Matilda seemed penetrated with confusion. She remained motionless in her place, and supported herself upon her instrument. Her eyes were bent upon the earth, and her fair cheeks overspread with blushes. On recovering herself, her first action was to conceal her features. She then in an unsteady and troubled voice ventured to address these words to the friar.

“Accident has made you master of a secret, which I never would have revealed but on the bed of death. Yes, Ambrosio; in Matilda de Villanegas you see the original of your beloved Madonna. Soon after I conceived my unfortunate passion, I formed the project of conveying to you my picture: crowds of admirers had persuaded me that I possessed some beauty, and I was anxious to know what effect it would produce upon you. I caused my portrait to be drawn by Martin Galuppi, a celebrated Venetian at that time resident in Madrid. The resemblance was striking: I sent it to the Capuchin abbey as if for sale, and the Jew from whom you bought it was one of my emissaries. You purchased it. Judge of my rapture, when informed that you had gazed upon it with delight, or rather with adoration; that you had suspended it in your cell, and that you addressed your supplications to no other saint. Will this discovery make me still more regarded as an object of suspicion? Rather should it convince you how pure is my affection, and engage you to suffer me in your society and esteem. I heard you daily extol the praises of my portrait: I was an eyewitness of the transports, which its beauty excited in you: yet I forbore to use against your virtue those arms, with which yourself had furnished me.