es, the sound of footsteps was heard approaching.
The Abbot expected every moment to see the Inquisitors arrive. Antonia
still resisted, and He now enforced her silence by means the most
horrible and inhuman. He still grasped Matilda's dagger: Without
allowing himself a moment's reflection, He raised it, and plunged it
twice in the bosom of Antonia! She shrieked, and sank upon the ground.
The Monk endeavoured to bear her away with him, but She still embraced
the Pillar firmly. At that instant the light of approaching Torches
flashed upon the Walls. Dreading a discovery, Ambrosio was compelled
to abandon his Victim, and hastily fled back to the Vault, where He had
left Matilda.

He fled not unobserved. Don Ramirez happening to arrive the first,
perceived a Female bleeding upon the ground, and a Man flying from the
spot, whose confusion betrayed him for the Murderer. He instantly
pursued the Fugitive with some part of the Archers, while the Others
remained with Lorenzo to protect the wounded Stranger. They raised her,
and supported her in their arms. She had fainted from excess of pain,
but soon gave signs of returning life. She opened her eyes, and on
lifting up her head, the quantity of fair hair fell back which till
then had obscured her features.

'God Almighty! It is Antonia!'

Such was Lorenzo's exclamation, while He snatched her from the
Attendant's arms, and clasped her in his own.

Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poignard had answered but too
well the purpose of its Employer. The wounds were mortal, and Antonia
was conscious that She never could recover. Yet the few moments which
remained for her were moments of happiness. The concern exprest upon
Lorenzo's countenance, the frantic fondness of his complaints, and his
earnest enquiries respecting her wounds, convinced her beyond a doubt
that his affections were her own. She would not be removed from the
Vaults, fearing lest motion should only hasten her death; and She was
unwilling to lose those moments which She past in receiving proofs of
Lorenzo's love, and assuring him of her own. She told him that had She
still been undefiled She might have lamented the loss of life; But that
deprived of honour and branded with shame, Death was to her a blessing:
She could not have been his Wife, and that hope being denied her, She
resigned herself to the Grave without one sigh of regret. She bad him
take courage, conjured him not to abandon himself