voluptuousness were yet more keen and exquisite. The same
lust-exciting visions floated before his eyes: Matilda, in all
the pomp of beauty, warm, tender, and luxurious, clasped him to
her bosom, and lavished upon him the most ardent caresses. He
returned them as eagerly, and already was on the point of
satisfying his desires, when the faithless form disappeared, and
left him to all the horrors of shame and disappointment.

The Morning dawned. Fatigued, harassed, and exhausted by his
provoking dreams, He was not disposed to quit his Bed. He
excused himself from appearing at Matins: It was the first
morning in his life that He had ever missed them. He rose late.
During the whole of the day He had no opportunity of speaking to
Matilda without witnesses. His Cell was thronged by the Monks,
anxious to express their concern at his illness; And He was still
occupied in receiving their compliments on his recovery, when the
Bell summoned them to the Refectory.

After dinner the Monks separated, and dispersed themselves in
various parts of the Garden, where the shade of trees or
retirement of some Grotto presented the most agreeable means of
enjoying the Siesta. The Abbot bent his steps towards the
Hermitage: A glance of his eye invited Matilda to accompany him.

She obeyed, and followed him thither in silence. They entered
the Grotto, and seated themselves. Both seemed unwilling to
begin the conversation, and to labour under the influence of
mutual embarrassment. At length the Abbot spoke: He conversed
only on indifferent topics, and Matilda answered him in the same
tone. She seemed anxious to make him forget that the Person who