“Ah! Matilda, I fear that I shall think on you but too often for my repose!”
“Then I have nothing more to wish for, save that we may meet in heaven. Farewell, my friend! my Ambrosio! And yet, methinks, I would fain bear with me some token of your regard.”
“What shall I give you?”
“Something—any thing—one of those flowers will be sufficient.” [Here she pointed to a bush of roses, planted at the door of the grotto.] “I will hide it in my bosom, and, when I am dead, the nuns shall find it withered upon my heart.”
The friar was unable to reply: with slow steps, and a soul heavy with affliction, he quitted the hermitage. He approached the bush, and stooped to pluck one of the roses. Suddenly he uttered a piercing cry, started back hastily, and let the flower, which he already held, fall from his hand. Matilda heard the shriek, and flew anxiously towards him.
“What is the matter?” she cried. “Answer me, for God’s sake! What has happened?”
“I have received my death,” he replied in a faint voice: “concealed among the roses—a serpent—”
Here the pain of his wound became so exquisite, that nature was unable to bear it: his senses abandoned him, and he sunk inanimate into Matilda’s arms.
Her distress was beyond the power of description. She rent her hair, beat her bosom, and, not daring to quit Ambrosio, endeavoured by loud cries to summon the monks to her assistance. She at length succeeded. Alarmed by her shrieks, several of the brothers hastened to the spot, and the superior was conveyed back to the abbey. He was immediately put to bed, and the monk, who officiated as surgeon to the fraternity, prepared to examine the wound. By this time Ambrosio’s hand had swelled to an extraordinary size: the remedies which had been administered to him, ’Tis true, restored him to life, but not to his senses: he raved in all the horrors of delirium, foamed at the mouth, and four of the strongest monks were scarcely able to hold him in his bed.
Father Pablos (such was the surgeon’s name) hastened to examine the wounded hand. The monks surrounded the bed, anxiously waiting for the decision: among these the feigned Rosario appeared not the most insensible to the friar’s calamity: he gazed upon the sufferer with inexpressible anguish; and his groans, which every moment escaped from his bosom, sufficiently betrayed the violence of his affliction.
Father Pablos probed the wound. As he drew out his lancet, its point was tinged with a greenish hue. He shook his head mournfully, and quitted the bed side.
“ ’Tis as I feared,” said he; “there is no hope.”
“No hope!” exclaimed the monks with one voice; “say you, no hope?”
“From the sudden effects, I suspected that the abbot was stung by a cientipedoro
*
: the venom which you see upon my lancet confirms my idea. He cannot live three days.”
“And can no possible remedy be found?” enquired Rosario.
“Without extracting the poison, he cannot recover; and how to extract it is to me still a secret. All that I can do is to apply such herbs to the wound as will relieve the anguish: the patient will be restored to his senses; but the venom will corrupt the whole mass of his blood, and in three days he will exist no longer.”
Excessive was the universal grief at hearing this decision. Pablos, as he had promised, dressed the wound, and then retired, followed by his companions. Rosario alone remained in the cell, the abbot, at his urgent entreaty, having been committed to his care. Ambrosio’s strength worn out by the violence of his exertions, he had by this time fallen into a profound sleep. So totally was he overcome by weariness, that he scarcely gave any signs of life. He was still in this situation, when the monks returned to enquire whether any change had taken place. Pablos loosened the bandage which concealed the wound, more from a principle of curiosity, than from indulging the hope of discovering any favourable symptoms. What was his astonishment at finding that the inflammation had totally subsided! He probed the hand; his lancet came out pure and unsullied; no traces of the venom were perceptible; and had not the orifice still been visible, Pablos might have doubted that there had ever been a wound.
He communicated this intelligence to his brethren: their delight was only equalled by their surprise. From the latter sentiment, however, they were soon released, by explaining the circumstance according to their own ideas. They were perfectly convinced that their superior was a saint, and thought that nothing could be more natural than for St. Francis to have operated a miracle in his favour. This opinion was adopted unanimously. They declared it so loudly, and vociferated “A miracle! a miracle!” with such fervour, that they soon interrupted Ambrosio’s slumbers.
The monks immediately crowded round his bed, and expressed their satisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was perfectly in his senses, and free from every complaint, except feeling weak and languid. Pablos gave him a strengthening medicine, and advised his keeping his bed for the two succeeding days: he then retired, having desired his patient not to exhaust himself by conversation, but rather to endeavour at taking some repose. The other monks followed his example, and the abbot and Rosario were left without observers.
For some minutes Ambrosio regarded his attendant with a look of mingled pleasure and apprehension. She was seated upon the side of the bed, her head bending down, and, as usual, enveloped in the cowl of her habit.
“And you are still here, Matilda?” said the friar at length; “are you not satisfied with having so nearly effected my destruction, that nothing but a miracle could have saved me from the grave? Ah! surely heaven sent that serpent to punish——”
Matilda interrupted him by putting her hand before his lips with an air of gaiety.
“Hush! father, hush! you must not talk.”
“He who imposed that order, knew not how interesting are the subjects on which I wish to speak.”
“But I know it, and yet issue the same positive command. I am appointed your nurse, and you must not disobey my orders.”
“You are in spirits, Matilda!”
“Well may I be so; I have just received a pleasure unexampled through my whole life.”
“What was that pleasure?”
“What I must conceal from all, but most from you.”
“But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda——”
“Hush! father, hush! you must not talk. But as you do not seem inclined to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse you with my harp?”
“How! I knew not that you understood music.”
“Oh! I am a sorry performer! Yet as silence is prescribed you for eight-and-forty hours, I may possibly entertain you, when wearied of your own reflections. I go to fetch my harp.”
She soon returned with it.
“Now, father, what shall I sing? Will you hear the ballad which treats of the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of Roncevalles?”
“What you please, Matilda.”
“Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Rosario, call me your friend. Those are the names which I love to hear from your lips. Now listen.”
She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for some moments with such exquisite taste as to prove her a perfect mistress of the instrument. The air which she played was soft and plaintive. Ambrosio, while he listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a pleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matilda changed the strain: with an hand bold and rapid, she struck a few loud martial chords, and then chanted the following ballad to an air at once simple and melodious:
D
URANDARTE AND
B
ELERMA
.
Sad and fearful is the story
Of the Roncevalles fight;
On those fatal plains of glory
Perished many a gallant knight.
There fell Durandarte: never
Verse a nobler chieftain named:
He, before his lips for ever
Clos’d in silence, thus exclaimed:
“Oh! Belerma! Oh! my dear one,
For my pain and pleasure born,
Seven long years I serv’d thee, fair one,
Seven long years my fee was scorn.
“And when now thy heart, replying
To my wishes, burns like mine,
Cruel fate, my bliss denying,
Bids me every hope resign.
“Ah! though young I fall, believe me,
Death would never claim a sigh;
’Tis to lose thee, ’Tis to leave thee,
Makes me think it hard to die!
“Oh! my cousin Montesinos,
By that friendship firm and dear,
Which from youth has lived between us,
Now my last petition hear:
“When my soul, these limbs forsaking,
Eager seeks a purer air,
From my breast the cold heart taking,
Give it to Belerma’s care.
“Say, I of my lands possessor
Named her with my dying breath:
Say, my lips I op’d to bless her,
Ere they clos’d for aye in death:
“Twice a week, too, how sincerely
I ador’d her, cousin, say:
Twice a week, for one who dearly
Lov’d her, cousin, bid her pray.
“Montesinos, now the hour
Mark’d by fate is near at hand:
Lo! my arm has lost its power!
Lo! I drop my trusty brand.
“Eyes, which forth beheld me going,
Homewards ne’er shall see me hie:
Cousin, stop those tears o’erflowing,
Let me on thy bosom die.
“Thy kind hand my eye-lids closing,
Yet one favour I implore:
Pray thou for my soul’s reposing,
When my heart shall throb no more.
“So shall Jesus, still attending,
Gracious to a Christian’s vow,
Pleas’d accept my ghost ascending,
And a feat in heaven allow.”
Thus spoke gallant Durandarte;
Soon his brave heart broke in twain.
Greatly joy’d the Moorish party,
That the gallant knight was slain.
Bitter weeping, Montesinos
Took from him his helm and glaive;
Bitter weeping, Montesinos
Dug his gallant cousin’s grave.
To perform his promise made, he
Cut the heart from out the breast,
That Belerma, wretched lady!
Might receive the last bequest.
Sad was Montesinos’ heart, he
Felt distress his bosom rend.
“Oh! my cousin Durandarte,
Woe is me to view thy end!
“Sweet in manners, fair in favour,
Mild in temper, fierce in fight,
Warrior nobler, gentler, braver,
Never shall behold the light.
“Cousin, lo! my tears bedew thee;
How shall I thy loss survive?
Durandarte, he who slew thee,
Wherefore left he me alive?”
While she sung, Ambrosio listened with delight: never had he heard a voice more harmonious; and he wondered how such heavenly sounds could be produced by any but angels. But though he indulged the sense of hearing, a single look convinced him, that he must not trust to that of sight. The songstress sat at a little distance from his bed. The attitude in which she bent over her harp was easy and graceful: her cowl had fallen backwarder than usual: two coral lips were visible, ripe, fresh, and melting, and a chin, in whose dimples seemed to lurk a thousand Cupids. Her habit’s long sleeve would have swept along the chords of the instrument: to prevent this inconvenience she had drawn it above her elbow; and by this means an arm was discovered, formed in the most perfect symmetry, the delicacy of whose skin might have contended with snow in whiteness. Ambrosio dared to look on her but once: that glance sufficed to convince him, how dangerous was the presence of this seducing object. He closed his eyes, but strove in vain to banish her from his thoughts. There she still moved before him, adorned with all those charms which his heated imagination could supply. Every beauty which he had seen appeared embellished; and those still concealed fancy represented to him in glowing colours. Still, however, his vows, and the necessity of keeping to them, were present to his memory. He struggled with desire, and shuddered when he beheld how deep was the precipice before him.
Matilda ceased to sing. Dreading the influence of her charms, Ambrosio remained with his eyes closed, and offered up his prayers to St. Francis to assist him in this dangerous trial! Matilda believed that he was sleeping: she rose from her seat, approached the bed softly, and for some minutes gazed upon him attentively.
“He sleeps!” said she at length in a low voice, but whose accents the abbot distinguished perfectly: “now then I may gaze upon him without offence; I may mix my breath with his; I may doat upon his features, and he cannot suspect me of impurity and deceit. He fears my seducing him to the violation of his vows. Oh! the unjust! Were it my wish to excite desire, should I conceal my features from him so carefully?—those features, of which I daily hear him—”