e Daemon, I will not doom myself to endless torments. I will
not give up my hopes of being one day pardoned.'

'You will not? On what Chimaera rest then your hopes? Short-sighted
Mortal! Miserable Wretch! Are you not guilty? Are you not infamous in
the eyes of Men and Angels. Can such enormous sins be forgiven? Hope
you to escape my power? Your fate is already pronounced. The Eternal
has abandoned you; Mine you are marked in the book of destiny, and mine
you must and shall be!'

'Fiend, 'tis false! Infinite is the Almighty's mercy, and the Penitent
shall meet his forgiveness. My crimes are monstrous, but I will not
despair of pardon: Haply, when they have received due chastisement....'

'Chastisement? Was Purgatory meant for guilt like yours? Hope you
that your offences shall be bought off by prayers of superstitious
dotards and droning Monks? Ambrosio, be wise! Mine you must be: You
are doomed to flames, but may shun them for the present. Sign this
parchment: I will bear you from hence, and you may pass your remaining
years in bliss and liberty. Enjoy your existence: Indulge in every
pleasure to which appetite may lead you: But from the moment that it
quits your body, remember that your soul belongs to me, and that I will
not be defrauded of my right.'

The Monk was silent; But his looks declared that the Tempter's words
were not thrown away. He reflected on the conditions proposed with
horror: On the other hand, He believed himself doomed to perdition and
that, by refusing the Daemon's succour, He only hastened tortures which
He never could escape. The Fiend saw that his resolution was shaken:
He renewed his instances, and endeavoured to fix the Abbot's
indecision. He described the agonies of death in the most terrific
colours; and He worked so powerfully upon Ambrosio's despair and fears
that He prevailed upon him to receive the Parchment. He then struck
the iron Pen which He held into a vein of the Monk's left hand. It
pierced deep, and was instantly filled with blood; Yet Ambrosio felt no
pain from the wound. The Pen was put into his hand: It trembled. The
Wretch placed the Parchment on the Table before him, and prepared to
sign it. Suddenly He held his hand: He started away hastily, and
threw the Pen upon the table.

'What am I doing?' He cried--Then turning to the Fiend with a desperate
air, 'Leave me! Begone! I will not sign the Parchment.'

'Fool!' exclaimed the disappointe