“Feel this heart, Father! It is yet the seat of honour, truth, and chastity: if it beats tomorrow, it must fall a prey to the blackest crimes. Oh! let me then die today! Let me die, while I yet deserve the tears of the virtuous! Thus will I expire!”⁠—(She reclined her head upon his shoulder; her golden hair poured itself over his chest.)⁠—“Folded in your arms, I shall sink to sleep; your hand shall close my eyes forever, and your lips receive my dying breath. And will you not sometimes think of me? Will you not sometimes shed a tear upon my tomb? Oh! Yes! Yes! Yes! That kiss is my assurance!”

The hour was night. All was silence around. The faint beams of a solitary lamp darted upon Matilda’s figure, and shed through the chamber a dim mysterious light. No prying eye, or curious ear was near the lovers: nothing was heard but Matilda’s melodious accents. Ambrosio was in the full vigour of manhood. He saw before him a young and beautiful woman, the preserver of his life, the adorer of his person, and whom affection for him had reduced to the brink of the grave. He sat upon her bed; his hand rested upon her bosom; her head reclined voluptuously upon his breast. Who then can wonder, if he yielded to the temptation? Drunk with desire, he pressed his lips to those which sought them: his kisses vied with Matilda’s in warmth and passion. He clasped her rapturously in his arms; he forgot his vows, his sanctity, and his fame: he remembered nothing but the pleasure and opportunity.

“Ambrosio! Oh! my Ambrosio!” sighed Matilda.

“Thine, ever thine!” murmured the friar, and sank upon her bosom.