There are crucifixes and tomb-stones, and here and there a
cross set up where there has been murder,--for, by a singular
congeniality of taste, a banditti has fixed their seat there now,--and
the traffic of gold for souls, once carried on so profitably by the
former inmates, is exchanged for that of souls for gold, by the
present.”

“At these words, Melmoth felt the slender arm that hung on his
withdrawn,--and he perceived that his victim, between shuddering and
struggling, had _shrunk from his hold_. “But there,” he added, “even
amid those ruins, there dwells a holy hermit,--one who has taken up his
residence near the spot,--he will unite us in his oratory, according to
the rites of your church. He will speak the blessing over us,--and one
of us, at least, shall be blessed.”--“Hold!” said Isidora, repelling,
and standing at what distance from him she could,--her slight figure
expanding to that queen-like dignity with which nature had once invested
her as the fair and sole sovereign of her own island-paradise. “Hold!”
she repeated--“approach me not by another step,--address me not by
another word,--till you tell me when and where I am to be united to
you,--to become your wedded wife! I have borne much of doubt and
terror,--of suspicion and persecution,--but”---- “Hear me, Isidora,”
said Melmoth, terrified at this sudden burst of resolution. “Hear _me_,”
answered the timid but heroic girl, springing, with the elasticity of
her early movements, upon a crag that hung over their stony path, and
clinging to an ash-tree that had burst through its fissures--“Hear me! Sooner will you rend this tree from its bed of stone, than me from its
trunk! Sooner will I dash this body on the stony bed of the stream that
groans below my feet, than descend into your arms, till you swear to me
they will bear me to honour and safety! For you I have given up all that
my newly-taught duties have told me was holy!--all that my heart long
ago whispered I ought to love! Judge by what I _have_ sacrificed, of
what I _can_ sacrifice--and doubt not that I would be my own victim ten
thousand times sooner than yours!”--“By all that you deem holy!” cried
Melmoth, humbling himself even to kneel before her as she stood,--“my
intentions are as pure as your own soul!--the hermitage is not an
hundred paces off. Come, and do not, by a fantastic and causeless
apprehension, frustrate all the magnanimity and tenderness you have
hitherto shewed, and which have raised you in my eyes not only above
your sex, but above your whole species. Had you not been what you are,
and what no other but you could be, you had never been the bride of
Melmoth. With whom but you did he ever seek to unite his dark and
inscrutable destiny? Isidora,” he added, in tones more potent and
emphatic, perceiving she still hesitated, and clung to the
tree--“Isidora, how weak, how unworthy of you is this! You are in my
power,--absolutely, hopelessly in my power. No human eye can see
_me_--no human arm can aid _you_. You are as helpless as infancy in my
grasp. This dark stream would tell no tales of deeds that stained its
waters,--and the blast that howls round you would never waft your groans
to mortal ear! You are in my power, yet I seek not to abuse it. I offer
you my hand to conduct you to a consecrated building, where we shall be
united according to the fashion of your country--and will you still
persevere in this fanciful and profitless waywardness?”

“As he spoke, Isidora looked round her helplessly--every object was a
confirmation of his arguments--she shuddered and submitted. But as they
walked on in silence, she could not help interrupting it to give
utterance to the thousand anxieties that oppressed her heart. “But you speak,” said she, in a suppressed and pleading tone,--“you
speak of religion in words that make me tremble--you speak of it as the
fashion of a country,--as a thing of form, of accident, of habit. What
faith do you profess?--what church do you frequent?--what holy rites do
you perform?”--“I venerate all faiths--alike, I hold all religious
rites--pretty much in the same respect,” said Melmoth, while his former
wild and scoffing levity seemed to struggle vainly with a feeling of
involuntary horror. “And do you then, indeed, believe in holy things?”
asked Isidora. “Do you indeed?” she repeated anxiously. “_I believe in a
God_,” answered Melmoth, in a voice that froze her blood; “you have
heard of those who believe and tremble,--such is he who speaks to you!”

“Isidora’s acquaintance with the book from which he quoted, was too
limited to permit her to understand the allusion. She knew, according to
the religious education she had received, more of her breviary than her
Bible; and though she pursued her inquiry in a timid and anxious tone,
she felt no additional terror from words she did not understand. “But,” she continued, “Christianity is something more than a belief in a
God. Do you also believe in all that the Catholic church declares to be
essential to salvation? Do you believe that”---- And here she added a
name too sacred, and accompanied with terms too awful, to be expressed
in pages so light as these(1). “I believe it all--I know it all,”
answered Melmoth, in a voice of stern and reluctant confession. “Infidel
and scoffer as I may appear to you, there is no martyr of the Christian
church, who in other times blazed for his God, that has borne or
exhibited a more resplendent illustration of his faith, than I shall
bear one day--and for ever. There is a slight difference only between
our testimonies in point of duration. They burned for the truths they
loved for a few moments--not so many perchance. Some were suffocated
before the flames could reach them,--but I am doomed to bear my
attestation to the truth of the gospel, amid fires that shall burn for
ever and ever. See with what a glorious destiny yours, my bride, is
united! You, as a Christian, would doubtless exult to see your husband
at the stake,--and amid the faggots to prove his devotion. How it must
ennoble the sacrifice to think that it is to last to eternity!”

  (1) Here Monçada expressed his surprise at this passage, (as savouring
  more of Christianity than Judaism), considering it occurred in the
  manuscript of a Jew. “Melmoth uttered these words in ears that heard no longer. Isidora had
fainted; and hanging with one cold hand on his arm still, fell a
helpless, senseless weight on the earth. Melmoth, at this sight, shewed
more feeling than he could have been suspected of. He disentangled her
from the folds of her mantle, sprinkled water from the stream on her
cold cheek, and supported her frame in every direction where a breath of
air was to be caught. Isidora recovered; for her swoon was that of
fatigue more than fear; and, with her recovery, her lover’s short-lived
tenderness seemed to cease.