CHAPTER I.

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.