idea, but four-and-twenty hours before, he had recoiled at
with horror: he shuddered at reflecting that a trifling indiscretion on his
part, or on Matilda's, would overturn that fabric of reputation which it had
cost him thirty years to erect, and render him the abhorrence of that people of
whom he was then the idol. Conscience painted to him in glaring colours his
perjury and weakness; apprehension magnified to him the horrors of punishment,
and he already fancied himself in the prisons of the Inquisition. To these
tormenting ideas succeeded Matilda's beauty, and those delicious lessons, which
once learnt can never be forgotten. A single glance thrown upon these reconciled
him with himself: he considered the pleasures of the former night to have been
purchased at an easy price by the sacrifice of innocence and honour. Their very
remembrance filled his soul with ecstacy: he cursed his foolish vanity, which
had induced him to waste in obscurity the bloom of life, ignorant of the
blessings of love and woman: he determined, at all events, to continue his
commerce with Matilda, and called every argument to his aid which might confirm
his resolution: he asked himself, provided his irregularity was unknown, in what
would his fault consist, and what consequences he had to apprehend? By adhering
strictly to every rule of his order save chastity, he doubted not to retain the
esteem of men, and even the protection of heaven: he trusted easily to be
forgiven so slight and natural a deviation from his vows; but he forgot that,
having pronounced those vows, incontinence, in laymen the most venial of errors,
became in his person the most heinous of crimes.
    Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind became more easy: he threw
himself upon his bed, and strove by sleeping to recruit his strength, exhausted
by his nocturnal excesses. He awoke refreshed, and eager for a repetition of his
pleasures. Obedient to Matilda's order, he visited not her cell during the day.
Father Pablos mentioned in the refectory, that Rosario had at length been
prevailed upon to follow his prescription; but that the medicine had not
produced the slightest effect, and that he believed no mortal skill could rescue
him from the grave. With this opinion the abbot agreed, and affected to lament
the untimely fate of a youth whose talents had appeared so promising.
    The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure from the porter the
key of the low door opening into the cemetery. Furnished with this, when all was
silent in the monastery, he quitted his cell, and hastened to