The Monk by Matthew Lewis

Rosario.
    “Without extracting the poison, he cannot recover; and how to extract it is to me still a secret. All that I can do is to apply such herbs to the wound as will relieve the anguish: the patient will be restored to his senses; but the venom will corrupt the whole mass of his blood, and in three days he will exist no longer.”
    Excessive was the universal grief at hearing this decision. Pablos, as he had promised, dressed the wound, and then retired, followed by his companions. Rosario alone remained in the cell, the abbot, at his urgent entreaty, having been committed to his care. Ambrosio’s strength worn out by the violence of his exertions, he had by this time fallen into a profound sleep. So totally was he overcome by weariness, that he scarcely gave any signs of life. He was still in this situation, when the monks returned to enquire whether any change had taken place. Pablos loosened the bandage which concealed the wound, more from a principle of curiosity, than from indulging the hope of discovering any favourable symptoms. What was his astonishment at finding that the inflammation had totally subsided! He probed the hand; his lancet came out pure and unsullied; no traces of the venom were perceptible; and had not the orifice still been visible, Pablos might have doubted that there had ever been a wound.
    He communicated this intelligence to his brethren: their delight was only equalled by their surprise. From the latter sentiment, however, they were soon released, by explaining the circumstance according to their own ideas. They were perfectly convinced that their superior was a saint, and thought that nothing could be more natural than for St. Francis to have operated a miracle in his favour. This opinion was adopted unanimously. They declared it so loudly, and vociferated “A miracle! a miracle!” with such fervour, that they soon interrupted Ambrosio’s slumbers.
    The monks immediately crowded round his bed, and expressed their satisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was perfectly in his senses, and free from every complaint, except feeling weak and languid. Pablos gave him a strengthening medicine, and advised his keeping his bed for the two succeeding days: he then retired, having desired his patient not to exhaust himself by conversation, but rather to endeavour at taking some repose. The other monks followed his example, and the abbot and Rosario were left without observers.
    For some minutes Ambrosio regarded his attendant with a look of mingled pleasure and apprehension. She was seated upon the side of the bed, her head bending down, and, as usual, enveloped in the cowl of her habit.
    “And you are still here, Matilda?” said the friar at length; “are you not satisfied with having so nearly effected my destruction, that nothing but a miracle could have saved me from the grave? Ah! surely heaven sent that serpent to punish——”
    Matilda interrupted him by putting her hand before his lips with an air of gaiety.
    “Hush! father, hush! you must not talk.”
    “He who imposed that order, knew not how interesting are the subjects on which I wish to speak.”
    “But I know it, and yet issue the same positive command. I am appointed your nurse, and you must not disobey my orders.”
    “You are in spirits, Matilda!”
    “Well may I be so; I have just received a pleasure unexampled through my whole life.”
    “What was that pleasure?”
    “What I must conceal from all, but most from you.”
    “But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda——”
    “Hush! father, hush! you must not talk. But as you do not seem inclined to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse you with my harp?”
    “How! I knew not that you understood music.”
    “Oh! I am a sorry performer! Yet as silence is prescribed you for eight-and-forty hours, I may possibly entertain you, when wearied of your own reflections. I go to fetch my harp.”
    She soon returned with it.
    “Now, father, what shall I sing? Will you