the Abbey.

'And what do I risque,' said He to himself, 'by authorizing her
stay? May I not safely credit her assertions? Will it not be
easy for me to forget her sex, and still consider her as my
Friend and my disciple? Surely her love is as pure as She
describes. Had it been the offspring of mere licentiousness,
would She so long have concealed it in her own bosom? Would She
not have employed some means to procure its gratification? She
has done quite the contrary: She strove to keep me in ignorance
of her sex; and nothing but the fear of detection, and my
instances, would have compelled her to reveal the secret. She
has observed the duties of religion not less strictly than
myself. She has made no attempts to rouze my slumbering
passions, nor has She ever conversed with me till this night on
the subject of Love. Had She been desirous to gain my
affections, not my esteem, She would not have concealed from me
her charms so carefully: At this very moment I have never seen
her face: Yet certainly that face must be lovely, and her person
beautiful, to judge by her . . . by what I have seen.'

As this last idea passed through his imagination, a blush spread
itself over his cheek. Alarmed at the sentiments which He was
indulging, He betook himself to prayer; He started from his
Couch, knelt before the beautiful Madona, and entreated her
assistance in stifling such culpable emotions. He then returned
to his Bed, and resigned himself to slumber.

He awoke, heated and unrefreshed. During his sleep his inflamed
imagination had presented him with none but the most voluptuous