbess. It would be necessary, therefore,
to seek an opportunity of withdrawing it for a moment at the grate, an
expedient, which must certainly expose her to the notice of strangers.

On the entrance of the lady Abbess, Ellena's fear of observation
rendered her insensible to every other consideration; she fancied, that
the eyes of the Superior were particularly directed upon herself. The
veil seemed an insufficient protection from their penetrating glances,
and she almost sunk with the terror of instant discovery.

The Abbess, however, passed on, and, having conversed for a few
moments with the _padre Abate_ and some visitors of distinction, took
her chair; and the performance immediately opened with one of those
solemn and impressive airs, which the Italian nuns know how to give
with so much taste and sweetness. It rescued even Ellena for a moment
from a sense of danger, and she resigned herself to the surrounding
scene, of which the _coup-d'œil_ was striking and grand. In a vaulted
apartment of considerable extent, lighted by innumerable tapers,
and where even the ornaments, though pompous, partook of the solemn
character of the institution, were assembled about fifty nuns, who, in
the interesting habit of their order, appeared with graceful plainness.
The delicacy of their air, and their beauty, softened by the lawn that
thinly veiled it, were contrasted by the severe majesty of the lady
Abbess, who, seated on an elevated chair, apart from the audience,
seemed the Empress of the scene, and by the venerable figures of the
father _Abate_ and his attendant monks, who were arranged without that
screen of wire-work, extending the whole breadth of the apartment,
which is called the grate. Near the holy father were placed the
strangers of distinction, dressed in the splendid Neapolitan habit,
whose gay colouring and airy elegance opposed well with the dark
drapery of the ecclesiastics; their plumed hats loftily overtopping the
half-cowled heads and grey locks of the monks. Nor was the contrast
of countenances less striking; the grave, the austere, the solemn,
and the gloomy, intermingling with the light, the blooming, and the
debonaire, expressed all the various tempers, that render life a
blessing or a burden, and, as with the spell of magic, transform this
world into a transient paradise or purgatory. In the back ground of the
picture stood some pilgrims, with looks less joyous and more demure
than they had worn on the road the preceding day; and among them were
some inferior brothers and attendants of the convent. To this part
of the chamber Ellena frequently directed her attention, but did not
distinguish Vivaldi; and, though she had taken a station near the
grate, she had not courage indecorously to withdraw her veil before so
many strangers. And thus, if he even were in the apartment, it was not
probable he would venture to come forward.

The concert concluded without his having been discovered by Ellena;
and she withdrew to the apartment, where the collation was spread, and
where the Abbess and her guests soon after appeared. Presently, she
observed a stranger, in a pilgrim's habit, station himself near the
grate; his face was partly muffled in his cloak, and he seemed to be a
spectator rather than a partaker of the feast.

Ellena, who understood this to be Vivaldi, was watchful for an
opportunity of approaching, unseen by the Abbess, the place where he
had fixed himself. Engaged in conversation with the ladies around her,
the Superior soon favoured Ellena's wish, who, having reached the
grate, ventured to lift her veil for one instant. The stranger, letting
his cloak fall, thanked her with his eyes for her condescension, and
she perceived, that he was not Vivaldi! Shocked at the interpretation,
which might be given to a conduct apparently so improper, as much as by
the disappointment, which Vivaldi's absence occasioned, she was hastily
retiring, when another stranger approached with quick steps, whom she
instantly knew, by the grace and spirit of his air, to be Vivaldi;
but, determined not to expose herself a second time to the possibility
of a mistake, she awaited for some further signal of his identity,
before she discovered herself. His eyes were fixed upon her in earnest
attention for some moments, before he drew aside the cloak from his
face. But he soon did so;--and it was Vivaldi himself.

Ellena, perceiving that she was known, did not raise her veil, but
advanced a few steps towards the grate. Vivaldi there deposited a small
folded paper, and before she could venture to deliver her own billet,
he had retired among the crowd. As she stepped forward to secure his
letter, she observed a nun hastily approach the spot where he had
laid it, and she paused. The garment of the Recluse wafted it from the
place where it had been partly concealed; and when Ellena perceived
the nun's foot rest upon the paper, she with difficulty disguised her
apprehensions.

A friar, who from without the grate addressed the sister, seemed with
much earnestness, yet with a certain air of secresy, communicating
some important intelligence. The fears of Ellena suggested that he had
observed the action of Vivaldi, and was making known his suspicions;
and she expected, every instant, to see the nun lift up the paper, and
deliver it to the Abbess.

From this immediate apprehension, however, she was released when the
sister pushed it gently aside, without examination, a circumstance that
not less surprized than relieved her. But, when the conference broke
up, and the friar, hastily retreating among the crowd, disappeared
from the apartment, and the nun approached and whispered the Superior,
all her terrors were renewed. She scarcely doubted, that Vivaldi
was detected, and that his letter was designedly left where it had
been deposited, for the purpose of alluring her to betray herself.
Trembling, dismayed, and almost sinking with apprehension, she watched
the countenance of the Abbess, while the nun addressed her, and thought
she read her own fate in the frown that appeared there.

Whatever might be the intentions or the directions of the Superior, no
active measure was at present employed; the Recluse, having received
an answer, retired quietly among the sisters, and the Abbess resumed
her usual manner. Ellena, however, supposing she was now observed, did
not dare to seize the paper, though she believed it contained momentous
information, and feared that the time was now escaping, which might
facilitate her deliverance. Whenever she ventured to look round, the
eyes of the Abbess seemed pointed upon her, and she judged from the
position of the nun, for the veil concealed her face, that she also was
vigilantly regarding her.

Above an hour had elapsed in this state of anxious suspense, when the
collation concluded, and the assembly broke up; during the general
bustle of which, Ellena ventured to the grate, and secured the paper.
As she concealed it in her robe, she scarcely dared to enquire by a
hasty glance whether she had been observed, and would have withdrawn
immediately to examine the contents, had she not perceived, at the same
instant, the Abbess quitting the apartment. On looking round for the
nun, Ellena discovered that she was gone.

Ellena followed distantly in the Abbess's train; and, as she drew
nearer to Olivia, gave a signal, and passed on to her cell. There, once
more alone, and having secured the door, she sat down to read Vivaldi's
billet, trying to command her impatience, and to understand the lines,
over which her sight rapidly moved, when in the eagerness of turning
over the paper, the lamp dropt from her trembling hand and expired. Her
distress now nearly reached despair. To go forth into the convent for
a light was utterly impracticable, since it would betray that she was
no longer a prisoner, and not only would Olivia suffer from a discovery
of the indulgence she had granted, but she herself would be immediately
confined. Her only hope rested upon Olivia's arrival before it might
be too late to practice the instructions of Vivaldi, if, indeed, they
were still practicable; and she listened with intense solicitude for
an approaching footstep, while she yet held, ignorant of its contents,
the billet, that probably would decide her fate. A thousand times she
turned about the eventful paper, endeavoured to trace the lines with
her fingers, and to guess their import, thus enveloped in mystery;
while she experienced all the various torture that the consciousness of
having in her very hand the information, on a timely knowledge of which
her life, perhaps, depended, without being able to understand it, could
inflict.

Presently she heard advancing steps, and a light gleamed from
the passage before she considered they might be some other than
Olivia's; and that it was prudent to conceal the billet she held. The
consideration, however, came too late to be acted upon; for, before the
rustling paper was disposed of, a person entered the cell, and Ellena
beheld her friend. Pale, trembling, and silent, she took the lamp from
the nun, and, eagerly running over Vivaldi's note, learned, that at the
time it was written, brother Jeronimo was in waiting without the gate
of the nun's garden, where Vivaldi designed to join him immediately,
and conduct her by a private way beyond the walls. He added, that
horses were stationed at the foot of the mountain, to convey her
wherever she should judge proper; and conjured her to be expeditious,
since other circumstances, besides the universal engagement of the
Recluses, were at that moment particularly favourable to an escape.

Ellena, desponding and appalled, gave the paper to Olivia, requesting
she would read it hastily, and advise her how to act. It was now an
hour and a half since Vivaldi had said, that success depended upon
expedition, and that he had probably watched at the appointed place; in
such an interval, how many circumstances might have occurred to destroy
every possibility of a retreat, which it was certain the engagement of
the Abbess and the sisters no longer favoured!

The generous Olivia, having read the billet, partook of all her young
friend's distress, and was as willing, as Ellena was anxious, to dare
every danger for the chance of obtaining deliverance.

Ellena could feel gratitude for such goodness even at this moment of
agonizing apprehension. After a pause of deep consideration, Olivia,
said, "In every avenue of the convent we are now liable to meet some
of the nuns; but my veil, though thin, has hitherto protected you, and
we must hope it may still assist your purpose. It will be necessary,
however, to pass through the refectory, where such of the sisters as
did not partake of the collation, are assembled at supper, and will
remain so, till the first mattin calls them to the chapel. If we wait
till then, I fear it will be to no purpose to go at all."

Ellena's fears perfectly agreed with those of Olivia; and entreating
that another moment might not be lost in hesitation, and that she would
lead the way to the nun's garden, they quitted the cell together.

Several of the sisters passed them, as they descended to the refectory,
but without particularly noticing Ellena; who, as she drew near that
alarming apartment, wrapt her veil closer, and leaned with heavier
pressure upon the arm of her faithful friend. At the door they were met
by the Abbess, who had been overlooking the nuns assembled at supper,
and missing Olivia had enquired for her. Ellena shrunk back to elude
observation, and to let the Superior pass; but Olivia was obliged to
answer to the summons. Having, however, unveiled herself, she was
permitted to proceed; and Ellena, who had mingled with the crowd that
surrounded the Abbess, and thus escaped detection, followed Olivia with
faltering steps, through the refectory. The nuns were luckily too much
engaged by the entertainment, at this moment, to look round them, and
the fugitive reached, unsuspected, an opposite door.

In the hall, to which they descended, the adventurers were frequently
crossed by servants bearing dishes from the refectory to the kitchen;
and, at the very moment when they were opening the door, that led into
the garden, a sister, who had observed them, demanded whether they had
yet heard the mattin-bell, since they were going towards the chapel.

Terrified at this critical interruption, Ellena pressed Olivia's arm,
in signal of silence, and was hastening forward, when the latter, more
prudent, paused, and calmly answering the question, was then suffered
to proceed.

As they crossed the garden towards the gate, Ellena's anxiety lest
Vivaldi should have been compelled to leave it, encreased so much, that
she had scarcely power to proceed. "O if my strength should fail before
I reach it!" she said softly to Olivia, "or if I should reach it too
late!"

Olivia tried to cheer her, and pointed out the gate, on which
the moonlight fell; "At the end of this walk only," said Olivia,
"see!--where the shadows of the trees open, is our goal."

Encouraged by the view of it, Ellena fled with lighter steps along the
alley; but the gate seemed to mock her approach, and to retreat before
her. Fatigue overtook her in this long alley, before she could overtake
the spot so anxiously sought, and, breathless and exhausted, she was
once more compelled to stop, and once more in the agony of terror
exclaimed--"O, if my strength should fail before I reach it!--O, if I
should drop even while it is within my view."

The pause of a moment enabled her to proceed, and she stopped not again
till she arrived at the gate; when Olivia suggested the prudence of
ascertaining who was without, and of receiving an answer to the signal,
which Vivaldi had proposed, before they ventured to make themselves
known. She then struck upon the wood, and, in the anxious pause that
followed, whispering voices were distinctly heard from without, but no
signal spoke in reply to the nun's.

"We are betrayed!" said Ellena softly, "but I will know the worst at
once;" and she repeated the signal, when, to her unspeakable joy,
it was answered by three smart raps upon the gate. Olivia, more
distrustful, would have checked the sudden hope of her friend, till
some further proof had appeared, that it was Vivaldi who waited
without, but her precaution came too late; a key already grated in
the lock; the door opened, and two persons muffled in their garments
appeared at it. Ellena was hastily retreating, when a well-known voice
recalled her, and she perceived, by the rays of a half-hooded lamp,
which Jeronimo held, Vivaldi.

"O heavens!" he exclaimed, in a voice tremulous with joy, as he took
her hand, "is it possible that you are again my own! If you could but
know what I have suffered during this last hour!"--Then observing
Olivia, he drew back, till Ellena expressed her deep sense of
obligation to the nun.

"We have no time to lose," said Jeronimo sullenly; "we have stayed too
long already, as you will find, perhaps."

"Farewel, dear Ellena!" said Olivia, "may the protection of heaven
never leave you!"

The fears of Ellena now gave way to affectionate sorrow, as, weeping on
the bosom of the nun, she said "farewel! O farewel, my dear, my tender
friend! I must never, never see you more, but I shall always love you;
and you have promised, that I shall hear from you; remember the convent
della Pieta!"

"You should have settled this matter within," said Jeronimo, "we have
been here these two hours already."

"Ah Ellena!" said Vivaldi, as he gently disengaged her from the nun,
"do I then hold only the second place in your heart?"

Ellena, as she dismissed her tears, replied with a smile more eloquent
than words; and when she had again and again bade adieu to Olivia, she
gave him her hand, and quitted the gate.

"It is moonlight," observed Vivaldi to Jeronimo, "your lamp is useless,
and may betray us."

"It will be necessary in the church," replied Jeronimo, "and in some
circuitous avenues we must pass, for I dare not lead you out through
the great gates, Signor, as you well know."

"Lead on, then," replied Vivaldi, and they reached one of the cypress
walks, that extended to the church; but, before they entered it, Ellena
paused and looked back to the garden gate, that she might see Olivia
once again. The nun was still there, and Ellena perceived her faintly
in the moonlight, waving her hand in signal of a last adieu. Ellena's
heart was full; she wept, and lingered, and returned the signal, till
the gentle violence of Vivaldi withdrew her from the spot.

"I envy your friend those tears," said he, "and feel jealous of the
tenderness that excites them. Weep no more, my Ellena."

"If you knew her worth," replied Ellena, "and the obligations I owe
her!"--Her voice was lost in sighs, and Vivaldi only pressed her hand
in silence.

As they traversed the gloomy walk, that led to the church, Vivaldi
said, "Are you certain, father, that not any of the brothers are doing
penance at the shrines in our way?"

"Doing penance on a festival, Signor! they are more likely, by this
time, to be taking down the ornaments."

"That would be equally unfortunate for us," said Vivaldi; "cannot we
avoid the church, father?"

Jeronimo assured him, that this was impossible; and they immediately
entered one of its lonely aisles, where he unhooded the lamp, for the
tapers, which had given splendour, at an earlier hour, to the numerous
shrines, had expired, except those at the high altar, which were so
remote, that their rays faded into twilight long before they reached
the part of the church where the fugitives passed. Here and there,
indeed, a dying lamp shot a tremulous gleam upon the shrine below, and
vanished again, serving to mark the distances in the long perspective
of arches, rather than to enlighten the gloomy solitude; but no sound,
not even of a whisper, stole along the pavement.

They crossed to a side door communicating with the court, and with
the rock, which enshrined the image of _our Lady of mount Carmel_.
There, the sudden glare of tapers issuing from the cave, alarmed the
fugitives, who had begun to retreat, when Jeronimo, stepping forward to
examine the place, assured them, there was no symptom of any person
being within, and that lights burned day and night around the shrine.

Revived by this explanation, they followed into the cave, where their
conductor opened a part of the wire-work enclosing the saint, and led
them to the extremity of the vault, sunk deep within which appeared a
small door. While Ellena trembled with apprehension, Jeronimo applied
a key, and they perceived, beyond the door, a narrow passage winding
away into the rock. The monk was leading on, but Vivaldi, who had the
suspicions of Ellena, paused at the entrance, and demanded whither he
was conducting them.

"To the place of your _destination_," replied the brother, in a hollow
voice; an answer which alarmed Ellena, and did not satisfy Vivaldi.
"I have given myself to your guidance," he said, "and have confided to
you what is dearer to me than existence. Your life," pointing to the
short sword concealed beneath his pilgrim's vest, "your life, you may
rely upon my word, shall answer for your treachery. If your purpose is
evil, pause a moment, and repent, or you shall not quit this passage
alive."

"Do you menace me!" replied the brother, his countenance darkening.
"Of what service would be my death to you? Do you not know that every
brother in the convent would rise to avenge it?"

"I know only that I will make sure of one traitor, if there be one,"
said Vivaldi, "and defend this lady against your host of monks; and,
since you also know this, proceed accordingly."

At this instant it occurring to Ellena, that the passage in question
probably led to the prison-chamber, which Olivia had described as
situated within some deep recess of the convent, and that Jeronimo had
certainly betrayed them, she refused to go further. "If your purpose is
honest," said she, "why do you not conduct us through some direct gate
of the convent; why are we brought into these subterraneous labyrinths?"

"There is no direct gate but that of the portal," Jeronimo replied,
"and this is the only other avenue leading beyond the walls." "And why
can we not go out through the portal?" Vivaldi asked.

"Because it is beset with pilgrims, and lay brothers," replied
Jeronimo, "and though you might pass them safely enough, what is to
become of the lady? But all this you knew before, Signor; and was
willing enough to trust me, then. The passage we are entering opens
upon the cliffs, at some distance. I have run hazard enough already and
will waste no more time; so if you do not chuse to go forward, I will
leave you, and you may act as you please."

He concluded with a laugh of derision, and was re-locking the door,
when Vivaldi, alarmed for the probable consequence of his resentment,
and somewhat re-assured by the indifference he discovered as to their
pursuing the avenue or not, endeavoured to appease him, as well as to
encourage Ellena; and he succeeded in both.

As he followed in silence through the gloomy passage, his doubts were,
however, not so wholly vanquished, but that he was prepared for attack,
and while he supported Ellena with one hand, he held his sword in the
other.

The avenue was of considerable length, and before they reached its
extremity, they heard music from a distance, winding along the rocks.
"Hark!" cried Ellena, "Whence come those sounds? Listen!"

"From the cave we have left," replied Jeronimo, "and it is midnight by
that; it is the last chaunt of the pilgrims at the shrine of our Lady.
Make haste, Signor, I shall be called for."

The fugitives now perceived, that all retreat was cut off, and that, if
they had lingered only a few moments longer in the cave, they should
have been surprized by those devotees, some one of whom, however, it
appeared possible might wander into this avenue, and still interrupt
their escape. When Vivaldi told his apprehensions, Jeronimo, with an
arch sneer, affirmed there was no danger of that, "for the passage," he
added, "is known only to the brothers of the convent."

Vivaldi's doubts vanished when he further understood, that the avenue
led only from the cliffs without to the cave, and was used for the
purpose of conveying secretly to the shrine, such articles as were
judged necessary to excite the superstitious wonder of the devotees.

While he proceeded in thoughtful silence, a distant chime sounded
hollowly through the chambers of the rock. "The mattin-bell strikes!"
said Jeronimo, in seeming alarm, "I am summoned. Signora quicken your
steps;" an unnecessary request, for Ellena already passed with her
utmost speed; and she now rejoiced on perceiving a door in the remote
winding of the passage, which she believed would emancipate her from
the convent. But, as she advanced, the avenue appeared extending beyond
it; and the door, which stood a little open allowed her a glimpse of a
chamber in the cliff, duskily lighted.

Vivaldi, alarmed by the light, enquired, when he had passed, whether
any person was in the chamber, and received an equivocal answer from
Jeronimo, who, however, soon after pointed to an arched gate that,
terminated the avenue. They proceeded with lighter steps, for hope
now cheared their hearts, and, on reaching the gate, all apprehension
vanished. Jeronimo gave the lamp to Vivaldi, while he began to unbar
and unlock the door, and Vivaldi had prepared to reward the brother for
his fidelity, before they perceived that the door refused to yield. A
dreadful imagination seized on Vivaldi. Jeronimo turning round, coolly
said, "I fear we are betrayed; the second lock is shot! I have only the
key of the first."

"We _are_ betrayed," said Vivaldi, in a resolute tone, "but do not
suppose, that your dissimulation conceals you. I understand by whom
we are betrayed. Recollect my late assertion, and consider once more,
whether it is your interest to intercept us."

"My Signor," replied Jeronimo, "I do not deceive you when I protest
by our holy saint, that I have not caused this gate to be fastened,
and that I would open it if I could. The lock, which holds it, was not
shot an hour ago. I am the more surprized at what has happened, because
this place is seldom passed, even by the holiest footstep; and I fear,
whoever has passed now, has been led hither by suspicion, and comes to
intercept your flight."

"Your wily explanation, brother, may serve you for an inferior
occasion, but not on this," replied Vivaldi, "either, therefore,
unclose the gate, or prepare for the worst. You are not now to learn,
that, however slightly I may estimate my own life, I will never abandon
this lady to the horrors, which your community have already prepared
for her."

Ellena, summoning her fleeting spirits, endeavoured to calm the
indignation of Vivaldi, and to prevent the consequence of his
suspicions, as well as to prevail with Jeronimo, to unfasten the gate.
Her efforts were, however, followed by a long altercation; but, at
length, the art or the innocence of the brother, appeased Vivaldi, who
now endeavoured to force the gate, while Jeronimo in vain represented
its strength, and the certain ruin, that must fall upon himself, if it
should be discovered he had concurred in destroying it.

The gate was immoveable; but, as no other chance of escaping appeared,
Vivaldi was not easily prevailed with to desist; all possibility of
retreating too was gone, since the church and the cave were now crowded
with devotees, attending the mattin service.

Jeronimo, however, seemingly did not despair of effecting their
release, but he acknowledged that they would probably be compelled to
remain concealed in this gloomy avenue all night, and perhaps the next
day. At length, it was agreed, that he should return to the church,
to examine whether a possibility remained of the fugitives passing
unobserved to the great portal; and, having conducted them back to the
chamber, of which they had taken a passing glimpse, he proceeded to the
shrine.

For a considerable time after his departure, they were not without
hope; but, their confidence diminishing as his delay encreased, their
uncertainty at length became terrible; and it was only for the sake
of Vivaldi, from whom she scrupulously concealed all knowledge of the
particular fate, which she was aware must await her in the convent,
that Ellena appeared to endure it with calmness. Notwithstanding the
plausibility of Jeronimo, suspicion of his treachery returned upon
her mind. The cold and earthy air of this chamber was like that of a
sepulchre; and when she looked round, it appeared exactly to correspond
with the description given by Olivia of the prison where the nun had
languished and expired. It was walled and vaulted with the rock, had
only one small grated aperture in the roof to admit air, and contained
no furniture, except one table, a bench, and the lamp, which dimly
shewed the apartment. That a lamp should be found burning in a place
so remote and solitary, amazed her still more when she recollected the
assertion of Jeronimo,--that even holy steps seldom passed this way;
and when she considered also, that he had expressed no surprize at a
circumstance, according to his own assertion, so unusual. Again it
appeared; that she had been betrayed into the very prison, designed for
her by the Abbess; and the horror, occasioned by this supposition, was
so great, that she was on the point of disclosing it to Vivaldi, but an
apprehension of the distraction, into which his desperate courage might
precipitate him, restrained her.

While these considerations occupied Ellena, and it appeared that any
certainty would be less painful than this suspense, she frequently
looked round the chamber in search of some object, which might
contradict or confirm her suspicion, that this was the death-room of
the unfortunate nun. No such circumstance appeared, but as her eyes
glanced, with almost phrenzied eagerness, she perceived something
shadowy in a remote corner of the floor; and on approaching, discovered
what seemed a dreadful hieroglyphic, a mattrass of straw, in which she
thought she beheld the death-bed of the miserable recluse; nay more,
that the impression it still retained, was that which her form had left
there.

While Vivaldi was yet entreating her to explain the occasion of the
horror she betrayed, the attention of each was withdrawn by a hollow
sigh, that rose near them. Ellena caught unconsciously the arm of
Vivaldi, and listened, aghast, for a return of the sound, but all
remained still.

"It surely was not fancied!" said Vivaldi, after a long pause, "you
heard it also?"

"I did!" replied Ellena.

"It was a sigh, was it not?" he added.

"O yes, and such a sigh!"

"Some person is concealed near us," observed Vivaldi, looking round;
"but be not alarmed, Ellena, I have a sword."

"A sword! alas! you know not----But hark! there, again!"

"That was very near us!" said Vivaldi. "This lamp burns so
sickly!"----and he held it high, endeavouring to penetrate the furthest
gloom of the chamber. "Hah! who goes there?" he cried, and stepped
suddenly forward; but no person appeared, and a silence as of the tomb,
returned.

"If you are in sorrow, speak!" Vivaldi, at length, said; "from
fellow-sufferers you will meet with sympathy. If your designs are
evil--tremble, for you shall find I am desperate."

Still no answer was returned, and he carried forward the lamp to the
opposite end of the chamber, where he perceived a small door in the
rock. At the same instant he heard from within, a low tremulous sound,
as of a person in prayer, or in agony. He pressed against the door,
which, to his surprize, yielded immediately, and discovered a figure
kneeling before a crucifix, with an attention so wholly engaged, as not
to observe the presence of a stranger, till Vivaldi spoke. The person
then rose from his knees, and turning, shewed the silvered temples and
pale features of an aged monk. The mild and sorrowful character of
the countenance, and the lambent lustre of eyes, which seemed still
to regain somewhat of the fire of genius, interested Vivaldi, and
encouraged Ellena, who had followed him.

An unaffected surprize appeared in the air of the monk; but Vivaldi,
notwithstanding the interesting benignity of his countenance, feared
to answer his enquiries, till the father hinted to him, that an
explanation was necessary, even to his own safety. Encouraged by his
manner, rather than intimidated by this hint, and perceiving, that his
situation was desperate, Vivaldi confided to the friar some partial
knowledge of his embarrassment.

While he spoke, the father listened with deep attention, looked
with compassion alternately upon him and Ellena; and some harassing
objection seemed to contend with the pity, which urged him to assist
the strangers. He enquired how long Jeronimo had been absent, and shook
his head significantly when he learned that the gate of the avenue was
fastened by a double lock. "You are betrayed, my children," laid he,
"you have trusted with the simplicity of youth, and the cunning of age
has deceived you."

The terrible conviction affected Ellena to tears; and Vivaldi, scarcely
able to command the indignation which a view of such treachery excited,
was unable to offer her any consolation.

"You, my daughter, I remember to have seen in the church this morning,"
observed the friar; "I remember too, that you protested against the
vows you were brought thither to seal. Alas! my child, was you aware of
the consequence of such a proceeding?"

"I had only a choice of evils," Ellena replied.

"Holy father," said Vivaldi, "I will not believe, that you are one
of those who either assisted in or approved the persecution of
innocence. If you were acquainted with the misfortunes of this lady,
you would pity, and save her; but there is now no time for detail;
and I can only conjure you, by every sacred consideration, to assist
her to leave the convent! If there were leisure to inform you of the
unjustifiable means, which have been employed to bring her within these
walls--if you knew that she was taken, an orphan, from her home at
midnight--that armed ruffians brought her hither--and at the command of
strangers--that she has not a single relation surviving to assert her
right of independence, or reclaim her of her persecutors.----O! holy
father, if you knew all this!"----Vivaldi was unable to proceed.

The friar again regarded Ellena with compassion, but still in
thoughtful silence. "All this may be very true," at length he said,
"but"----and he hesitated.

"I understand you, father," said Vivaldi--"you require proof; but how
can proof be adduced here? You must rely upon the honour of my word.
And, if you are inclined to assist us, it must be immediately!--while
you hesitate, we are lost. Even now I think I hear the footsteps of
Jeronimo."

He stepped softly to the door of the chamber, but all was yet still.
The friar, too, listened, but he also deliberated; while Ellena, with
clasped hands and a look of eager supplication and terror, awaited his
decision.

"No one is approaching," said Vivaldi, "it is not yet too late!--Good
father! if you would serve us, dispatch."

"Poor innocent!" said the friar, half to himself, "in this chamber--in
this fatal place!"--

"In this chamber!" exclaimed Ellena, anticipating his meaning. "It was
in this chamber, then, that a nun was suffered to perish! and I, no
doubt, am conducted hither to undergo a similar fate!"

"In this chamber!" re-echoed Vivaldi, in a voice of desperation. "Holy
father, if you are indeed disposed to assist us, let us act this
instant; the next, perhaps, may render your best intentions unavailing!"

The friar, who had regarded Ellena while she mentioned the nun, with
the utmost surprize, now withdrew his attention; a few tears fell on
his cheek, but he hastily dried them, and seemed struggling to overcome
some grief, that was deep in his heart.

Vivaldi, finding that entreaty had no power to hasten his decision, and
expecting every moment to hear the approach of Jeronimo, paced the
chamber in agonizing perturbation, now pausing at the door to listen,
and then calling, though almost hopelessly, upon the humanity of the
friar. While Ellena, looking round the room in shuddering horror,
repeatedly exclaimed, "On this very spot! in this very chamber! O what
sufferings have these walls witnessed! what are they yet to witness!"

Vivaldi now endeavoured to soothe the spirits of Ellena, and again
urged the friar to employ this critical moment in saving her; "O
heaven!" said he, "if she is now discovered, her fate is certain!"

"I dare not say what that fate would be," interrupted the father, "or
what my own, should I consent to assist you; but, though I am old,
I have not quite forgotten to feel for others! They may oppress the
few remaining years of my age, but the blooming days of youth should
flourish; and they shall flourish, my children, if my power can aid
you. Follow me to the gate; we will see whether my key cannot unfasten
all the locks that hold it."

Vivaldi and Ellena immediately followed the feeble steps of the old
man, who frequently stopped to listen whether Jeronimo, or any of the
brothers, to whom the latter might have betrayed Ellena's situation,
were approaching; but not an echo wandered along the lonely avenue,
till they reached the gate, when distant footsteps beat upon the ground.

"They are approaching, father!" whispered Ellena. "O, if the key should
not open these locks instantly, we are lost! Hark! now I hear their
voices--they call upon my name! Already they have discovered we have
left the chamber."

While the friar, with trembling hands, applied the key, Vivaldi
endeavoured at once to assist him, and to encourage Ellena.

The locks gave way, and the gate opened at once upon the moonlight
mountains. Ellena heard once more, with the joy of liberty, the
midnight breeze passing among the pensile branches of the palms, that
loftily overshadowed a rude platform before the gate, and rustling with
fainter sound among the pendent shrubs of the surrounding cliffs.

"There is no leisure for thanks, my children," said the friar,
observing they were about to speak. "I will fasten the gate, and
endeavour to delay your pursuers, that you may have time to escape. My
blessing go with you!"

Ellena and Vivaldi had scarcely a moment to bid him "farewel!" before
he closed the door, and Vivaldi, taking her arm, was hastening towards
the place where he had ordered Paulo to wait with the horses, when, on
turning an angle of the convent wall, they perceived a long train of
pilgrims issuing forth from the portal, at a little distance.

Vivaldi drew back; yet dreading every moment, that he lingered near
the monastery, to hear the voice of Jeronimo, or other persons, from
the avenue, he was sometimes inclined to proceed at any hazard. The
only practicable path leading to the base of the mountain, however,
was now occupied by these devotees, and to mingle with them was little
less than certain destruction. A bright moonlight shewed distinctly
every figure, that moved in the scene, and the fugitives kept within
the shadow of the walls, till, warned by an approaching footstep, they
crossed to the feet of the cliffs that rose beyond some palmy hillocks
on the right, whose dusky recesses promised a temporary shelter. As
they passed with silent steps along the winding rocks, the tranquillity
of the landscape below afforded an affecting contrast with the tumult
and alarm of their minds.

Being now at some distance from the monastery, they rested under the
shade of the cliffs, till the procession of devotees, which were traced
descending among the thickets and hollows of the mountain, should be
sufficiently remote. Often they looked back to the convent, expecting
to see lights issue from the avenue, or the portal; and attended in
mute anxiety for the sullen murmurs of pursuit; but none came on the
breeze; nor did any gleaming lamp betray the steps of a spy.

Released, at length, from immediate apprehension, Ellena listened to
the mattin-hymn of the pilgrims, as it came upon the still air and
ascended towards the cloudless heavens. Not a sound mingled with the
holy strain and even in the measured pause of voices only the trembling
of the foliage above was distinguished. The responses, as they softened
away in distance, and swelled again on the wafting breeze, appeared
like the music of spirits, watching by night upon the summits of the
mountains, and answering each other in celestial airs, as they walk
their high boundary, and overlook the sleeping world.

"How often, Ellena, at this hour," said Vivaldi, "have I lingered
round your dwelling, consoled by the consciousness of being near you!
Within those walls, I have said, she reposes; they enclose my world,
all without is to me a desart. Now, I am in your presence! O Ellena!
now that you are once more restored to me, suffer not the caprice of
possibility again to separate us! Let me lead you to the first altar
that will confirm our vows."

Vivaldi forgot, in the anxiety of a stronger interest, the delicate
silence he had resolved to impose upon himself, till Ellena should be
in a place of safety.

"This is not a moment," she replied, with hesitation, "for
conversation; our situation is yet perilous, we tremble on the very
brink of danger."

Vivaldi immediately rose; "Into what imminent danger," said he, "had
my selfish folly nearly precipitated you! We are lingering in this
alarming neighbourhood, when that feeble strain indicates the pilgrims
to be sufficiently remote to permit us to proceed!"

As he spoke, they descended cautiously among the cliffs, often looking
back to the convent, where, however, no light appeared, except what
the moon shed over the spires and tall windows of its cathedral. For a
moment, Ellena fancied she saw a taper in her favourite turret, and a
belief, that the nuns, perhaps the Abbess herself, were searching for
her there, renewed her terror and her speed. But the rays were only
those of the moon, striking through opposite casements of the chamber;
and the fugitives reached the base of the mountain without further
alarm, where Paulo appeared with horses. "Ah! Signormio," said the
servant, "I am glad to see you alive and merry; I began to fear, by the
length of your stay, that the monks had clapped you up to do penance
for life. How glad I am to see you Maestro!"

"Not more so than I am to see you, good Paulo. But where is the
pilgrim's cloak I bade you provide?"

Paulo displayed it, and Vivaldi, having wrapt it round Ellena, and
placed her on horseback, they took the road towards Naples, Ellena
designing to take refuge in the convent della Pieta. Vivaldi, however,
apprehending that their enemies would seek them on this road, proposed
leaving it as soon as practicable, and reaching the neighbourhood of
Villa Altieri by a circuitous way.

They soon after arrived at the tremendous pass, through which Ellena
had approached the monastery, and whose horrors were considerably
heightened at this dusky hour, for the moonlight fell only partially
upon the deep barriers of the gorge, and frequently the precipice,
with the road on its brow, was entirely shadowed by other cliffs and
woody points that rose above it. But Paulo, whose spirits seldom owned
the influence of local scenery, jogged merrily along, frequently
congratulating himself and his master on their escape, and carolling
briskly to the echoes of the rocks, till Vivaldi, apprehensive for the
consequence of this loud gaiety, desired him to desist.

"Ah Signormio! I must obey you," said he, "but my heart was never so
full in my life; and I would fain sing, to unburden it of some of this
joy. That scrape we got into in the dungeon there, at what's the name
of the place? was bad enough, but it was nothing to this, because here
I was left out of it; and you, _Maestro_, might have been murdered
again and again, while I, thinking of nothing at all, was quietly
airing myself on the mountain by moonlight.

"But what is that yonder in the sky, Signor? It looks for all the world
like a bridge; only it is perched so high, that nobody would think of
building one in such an out-of-the-way place, unless to cross from
cloud to cloud, much less would take the trouble of clambering up after
it, for the pleasure of going over."

Vivaldi looked forward, and Ellena perceived the Alpine bridge, she
had formerly crossed with so much alarm, in the moonlight perspective,
airily suspended between tremendous cliffs, with the river far below,
tumbling down the rocky chasm. One of the supporting cliffs, with
part of the bridge, was in deep shade, but the other, feathered with
foliage, and the rising surges at its foot, were strongly illumined;
and many a thicket wet with the spray, sparkled in contrast to the dark
rock it overhung. Beyond the arch, the long-drawn prospect faded into
misty light.

"Well, to be sure!" exclaimed Paulo, "to see what curiosity will do!
If there are not some people have found their way up to the bridge
already."

Vivaldi now perceived figures upon the slender arch and, as their
indistinct forms glided in the moonshine, other emotions than those
of wonder disturbed him, lest these might be pilgrims going to the
shrine of our Lady, and who would give information of his route. No
possibility, however, appeared of avoiding them, for the precipices
that rose immediately above, and fell below, forbade all excursion,
and the road itself was so narrow, as scarcely to admit of two horses
passing each other.

"They are all off the bridge now, and without having broken their
necks, perhaps!" said Paulo, "where, I wonder, will they go next! Why
surely, Signor, this road does not lead to the bridge yonder; we are
not going to pick our way in the air too? The roar of those waters has
made my head dizzy already; and the rocks here are as dark as midnight,
and seem ready to tumble upon one; they are enough to make one despair
to look at them; you need not have checked my mirth, Signor."

"I would fain check your loquacity," replied Vivaldi. "Do, good Paulo,
be silent and circumspect, those people may be near us, though we do
not yet see them."

"The road does lead to the bridge, then Signor!" said Paulo
dolourously. "And see! there they are again; winding round that rock,
and coming towards us."

"Hush! they are pilgrims," whispered Vivaldi, "we will linger under the
shade of these rocks, while they pass. Remember, Paulo, that a single
indiscreet word may be fatal; and that if they hail us, I alone am to
answer."

"You are obeyed, Signor."

The fugitives drew up close under the cliffs, and proceeded slowly,
while the words of the devotees, as they advanced became audible.

"It gives one some comfort," said Paulo, "to hear cheerful voices,
in such a place as this. Bless their merry hearts! theirs seems a
pilgrimage of pleasure; but they will be demure enough, I warrant, by
and bye. I wish I"----

"Paulo! have you so soon forgot?" said Vivaldi sharply.

The devotees, on perceiving the travellers, became suddenly silent;
till he who appeared to be the _Father-director_, as they passed, said,
"Hail! in the name of _Our Lady of Mount Carmel_!" and they repeated
the salutation in chorus.

"Hail!" replied Vivaldi, "the first mass is over," and he passed on.

"But if you make haste, you may come in for the second," said Paulo,
joking after.

"You have just left the shrine, then?" said one of the party, "and can
tell us"--

"Poor pilgrims, like yourselves," replied Paulo, "and can tell as
little. Good morrow, fathers, yonder peeps the dawn!"

He came up with his master, who had hurried forward with Ellena, and
who now severely reproved his indiscretion; while the voices of the
Carmelites, singing the mattin-hymn, sunk away among the rocks, and the
quietness of solitude returned.

"Thank heaven! we are quit of this adventure," said Vivaldi.

"And now we have only the bridge to get over," rejoined Paulo, "and, I
hope, we shall all be safe."

They were now at the entrance of it; as they passed the trembling
planks, and looked up the glen, a party of people appeared advancing
on the road the fugitives had left, and a chorus of other voices than
those of the Carmelites, were heard mingling with the hollow sound of
the waters.

Ellena, again alarmed, hastened forward, and Vivaldi, though he
endeavoured to appease her apprehension of pursuit, encouraged her
speed.

"These are nothing but more pilgrims, Signora," said Paulo, "or they
would not send such loud shouts before them; they must needs think we
can hear."

The travellers proceeded as fast as the broken road would permit; and
were soon beyond the reach of the voices; but as Paulo turned to look
whether the party was within sight, he perceived two persons, wrapt in
cloaks, advancing under the brow of the cliffs, and within a few paces
of his horse's heels. Before he could give notice to his master, they
were at his side.

"Are you returning from the shrine of _our Lady_?" said one of them.

Vivaldi, startled by the voice, looked round, and demanded who asked
the question?

"A brother pilgrim," replied the man, "one who has toiled up these
steep rocks, till his limbs will scarcely bear him further. Would that
you would take compassion on him, and give him a ride."

However compassionate Vivaldi might be to the sufferings of others,
this was not a moment when he could indulge his disposition, without
endangering the safety of Ellena; and he even fancied the stranger
spoke in a voice of dissimulation. His suspicions strengthened when the
traveller, not repulsed by a refusal, enquired the way he was going,
and proposed to join his party; "For these mountains, they say, are
infested with banditti," he added, "and a large company is less likely
to be attacked than a small one."

"If you are so very weary, my friend," said Vivaldi, "how is it
possible you can keep pace with our horses? Though I acknowledge you
have done wonders in overtaking them."

"The fear of these banditti," replied the stranger, "urged us on."

"You have nothing to apprehend from robbers," said Vivaldi, "if you
will only moderate your pace; for a large company of pilgrims are on
the road, who will soon overtake you."

He then put an end to the conversation, by clapping spurs to his horse,
and the strangers were soon left far behind. The inconsistency of
their complaints with their ability, and the whole of their manner,
were serious subjects of alarm to the fugitives; but when they had
lost sight of them, they lost also their apprehensions; and having, at
length, emerged from the pass, they quitted the high road to Naples,
and struck into a solitary one that led westward towards Aquila.




CHAPTER II.

  "Thus sang th' unletter'd swain to th' oaks and rills,
  While the still morn went forth with sandals gray.
  And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
  And now was dropt into the western bay."--
                                             MILTON.


From the summit of a mountain, the morning light shewed the travellers
the distant lake of Celano, gleaming at the feet of other lofty
mountains of the Apennine, far in the south. Thither Vivaldi judged
it prudent to direct his course, for the lake lay so remote from the
immediate way to Naples, and from the neighbourhood of San Stefano,
that it's banks promised a secure retreat. He considered, also, that
among the convents scattered along those delightful banks, might easily
be found a priest, who would solemnize their nuptials, should Ellena
consent to an immediate marriage.

The travellers descended among olive woods, and soon after were
directed by some peasants at work, into a road that leads from Aquila
to the town of Celano, one of the very few roads which intrudes among
the wild mountains, that on every side sequester the lake. As they
approached the low grounds, the scent of orange blossoms breathed upon
the morning air, and the spicy myrtle sent forth all its fragrance from
among the cliffs, which it thickly tufted. Bowers of lemon and orange
spread along the valley; and among the cabins of the peasants, who
cultivated them, Vivaldi hoped to obtain repose and refreshment for
Ellena.

The cottages, however, at which Paulo enquired were unoccupied, the
owners being all gone forth to their labour: and the travellers, again
ascending, found themselves soon after among mountains inhabited by the
flocks, where the scent of the orange was exchanged for the aromatic
perfume of the pasturage.

"My Signor!" said Paulo, "is not that a shepherd's horn sounding at a
distance? If so, the Signora may yet obtain some refreshment."

While Vivaldi listened, a hautboy and a pastoral drum were heard
considerably nearer.

They followed the sound over the turf, and came within view of a cabin,
sheltered from the sun by a tuft of almond trees. It was a dairy-cabin
belonging to some shepherds, who at a short distance were watching
their flocks, and, stretched beneath the shade of chestnuts, were
amusing themselves by playing upon these rural instruments; a scene of
Arcadian manners frequent at this day, upon the mountains of Abruzzo.
The simplicity of their appearance, approaching to wildness, was
tempered by a hospitable spirit. A venerable man, the chief shepherd,
advanced to meet the strangers; and, learning their wants, conducted
them into his cool cabin, where cream, cheese made of goat's milk,
honey extracted from the delicious herbage of the mountains, and dried
figs were quickly placed before them.

Ellena, overcome with the fatigue of anxiety, rather than that of
travelling, retired, when she had taken breakfast, for an hour's
repose; while Vivaldi rested on the bench before the cottage, and
Paulo, keeping watch, discussed his breakfast, together with the
circumstances of the late alarm, under the shade of the almond trees.

When Ellena again appeared, Vivaldi proposed, that they should rest
here during the intense heat of the day; and, since he now considered
her to be in a place of temporary safety, he ventured to renew the
subject nearest his heart; to represent the evils, that might overtake
them, and to urge an immediate solemnization of their marriage.

Thoughtful and dejected, Ellena attended for some time in silence to
the arguments and pleadings of Vivaldi. She secretly acknowledged the
justness of his representations, but she shrunk, more than ever, from
the indelicacy, the degradation of intruding herself into his family;
a family, too, from whom she had not only received proofs of strong
dislike, but had suffered terrible injustice, and been menaced with
still severer cruelty. These latter circumstances, however, released
her from all obligations of delicacy or generosity, so far as concerned
only the authors of her suffering; and she had now but to consider
the happiness of Vivaldi and herself. Yet she could not decide thus
precipitately on a subject, which so solemnly involved the fortune
of her whole life; nor forbear reminding Vivaldi, affectionately,
gratefully, as she loved him, of the circumstances which withheld her
decision.

"Tell me yourself," said she, "whether I ought to give my hand, while
your family--your mother"----she paused, and blushed, and burst into
tears.

"Spare me the view of those tears," said Vivaldi, "and a recollection
of the circumstances that excite them. O, let me not think of my
mother, while I see you weep! Let me not remember, that her injustice
and cruelty destined you to perpetual sorrow!"

Vivaldi's features became slightly convulsed, while he spoke; he rose,
paced the room with quick steps, and then quitted it, and walked under
the shade of the trees in front of the cabin.

In a few moment, however, he commanded his emotion and returned. Again
he placed himself on the bench beside Ellena, and taking her hand, said
solemnly, and in a voice of extreme sensibility, "Ellena, you have
long witnessed how dear you are to me; you cannot doubt my love; you
have long since promised--solemnly promised, in the presence of her
who is now no more, but whose spirit may even at this moment look down
upon us--of her, who bequeathed you to my tendered care, to be mine
for ever. By these sacred truths, by these affecting recollections! I
conjure you, abandon me not to despair, nor in the energy of a just
resentment, sacrifice the son to the cruel and mistaken policy of the
mother! You, nor I, can conjecture the machinations, which may be
spread for us, when it shall be known that you have left San Stefano.
If we delay to exchange our vows, I know, and I feel--that you are lost
to me for ever!"

Ellena was affected, and for some moments unable to reply. At
length, drying her tears, she said tenderly, "Resentment can have no
influence on my conduct towards you; I think I feel none towards the
Marchesa--for she is your mother. But pride, insulted pride, has a
right to dictate, and ought to be obeyed; and the time is now, perhaps,
arrived when, if I would respect myself, I must renounce you."----

"Renounce me!" interrupted Vivaldi, "renounce me? And is it, then,
possible you could renounce me?" he repeated, his eyes still fixed upon
her face with eagerness and consternation. "Tell me at once, Ellena, is
it possible?"

"I fear it is not," she replied.

"You fear! alas! if you _fear_, it is too possible, and I have lost you
already! say, O! say but, that you _hope_ it is not, and I, too, will
hope again."

The anguish, with which he uttered this, awakened all her tenderness,
and, forgetting the reserve she had imposed upon herself, and every
half-formed resolution, she said, with a smile of ineffable sweetness,
"I will neither fear nor hope in this instance; I will obey the
dictates of gratitude, of affection, and will _believe_ that I never
can renounce you, while you are unchanged."

"Believe!" repeated Vivaldi, "only believe! And why that mention
of gratitude; and why that unnecessary reservation? Yet even this
assurance, feebly as it sustains my hopes, is extorted; you see my
misery, and from pity, from _gratitude_, not affection, would assuage
it. Besides, you will neither fear, nor hope! Ah, Ellena! did love ever
yet exist without fear--and without hope? O! never, never! I fear and
hope with such rapid transition; every assurance, every look of yours
gives such force either to the one, or to the other, that I suffer
unceasing anxiety. Why, too, that cold, that heart-breaking mention of
gratitude? No, Ellena! it is too certain that you do not love me!--My
mother's cruelty has estranged your heart from me!"

"How much you mistake!" said Ellena, "You have already received sacred
testimonies of my regard; if you doubt their sincerity, pardon me, if I
so far respect myself as to forbear entreating you will believe them."

"How calm, how indifferent, how circumspect, how prudent!" exclaimed
Vivaldi in tones of mournful reproach. "But I will not distress you;
forgive me for renewing this subject at this time. It was my intention
to be silent till you should have reached a place of more permanent
security than this; but how was it possible, with such anxiety pressing
upon my heart, to persevere in that design. And what have I gained by
departing from it?--increase of anxiety--of doubt--of fear!"

"Why will you persist in such self-inflictions?" said Ellena. "I cannot
endure that you should doubt my affection, even for a moment. And how
can you suppose it possible, that I ever can become insensible of
your's; that I can ever forget the imminent danger you have voluntarily
incurred for my release, or, remembering it, can cease to feel the
warmest gratitude?"

"That is the very word which tortures me beyond all others!" said
Vivaldi; "is it then, only a sense of obligation you own for me?
O! rather say you hate me, than suffer me to deceive my hopes with
assurances of a sentiment so cold, so circumscribed, so dutiful as that
of gratitude!"

"With me the word has a very different acceptation," replied Ellena
smiling. "I understand it to imply all that is tender and generous in
affection; and the sense of duty which you say it includes is one of
the sweetest and most sacred feelings of the human heart."

"Ah Ellena! I am too willing to be deceived, to examine your definition
rigorously; yet I believe it is your smile, rather than the accuracy of
your explanation, that persuades me to a confidence in your affection;
and I will trust, that the gratitude _you_ feel is thus tender and
comprehensive. But, I beseech you, name the word no more! Its sound is
like the touch of the Torpedo, I perceive my confidence chilled even
while I listen to my own pronunciation of it."

The entrance of Paulo interrupted the conversation, who advancing with
an air of mystery and alarm, said, in a low voice,

"Signor! as I kept watch under the almond trees, who should I see
mounting up the road from the valley yonder, but the two bare-footed
Carmelites, that overtook us in the pass of Chiari! I lost them again
behind the woods, but I dare say they are coming this way, for the
moment they spy out this dairy-hut, they will guess something good is
to be had here; and the shepherds would believe their flocks would all
die, if"----

"I see them at this moment emerging from the woods," said Vivaldi, "and
now, they are leaving the road and crossing this way. Where is our
host, Paulo?"

"He is without, at a little distance, Signor. Shall I call him?"

"Yes," replied Vivaldi, "or, stay; I will call him myself. Yet, if they
see me"----

"Aye, Signor; or, for that matter, if they see me. But we cannot help
ourselves now; for if we call the host, we shall betray ourselves, and,
if we do not call him, he will betray us; so they must find us out, be
it as it may."

"Peace! peace! let me think a moment," said Vivaldi. While Vivaldi
undertook to think, Paulo was peeping about for a hiding place, if
occasion should require one.

"Call our host immediately," said Vivaldi, "I must speak with him."

"He passes the lattice at this instant," said Ellena.

Paulo obeyed, and the shepherd entered the cabin.

"My good friend," said Vivaldi, "I must entreat that you will not admit
those friars, whom you see coming this way, nor suffer them to know
what guests you have. They have been very troublesome to us already,
on the road; I will reward you for any loss their sudden departure may
occasion you."

"Nay for that matter, friend," said Paulo, "it is their visit only that
can occasion you loss, begging the Signor's pardon; their departure
never occasioned loss to any body. And to tell you the truth, for my
master will not speak out, we were obliged to look pretty sharply about
us, while they bore us company, or we have reason to think our pockets
would have been the lighter. They are designing people, friend, take my
word for it; banditti, perhaps, in disguise. The dress of a Carmelite
would suit their purpose, at this time of the pilgrimage. So be pretty
blunt with them, if they want to come in here; and you will do well,
when they go, to send somebody to watch which way they take, and see
them clear off, or you may lose a stray lamb, perhaps."

The old shepherd lifted up his eyes and hands, "To see how the world
goes!" said he. "But thank you, Maestro, for your warning; they shall
not come within my threshold, for all their holy seeming, and it's the
first time in my life I ever said nay to one of their garb, and mine
has been a pretty long one, as you may guess, perhaps, by my face. How
old, Signor, should you take me to be? I warrant you will guess short
of the matter tho'; for on these high mountains"----

"I will guess when you have dismissed the travellers," said Vivaldi,
"after having given them some hasty refreshment without; they must be
almost at the door, by this time. Dispatch, friend."

"If they should fall foul upon me, for refusing them entrance," said
the shepherd, "you will come out to help me, Signor? for my lads are at
some distance."

Vivaldi assured him that they would, and he left the cabin.

Paulo ventured to peep at the lattice, on what might be going forward
without. "They are gone round to the door, Signor, I fancy," said he,
"for I see nothing of them this way; if there was but another window!
What foolish people to build a cottage with no window near the door!
But I must listen."

He stepped on tip-toe to the door, and bent his head in attention.

"They are certainly spies from the monastery," said Ellena to Vivaldi,
"they follow us so closely! If they were pilgrims, it is improbable,
too, that their way should lie through this unfrequented region, and
still more so, that they should not travel in a larger party. When my
absence was discovered, these people were sent, no doubt, in pursuit of
me, and having met the devotees whom we passed, they were enabled to
follow our route."

"We shall do well to act upon this supposition," replied Vivaldi, "but,
though I am inclined to believe them emissaries from San Stefano, it is
not improbable that they are only Carmelites returning to some convent
on the lake of Celano."

"I cannot hear a syllable, Signor," said Paulo. "Pray do listen
yourself! and there is not a single chink in this door to afford one
consolation. Well! if ever I build a cottage, there shall be a window
near----"

"Listen!" said Vivaldi.

"Not a single word, Signor!" cried Paulo, after a pause, "I do not even
hear a voice!--But now I hear steps, and they are coming to the door,
too; they shall find it no easy matter to open it; though," he added,
placing himself against it. "Ay, ay, you may knock, friend, till your
arm aches, and kick and lay about you--no matter for that."

"Silence! let us know who it is," said Vivaldi; and the old shepherd's
voice was heard without. "They are gone, Signors," said he, "you may
open the door."

"Which way did they go?" asked Vivaldi, when the man entered. "I cannot
say, as to that, Signor, because I did not happen to see them at all;
and I have been looking all about, too."

"Why, I saw them myself, crossing this way from the wood yonder," said
Paulo.

"And there is nothing to shelter them from our view between the wood,
and this cottage, friend," added Vivaldi; "What can they have done with
themselves?"

"For that matter, gone into the wood again, perhaps," said the shepherd.

Paulo gave his master a significant look, and added, "It is likely
enough, friend; and you may depend upon it they are lurking there for
no good purpose. You will do well to send somebody to look after them;
your flocks will suffer for it, else. Depend upon it, they design no
good."

"We are not used to such sort of folks in these parts," replied the
shepherd, "but if they mean any harm, they shall find we can help
ourselves." As he concluded, he took down a horn from the roof and
blew a shrill blast that made the mountains echo; when immediately the
younger shepherds were seen running from various quarters towards the
cottage.

"Do not be alarmed, friend;" said Vivaldi, "these travellers mean you
no harm, I daresay, whatever they may design against us. But, as I
think them suspicious persons, and should not like to overtake them
on the road, I will reward one of your lads if you will let him go a
little ways towards Celano, and examine whether they are lurking on
that route."

The old man consented, and, when the shepherds came up, one of them
received directions from Vivaldi.

"And be sure you do not return, till you have found them," added Paulo.

"No master," replied the lad, "and I will bring them safe here, you may
trust me."

"If you do, friend, you will get your head broke for your trouble. You
are only to discover where they are, and to watch where they go," said
Paulo.

Vivaldi, at length, made the lad comprehend what was required of him,
and he departed; while the old shepherd went out to keep guard.

The time of his absence was passed in various conjectures by the party
in the cabin, concerning the Carmelites. Vivaldi still inclined to
believe they were honest people returning from a pilgrimage, but Paulo
was decidedly against this opinion. "They are waiting for us on the
road, you may depend upon it, Signor," said the latter. "You may be
certain they have some _great design_ in hand, or they would never have
turned their steps from this dairy-house when once they had spied it,
and that they did spy it, we are sure."

"But if they have in hand the great design you speak of, Paulo," said
Vivaldi, "it is probable that they have spied us also, by their taking
this obscure road. Now it must have occurred to them when they saw a
dairy-hut, in so solitary a region, that we might probably be found
within--yet they have not examined. It appears, therefore, they have
no design against us. What can you answer to this, Paulo? I trust the
apprehensions of Signora di Rosalba are unfounded."

"Why! do you suppose, Signor, they would attack us when we were safe
housed, and had there good shepherds to lend us a helping hand? No,
Signor, they would not even have shewn themselves, if they could have
helped it; and being once sure we were here, they would skulk back to
the woods, and lurk for us in the road they knew we must go, since, as
it happens, there is only one."

"How is it possible," said Ellena, "that they can have discovered us
here, since they did not approach the cabin to enquire."

"They came near enough for their purpose, Signora, I dare say; and, if
the truth were known, they spied my face looking at them through the
lattice."

"Come, come," said Vivaldi, "you are an ingenious tormentor, indeed,
Paulo. Do you suppose they saw enough of thy face last night by
moonlight, in that dusky glen, to enable them to recollect it again at
a distance of forty yards? Revive, my Ellena, I think every appearance
is in our favour."

"Would I could think so too!" said she, with a sigh.

"O! for that matter, Signora," rejoined Paulo, "There is nothing to be
afraid of; they should find tough work of it, if they thought proper to
attack us, lady."

"It is not an open attack that we have to fear," replied Ellena, "but
they may surround us with their snares, and defy resistance."

However Vivaldi might accede to the truth of this remark, he would not
appear to do so; but tried to laugh away her apprehensions; and Paulo
was silenced for a while, by a significant look from his master.

The shepherd's boy returned much sooner than they had expected, and he
probably saved his time, that he might spare his labour, for he brought
no intelligence of the Carmelites. "I looked for them among the woods
along the road side in the hollow, yonder, too," said the lad, "and
then I mounted the hill further on, but I could see nothing of them
far or near, nor of a single soul, except our goats, and some of them
do stray wide enough, sometimes; they lead me a fine dance often.
They sometimes, Signor, have wandered as far as Monte Nuvola, yonder,
and got to the top of it, up among the clouds, and the crags, where I
should break my neck if I climbed; and the rogues seemed to know it,
too, for when they have seen me coming, scrambling up, puffing and
blowing, they have ceased their capering, and stood peeping over a crag
so sly, and so quiet, it seemed as if they were laughing at me; as much
as to say, 'Catch us if you can.'"

Vivaldi, who during the latter part of this speech had been consulting
with Ellena, whether they should proceed on their way immediately,
asked the boy some further questions concerning the Carmelites;
and becoming convinced that they had either not taken the road to
Celano, or, having taken it, were at a considerable distance, he
proposed setting out, and proceeding leisurely, "For I have now little
apprehension of these people," he added, "and a great deal lest night
should overtake us before we reach the place of our destination, since
the road is mountainous and wild, and, further, we are not perfectly
acquainted with it."

Ellena approving the plan, they took leave of the good shepherd, who
could, with difficulty be prevailed with to accept any recompence
for his trouble, and who gave them some further directions as to the
road; and their way was long cheered by the sound of the tabor and the
sweetness of the hautboy, wafted over the wild.

When they descended into the woody hollow mentioned by the boy, Ellena
sent forth many an anxious look beneath the deep shade; while Paulo,
sometimes silent, and at others whistling and singing loudly, as if to
overcome his fears, peeped under every bough that crossed the road,
expecting to discover his friends the Carmelites lurking within its
gloom.

Having emerged from this valley, the road lay over mountains covered
with flocks, for it was now the season when they had quitted the
plains of Apulia, to feed upon the herbage for which this region is
celebrated; and it was near sun-set, when, from a summit to which the
travellers had long been ascending, the whole lake of Celano, with its
vast circle of mountains, burst at once-upon their view.

"Ah Signor!" exclaimed Paulo, "what a prospect is here! It reminds me
of home; it is almost as pleasant as the bay of Naples! I should never
love it like that though, if it were an hundred times finer."

The travellers stopped to admire the scene, and to give their horses
rest, after the labour of the ascent. The evening sun, shooting
athwart a clear expanse of water, between eighteen and twenty leagues
in circumference, lighted up all the towns and villages, and towered
castles, and spiry convents, that enriched the rising shores; brought
out all the various tints of cultivation, and coloured with beamy
purple the mountains which on every side formed the majestic background
of the landscape. Vivaldi pointed out to Ellena the gigantic Velino
in the north, a barrier mountain, between the territories of Rome and
Naples. Its peaked head towered far above every neighbouring summit,
and its white precipices were opposed to the verdant points of the
Majella, snow-crowned, and next in altitude, loved by the flocks.
Westward, near woody hills, and rising immediately from the lake,
appeared Monte Salviano, covered with wild sage, as its name imports,
and once pompous with forests of chestnut; a branch from the Apennine
extended to meet it. "See," said Vivaldi, "where Monte-Corno stands
like a ruffian, huge, scarred, threatening, and horrid!--and in the
south, where the sullen mountain of San Nicolo shoots up, barren and
rocky! From thence, mark how other overtopping ridges of the mighty
Apennine darken the horizon far along the east, and circle to approach
the Velino in the north!"

"Mark too," said Ellena, "how sweetly the banks and undulating plains
repose at the feet of the mountains; what an image of beauty and
elegance they oppose to the awful grandeur that overlooks and guards
them! Observe, too, how many a delightful valley, opening from the
lake, spreads its rice and corn fields, shaded with groves of the
almond, far among the winding hills; how gaily vineyards and olives
alternately chequer the acclivities, and how gracefully the lofty palms
bend over the higher cliffs."

"Ay, Signora!" exclaimed Paulo, "and have the goodness to observe how
like are the fishing boats, that sail towards the hamlet below, to
those one sees upon the bay of Naples. They are worth all the rest of
the prospect, except indeed this fine sheet of water, which is almost
as good as the bay, and that mountain, with its sharp head, which is
almost as good as Vesuvius--if it would but throw out fire!"

"We must despair of finding a mountain in this neighbourhood, so
_good_ as to do that, Paulo," said Vivaldi, smiling at this stroke of
nationality; "though, perhaps, many that we now see, have once been
volcanic."

"I honour them for that, Signor, and look them with double
satisfaction; but _our_ mountain is the only mountain in the world. O!
to see it of a dark night! what a blazing it makes! and what a height
it will shoot to! and what a light it throws over the sea! No other
mountain can do so. It seems as if the waves were all on fire. I have
seen the reflection as far off as Capri, trembling all across the gulf,
and shewing every vessel as plain as at noon day; ay, and every sailor
on the deck. You never saw such a sight, Signor."

"Why you do, indeed, seem to have forgotten that I ever did, Paulo, and
also that a volcano can do any mischief. But let us return, Ellena, to
the scene before us. Yonder, a mile or two within the shore, is the
town of Celano, whither we are going."

The clearness of an Italian atmosphere permitted him to discriminate
the minute though very distant features of the landscape; and on an
eminence rising from the plains of a valley opening to the west, he
pointed out the modern Alba, crowned with the ruins of its ancient
castle, still visible upon the splendor of the horizon, the prison
and tomb of many a Prince, who, "fallen from his high estate," was
sent from Imperial Rome to finish here the sad reverse of his days;
to gaze from the bars of his tower upon solitudes where beauty or
grandeur administered no assuaging feelings to him, whose life had
passed amidst the intrigues of the world, and the feverish contentions
of disappointed ambition; to him, with whom reflection brought only
remorse, and anticipation despair; whom "no horizontal beam enlivened
in the crimson evening of life's dusty day."

"And to such a scene as this," said Vivaldi, "a Roman Emperor came,
only for the purpose of witnessing the most barbarous exhibition;
to indulge the most savage delights! Here, Claudius celebrated
the accomplishment of his arduous work, an aqueduct to carry the
overflowing waters of the Celano to Rome, by a naval fight, in which
hundreds of wretched slaves perished for his amusement! Its pure and
polished surface was stained with human blood, and roughened by the
plunging bodies of the slain, while the gilded gallies of the Emperor
floated gaily around, and these beautiful shores were made to echo with
applauding yells, worthy of the furies!"

"We scarcely dare to trust the truth of history, in some of its traits
of human nature," said Ellena.

"Signor," cried Paulo, "I have been thinking that while we are taking
the air, so much at our ease, here, those Carmelites may be spying at
us from some hole or corner that we know nothing of, and may swoop upon
us, all of a sudden, before we can help ourselves. Had we not better go
on, Signor?"

"Our horses are, perhaps, sufficiently rested," replied Vivaldi, "but,
if I had not long since dismissed all suspicion of the evil intention
of those strangers, I should not willingly have stopped for a moment."

"But pray let us proceed," said Ellena.

"Ay, Signora, it is best to be of the safe side," observed Paulo.
"Yonder, below, is Celano, and I hope we shall get safe housed there,
before it is quite dark, for here we have no mountain, that will light
us on our way! Ah! if we were but within twenty miles of Naples,
now,--and it was an _illumination_ night!"--

As they descended the mountain, Ellena, silent and dejected, abandoned
herself to reflection. She was too sensible of the difficulties of her
present situation, and too apprehensive of the influence, which her
determination must have on all her future life, to be happy, though
escaped from the prison of San Stefano, and in the presence of Vivaldi,
her beloved deliverer and protector. He observed her dejection with
grief, and, not understanding all the finer scruples that distressed
her, interpreted her reserve into indifference towards himself. But he
forbore to disturb her again with a mention of his doubts, or fears;
and he determined not to urge the subject of his late entreaties, till
he should have placed her in some secure asylum, where she might feel
herself at perfect liberty to accept or to reject his proposal. By
acting with an honour so delicate, he unconsciously adopted a certain
means of increasing her esteem and gratitude, and deserved them the
more, since he had to endure the apprehension of losing her by the
delay thus occasioned to their nuptials.

They reached the town of Celano before the evening closed, when Vivaldi
was requested by Ellena to enquire for a convent, where she might be
lodged for the night. He left her at the inn, with Paulo for her guard,
and proceeded on his search. The first gate he knocked upon belonged
to a convent of Carmelites. It appeared probable, that the pilgrims of
that order, who had occasioned him so much disquietude, were honest
brothers of this house; but as it was probable also, that if they were
emissaries of the Abbess of San Stefano, and came to Celano, they would
take up their lodging with a society of their own class, in preference
to that of any other, Vivaldi thought it prudent to retire from their
gates without making himself known. He passed on, therefore, and soon
after arrived at a convent of Dominicans, where he learned, that there
were only two houses of nuns in Celano, and that these admitted no
other boarders than permanent ones.

Vivaldi returned with this intelligence to Ellena, who endeavoured to
reconcile herself to the necessity of remaining where she was; but
Paulo, ever active and zealous, brought intelligence, that at a little
fishing town, at some distance, on the bank of the lake, was a convent
of Ursalines, remarkable for their hospitality to strangers. The
obscurity of so remote a place, was another reason for preferring it
to Celano, and Vivaldi proposing to remove thither, if Ellena was not
too weary to proceed, she readily assented, and they immediately set
off.

"It happens to be a fine night," said Paulo, as they left Celano, "and
so, Signor, we cannot well lose our way; besides, they say, there is
but one. The town we are going to lies yonder on the edge of the lake,
about a mile and a half off. I think I can see a gray steeple or two, a
little to the right of that wood where the water gleams so."

"No, Paulo," replied Vivaldi, after looking attentively. "I perceive
what you mean; but those are not the points of steeples, they are only
the tops of some tall cypresses."

"Pardon me, Signor, they are too tapering for trees; that must surely
be the town. This road, however, will lead us right, for there is no
other to puzzle us, as they say."

"This cool and balmy air revives me," said Ellena; "and what a soothing
shade prevails over the scene! How softened, yet how distinct, is every
near object; how sweetly dubious the more removed ones; while the
mountains beyond character themselves sublimely upon the still glowing
horizon."

"Observe, too," said Vivaldi, "how their broken summits, tipt with the
beams that have set to our lower region, exhibit the portraiture of
towers and castles, and embattled ramparts, which seemed designed to
guard them against the enemies, that may come by the clouds."

"Yes," replied Ellena, "the mountains themselves display a sublimity,
that seems to belong to a higher world; their besiegers ought not to be
of this earth; they can be only spirits of the air."

"They can be nothing else, Signora," said Paulo, "for nothing of this
earth can reach them. See! lady, they have some of the qualities of
your spirits, too; see! how they change their shapes and colours, as
the sun-beams sink. And now, how gray and dim they grow! See but how
fast they vanish!"

"Every thing reposes," said Vivaldi. "Who would willingly travel in the
day, when Italy has such nights as this!"

"Signor, that _is_ the town before us," said Paulo, "for now I can
discern, plain enough, the spires of convents, and there goes a light!
Hah, hah! and there is a bell, too, chiming from one of the spires! The
monks are going to mass; would we were going to supper, Signor!"

"That chime is nearer than the place you point to, Paulo, and I doubt
whether it comes from the same quarter."

"Hark! Signor, the air wafts the sound! and now it is gone again."

"Yes, I believe you are right, Paulo, and that we have not far to go."

The travellers descended the gradual slopes, towards the shore; and
Paulo, some time after, exclaimed, "See, Signor, where another light
glides along! See! it is reflected on the lake."

"I hear the faint dashing of waves, now," said Ellena, "and the sound
of oars, too! But observe, Paulo, the light is not in the town, it is
in the boat that moves yonder."

"Now it retreats, and trembles in a lengthening line upon the waters,"
said Vivaldi. "We have been too ready to believe what we wish and have
yet far to go."

The shore they were approaching formed a spacious bay for the lake,
immediately below. Dark woods seemed to spread along the banks, and
ascend among the cultivated slopes towards the mountains; except where,
here and there, cliffs, bending over the water, were distinguished
through the twilight by the whiteness of their limestone precipices.
Within the bay, the town became gradually visible; lights twinkled
between the trees, appearing and vanishing; like the stars of a cloudy
night; and, at length was heard the melancholy song of boatmen, who
were fishing near the shore.

Other sounds soon after struck the ear. "O, what merry notes!"
exclaimed Paulo, "they make my heart dance. See! Signora, there is a
group, footing it away so gaily on the bank of the lake, yonder, by
those trees. O, what a merry set! Would I were among them! that is, I
mean, if you, _Maestro_, and the Signora were not here."

"Well corrected, Paulo."

"It is a festival, I fancy," observed Vivaldi. "These peasants of the
lake can make the moments fly as gaily as the voluptuaries of the city,
it seems."

"O! what merry music!" repeated Paulo. "Ah! how often I have footed it
as joyously on the beach at Naples, after sun-set, of a fine night,
like this; with such a pleasant fresh breeze to cool one! Ah! there are
none like the fishermen of Naples for a dance by moonlight; how lightly
they do trip it! O! if I was but there now! That is, I mean, if you,
_Maestro_, and the Signora were there too. O! what merry notes!"

"We thank you, good Signor Paulo," said Vivaldi, "and I trust we shall
all be there soon; when you shall trip it away, with as joyous an heart
as the best of them."

The travellers now entered the town, which consisted of one street,
straggling along the margin of the lake; and having enquired for the
Ursaline convent, were directed to it's gates. The portress appeared
immediately upon the ringing of the bell, and carried a message to the
Abbess, who as quickly returned an invitation to Ellena. She alighted,
and followed the portress to the parlour, while Vivaldi remained at
the gate, till he should know whether she approved of her new lodging.
A second invitation induced him, also, to alight; he was admitted
to the grate, and offered refreshment, which, however, he declined
staying to accept, as he had yet a lodging to seek for the night. The
Abbess, on learning this circumstance, courteously recommended him to
a neighbouring society of Benedictines, and desired him to mention her
name to the Abbot.

Vivaldi then took leave of Ellena, and, though it was only for a few
hours, he left her with dejection, and with some degree of apprehension
for her safety, which, though circumstances could not justify him in
admitting, he could not entirely subdue. She shared his dejection, but
not his fears, when the door closed after him, and she found herself
once more among strangers. The forlornness of her feelings could not
be entirely overcome by the attentions of the Abbess; and there was a
degree of curiosity, and even of scrutiny, expressed in the looks of
some of the sisters, which seemed more than was due to a stranger. From
such examination she eagerly escaped to the apartment allotted for her,
and to the repose from which she had so long been withheld.

Vivaldi, meanwhile, had found an hospitable reception with the
Benedictines, whose sequestered situation made the visit of a stranger
a pleasurable novelty to them. In the eagerness of conversation, and,
yielding to the satisfaction which the mind receives from exercising
ideas that have long slept in dusky indolence, and to the pleasure
of admitting new ones, the Abbot and a few of the brothers sat with
Vivaldi to a late hour. When, at length, the traveller was suffered
to retire, other subjects than those, which had interested his host,
engaged his thoughts; and he revolved the means of preventing the
misery that threatened him, in a serious separation from Ellena. Now,
that she was received into a respectable asylum, every motive for
silence upon this topic was done away. He determined, therefore, that
on the following morning, he would urge all his reasons and entreaties
for an immediate marriage; and among the brothers of the Benedictine,
he had little doubt of prevailing with one to solemnize the nuptials,
which he believed would place his happiness and Ellena's peace, beyond
the influence of malignant possibilities.




CHAPTER III.

  "I under fair pretence of friendly ends,
  And well-placed words of glozing courtesy,
  Baited with reasons not unplausible,
  Wind me into the easy-hearted man,
  And hug him into snares."
                            MILTON.


While Vivaldi and Ellena were on the way from San Stefano, the Marchese
Vivaldi was suffering the utmost vexation, respecting his son; and
the Marchesa felt not less apprehension, that the abode of Ellena
might be discovered; yet this fear did not withhold her from mingling
in all the gaieties of Naples. Her assemblies were, as usual, among
the most brilliant of that voluptuous city, and she patronized, as
zealously as before, the strains of her favourite composer. But,
notwithstanding this perpetual dissipation, her thoughts frequently
withdrew themselves from the scene, and dwelt on gloomy forebodings of
disappointed pride.

A circumstance, which rendered her particularly susceptible to such
disappointment at this time, was, that overtures of alliance had been
lately made to the Marchese, by the father of a lady, who was held
suitable, in every consideration, to become his daughter; and whose
wealth rendered the union particularly desirable at a time, when the
expences of such an establishment as was necessary to the vanity of the
Marchesa, considerably exceeded his income, large as it was.

The Marchesa's temper had been thus irritated by the contemplation
of her son's conduct in an affair, which so materially affected the
fortune, and, as she believed, the honour of his family; when a courier
from the Abbess of San Stefano brought intelligence of the flight
of Ellena with Vivaldi. She was in a disposition, which heightened
disappointment into fury; and she forfeited, by the transports to
which she yielded, the degree of pity that otherwise was due to a
mother, who believed her only son to have sacrificed his family and
himself to an unworthy passion. She believed, that he was now married,
and irrecoverably lost. Scarcely able to endure the agony of this
conviction, she sent for her ancient adviser Schedoni, that she might,
at least, have the relief of expressing her emotions; and of examining
whether there remained a possibility of dissolving these long-dreaded
nuptials. The phrenzy of passion, however, did not so far overcome
her circumspection as to compel her to acquaint the Marchese with the
contents of the Abbess's letter, before she had consulted with her
Confessor. She knew that the principles of her husband were too just,
upon the grand points of morality, to suffer him to adopt the measures
she might judge necessary; and she avoided informing him of the
marriage of his son, until the means of counteracting it should have
been suggested and accomplished, however desperate such means might be.

Schedoni was not to be found. Trifling circumstances encrease the
irritation of a mind in such a state as was her's. The delay of an
opportunity for unburthening her heart to Schedoni, was hardly to be
endured; another and another messenger were dispatched to her Confessor.

"My mistress has committed some great sin, truely!" said the servant,
who had been twice to the convent within the last half hour. "It must
lie heavy on her conscience, in good truth, since she cannot support
it for one half hour. Well! the rich have this comfort, however, that,
let them be ever so guilty, they can buy themselves innocent again, in
the twinkling of a ducat. Now a poor man might be a month before he
recovered his innocence, and that, too, not till after many a bout of
hard flogging."

In the evening Schedoni came, but it was only to confirm her worst
fear. He, too, had heard of the escape of Ellena, as well as that
she was on the lake of Celano; and was married to Vivaldi. How he
had obtained this information he did not chuse to disclose, but he
mentioned so many minute circumstances in confirmation of it's truth,
and appeared to be so perfectly convinced of the facts he related, that
the Marchesa believed them, as implicitly as himself; and her passion
and despair transgressed all bounds of decorum.

Schedoni observed, with dark and silent pleasure, the turbulent excess
of her feelings; and perceived that the moment was now arrived, when
he might command them to his purpose, so as to render his assistance
indispensable to her repose; and probably so as to accomplish the
revenge he had long meditated against Vivaldi, without hazarding
the favour of the Marchesa. So far was he from attempting to sooth
her sufferings, that he continued to irritate her resentment, and
exasperate her pride; effecting this, at the same time, with such
imperceptible art, that he appeared only to be palliating the conduct
of Vivaldi, and endeavouring to console his distracted mother.

"This is a rash step, certainly," said the Confessor; "but he is young,
very young, and, therefore, does not foresee the consequence to which
it leads. He does not perceive how seriously it will affect the dignity
of his house;--how much it will depreciate his consequence with the
court, with the nobles of his own rank, and even with the plebeians,
with whom he has condescended to connect himself. Intoxicated with the
passions of youth, he does not weigh the value of those blessings,
which wisdom and the experience of maturer age know how to estimate. He
neglects them _only_ because he does not perceive their influence in
society, and that lightly to resign them, is to degrade himself in the
view of almost every mind. Unhappy young man! he is to be pitied fully
as much as blamed."

"Your excuses, reverend father," said the tortured Marchesa, "prove
the goodness of your heart; but they illustrate, also, the degeneracy
of his mind, and detail the full extent of the effects which he has
brought upon his family. It affords me no consolation to know, that
this degradation proceeds from his head, rather than his heart; it is
sufficient that he has incurred it, and that no possibility remains of
throwing off the misfortune."

"Perhaps that is affirming too much," observed Schedoni.

"How, father!" said the Marchesa.

"Perhaps a possibility does remain," said he.

"Point it out to me, good father! I do not perceive it."

"Nay, my lady," replied the subtle Schedoni, correcting himself, "I am
by no means assured, that such possibility does exist. My solicitude
for your tranquillity, and for the honour of your house, makes me
so unwilling to relinquish hope, that, perhaps, I only imagine a
possibility in your favour. Let me consider.----Alas! the misfortune,
severe as it is, must be endured;--there remain no means of escaping
from it."

"It was cruel of you, father, to suggest a hope which you could not
justify," observed the Marchesa.

"You must excuse my extreme solicitude, then," replied the Confessor.
"But how is it possible for me to see a family of your ancient
estimation brought into such circumstances; its honours blighted by the
folly of a thoughtless boy, without feeling sorrow and indignation,
and looking round for even some desperate means of delivering it from
disgrace." He paused.

"Disgrace!" exclaimed the Marchesa, "father, you--you--Disgrace!--The
word is a strong one, but----it is, alas! just. And shall we submit to
this?--Is it possible we _can_ submit to it?"

"There is no remedy," said Schedoni, coolly.

"Good God!" exclaimed the Marchesa, "that there should be no law to
prevent, or, at least, to punish such criminal marriages!"

"It is much to be lamented," replied Schedoni.

"The woman who obtrudes herself upon a family, to dishonour it,"
continued the Marchesa, "deserves a punishment nearly equal to that of
a state criminal, since she injures those who best support the state.
She ought to suffer"----

"Not nearly, but quite equal," interrupted the Confessor, "she
deserves----death!"

He paused, and there was a moment of profound silence, till he
added--"for death only can obliviate the degradation she has
occasioned; her death alone can restore the original splendor of the
line she would have sullied."

He paused again, but the Marchesa still remaining silent, he added, "I
have often marvelled that our lawgivers should have failed to perceive
the justness, nay the necessity, of such punishment!"

"It is astonishing," said the Marchesa, thoughtfully, "that a regard
for their own honour did not suggest it."

"Justice does not the less exist, because her laws are neglected,"
observed Schedoni. "A sense of what she commands lives in our breasts;
and when we fail to obey that sense, it is to weakness, not to virtue,
that we yield."

"Certainly," replied the Marchesa, "that truth never yet was doubted."

"Pardon me, I am not so certain as to that," said the Confessor, "when
justice happens to oppose prejudice, we are apt to believe it virtuous
to disobey her. For instance, though the law of justice demands the
death of this girl, yet because the law of the land forbears to enforce
it, you, my daughter, even you! though possessed of a man's spirit, and
his clear perceptions, would think that virtue bade her live, when it
was only fear!"

"Hah!" exclaimed the Marchesa, in a low voice, "What is that you mean?
You shall find I have a man's courage also."

"I speak without disguise," replied Schedoni, "my meaning requires
none."

The Marchesa mused, and remained silent.

"I have done my duty," resumed Schedoni, at length. "I have pointed out
the only way that remains for you to escape dishonour. If my zeal is
displeasing----but I have done."

"No, good father, no," said the Marchesa; "you mistake the cause of my
emotion. New ideas, new prospects, open!--they confuse, they distract
me! My mind has not yet attained sufficient strength to encounter them;
some woman's weakness still lingers at my heart."

"Pardon my inconsiderate zeal," said Schedoni, with affected humility,
"I have been to blame. If your's is a weakness, it is, at least, an
amiable one, and, perhaps, deserves to be encouraged, rather than
conquered."

"How, father! If it deserves encouragement, it is not a weakness, but a
virtue."

"Be it so," said Schedoni, coolly, "the interest I have felt on this
subject, has, perhaps, misled my judgment, and has made me unjust.
Think no more of it, or, if you do, let it be only to pardon the zeal I
have testified."

"It does not deserve pardon, but thanks," replied the Marchesa, "not
thanks only, but reward. Good father, I hope it will some time be in
my power to prove the sincerity of my words."

The Confessor bowed his head.

"I trust that the services you have rendered me, shall be gratefully
repaid--rewarded, I dare not hope, for what benefit could possibly
reward a service so vast, as it may, perhaps, be in your power to
confer upon my family! What recompence could be balanced against the
benefit of having rescued the honour of an ancient house!"

"Your goodness is beyond my thanks, or my desert," said Schedoni, and
he was again silent.

The Marchesa wished him to lead her back to the point, from which she
herself had deviated, and he seemed determined, that she should lead
him thither. She mused, and hesitated. Her mind was not yet familiar
with atrocious guilt; and the crime which Schedoni had suggested,
somewhat alarmed her. She feared to think, and still more to name it;
yet, so acutely susceptible was her pride, so stern her indignation,
and so profound her desire of vengeance, that her mind was tossed as
on a tempestuous ocean, and these terrible feelings threatened to
overwhelm all the residue of humanity in her heart. Schedoni observed
all its progressive movements, and, like a gaunt tyger, lurked in
silence, ready to spring forward at the moment of opportunity.

"It is your advice, then, father," resumed the Marchesa, after a long
pause,--"it is your opinion--that Ellena."----She hesitated, desirous
that Schedoni should anticipate her meaning; but he chose to spare his
own delicacy rather than that of the Marchesa.

"You think, then, that this insidious girl deserves"----She paused
again, but the Confessor, still silent, seemed to wait with submission
for what the Marchesa should deliver.

"I repeat, father, that it is your opinion this girl deserves severe
punishment."----

"Undoubtedly," replied Schedoni, "Is it not also your own?"

"That not any punishment can be too severe?" continued the Marchesa.
"That justice, equally with necessity, demands----her life? Is not this
your opinion too?"

"O! pardon me," said Schedoni, "I may have erred; that only _was_
my opinion; and when I formed it, I was probably too much under the
influence of zeal to be just. When the heart is warm, how is it
possible that the judgment can be cool."

"It is _not_ then, your opinion, holy father," said the Marchesa with
displeasure.

"I do not absolutely say that," replied the Confessor.--"But I leave it
to your better judgment to decide upon its justness."

As he said this, he rose to depart. The Marchesa was agitated and
perplexed, and requested he would stay; but he excused himself by
alledging, that it was the hour when he must attend a particular mass.

"Well then, holy father, I will occupy no more of your valuable moments
at present; but you know how highly I estimate your advice, and will
not refuse, when I shall at some future time request it."

"I cannot refuse to accept an honour," replied the Confessor, with an
air of meekness, "but the subject you allude to is delicate"----

"And therefore I must value, and require your opinion upon it,"
rejoined the Marchesa.

"I would wish you to value your own," replied Schedoni; "you cannot
have a better director."

"You flatter, father."

"I only reply, my daughter."

"On the evening of to-morrow," said the Marchesa, gravely, "I shall
be at vespers in the church of San Nicolo; if you should happen to
be there, you will probably see me, when the service is over, and the
congregation is departed, in the north cloister. We can there converse
on the subject nearest my heart, and without observation.----Farewell!"

"Peace be with you, daughter! and wisdom council your thoughts!" said
Schedoni, "I will not fail to visit San Nicolo."

He folded his hands upon his breast, bowed his head, and left the
apartment with the silent footstep, that indicates weariness and
conscious duplicity.

The Marchesa remained in her closet, shaken by ever-varying passions,
and ever-fluctuating opinions; meditating misery for others, and
inflicting it only upon herself.




CHAPTER IV.

  Along the roofs sounds the low peal of Death,
  And Conscience trembles to the boding note;
  She views his dim form floating o'er the aisles,
  She hears mysterious murmurs in the air,
  And voices, strange and potent, hint the crime
  That dwells in thought, within her secret soul.


The Marchesa repaired, according to her appointment, to the church of
San Nicolo, and, ordering her servants to remain with the carriage at a
side-door, entered the choir, attended only by her woman.

When vespers had concluded, she lingered till nearly every person had
quitted the choir, and then walked through the solitary aisles to the
north cloister. Her heart was as heavy as her step; for when is it
that peace and evil passions dwell together? As she slowly paced the
cloisters, she perceived a monk passing between the pillars, who, as
he approached, lifted his cowl, and she knew him to be Schedoni.

He instantly observed the agitation of her spirits, and that her
purpose was not yet determined, according to his hope. But, though his
mind became clouded, his countenance remained unaltered; it was grave
and thoughtful. The sternness of his vulture-eye was, however, somewhat
softened, and its lids were contracted by subtlety.

The Marchesa bade her woman walk apart, while she conferred with her
Confessor.

"This unhappy boy," said she, when the attendant was at some distance.
"How much suffering does his folly inflict upon his family! My good
father, I have need of all your advice and consolation. My mind is
perpetually haunted by a sense of my misfortune; it has no respite;
awake or in my dream, this ungrateful son alike pursues me! The
only relief my heart receives is when conversing with you--my only
counsellor, my only disinterested friend."

The Confessor bowed. "The Marchese is, no doubt, equally afflicted with
yourself," said he; "but he is, notwithstanding, much more competent to
advise you on this delicate subject than I am."

"The Marchese has prejudices, father, as you well know; he is a
sensible man, but he is sometimes mistaken, and he is incorrigible in
error. He has the faults of a mind that is merely well disposed; he is
destitute of the discernment and the energy which would make it great.
If it is necessary to adopt a conduct, that departs in the smallest
degree from those common rules of morality which he has cherished,
without examining them, from his infancy, he is shocked, and shrinks
from action. He cannot discriminate the circumstances, that render the
same action virtuous or vicious. How then, father, are we to suppose
he would approve of the bold inflictions we meditate?"

"Most true!" said the artful Schedoni, with an air of admiration.

"We, therefore, must not consult him," continued the Marchesa, "lest he
should now, as formerly, advance and maintain objections, to which we
cannot yield. What passes in conversation with you, father, is sacred,
it goes no farther."

"Sacred as a confession!" said Schedoni, crossing himself.

"I know not,"--resumed the Marchesa, and hesitated; "I know not"--she
repeated in a yet lower voice, "how this girl may be disposed of; and
this it is which distracts my mind."

"I marvel much at that," said Schedoni. "With opinions so singularly
just, with a mind so accurate, yet so bold as you have displayed, is
it possible that you can hesitate as to what is to be done! You, my
daughter, will not prove yourself one of those ineffectual declaimers,
who can think vigorously, but cannot act so! One way, only, remains
for you to pursue, in the present instance; it is the same which
your superior sagacity pointed out, and taught me to approve. Is it
necessary for me to persuade _her_, by whom I am convinced! There is
only one way."

"And on that I have been long meditating," replied the Marchesa, "and,
shall I own my weakness? I cannot yet decide."

"My daughter! can it be possible that you should want courage to
soar above vulgar prejudice, in action, though not in opinion?" said
Schedoni, who, perceiving that his assistance was necessary to fix
her fluctuating mind, gradually began to steal forth from the prudent
reserve, in which he had taken shelter.

"If this person was condemned by the law," he continued, "you would
pronounce her sentence to be just; yet you dare not, I am humbled while
I repeat it, you dare not dispense justice yourself!"

The Marchesa, after some hesitation, said, "I have not the shield of
the law to protect me, father: and the boldest virtue may pause, when
it reaches the utmost verge of safety."

"Never!" replied the Confessor, warmly; "virtue never trembles; it is
her glory, and sublimest attribute to be superior to danger; to despise
it. The best principle is not virtue till it reaches this elevation."

A philosopher might, perhaps, have been surprized to hear two persons
seriously defining the limits of virtue, at the very moment in which
they meditated the most atrocious crime; a man of the world would have
considered it to be mere hypocrisy; a supposition which might have
disclosed his general knowledge of manners, but would certainly have
betrayed his ignorance of the human heart.

The Marchesa was for some time silent and thoughtful, and then repeated
deliberately, "I have not the shield of the law to protect me."

"But you have the shield of the church," replied Schedoni; "you should
not only have protection, but absolution."

"Absolution!--Does virtue--justice, require absolution, father?"

"When I mentioned absolution for the action which you perceive to be
so just and necessary," replied Schedoni, "I accommodated my speech to
vulgar prejudice, and to vulgar weakness. And, forgive me, that since
you, my daughter, descended from the loftiness of your spirit to regret
the shield of the law, I endeavoured to console you, by offering a
shield to conscience. But enough of this; let us return to argument.
This girl is put out of the way of committing more mischief, of
injuring the peace and dignity of a distinguished family; she is sent
to an eternal sleep, before her time.--Where is the crime, where is the
evil of this? On the contrary, you perceive, and you have convinced me,
that it is only strict justice, only self-defence."

The Marchesa was attentive, and the Confessor added, "She is not
immortal; and the few years more, that might have been allotted
her, she deserves to forfeit, since she would have employed them in
cankering the honour of an illustrious house."

"Speak low, father," said the Marchesa, though he spoke almost in a
whisper; "the cloister appears solitary, yet some person may lurk
behind those pillars. Advise me how this business may be managed; I am
ignorant of the particular means."

"There is some hazard in the accomplishment of it, I grant," replied
Schedoni; "I know not whom you may confide in.--The men who make a
trade of blood"----

"Hush!" said the Marchesa, looking round through the twilight--"a step!"

"It is the Friar's, yonder, who crosses to the choir," replied
Schedoni.

They were watchful for a few moments, and then he resumed the subject.
"Mercenaries ought not to be trusted,"--

"Yet who but mercenaries"--interrupted the Marchesa, and instantly
checked herself. But the question thus implied, did not escape the
Confessor.

"Pardon my astonishment," said he, "at the inconsistency, or, what
shall I venture to call it? of your opinions! After the acuteness you
have displayed on some points, is it possible you can doubt, that
principle may both prompt and perform the deed? Why should we hesitate
to do what we judge to be right?"

"Ah! reverend father," said the Marchesa, with emotion, "but where
shall we find another like yourself--another, who not only can perceive
with justness, but will act with energy."

Schedoni was silent.

"Such a friend is above all estimation; but where shall we seek him?"

"Daughter!" said the Monk, emphatically, "my zeal for your family is
also above all calculation."

"Good father," replied the Marchesa, comprehending his full meaning, "I
know not how to thank you."

"Silence is sometimes eloquence," said Schedoni, significantly.

The Marchesa mused; for her conscience also was eloquent. She tried to
overcome its voice, but it would be heard; and sometimes such starts
of horrible conviction came over her mind, that she felt as one who,
awaking from a dream, opens his eyes only to measure the depth of the
precipice on which he totters. In such moments she was astonished,
that she had paused for an instant upon a subject so terrible as
that of murder. The sophistry of the Confessor, together with the
inconsistencies which he had betrayed, and which had not escaped
the notice of the Marchesa, even at the time they were uttered,
though she had been unconscious of her own, then became more strongly
apparent, and she almost determined to suffer the poor Ellena to live.
But returning passion, like a wave that has recoiled from the shore,
afterwards came with recollected energy, and swept from her feeble mind
the barriers, which reason and conscience had begun to rear.

"This confidence with which you have thought proper to honour me," said
Schedoni, at length, and paused; "This affair, so momentous"----

"Ay, this affair," interrupted the Marchesa, in a hurried manner,--"but
when, and where, good father? Being once convinced, I am anxious to
have it settled."

"That must be as occasion offers," replied the Monk, thoughtfully.--"On
the shore of the Adriatic, in the province of Apulia, not far from
Manfredonia, is a house that might suit the purpose. It is a lone
dwelling on the beach, and concealed from travellers, among the
forests, which spread for many miles along the coast."

"And the people?" said the Marchesa.

"Ay, daughter, or why travel so far as Apulia? It is inhabited by one
poor man, who sustains a miserable existence by fishing. I know him,
and could unfold the reasons of his solitary life;--but no matter, it
is sufficient that _I know him_."

"And would trust him, father?"

"Ay, lady, with the life of this girl----though scarcely with my own."

"How! Is he is such a villain he may not be trusted! Think further. But
now, you objected to a mercenary, yet this man is one!"

"Daughter, he may be trusted, when it is in such a case; he is safe and
sure. I have reason to know him."

"Name your reasons, father."

The Confessor was silent, and his countenance assumed a very peculiar
character; it was more terrible than usual, and overspread with a
dark, cadaverous hue of mingled anger and guilt. The Marchesa started
involuntarily as, passing by a window, the evening gleam that fell
there, discovered it; and for the first time she wished, that she had
not committed herself so wholly to his power. But the die was now cast;
it was too late to be prudent; and she again demanded his reasons.

"No matter," said Schedoni, in a stifled voice----"she dies!"

"By his hands?" asked the Marchesa, with strong emotion. "Think, once
more, father."

They were both again silent and thoughtful. The Marchesa, at length,
said, "Father, I rely upon your integrity and prudence;" and she laid a
very flattering emphasis upon the word integrity. "But I conjure you to
let this business be finished quickly, suspense is to me the purgatory
of this world, and not to trust the accomplishment of it to a second
person." She paused, and then added, "I would not willingly owe so vast
a debt of obligation to any other than yourself."

"Your request, daughter, that I would not confide this business to a
second person," said Schedoni, with displeasure, "cannot be accorded
to. Can you suppose, that I, myself"----

"Can I doubt that principle may both prompt and perform the deed,"
interrupted the Marchesa with quickness, and anticipating his meaning,
while she retorted upon him his former words. "Why should we hesitate
to do what we judge to be right?"

The silence of Schedoni alone indicated his displeasure, which the
Marchesa immediately understood.

"Consider, good father," she added significantly, "how painful it must
be to me, to owe so infinite an obligation to a stranger, or to any
other than so highly valued a friend as yourself."

Schedoni, while he detected her meaning, and persuaded himself
that he despised the flattery, with which she so thinly veiled it,
unconsciously suffered his self-love to be soothed by the compliment.
He bowed his head, in signal of consent to her wish.

"Avoid violence, if that be possible," she added, immediately
comprehending him, "but let her die quickly! The punishment is due to
the crime."

The Marchesa happened, as she said this, to cast her eyes upon the
inscription over a Confessional, where appeared, in black letters,
these awful words, "_God hears thee!_" It appeared an awful warning.
Her countenance changed; it had struck upon her heart. Schedoni was too
much engaged by his own thoughts to observe, or understand her silence.
She soon recovered herself; and considering that this was a common
inscription for Confessionals, disregarded what she had at first
considered as a peculiar admonition; yet some moments elapsed, before
she could renew the subject.

"You was speaking of a place, father," resumed the Marchesa----"you
mentioned a"----

"Ay," muttered the Confessor, still musing,--"in a chamber of that
house there is"----

"What noise is that?" said the Marchesa, interrupting him. They
listened. A few low and querulous notes of the organ sounded at a
distance, and stopped again.

"What mournful music is that?" said the Marchesa in a faultering voice.
"It was touched by a fearful hand! Vespers were over long ago!"

"Daughter," said Schedoni, somewhat sternly, "you said you had a man's
courage. Alas! you have a woman's heart."

"Excuse me, father; I know not why I feel this agitation, but I will
command it. That chamber?"----

"In that chamber," resumed the Confessor, "is a secret door,
constructed long ago."----

"And for what purpose constructed?" said the fearful Marchesa.

"Pardon me, daughter; 'tis sufficient that it is there; we will make a
good use of it. Through that door--in the night--when she sleeps"----

"I comprehend you," said the Marchesa, "I comprehend you. But why, you
have your reasons, no doubt, but why the necessity of a secret door in
a house which you say is so lonely--inhabited by only one person?"

"A passage leads to the sea," continued Schedoni, without replying to
the question. "There, on the shore, when darkness covers it; there,
plunged amidst the waves, no stain shall hint of"----

"Hark!" interrupted the Marchesa, starting, "that note again!"

The organ sounded faintly from the choir, and paused, as before. In the
next moment, a slow chaunting of voices was heard, mingling with the
rising peal, in a strain particularly melancholy and solemn.

"Who is dead?" said the Marchesa, changing countenance; "it is a
requiem!"

"Peace be with the departed!" exclaimed Schedoni, and crossed himself;
"Peace rest with his soul!"

"Hark! to that chaunt!" said the Marchesa, in a trembling voice; "it is
a first requiem; the soul has but just quitted the body!"

They listened in silence. The Marchesa was much affected; her
complexion varied at every instant; her breathings were short and
interrupted, and she even shed a few tears, but they were those of
despair, rather than of sorrow. "That body is now cold," said she to
herself, "which but an hour ago was warm and animated! Those fine
senses are closed in death! And to this condition would I reduce a
being like myself! Oh, wretched, wretched mother! to what has the folly
of a son reduced thee!"

She turned from the Confessor, and walked alone in the cloister. Her
agitation encreased; she wept without restraint, for her veil and the
evening gloom concealed her, and her sighs were lost amidst the music
of the choir.

Schedoni was scarcely less disturbed, but his were emotions of
apprehension and contempt. "Behold, what is woman!" said he----"The
slave of her passions, the dupe of her senses! When pride and revenge
speak in her breast, she defies obstacles, and laughs at crimes!
Assail but her senses, let music, for instance, touch some feeble
chord of her heart, and echo to her fancy, and lo! all her perceptions
change:----she shrinks from the act she had but an instant before
believed meritorious, yields to some new emotion, and sinks--the
victim of a sound! O, weak and contemptible being!"

The Marchesa, at least, seemed to justify his observations. The
desperate passions, which had resisted every remonstrance of reason
and humanity, were vanquished only by other passions; and, her senses
touched by the mournful melody of music, and her superstitious fears
awakened by the occurrence of a requiem for the dead, at the very
moment when she was planning murder, she yielded, for a while, to the
united influence of pity and terror. Her agitation did not subside; but
she returned to the Confessor.

"We will converse on this business at some future time," said she; "at
present, my spirits are disordered. Good night, father! Remember me in
your orisons."

"Peace be with you, lady!" said the Confessor, bowing gravely, "You
shall not be forgotten. Be resolute, and yourself."

The Marchesa beckoned her woman to approach, when, drawing her veil
closer, and leaning upon the attendant's arm, she left the cloister.
Schedoni remained for a moment on the spot, looking after her, till
her figure was lost in the gloom of the long perspective; he then,
with thoughtful steps, quitted the cloister by another door. He was
disappointed, but he did not despair.




CHAPTER V.

  "The lonely mountains o'er,
  And the resounding shore,
  A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament!
  From haunted spring, and dale,
  Edg'd with poplar pale,
  The parting genius is with sighing sent;
  With flower-inwoven tresses torn
  The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thicket mourn."
                                                          MILTON.


While the Marchesa and the Monk were thus meditating conspiracies
against Ellena, she was still in the Ursaline convent on the lake of
Celano. In this obscure sanctuary, indisposition, the consequence of
the long and severe anxiety she had suffered, compelled her to remain.
A fever was on her spirits, and an universal lassitude prevailed over
her frame; which became the more effectual, from her very solicitude
to conquer it. Every approaching day she hoped she should be able to
pursue her journey homeward, yet every day found her as incapable of
travelling as the last, and the second week was already gone, before
the fine air of Celano, and the tranquillity of her asylum, began
to revive her. Vivaldi, who was her daily visitor at the grate of
the convent; and who, watching over her with intense solicitude, had
hitherto forbore to renew a subject, which, by agitating her spirits,
might affect her health, now, that her health strengthened, ventured
gradually to mention his fears lest the place of her retreat should be
discovered, and lest he yet might irrecoverably lose her, unless she
would approve of their speedy marriage. At every visit he now urged the
subject, represented the dangers that surrounded them, and repeated
his arguments and entreaties; for now, when he believed that time was
pressing forward fatal evils, he could no longer attend to the delicate
scruples, that bade him be sparing in entreaty. Ellena, had she obeyed
the dictates of her heart, would have rewarded his attachment and his
services, by a frank approbation of his proposal; but the objections
which reason exhibited against such a concession, she could neither
overcome or disregard.

Vivaldi, after he had again represented their present dangers, and
claimed the promise of her hand, received in the presence of her
deceased relative, Signora Bianchi, gently ventured to remind her, that
an event as sudden as lamentable, had first deferred their nuptials,
and that if Bianchi had lived, Ellena would have bestowed, long since,
the vows he now solicited. Again he intreated her, by every sacred and
tender recollection, to conclude the fearful uncertainty of their fate,
and to bestow upon him the right to protect her, before they ventured
forth from this temporary asylum.

Ellena immediately admitted the sacredness of the promise, which she
had formerly given, and assured Vivaldi that she considered herself
as indissolubly bound to wed him as if it had been given at the altar;
but she objected to a confirmation of it, till his family should
seem willing to receive her for their daughter; when, forgetting the
injuries she had received from them, she would no longer refuse their
alliance. She added, that Vivaldi ought to be more jealous of the
dignity of the woman, whom he honoured with his esteem, than to permit
her making a greater concession.

Vivaldi felt the full force of this appeal; he recollected, with
anguish, circumstances of which she was happily ignorant, but which
served to strengthen with him the justness of her reproof. And, as the
aspersions which the Marchese had thrown upon her name, crowded to his
memory, pride and indignation swelled his heart, and so far overcame
apprehension of hazard, that he formed a momentary resolution to
abandon every other consideration, to that of asserting the respect
which was due to Ellena, and to forbear claiming her for his wife, till
his family should make acknowledgment of their error, and willingly
admit her in the rank of their child. But this resolution was as
transient as plausible; other considerations, and former fears pressed
upon him. He perceived the strong improbability, that they would
ever make a voluntary sacrifice of their pride to his love; or yield
mistakes, nurtured by prejudice and by willing indulgence, to truth and
a sense of justice. In the mean time, the plans, which would be formed
for separating him from Ellena, might succeed, and he should lose her
for ever. Above all, it appeared, that the best, the only method, which
remained for confuting the daring aspersions that had affected her
name, was, by proving the high respect he himself felt for her, and
presenting her to the world in the sacred character of his wife. These
considerations quickly determined him to persevere in his suit; but it
was impossible to urge them to Ellena, since the circumstances they
must unfold, would not only shock her delicacy and afflict her heart,
but would furnish the proper pride she cherished with new arguments
against approaching a family, who had thus grossly insulted her.

While these considerations occupied him, the emotion they occasioned
did not escape Ellena's observation; it encreased, as he reflected
on the impossibility of urging them to her, and on the hopelessness
of prevailing with her, unless he could produce new arguments in
his favour. His unaffected distress awakened all her tenderness and
gratitude; she asked herself whether she ought any longer to assert her
own rights, when by doing so, she sacrificed the peace of him, who had
incurred so much danger for her sake, who had rescued her from severe
oppression, and had so long and so well proved the strength of his
affection.

As she applied these questions, she appeared to herself an unjust and
selfish being, unwilling to make any sacrifice for the tranquillity of
him, who had given her liberty, even at the risk of his life. Her very
virtues, now that they were carried to excess, seemed to her to border
upon vices; her sense of dignity, appeared to be narrow pride; her
delicacy weakness; her moderated affection cold ingratitude; and her
circumspection, little less than prudence degenerated into meanness.

Vivaldi, as apt in admitting hope as fear, immediately perceived her
resolution beginning to yield, and he urged again every argument which
was likely to prevail over it. But the subject was too important for
Ellena, to be immediately decided upon; he departed with only a faint
assurance of encouragement; and she forbade him to return till the
following day, when she would acquaint him with her final determination.

This interval was, perhaps, the most painful he had ever experienced.
Alone, and on the banks of the lake, he passed many hours in alternate
hope and fear; in endeavouring to anticipate the decision, on which
seemed suspended all his future peace, and abruptly recoiling from it,
as often as imagination represented it to be adverse.

Of the walls, that enclosed her, he scarcely ever lost sight; the
view of them seemed to cherish his hopes, and, while he gazed upon
their rugged surface, Ellena alone was pictured on his fancy; till his
anxiety to learn her disposition towards him arose to agony, and he
would abruptly leave the spot. But an invisible spell still seemed to
attract him back again, and evening found him pacing slowly beneath the
shade of those melancholy boundaries that concealed his Ellena.

Her day was not more tranquil. Whenever prudence and decorous pride
forbade her to become a member of the Vivaldi family, as constantly
did gratitude, affection, irresistible tenderness plead the cause of
Vivaldi. The memory of past times returned; and the very accents of the
deceased seemed to murmur from the grave, and command her to fulfil the
engagement, which had soothed the dying moments of Bianchi.

On the following morning, Vivaldi was at the gates of the convent, long
before the appointed hour, and he lingered in dreadful impatience, till
the clock struck the signal for his entrance.

Ellena was already in the parlour; she was alone, and rose in disorder
on his approach. His steps faultered, his voice was lost, and his eyes
only, which he fixed with a wild earnestness on her's, had power to
enquire her resolution. She observed the paleness of his countenance,
and his emotion, with a mixture of concern and approbation. At that
moment, he perceived her smile, and hold out her hand to him; and fear,
care, and doubt vanished at once from his mind. He was incapable of
thanking her, but sighed deeply as he pressed her hand, and, overcome
with joy, supported himself against the grate that separated them.

"You are, then, indeed my own!" said Vivaldi, at length recovering his
voice--"We shall be no more parted--you are mine for ever! But your
countenance changes! O heaven! surely I have not mistaken! speak! I
conjure you, Ellena; relieve me from these terrible doubts!"

"I am yours, Vivaldi," replied Ellena faintly, "oppression can part us
no more."

She wept, and drew her veil over her eyes.

"What mean those tears?" said Vivaldi, with alarm. "Ah! Ellena," he
added in a softened voice, "should tears mingle with such moments as
these! Should your tears fall upon my heart now! They tell me, that
your consent is given with reluctance--with grief; that your love is
feeble, your heart--yes Ellena! that your whole heart is no longer
mine!"

"They ought rather to tell you," replied Ellena, "that it is all your
own; that my affection never was more powerful than now, when it can
overcome every consideration with respect to your family, and urge me
to a step which must degrade me in their eyes,--and, I fear, in my own."

"O retract that cruel assertion!" interrupted Vivaldi, "Degrade you
in your own!--degrade you in their eyes!" He was much agitated; his
countenance was flushed, and an air of more than usual dignity dilated
his figure.

"The time shall come, my Ellena," he added with energy, "when they
shall understand your worth, and acknowledge your excellence. O! that
I were an Emperor, that I might shew to all the world how much I love
and honour you!"

Ellena gave him her hand, and, withdrawing her veil, smiled on him
through her tears, with gratitude and reviving courage.

Before Vivaldi retired to the convent, he obtained her consent to
consult with an aged Benedictine, whom he had engaged in his interest,
as to the hour at which the marriage might be solemnized with least
observation. The priest informed him, that at the conclusion of the
vesper-service, he should be disengaged for several hours; and that, as
the first hour after sun-set was more solitary than almost any other,
the brotherhood being then assembled in the refectory, he would meet
Vivaldi and Ellena at that time, in a chapel on the edge of the lake, a
short distance from the Benedictine convent, to which it belonged, and
celebrate their nuptials.

With this proposal, Vivaldi immediately returned to Ellena; when it
was agreed that the party should assemble at the hour mentioned by the
priest. Ellena, who had thought it proper to mention her intention to
the Abbess of the Ursalines, was, by her permission, to be attended
by a lay-sister; and Vivaldi was to meet her without the walls, and
conduct her to the altar. When the ceremony was over, the fugitives
were to embark in a vessel, hired for the purpose, and, crossing the
lake, proceed towards Naples. Vivaldi again withdrew to engage a boat,
and Ellena to prepare for the continuance of her journey.

As the appointed hour drew near, her spirits sunk, and she watched with
melancholy foreboding, the sun retiring amidst stormy clouds, and his
rays fading from the highest points of the mountains, till the gloom
of twilight prevailed over the scene. She then left her apartment,
took a grateful leave of the hospitable Abbess, and, attended by the
lay-sister, quitted the convent.

Immediately without the gate she was met by Vivaldi, whose look, as he
put her arm within his, gently reproached her for the dejection of her
air.

They walked in silence towards the chapel of San Sebastian. The scene
appeared to sympathize with the spirits of Ellena. It was a gloomy
evening, and the lake, which broke in dark waves upon the shore,
mingled its hollow sounds with those of the wind, that bowed the lofty
pines, and swept in gusts among the rocks. She observed with alarm the
heavy thunder clouds, that rolled along the sides of the mountains,
and the birds circling swiftly over the waters, and scudding away to
their nests among the cliffs; and she noticed to Vivaldi, that, as a
storm seemed approaching, she wished to avoid crossing the lake. He
immediately ordered Paulo to dismiss the boat, and to be in waiting
with a carriage, that, if the weather should become clear, they might
not be detained longer than was otherwise necessary.

As they approached the chapel, Ellena fixed her eyes on the mournful
cypresses which waved over it, and sighed. "Those," she said, "are
funereal mementos--not such as should grace the altar of marriage!
Vivaldi, I could be superstitious.--Think you not they are portentous
of future misfortune? But forgive me; my spirits are weak."

Vivaldi endeavoured to soothe her mind, and tenderly reproached her
for the sadness she indulged. Thus they entered the chapel. Silence,
and a kind of gloomy sepulchral light, prevailed within. The venerable
Benedictine, with a brother, who was to serve as guardian to the bride,
were already there, but they were kneeling, and engaged in prayer.

Vivaldi led the trembling Ellena to the altar, where they waited till
the Benedictines should have finished, and these were moments of
great emotion. She often looked round the dusky chapel, in fearful
expectation of discovering some lurking observer; and, though she knew
it to be very improbable, that any person in this neighbourhood could
be interested in interrupting the ceremony, her mind involuntarily
admitted the possibility of it. Once, indeed, as her eyes glanced over
a casement, Ellena fancied she distinguished a human face laid close to
the glass, as if to watch what was passing within; but when she looked
again, the apparition was gone. Notwithstanding this, she listened
with anxiety to the uncertain sounds without, and sometimes started as
the surges of the lake dashed over the rock below, almost believing
she heard the steps and whispering voices of men in the avenues of the
chapel. She tried, however, to subdue apprehension, by considering,
that if this were true, an harmless curiosity might have attracted
some inhabitants of the convent hither, and her spirits became more
composed, till she observed a door open a little way, and a dark
countenance looking from behind it. In the next instant it retreated,
and the door was closed.

Vivaldi, who perceived Ellena's complexion change, as she laid her hand
on his arm, followed her eyes to the door, but, no person appearing, he
enquired the cause of her alarm.

"We are observed," said Ellena, "some person appeared at that door!"

"And if we are observed, my love," replied Vivaldi, "who is there in
this neighbourhood whose observation we can have reason to fear? Good
father, dispatch," he added, turning to the priest, "you forget that we
are waiting."

The officiating priest made a signal that he had nearly concluded his
orison; but the other brother rose immediately, and spoke with Vivaldi,
who desired that the doors of the chapel might be fastened to prevent
intrusion.

"We dare not bar the gates of this holy temple," replied the
Benedictine, "it is a sanctuary, and never may be closed."

"But you will allow me to repress idle curiosity," said Vivaldi, "and
to enquire who watches beyond that door? The tranquillity of this lady
demands thus much."

The brother assented, and Vivaldi stepped to the door; but perceiving
no person in the obscure passage beyond it, he returned with lighter
steps to the altar, from which the officiating priest now rose.

"My children," said he, "I have made you wait,--but an old man's
prayers are not less important than a young man's vows, though this is
not a moment when you will admit that truth."

"I will allow whatever you please, good father," replied Vivaldi,
"if you will administer those vows, without further delay;----time
presses."

The venerable priest took his station at the altar, and opened the
book. Vivaldi placed himself on his right hand, and with looks of
anxious love, endeavoured to encourage Ellena, who, with a dejected
countenance, which her veil but ill concealed, and eyes fixed on the
ground, leaned on her attendant sister. The figure and homely features
of this sister; the tall stature and harsh visage of the brother,
clothed in the gray habit of his order; the silvered head and placid
physiognomy of the officiating priest, enlightened by a gleam from the
lamp above, opposed to the youthful grace and spirit of Vivaldi, and
the milder beauty and sweetness of Ellena, formed altogether a group
worthy of the pencil.

The priest had begun the ceremony, when a noise from without again
alarmed Ellena, who observed the door once more cautiously opened, and
a man bend forward his gigantic figure from behind it. He carried a
torch, and its glare, as the door gradually unclosed, discovered other
persons in the passage beyond, looking forward over his shoulder into
the chapel. The fierceness of their air, and the strange peculiarity of
their dress, instantly convinced Ellena that they were not inhabitants
of the Benedictine convent, but some terrible messengers of evil. Her
half-stifled shriek alarmed Vivaldi, who caught her before she fell to
the ground; but, as he had not faced the door, he did not understand
the occasion of her terror, till the sudden rush of footsteps made him
turn, when he observed several men armed, and very singularly habited,
advancing towards the altar.

"Who is he that intrudes upon this sanctuary?" he demanded sternly,
while he half rose from the ground where Ellena had sunk.

"What sacrilegious footsteps," cried the priest, "thus rudely violate
this holy place?"

Ellena was now insensible; and the men continuing to advance, Vivaldi
drew his sword to protect her.

The priest and Vivaldi now spoke together, but the words of neither
could be distinguished, when a voice, tremendous from its loudness,
like bursting thunder, dissipated the cloud of mystery.

"You Vincentio di Vivaldi, and of Naples," it said, "and you Ellena di
Rosalba, of Villa Altieri, we summon you to surrender, in the name of
the most holy Inquisition!"

"The Inquisition!" exclaimed Vivaldi, fiercely believing what he heard.
"Here is some mistake!"

The official repeated the summons, without deigning to reply.

Vivaldi, yet more astonished, added, "Do not imagine you can so far
impose upon my credulity, as that I can believe myself to have fallen
within the cognizance of the Inquisition."

"You may believe what you please, Signor," replied the chief officer,
"but you and that lady are our prisoners."

"Begone, impostor!" said Vivaldi, springing from the ground, where
he had supported Ellena, "or my sword shall teach you to repent your
audacity!"

"Do you insult an officer of the Inquisition!" exclaimed the ruffian.
"That holy Community will inform you what you incur by resisting it's
mandate."

The priest interrupted Vivaldi's' retort, "If you are really officers
of that tremendous tribunal," he said, "produce some proof of your
office. Remember this place is sanctified, and tremble for the
consequence of imposition. You do wrong to believe, that I will deliver
up to you persons who have taken refuge here, without an unequivocal
demand from that dread power."

"Produce your form of summons," demanded Vivaldi, with haughty
impatience.

"It is here," replied the official, drawing forth a black scroll, which
he delivered to the priest, "Read, and be satisfied!"

The Benedictine started the instant he beheld the scroll, but he
received and deliberately examined it. The kind of parchment, the
impression of the seal, the particular form of words, the private
signals, understood only by the initiated--all announced this to
be a true instrument of arrestation from the _Holy Office_. The
scroll dropped from his hand, and he fixed his eyes, with surprize
and unutterable compassion, upon Vivaldi, who stooped to reach the
parchment, when it was snatched by the official.

"Unhappy young man!" said the priest, "it is too true; you are summoned
by that awful power, to answer to your crime, and I am spared from the
commission of a terrible offence!"

Vivaldi appeared thunderstruck. "For what crime, holy father, am I
called upon to answer? This is some bold and artful imposture, since it
can delude even you! What crime--what offence?"

"I did not think you had been thus hardened in guilt!" replied the
priest, "Forbear! add not the audacity of falsehood, to the headlong
passions of youth. You understand too well your crime."

"Falsehood!" retorted Vivaldi, "But your years, old man, and those
sacred vestments, protect you. For these ruffians, who have dared to
implicate that innocent victim," pointing to Ellena, "in the charge,
they shall have justice from my vengeance."

"Forbear! forbear!" said the priest, seizing his arms, "have pity
on yourself and on her. Know you not the punishment you incur from
resistance?"

"I know nor care not," replied Vivaldi, "but I will defend Ellena di
Rosalba to the last moment. Let them approach if they dare."

"It is on her, on her who lies senseless at your feet," said the
priest, "that they will wreck their vengeance for these insults; on
her--the partner of your guilt."

"The partner of my guilt!" exclaimed Vivaldi, with mingled astonishment
and indignation----"of my guilt!"

"Rash young man! does not the very veil she wears betray it? I marvel
how it could pass my observation!"

"You have stolen a nun from her convent," said the chief officer, "and
must answer for the crime. When you have wearied yourself with these
heroics, Signor, you must go with us; our patience is wearied already."

Vivaldi observed, for the first time, that Ellena was shrouded in a
nun's veil; it was the one which Olivia had lent, to conceal her
from the notice of the Abbess, on the night of her departure from San
Stefano, and which, in the hurry of that departure, she had forgotten
to leave with the nun. During this interval, her mind had been too
entirely occupied by cares and apprehension to allow her once to
notice, that the veil she wore was other than her usual one; but it had
been too well observed by some of the Ursaline sisters.

Though he knew not how to account for the circumstance of the veil,
Vivaldi began to perceive others which gave colour to the charge
brought against him, and to ascertain the wide circumference of the
snare that was spread around him. He fancied, too, that he perceived
the hand of Schedoni employed upon it, and that his dark spirit was
now avenging itself for the exposure he had suffered in the church
of the Spirito Santo, and for all the consequent mortifications. As
Vivaldi was ignorant of the ambitious hopes which the Marchesa had
encouraged in father Schedoni, he did not see the improbability, that
the Confessor would have dared to hazard her favour by this arrest of
her son; much less could he suspect, that Schedoni, having done so,
had secrets in his possession, which enabled him safely to defy her
resentment, and bind her in silence to his decree.

With the conviction, that Schedoni's was the master-hand that directed
the present manœuvre, Vivaldi stood aghast, and gazing in silent
unutterable anguish on Ellena, who, as she began to revive, stretched
forth her helpless hands, and called upon him to save her. "Do not
leave me," said she in accents the most supplicating, "I am safe while
you are with me."

At the sound of her voice, he started from his trance, and turning
fiercely upon the ruffians, who stood in sullen watchfulness around,
bade them depart, or prepare for his fury. At the same instant they
all drew their swords, and the shrieks of Ellena, and the supplications
of the officiating priest, were lost amidst the tumult of the
combatants.

Vivaldi, most unwilling to shed blood, stood merely on the defensive,
till the violence of his antagonists compelled him to exert all his
skill and strength. He then disabled one of the ruffians; but his skill
was insufficient to repel the other two, and he was nearly overcome,
when steps were heard approaching, and Paulo rushed into the chapel.
Perceiving his master beset, he drew his sword, and came furiously to
his aid. He fought with unconquerable audacity and fierceness, till
nearly at the moment when his adversary fell, other ruffians entered
the chapel, and Vivaldi with his faithful servant was wounded, and, at
length, disarmed.

Ellena, who had been withheld from throwing herself between the
combatants, now, on observing that Vivaldi was wounded, renewed her
efforts for liberty, accompanied by such agony of supplication and
complaint, as almost moved to pity the hearts of the surrounding
ruffians.

Disabled by his wounds, and also held by his enemies, Vivaldi was
compelled to witness her distress and danger, without a hope of
rescuing her. In frantic accents he called upon the old priest to
protect her.

"I dare not oppose the orders of the Inquisition," replied the
Benedictine, "even if I had sufficient strength to defy it's officials.
Know you not, unhappy young man, that it is death to resist them?"

"Death!" exclaimed Ellena, "death!"

"Ay lady, too surely so!"

"Signor, it would have been well for you," said one of the officers,
"if you had taken my advice; you will pay dearly for what you have
done," pointing to the ruffian, who lay severely wounded on the ground.

"My master will not have that to pay for, friend," said Paulo, "for if
you must know, that is a piece of my work; and, if my arms were now at
liberty, I would try if I could not match it among one of you, though
I am so slashed."

"Peace, good Paulo! the deed was mine," said Vivaldi then addressing
the official, "For myself I care not, I have done my duty--but for
her!--Can you look upon her, innocent and helpless as she is, and not
relent! Can you, will you, barbarians! drag her, also, to destruction,
upon a charge too so daringly false?"

"Our relenting would be of no service to her," replied the official,
"we must do our duty. Whether the charge is true or false, she must
answer to it before her judges."

"What charge?" demanded Ellena.

"The charge of having broken your nun's vows," replied the priest.

Ellena raised her eyes to heaven; "Is it even so!" she exclaimed.

"You hear she acknowledges the crime," said one of the ruffians.

"She acknowledges no crime," replied Vivaldi; "she only perceives
the extent of the malice that persecutes her. O! Ellena, must I then
abandon you to their power! leave you for ever!"

The agony of this thought re-animated him with momentary strength; he
burst from the grasp of the officials, and once more clasped Ellena to
his bosom, who, unable to speak, wept, with the anguish of a breaking
heart, as her head sunk upon his shoulder. The ruffians around them so
far respected their grief, that, for a moment, they did not interrupt
it.

Vivaldi's exertion was transient; faint from sorrow, and from loss of
blood, he became unable to support himself, and was compelled again to
relinquish Ellena.

"Is there no help?" said she, with agony; "will you suffer him to
expire on the ground?"

The priest directed, that he should be conveyed to the Benedictine
convent, where his wounds might be examined, and medical aid
administered. The disabled ruffians were already carried thither;
but Vivaldi refused to go, unless Ellena might accompany him. It was
contrary to the rules of the place, that a woman should enter it, and
before the priest could reply, his Benedictine brother eagerly said,
that they dared not transgress the law of the convent.

Ellena's fears for Vivaldi entirely overcame those for herself,
and she entreated, that he would suffer himself to be conveyed to
the Benedictines; but he could not be prevailed with to leave her.
The officials, however, prepared to separate them; Vivaldi in vain
urged the useless cruelty of dividing him from Ellena, if, as they
had hinted, she also was to be carried to the Inquisition; and as
ineffectually demanded, whither they really designed to take her.

"We shall take good care of her, Signor," said an officer, "that is
sufficient for you. It signifies nothing whether you are going the same
way, you must not go together."

"Why, did you ever hear, Signor, of arrested persons being suffered to
remain in company?" said another ruffian, "Fine plots they would lay; I
warrant they would not contradict each other's evidence a tittle."

"You shall not separate me from my master, though," vociferated Paulo;
"I demand to be sent to the Inquisition with him, or to the devil, but
all is one for that."

"Fair and softly," replied the officer; "you shall be sent to the
Inquisition first, and to the devil afterwards; you must be tried
before you are condemned."

"But waste no more time," he added to his followers, and pointing to
Ellena, "away with her."

As he said this, they lifted Ellena in their arms. "Let me loose!"
cried Paulo, when he saw they were carrying her from the place, "let
me loose, I say!" and the violence of his struggles burst asunder the
cords which held him; a vain release, for he was instantly seized again.

Vivaldi, already exhausted by the loss of blood and the anguish of
his mind, made, however, a last effort to save her; he tried to raise
himself from the ground, but a sudden film came over his sight, and his
senses forsook him, while yet the name of Ellena faultered on his lips.

As they bore her from the chapel, she continued to call upon Vivaldi,
and alternately to supplicate that she might once more behold him, and
take one last adieu. The ruffians were inexorable, and she heard his
voice no more, for he no longer heard--no longer was able to reply to
her's.

"O! once again!" she cried in agony, "One word, Vivaldi! Let me hear
the sound of your voice yet once again!" But it was silent.

As she quitted the chapel, with eyes still bent towards the spot where
he lay, she exclaimed, in the piercing accents of despair, "Farewel,
Vivaldi!--O! for ever----ever, farewel!"

The tone, in which she pronounced the last "farewel!" was so touching,
that even the cold heart of the priest could not resist it; but he
impatiently wiped away the few tears, that rushed into his eyes, before
they were observed. Vivaldi heard it--it seemed to arouse him from
death!--he heard her mournful voice for the last time, and, turning his
eyes, saw her veil floating away through the portal of the chapel. All
suffering, all effort, all resistance were vain; the ruffians bound
him, bleeding as he was, and conveyed him to the Benedictine convent,
together with the wounded Paulo, who unceasingly vociferated on the way
thither, "I demand to be sent to the Inquisition! I demand to be sent
to the Inquisition!"




CHAPTER VI.

  "In earliest Greece to thee, with partial choice,
  The grief-full Muse address'd her infant tongue;
  The maids and matrons on her awful voice,
  Silent and pale, in wild amazement hang."
                                            COLLINS'S ODE TO FEAR.


The wounds of Vivaldi, and of his servant, were pronounced, by the
Benedictine who had examined and dressed them, to be not dangerous,
but those of one of the ruffians were declared doubtful. Some few
of the brothers displayed much compassion and kindness towards the
prisoners; but the greater part seemed fearful of expressing any
degree of sympathy for persons who had fallen within the cognizance of
the Holy Office, and even kept aloof from the chamber, in which they
were confined. To this self-restriction, however, they were not long
subjected; for Vivaldi and Paulo were compelled to begin their journey
as soon as some short rest had sufficiently revived them. They were
placed in the same carriage, but the presence of two officers prevented
all interchange of conjecture as to the destination of Ellena, and with
respect to the immediate occasion of their misfortune. Paulo, indeed,
now and then hazarded a surmise, and did not scruple to affirm, that
the Abbess of San Stefano was their chief enemy; that the Carmelite
friars, who had overtaken them on the road, were her agents; and that,
having traced their route, they had given intelligence where Vivaldi
and Ellena might be found.

"I guessed we never should escape the Abbess," said Paulo, "though I
would not disturb you, Signor mio, nor the poor lady Ellena, by saying
so. But your Abbesses are as cunning as Inquisitors, and are so fond of
governing, that they had rather, like them, send a man to the devil,
than send him no where."

Vivaldi gave Paulo a significant look, which was meant to repress
his imprudent loquacity, and then sunk again into silence and the
abstractions of deep grief. The officers, mean while, never spoke,
but were observant of all that Paulo said, who perceived their
watchfulness, but because he despised them as spies, he thoughtlessly
despised them also as enemies, and was so far from concealing opinions,
which they might repeat to his prejudice, that he had a pride in
exaggerating them, and in daring the worst, which the exasperated
tempers of these men, shut up in the same carriage with him, and
compelled to hear whatever he chose to say against the institution
to which they belonged, could effect. Whenever Vivaldi, recalled from
his abstractions by some bold assertion, endeavoured to check his
imprudence, Paulo was contented to solace his conscience, instead of
protecting himself, by saying, "It is their own fault; they would
thrust themselves into my company; let them have enough of it; and,
if ever they take me before their reverences, the Inquisitors, _they_
shall have enough for it too. I will play up such a tune in the
Inquisition as is not heard there every day. I will jingle all the
bells on their fool's caps, and tell them a little honest truth, if
they make me smart for it ever so."

Vivaldi, aroused once more, and seriously alarmed for the consequences
which honest Paulo might be drawing upon himself, now insisted on his
silence, and was obeyed.

They travelled during the whole night, stopping only to change horses.
At every post house, Vivaldi looked for a carriage that might inclose
Ellena, but none appeared, nor any sound of wheels told him that she
followed.

With the morning light he perceived the dome of St. Peter, appearing
faintly over the plains that surrounded Rome, and he understood, for
the first time, that he was going to the prisons of the Inquisition in
that city. The travellers descended upon the Campania, and then rested
for a few hours at a small town on its borders.

When they again set forward, Vivaldi perceived that the guard was
changed, the officer who had remained with him in the apartment of
the inn only appearing among the new faces which surrounded him. The
dress and manners of these men differed considerably from those of
the other. Their conduct was more temperate, but their countenances
expressed a darker cruelty, mingled with a sly demureness, and a
solemn self-importance, that announced them at once as belonging to
the Inquisition. They were almost invariably silent; and when they
did speak, it was only in a few sententious words. To the abounding
questions of Paulo, and the few earnest entreaties of his master, to be
informed of the place of Ellena's destination, they made not the least
reply; and listened to all the flourishing speeches of the servant
against Inquisitors and the Holy Office with the most profound gravity.

Vivaldi was struck with the circumstance of the guard being changed,
and still more with the appearance of the party, who now composed it.
When he compared the manners of the late, with those of the present
guard, he thought he discovered in the first the mere ferocity of
ruffians; but in the latter, the principles of cunning and cruelty,
which seemed particularly to characterize Inquisitors; he was inclined
to believe, that a stratagem had enthralled him, and that now, for the
first time, he was in the custody of the _Holy Office_.

It was near midnight when the prisoners entered the _Porto del
Popolo_, and found themselves in the midst of the Carnival at Rome.
The _Corso_, through which they were obliged to pass, was crowded with
gay carriages and masks, with processions of musicians, monks, and
mountebanks, was lighted up with innumerable flambeaux, and resounded
with the heterogeneous rattling of wheels, the music of serenades,
and the jokes and laughter of the revellers, as they sportively threw
about their sugar-plumbs. The heat of the weather made it necessary
to have the windows of the coach open, and the prisoners, therefore,
saw all that passed without. It was a scene, which contrasted cruelly
with the feelings and circumstances of Vivaldi; torn as he was from
her he most loved, in dreadful uncertainty as to her fate, and himself
about to be brought before a tribunal, whose mysterious and terrible
proceedings appalled even the bravest spirits. Altogether, this was
one of the most striking examples, which the chequer-work of human life
could shew, or human feelings endure, Vivaldi sickened as he looked
upon the splendid crowd, while the carriage made its way slowly with
it; but Paulo, as he gazed, was reminded of the Corso of Naples, such
as it appeared at the time of Carnival, and, comparing the present
scene with his native one, he found fault with every thing he beheld.
The dresses were tasteless, the equipages without splendor, the people
without spirit; yet, such was the propensity of his heart to sympathize
with whatever was gay, that, for some moments, he forgot that he was
a prisoner on his way to the Inquisition; almost forgot that he was a
Neapolitan; and, while he exclaimed against the dullness of a Roman
carnival, would have sprung through the carriage window to partake of
its spirit, if his fetters and his wounds had not withheld him. A deep
sigh from Vivaldi recalled his wandering imagination; and, when he
noticed again the sorrow in his master's look, all his lightly joyous
spirits fled.

"My _maestro_, my dear _maestro_!"--he said, and knew not how to finish
what he wished to express.

At that moment they passed the theatre of San Carlo, the doors of which
were thronged with equipages, where Roman ladies, in their gala habits,
courtiers in their fantastic dresses, and masks of all descriptions,
were hastening to the opera. In the midst of this gay bustle, where
the carriage was unable to proceed, the officials of the Inquisition
looked on in solemn silence, not a muscle of their features relaxing
in sympathy, or yielding a single wrinkle of the self-importance that
lifted their brows; and, while they regarded with secret contempt
those, who could be thus lightly pleased, the people, in return, more
wisely, perhaps, regarded with contempt the proud moroseness, that
refused to partake of innocent pleasures, because they were trifling,
and shrunk from countenances furrowed with the sternness of cruelty.
But, when their office was distinguished, part of the crowd pressed
back from the carriage in affright, while another part advanced with
curiosity; though, as the majority retreated, space was left for the
carriage to move on. After quitting the Corso, it proceeded for some
miles through dark and deserted streets, where only here and there a
lamp, hung on high before the image of a saint, shed it's glimmering
light, and where a melancholy and universal silence prevailed. At
intervals, indeed, the moon, as the clouds passed away, shewed, for a
moment, some of those mighty monuments of Rome's eternal name, those
sacred ruins, those gigantic skeletons, which once enclosed a soul,
whose energies governed a world! Even Vivaldi could not behold with
indifference the grandeur of these reliques, as the rays fell upon the
hoary walls and columns, or pass among these scenes of ancient story,
without feeling a melancholy awe, a sacred enthusiasm, that withdrew
him from himself. But the illusion was transient; his own misfortunes
pressed too heavily upon him to be long unfelt, and his enthusiasm
vanished like the moonlight.

A returning gleam lighted up, soon after, the rude and extensive area,
which the carriage was crossing. It appeared, from it's desolation, and
the ruins scattered distantly along its skirts, to be a part of the
city entirely abandoned by the modern inhabitants to the reliques of
its former grandeur. Not even the shadow of a human being crossed the
waste, nor any building appeared, which might be supposed to shelter
one. The deep tone of a bell, however, rolling on the silence of the
night, announced the haunts of man to be not far off; and Vivaldi
perceived in the distance, to which he was approaching, an extent of
lofty walls and towers, that, as far as the gloom would permit his eye
to penetrate, bounded the horizon. He judged these to be the prisons
of the Inquisition. Paulo pointed them out at the same moment. "Ah,
Signor!" said he despondingly, "that is the place! what strength! If,
my Lord, the Marchese were but to see where we are going! Ah!"----

He concluded with a deep sigh, and sunk again into the state of
apprehension and mute expectation, which he had suffered from the
moment that he quitted the Corso.

The carriage having reached the walls, followed their bendings to a
considerable extent. These walls, of immense height, and strengthened
by innumerable massy bulwarks, exhibited neither window or grate, but a
vast and dreary blank; a small round tower only, perched here and there
upon the summit, breaking their monotony.

The prisoners passed what seemed to be the principal entrance, from the
grandeur of its portal, and the gigantic loftiness of the towers that
rose over it; and soon after the carriage stopped at an arch-way in the
walls, strongly barricadoed. One of the escort alighted, and, having
struck upon the bars, a folding door within was immediately opened, and
a man bearing a torch appeared behind the barricado, whose countenance,
as he looked through it, might have been copied for the

  "Grim-visaged comfortless Despair"

of the Poet.

No words were exchanged between him and the guard; but on perceiving
who were without, he opened the iron gate, and the prisoners, having
alighted, passed with the two officials beneath the arch, the guard
following with a torch. They descended a flight of broad steps, at
the foot of which another iron gate admitted them to a kind of hall;
such, however, it at first appeared to Vivaldi, as his eyes glanced
through its gloomy extent, imperfectly ascertaining it by the lamp,
which hung from the centre of the roof. No person appeared, and a
death-like silence prevailed; for neither the officials nor the guard
yet spoke; nor did any distant sound contradict the notion, that they
were traversing the chambers of the dead. To Vivaldi it occurred, that
this was one of the burial vaults of the victims, who suffered in the
Inquisition, and his whole frame thrilled with horror. Several avenues,
opening from the apartment, seemed to lead to distant quarters of this
immense fabric, but still no footstep whispering along the pavement,
or voice murmuring through the arched roofs, indicated it to be the
residence of the living.

Having entered one of the passages, Vivaldi perceived a person clothed
in black, and who bore a lighted taper, crossing silently in the remote
perspective; and he understood too well from his habit, that he was a
member of this dreadful tribunal.

The sound of footsteps seemed to reach the stranger, for he turned, and
then paused, while the officers advanced. They then made signs to each
other, and exchanged a few words, which neither Vivaldi or his servant
could understand, when the stranger, pointing with his taper along
another avenue, passed away. Vivaldi followed him with his eyes, till a
door at the extremity of the passage opened, and he saw the Inquisitor
enter an apartment, whence a great light proceeded, and where several
other figures, habited like himself, appeared waiting to receive him.
The door immediately closed; and, whether the imagination of Vivaldi
was affected, or that the sounds were real, he thought, as it closed,
he distinguished half-stifled groans, as of a person in agony.

The avenue, through which the prisoners passed, opened, at length,
into an apartment gloomy like the first they had entered, but more
extensive. The roof was supported by arches, and long arcades branched
off from every side of the chamber, as from a central point, and were
lost in the gloom, which the rays of the small lamps, suspended in
each, but feebly penetrated.

They rested here, and a person soon after advanced, who appeared to be
the jailor, into whose hands Vivaldi and Paulo were delivered. A few
mysterious words having been exchanged, one of the officials crossed
the hall, and ascended a wide stair-case, while the other, with the
jailor and the guard, remained below, as if awaiting his return.

A long interval elapsed, during which the stillness of the place was
sometimes interrupted by a closing door, and, at others, by indistinct
sounds, which yet appeared to Vivaldi like lamentations and extorted
groans. Inquisitors, in their long black robes, issued, from time to
time from the passages, and crossed the hall to other avenues. They
eyed the prisoners with curiosity, but without pity. Their visages,
with few exceptions, seemed stamped with the characters of demons.
Vivaldi could not look upon the grave cruelty, or the ferocious
impatience, their countenances severally expressed, without reading
in them the fate of some fellow creature, the fate, which these men
seemed going, even at this moment, to confirm; and, as they passed
with soundless steps, he shrunk from observation, as if their very
looks possessed some supernatural power, and could have struck death.
But he followed their fleeting figures, as they proceeded on their
work of horror, to where the last glimmering ray faded into darkness,
expecting to see other doors of other chambers open to receive them.
While meditating upon these horrors, Vivaldi lost every selfish
consideration in astonishment and indignation of the sufferings, which
the frenzied wickedness of man prepares for man, who, even at the
moment of infliction, insults his victim with assertions of the justice
and necessity of such procedure. "Is this possible!" said Vivaldi
internally, "Can this be in human nature!--Can such horrible perversion
of right be permitted! Can man, who calls himself endowed with reason,
and immeasurably superior to every other created being, argue himself
into the commission of such horrible folly, such inveterate cruelty, as
exceeds all the acts of the most irrational and ferocious brute. Brutes
do not deliberately slaughter their species; it remains for man only,
man, proud of his prerogative of reason, and boasting of his sense of
justice, to unite the most terrible extremes of folly and wickedness!"

Vivaldi had been no stranger to the existence of this tribunal; he
had long understood the nature of the establishment, and had often
received particular accounts of its customs and laws but, though he
had believed before, it was now only that conviction appeared to
impress his understanding. A new view of human nature seemed to burst,
at once, upon his mind, and he could not have experienced greater
astonishment, if this had been the first moment, in which he had heard
of the institution. But, when he thought of Ellena, considered that she
was in the power of this tribunal, and that it was probable she was at
this moment within the same dreadful walls, grief, indignation, and
despair irritated him almost to frenzy. He seemed suddenly animated
with supernatural strength, and ready to attempt impossibilities for
her deliverance. It was by a strong effort for self command, that he
forbore bursting the bonds, which held him, and making a desperate
attempt to seek her through the vast extent of these prisons.
Reflection, however, had not so entirely forsaken him, but that he
saw the impossibility of succeeding in such an effort, the moment he
had conceived it, and he forbore to rush upon the certain destruction,
to which it must have led. His passions, thus restrained, seemed to
become virtues, and to display themselves in the energy of his courage
and his fortitude. His soul became stern and vigorous in despair, and
his manner and countenance assumed a calm dignity, which seemed to awe,
in some degree, even his guards. The pain of his wounds was no longer
felt; it appeared as if the strength of his intellectual self had
subdued the infirmities of the body, and, perhaps, in these moments of
elevation, he could have endured the torture without shrinking.

Paulo, meanwhile, mute and grave, was watchful of all that passed;
he observed the revolutions in his master's mind, with grief first,
and then with surprize, but he could not imitate the noble fortitude,
which now gave weight and steadiness to Vivaldi's thoughts. And when
he looked on the power and gloom around him, and on the visages of
the passing Inquisitors, he began to repent, that he had so freely
delivered his opinion of this tribunal, in the presence of its
agents, and to perceive, that if he played up the kind of tune he had
threatened, it would probably be the last he should ever be permitted
to perform in this world.

At length, the chief officer descended the stair-case, and immediately
bade Vivaldi follow him. Paulo was accompanying his master, but was
withheld by the guard, and told he was to be disposed of in a different
way. This was the moment of his severest trial; he declared he would
not be separated from his master.

"What did I demand to be brought here for," he cried, "if it was not
that I might go shares with the Signor in all his troubles? This is
not a place to come to for pleasure, I warrant; and I can promise ye,
gentlemen, I would not have come within an hundred miles of you, if it
had not been for my master's sake."

The guards roughly interrupted him, and were carrying him away, when
Vivaldi's commanding voice arrested them. He returned to speak a few
words of consolation to his faithful servant, and, since they were to
be separated, to take leave of him.

Paulo embraced his knees, and, while he wept, and his words were almost
stifled by sobs, declared no force should drag him from his master,
while he had life; and repeatedly appealed to the guards, with--"What
did I demand to be brought here for? Did ever any body come here to
seek pleasure? What right have you to prevent my going shares with my
master in his troubles?"

"We do not intend to deny you that pleasure, friend," replied one of
the guards.

"Don't you? Then heaven bless you!" cried Paulo, springing from his
knees, and shaking the man by the hand with a violence, that would
nearly have dislocated the shoulder of a person less robust.

"So come with us," added the guard, drawing him away from Vivaldi.
Paulo now became outrageous, and, struggling with the guards, burst
from them, and again fell at the feet of his master, who raised and
embraced him, endeavouring to prevail with him to submit quietly to
what was inevitable and to encourage him with hope.

"I trust that our separation will be short," said Vivaldi, "and that we
shall meet in happier circumstances. My innocence must soon appear."

"We shall never, never meet again, Signormio, in this world," said
Paulo, sobbing violently, "so don't make me hope so. That old Abbess
knows what she is about too well to let us escape; or she would
not have catched us up so cunningly as she did; so what signifies
innocence! O! if my old lord, the Marchese, did but know where we are!"

Vivaldi interrupted him, and turning to the guards said, "I recommend
my faithful servant to your compassion; he is innocent. It will some
time, perhaps, be in my power to recompence you for any indulgence you
may allow him, and I shall value it a thousand times more highly, than
any you could shew to myself! Farewell, Paulo,----farewel! Officer, I
am ready."

"O stay! Signor, for one moment--stay!" said Paulo.

"We can wait no longer," said the guard, and again drew Paulo away,
who looking piteously after Vivaldi, alternately repeated, "Farewel,
dear maestro! farewel dear, dear maestro!" and "What did I demand to be
brought here for? What did I demand to be brought here for?--what was
it for, if not to go shares with my maestro?" till Vivaldi was beyond
the reach of sight and of hearing.

Vivaldi, having followed the officer up the stair-case, passed through
a gallery to an anti-chamber, where, being delivered into the custody
of some persons in waiting, his conductor disappeared beyond a folding
door, that led to an inner apartment. Over this door was an inscription
in Hebrew characters, traced in blood-colour. Dante's inscription on
the entrance of the infernal regions, would have been suitable to a
place, where every circumstance and feature seemed to say, "_Hope, that
comes to all, comes not here!_"

Vivaldi conjectured, that in this chamber they were preparing for him
the instruments, which were to extort a confession; and though he knew
little of the regular proceedings of this tribunal, he had always
understood, that the torture was inflicted upon the accused person,
till he made confession of the crime, of which he was suspected. By
such a mode of proceeding, the innocent were certain of suffering
longer than the guilty; for, as they had nothing to confess, the
Inquisitor, mistaking innocence for obstinacy, persevered in his
inflictions, and it frequently happened that he compelled the innocent
to become criminal, and assert a falsehood, that they might be released
from anguish, which they could no longer sustain. Vivaldi considered
this circumstance undauntedly; every faculty of his soul was bent up to
firmness and endurance. He believed that he understood the extent of
the charge, which would be brought against him, a charge as false, as
a specious confirmation of it, would be terrible in it's consequence
both to Ellena and himself. Yet every art would be practised to bring
him to an acknowledgment of having carried off a nun, and he knew also,
that, since the prosecutor and the witnesses are never confronted with
the prisoner in cases of severe accusation, and since their very names
are concealed from him, it would be scarcely possible for him to prove
his innocence. But he did not hesitate an instant whether to sacrifice
himself for Ellena, determining rather to expire beneath the merciless
inflictions of the Inquisitors, than to assert a falsehood, which must
involve her in destruction.

The officer, at length, appeared, and, having beckoned Vivaldi to
advance, uncovered his head, and bared his arms. He then led him
forward through the folding door into the chamber; having done which,
he immediately withdrew, and the door, which shut out Hope, closed
after him.

Vivaldi found himself in a spacious apartment, where only two persons
were visible, who were seated at a large table, that occupied the
centre of the room. They were both habited in black; the one, who
seemed by his piercing eye, and extraordinary physiognomy, to be an
Inquisitor, wore on his head a kind of black turban, which heightened
the natural ferocity of his visage; the other was uncovered, and his
arms bared to the elbows. A book, with some instruments of singular
appearance, lay before him. Round the table were several unoccupied
chairs, on the backs of which appeared figurative signs; at the upper
end of the apartment, a gigantic crucifix stretched nearly to the
vaulted roof; and, at the lower end, suspended from an arch in the
wall, was a dark curtain, but whether it veiled a window, or shrowded
some object or person, necessary to the designs of the Inquisitor,
there were little means of judging. It was, however, suspended from an
arch such as sometimes contains a casement, or leads to a deep recess.

The Inquisitor called on Vivaldi to advance, and, when he had reached
the table, put a book into his hands, and bade him swear to reveal the
truth, and keep for ever secret whatever he might see or hear in the
apartment.

Vivaldi hesitated to obey so unqualified a command. The Inquisitor
reminded him, by a look, not to be mistaken, that he was absolute here;
but Vivaldi still hesitated. "Shall I consent to my own condemnation?"
said he to himself, "The malice of demons like these may convert
the most innocent circumstances into matter of accusation, for my
destruction, and I must answer whatever questions they choose to ask.
And shall I swear, also, to conceal whatever I may witness in this
chamber, when I know that the most diabolical cruelties are hourly
practised here?"

The Inquisitor, in a voice which would have made a heart less fortified
than was Vivaldi's tremble, again commanded him to swear; at the same
time, he made a signal to the person, who sat at the opposite end of
the table, and who appeared to be an inferior officer.

Vivaldi was still silent, but he began to consider that, unconscious
as he was of crime, it was scarcely possible for his words to be
tortured into a self-accusation; and that, whatever he might witness,
no retribution would be prevented, no evil withheld by the oath,
which bound him to secresy, since his most severe denunciation could
avail nothing against the supreme power of this tribunal. As he did
not perceive any good, which could arise from refusing the oath; and
saw much immediate evil from resistance, he consented to receive it.
Notwithstanding this, when he put the book to his lips, and uttered the
tremendous vow prescribed to him, hesitation and reluctance returned
upon his mind, and an icy coldness struck to his heart. He was so much
affected, that circumstances, apparently the most trivial, had at this
moment influence upon his imagination. As he accidentally threw his
eyes upon the curtain, which he had observed before without emotion,
and now thought it moved, he almost started in expectation of seeing
some person, an Inquisitor perhaps, as terrific as the one before him,
or an Accuser as malicious as Schedoni, steal from behind it.

The Inquisitor having administered the oath, and the attendant having
noted it in his book, the examination began. After demanding, as is
usual, the names and titles of Vivaldi and his family, and his place of
residence, to which he fully replied, the Inquisitor asked, whether he
understood the nature of the accusation on which he had been arrested.

"The order for my arrestation informed me," replied Vivaldi.

"Look to your words!" said the Inquisitor, "and remember your oath.
What was the ground of accusation?"

"I understood," said Vivaldi, "that I was accused of having stolen a
nun from her sanctuary."

A faint degree of surprise appeared on the brow of the Inquisitor. "You
confess it, then?" he said, after the pause of a moment, and making a
signal to the Secretary, who immediately noted Vivaldi's words.

"I solemnly deny it," replied Vivaldi, "the accusation is false and
malicious."

"Remember the oath you have taken!" repeated the Inquisitor, "learn
also, that mercy is shewn to such as make full confession; but that the
torture is applied to those, who have the folly and the obstinacy to
withhold the truth."

"If you torture me till I acknowledge the justness of this accusation,"
said Vivaldi, "I must expire under your inflictions, for suffering
never shall compel me to assert a falsehood. It is not the truth, which
you seek; it is not the guilty, whom you punish; the innocent, having
no crimes to confess, are the victims of your cruelty, or, to escape
from it, become criminal, and proclaim a lie."

"Recollect yourself," said the Inquisitor, sternly. "You are not
brought hither to accuse, but to answer accusation. You say you are
innocent; yet acknowledge yourself to be acquainted with the subject of
the charge which is to be urged against you! How could you know this,
but from the voice of conscience?"

"From the words of your own summons," replied Vivaldi, "and from those
of your officials who arrested me."

"How!" exclaimed the Inquisitor, "note that," pointing to the
Secretary; "he says by the words of our summons; now we know, that
you never read that summons. He says also by the words of our
officials;--it appears, then, he is ignorant, that death would follow
such a breach of confidence."

"It is true, I never did read the summons," replied Vivaldi, "and as
true, that I never asserted I did; the friar, who read it, told of what
it accused me, and your officials confirmed the testimony."

"No more of this equivocation!" said the Inquisitor, "Speak only to the
question."

"I will not suffer my assertions to be misrepresented," replied
Vivaldi, "or my words to be perverted against myself. I have sworn to
speak the truth only; since you believe I violate my oath, and doubt my
direct and simple words, I will speak no more."

The Inquisitor half rose from his chair, and his countenance grew
paler. "Audacious heretic!" he said, "will you dispute, insult, and
disobey, the commands of our most holy tribunal! You will be taught the
consequence of your desperate impiety.--To the torture with him!"

A stern smile was on the features of Vivaldi; his eyes were calmly
fixed on the Inquisitor, and his attitude was undaunted and firm.
His courage, and the cool contempt, which his looks expressed, seemed
to touch his examiner, who perceived that he had not a common mind
to operate upon. He abandoned, therefore, for the present, terrific
measures, and, resuming his usual manner, proceeded in the examination.

"Where were you arrested?"

"At the chapel of San Sebastian, on the lake of Celano."

"You are certain as to this?" asked the Inquisitor, "you are sure it
was not at the village of Legano, on the high road between Celano and
Rome?"

Vivaldi, while he confirmed his assertion, recollected with some
surprise that Legano was the place where the guard had been changed,
and he mentioned the circumstance. The Inquisitor, however, proceeded
in his questions, without appearing to notice it. "Was any person
arrested with you?"

"You cannot be ignorant," replied Vivaldi, "that Signora di Rosalba,
was seized at the same time, upon the false charge of being a nun,
who had broken her vows, and eloped from her convent; nor that Paulo
Mendrico, my faithful servant! was also made a prisoner, though upon
what pretence he was arrested I am utterly ignorant."

The Inquisitor remained for some moments in thoughtful silence, and
then enquired slightly concerning the family of Ellena, and her usual
place of residence. Vivaldi, fearful of making some assertion that
might be prejudicial to her, referred him to herself, but the inquiry
was repeated.

"She is now within these walls," replied Vivaldi, hoping to learn from
the manner of his examiner, whether his fears were just, "and can
answer these questions better than myself."

The Inquisitor merely bade the Notary write down her name, and then
remained for a few moments meditating. At length, he said, "Do you know
where you now are?"

Vivaldi, smiling at the question, replied, "I understand that I am in
the prisons of the Inquisition, at Rome."

"Do you know what are the crimes that subject persons to the cognizance
of the Holy Office?"

Vivaldi was silent.

"Your conscience informs _you_, and your silence confirms _me_. Let
me admonish you, once more, to make a full confession of your guilt;
remember that this is a merciful tribunal, and shews favour to such as
acknowledge their crimes?"

Vivaldi smiled; but the Inquisitor proceeded.

"It does not resemble some severe, yet just courts, where immediate
execution follows the confession of a criminal. No! it is merciful, and
though it punishes guilt, it never applies the torture but in cases of
necessity, when the obstinate silence of the prisoner requires such a
measure. You see, therefore, what you may avoid, and what expect."

"But if the prisoner has nothing to confess?" said Vivaldi,--"Can your
tortures make him guilty? They may force a weak mind to be guilty
of falsehood; to escape present anguish, a man may unwarily condemn
himself to the death! You will find that I am not such an one."

"Young man," replied the Inquisitor, "you will understand too soon,
that we never act, but upon sure authority; and will wish, too late,
that you had made an honest confession. Your silence cannot keep from
us a knowledge of your offences; we are in possession of facts; and
your obstinacy can neither wrest from us the truth, or pervert it. Your
most secret offences are already written on the tablets of the Holy
Office; your conscience cannot reflect them more justly,--Tremble,
therefore, and revere. But understand, that, though we have sufficient
proof of your guilt, we require you to confess; and that the punishment
of obstinacy is as certain, as that of any other offence."

Vivaldi made no reply, and the Inquisitor, after a momentary silence,
added, "Was you ever in the church of the Spirito Santo, at Naples?"

"Before I answer the question," said Vivaldi, "I require the name of my
accuser."

"You are to recollect that you have no right to demand any thing in
this place," observed the Inquisitor, "nor can you be ignorant that the
name of the Informer is always kept sacred from the knowledge of the
Accused. Who would venture to do his duty, if his name was arbitrarily
to be exposed to the vengeance of the criminal against whom he informs?
It is only in a particular process that the Accuser is brought
forward."

"The names of the Witnesses?" demanded Vivaldi.

"The same justice conceals them also from the knowledge of the
Accused," replied the Inquisitor.

"And is no justice left for the Accused?" said Vivaldi. "Is he to
be tried and condemned without being confronted with either his
Prosecutor, or the Witnesses!"

"Your questions are too many," said the Inquisitor, "and your answers
too few. The Informer is not also the Prosecutor; the Holy Office,
before which the information is laid, is the Prosecutor, and the
dispenser of justice; its Public Accuser lays the circumstances, and
the testimonies of the Witnesses, before the Court. But too much of
this."

"How!" exclaimed Vivaldi, "is the tribunal at once the Prosecutor,
Witness, and Judge! What can private malice wish for more, than such a
court of _justice_, at which to arraign it's enemy? The stiletto of the
Assassin is not so sure, or so fatal to innocence. I now perceive, that
it avails me nothing to be guiltless; a single enemy is sufficient to
accomplish my destruction."

"You have an enemy then?" observed the Inquisitor.

Vivaldi was too well convinced that he had one, but there was not
sufficient proof, as to the person of this enemy, to justify him in
asserting that it was Schedoni. The circumstance of Ellena having been
arrested, would have compelled him to suspect another person as being
at least accessary to the designs of the Confessor, had not credulity
started in horror from the supposition, that a mother's resentment
could possibly betray her son into the prisons of the Inquisition,
though this mother had exhibited a temper of remorseless cruelty
towards a stranger, who had interrupted her views for that son.

"You have an enemy then?" repeated the Inquisitor.

"That I am here sufficiently proves it," replied Vivaldi. "But I am so
little any man's enemy, that I know not who to call mine."

"It is evident, then, that you have no enemy," observed the subtle
Inquisitor, "and that this accusation is brought against you by a
respecter of truth, and a faithful servant of the Roman interest."

Vivaldi was shocked to perceive the insidious art, by which he had
been betrayed into a declaration apparently so harmless, and the
cruel dexterity with which it had been turned against him. A lofty
and contemptuous silence was all that he opposed to the treachery
of his examiner, on whose countenance appeared a smile of triumph
and self-congratulation, the life of a fellow creature being, in his
estimation, of no comparative importance with the self-applauses of
successful art; the art, too, upon which he most valued himself--that
of his profession.

The Inquisitor proceeded, "You persist, then, in withholding the
truth?" He paused, but Vivaldi making no reply, he resumed.

"Since it is evident, from your own declaration, that you have no
enemy, whom private resentment might have instigated to accuse you;
and, from other circumstances which have occurred in your conduct, that
you are conscious of more than you have confessed,--it appears, that
the accusation which has been urged against you, is not a malicious
slander. I exhort you, therefore, and once more conjure you, by our
holy faith, to make an ingenuous confession of your offences, and to
save yourself from the means, which must of necessity be enforced to
obtain a confession before your trial commences. I adjure you, also, to
consider, that by such open conduct only, can mercy be won to soften
the justice of this most righteous tribunal!"

Vivaldi, perceiving that it was now necessary for him to reply, once
more solemnly asserted his innocence of the crime alledged against
him in the summons, and of the consciousness of any act, which might
lawfully subject him to the notice of the Holy Office.

The Inquisitor again demanded what was the crime alledged, and, Vivaldi
having repeated the accusation, he again bade the secretary note it, as
he did which, Vivaldi thought he perceived upon his features something
of a malignant satisfaction, for which he knew not how to account. When
the secretary had finished, Vivaldi was ordered to subscribe his name
and quality to the depositions, and he obeyed.

The Inquisitor then bade him consider of the admonition he had
received, and prepare either to confess on the morrow, or to undergo
the question. As he concluded, he gave a signal, and the officer, who
had conducted Vivaldi into the chamber, immediately appeared.

"You know your orders," said the Inquisitor, "receive your prisoner,
and see that they are obeyed."

The official bowed, and Vivaldi followed him from the apartment in
melancholy silence.




CHAPTER VII.

  Call up the spirit of the ocean, bid
  Him raise the storm! The waves begin to heave,
  To curl, to foam; the white surges run far
  Upon the darkening waters, and mighty
  Sounds of strife are heard. Wrapt in the midnight
  Of the clouds, sits Terror, meditating
  Woe. Her doubtful form appears and fades,
  Like the shadow of Death, when he mingles
  With the gloom of the sepulchre, and broods
  In lonely silence. Her spirits are abroad!
  They do her bidding! Hark, to that shriek!
  The echoes of the shore have heard!


Ellena, meanwhile, when she had been carried from the chapel of San
Sebastian, was placed upon a horse in waiting, and, guarded by the
two men who had seized her, commenced a journey, which continued with
little interruption during two nights and days. She had no means of
judging whither she was going, and listened in vain expectation, for
the feet of horses, and the voice of Vivaldi, who, she had been told,
was following on the same road.

The steps of travellers seldom broke upon the silence of these regions,
and, during the journey, she was met only by some market-people
passing to a neighbouring town, or now and then by the vine-dressers
or labourers in the olive grounds; and she descended upon the vast
plains of Apulia, still ignorant of her situation. An encampment, not
of warriors, but of shepherds, who were leading their flocks to the
mountains of Abruzzo, enlivened a small tract of these levels, which
were shadowed on the north and east by the mountainous ridge of the
Garganus, stretching from the Apennine far into the Adriatic.

The appearance of the shepherds was nearly as wild and savage as that
of the men, who conducted Ellena; but their pastoral instruments of
flageolets and tabors spoke of more civilized feelings, as they sounded
sweetly over the desert. Her guards rested, and refreshed themselves
with goats milk, barley cakes, and almonds, and the manners of these
shepherds, like those she had formerly met with on the mountains,
proved to be more hospitable than their air had indicated.

After Ellena had quitted this pastoral camp, no vestige of a human
residence appeared for several leagues, except here and there the
towers of a decayed fortress, perched upon the lofty acclivities she
was approaching, and half concealed in the woods. The evening of the
second day was drawing on, when her guards drew near the forest, which
she had long observed in the distance, spreading over the many-rising
steeps of the Garganus. They entered by a track, a road it could not be
called, which led among oaks and gigantic chestnuts, apparently the
growth of centuries, and so thickly interwoven, that their branches
formed a canopy which seldom admitted the sky. The gloom which they
threw around, and the thickets of cystus, juniper, and lenticus, which
flourished beneath the shade, gave a character of fearful wildness to
the scene.

Having reached an eminence, where the trees were more thinly scattered,
Ellena perceived the forests spreading on all sides among hills and
vallies, and descending towards the Adriatic, which bounded the
distance in front. The coast, bending into a bay, was rocky and bold.
Lofty pinnacles, wooded to their summits, rose over the shores, and
cliffs of naked marble of such gigantic proportions, that they were
awful even at a distance, obtruded themselves far into the waves,
breasting their eternal fury. Beyond the margin of the coast, as far
as the eye could reach, appeared pointed mountains, darkened with
forests, rising ridge over ridge in many successions. Ellena, as she
surveyed this wild scenery, felt as if she was going into eternal
banishment from society. She was tranquil, but it was with the
quietness of exhausted grief, not of resignation; and she looked back
upon the past, and awaited the future, with a kind of out-breathed
despair.

She had travelled for some miles through the forest, her guards only
now and then uttering to each other a question, or an observation
concerning the changes which had taken place in the bordering scenery,
since they last passed it, when night began to close in upon them.

Ellena perceived her approach to the sea, only by the murmurs of its
surge upon the rocky coast, till, having reached an eminence, which
was, however, no more than the base of two woody mountains that towered
closely over it, she saw dimly it's gray surface spreading in the
bay below. She now ventured to ask how much further she was to go,
and whether she was to be taken on board one of the little vessels,
apparently fishing smacks, that she could just discern at anchor.

"You have not far to go now," replied one of the guards, surlily; "you
will soon be at the end of your journey, and at rest."

They descended to the shore, and presently came to a lonely dwelling,
which stood so near the margin of the sea, as almost to be washed by
the waves. No light appeared at any of the lattices; and, from the
silence that reigned within, it seemed to be uninhabited. The guard had
probably reason to know otherwise, for they halted at the door, and
shouted with all their strength. No voice, however, answered to their
call, and, while they persevered in efforts to rouse the inhabitants,
Ellena anxiously examined the building, as exactly as the twilight
would permit. It was of an ancient and peculiar structure, and, though
scarcely important enough for a mansion, had evidently never been
designed for the residence of peasants.

The walls, of unhewn marble, were high, and strengthened by bastions;
and the edifice had turretted corners, which, with the porch in
front, and the sloping roof, were falling fast into numerous symptoms
of decay. The whole building, with it's dark windows and soundless
avenues, had an air strikingly forlorn and solitary. A high wall
surrounded the small court in which it stood, and probably had once
served as a defence to the dwelling; but the gates, which should have
closed against intruders, could no longer perform their office; one
of the folds had dropped from it's fastenings, and lay on the ground
almost concealed in a deep bed of weeds, and, the other creaked on its
hinges to every blast, at each swing seeming ready to follow the fate
of it's companion.

The repeated calls of the guard, were, at length, answered by a rough
voice from within; when the door of the porch was lazily unbarred, and
opened by a man, whole visage was so misery-struck, that Ellena could
not look upon it with indifference, though wrapt in misery of her
own. The lamp he held threw a gleam athwart it, and shewed the gaunt
ferocity of famine, to which the shadow of his hollow eyes added a
terrific wildness. Ellena shrunk while she gazed. She had never before
seen villainy and suffering so strongly pictured on the same face,
and she observed him with a degree of thrilling curiosity, which for
a moment excluded from her mind all consciousness of the evils to be
apprehended from him.

It was evident that this house had not been built for his reception;
and she conjectured, that he was the servant of some cruel agent of the
Marchesa di Vivaldi.

From the porch, she followed into an old hall, ruinous, and destitute
of any kind of furniture. It was not extensive, but lofty, for it
seemed to ascend to the roof of the edifice, and the chambers above
opened around it into a corridor.

Some half-sullen salutations were exchanged between the guard and the
stranger, whom they called Spalatro, as they passed into a chamber,
where, it appeared that he had been sleeping on a mattress laid in a
corner. All the other furniture of the place, were two or three broken
chairs and a table. He eyed Ellena with a shrewd contracted brow,
and then looked significantly at the guard, but was silent, till he
desired them all to sit down, adding, that he would dress some fish
for supper. Ellena discovered that this man was the master of the
place; it appeared also that he was the only inhabitant; and, when
the guard soon after informed her their journey concluded here, her
worst apprehensions were confirmed. The efforts she made to sustain
her spirits, were no longer successful. It seemed that she was brought
hither by ruffians to a lonely house on the sea-shore, inhabited by a
man, who had "villain" engraved in every line of his face, to be the
victim of inexorable pride and an insatiable desire of revenge. After
considering these circumstances, and the words, which had just told
her, she was to go no further, conviction struck like lightning upon
her heart; and, believing she was brought hither to be assassinated,
horror chilled all her frame, and her senses forsook her.

On recovering, she sound herself surrounded by the guard and the
stranger, and she would have supplicated for their pity, but that she
feared to exasperate them by betraying her suspicions. She complained
of fatigue, and requested to be shewn to her room. The men looked upon
one another, hesitated, and then asked her to partake of the fish that
was preparing. But Ellena having declined the invitation with as good
a grace as she could assume, they consented that she should withdraw.
Spalatro, taking the lamp, lighted her across the hall, to the corridor
above, where he opened the door of a chamber, in which he said she was
to sleep.

"Where is my bed?" said the afflicted Ellena, fearfully as she looked
round.

"It is there--on the floor," replied Spalatro, pointing to a miserable
mattress, over which hung the tattered curtains of what had once been
a canopy. "If you want the lamp," he added, "I will leave it, and come
for it in a minute or two."

"Will you not let me have a lamp for the night?" she said in a
supplicating and timid voice.

"For the night!" said the man gruffly; "What! to set fire to the
house?"

Ellena still entreated that he would allow her the comfort of a light.

"Ay, ay," replied Spalatro, with a look she could not comprehend, "it
would be a great comfort to you, truly! You do not know what you ask."

"What is it that you mean?" said Ellena, eagerly; "I conjure you, in
the name of our holy church, to tell me!"

Spalatro stepped suddenly back, and looked upon her with surprise, but
without speaking.

"Have mercy on me!" said Ellena, greatly alarmed by his manner; "I am
friendless, and without help!"

"What do you fear?" said the man, recovering himself; and then, without
waiting her reply, added--"Is it such an unmerciful deed to take away a
lamp?"

Ellena, who again feared to betray the extent of her suspicions, only
replied, that it would be merciful to leave it, for that her spirits
were low, and she required light to cheer them in a new abode.

"We do not stand upon such conceits here," replied Spalatro, "we have
other matters to mind. Besides, it's the only lamp in the house, and
the company below are in darkness while I am losing time here. I will
leave it for two minutes, and no more." Ellena made a sign for him
to put down the lamp; and, when he left the room, she heard the door
barred upon her.

She employed these two minutes in examining the chamber, and the
possibility it might afford of an escape. It was a large apartment,
unfurnished and unswept of the cobwebs of many years. The only door she
discovered was the one, by which she had entered, and the only window
a lattice, which was grated. Such preparation for preventing escape
seemed to hint how much there might be to escape from.

Having examined the chamber, without finding a single circumstance to
encourage hope, tried the strength of the bars, which she could not
shake, and fought in vain for an inside fastening to her door, she
placed the lamp beside it, and awaited the return of Spalatro. In a
few moments he came, and offered her a cup of sour wine with a slice
of bread; which, being somewhat soothed by this attention, she did not
think proper to reject.

Spalatro then quitted the room, and the door was again barred. Left
once more alone, she tried to overcome apprehension by prayer; and
after offering up her vespers with a fervent heart, she became more
confiding and composed.

But it was impossible that she could so far forget the dangers of
her situation, as to seek sleep, however wearied she might be, while
the door of her room remained unsecured against the intrusion of
the ruffians below; and, as she had no means of fastening it, she
determined to watch during the whole night. Thus left to solitude and
darkness, she seated herself upon the mattress to await the return of
morning, and was soon lost in sad reflection; every minute occurrence
of the past day, and of the conduct of her guards, moved in review
before her judgment; and, combining these with the circumstances
of her present situation, scarcely a doubt as to the fate designed
for her remained. It seemed highly improbable, that the Marchesa di
Vivaldi had sent her hither merely for imprisonment, since she might
have confined her in a convent, with much less trouble; and still more
so, when Ellena considered the character of the Marchesa, such as she
had already experienced it. The appearance of this house, and of the
man who inhabited it, with the circumstance of no woman being found
residing here, each and all of these signified, that she was brought
hither, not for long imprisonment, but for death. Her utmost efforts
for fortitude or resignation could not overcome the cold tremblings,
the sickness of heart, the faintness and universal horror, that
assailed her. How often, with tears of mingled terror and grief, did
she call upon Vivaldi--Vivaldi, alas! far distant--to save her; how
often exclaim in agony, that she should never, never see him more!

She was spared, however, the horror of believing that he was an
inhabitant of the Inquisition. Having detected the imposition, which
had been practised towards herself, and that she was neither on the
way to the Holy Office, nor conducted by persons belonging to it,
she concluded, that the whole affair of Vivaldi's arrest, had been
planned by the Marchesa, merely as a pretence for confining him, till
she should be placed beyond the reach of his assistance. She hoped,
therefore, that he had only been sent to some private residence
belonging to his family, and that, when her fate was decided, he
would be released, and she be the only victim. This was the sole
consideration, that afforded any degree of assuagement to her
sufferings.

The people below sat till a late hour. She listened often to their
distant voices, as they were distinguishable in the pauses of the
surge, that broke loud and hollow on the shore; and every time the
creaking hinges of their room door moved, apprehended they were
coming to her. At length, it appeared they had left the apartment,
or had fallen asleep there, for a profound stilness reigned whenever
the murmur of the waves sunk. Doubt did not long deceive her, for,
while she yet listened, she distinguished footsteps ascending to the
corridor. She heard them approach her chamber, and stop at the door;
she heard, also, the low whisperings of their voices, as they seemed
consulting on what was to be done, and she scarcely ventured to draw
breath, while she intensely attended to them. Not a word, however,
distinctly reached her, till, as one of them was departing, another
called out in a half-whisper, "It is below on the table, in my girdle;
make haste." The man came back, and said something in a lower voice, to
which the other replied, "she sleeps," or Ellena was deceived by the
hissing consonants of some other words. He then descended the stairs;
and in a few minutes she perceived his comrade also pass away from the
door; she listened to his retreating steps, till the roaring of the sea
was alone heard in their stead.

Ellena's terrors were relieved only for a moment. Considering the
import of the words, it appeared that the man who had descended, was
gone for the stiletto of the other, such an instrument being usually
worn in the girdle, and from the assurance, "she sleeps," he seemed
to fear that his words had been overheard; and she listened again for
their steps; but they came no more.

Happily for Ellena's peace, she knew not that her chamber had a door,
so contrived as to open without sound, by which assassins might enter
unsuspectedly at any hour of the night. Believing that the inhabitants
of this house had now retired to rest, her hopes and her spirits began
to revive; but she was yet sleepless and watchful. She measured the
chamber with unequal steps, often starting as the old boards shook and
groaned where she passed; and often pausing to listen whether all was
yet still in the corridor. The gleam, which a rising moon threw between
the bars of her window, now began to shew many shadowy objects in the
chamber, which she did not recollect to have observed while the lamp
was there. More than once, she fancied she saw something glide along
towards the place where the mattress was laid, and, almost congealed
with terror, she stood still to watch it; but the illusion, if such it
was, disappeared where the moonlight faded, and even her fears could
not give shape to it beyond. Had she not known that her chamber-door
remained strongly barred, she would have believed this was an assassin
stealing to the bed where it might be supposed she slept. Even now the
thought occurred to her, and vague as it was, had power to strike an
anguish, almost deadly, through her heart, while she considered that
her immediate situation was nearly as perilous as the one she had
imaged. Again she listened, and scarcely dared to breathe; but not the
lightest sound occurred in the pauses of the waves, and she believed
herself convinced that no person except herself was in the room. That
she was deceived in this belief, appeared from her unwillingness to
approach the mattress, while it was yet involved in shade. Unable to
overcome her reluctance, she took her station at the window, till the
strengthening rays should allow a clearer view of the chamber, and in
some degree restore her confidence; and she watched the scene without
as it gradually became visible. The moon, rising over the ocean, shewed
it's restless surface spreading to the wide horizon; and the waves,
which broke in foam upon the rocky beach below, retiring in long white
lines far upon the waters. She listened to their measured and solemn
sound, and, somewhat soothed by the solitary grandeur of the view,
remained at the lattice till the moon had risen high into the heavens;
and even till morning began to dawn upon the sea, and purple the
eastern clouds.

Re-assured, by the light that now pervaded her room, she returned to
the mattress; where anxiety at length yielded to her weariness, and she
obtained a short repose.




CHAPTER VIII.

  "And yet I fear you; for you are fatal then,
  When your eyes roll so. ... ... ... ... ...
  ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
  Alas! why gnaw you so your nether lip?
  Some bloody passion shakes your very frame:
  These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope,
  They do not point on me."
                            SHAKSPEARE.


Ellena was awakened from profound sleep, by a loud noise at the door of
her chamber; when, starting from her mattress, she looked around her
with surprise and dismay, as imperfect recollections of the past began
to gather on her mind. She distinguished the undrawing of iron bars,
and then the countenance of Spalatro at her door, before she had a
clear remembrance of her situation--that she was a prisoner in a house
on a lonely shore, and that this man was her jailor. Such sickness of
the heart returned with these convictions, such faintness and terror,
that unable to support her trembling frame, she sunk again upon the
mattress, without demanding the reason of this abrupt intrusion.

"I have brought you some breakfast," said Spalatro, "if you are awake
to take it; but you seem to be asleep yet. Surely you have had sleep
sufficient for one night; you went to rest soon enough."

Ellena made no reply, but, deeply affected with a sense of her
situation, looked with beseeching eyes at the man, who advanced,
holding forth an oaten cake and a bason of milk. "Where shall I set
them?" said he, "you must needs be glad of them, since you had no
supper."

Ellena thanked him, and desired he would place them on the floor, for
there was neither table nor chair in the room. As he did this, she
was struck with the expression of his countenance, which exhibited a
strange mixture of archness and malignity. He seemed congratulating
himself upon his ingenuity, and anticipating some occasion of triumph;
and she was so much interested, that her observation never quitted him
while he remained in the room. As his eyes accidentally met her's, he
turned them away, with the abruptness of a person who is conscious
of evil intentions, and fears lest they should be detected; nor once
looked up till he hastily left the chamber, when she heard the door
secured as formerly.

The impression, which his look had left on her mind, so wholly engaged
her in conjecture, that a considerable time elapsed before she
remembered that he had brought the refreshment she so much required;
but, as she now lifted it to her lips, a horrible suspicion arrested
her hand; it was not, however, before she had swallowed a small
quantity of the milk. The look of Spalatro, which occasioned her
surprise, had accompanied the setting down of the breakfast, and it
occurred to her, that poison was infused in this liquid. She was thus
compelled to refuse the sustenance, which was become necessary to her,
for she feared to taste even of the oaten cake, since Spalatro had
offered it, but the little milk she had unwarily taken, was so very
small that she had no apprehension concerning it.

The day, however, was passed in terror, and almost in despondency;
she could neither doubt the purpose, for which she had been brought
hither, nor discover any possibility of escaping from her persecutors;
yet that propensity to hope, which buoys up the human heart, even in
the severest hours of trial, sustained, in some degree, her fainting
spirits.

During these miserable hours of solitude and suspense, the only
alleviation to her suffering arose from a belief, that Vivaldi was
safe, at least from danger, though not from grief; but she now
understood too much of the dexterous contrivances of the Marchesa, his
mother, to think it was practicable for him to escape from her designs,
and again restore her to liberty.

All day Ellena either leaned against the bars of her window, lost in
reverie, while her unconscious eyes were fixed upon the ocean, whose
murmurs she no longer heard; or she listened for some sound from
within the house, that might assist her conjectures, as to the number
of persons below, or what might be passing there. The house, however,
was profoundly still, except when now and then a footstep sauntered
along a distant passage, or a door was heard to close; but not the
hum of a single voice arose from the lower rooms, nor any symptom of
there being more than one person, beside herself, in the dwelling.
Though she had not heard her former guards depart, it appeared certain
that they were gone, and that she was left alone in this place with
Spalatro. What could be the purport of such a proceeding, Ellena could
not imagine; if her death was designed, it seemed strange that one
person only should be left to the hazard of the deed, when three must
have rendered the completion of it certain. But this surprise vanished,
when her suspicion of poison returned; for it was probable, that these
men had believed their scheme to be already nearly accomplished, and
had abandoned her to die alone, in a chamber from whence escape was
impracticable, leaving Spalatro to dispose of her remains. All the
incongruities she had separately observed in their conduct, seemed now
to harmonize and unite in one plan; and her death, designed by poison,
and that poison to be conveyed in the disguise of nourishment, appeared
to have been the object of it. Whether it was that the strength of this
conviction affected her fancy, or that the cause was real, Ellena,
remembering at this moment that she had tasted the milk, was seized
with an universal shuddering, and thought she felt that the poison had
been sufficiently potent to affect her, even in the inconsiderable
quantity she might have taken.

While she was thus agitated, she distinguished footsteps loitering near
her door, and attentively listening, became convinced, that some person
was in the corridor. The steps moved softly, sometimes stopping for an
instant, as if to allow time for listening, and soon after passed away.

"It is Spalatro!" said Ellena; "he believes that I have taken the
poison, and he comes to listen for my dying groans! Alas! he is only
come somewhat too soon, perhaps!"

As this horrible supposition occurred, the shuddering returned with
encreased violence, and she sunk, almost fainting, on the mattress;
but the fit was not of long continuance. When it gradually left her,
and recollection revived, she perceived, however, the prudence of
suffering Spalatro to suppose she had taken the beverage he brought
her, since such belief would at least procure some delay of further
schemes, and every delay afforded some possibility for hope to rest
upon. Ellena, therefore, poured through the bars of her window, the
milk, which she believed Spalatro had designed should be fatal in its
consequence.

It was evening, when she again fancied footsteps were lingering near
her door, and the suspicion was confirmed, when, on turning her eyes,
she perceived a shade on the floor, underneath it, as of some person
stationed without. Presently the shadow glided away, and at the same
time she distinguished departing steps treading cautiously.

"It is he!" said Ellena; "he still listens for my moans!"

This further confirmation of his designs affected her nearly as much as
the first; when anxiously turning her looks towards the corridor, the
shadow again appeared beneath the door, but she heard no step. Ellena
now watched it with intense solicitude and expectation; fearing every
instant that Spalatro would conclude her doubts by entering the room.
"And O! when he discovers that I live," thought she, "what may I not
expect during the first moments of his disappointment! What less than
immediate death!"

The shadow, after remaining a few minutes stationary, moved a little,
and then glided away as before. But it quickly returned, and a low
sound followed, as of some person endeavouring to unfasten bolts
without noise. Ellena heard one bar gently undrawn, and then another;
she observed the door begin to move, and then to give way, till it
gradually unclosed, and the face of Spalatro presented itself from
behind it. Without immediately entering, he threw a glance round the
chamber, as if he wished to ascertain some circumstance before he
ventured further. His look was more than usually haggard as it rested
upon Ellena, who apparently reposed on her mattress.

Having gazed at her for an instant, he ventured towards the bed with
quick and unequal steps; his countenance expressed at once impatience,
alarm, and the consciousness of guilt. When he was within a few
paces, Ellena raised herself, and he started back as if a sudden
spectre had crossed him. The more than usual wildness and wanness of
his looks, with the whole of his conduct, seemed to confirm all her
former terrors; and, when he roughly asked her how she did, Ellena had
not sufficient presence of mind to answer that she was ill. For some
moments, he regarded her with an earnest and sullen attention, and then
a sly glance of scrutiny, which he threw round the chamber, told her
that he was enquiring whether she had taken the poison. On perceiving
that the bason was empty, he lifted it from the floor, and Ellena
fancied a gleam of satisfaction passed over his visage.

"You have had no dinner," said he, "I forgot you; but supper will soon
be ready; and you may walk up the beach till then, if you will."

Ellena, extremely surprised and perplexed by this offer of a seeming
indulgence, knew not whether to accept or reject it. She suspected that
some treachery lurked within it. The invitation appeared to be only a
stratagem to lure her to destruction, and she determined to decline
accepting it; when again she considered, that to accomplish this, it
was not necessary to withdraw her from the chamber, where she was
already sufficiently in the power of her persecutors. Her situation
could not be more desperate than it was at present, and almost any
change might make it less so.

As she descended from the corridor, and passed through the lower part
of the house, no person appeared but her conductor; and she ventured
to enquire, whether the men who had brought her hither were departed.
Spalatro did not return an answer, but led the way in silence to the
court, and, having passed the gates, he pointed toward the west, and
said she might walk that way.

Ellena bent her course towards the "many-sounding waves," followed
at a short distance by Spalatro, and, wrapt in thought, pursued the
windings of the shore, scarcely noticing the objects around her; till,
on passing the foot of a rock, she lifted her eyes to the scene that
unfolded beyond, and observed some huts scattered at a considerable
distance, apparently the residence of fishermen. She could just
distinguish the dark sails of some skiffs turning the cliffs, and
entering the little bay, where the hamlet margined the beach; but,
though she saw the sails lowered, as the boats approached the shore,
they were too far off to allow the figures of the men to appear. To
Ellena, who had believed that no human habitation, except her prison,
interrupted the vast solitudes of these forests and shores, the view
of the huts, remote as they were, imparted a feeble hope, and even
somewhat of joy. She looked back, to observe whether Spalatro was
near; he was already within a few paces; and, casting a wistful glance
forward to the remote cottages, her heart sunk again.

It was a lowering evening, and the sea was dark and swelling; the
screams of the sea-birds too, as they wheeled among the clouds, and
sought their high nests in the rocks, seemed to indicate an approaching
storm. Ellena was not so wholly engaged by selfish sufferings, but that
she could sympathise with those of others, and she rejoiced that the
fishermen, whole boats she had observed, had escaped the threatening
tempest, and were safely sheltered in their little homes, where, as
they heard the loud waves break along the coast, they could look with
keener pleasure upon the social circle, and the warm comforts around
them. From such considerations however, she returned again to a sense
of her own forlorn and friendless situation.

"Alas!" said she, "I have no longer a home, a circle to smile welcomes
upon me! I have no longer even one friend to support, to rescue me!
I--a miserable wanderer on a distant shore! tracked, perhaps, by the
footsteps of the assassin, who at this instant eyes his victim with
silent watchfulness, and awaits the moment of opportunity to sacrifice
her!"

Ellena shuddered as she said this, and turned again to observe whether
Spalatro was near. He was not within view; and, while she wondered, and
congratulated herself on a possibility of escaping, she perceived a
Monk walking silently beneath the dark rocks that overbrowed the beach.
His black garments were folded round him; his face was inclined towards
the ground, and he had the air of a man in deep meditation.

"His, no doubt, are worthy musings!" said Ellena, as she observed him,
with mingled hope and surprise. "I may address myself, without fear,
to one of his order. It is probably as much his wish, as it is his
duty, to succour the unfortunate. Who could have hoped to find on this
sequestered shore so sacred a protector! his convent cannot be fair
off."

He approached, his face still bent towards the ground, and Ellena
advanced slowly, and with trembling steps, to meet him. As he drew
near, he viewed her askance, without lifting his head; but she
perceived his large eyes looking from under the shade of his cowl,
and the upper part of his peculiar countenance. Her confidence in
his protection began to fail, and she faultered, unable to speak, and
scarcely daring to meet his eyes. The Monk stalked past her in silence,
the lower part of his visage still muffled in his drapery, and as he
passed her looked neither with curiosity, nor surprise.

Ellena paused, and determined, when he should be at some distance, to
endeavour to make her way to the hamlet, and throw herself upon the
humanity of it's inhabitants, rather than solicit the pity of this
forbidding stranger. But in the next moment she heard a step behind
her, and, on turning, saw the Monk again approaching. He stalked by
as before, surveying her, however, with a sly and scrutinizing glance
from the corners of his eyes. His air and countenance were equally
repulsive, and still Ellena could not summon courage enough to attempt
engaging his compassion; but shrunk as from an enemy. There was
something also terrific in the silent stalk of so gigantic a form;
it announced both power and treachery. He passed slowly on to some
distance, and disappeared among the rocks.

Ellena turned once more with an intention of hastening towards the
distant hamlet, before Spalatro should observe her, whose strange
absence she had scarcely time to wonder at; but she had not proceeded
far, when suddenly she perceived the Monk again at her shoulder. She
started, and almost shrieked; while he regarded her with more attention
than before. He paused a moment, and seemed to hesitate; after which he
again passed on in silence. The distress of Ellena encreased; he was
gone the way she had designed to run, and she feared almost equally
to follow him, and to return to her prison. Presently he turned, and
passed her again, and Ellena hastened forward. But, when fearful of
being pursued, she again looked back, she observed him conversing
with Spalatro. They appeared to be in consultation, while they slowly
advanced, till, probably observing her rapid progress, Spalatro called
on her to stop, in a voice that echoed among all the rocks. It was a
voice, which would not be disobeyed. She looked hopelessly at the still
distant cottages, and slackened her steps. Presently the Monk again
passed before her, and Spalatro had again disappeared. The frown, with
which the former now regarded Ellena, was so terrific, that she shrunk
trembling back, though she knew him not for her persecutor, since she
had never consciously seen Schedoni. He was agitated, and his look
became darker.

"Whither go you?" said he in a voice that was stifled by emotion.

"Who is it, father, that asks the question?" said Ellena, endeavouring
to appear composed.

"Whither go you, and who are you?" repeated the Monk more sternly.

"I am an unhappy orphan," replied Ellena, sighing deeply, "If you are,
as your habit denotes, a friend to the charities, you will regard me
with compassion."

Schedoni was silent, and then said--"Who, and what is it that you fear?"

"I fear--even for my life," replied Ellena, with hesitation. She
observed a darker shade pass over his countenance. "For your life!"
said he, with apparent surprise, "who is there that would think it
worth the taking."

Ellena was struck with these words.

"Poor insect!" added Schedoni, "who would crush thee?"

Ellena made no reply; she remained with her eyes fixed in amazement
upon his face. There was something in his manner of pronouncing this,
yet more extraordinary than in the words themselves. Alarmed by his
manner, and awed by the encreasing gloom, and swelling surge, that
broke in thunder on the beach, she at length turned away, and again
walked towards the hamlet which was yet very remote.

He soon overtook her; when rudely seizing her arm, and gazing earnestly
on her face, "Who is it, that you fear?" said he, "say who!"

"That is more than I dare say," replied Ellena, scarcely able to
sustain herself.

"Hah! is it even so!" said the Monk, with encreasing emotion. His
visage now became so terrible, that Ellena struggled to liberate her
arm, and supplicated that he would not detain her. He was silent, and
still gazed upon her, but his eyes, when she had ceased to struggle,
assumed the fixt and vacant glare of a man, whose thoughts have retired
within themselves, and who is no longer conscious to surrounding
objects.

"I beseech you to release me!" repeated Ellena, "it is late, and I am
far from home."

"That is true," muttered Schedoni, still grasping her arm, and seeming
to reply to his own thoughts rather than to her words,--"that is very
true."

"The evening is closing fast," continued Ellena, "and I shall be
overtaken by the storm."

Schedoni still mused, and then muttered--"The storm, say you? Why ay,
let it come."

As he spake, he suffered her arm to drop, but still held it, and walked
slowly towards the house. Ellena, thus compelled to accompany him, and
yet more alarmed both by his looks, his incoherent answers, and his
approach to her prison, renewed her supplications and her efforts for
liberty, in a voice of piercing distress, adding, "I am far from home,
father; night is coming on. See how the rocks darken! I am far from
home, and shall be waited for."

"That is false!" said Schedoni, with emphasis; "and you know it to be
so."

"Alas! I do," replied Ellena, with mingled shame and grief, "I have no
friends to wait for me!"

"What do those deserve, who deliberately utter falsehoods," continued
the Monk, "who deceive, and flatter young men to their destruction?"

"Father!" exclaimed the astonished Ellena.

"Who disturb the peace of families--who trepan, with wanton arts, the
heirs of noble houses--who--hah! what do such deserve?"

Overcome with astonishment and terror, Ellena remained silent. She
now understood that Schedoni, so far from being likely to prove a
protector, was an agent of her worst, and as she had believed, her only
enemy; and an apprehension of the immediate and terrible vengeance,
which such an agent seemed willing to accomplish, subdued her senses;
she tottered, and sunk upon the beach. The weight, which strained the
arm Schedoni held, called his attention to her situation.

As he gazed upon her helpless and faded form, he became agitated. He
quitted it, and traversed the beach in short turns, and with hasty
steps; came back again, and bent over it--his heart seemed sensible
to some touch of pity. At one moment, he stepped towards the sea, and
taking water in the hollows of his hands, threw it upon her face; at
another, seeming to regret that he had done so, he would stamp with
sudden fury upon the shore, and walk abruptly to a distance. The
conflict between his design and his conscience was strong, or, perhaps,
it was only between his passions. He, who had hitherto been insensible
to every tender feeling, who, governed by ambition and resentment
had contributed, by his artful instigations, to fix the baleful
resolution of the Marchesa di Vivaldi, and who was come to execute her
purpose,--even he could not now look upon the innocent, the wretched
Ellena, without yielding to the momentary weakness, as he termed it, of
compassion.

While he was yet unable to baffle the new emotion by evil passions,
he despised that which conquered him. "And shall the weakness of a
girl," said he, "subdue the resolution of a man! Shall the view of her
transient sufferings unnerve my firm heart, and compel me to renounce
the lofty plans I have so ardently, so laboriously imagined, at the
very instant when they are changing into realities! Am I awake! Is
one spark of the fire, which has so long smouldered within my bosom,
and consumed my peace, alive! Or am I tame and abject as my fortunes?
hah! as my fortunes! Shall the spirit of my family yield for ever to
circumstances? The question rouses it, and I feel it's energy revive
within me."

He stalked with hasty steps towards Ellena, as if he feared to trust
his resolution with a second pause. He had a dagger concealed
beneath his Monk's habit; as he had also an assassin's heart shrouded
by his garments. He had a dagger--but he hesitated to use it, the
blood which it might spill, would be observed by the peasants of the
neighbouring hamlet, and might lead to a discovery. It would be safer,
he considered, and easier, to lay Ellena, senseless as she was, in
the waves; their coldness would recal her to life, only at the moment
before they would suffocate her.

As he stooped to lift her, his resolution faultered again, on beholding
her innocent face, and in that moment she moved. He started back, as if
she could have known his purpose, and, knowing it, could have avenged
herself. The water, which he had thrown upon her face, had gradually
revived her; she unclosed her eyes, and, on perceiving him, shrieked,
and attempted to rise. His resolution was subdued, so tremblingly
fearful is guilt in the moment when it would execute it's atrocities.
Overcome with apprehensions, yet agitated with shame and indignation
against himself for being so, he gazed at her for an instant in
silence, and then abruptly turned away his eyes and left her. Ellena
listened to his departing steps, and, raising herself, observed him
retiring among the rocks that led towards the house. Astonished at his
conduct, and surprised to find that she was alone, Ellena renewed all
her efforts to sustain herself, till she should reach the hamlet so
long the object of her hopes; but she had proceeded only a few paces,
when Spalatro again appeared swiftly approaching. Her utmost exertion
availed her nothing; her feeble steps were soon overtaken, and Ellena
perceived herself again his prisoner. The look with which she resigned
herself, awakened no pity in Spalatro, who uttered some taunting jest
upon the swiftness of her flight, as he led her back to her prison,
and proceeded in sullen watchfulness. Once again, then, she entered
the gloomy walls of that fatal mansion, never more, she now believed,
to quit them with life, a belief, which was strengthened when she
remembered that the Monk, on leaving her, had taken the way hither;
for, though she knew not how to account for his late forbearance, she
could not suppose that he would long be merciful. He appeared no more,
however, as she passed to her chamber, where Spalatro left her again to
solitude and terror, and she heard that fateful door again barred upon
her. When his retreating steps had ceased to sound, a stilness, as of
the grave, prevailed in the house; like the dead calm, which sometimes
precedes the horrors of a tempest.




CHAPTER IX.

        "I am settled, and bend up
  Each corporal agent to this terrible feat."
                                              SHAKSPEARE.


Schedoni had returned from the beach to the house, in a state of
perturbation, that defied the controul of even his own stern will. On
the way thither he met Spalatro, whom, as he dispatched him to Ellena,
he strictly commanded not to approach his chamber till he should be
summoned.

Having reached his apartment, he secured the door, though not any
person, except himself, was in the house, nor any one expected, but
those who he knew would not dare to intrude upon him. Had it been
possible to have shut out all consciousness of himself, also, how
willingly would he have done so! He threw himself into a chair, and
remained for a considerable time motionless and lost in thought, yet
the emotions of his mind were violent and contradictory. At the very
instant when his heart reproached him with the crime he had meditated,
he regretted the ambitious views he must relinquish if he failed to
perpetrate it, and regarded himself with some degree of contempt for
having hitherto hesitated on the subject. He considered the character
of his own mind with astonishment, for circumstances had drawn forth
traits, of which, till now, he had no suspicion. He knew not by what
doctrine to explain the inconsistencies, the contradictions, he
experienced, and, perhaps, it was not one of the least that in these
moments of direful and conflicting passions, his reason could still
look down upon their operations, and lead him to a cool, though brief
examination of his own nature. But the subtlety of self-love still
eluded his enquiries, and he did not detect that pride was even at this
instant of self-examination, and of critical import, the master-spring
of his mind. In the earliest dawn of his character this passion had
displayed its predominancy, whenever occasion permitted, and it's
influence had led to some of the chief events of his life.

The Count di Marinella, for such had formerly been the title of the
Confessor, was the younger son of an ancient family, who resided in
the duchy of Milan, and near the feet of the Tyrolean Alps, on such
estates of their ancestors, as the Italian wars of a former century
had left them. The portion, which he had received at the death of
his father, was not large, and Schedoni was not of a disposition to
improve his patrimony by slow diligence, or to submit to the restraint
and humiliation, which his narrow finances would have imposed. He
disdained to acknowledge an inferiority of fortune to those, with
whom he considered himself equal in rank; and, as he was destitute of
generous feeling, and of sound judgment, he had not that loftiness of
soul, which is ambitious of true grandeur. On the contrary, he was
satisfied with an ostentatious display of pleasures and of power, and,
thoughtless of the consequence of dissipation, was contented with the
pleasures of the moment, till his exhausted resources compelled him
to pause, and to reflect. He perceived, too late for his advantage,
that it was necessary for him to dispose of part of his estate, and to
confine himself to the income of the remainder. Incapable of submitting
with grace to the reduction, which his folly had rendered expedient,
he endeavoured to obtain by cunning, the luxuries that his prudence
had failed to keep, and which neither his genius or his integrity
could command. He withdrew, however, from the eyes of his neighbours,
unwilling to submit his altered circumstances to their observation.

Concerning several years of his life, from this period, nothing was
generally known; and, when he was next discovered, it was in the
Spirito Santo convent at Naples, in the habit of a Monk, and under the
assumed name of Schedoni. His air and countenance were as much altered
as his way of life; his looks had become gloomy and severe, and the
pride, which had mingled with the gaiety of their former expression,
occasionally discovered itself under the disguise of humility, but more
frequently in the austerity of silence, and in the barbarity of penance.

The person who discovered Schedoni, would not have recollected him,
had not his remarkable eyes first fixed his attention, and then
revived remembrance. As he examined his features, he traced the faint
resemblance of what Marinella had been, to whom he made himself known.

The Confessor affected to have forgotten his former acquaintance, and
assured him, that he was mistaken respecting himself, till the stranger
so closely urged some circumstances, that the former was no longer
permitted to dissemble. He retired, in some emotion, with the stranger,
and, whatever might be the subject of their conference, he drew from
him, before he quitted the convent, a tremendous vow, to keep secret
from the brotherhood his knowledge of Schedoni's family, and never to
reveal without those walls, that he had seen him. These requests he
had urged in a manner, that at once surprised and awed the stranger,
and which at the same time that it manifested the weight of Schedoni's
fears, bade the former tremble for the consequence of disobedience; and
he shuddered even while he promised to obey. Of the first part of the
promise he was probably strictly observant; whether he was equally so
of the second, does not appear; it is certain, that after this period,
he was never more seen or heard of at Naples.

Schedoni, ever ambitious of distinction, adapted his manners to the
views and prejudices of the society with whom he resided, and became
one of the most exact observers of their outward forms, and almost
a prodigy for self-denial and severe discipline. He was pointed out
by the fathers of the convent to the juniors as a great example, who
was, however, rather to be looked up to with reverential admiration,
than with an hope of emulating his sublime virtues. But with such
panegyrics their friendship for Schedoni concluded. They found
it convenient to applaud the austerities, which they declined to
practise; it procured them a character for sanctity, and saved them the
necessity of earning it by mortifications of their own; but they both
feared and hated Schedoni for his pride and his gloomy austerities,
too much, to gratify his ambition by any thing further than empty
praise. He had been several years in the society, without obtaining
any considerable advancement, and with the mortification of seeing
persons, who had never emulated his severity, raised to high offices
in the church. Somewhat too late he discovered, that he was not to
expect any substantial favour from the brotherhood, and then it was
that his restless and disappointed spirit first sought preferment by
other avenues. He had been some years Confessor to the Marchesa di
Vivaldi, when the conduct of her son awakened his hopes, by showing
him, that he might render himself not only useful but necessary to
her, by his councils. It was his custom to study the characters of
those around him, with a view of adapting them to his purposes, and,
having ascertained that of the Marchesa, these hopes were encouraged.
He perceived that her passions were strong, her judgment weak; and
he understood, that, if circumstances should ever enable him to be
serviceable in promoting the end at which any one of those passions
might aim, his fortune would be established.

At length, he so completely insinuated himself into her confidence, and
became so necessary to her views, that he could demand his own terms,
and this he had not failed to do, though with all the affected delicacy
and finesse that his situation seemed to require. An office of high
dignity in the church, which had long vainly excited his ambition,
was promised him by the Marchesa, who had sufficient influence to
obtain it; her condition was that of his preserving the honour of
her family, as she delicately termed it, which she was careful to
make him understand could be secured only by the death of Ellena. He
acknowledged, with the Marchesa, that the death of this fascinating
young woman was the only means of preserving that honour, since, if
she lived, they had every evil to expect from the attachment and
character of Vivaldi, who would discover and extricate her from any
place of confinement, however obscure or difficult of access, to which
she might be conveyed. How long and how arduously the Confessor had
aimed to oblige the Marchesa, has already appeared. The last scene
was now arrived, and he was on the eve of committing that atrocious
act, which was to secure the pride of her house, and to satisfy at
once his ambition and his desire of vengeance; when an emotion new and
surprising to him, had arrested his arm, and compelled his resolution
to falter. But this emotion was transient, it disappeared almost with
the object that had awakened it; and now, in the silence and retirement
of his chamber, he had leisure to recollect his thoughts, to review his
schemes, to re-animate his resolution and to wonder again at the pity,
which had almost won him from his purpose. The ruling passion of his
nature once more resumed it's authority, and he determined to earn the
honour, which the Marchesa had in store for him.

After some cool, and more of tumultuous, consideration, he resolved
that Ellena should be assassinated that night, while she slept, and
afterwards conveyed through a passage of the house communicating with
the sea, into which the body might be thrown and buried, with her sad
story, beneath the waves. For his own sake, he would have avoided
the danger of shedding blood, had this appeared easy; but he had
too much reason to know she had suspicions of poison, to trust to a
second attempt by such means; and again his indignation rose against
himself, since by yielding to a momentary compassion, he had lost the
opportunity afforded him of throwing her unresistingly into the surge.

Spalatro, as has already been hinted, was a former confident of the
Confessor, who knew too truly, from experience, that he could be
trusted, and had, therefore, engaged him to assist on this occasion.
To the hands of this man he consigned the fate of the unhappy Ellena,
himself recoiling from the horrible act he had willed; and intending by
such a step to involve Spalatro more deeply in the guilt, and thus more
effectually to secure his secret.

The night was far advanced before Schedoni's final resolution was
taken, when he summoned Spalatro to his chamber to instruct him in his
office. He bolted the door, by which the man had entered, forgetting
that themselves were the only persons in the house, except the poor
Ellena, who, unsuspicious of what was conspiring, and her spirits worn
out by the late scene, was sleeping peacefully on her mattress above.
Schedoni moved softly from the door he had secured, and, beckoning
Spalatro to approach, spoke in a low voice, as if he feared to be
overheard. "Have you perceived any sound from her chamber lately?"
said he, "Does she sleep, think you?"

"No one has moved there for this hour past, at least," replied
Spalatro, "I have been watching in the corridor, till you called, and
should have heard if she had stirred, the old floor shakes so with
every step."

"Then hear me, Spalatro," said the Confessor. "I have tried, and found
thee faithful, or I should not trust thee in a business of confidence
like this. Recollect all I said to thee in the morning, and be resolute
and dexterous, as I have ever found thee."

Spalatro listened in gloomy attention, and the Monk proceeded, "It
is late; go, therefore, to her chamber; be certain that she sleeps.
Take this," he added, "and this," giving him a dagger and a large
cloak--"You know how you are to use them."

He paused, and fixed his penetrating eyes on Spalatro, who held up the
dagger in silence, examined the blade, and continued to gaze upon it,
with a vacant stare, as if he was unconscious of what he did.

"You know your business," repeated Schedoni, authoritatively,
"dispatch! time wears; and I must set off early."

The man made no reply.

"The morning dawns already," said the Confessor, still more urgently.
"Do you faulter? do you tremble? Do I not know you?"

Spalatro put up the poniard in his bosom without speaking, threw the
cloak over his arm, and moved with a loitering step towards the door.

"Dispatch!" repeated the Confessor, "why do you linger?"

"I cannot say I like this business, Signor," said Spalatro surlily. "I
know not why I should always do the most, and be paid the least."

"Sordid villain!" exclaimed Schedoni, "you are not satisfied then!"

"No more a villain than yourself, Signor," retorted the man, throwing
down the cloak, "I only do your business; and 'tis you that are sordid,
for you would take all the reward, and I would only have a poor man
have his dues. Do the work yourself, or give me the greater profit."

"Peace!" said Schedoni, "dare no more to insult me with the mention of
reward. Do you imagine I have sold myself! 'Tis my will that she dies;
this is sufficient; and for you--the price you have asked has been
granted."

"It is too little," replied Spalatro, "and besides, I do not like the
work.--What harm has she done me?"

"Since when is it, that you have taken upon you to moralize?" said the
Confessor, "and how long are these cowardly scruples to last? This is
not the first time you have been employed; what harm had others done
you! You forget that I know you, you forget the past."

"No, Signor, I remember it too well, I wish I could forget; I remember
it too well.--I have never been at peace since. The bloody hand is
always before me! and often of a night, when the sea roars, and storms
shake the house, _they_ have come, all gashed as I left them, and stood
before my bed! I have got up, and ran out upon the shore for safety!"

"Peace!" repeated the Confessor, "where is this frenzy of fear to end?
To what are these visions, painted in blood, to lead? I thought I was
talking with a man, but find I am speaking only to a baby, possessed
with his nurse's dreams! Yet I understand you,--you shall be satisfied."

Schedoni, however, had for once misunderstood this man, when he could
not believe it possible that he was really averse to execute what
he had undertaken. Whether the innocence and beauty of Ellena had
softened his heart, or that his conscience did torture him for his past
deeds, he persisted in refusing to murder her. His conscience, or his
pity, was of a very peculiar kind however; for, though he refused to
execute the deed himself, he consented to wait at the foot of a back
stair-case, that communicated with Ellena's chamber, while Schedoni
accomplished it, and afterward to assist in carrying the body to the
shore. "This is a compromise between conscience and guilt, worthy of a
demon," muttered Schedoni, who appeared to be insensible that he had
made the same compromise with himself not an hour before; and whose
extreme reluctance at this moment, to perpetrate with his own hand,
what he had willingly designed for another, ought to have reminded him
of that compromise.

Spalatro, released from the immediate office of an executioner, endured
silently the abusive, yet half-stifled, indignation of the Confessor,
who also bade him remember, that, though he now shrunk from the most
active part of this transaction, he had not always been restrained,
in offices of the same nature, by equal compunction; and that not
only his means of subsistence, but his very life itself, was at his
mercy. Spalatro readily acknowledged that it was so; and Schedoni knew,
too well, the truth of what he had urged, to be restrained from his
purpose, by any apprehension of the consequence of a discovery from
this ruffian.

"Give me the dagger, then," said the Confessor, after a long pause,
"take up the cloak, and follow to the stair-case. Let me see, whether
your valour will carry you thus far."

Spalatro resigned the stiletto, and threw the cloak again over his
arm. The Confessor stepped to the door, and, trying to open it, "It is
fastened!" said he in alarm, "some person has got into the house,--it
is fastened!"

"That well may be, Signor," replied Spalatro, calmly, "for I saw you
bolt it yourself, after I came into the room."

"True," said Schedoni, recovering himself; "that is true."

He opened it, and proceeded along the silent passages, towards the
private stair-case, often pausing to listen, and then stepping more
lightly;--the terrific Schedoni, in this moment of meditative guilt,
feared even the feeble Ellena. At the foot of the stair-case, he again
stopped to listen. "Do you hear any thing?" said he in a whisper.

"I hear only the sea," replied the man.

"Hush! it is something more!" said Schedoni; "that is the murmur of
voices!"

They were silent. After a pause of some length, "It is, perhaps, the
voice of the spectres I told you of, Signor," said Spalatro, with a
sneer. "Give me the dagger," said Schedoni.

Spalatro, instead of obeying, now grasped the arm of the Confessor,
who, looking at him for an explanation of this extraordinary action,
was still more surprised to observe the paleness and horror of his
countenance. His starting eyes seemed to follow some object along the
passage, and Schedoni, who began to partake of his feelings, looked
forward to discover what occasioned this dismay, but could not perceive
any thing that justified it. "What is it you fear?" said he at length.

Spalatro's eyes were still moving in horror, "Do you see nothing!" said
he pointing. Schedoni looked again, but did not distinguish any object
in the remote gloom of the passage, whither Spalatro's sight was now
fixed.

"Come, come," said he, ashamed of his own weakness, "this is not a
moment for such fancies. Awake from this idle dream."

Spalatro withdrew his eyes, but they retained all their wildness. "It
was no dream," said he, in the voice of a man who is exhausted by pain,
and begins to breathe somewhat more freely again. "I saw it as plainly
as I now see you."

"Dotard! what did you see!" enquired the Confessor.

"It came before my eyes in a moment, and shewed itself distinctly and
outspread."

"What shewed itself?" repeated Schedoni.

"And then it beckoned--yes, it beckoned me, with that blood-stained
finger! and glided away down the passage, still beckoning----till it
was lost in the darkness."

"This is very frenzy!" said Schedoni, excessively agitated. "Arouse
yourself, and be a man!"

"Frenzy! would it were, Signor. I saw that dreadful hand--I see it
now--it is there again!--there!"

Schedoni, shocked, embarrassed, and once more infected with the strange
emotions of Spalatro, looked forward expecting to discover some
terrific object, but still nothing was visible to him, and he soon
recovered himself sufficiently to endeavour to appease the fancy of
this conscience-struck ruffian. But Spalatro was insensible to all he
could urge, and the Confessor, fearing that his voice, though weak and
stifled, would awaken Ellena, tried to withdraw him from the spot, to
the apartment they had quitted.

"The wealth of San Loretto should not make me go that way, Signor,"
replied he, shuddering--"that was the way _it_ beckoned, it vanished
that way!"

Every emotion now yielded with Schedoni, to that of apprehension lest
Ellena, being awakened, should make his task more horrid by a struggle,
and his embarrassment encreased at each instant, for neither command,
menace, or entreaty could prevail with Spalatro to retire, till the
Monk luckily remembered a door, which opened beyond the stair-case, and
would conduct them by another way to the opposite side of the house.
The man consented so to depart, when, Schedoni unlocking a suit of
rooms, of which he had always kept the keys, they passed in silence
through an extent of desolate chambers, till they reached the one,
which they had lately left.

Here, relieved from apprehension respecting Ellena, the Confessor
expostulated more freely with Spalatro, but neither argument or menace
could prevail, and the man persisted in refusing to return to the
stair-case, though protesting, at the same time, that he would not
remain alone in any part of the house; till the wine, with which the
Confessor abundantly supplied him, began to overcome the terrors of
his imagination. At length, his courage was so much re-animated, that
he consented to resume his station, and await at the foot of the
stairs the accomplishment of Schedoni's dreadful errand, with which
agreement they returned thither by the way they had lately passed. The
wine with which Schedoni also had found it necessary to strengthen
his own resolution, did not secure him from severe emotion, when he
found himself again near Ellena; but he made a strenuous effort for
self-subjection, as he demanded the dagger of Spalatro.

"You have it already, Signor," replied the man.

"True," said the Monk; "ascend softly, or our steps may awaken her."

"You said I was to wait at the foot of the stairs, Signor, while
you"----

"True, true, true!" muttered the Confessor, and had begun to ascend,
when his attendant desired him to stop. "You are going in darkness,
Signor, you have forgotten the lamp. I have another here."

Schedoni took it angrily, without speaking, and was again ascending,
when he hesitated, and once more paused. "The glare will disturb her,"
thought he, "it is better to go in darkness.--Yet----." He considered,
that he could not strike with certainty without light to direct his
hand, and he kept the lamp, but returned once more to charge Spalatro
not to stir from the foot of the stairs till he called, and to ascend
to the chamber, upon the first signal.

"I will obey, Signor, if you, on your part, will promise not to give
the signal till all is over."

"I do promise," replied Schedoni. "No more!"

Again he ascended, nor stopped till he reached Ellena's door, where he
listened for a sound; but all was as silent as if death already reigned
in the chamber. This door was, from long disuse, difficult to be
opened; formerly it would have yielded without sound, but now Schedoni
was fearful of noise from every effort he made to move it. After some
difficulty, however, it gave way, and he perceived, by the stilness
within the apartment, that he had not disturbed Ellena. He shaded the
lamp with the door for a moment, while he threw an enquiring glance
forward, and when he did venture farther, held part of his dark drapery
before the light, to prevent the rays from spreading through the room.

As he approached the bed, her gentle breathings informed him that
she still slept, and the next moment he was at her side. She lay in
deep and peaceful slumber, and seemed to have thrown herself upon the
mattress, after having been wearied by her griefs; for, though sleep
pressed heavily on her eyes, their lids were yet wet with tears.

While Schedoni gazed for a moment upon her innocent countenance,
a faint smile stole over it. He stepped back. "She smiles in her
murderer's face!" said he, shuddering, "I must be speedy."

He searched for the dagger, and it was some time before his trembling
hand could disengage it from the folds of his garment; but, having done
so, he again drew near, and prepared to strike. Her dress perplexed
him; it would interrupt the blow, and he stooped to examine whether
he could turn her robe aside, without waking her. As the light passed
over her face, he perceived that the smile had vanished--the visions
of her sleep were changed, for tears stole from beneath her eye-lids,
and her features suffered a slight convulsion. She spoke! Schedoni,
apprehending that the light had disturbed her, suddenly drew back, and,
again irresolute, shaded the lamp, and concealed himself behind the
curtain, while he listened. But her words were inward and indistinct,
and convinced him that she still slumbered.

His agitation and repugnance to strike encreased with every moment of
delay, and, as often as he prepared to plunge the poniard in her bosom,
a shuddering horror restrained him. Astonished at his own feelings,
and indignant at what he termed a dastardly weakness, he found it
necessary to argue with himself, and his rapid thoughts said, "Do I
not feel the necessity of this act! Does not what is dearer to me than
resilience--does not my consequence depend on the execution of it? Is
she not also beloved by the young Vivaldi?--have I already forgotten
the church of the Spirito Santo?" This consideration re-animated him;
vengeance nerved his arm, and drawing aside the lawn from her bosom,
he once more raised it to strike; when, after gazing for an instant,
some new cause of horror seemed to seize all his frame, and he stood
for some moments aghast and motionless like a statue. His respiration
was short and laborious, chilly drops stood on his forehead, and all
his faculties of mind seemed suspended. When he recovered, he stooped
to examine again the miniature, which had occasioned this revolution,
and which had lain concealed beneath the lawn that he withdrew. The
terrible certainty was almost confirmed, and forgetting, in his
impatience to know the truth, the imprudence of suddenly discovering
himself to Ellena at this hour of the night, and with a dagger at his
feet, he called loudly, "Awake! awake! Say, what is your name? Speak!
speak quickly!"

Ellena, aroused by a man's voice, started from her mattress, when,
perceiving Schedoni, and by the pale glare of the lamp, his haggard
countenance, she shrieked, and sunk back on the pillow. She had not
fainted; and believing that he came to murder her, she now exerted
herself to plead for mercy. The energy of her feelings enabled her
to rise and throw herself at his feet, "Be merciful, O father! be
merciful!" said she, in a trembling voice.

"Father!" interrupted Schedoni, with earnestness; and then, seeming
to restrain himself, he added, with unaffected surprise, "Why are
you thus terrified?" for he had lost, in new interests and emotions,
all consciousness of evil intention, and of the singularity of his
situation. "What do you fear?" he repeated.

"Have pity, holy father!" exclaimed Ellena in agony.

"Why do you not say whose portrait that is?" demanded he, forgetting
that he had not asked the question before.

"Whose portrait?" repeated the Confessor in a loud voice.

"Whose portrait!" said Ellena, with extreme surprise.

"Ay, how came you by it? Be quick--whose resemblance is it?"

"Why should you wish to know?" said Ellena.

"Answer my question," repeated Schedoni, with encreasing sternness.

"I cannot part with it, holy father," replied Ellena, pressing it to
her bosom, "you do not wish me to part with it!"

"Is it impossible to make you answer my question!" said he, in extreme
perturbation, and turning away from her, "has fear utterly confounded
you!" Then, again stepping towards her, and seizing her wrist, he
repeated the demand in a tone of desperation.

"Alas! he is dead! or I should not now want a protector," replied
Ellena, shrinking from his grasp, and weeping.

"You trifle," said Schedoni, with a terrible look, "I once more demand
an answer--whose picture?"----

Ellena lifted it, gazed upon it for a moment, and then pressing it to
her lips said, "This was my father."

"Your father!" he repeated in an inward voice, "your father!" and
shuddering, turned away.

Ellena looked at him with surprise. "I never knew a father's care," she
said, "nor till lately did I perceive the want of it.--But now."----

"His name?" interrupted the Confessor.

"But now," continued Ellena--"if you are not as a father to me--to whom
can I look for protection?"

"His name?" repeated Schedoni, with sterner emphasis.

"It is sacred," replied Ellena, "for he was unfortunate!"

"His name?" demanded the Confessor, furiously.

"I have promised to conceal it, father."

"On your life, I charge you tell it; remember, on your life!"

Ellena trembled, was silent, and with supplicating looks implored him
to desist from enquiry, but he urged the question more irresistibly.
"His name then," said she, "was Marinella."

Schedoni groaned and turned away; but in a few seconds, struggling to
command the agitation that shattered his whole frame, he returned to
Ellena, and raised her from her knees, on which she had thrown herself
to implore mercy.

"The place of his residence?" said the Monk.

"It was far from hence," she replied; but he demanded an unequivocal
answer, and she reluctantly gave one.

Schedoni turned away as before, groaned heavily, and paced the chamber
without speaking; while Ellena, in her turn, enquired the motive of
his questions, and the occasion of his agitation. But he seemed not to
notice any thing she said, and, wholly given up to his feelings, was
inflexibly silent, while he stalked, with measured steps, along the
room, and his face, half hid by his cowl, was bent towards the ground.

Ellena's terror began to yield to astonishment, and this emotion
encreased, when, Schedoni approaching her, she perceived tears swell
in his eyes, which were fixt on her's, and his countenance soften from
the wild disorder that had marked it. Still he could not speak. At
length he yielded to the fulness of his heart, and Schedoni, the stern
Schedoni, wept and sighed! He seated himself on the mattress beside
Ellena, took her hand, which she affrighted attempted to withdraw,
and when he could command his voice, said, "Unhappy child!----behold
your more unhappy father!" As he concluded, his voice was overcome by
groans, and he drew the cowl entirely over his face.

"My father!" exclaimed the astonished and doubting Ellena--"my father!"
and fixed her eyes upon him. He gave no reply, but when, a moment
after, he lifted his head, "Why do you reproach me with those looks!"
said the conscious Schedoni.

"Reproach you!--reproach my father!" repeated Ellena, in accents
softening into tenderness, "_Why_ should I reproach my father!"

"_Why!_" exclaimed Schedoni, starting from his seat, "Great God!"

As he moved, he stumbled over the dagger at his foot; at that moment
it might be said to strike into his heart. He pushed it hastily from
sight. Ellena had not observed it; but she observed his labouring
breast, his distracted looks, and quick steps, as he walked to and
fro in the chamber; and she asked, with the most soothing accents of
compassion, and looks of anxious gentleness, what made him so unhappy,
and tried to assuage his sufferings. They seemed to encrease with every
wish she expressed to dispel them; at one moment he would pause to gaze
upon her, and in the next would quit her with a frenzied start.

"Why do you look so piteously upon me, father?" Ellena said, "why are
you so unhappy? Tell me, that I may comfort you."

This appeal renewed all the violence of remorse and grief, and he
pressed her to his bosom, and wetted her cheek with his tears. Ellena
wept to see him weep, till her doubts began to take alarm. Whatever
might be the proofs, that had convinced Schedoni of the relationship
between them, he had not explained these to her, and, however strong
was the eloquence of nature which she witnessed, it was not sufficient
to justify an entire confidence in the assertion he had made, or to
allow her to permit his caresses without trembling. She shrunk, and
endeavoured to disengage herself; when, immediately understanding her,
he said, "Can you doubt the cause of these emotions? these signs of
parental affection?"

"Have I not reason to doubt," replied Ellena, timidly, "since I never
witnessed them before?"

He withdrew his arms, and, fixing his eyes earnestly on hers, regarded
her for some moments in expressive silence. "Poor Innocent!" said he,
at length, "you know not how much your words convey!--It is too true,
you never have known a father's tenderness till now!"

His countenance darkened while he spoke, and he rose again from his
seat. Ellena, meanwhile, astonished, terrified and oppressed by a
variety of emotions, had no power to demand his reasons for the belief
that so much agitated him, or any explanation of his conduct; but she
appealed to the portrait, and endeavoured, by tracing some resemblance
between it and Schedoni, to decide her doubts. The countenance of each
was as different in character as in years. The miniature displayed a
young man rather handsome, of a gay and smiling countenance; yet the
smile expressed triumph, rather than sweetness, and his whole air and
features were distinguished by a consciousness of superiority that rose
even to haughtiness.

Schedoni, on the contrary, advanced in years, exhibited a severe
physiognomy, furrowed by thought, no less than by time, and darkened
by the habitual indulgence of morose passions. He looked as if he had
never smiled since the portrait was drawn; and it seemed as if the
painter, prophetic of Schedoni's future disposition, had arrested and
embodied that smile, to prove hereafter that cheerfulness had once
played upon his features.

Though the expression was so different between the countenance, which
Schedoni formerly owned, and that he now wore, the same character of
haughty pride was visible in both; and Ellena did trace a resemblance
in the bold outline of the features, but not sufficient to convince
her, without farther evidence, that each belonged to the same person,
and that the Confessor had ever been the young cavalier in the
portrait. In the first tumult of her thoughts, she had not had leisure
to dwell upon the singularity of Schedoni's visiting her at this
deep hour of the night, or to urge any questions, except vague ones,
concerning the truth of her relationship to him. But now, that her mind
was somewhat recollected, and that his looks were less terrific, she
ventured to ask a fuller explanation of these circumstances, and his
reasons for the late extraordinary assertion. "It is past midnight,
father," said Ellena, "you may judge then how anxious I am to learn,
what motive led you to my chamber at this lonely hour?"

Schedoni made no reply.

"Did you come to warn me of danger?" she continued, "had you discovered
the cruel designs of Spalatro? Ah! when I supplicated for your
compassion on the shore this evening, you little thought what perils
surrounded me! or you would----"

"You say true!" interrupted he, in a hurried manner, "but name the
subject no more. Why will you persist in returning to it?"

His words surprized Ellena, who had not even alluded to the subject
till now; but the returning wildness of his countenance, made her
fearful of dwelling upon the topic, even so far as to point out his
error.

Another deep pause succeeded, during which Schedoni continued to pace
the room, sometimes stopping for an instant, to fix his eyes on Ellena,
and regarding her with an earnestness that seemed to partake of frenzy,
and then gloomily withdrawing his regards, and sighing heavily, as he
turned away to a distant part of the room. She, meanwhile, agitated
with astonishment at his conduct, as well as at her own circumstances,
and with the fear of offending him by further questions, endeavoured
to summon courage to solicit the explanation which was so important to
her tranquillity. At length she asked, how she might venture to believe
a circumstance so surprising, as that of which he had just assured
her, and to remind him that he had not yet disclosed his reason for
admitting the belief.

The Confessor's feelings were eloquent in reply and, when at length
they were sufficiently subdued, to permit him to talk, coherently, he
mentioned some circumstances concerning Ellena's family, that proved
him at least to have been intimately acquainted with it; and others,
which she believed were known only to Bianchi and herself, that removed
every doubt of his identity.

This, however, was a period of his life too big with remorse, horror,
and the first pangs of parental affection, to allow him to converse
long; deep solitude was necessary for his soul. He wished to plunge
where no eye might restrain his emotions, or observe the overflowing
anguish of his heart. Having obtained sufficient proof to convince him
that Ellena was indeed his child, and assured her that she should be
removed from this house on the following day, and be restored to her
home, he abruptly left the chamber.

As he descended the stair-case, Spalatro stepped forward to meet him,
with the cloak which had been designed to wrap the mangled form of
Ellena, when it should be carried to the shore. "Is it done?" said the
ruffian, in a stifled voice, "I am ready;" and he spread forth the
cloak, and began to ascend.

"Hold! villain, hold!" said Schedoni, lifting up his head for the first
time, "Dare to enter that chamber, and your life shall answer for it."

"What!" exclaimed the man, shrinking back astonished--"will not _her_'s
satisfy you!"

He trembled for the consequence of what he had said, when he observed
the changing countenance of the Confessor. But Schedoni spoke not:
the tumult in his breast was too great for utterance, and he pressed
hastily forward. Spalatro followed. "Be pleased to tell me what I am to
do," said he, again holding forth the cloak.

"Avaunt!" exclaimed the other, turning fiercely upon him; "leave me."

"How!" said the man, whose spirit was now aroused, "has _your_ courage
failed too, Signor? If so, I will prove myself no dastard, though you
called me one; I'll do the business myself."

"Villain! fiend!" cried Schedoni, seizing the ruffian by the throat,
with a grasp that seemed intended to annihilate him; when, recollecting
that the fellow was only willing to obey the very instructions he had
himself but lately delivered to him, other emotions succeeded to that
of rage; he slowly liberated him, and in accents broken, and softening
from sternness, bade him retire to rest. "Tomorrow," he added, "I will
speak further with you. As for this night----I have changed my purpose.
Begone!"

Spalatro was about to express the indignation, which astonishment and
fear had hitherto overcome, but his employer repeated his command in a
voice of thunder, and closed the door of his apartment with violence,
as he shut out a man, whose presence was become hateful to him. He
felt relieved by his absence, and began to breathe more freely, till,
remembering that this accomplice had just boasted that he was no
dastard, he dreaded lest, by way of proving the assertion, he should
attempt to commit the crime, from which he had lately shrunk. Terrified
at the possibility, and even apprehending that it might already have
become a reality, he rushed from the room, and found Spalatro in
the passage leading to the private stair-case; but, whatever might
have been his purpose, the situation and looks of the latter were
sufficiently alarming. At the approach of Schedoni, he turned his
sullen and malignant countenance towards him, without answering the
call, or the demand, as to his business there; and with slow steps
obeyed the order of his master, that he should withdraw to his room.
Thither Schedoni followed, and, having locked him in it for the night,
he repaired to the apartment of Ellena, which he secured from the
possibility of intrusion. He then returned to his own, not to sleep,
but to abandon himself to the agonies of remorse and horror; and he
yet shuddered like a man, who has just recoiled from the brink of a
precipice, but who still measures the gulf with his eye.




CHAPTER X.

            ----But their way
  Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear wood,
  The nodding horror of whose shady brows
  Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
                                               MILTON.


Ellena, when Schedoni had left her, recollected all the particulars,
which he had thought proper to reveal concerning her family, and,
comparing them with such circumstances as the late Bianchi had related
on the same subject, she perceived nothing that was contradictory
between the two accounts. But she knew not even yet enough of her
own story, to understand why Bianchi had been silent as to some
particulars, which had just been disclosed. From Bianchi she had
always understood, that her mother had married a nobleman of the
duchy of Milan, and of the house of Marinella; that the marriage had
been unfortunate; and that she herself, even before the death of the
Countess, had been committed to the care of Bianchi, the only sister of
that lady. Of this event, or of her mother, Ellena had no remembrance;
for the kindness of Bianchi had obliterated from her mind the loss and
the griefs of her early infancy; and she recollected only the accident
which had discovered to her, in Bianchi's cabinet, after the death of
the latter, the miniature and the name of her father. When she had
enquired the reason of this injunction, Bianchi replied, that the
degraded fortune of her house rendered privacy desirable; and answered
her further questions concerning her father, by relating, that he had
died while she was an infant. The picture, which Ellena had discovered,
Bianchi had found among the trinkets of the departed Countess, and
designed to present it at some future period to Ellena, when her
discretion might be trusted with a knowledge of her family. This was
the whole of what Signora Bianchi had judged it necessary to explain,
though in her last hours it appeared that she wished to reveal more;
but it was then too late.

Though Ellena perceived that many circumstances of the relations given
by Schedoni, and by Signora Bianchi, coincided, and that none were
contradictory, except that of his death, she could not yet subdue her
amazement at this discovery, or even the doubts which occasionally
recurred to her as to it's truth. Schedoni, on the contrary, had
not even appeared surprised, when she assured him, that she always
understood her father had been dead many years; though when she asked
if her mother too was living, both his distress and his assurances
confirmed the relation made by Bianchi.

When Ellena's mind became more tranquil, she noticed again the
singularity of Schedoni's visit to her apartment at so sacred an
hour; and her thoughts glanced back involuntarily to the scene of
the preceding evening on the sea-shore, and the image of her father
appeared in each, in the terrific character of an agent of the
Marchesa di Vivaldi. The suspicions, however, which she had formerly
admitted, respecting his designs, were now impatiently rejected, for
she was less anxious to discover truth, than to release herself from
horrible suppositions; and she willingly believed that Schedoni, having
misunderstood her character, had only designed to assist in removing
her beyond the reach of Vivaldi. The ingenuity of hope suggested
also, that, having just heard from her conductors or from Spalatro,
some circumstances of her story, he had been led to a suspicion of
the relationship between them, and that in the first impatience of
parental anxiety, he had disregarded the hour, and come, though at
midnight, to her apartment to ascertain the truth.

While she soothed herself with this explanation of a circumstance,
which had occasioned her considerable surprise, she perceived on
the floor the point of a dagger peeping from beneath the curtains!
Emotions almost too horrible to be sustained, followed this discovery;
she took the instrument, and gazed upon it aghast and trembling,
for a suspicion of the real motive of Schedoni's visit glanced upon
her mind. But it was only for a moment; such a supposition was too
terrible to be willingly endured; she again believed that Spalatro
alone had meditated her destruction, and she thanked the Confessor as
her deliverer, instead of shrinking from him as an assassin. She now
understood that Schedoni, having discovered the ruffian's design, had
rushed into the chamber to save a stranger from his murderous poniard,
and had unconsciously rescued his own daughter, when the portrait at
her bosom informed him of the truth. With this conviction Ellena's eyes
overflowed with gratitude, and her heart was hushed to peace.

Schedoni, meanwhile, shut up in his chamber, was agitated by feelings
of a very opposite nature. When their first excess was exhausted,
and his mind was calm enough to reflect, the images that appeared on
it struck him with solemn wonder. In pursuing Ellena at the criminal
instigation of the Marchesa di Vivaldi, it appeared that he had been
persecuting his own child; and in thus consenting to conspire against
the innocent, he had in the event been only punishing the guilty, and
preparing mortification for himself on the exact subject to which he
had sacrificed his conscience. Every step that he had taken with a
view of gratifying his ambition was retrograde, and while he had been
wickedly intent to serve the Marchesa and himself, by preventing the
marriage of Vivaldi and Ellena, he had been laboriously counteracting
his own fortune. An alliance with the illustrious house of Vivaldi,
was above his loftiest hope of advancement, and this event he had
himself nearly prevented by the very means which had been adopted, at
the expence of every virtuous consideration, to obtain an inferior
promotion. Thus by a singular retribution, his own crimes had recoiled
upon himself.

Schedoni perceived the many obstacles, which lay between him and his
newly awakened hopes, and that much was to be overcome before those
nuptials could be publicly solemnized, which he was now still more
anxious to promote, than he had lately been to prevent. The approbation
of the Marchesa was, at least, desirable, for she had much at her
disposal, and without it, though his daughter might be the wife of
Vivaldi, he himself would be no otherwise benefited at present than
by the honour of the connection. He had some peculiar reasons for
believing, that her consent might be obtained, and, though there was
hazard in delaying the nuptials till such an experiment had been
made, he resolved to encounter it, rather than forbear to solicit
her concurrence. But, if the Marchesa should prove inexorable, he
determined to bestow the hand of Ellena, without her knowledge, and
in doing so he well knew that he incurred little danger from her
resentment, since he had secrets in his possession, the consciousness
of which must awe her into a speedy neutrality. The consent of the
Marchese, as he despaired of obtaining it, he did not mean to solicit,
and the influence of the Marchesa was such, that Schedoni did not
regard that as essential.

The first steps, however, to be taken, were those that might release
Vivaldi from the Inquisition, the tremendous prison into which
Schedoni himself, little foreseeing that he should so soon wish for
his liberation, had caused him to be thrown. He had always understood,
indeed, that if the Informer forbore to appear against the Accused
in this Court, the latter would of course be liberated; and he also
believed, that Vivaldi's freedom could be obtained whenever he should
think proper to apply to a person at Naples, whom he knew to be
connected with the _Holy Office_ of Rome. How much the Confessor had
suffered his wishes to deceive him, may appear hereafter. His motives
for having thus confined Vivaldi, were partly those of self-defence.
He dreaded the discovery and the vengeance, which might follow the
loss of Ellena, should Vivaldi be at liberty immediately to pursue his
enquiries. But he believed that all trace of her must be lost, after a
few weeks had elapsed, and that Vivaldi's sufferings from confinement
in the Inquisition would have given interests to his mind, which
must weaken the one he felt for Ellena. Yet, though in this instance
self-defence had been a principal motive with Schedoni, a desire of
revenging the insult he had received in the church of the Spirito
Santo, and all the consequent mortifications he experienced, had been a
second; and, such was the blackness of his hatred, and the avarice of
his revenge, that he had not considered the suffering, which the loss
of Ellena would occasion Vivaldi, as sufficient retaliation.

In adopting a mode of punishment so extraordinary as that of
imprisonment in the Inquisition, it appears, therefore, that Schedoni
was influenced, partly by the difficulty of otherwise confining
Vivaldi, during the period for which confinement was absolutely
necessary to the success of his own schemes, and partly by a desire
of inflicting the tortures of terror. He had also been encouraged by
his discovery of this opportunity for conferring new obligations on
the Marchesa. The very conduct, that must have appeared to the first
glance of an honest mind fatal to his interests, he thought might be
rendered beneficial to them, and that his dexterity could so command
the business, as that the Marchesa should eventually thank him as the
deliverer of her son, instead of discovering and execrating him as his
Accuser; a scheme savoured by the unjust and cruel rule enacted by the
tribunal he approached, which permitted anonymous Informers.

To procure the arrestation of Vivaldi, it had been only necessary to
send a written accusation, without a name, to the _Holy Office_ with
a mention of the place where the accused person might be seized; but
the suffering in consequence of this did not always proceed further
than the _question_; since, if the Informer failed to discover
himself to the Inquisitors, the prisoner, after many examinations, was
released, unless he happened unwarily to criminate himself. Schedoni,
as he did not intend to prosecute, believed, therefore, that Vivaldi
would of course be discharged after a certain period, and supposing
it also utterly impossible that he could ever discover his Accuser,
the Confessor determined to appear anxious and active in effecting
his release. This character of a deliverer, he knew he should be the
better enabled to support by means of a person officially connected
with the _Holy Office_, who had already unconsciously assisted his
views. In the apartment of this man, Schedoni had accidentally seen a
formula of arrestation against a person suspected of Heresy, the view
of which had not only suggested to him the plan he had since adopted,
but had in some degree assisted him to carry it into effect. He had
seen the scroll only for a short time, but his observations were so
minute, and his memory so clear, that he was able to copy it with at
least sufficient exactness to impose upon the Benedictine priest, who
had, perhaps, seldom or never seen a real instrument of this kind.
Schedoni had employed this artifice for the purpose of immediately
securing Vivaldi, apprehending that, while the Inquisitors were
slowly deliberating upon his arrest, he might quit Celano, and elude
discovery. If the deception succeeded, it would enable him also to
seize Ellena, and to mislead Vivaldi respecting her destination. The
charge of having carried off a nun might appear to be corroborated by
many circumstances, and Schedoni would probably have made these the
subject of real denunciation, had he not foreseen the danger and the
trouble in which it might implicate himself; and that, as the charge
could not be substantiated, Ellena would finally escape. As far as
his plan now went, it had been successful; some of the bravoes whom he
hired to personate officials, had conveyed Vivaldi to the town, where
the real officers of the Inquisition were appointed to receive him;
while the others carried Ellena to the shore of the Adriatic. Schedoni
had much applauded his own ingenuity, in thus contriving, by the matter
of the forged accusation, to throw an impenetrable veil over the fate
of Ellena, and to secure himself from the suspicions or vengeance of
Vivaldi, who, it appeared, would always believe that she had died, or
was still confined in the unsearchable prisons of the Inquisition.

Thus he had betrayed himself in endeavouring to betray Vivaldi, whose
release, however, he yet supposed could be easily obtained; but how
much his policy had, in this instance, outrun his sagacity, now
remained to be proved.

The subject of Schedoni's immediate perplexity was, the difficulty
of conveying Ellena back to Naples; since, not chusing to appear
at present in the character of her father, he could not decorously
accompany her thither himself, nor could he prudently entrust her to
the conduct of any person, whom he knew in this neighbourhood. If was,
however, necessary to form a speedy determination, for he could neither
endure to pass another day in a scene, which must continually impress
him with the horrors of the preceding night, nor that Ellena should
remain in it; and the morning light already gleamed upon his casements.

After some further deliberation, he resolved to be himself her
conductor, as far at least as through the forests of the Garganus, and
at the first town where conveniencies could be procured, to throw aside
his Monk's habit, and, assuming the dress of a layman, accompany her
in this disguise towards Naples, till he should either discover some
secure means of sending her forward to that city, or a temporary asylum
for her in a convent on the way.

His mind was scarcely more tranquil, after having formed this
determination, than before, and he did not attempt to repose himself
even for a moment. The circumstances of the late discovery were almost
perpetually recurring to his affrighted conscience, accompanied by a
fear that Ellena might suspect the real purpose of his midnight visit;
and he alternately formed and rejected plausible falsehoods, that might
assuage her curiosity, and delude her apprehension.

The hour arrived, however, when it was necessary to prepare for
departure, and found him still undecided as to the explanation he
should form.

Having released Spalatro from his chamber, and given him directions to
procure horses and a guide immediately from the neighbouring hamlet,
he repaired to Ellena's room, to prepare her for this hasty removal.
On approaching it, a remembrance of the purpose, with which he had
last passed through these same passages and stair-case, appealed so
powerfully to his feelings, that he was unable to proceed, and he
turned back to his own apartment to recover some command over himself.
A few moments restored to him his usual address, though not his
tranquillity, and he again approached the chamber; it was now, however,
by way of the corridor. As he unbarred the door, his hand trembled;
but, when he entered the room, his countenance and manner had resumed
their usual solemnity, and his voice only would have betrayed, to an
attentive observer, the agitation of his mind.

Ellena was considerably affected on seeing him again, and he examined
with a jealous eye the emotions he witnessed. The smile with which she
met him was tender, but he perceived it pass away from her features,
like the aërial colouring that illumines a mountain's brow; and the
gloom of doubt and apprehension again overspread them. As he advanced,
he held forth his hand for her's, when, suddenly perceiving the dagger
he had left in the chamber, he involuntarily withdrew his proffered
courtesy, and his countenance changed. Ellena, whose eyes followed his
to the object that attracted them, pointed to the instrument, took it
up, and approaching him said, "This dagger I found last night in my
chamber! O my father!"--

"That dagger!" said Schedoni, with affected surprize.

"Examine it," continued Ellena, while she held it up, "Do you know to
whom it belongs? and who brought it hither?"

"What is it you mean?" asked Schedoni, betrayed by his feelings.

"Do you know, too, for what purpose it was brought?" said Ellena
mournfully.

The Confessor made no reply, but irresolutely attempted to seize the
instrument.

"O yes, I perceive you know, too well," continued Ellena, "here, my
father, while I slept"----

"Give me the dagger," interrupted Schedoni, in a frightful voice.

"Yes, my father, I will give it as an offering of my gratitude,"
replied Ellena, but as she raised her eyes, filled with tears, his
look and fixed attitude terrified her, and she added with a still more
persuasive tenderness, "Will you not accept the offering of your child,
for having preserved her from the poniard of an assassin?"

Schedoni's looks became yet darker; he took the dagger in silence,
and threw it with violence to the furthest end of the chamber, while
his eyes remained fixed on her's. The force of the action alarmed
her; "Yes, it is in vain that you would conceal the truth," she added,
weeping unrestrainedly, "your goodness cannot avail; I know the
whole."----

The last words aroused Schedoni again from his trance, his features
became convulsed, and his look furious. "What do you know?" he demanded
in a subdued voice, that seemed ready to burst in thunder.

"All that I owe you," replied Ellena, "that last night, while I slept
upon this mattress, unsuspicious of what was designed against me, an
assassin entered the chamber with that instrument in his hand, and----"

A stifled groan from Schedoni checked Ellena; she observed his rolling
eyes, and trembled; till, believing that his agitation was occasioned
by indignation against the assassin, she resumed, "Why should you think
it necessary to conceal the danger which has threatened me, since it is
to you that I owe my deliverance from it? O! my father, do not deny me
the pleasure of shedding these tears of gratitude, do not refuse the
thanks, which are due to you! While I slept upon that couch, while a
ruffian stole upon my slumber--it was you, yes! can I ever forget that
it was my father, who saved me from his poniard!"

Schedoni's passions were changed, but they were not less violent; he
could scarcely controul them while he said in a tremulous tone--"It is
enough, say no more;" and he raised Ellena, but turned away without
embracing her.

His strong emotion, as he paced in silence the furthest end of the
apartment, excited her surprize, but she then attributed it to a
remembrance of the perilous moment, from which he had rescued her.

Schedoni, meanwhile, to whom her thanks were daggers, was trying
to subdue the feelings of remorse that tore his heart; and was so
enveloped in a world of his own, as to be for some time unconscious
of all around him. He continued to stalk in gloomy silence along the
chamber, till the voice of Ellena, entreating him rather to rejoice
that he had been permitted to save her, than so deeply to consider
dangers which were past, again touched the chord that vibrated to his
conscience, and recalled him to a sense of his situation. He then bade
her prepare for immediate departure, and abruptly quitted the room.

Vainly hoping that in flying from the scene of his meditated crime, he
should leave with it the acuteness of remembrance, and the agonizing
stings of remorse, he was now more anxious than ever to leave this
place. Yet he should still be accompanied by Ellena, and her innocent
looks, her affectionate thanks, inflicted an anguish, which was
scarcely endurable. Sometimes, thinking that her hatred, or what to
him would be still severer, her contempt, must be more tolerable than
this gratitude, he almost resolved to undeceive her respecting his
conduct, but as constantly and impatiently repelled the thought with
horror, and finally determined to suffer her to account for his late
extraordinary visit in the way she had chosen.

Spalatro, at length, returned from the hamlet with horses, but without
having procured a guide to conduct the travellers through a tract of
the long-devolving forests of the Garganus, which it was necessary for
them to pass. No person had been willing to undertake so arduous a
task; and Spalatro, who was well acquainted with all the labyrinths of
the way, now offered his services.

Schedoni, though he could scarcely endure the presence of this man,
had no alternative but to accept him, since he had dismissed the
guide who had conducted him hither. Of personal violence Schedoni
had no apprehension, though he too well understood the villainy of
his proposed companion; for he considered that he himself should be
well armed, and he determined to ascertain that Spalatro was without
weapons; he knew also, that in case of a contest, his own superior
stature would easily enable him to overcome such an antagonist.

Every thing being now ready for departure, Ellena was summoned, and the
Confessor led her to his own apartment, where a slight breakfast was
prepared.

Her spirits being revived by the speed of this departure, she would
again have expressed her thanks, but he peremptorily interrupted her,
and forbade any further mention of gratitude.

On entering the court where the horses were in waiting, and perceiving
Spalatro, Ellena shrunk and put her arm within Schedoni's for
protection. "What recollections does the presence of that man revive!"
said she, "I can scarcely venture to believe myself safe, even with
you, when he is here."

Schedoni made no reply, till the remark was repeated. "You have nothing
to fear from him," muttered the Confessor, while he hastened her
forward, "and we have no time to lose in vague apprehension."

"How!" exclaimed Ellena, "is not he the assassin from whom you saved
me! I cannot doubt, that you know him to be such, though you would
spare me the pain of believing so."

"Well, well, be it so," replied the Confessor; "Spalatro, lead the
horses this way."

The party were soon mounted, when, quitting this eventful mansion,
and the shore of the Adriatic, as Ellena hoped for ever, they entered
upon the gloomy wilderness of the Garganus. She often turned her eyes
back upon the house with emotions of inexpressible awe, astonishment,
and thankfulness, and gazed while a glimpse of it's turretted walls
could be caught beyond the dark branches, which, closing over it, at
length shut it from her view. The joy of this departure, however,
was considerably abated by the presence of Spalatro, and her fearful
countenance enquired of Schedoni the meaning of his being suffered
to accompany them. The Confessor was reluctant to speak concerning a
man, of whose very existence he would willingly have ceased to think.
Ellena guided her horse still closer to Schedoni's, but, forbearing to
urge the enquiry otherwise than by looks, she received no reply, and
endeavoured to quiet her apprehensions, by considering that he would
not have permitted this man to be their guide, unless he had believed
he might be trusted. This consideration, though it relieved her fears,
encreased her perplexity respecting the late designs of Spalatro,
and her surprise that Schedoni, if he had really understood them to
be evil, should endure his presence. Every time she stole a glance at
the dark countenance of this man, rendered still darker by the shade
of the trees, she thought "assassin" was written in each line of it,
and could scarcely doubt that he, and not the people who had conducted
her to the mansion, had dropped the dagger in her chamber. Whenever
she looked round through the deep glades, and on the forest-mountains
that on every side closed the scene, and seemed to exclude all
cheerful haunt of man, and then regarded her companions, her heart
sunk, notwithstanding the reasons she had for believing herself in
the protection of a father. Nay, the very looks of Schedoni himself,
more than once reminding her of his appearance on the sea-shore,
renewed the impressions of alarm and even of dismay, which she had
there experienced. At such moments it was scarcely possible for her
to consider him as her parent, and, in spite of every late appearance,
strange and unaccountable doubts began to gather on her mind.

Schedoni, meanwhile, lost in thought, broke not, by a single word,
the deep silence of the solitudes through which they passed. Spalatro
was equally mute, and equally engaged by his reflections on the
sudden change in Schedoni's purpose, and by wonder as to the motive,
which could have induced him to lead Ellena in safety, from the very
spot whither she was brought by his express command to be destroyed.
He, however, was not so wholly occupied, as to be unmindful of
his situation, or unwatchful of an opportunity of serving his own
interests, and retaliating upon Schedoni for the treatment he had
received on the preceding night.

Among the various subjects that distracted the Confessor, the
difficulty of disposing of Ellena, without betraying at Naples that
she was his relative, was not the least distressing. Whatever might be
the reason which could justify such feelings, his fears of a premature
discovery of the circumstance to the society with whom he lived,
were so strong, as often to produce the most violent effect upon his
countenance, and it was, perhaps, when he was occupied by this subject,
that it's terrific expression revived with Ellena the late scene
upon the shore. His embarrassment was not less, as to the excuse to
be offered the Marchesa, for having failed to fulfil his engagement,
and respecting the means by which he might interest her in favour of
Ellena, and even dispose her to approve the marriage, before she should
be informed of the family of this unfortunate young woman. Perceiving
all the necessity for ascertaining the probabilities of such consent,
before he ventured to make an avowal of her origin, he determined not
to reveal himself till he should be perfectly sure that the discovery
would be acceptable to the Marchesa. In the mean time, as it would be
necessary to say something of Ellena's birth, he meant to declare,
that he had discovered it to be noble, and her family worthy, in every
respect, of a connection with that of the Vivaldi.

An interview with the Marchesa, was almost equally wished for and
dreaded by the Confessor. He shuddered at the expectation of meeting a
woman, who had instigated him to the murder of his own child, which,
though he had been happily prevented from committing it, was an act
that would still be wished for by the Marchesa. How could he endure her
reproaches, when she should discover that he had failed to accomplish
her will! How conceal the indignation of a father, and dissimulate all
a father's various feelings, when, in reply to such reproaches, he
must form excuses, and act humility, from which his whole soul would
revolt! Never could his arts of dissimilation have been so severely
tried, not even in the late scenes with Ellena, never have returned
upon himself in punishment so severe, as in that which awaited him with
the Marchesa. And from it's approach, the cool and politic Schedoni
often shrunk in such horror, that he almost determined to avoid it at
any hazard, and secretly to unite Vivaldi and Ellena, without even
soliciting the consent of the Marchesa.

A desire, however, of the immediate preferment, so necessary to his
pride, constantly checked this scheme, and, finally made him willing
to subject every honest feeling, and submit to any meanness, however
vicious, rather than forego the favourite object of his erroneous
ambition. Never, perhaps, was the paradoxical union of pride and
abjectness, more strongly exhibited than on this occasion.

While thus the travellers silently proceeded, Ellena's thoughts often
turned to Vivaldi, and she considered, with trembling anxiety, the
effect which the late discover was likely to have upon their future
lives. It appeared to her, that Schedoni must approve of a connection
thus flattering to the pride of a father, though he would probably
refuse his consent to a private marriage. And, when she further
considered the revolution, which a knowledge of her family might
occasion towards herself in the minds of the Vivaldi, her prospects
seemed to brighten, and her cares began to dissipate. Judging that
Schedoni must be acquainted with the present situation of Vivaldi, she
was continually on the point of mentioning him, but was as constantly
restrained by timidity, though, had she suspected him to be an
inhabitant of the Inquisition, her scruples would have vanished before
an irresistible interest. As it was, believing that he, like herself,
had been imposed upon by the Marchesa's agents, in the disguise of
officials, she concluded, as has before appeared, that he now suffered
a temporary imprisonment by order of his mother, at one of the family
villas. When, however, Schedoni, awaking from his reverie, abruptly
mentioned Vivaldi, her spirits fluttered with impatience to learn his
exact situation, and she enquired respecting it.

"I am no stranger to your attachment," said Schedoni, evading the
question, "but I wish to be informed of some circumstances relative to
it's commencement."

Ellena, confused, and not knowing what to reply, was for a moment
silent, and then repeated her enquiry.

"Where did you first meet?" said the Confessor, still disregarding
her question. Ellena related, that she had first seen Vivaldi, when
attending her aunt from the church of San Lorenzo. For the present she
was spared the embarrassment of further explanation by Spalatro, who,
riding up to Schedoni, informed him they were approaching the town of
Zanti. On looking forward, Ellena perceived houses peeping from among
the forest-trees, at a short distance, and presently heard the cheerful
bark of a dog, that sure herald and faithful servant of man!

Soon after the travellers entered Zanti, a small town surrounded by the
forest, where, however, the poverty of the inhabitants seemed to forbid
a longer stay than was absolutely necessary for repose, and a slight
refreshment. Spalatro led the way to a cabin, in which the few persons,
that journied this road were usually entertained. The appearance of the
people, who owned it, was as wild as their country, and the interior of
the dwelling was so dirty and comfortless, that Schedoni, preferring
to take his repast in the open air, a table was spread under the
luxuriant shade of the forest-trees, at a little distance. Here, when
the host had withdrawn, and Spalatro had been dispatched to examine
the post-horses, and to procure a lay-habit for the Confessor, the
latter, once more alone with Ellena, began to experience again somewhat
of the embarrassments of conscience; and Ellena, whenever her eyes
glanced upon him, suffered a solemnity of fear that rose almost to
terror. He, at length, terminated this emphatic silence, by renewing
his mention of Vivaldi, and his command that Ellena should relate the
history of their affection. Not daring to refuse, she obeyed, but with
as much brevity as possible, and Schedoni did not interrupt her by a
single observation. However eligible their nuptials now appeared to
him, he forbore to give any hint of approbation, till he should have
extricated the object of her regards from his perilous situation. But,
with Ellena, this very silence implied the opinion it was meant to
conceal, and, encouraged by the hope it imparted, she ventured once
more to ask, by whose order Vivaldi had been arrested; whither he had
been conveyed, and the circumstances of his present situation.

Too politic to intrust her with a knowledge of his actual condition,
the Confessor spared her the anguish of learning that he was a prisoner
in the Inquisition. He affected ignorance of the late transaction at
Celano, but ventured to believe, that both Vivaldi and herself had been
arrested by order of the Marchesa, who, he conjectured, had thrown him
into temporary confinement, a measure which she, no doubt, had meant to
enforce also towards Ellena.

"And you, my father," observed Ellena, "what brought you to my
prison,--you who was not informed with the Marchesa's designs? What
accident conducted you to that remote solitude, just at the moment when
you could save your child!"

"Informed of the Marchesa's designs!" said Schedoni, with
embarrassment and displeasure: "Have you ever imagined that I could be
accessary--that I could consent to assist, I mean could consent to be a
confidant of such atrocious"----Schedoni, bewildered, confounded, and
half betrayed, checked himself.

"Yet you have said, the Marchesa meant only to confine me," observed
Ellena; "was that design so atrocious? Alas, my father! I know too well
that her plan was more atrocious, and since you had too much reason to
know this, why do you say that imprisonment only was intended for me?
But your solicitude for my tranquillity leads you to"----

"What means," interrupted the suspicious Schedoni, "can I particularly
have of understanding the Marchesa's schemes? I repeat, that I am not
her confidant; how then is it to be supposed I should know that they
extended further than to imprisonment?"

"Did you not save me from the arm of the assassin!" said Ellena
tenderly; "did not you wrench the very dagger from his grasp!"

"I had forgotten, I had forgotten," said the Confessor, yet more
embarrassed.

"Yes, good minds are ever thus apt to forget the benefits they confer,"
replied Ellena. "But you shall find, my father, that a grateful heart
is equally tenacious to remember them; it is the indelible register of
every act that is dismissed from the memory of the benefactor."

"Mention no more of benefits," said Schedoni, impatiently; "let silence
on this subject henceforth indicate your wish to oblige me."

He rose, and joined the host, who was at the door of his cabin.
Schedoni wished to dismiss Spalatro as soon as possible, and he
enquired for a guide to conduct him through that part of the forest,
which remained to be traversed. In this poor town, a person willing
to undertake that office was easily to be found, but the host went in
quest of a neighbour whom he had recommended.

Meanwhile Spalatro returned, without having succeeded in his
commission. Not any lay-habit could be procured, upon so short a
notice, that suited Schedoni. He was obliged, therefore, to continue
his journey to the next town at least, in his own dress, but the
necessity was not very serious to him, since it was improbable that he
should be known in this obscure region.

Presently the host appeared with his neighbour, when Schedoni,
having received satisfactory answers to his questions, engaged
him for the remainder of the forest-road, and dismissed Spalatro.
The ruffian departed with sullen reluctance and evident ill-will,
circumstances which the Confessor scarcely noticed, while, occupied
by the satisfaction of escaping from the presence of the atrocious
partner of his conscience. But Ellena, as he passed her, observed the
malignant disappointment of his look, and it served only to heighten
the thankfulness his departure occasioned her.

It was afternoon before the travellers proceeded. Schedoni had
calculated that they could easily reach the town, at which they
designed to pass the night, before the close of evening, and he had
been in no haste to depart during the heat of the day. Their track now
lay through a country less savage, though scarcely less wild than that
they had passed in the morning. It emerged from the interior towards
the border of the forest; they were no longer enclosed by impending
mountains; the withdrawing shades were no longer impenetrable to the
eye, but now and then opened to gleams of sunshine-landscape, and blue
distances; and in the immediate scene, many a green glade spread it's
bosom to the sun. The grandeur of the trees, however, did not decline;
the plane, the oak, and the chestnut still threw a pomp of foliage
round these smiling spots, and seemed to consecrate the mountain
streams, that descended beneath their solemn shade.

To the harassed spirits of Ellena the changing scenery was refreshing,
and she frequently yielded her cares to the influence of majestic
nature. Over the gloom of Schedoni, no scenery had, at any moment,
power; the shape and paint of external imagery gave neither impression
or colour to his fancy. He contemned the sweet illusions, to which
other spirits are liable, and which often confer a delight more
exquisite, and not less innocent, than any, which deliberative reason
can bestow.

The same thoughtful silence, that had wrapt him at the beginning of
the journey, he still preserved, except when occasionally he asked
a question of the guide concerning the way, and received answers too
loquacious for his humour. This loquacity, however, was not easily
repressed, and the peasant had already begun to relate some terrible
stories of murder, committed in these forests upon people, who had
been hardy enough to venture into them without a guide, before the
again abstracted Schedoni even noticed that he spoke. Though Ellena
did not give much credit to these narratives, they had some effect
upon her fears, when soon after she entered the deep shades of a part
of the forest, that lay along a narrow defile, whence every glimpse of
cheerful landscape was again excluded by precipices, which towered on
either side. The stilness was not less effectual than the gloom, for
no sounds were heard, except such as seemed to characterize solitude,
and impress it's awful power more deeply on the heart,----the hollow
dashing of torrents descending distantly, and the deep sighings of
the wind, as it passed among trees, which threw their broad arms over
the cliffs, and crowned the highest summits. Onward, through the
narrowing windings of the defile, no living object appeared; but, as
Ellena looked fearfully back, she thought she distinguished a human
figure advancing beneath the dusky umbrage that closed the view. She
communicated her suspicion to Schedoni, though not her fears, and they
stopped for a moment, to observe further. The object advanced slowly,
and they perceived the stature of a man, who, having continued to
approach, suddenly paused, and then glided away behind the foliage
that crossed the perspective, but not before Ellena fancied she
discriminated the figure of Spalatro. None but a purpose the most
desperate, she believed, could have urged him to follow into this
pass, instead of returning, as he had pretended, to his home. Yet
it appeared improbable, that he alone should be willing to attack
two armed persons, for both Schedoni and the guide had weapons of
defence. This consideration afforded her only a momentary respite from
apprehension, since it was possible that he might not be alone, though
only one person had yet been seen among the shrouding branches of the
woods. "Did you not think he resembled Spalatro?" said Ellena to the
Confessor, "was he not of the same stature and air? You are well armed,
or I should fear for you, as well as for myself."

"I did not observe a resemblance," replied Schedoni, throwing a glance
back, "but whoever he is, you have nothing to apprehend from him, for
he has disappeared."

"Yes, Signor, so much the worse," observed the guide, "so much the
worse, if he means us any harm, for he can steal along the rocks behind
these thickets, and strike out upon us before we are aware of him.
Or, if he knows the path that runs among those old oaks yonder, on the
left, where the ground rises, he has us sure at the turning of the next
cliff."

"Speak lower," said Schedoni, "unless you mean that he should benefit
by your instructions."

Though the Confessor said this without any suspicion of evil intention
from the guide, the man immediately began to justify himself, and
added, "I'll give him a hint of what he may expect, however, if he
attacks us." As he spoke, he fired his trombone in the air, when every
rock reverberated the sound, and the faint and fainter thunder retired
in murmurs through all the windings of the defile. The eagerness, with
which the guide had justified himself, produced an effect upon Schedoni
contrary to what he designed; and the Confessor, as he watched him
suspiciously, observed, that after he had fired, he did not load his
piece again. "Since you have given the enemy sufficient intimation
where to find us," said Schedoni, "you will do well to prepare for his
reception; load again, friend. I have arms too, and they are ready."

While the man sullenly obeyed, Ellena, again alarmed, looked back in
search of the stranger, but not any person appeared beneath the gloom,
and no footstep broke upon the stilness. When, however, she suddenly
heard a rustling noise, she looked to the bordering thickets, almost
expecting to see Spalatro break from among them, before she perceived
that it was only the sounding pinions of birds, which, startled by the
report of the trombone from their high nests in the cliffs, winged
their way from danger.

The suspicions of the Confessor had, probably, been slight, for they
were transient; and when Ellena next addressed him, he had again
retired within himself. He was ruminating upon an excuse to be
offered the Marchesa, which might be sufficient both to assuage her
disappointment and baffle her curiosity, and he could not, at present,
fabricate one that might soothe her resentment, without risk of
betraying his secret.

Twilight had added its gloom to that of the rocks, before the
travellers distinguished the town, at which they meant to pass the
night. It terminated the defile, and its grey houses could scarcely be
discerned from the precipice upon which they hung, or from the trees
that embosomed them. A rapid stream rolled below, and over it a bridge
conducted the wanderers to the little inn, at which they were to take
up their abode. Here, quietly lodged, Ellena dismissed all present
apprehension of Spalatro, but she still believed she had seen him, and
her suspicions, as to the motive of his extraordinary journey, were not
appeased.

As this was a town of ampler accommodation than the one they had left,
Schedoni easily procured a lay-habit, that would disguise him for
the remainder of the journey; and Ellena was permitted to lay aside
the nun's veil, for one of a more general fashion; but, in dismissing
it, she did not forget that it had been the veil of Olivia, and she
preserved it as a sacred relique of her favourite recluse.

The distance between this town and Naples was still that of several
days journey, according to the usual mode of travelling; but the most
dangerous part of the way was now overcome, the road having emerged
from the forests; and when Schedoni, on the following morning, was
departing, he would have discharged the guide, had not the host assured
him, he would find one still necessary in the open, but wild, country
through which he must pass. Schedoni's distrust of this guide had
never been very serious, and, as the result of the preceding evening
proved favourable, he had restored him so entirely to his confidence,
as willingly to engage him for the present day. In this confidence,
however, Ellena did not perfectly coincide; she had observed the man
while he loaded the trombone, on Schedoni's order, and his evident
reluctance had almost persuaded her, that he was in league with some
person who designed to attack them; a conjecture, perhaps, the more
readily admitted while her mind was suffering from the impression
of having seen Spalatro. She now ventured to hint her distrust to
the Confessor, who paid little attention to it, and reminded her,
that sufficient proof of the man's honesty had appeared, in their
having been permitted to pass in safety, a defile so convenient for
the purpose of rapine as that of yesterday. To a reply apparently so
reasonable, Ellena could oppose nothing, had she even dared to press
the topic; and she re-commenced the journey with gayer hopes.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74640 ***