Though rescued from the inquisition, Ambrosio as yet was insensible of the blessings of liberty. The damning contract weighed heavy upon his mind; and the scenes in which he had been a principal actor had left behind them such impressions as rendered his heart the seat of anarchy and confusion. The objects now before his eyes, and which the full moon sailing through clouds permitted him to examine, were ill-calculated to inspire that calm, of which he stood so much in need. The disorder of his imagination was increased by the wildness of the surrounding scenery; by the gloomy caverns and steep rocks, rising above each other, and dividing the passing clouds; solitary clusters of trees scattered here and there, among whose thick-twined branches the wind of night sighed hoarsely and mournfully; the shrill cry of mountain eagles, who had built their nests among these lonely deserts; the stunning roar of torrents, as swelled by late rains they rushed violently down tremendous precipices; and the dark waters of a silent sluggish stream which faintly reflected the moonbeams, and bathed the rock’s base on which Ambrosio stood. The abbot cast round him a look of terror. His infernal conductor was still by his side, and eyed him with a look of mingled malice, exultation, and contempt.

“Whither have you brought me?” said the monk at length in an hollow trembling voice: “Why am I placed in this melancholy scene? Bear me from it quickly! Carry me to Matilda!”

The fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in silence.

Ambrosio could not sustain his glance; he turned away his eyes, while thus spoke the daemon:

“I have him then in my power! This model of piety! This being without reproach! This mortal who placed his puny virtues on a level with those of angels. He is mine! Irrevocably, eternally mine! companions of my sufferings! Denizens of hell! How grateful will be my present!”

He paused; then addressed himself to the monk⁠—