The evening now sunk in darkness, and the hour was fast approaching
which would decide the fate of Julia. Trembling anxiety subdued every
other sensation; and as the minutes passed, her fears increased. At
length she heard the gates of the monastery fastened for the night;
the bell rang the signal for repose; and the passing footsteps of the
nuns told her they were hastening to obey it. After some time, all was
silent. Julia did not yet dare to venture forth; she employed the
present interval in interesting and affectionate conversation with
Madame de Menon, to whom, notwithstanding her situation, her heart
bade a sorrowful adieu.
The clock struck twelve, when she arose to depart. Having embraced her
faithful friend with tears of mingled grief and anxiety, she took a
lamp in her hand, and with cautious, fearful steps, descended through
the long winding passages to a private door, which opened into the
church of the monastery. The church was gloomy and desolate; and the
feeble rays of the lamp she bore, gave only light enough to discover
its chilling grandeur. As she passed silently along the aisles, she
cast a look of anxious examination around--but Ferdinand was no where
to be seen. She paused in timid hesitation, fearful to penetrate the
gloomy obscurity which lay before her, yet dreading to return.
As she stood examining the place, vainly looking for Ferdinand, yet
fearing to call, lest her voice should betray her, a hollow groan
arose from apart of the church very near her. It chilled her heart,
and she remained fixed to the spot. She turned her eyes a little to
the left, and saw light appear through the chinks of a sepulchre at
some distance
. The groan was repeated--a low murmuring succeeded, and
while she yet gazed, an old man issued from the vault with a lighted
taper in his hand. Terror now subdued her, and she utterred an
involuntary shriek. In the succeeding moment, a noise was heard in a
remote part of the fabric; and Ferdinand rushing forth from his
concealment, ran to her assistance. The old man, who appeared to be a
friar, and who had been doing penance at the monument of a saint, now
approached. His countenance expressed a degree of surprise and terror
almost equal to that of Julia's, who knew him to be the confessor of
Vincent. Ferdinand seized the father; and laying his hand upon his
sword, threatened him with death if he did not instantly swear to
conceal for ever his knowledge of what he then saw, and also assist
them to escape from the abbey.
'Ungracious boy!' replied the father, in a calm voice, 'desist from
this language, nor add to the follies of youth the crime of murdering,
or terrifying a defenceless old man. Your violence would urge me to
become your enemy, did not previous inclination tempt me to be your
friend. I pity the distresses of the lady Julia, to whom I am no
stranger, and will cheerfully give her all the assistance in my
power.' At these words Julia revived, and Ferdinand, reproved by the
generosity of the father, and conscious of his own inferiority, shrunk
back. 'I have no words to thank you,' said he, 'or to entreat your
pardon for the impetuosity of my conduct; your knowledge of my
situation must plead my excuse.'--'It does,' replied the father, 'but
we have no time to lose;--follow me.'