So, thinking
on those dark-blue eyes,--and those natural ringlets which will not
obey their new mistress, art,--and that slender undulating shape,--and
thinking it would soon be folded in my arms, and ask the blessing of a
Christian father in Christian tones, I dozed as I sat in my chair; and
my dreams taking part with my waking thoughts, I was a-dreamt that such
a creature, so fair, so fond, so cherubic, sat beside me, and asked
me blessing. As I bowed to give it, I nodded in my chair and awoke. Awoke I say, for what followed was as palpable to human sight as the
furniture of my apartment, or any other tangible object. There was a
female seated opposite me, clad in a Spanish dress, but her veil flowed
down to her feet. She sat, and seemed to expect that I should bespeak
her first. “Damsel,” I said, “what seekest thou?--or why art thou
here?” The figure never raised its veil, nor motioned with hand or lip. Mine head was full of what I had heard and read of; and after making
the sign of the cross, and uttering certain prayers, I approached that
figure, and said, “Damsel, what wantest thou?”--“A father,” said the
form, raising its veil, and disclosing the identical features of my
daughter Isidora, as described in thy numerous letters. Thou mayest
well guess my consternation, which I might almost term fear, at the
sight and words of this beautiful but strange and solemn figure. Nor
was my perplexity and trouble diminished but increased, when the
figure, rising and pointing to the door, through which she forthwith
passed with a mysterious grace and incredible alacrity, uttered, _in
transitu_, words like these:--“Save me!--save me!--lose not a moment,
or I am lost!” And I swear to thee, wife, that while that figure sat or
departed, I heard not the rustling of her garments, or the tread of her
foot, or the sound of her respiration--only as she went out, there was
a rushing sound as of a wind passing through the chamber,--and a mist
seemed to hang on every object around me, which dispersed--and I was
conscious of heaving a deep sigh, as if a load had been removed from my
breast. I sat thereafter for an hour pondering on what I had seen, and
not knowing whether to term it a waking dream, or a dreamlike waking. I
am a mortal man, sensible of fear, and liable to error,--but I am also
a Catholic Christian, and have ever been a hearty contemner of your
tales of spectres and visions, excepting always when sanctioned by the
authority of the holy church, and recorded in the lives of her saints
and martyrs. Finding no end or fruit of these my heavy cogitations, I
withdrew myself to bed, where I long lay tossing and sleepless, till
at the approach of morning, just as I was falling into a deep sleep,
I was awoke by a noise like that of a breeze waving my curtains. I
started up, and drawing them, looked around me. There was a glimpse of
day-light appearing through the window-shutters, but not sufficient
to enable me to distinguish the objects in the room, were it not for
the lamp that burned on the hearth, and whose light, though somewhat
dim, was perfectly distinct. By it I discovered, near the door, a
figure which my sight, rendered more acute by my terror, verified as
the identical figure I had before beheld, who, waving its arm with a
melancholy gesture, and uttering in a piteous voice these words, “It is
too late,” disappeared. As, I will own to thee, overcome with horror at
this second visitation, I fell back on my pillow almost bereft of the
use of my faculties, I remember the clock struck three.”

“As Donna Clara and the priest (on their tenth perusal of the letter)
arrived at these words, the clock in the hall below struck three. “That
is a singular coincidence,” said Fra Jose. “Do you think it nothing
more, Father?” said Donna Clara, turning very pale. “I know not,” said
the priest; “many have told credible stories of warnings permitted by
our guardian saints, to be given even by the ministry of inanimate
things. But to what purpose are we warned, when we know not the evil we
are to shun?”--“Hush!--hark!” said Donna Clara, “did you hear no
noise?”--“None,” said Fra Jose listening, not without some appearance of
perturbation--“None,” he added, in a more tranquil and assured voice,
after a pause; “and the noise which I _did_ hear about two hours ago,
was of short continuance, and has not been renewed.”--“What a flickering
light these tapers give!” said Donna Clara, viewing them with eyes
glassy and fixed with fear. “The casements are open,” answered the
priest. “So they have been since we sat here,” returned Donna Clara;
“yet now see what a stream of air comes rushing against them! Holy God! they flare as if they would go out!”

“The priest, looking up at the tapers, observed the truth of what she
said,--and at the same time perceived the tapestry near the door to be
considerably agitated. “There is a door open in some other direction,”
said he, rising. “You are not going to leave me, Father?” said Donna
Clara, who sat in her chair paralyzed with terror, and unable to follow
him but with her eyes. “The Father Jose made no answer. He was now in the passage, where a
circumstance which he observed had arrested all his attention,--the door
of Isidora’s apartment was open, and lights were burning in it. He
entered it slowly at first, and gazed around, but its inmate was not
there. He glanced his eye on the bed, but no human form had pressed it
that night--it lay untouched and undisturbed. The casement next caught
his eye, now glancing with the quickness of fear on every object. He
approached it--it was wide open,--the casement that looked towards the
garden. In his horror at this discovery, the good Father could not avoid
uttering a cry that pierced the ears of Donna Clara, who, trembling and
scarce able to make her way to the room, attempted to follow him in
vain, and fell down in the passage. The priest raised and tried to
assist her back to her own apartment. The wretched mother, when at last
placed in her chair, neither fainted or wept; but with white and
speechless lips, and a paralytic motion of her hand, tried to point
towards her daughter’s apartment, as if she wished to be conveyed there. “It is too late,” said the priest, unconsciously using the ominous words
quoted in the letter of Don Francisco. CHAPTER XXIV. Responde meum argumentum--nomen est nomen--_ergo_, quod tibi est
    nomen--responde argumentum. _BEAUMONT and FLETCHER’S Wit at several Weapons._


“That night was the one fixed on for the union of Isidora and Melmoth. She had retired early to her chamber, and sat at the casement watching
for his approach for hours before she could probably expect it. It might
be supposed that at this terrible crisis of her fate, she felt agitated
by a thousand emotions,--that a soul susceptible like hers felt itself
almost torn in pieces by the struggle,--but it was not so.