The monk was silent; but his looks declared that the tempter’s words were not thrown away. He reflected on the conditions proposed with horror: on the other hand, he believed himself doomed to perdition and that, by refusing the daemon’s succour, he only hastened tortures which he never could escape. The fiend saw that his resolution was shaken: he renewed his instances, and endeavoured to fix the abbot’s indecision. He described the agonies of death in the most terrific colours; and he worked so powerfully upon Ambrosio’s despair and fears that he prevailed upon him to receive the parchment. He then struck the iron pen which he held into a vein of the monk’s left hand. It pierced deep, and was instantly filled with blood; yet Ambrosio felt no pain from the wound. The pen was put into his hand: it trembled. The wretch placed the parchment on the table before him, and prepared to sign it. Suddenly he held his hand: he started away hastily, and threw the pen upon the table.

“What am I doing?” he cried⁠—then turning to the fiend with a desperate air, “Leave me! Begone! I will not sign the parchment.”