the monk(僧侣)-第14节

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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。

Her　distress　was　beyond　the　power　of　description。　　She　rent　her
hair；　beat　her　bosom；　and　not　daring　to　quit　Ambrosio；
endeavoured　by　loud　cries　to　summon　the　Monks　to　her　assistance。　
She　at　length　succeeded。　　Alarmed　by　her　shrieks；　Several　of　the
Brothers　hastened　to　the　spot；　and　the　Superior　was　conveyed　back
to　the　Abbey。　　He　was　immediately　put　to　bed；　and　the　Monk　who
officiated　as　Surgeon　to　the　Fraternity　prepared　to　examine　the
wound。　　By　this　time　Ambrosio's　hand　had　swelled　to　an
extraordinary　size；　The　remedies　which　had　been　administered　to
him；　'tis　true；　restored　him　to　life；　but　not　to　his　senses；　He
raved　in　all　the　horrors　of　delirium；　foamed　at　the　mouth；　and
four　of　the　strongest　Monks　were　scarcely　able　to　hold　him　in　his
bed。

Father　Pablos；　such　was　the　Surgeon's　name；　hastened　to　examine
the　wounded　hand。　　The　Monks　surrounded　the　Bed；　anxiously
waiting　for　the　decision：　　Among　these　the　feigned　Rosario
appeared　not　the　most　insensible　to　the　Friar's　calamity。　　He
gazed　upon　the　Sufferer　with　inexpressible　anguish；　and　the
groans　which　every　moment　escaped　from　his　bosom　sufficiently
betrayed　the　violence　of　his　affliction。

Father　Pablos　probed　the　wound。　　As　He　drew　out　his　Lancet；　its
point　was　tinged　with　a　greenish　hue。　　He　shook　his　head
mournfully；　and　quitted　the　bedside。

'　'Tis　as　I　feared！'　said　He；　'There　is　no　hope。'

'No　hope？'　exclaimed　the　Monks　with　one　voice；　'Say　you；　no
hope？'

'From　the　sudden　effects；　I　suspected　that　the　Abbot　was　stung　by
a　Cientipedoro：　The　venom　which　you　see　upon　my　Lancet
confirms　my　idea：　　He　cannot　live　three　days。'

'And　can　no　possible　remedy　be　found？'　enquired　Rosario。

'Without　extracting　the　poison；　He　cannot　recover；　and　how　to
extract　it　is　to　me　still　a　secret。　　All　that　I　can　do　is　to
apply　such　herbs　to　the　wound　as　will　relieve　the　anguish：　　The
Patient　will　be　restored　to　his　senses；　But　the　venom　will
corrupt　the　whole　mass　of　his　blood；　and　in　three　days　He　will
exist　no　longer。'

Excessive　was　the　universal　grief　at　hearing　this　decision。　
Pablos；　as　He　had　promised；　dressed　the　wound；　and　then　retired；
followed　by　his　Companions：　　Rosario　alone　remained　in　the　Cell；
the　Abbot　at　his　urgent　entreaty　having　been　committed　to　his
care。　　Ambrosio's　strength　worn　out　by　the　violence　of　his
exertions；　He　had　by　this　time　fallen　into　a　profound　sleep。　　So
totally　was　He　overcome　by　weariness；　that　He　scarcely　gave　any
signs　of　life；　He　was　still　in　this　situation；　when　the　Monks
returned　to　enquire　whether　any　change　had　taken　place。　　Pablos
loosened　the　bandage　which　concealed　the　wound；　more　from　a
principle　of　curiosity　than　from　indulging　the　hope　of
discovering　any　favourable　symptoms。　　What　was　his　astonishment
at　finding；　that　the　inflammation　had　totally　subsided！　　He
probed　the　hand；　His　Lancet　came　out　pure　and　unsullied；　No
traces　of　the　venom　were　perceptible；　and　had　not　the　orifice
still　been　visible；　Pablos　might　have　doubted　that　there　had　ever
been　a　wound。

He　communicated　this　intelligence　to　his　Brethren；　their　delight
was　only　equalled　by　their　surprize。　　From　the　latter　sentiment；
however；　they　were　soon　released　by　explaining　the　circumstance
according　to　their　own　ideas：　　They　were　perfectly　convinced　that
their　Superior　was　a　Saint；　and　thought；　that　nothing　could　be
more　natural　than　for　St。　Francis　to　have　operated　a　miracle　in
his　favour。　　This　opinion　was　adopted　unanimously：　They　declared
it　so　loudly；　and　vociferated；'A　miracle！　a　miracle！'with
such　fervour；　that　they　soon　interrupted　Ambrosio's　slumbers。

The　Monks　immediately　crowded　round　his　Bed；　and　expressed　their
satisfaction　at　his　wonderful　recovery。　　He　was　perfectly　in　his
senses；　and　free　from　every　complaint　except　feeling　weak　and
languid。　　Pablos　gave　him　a　strengthening　medicine；　and　advised
his　keeping　his　bed　for　the　two　succeeding　days：　　He　then
retired；　having　desired　his　Patient　not　to　exhaust　himself　by
conversation；　but　rather　to　endeavour　at　taking　some　repose。　　The
other　Monks　followed　his　example；　and　the　Abbot　and　Rosario　were
left　without　Observers。

For　some　minutes　Ambrosio　regarded　his　Attendant　with　a　look　of
mingled　pleasure　and　apprehension。　　She　was　seated　upon　the　side
of　the　Bed；　her　head　bending　down；　and　as　usual　enveloped　in　the
Cowl　of　her　Habit。

'And　you　are　still　here；　Matilda？'　said　the　Friar　at　length。　
'Are　you　not　satisfied　with　having　so　nearly　effected　my
destruction；　that　nothing　but　a　miracle　could　have　saved　me　from
the　Grave？　　Ah！　surely　Heaven　sent　that　Serpent　to　punish。　。　。　。'

Matilda　interrupted　him　by　putting　her　hand　before　his　lips　with
an　air　of　gaiety。

'Hush！　Father；　Hush！　　You　must　not　talk！'

'He　who　imposed　that　order；　knew　not　how　interesting　are　the
subjects　on　which　I　wish　to　speak。'

'But　I　know　it；　and　yet　issue　the　same　positive　command。　　I　am
appointed　your　Nurse；　and　you　must　not　disobey　my　orders。'

'You　are　in　spirits；　Matilda！'

'Well　may　I　be　so：　　I　have　just　received　a　pleasure　unexampled
through　my　whole　life。'

'What　was　that　pleasure？'

'What　I　must　conceal　from　all；　but　most　from　you。'

'But　most　from　me？　　Nay　then；　I　entreat　you；　Matilda。　。　。　。'

'Hush；　Father！　　Hush！　　You　must　not　talk。　　But　as　you　do　not　seem
inclined　to　sleep；　shall　I　endeavour　to　amuse　you　with　my　Harp？'

'How？　　I　knew　not　that　you　understood　Music。'

'Oh！　I　am　a　sorry　Performer！　　Yet　as　silence　is　prescribed　you
for　eight　and　forty　hours；　I　may　possibly　entertain　you；　when
wearied　of　your　own　reflections。　　I　go　to　fetch　my　Harp。'

She　soon　returned　with　it。

'Now；　Father；　What　shall　I　sing？　　Will　you　hear　the　Ballad　which
treats　of　the　gallant　Durandarte；　who　died　in　the　famous　battle
of　Roncevalles？'

'What　you　please；　Matilda。'

'Oh！　call　me　not　Matilda！　　Call　me　Rosario；　call　me　your　Friend！　
Those　are　the　names；　which　I　love　to　hear　from　your　lips。　　Now
listen！'

She　then　tuned　her　harp；　and　afterwards　preluded　for　some　moments
with　such　exquisite　taste　as　to　prove　her　a　perfect　Mistress　of
the　Instrument。　　The　air　which　She　played　was　soft　and　plaintive：

Ambrosio；　while　He　listened；　felt　his　uneasiness　subside；　and　a
pleasing　melancholy　spread　itself　into　his　bosom。　　Suddenly
Matilda　changed　the　strain：　　With　an　hand　bold　and　rapid　She
struck　a　few　loud　martial　chords；　and　then　chaunted　the　following
Ballad　to　an　air　at　once　simple　and　melodious。

　DURANDARTE　AND　BELERMA

Sad　and　fearful　is　the　story　　
Of　the　Roncevalles　fight；　　
On　those　fatal　plains　of　glory　　
Perished　many　a　gallant　Knight。

There　fell　Durandarte；　Never　　
Verse　a　nobler　Chieftain　named：　
He；　before　his　lips　for　ever　　
Closed　in　silence　thus　exclaimed。

'Oh！　Belerma！　　Oh！　my　dear…one！　　
For　my　pain　and　pleasure　born！　
Seven　long　years　I　served　thee；　fair…one；　　
Seven　long　years　my　fee　was　scorn：

'And　when　now　thy　heart　replying　　
To　my　wishes；　burns　like　mine；　
Cruel　Fate　my　bliss　denying　　
Bids　me　every　hope　resign。

'Ah！　Though　young　I　fall；　believe　me；　　
Death　would　never　claim　a　sigh；　　
'Tis　to　lose　thee；　'tis　to　leave　thee；　　
Makes　me　think　it　hard　to　die！

'Oh！　my　Cousin　Montesinos；　　
By　that　friendship　firm　and　dear　
Which　from　Youth　has　lived　between　us；　　
Now　my　last　petition　hear！

'When　my　Soul　these　limbs　forsaking　　
Eager　seeks　a　purer　air；　
From　my　breast　the　cold　heart　taking；　　
Give　it　to　Belerma's　care。

Say；　I　of　my　lands　Possessor　　
Named　her　with　my　dying　breath：　
Say；　my　lips　I　op'd　to　bless　her；　　
Ere　they　closed　for　aye　in　death：

'Twice　a　week　too　how　sincerely　　
I　adored　her；　Cousin；　say；　
Twice　a　week　for　one　who　dearly　　
Loved　her；　Cousin；　bid　her　pray。

'Montesinos；　now　the　hour　　
Marked　by　fate　is　near　at　hand：　　
Lo！　my　arm　has　lost　its　power！　　
Lo！　I　drop　my　trusty　brand！

'Eyes；　which　forth　beheld　me　going；　　
Homewards　ne'er　shall　see　me　hie！　　
Cousin；　stop　those　tears　o'er…flowing；　　
Let　me　on　thy　bosom　die！

'Thy　kind　hand　my　eyelids　closing；　　
Yet　one　favour　I　implore：　
Pray　Thou　for　my　Soul's　reposing；　　
When　my　heart　shall　throb　no　more；

'So　shall　Jesus；　still　attending　　
Gracious　to　a　Christian's　vow；　
Pleased　accept　my　Ghost　ascending；　　
And　a　seat　in　heaven　allow。'

Thus　spoke　gallant　Durandarte；　　
Soon　his　brave　heart　broke　in　twain。　　
Greatly　joyed　the　Moorish　party；　　
That　the　gallant　Knight　was　slain。

Bitter　weeping　Montesinos