What will all
Madrid say?” “My father, whether an obscure monk lives, dies, or recalls
his vows, is an object of little importance beyond the walls of his
convent. They will forget me soon, and you will be consoled by the
restored harmony of the discipline, in which I should always be a
jarring note. Besides, all Madrid, with all the interest you ascribe to
it, could never be made responsible for my salvation.” He continued to
walk up and down, repeating, “What will the world say? What will become
of us?” till he had worked himself into a state of fury; and, suddenly
turning on me, he exclaimed, “Wretch! renounce your horrible
resolution,--renounce it this moment! I give you but five minutes for
consideration.” “Five thousand would make no change.” “Tremble, then,
lest you should not have life spared to see the fulfilment of your
impious purposes.”

“As he uttered these words he rushed from my cell. The moments I passed
during his absence were, I think, the most horrible of my life. Their
terror was aggravated by darkness, for it was now night, and he had
carried away the light along with him. My agitation did not at first
permit me to observe this. I felt I was in the dark, but knew not how or
why. A thousand images of indescribable horror rushed in a host on me. I
had heard much of the terrors of convents,--of their punishments, often
carried to the infliction of death, or of reducing their victim to a
state in which death would have been a blessing. Dungeons, chains, and
scourges, swam before my eyes in a fiery mist. The threatening words of
the Superior appeared emblazoned on the darkened walls of my cell in
characters of flame. I shuddered,--I cried aloud, though conscious that
my voice would be echoed by no friendly answering tones in a community
of sixty persons,--such is the sterility of humanity in a convent. At
last my very fears recovered me by their excess. I said to myself, “They
dare not murder me,--they dare not incarcerate me;--they are answerable
to the court to which I have appealed for my forthcoming,--they dare not
be guilty of any violence.” Just as I had come to this comfortable
conclusion, which indeed was the triumph of the sophistry of hope, the
door of my cell was thrown open, and the Superior, attended by his four
satellites, re-entered. My eyes were dim from the darkness in which I
had been left, but I could distinguish that they carried with them a
rope and a piece of sackcloth. I drew the most frightful presages from
this apparatus. I altered my reasoning in a moment, and instead of
saying they dare not do so and so, I instantly argued, “What dare they
not do? I am in their power,--they know it. I have provoked them to the
utmost,--what is it monks will not do in the impotence of their
malignity?--what is to become of me?” They advanced, and I imagined the
rope was to strangle me, and the sackcloth to inclose my murdered body. A thousand images of blood swam before me,--a gush of fire choaked up my
respiration. The groans of a thousand victims seemed to rise from the
vaults of the convent, to which they had been hurried by a fate like
mine. I know not what is death, but I am convinced I suffered the
agonies of many deaths in that moment. My first impulse was to throw
myself on my knees. I said, “I am in your power,--I am guilty in your
eyes,--accomplish your purpose, but do not keep me long in pain.” The
Superior, without heeding, or perhaps hearing me, said, “Now you are in
the posture that becomes you.” At hearing these words, which sounded
less dreadful than I had feared, I prostrated myself to the ground. A
few moments before I would have thought this a degradation, but fear is
very debasing. I had a dread of violent means,--I was very young, and
life was not the less attractive from its being arrayed only in the
brilliant drapery of imagination. The monks observed my posture,--they
feared its effect on the Superior. They said, in that choral
monotony,--that _discordant unison_ that had frozen my blood when I
knelt in the same posture but a few nights before, “Reverend father, do
not suffer yourself to be imposed on by this prostituted
humiliation,--the time for mercy is past. You gave him his moments of
deliberation,--he refused to avail himself of them. You come now not to
listen to pleadings, but to inflict justice.” At these words, that
announced every thing horrible, I went on my knees from one to the
other, as they all stood in a grim and executioner-like row. I said to
each with tears, “Brother Clement,--Brother Justin,--why do you try to
irritate the Superior against me? Why do you precipitate a sentence
which, whether just or not, must be severe, since you are to be the
executioners? What have I done to offend you? I interceded for you when
you were guilty of any slight deviation--Is this my return?” “This is
wasting time,” said the monks. “Hold,” said the Superior; “give him
leave to speak. Will you avail yourself of the last moment of indulgence
I can ever afford you, to renounce your horrible resolution of recalling
your vows?” Those words renewed all my energies. I stood upright before
them all. I said, in a loud distinct voice, “Never--I stand at the bar
of God.” “Wretch! you have renounced God.” “Well, then, my father, I
have only to hope that God will not renounce me. I have appealed to a
bar also, over which you have no power.” “But we have power here, and
that you shall feel.” He made a signal, and the four monks approached. I
uttered one short cry of fear, but submitted the next moment. I felt
convinced it was to be my last. I was astonished, when, instead of
fastening the cords round my neck, they bound my arms with them. They
then took off my habit, and covered me with the sackcloth. I made no
resistance; but shall I confess to you, Sir, I felt some disappointment. I was prepared for death, but something worse than death appeared
threatened in these preparations. When we are driven to the precipice of
mortality, we spring forward with resolution, and often defeat the
triumph of our murderers, by merging it in our own. But when we are led
to it step by step, held often over it, and then withdrawn, we lose our
resolution along with our patience; and feel, that the last blow would
be mercy, compared with its long-suspended, slowly descending, wavering,
mutilating, hesitating stroke. I was prepared for every thing but what
followed. Bound with this rope as fast as a felon, or a galley-slave,
and covered only with the sackcloth, they dragged me along the gallery. I uttered no cry, made no resistance. They descended the stairs that led
to the church. I followed, or rather was dragged after them. They
crossed the aisle; there was a dark passage near it which I had never
observed before. We entered it. A low door at the end presented a
frightful perspective. At sight of it I cried aloud, “You will not
immure me? You will not plunge me in that horrible dungeon, to be
withered by damps, and devoured by reptiles?