When a mind
strong by nature, but weakened by fettering circumstances, is driven to
make one strong spring to free itself, it has no leisure to calculate
the weight of its hindrances, or the width of its leap,--it sits with
its chains heaped about it, thinking only of the bound that is to be its
liberation--or----

“During the many hours that Isidora awaited the approach of this
mysterious bridegroom, she felt nothing but the awful sense of that
approach, and of the event that was to follow. So she sat at her
casement, pale but resolute, and trusting in the extraordinary promise
of Melmoth, that by whatever means he was enabled to visit her, by those
she would be enabled to effect her escape, in spite of her well-guarded
mansion, and vigilant household. “It was near one (the hour at which Fra Jose, who was sitting in
consultation with her mother over that melancholy letter, heard the
noise alluded to in the preceding chapter) when Melmoth appeared in the
garden, and, without uttering a word, threw up a ladder of ropes, which,
in short and sullen whispers, he instructed her to fasten, and assisted
her to descend. They hurried through the garden,--and Isidora, amid all
the novelty of her feelings and situation, could not avoid testifying
her surprise at the facility with which they passed through the
well-secured garden gate. “They were now in the open country,--a region far wilder to Isidora than
the flowery paths of that untrodden isle, where she had no enemy. Now in
every breeze she heard a menacing voice,--in the echoes of her own light
steps she heard the sound of steps pursuing her. “The night was very dark,--unlike the midsummer nights in that delicious
climate. A blast sometimes cold, sometimes stifling from heat, indicated
some extraordinary vicissitude in the atmosphere. There is something
very fearful in this kind of wintry feeling in a summer night. The cold,
the darkness, followed by intense heat, and a pale, meteoric lightning,
seemed to unite the mingled evils of the various seasons, and to trace
their sad analogy to life,--whose stormy summer allows youth little to
enjoy, and whose chilling winter leaves age nothing to hope. “To Isidora, whose sensibilities were still so acutely physical, that
she could feel the state of the elements as if they were the oracles of
nature, which she could interpret at sight,--this dark and troubled
appearance seemed like a fearful omen. More than once she paused,
trembled, and turned on Melmoth a glance of doubt and terror,--which the
darkness of the night, of course, prevented him from observing. Perhaps
there was another cause,--but as they hurried on, Isidora’s strength and
courage began to fail together. She perceived that she was borne on with
a kind of supernatural velocity,--her breath failed,--her feet
faultered,--and she felt like one in a dream. “Stay!” she exclaimed, gasping from weakness, “stay!--whither am I
going?--where do you bear me?”--“To your nuptials,” answered Melmoth, in
low and almost inarticulate tones;--but whether rendered so by emotion,
or by the speed with which they seemed to fly along, Isidora could not
discover. “In a few moments, she was forced to declare herself unable to proceed,
and leaned on his arm, gasping and exhausted. “Let me pause,” said she
ominously, “in the name of God!” Melmoth returned no answer. He paused,
however, and supported her with an appearance of anxiety, if not of
tenderness. “During this interval, she gazed around her, and tried to distinguish
the objects near; but the intense darkness of the night rendered this
almost impossible,--and what she _could_ discover, was not calculated to
dispel her alarm. They seemed to be walking on a narrow and precipitous
path close by a shallow stream, as she could guess, by the hoarse and
rugged sound of its waters, as they fought with every pebble to win
their way. This path was edged on the other side by a few trees, whose
stunted growth, and branches tossing wild and wide to the blast that now
began to whisper mournfully among them, seemed to banish every image of
a summer night from the senses, and almost from the memory. Every thing
around was alike dreary and strange to Isidora, who had never, since her
arrival at the villa, wandered beyond the precincts of the garden,--and
who, even if she had, would probably have found no clue to direct her
where she now was. “This is a fearful night,” said she, half internally. She then repeated the same words more audibly, perhaps in hope of some
answering and consolatory sounds. Melmoth was silent--and her spirits
subdued by fatigue and emotion, she wept. “Do you already repent the
step you have taken?” said he, laying a strange emphasis on the
word--already. “No, love, no!” replied Isidora, gently wiping away her
tears; “it is impossible for me ever to repent it. But this
loneliness,--this darkness,--this speed,--this silence,--have in them
something almost awful. I feel as if I were traversing some unknown
region. Are these indeed the winds of heaven that sigh around me? Are
these trees of nature’s growth, that nod at me like spectres? How hollow
and dismal is the sound of the blast!--it chills me though the night is
sultry!--and those trees, they cast their shadows over my soul! Oh, is
this like a bridal night?” she exclaimed, as Melmoth, apparently
disturbed at these words, attempted to hurry her on--“Is this like a
bridal? No father, no brother, to support me!--no mother near me!--no
kiss of kindred to greet me!--no congratulating friends!”--and her fears
increasing, she wildly exclaimed, “Where is the priest to bless our
union?--where is the church under whose roof we are to be united?”

“As she spoke, Melmoth, drawing her arm under his, attempted to lead her
gently forward. “There is,” said he, “a ruined monastery near--you may
have observed it from your window.”--“No! I never saw it. Why is it in
ruins?”--“I know not--there were wild stories told. It was said the
Superior, or Prior, or--I know not what--had looked into certain books,
the perusal of which was not altogether sanctioned by the rules of his
order--books of magic they called them. There was much noise about it, I
remember, and some talk of the Inquisition,--but the end of the business
was, the Prior disappeared, some said into the prisons of the
Inquisition, some said into safer custody--(though how that could be, I
cannot well conceive)--and the brethren were drafted into other
communities, and the building became deserted. There were some offers
made for it by the communities of other religious houses, but the evil,
though vague and wild reports, that had gone forth about it, deterred
them, on inquiry, from inhabiting it,--and gradually the building fell
to ruin. It still retains all that can sanctify it in the eyes of the
faithful.