“Hasten, reverend father,” said he.  “Young Rosario lies at the point of death, and he earnestly requests to see you.”

In deep agitation he followed the lay-brother to Matilda’s apartment.  Her face glowed at the sight of him.  “Leave me, my brethren,” she said to the monks; much have I to tell this holy man in private.”

“Father, I am poisoned,” she said, when they had gone, “but the poison once circulated in your veins.”

“Matilda!”

“I loosened the bandage from your arm; I drew out the poison with my lips.  I feel death at my heart.”

“And you have sacrificed yourself for me!  Is there, indeed, no hope?”

“There is but one means of life in my power—­a dangerous and dreadful means; life would be purchased at too dear a rate—­unless it were permitted me to live for you.”

“Then live for me,” cried the infatuated monk, clasping her in his arms.  “Live for me!”

“Then,” she cried joyfully, “no dangers shall appall me.  Swear that you will never inquire by what means I shall preserve myself, and procure for me the key of the burying-ground common to us and the sisterhood of St. Clare.”

When Ambrosio had obtained the key, Matilda left him.  She returned radiant with joy.

“I have succeeded!” she cried.  “I shall live, Ambrosio—­shall live for you!”

III.—­Unavailing Remorse

Raymond and Lorenzo had gone to the rendezvous appointed in the letter, and had waited to be joined by Agnes and to enable her to escape from the convent.

But Agnes had not come, and the two friends withdrew in deep mortification.  Presently arrived a message from Raymond’s uncle, the cardinal, enclosing the Pope’s bull ordering that Agnes should be released from her vows, and restored to her relatives.  Lorenzo at once conveyed the bull to the prioress.

“It is out of my power to obey this order,” said she, in a voice of anger which she strove in vain to disguise.  “Agnes is dead!”

Lorenzo hastened with the fatal news to Raymond, whose terrible affliction led to a dangerous illness.

One morning, as Ambrosio was leaving the chapel after listening to many penitents—­he was the favourite confessor in Madrid—­Antonia stepped timidly up to him and begged him to visit her mother, who was stretched on a bed of sickness.  Charmed with her beauty and innocence, he consented.

The monk retired to his cell, whither he was pursued by Antonia’s image.  “What would be too dear a price,” he meditated, “for this lovely girl’s affections?”

Not once but often did Ambrosio visit Antonia and her mother; and each time he saw the innocent girl his love increased.  Matilda, who had first opened his heart to love, saw the change, and penetrated his secret.

“Since your love can no longer be mine,” she said to him sadly, “I request the next best gift—­your confidence and friendship.  You love Antonia, but you love her despairingly.  I come to point out the road to success.”