er expression
which He pours forth to this Madona! Would He but say that were He not
already affianced to the Church, He would not have despised Matilda!
Oh! let me nourish that fond idea! Perhaps He may yet acknowledge
that He feels for me more than pity, and that affection like mine might
well have deserved a return; Perhaps, He may own thus much when I lye
on my deathbed! He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and the
confession of his regard will soften the pangs of dying. Would I were
sure of this! Oh! how earnestly should I sigh for the moment of
dissolution!'

Of this discourse the Abbot lost not a syllable; and the tone in which
She pronounced these last words pierced to his heart. Involuntarily He
raised himself from his pillow.

'Matilda!' He said in a troubled voice; 'Oh! my Matilda!'

She started at the sound, and turned towards him hastily. The
suddenness of her movement made her Cowl fall back from her head; Her
features became visible to the Monk's enquiring eye. What was his
amazement at beholding the exact resemblance of his admired Madona?
The same exquisite proportion of features, the same profusion of golden
hair, the same rosy lips, heavenly eyes, and majesty of countenance
adorned Matilda! Uttering an exclamation of surprize, Ambrosio sank
back upon his pillow, and doubted whether the Object before him was
mortal or divine.

Matilda seemed penetrated with confusion. She remained motionless in
her place, and supported herself upon her Instrument. Her eyes were
bent upon the earth, and her fair cheeks overspread with blushes. On
recovering herself, her first action was to conceal her features. She
then in an unsteady and troubled voice ventured to address these words
to the Friar.

'Accident has made you Master of a secret, which I never would have
revealed but on the Bed of death. Yes, Ambrosio; In Matilda de
Villanegas you see the original of your beloved Madona. Soon after I
conceived my unfortunate passion, I formed the project of conveying to
you my Picture: Crowds of Admirers had persuaded me that I possessed
some beauty, and I was anxious to know what effect it would produce
upon you. I caused my Portrait to be drawn by Martin Galuppi, a
celebrated Venetian at that time resident in Madrid. The resemblance
was striking: I sent it to the Capuchin Abbey as if for sale, and the
Jew from whom you bought it was one of my Emissaries. You purchased
it. Judge of my rapt