ess the whole to you, and throw myself entirely on
your mercy and indulgence. Ah! Ambrosio, can I have been deceived?
Can you be less generous than I thought you? I will not suspect it.
You will not drive a Wretch to despair; I shall still be permitted to
see you, to converse with you, to adore you! Your virtues shall be my
example through life; and when we expire, our bodies shall rest in the
same Grave.'

She ceased. While She spoke, a thousand opposing sentiments combated
in Ambrosio's bosom. Surprise at the singularity of this adventure,
Confusion at her abrupt declaration, Resentment at her boldness in
entering the Monastery, and Consciousness of the austerity with which
it behoved him to reply, such were the sentiments of which He was
aware; But there were others also which did not obtain his notice. He
perceived not, that his vanity was flattered by the praises bestowed
upon his eloquence and virtue; that He felt a secret pleasure in
reflecting that a young and seemingly lovely Woman had for his sake
abandoned the world, and sacrificed every other passion to that which
He had inspired: Still less did He perceive that his heart throbbed
with desire, while his hand was pressed gently by Matilda's ivory
fingers.

By degrees He recovered from his confusion. His ideas became less
bewildered: He was immediately sensible of the extreme impropriety,
should Matilda be permitted to remain in the Abbey after this avowal of
her sex. He assumed an air of severity, and drew away his hand.

'How, Lady!' said He; 'Can you really hope for my permission to remain
amongst us? Even were I to grant your request, what good could you
derive from it? Think you that I ever can reply to an affection,
which...'

'No, Father, No! I expect not to inspire you with a love like mine. I
only wish for the liberty to be near you, to pass some hours of the day
in your society; to obtain your compassion, your friendship and esteem.
Surely my request is not unreasonable.'

'But reflect, Lady! Reflect only for a moment on the impropriety of my
harbouring a Woman in the Abbey; and that too a Woman, who confesses
that She loves me. It must not be. The risque of your being
discovered is too great, and I will not expose myself to so dangerous a
temptation.'

'Temptation, say you? Forget that I am a Woman, and it no longer
exists: Consider me only as a Friend, as an Unfortunate, whose
happiness, whose life depends upon your prote