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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
Took from him his helm and glaive；
Bitter weeping Montesinos
Dug his gallant Cousin's grave。
To perform his promise made； He
Cut the heart from out the breast；
That Belerma； wretched Lady！
Might receive the last bequest。
Sad was Montesinos' heart； He
Felt distress his bosom rend。
'Oh！ my Cousin Durandarte；
Woe is me to view thy end！
'Sweet in manners； fair in favour；
Mild in temper； fierce in fight；
Warrior； nobler； gentler； braver；
Never shall behold the light！
'Cousin； Lo！ my tears bedew thee！
How shall I thy loss survive！
Durandarte； He who slew thee；
Wherefore left He me alive！'
While She sung； Ambrosio listened with delight： Never had He
heard a voice more harmonious； and He wondered how such heavenly
sounds could be produced by any but Angels。 But though He
indulged the sense of hearing； a single look convinced him that
He must not trust to that of sight。 The Songstress sat at a
little distance from his Bed。 The attitude in which She bent
over her harp； was easy and graceful： Her Cowl had fallen back…
warder than usual： Two coral lips were visible； ripe； fresh； and
melting； and a Chin in whose dimples seemed to lurk a thousand
Cupids。 Her Habit's long sleeve would have swept along the
Chords of the Instrument： To prevent this inconvenience She had
drawn it above her elbow； and by this means an arm was discovered
formed in the most perfect symmetry； the delicacy of whose skin
might have contended with snow in whiteness。 Ambrosio dared to
look on her but once： That glance sufficed to convince him； how
dangerous was the presence of this seducing Object。 He closed
his eyes； but strove in vain to banish her from his thoughts。
There She still moved before him； adorned with all those charms
which his heated imagination could supply： Every beauty which He
had seen； appeared embellished； and those still concealed Fancy
represented to him in glowing colours。 Still； however； his vows
and the necessity of keeping to them were present to