beheld your agony! Could you know, how much your sufferings have
endeared you to me! But the time will come, when you will be
convinced that my passion is pure and disinterested. Then you
will pity me, and feel the whole weight of these sorrows!'

As She said this, her voice was choaked by weeping. While She
bent over Ambrosio, a tear fell upon his cheek.

'Ah! I have disturbed him!' cried Matilda, and retreated
hastily.

Her alarm was ungrounded. None sleep so profoundly, as those who
are determined not to wake. The Friar was in this predicament:
He still seemed buried in a repose, which every succeeding minute
rendered him less capable of enjoying. The burning tear had
communicated its warmth to his heart.

'What affection! What purity!' said He internally; 'Ah! since
my bosom is thus sensible of pity, what would it be if agitated
by love?'

Matilda again quitted her seat, and retired to some distance from
the Bed. Ambrosio ventured to open his eyes, and to cast them
upon her fearfully. Her face was turned from him. She rested
her head in a melancholy posture upon her Harp, and gazed on the
picture which hung opposite to the Bed.

'Happy, happy Image!' Thus did She address the beautiful Madona;
' 'Tis to you that He offers his prayers! 'Tis on you that He
gazes with admiration! I thought you would have lightened my