She obeyed, and followed him thither in silence. They entered the grotto, and seated themselves. Both seemed unwilling to begin the conversation, and to labour under the influence of mutual embarrassment. At length the abbot spoke: he conversed only on indifferent topics, and Matilda answered him in the same tone. She seemed anxious to make him forget that the person who sat by him was any other than Rosario. Neither of them dared, or indeed wished to make an allusion, to the subject which was most at the hearts of both.

Matilda’s efforts to appear gay were evidently forced: her spirits were oppressed by the weight of anxiety, and when she spoke her voice was low and feeble. She seemed desirous of finishing a conversation which embarrassed her; and complaining that she was unwell, she requested Ambrosio’s permission to return to the abbey. He accompanied her to the door of her cell; and when arrived there, he stopped her to declare his consent to her continuing the partner of his solitude so long as should be agreeable to herself.

She discovered no marks of pleasure at receiving this intelligence, though on the preceding day she had been so anxious to obtain the permission.

“Alas! Father,” she said, waving her head mournfully; “Your kindness comes too late! My doom is fixed. We must separate forever. Yet believe, that I am grateful for your generosity, for your compassion of an unfortunate who is but too little deserving of it!”

She put her handkerchief to her eyes. Her cowl was only half drawn over her face. Ambrosio observed that she was pale, and her eyes sunk and heavy.

“Good God!” he cried; “You are very ill, Matilda! I shall send Father Pablos to you instantly.”

“No; do not. I am ill, ’tis true; but he cannot cure my malady. Farewell, Father! Remember me in your prayers tomorrow, while I shall remember you in heaven!”

She entered her cell, and closed the door.