to a bush of Roses, planted at the door of the
Grotto.) 'I will hide it in my bosom, and when I am 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