ted by their friends, unknown to
their superiors, these two pledged hearts had met. Love will break
through even convent-walls, will speak amidst monastic silence, will
rise unbidden under ascetic discipline. No one can tell, very few can
imagine how they agreed upon their trysting hour. Through a neglected
drain, from some underground apartment, where she had been imprisoned
for negligence, the slender form of the delicate maiden worked its way
into the free air where her lover awaited her in the eagerness of a
stolen pleasure; and the hours supposed to be given to prayer or repose
flew fast in the worship of the 'winged god.' If I recollect rightly,
there were deeply-shaded groves not far from their place of meeting, in
which they felt secure from observation during the night season.

But Love has always been blind to its own peril: a prudent lover would
be indeed a black swan; if such there have been, these were not. And one
night, when the beautiful nun would return through the friendly passage
in season, that her absence might not be detected when the sisters were
summoned to their matin service, the rain, whose torrents she had not
noticed while her lover's arm sheltered her, had filled up the only
pathway to her cell, and not even by the hazard of life could she
recover her room once more. A few hours more, and her absence would
inevitably come to light, would be fearfully punished, if not by a death
such as Scott portrays in one of his poetical legends, by a disgrace far
worse than physical suffering, from which nothing but the grave could
give her relief. The alternative, flight, where no provision had been
made, with no possible help from any friend, with the likelihood of
treachery where they might least expect it, seemed impossible.

In despair rather than hope, the forlorn lady recollected that her
uncle, who had some spiritual supervision over the Roman convents,
though he was sure to be more outraged by her misstep than any one else,
had (besides the motive of shielding a family name from disgrace)
perhaps some remaining affection for his favorite niece. At any rate, if
she were to die, she thought it would be a satisfaction to die humanely,
by the speedy stroke of offended honor than by such cruel penances as
would slowly wear life away. And, what might she not hope, if there were
still one humane drop in that aged bosom, one indulgent memory of
youthful passion beneath that austere cowl, one fond though