“Oh, impossible!”

“To those who dare, nothing is impossible.  Listen!  My guardian was a man of uncommon knowledge, and from him I had training in the arts of magic.  One terrible power he gave me—­the power of raising a demon.  I shuddered at the thought of employing it, until it became my only means of saving my life—­a life that you prized.  For your sake I performed the mystic rites in the sepulchre of St. Clare.  For your sake I will perform them again.”

“No, no, Matilda!” cried the monk, “I will not ally myself with God’s enemy.”

“Look!” Matilda held before him a mirror of polished steel, its borders marked with various strange characters.  A mist spread over the surface; it cleared, and Ambrosio gazed upon the countenance of Antonia in all its beauty.

“I yield!” he cried passionately.  “Matilda, I follow you!”

They passed into the churchyard; they reached the entry to the vaults; Ambrosio tremblingly followed Matilda down the staircase.  They went through narrow passages strewn with skulls and bones, and reached a spacious cavern.  Matilda drew a circle around herself, and another around him; bending low, she muttered a few indistinct sentences, and a thin, blue, sulphurous flame arose from the ground.

Suddenly she uttered a piercing shriek, and plunged a poniard into her left arm; the blood poured down, a dark cloud arose, and a clap of thunder was heard.  Then a full strain of melodious music sounded and the demon stood before them.

He was a youth of perfect face and form.  Crimson wings extended from his shoulders; many-coloured fires played about his locks; but there was a wildness in his eyes, a mysterious melancholy in his features, that betrayed the fallen angel.

Matilda conversed with him in unintelligible language; he bowed submissively, and gave to her a silver branch, imitating myrtle, that he bore in his right hand.  The music was heard again, and ceased; the cloud spread itself afresh; the demon vanished.

“With this branch,” said Matilda, “every door will open before you.  You may gain access to Antonia; a touch of the branch will send her into a deep sleep, and you may carry her away whither you will.”

Ashamed and fearful, yet borne away by his love, the monk set forth.  The bolts of Antonia’s house flew back, and the doors opened before the silver myrtle.

But as he passed stealthily through the house a woman confronted him.  It was Antonia’s mother, roused by a fearful dream.

“Monster of hypocrisy!” she cried in fury.  “I had already suspected you, but I kept silence.  Now I will unmask you, villain!”

“Forgive me, lady!” begged the terrified monk.  “I swear by all that is
holy------”

“No!  All Madrid shall shudder at your perfidy.”

He turned to fly.  She seized him and screamed for help.  He grasped her by the throat with all his strength, strangled her, and flung her to the ground, where she lay motionless.  After a minute of horror-struck shuddering, the murderer fled.  He entered the abbey unobserved, and having shut himself into his cell, he abandoned his soul to the tortures of unavailing remorse.