berated. They hastened to make their report to the Grand Inquisitor.
The story, how a Sorcerer had been carried away by the Devil, was soon
noised about Madrid; and for some days the whole City was employed in
discussing the subject. Gradually it ceased to be the topic of
conversation: Other adventures arose whose novelty engaged universal
attention; and Ambrosio was soon forgotten as totally, as if He never
had existed. While this was passing, the Monk supported by his
infernal guide, traversed the air with the rapidity of an arrow, and a
few moments placed him upon a Precipice's brink, the steepest in Sierra
Morena.

Though rescued from the Inquisition, Ambrosio as yet was insensible of
the blessings of liberty. The damning contract weighed heavy upon his
mind; and the scenes in which He had been a principal actor had left
behind them such impressions as rendered his heart the seat of anarchy
and confusion. The Objects now before his eyes, and which the full
Moon sailing through clouds permitted him to examine, were
ill-calculated to inspire that calm, of which He stood so much in need.
The disorder of his imagination was increased by the wildness of the
surrounding scenery; By the gloomy Caverns and steep rocks, rising
above each other, and dividing the passing clouds; solitary clusters of
Trees scattered here and there, among whose thick-twined branches the
wind of night sighed hoarsely and mournfully; the shrill cry of
mountain Eagles, who had built their nests among these lonely Desarts;
the stunning roar of torrents, as swelled by late rains they rushed
violently down tremendous precipices; and the dark waters of a silent
sluggish stream which faintly reflected the moonbeams, and bathed the
Rock's base on which Ambrosio stood. The Abbot cast round him a look
of terror. His infernal Conductor was still by his side, and eyed him
with a look of mingled malice, exultation, and contempt.

'Whither have you brought me?' said the Monk at length in an hollow
trembling voice: 'Why am I placed in this melancholy scene? Bear me
from it quickly! Carry me to Matilda!'

The Fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in silence.

Ambrosio could not sustain his glance; He turned away his eyes, while
thus spoke the Daemon:

'I have him then in my power! This model of piety! This being without
reproach! This Mortal who placed his puny virtues on a level with
those of Angels. He is mine! Irrevocably, eter