f as the son of Donna Celia, I changed
the dress at my lodgings. I locked up my friar's dress and the false
tonsure in the chest, intending to have returned, and destroyed it; but
I quite forgot it, and left Seville with the key of my lodgings in my
pocket. The landlord waited until his rent was due, when not hearing
any thing of me, he broke open the door and found the chest. This he
opened, and discovered the false tonsure and friar's gown. Knowing the
monastic order to which it belonged, and suspecting some mischief; he
took it to our convent, and all the habits of the monks being numbered
in the inside, it was immediately recognised as mine: the false tonsure
also betrayed that I must have been breaking through the rules of my
order, and the most rigorous search after me was made for some time
without success. Possessed of this information, my vindictive relative
repaired to Seville to ascertain the exact date of my quitting the
convent, and found that it was about a fortnight previous to Donna Celia
having quitted Seville. He then repaired to the landlord for further
information. The landlord stated that the lodgings had been taken by a
monk, for his brother, who had occupied them. He described the
brother's person, which exactly corresponded with mine; and my relation
was convinced that the monk Anselmo and Don Pedro were one and the same
person. He immediately gave notice to the Inquisition. In the mean
time, I was in the greatest consternation. I felt that I should be
discovered, and reflected upon my conduct. I had lately abjured all
deceit, and had each day gained a step in the path of virtue. I
acknowledged with bitterness, that I deserved all that threatened me,
and that, sooner or later, vice will meet with its reward. Had I at
first made known my situation to Donna Celia, she would have had
interest enough (believing me to be her son), to have obtained a
dispensation of my vows. I then might have boldly faced the world--but
one act of duplicity required another to support it, and thus had I
entangled myself in a snare, by which I was to be entrapped at last.
But it was not for myself that I cared; it was for my wife whom I doted
on--for my mother (or supposed mother), to whom it would be the
bitterness of death. The thoughts of rendering others miserable as well
as myself drove me to distraction--and how to act I knew not.

After much reflection, I resolved as a last resource, to throw mysel