“Something.⁠—Anything.⁠—One of those flowers will be sufficient.” (Here she pointed to a bush of roses, planted at the door of the grotto.) “I will hide it in my bosom, and when I am dead, the nuns shall find it withered upon my heart.”

The friar was unable to reply: with slow steps, and a soul heavy with affliction, he quitted the hermitage. He approached the bush, and stooped to pluck one of the roses. Suddenly he uttered a piercing cry, started back hastily, and let the flower, which he already held, fall from his hand. Matilda heard the shriek, and flew anxiously towards him.

“What is the matter?” she cried; “Answer me, for God’s sake! What has happened?”

“I have received my death!” he replied in a faint voice; “Concealed among the roses⁠ ⁠… A serpent.⁠ ⁠…”

Here the pain of his wound became so exquisite, that nature was unable to bear it: his senses abandoned him, and he sank inanimate into Matilda’s arms.