The abbot stood still for a moment in astonishment, then turned hastily
to go. But the suppliant clasped his knees.

"Do not fly me!" she cried. "You are my beloved; but far is it from
Matilda's wish to draw you from the paths of virtue. All I ask is to see
you, to converse with you, to adore you!"

Confusion and resentment mingled in Ambrosio's mind with secret pleasure
that a young and lovely woman had thus for his sake abandoned the world.
But he recognised the need for austerity.

"Matilda," he said, "you must leave the abbey to-morrow."

"Cruel, cruel!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony. "Farewell,
my friend! And yet, methinks, I would fain bear with me some token of
your regard."

"What shall I give you?"

"Anything--one of those flowers will be sufficient."

Ambrosio approached a bush, and stooped to pick one of the flowers. He
uttered a piercing cry, and Matilda rushed towards him.

"A serpent," he said in a faint voice, "concealed among the roses."

With loud shrieks the distressed Matilda summoned assistance. Ambrosio
was carried to the abbey, his wound was examined, and the surgeon
pronounced that there was no hope. He had been stung by a centipedoro,