The hour approached fast, and fearful and indefinite
apprehensions began to overshadow her mind, relative to the fate of the
infant about to be born under circumstances so mysterious. “At his next nightly visit, Melmoth found her in tears. “Alas!” said she in answer to his abrupt inquiry, and brief attempt at
consolation, “How many causes have I for tears--and how few have I shed? If you would have them wiped away, be assured it is only your hand can
do it. I feel,” she added, “that this event will be fatal to me--I know
I shall not live to see my child--I demand from you the only promise
that can support me even under this conviction”--Melmoth interrupted her
by the assurance, that these apprehensions were the inseparable
concomitants of her situation, and that many mothers, surrounded by a
numerous offspring, smiled as they recollected their fears that the
birth of each would be fatal to them. “Isidora shook her head. “The presages,” said she, “that visit me, are
such as never visited mortality in vain. I have always believed, that as
we approach the invisible world, its voice becomes more audible to us,
and grief and pain are very eloquent interpreters between us and
eternity--quite distinct from all corporeal suffering, even from all
mental terror, is that deep and unutterable impression which is alike
incommunicable and ineffaceable--it is as if heaven spoke to us alone,
and told us to keep its secret, or divulge it on the condition of never
being believed. Oh! Melmoth, do not give that fearful smile when I speak
of heaven--soon I may be your only intercessor there.” “My dear saint,”
said Melmoth, laughing and kneeling to her in mockery, “let me make
early interest for your mediation--how many ducats will it cost me to
get you canonized?--you will furnish me, I hope, with an authentic
account of legitimate miracles--one is ashamed of the nonsense that is
sent monthly to the Vatican.” “_Let your conversion be the first miracle
on the list_,” said Isidora, with an energy that made Melmoth
tremble--it was dark--but she felt that he trembled--she pursued her
imagined triumph--“Melmoth,” she exclaimed, “I have a right to demand
one promise from you--for you I have sacrificed every thing--never was
woman more devoted--never did woman give proofs of devotion like mine. I
might have been the noble, honoured wife of one who would have laid his
wealth and titles at my feet. In this my hour of danger and suffering,
the first families in Spain would have been waiting round my door. Alone, unaided, unsustained, unconsoled, I must undergo the terrible
struggle of nature--terrible to those whose beds are smoothed by the
hands of affection, whose agonies are soothed by the presence of a
mother--who hears the first feeble cry of her infant echoed by the joy
of exulting noble relatives. Oh Melmoth! what must be mine! I must
suffer in secresy and in silence! I must see my babe torn from me before
I have even kissed it,--and the chrism-mantle will be one of that
mysterious darkness which your fingers have woven! Yet grant me one
thing--one thing!” continued the suppliant, growing earnest in her
prayer even to agony; “swear to me that my child shall be baptised
according to the forms of the Catholic church,--that it shall be a
Christian as far as those forms can make it,--and I shall feel that, if
all my fearful presages are fulfilled, I shall leave behind me one who
will pray for his father, and whose prayer may be accepted. Promise
me,--swear to me,” she added, in intenser agony, “that my child shall be
a Christian! Alas! if my voice be not worthy to be heard in heaven, that
of a cherub may! Christ himself suffered children to come unto him while
on earth, and will he repel them in heaven?--Oh! no,--no! he will not
repel _yours_!”

“Melmoth listened to her with feelings that it is better to suppress
than explain or expatiate on. Thus solemnly adjured, however, he
promised that the child should be baptised; and added, with an
expression which Isidora’s delight at this concession did not give her
time to understand, that it should be a Christian as far as the rites
and ceremonies of the Catholic church could make it one. While he added
many a bitter hint of the inefficacy of any external rites--and the
impotentiality of any hierarchy--and of the deadly and desperate
impositions of priests under every dispensation--and exposed them with a
spirit at once ludicrous and Satanic,--a spirit that mingled ridicule
with horror, and seemed like a Harlequin in the infernal regions,
flirting with the furies, Isidora still repeated her solemn request that
her child, if it survived her, should be baptised. To this he assented;
and added, with a sarcastic and appalling levity,--“And a Mahometan, if
you should change your mind,--or any other mythology you please to
adopt;--only send me word,--priests are easily obtained, and ceremonies
cheaply purchased! Only let me know your future intentions,--when you
know them yourself.”--“I shall not be here to tell you,” said Isidora,
replying with profound conviction to this withering levity, like a cold
winter day to the glow of a capricious summer one, that blends the
sunshine and the lightning;--“Melmoth, I shall not be here then!” And
this energy of despair in a creature so young, so inexperienced, except
in the vicissitudes of the heart, formed a strong contrast to the stony
apathy of one who had traversed life from Dan to Beersheba, and found
all barren, or--made it so. “At this moment, while Isidora wept the cold tears of despair, without
daring to ask the hand of him she loved to dry them, the bells of a
neighbouring convent, where they were performing a mass for the soul of
a departed brother, suddenly rung out. Isidora seized that moment, when
the very air was eloquent with the voice of religion, to impress its
power on that mysterious being whose presence inspired her equally with
terror and with love. “Listen,--listen!” she cried. The sounds came
slowly and stilly on, as if it was an involuntary expression of that
profound sentiment that night always inspires,--the reverberating
watch-word from sentinel to sentinel, when wakeful and reflecting minds
have become the “watchers of the night(14).” The effect of these sounds
was increased, by their catching from time to time the deep and
thrilling chorus of the voices,--these voices more than harmonized, they
were coincident with the toll of the bell, and seemed like them set in
involuntary motion,--music played by invisible hands. (14) He called unto me out of Seir, Watchman, what of the
  night?--Watchman, what of the night?----ISAIAH. “Listen,” repeated Isidora, “is there no truth in the voice that speaks
to you in tones like these? Alas! if there be no truth in religion,
there is none on earth! Passion itself evanishes into an illusion,
unless it is hallowed by the consciousness of a God and of futurity.