“At length her father, who had been on another voyage, announced that he was returning, and bringing with him a suitable husband for his newly-found daughter.  Isidora, in panic, besought the stranger to save her.  He was unwilling.  At last, in response to her tears, he consented.  They were wedded, so Isidora believed, by a hermit in a ruined monastery.  She returned home, and he renewed his visits, promising to reveal their marriage in the fullness of time.

“Meanwhile, tales had reached her father’s ears of a malignant being who was permitted to wander over the earth and tempt men in dire extremity with release from their troubles as the result of their concluding an unspeakable bargain.  This being himself appeared to the father, and warned him that his daughter was in danger.

“He returned, and pressed on with preparations for the bridal ceremony.  Isidora entreated her husband to rescue her.  He promised, and went away.  A masked ball was given in celebration of the nuptials.  At the hour of twelve Isidora felt a touch upon her shoulder.  It was her husband.  They hastened away, but not unperceived.  Her brother called on the pair to stop, and drew his sword.  In an instant he lay bleeding and lifeless.  The family and the guests crowded round in horror.  The stranger waved them back with his arm.  They stood motionless, as if rooted to the ground.

“‘Isidora, fly with me!’ he said.  She looked at him, looked at the body of her brother, and sank in a swoon.  The stranger passed out amid the powerless onlookers.

“Isidora, the confessed bride of an unhallowed being, was taken before the Inquisition, and sentenced to life-long imprisonment.  But she did not survive long; and ere she died, her husband appeared to her, and offered her freedom, happiness, and love—­at a dreadful price she would not pay.  Such was the history of the ill-fated love of Immalee for a being to whom mortal love was a boon forbidden.”

IV.—­The Fate of Melmoth

When Moncada had completed the tale of Immalee, he announced his intention of describing how he had left the house of the Jewish doctor, and what was his purpose in coming to Ireland.  A time was fixed for the continuation of the recital.

The night when Moncada prepared to resume his story was a dark and stormy one.  The two men drew close to the fire.

“Hush!” suddenly said Moncada.

John Melmoth listened, and half rose from his chair.

“We are watched!” he exclaimed.

At that moment the door opened, and a figure appeared at it.  The figure advanced slowly to the centre of the room.  Moncada crossed himself, and attempted to pray.  John Melmoth, nailed to his chair, gazed upon the form that stood before him—­it was indeed Melmoth the Wanderer.  But the eyes were dim; those beacons lit by an infernal fire were no longer visible.

“Mortals,” said the Wanderer, in strange and solemn accents, “you are here to talk of my destiny.  That distiny is accomplished.  Your ancestor has come home,” he continued, turning to John Melmoth.  “If my crimes have exceeded those of mortality, so will my punishment.  And the time for that punishment is come.