own. Abandon the Nun to her fate.
Your interfering might be dangerous, and her imprudence merits to be
punished: She is unworthy to enjoy Love's pleasures, who has not wit
enough to conceal them. But in discussing this trifling subject I
waste moments which are precious. The night flies apace, and much must
be done before morning. The Nuns are retired; All is safe. Give me
the Lamp, Ambrosio. I must descend alone into these Caverns: Wait
here, and if any one approaches, warn me by your voice; But as you
value your existence, presume not to follow me. Your life would fall a
victim to your imprudent curiosity.'

Thus saying She advanced towards the Sepulchre, still holding her Lamp
in one hand, and her little Basket in the other. She touched the door:
It turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and a narrow winding
staircase of black marble presented itself to her eyes. She descended
it. Ambrosio remained above, watching the faint beams of the Lamp as
they still proceeded up the stairs. They disappeared, and He found
himself in total darkness.

Left to himself He could not reflect without surprize on the sudden
change in Matilda's character and sentiments. But a few days had past
since She appeared the mildest and softest of her sex, devoted to his
will, and looking up to him as to a superior Being. Now She assumed a
sort of courage and manliness in her manners and discourse but
ill-calculated to please him. She spoke no longer to insinuate, but
command: He found himself unable to cope with her in argument, and was
unwillingly obliged to confess the superiority of her judgment. Every
moment convinced him of the astonishing powers of her mind: But what
She gained in the opinion of the Man, She lost with interest in the
affection of the Lover. He regretted Rosario, the fond, the gentle,
and submissive: He grieved that Matilda preferred the virtues of his
sex to those of her own; and when He thought of her expressions
respecting the devoted Nun, He could not help blaming them as cruel and
unfeminine. Pity is a sentiment so natural, so appropriate to the
female character, that it is scarcely a merit for a Woman to possess
it, but to be without it is a grievous crime. Ambrosio could not
easily forgive his Mistress for being deficient in this amiable
quality. However, though he blamed her insensibility, He felt the
truth of her observations; and though He pitied sincerely the
unfortunate Agnes, He resolve