and talking to
herself; towards day-break, all became quiet, then I peeped thro' the
crevice of her door and saw that she was writing. I never knew her write
before, I knocked for admittance, but she prayed me not to interrupt her
for another hour.

_Bert._ Does she still keep her chamber?

_Mon._ She has not quitted it this morning--hark! I think I hear her
stir, (_goes to the stair-foot and looks up_) ay! her door now stands
open, place yourself just here, and you may view her plainly without
being seen yourself; her face is turned towards us, but her eyes are
fixed upon a writing in her hands.

[_Bertrand_ looks for a moment to satisfy his doubts, then rushes
forward and casts himself upon his knee transportedly.]

_Bert._ She lives! Eternal mercy! thanks! thanks!

_Mon._ Holy St. Dennis! the sight of her has strangely moved you:
collect yourself, I pray, she comes towards us.

_Bert._ Oh! let me cast myself before her feet!

_Mon._ (_restraining him_) Hold, sir! whatever be your business,
I beseech you to refrain a little, I must prepare her for your
appearance, her spirits cannot brook surprise, back! back!

[_Bertrand_ withdraws, and _Eugenia_ descends the stair with a
folded paper in her hand--she appears to struggle with emotion,
and running towards _Monica_, casts her arms passionately around
her.]

_Eug._ My kind mother! this is perhaps our last embrace; we must part.

_Mon._ Part! my child! what mean you?

_Eug._ Ah! it is my fate, my cruel unrelenting fate that drives me from
you, from the last shelter and the only friend I yet retain on earth.

_Mon._ Explain yourself; I cannot comprehend.

_Eug._ Mother! I have an enemy, a dreadful one. Seventeen years have
veil'd me from his hate in vain: those years have wasted the victim's
form, but the persecutor's heart remains unchanged: my retreat is
discovered: the wretches who were here last night too surely recognized
me; soon they may return, and force me; oh! thought of horror. No, no,
here I dare not stay.

_Mon._ My poor innocent! whither would you go?

_Eug._ To the woods and caves from which you rescued me. Mother, the
wilderness must be my home again. I fly to wolves and vultures to escape
from man! Receive this paper, 'tis the written memoir of my wretched
life; read it when I am gone: my head burned and my hand trembled while
I traced those characters: yet 'tis a faithful history. Mother! I dare
not thank your c