“As she spoke, Melmoth, drawing her arm under his, attempted to lead her gently forward. “There is,” said he, “a ruined monastery near--you may have observed it from your window.”--“No! I never saw it. Why is it in ruins?”--“I know not--there were wild stories told. It was said the Superior, or Prior, or--I know not what--had looked into certain books, the perusal of which was not altogether sanctioned by the rules of his order--books of magic they called them. There was much noise about it, I remember, and some talk of the Inquisition,--but the end of the business was, the Prior disappeared, some said into the prisons of the Inquisition, some said into safer custody--(though how that could be, I cannot well conceive)--and the brethren were drafted into other communities, and the building became deserted. There were some offers made for it by the communities of other religious houses, but the evil, though vague and wild reports, that had gone forth about it, deterred them, on inquiry, from inhabiting it,--and gradually the building fell to ruin. It still retains all that can sanctify it in the eyes of the faithful. There are crucifixes and tomb-stones, and here and there a cross set up where there has been murder,--for, by a singular congeniality of taste, a banditti has fixed their seat there now,--and the traffic of gold for souls, once carried on so profitably by the former inmates, is exchanged for that of souls for gold, by the present.”
“At these words, Melmoth felt the slender arm that hung on his withdrawn,--and he perceived that his victim, between shuddering and struggling, had _shrunk from his hold_. “But there,” he added, “even amid those ruins, there dwells a holy hermit,--one who has taken up his residence near the spot,--he will unite us in his oratory, according to the rites of your church. He will speak the blessing over us,--and one of us, at least, shall be blessed.”--“Hold!” said Isidora, repelling, and standing at what distance from him she could,--her slight figure expanding to that queen-like dignity with which nature had once invested her as the fair and sole sovereign of her own island-paradise. “Hold!” she repeated--“approach me not by another step,--address me not by another word,--till you tell me when and where I am to be united to you,--to become your wedded wife! I have borne much of doubt and terror,--of suspicion and persecution,--but”---- “Hear me, Isidora,” said Melmoth, terrified at this sudden burst of resolution. “Hear _me_,” answered the timid but heroic girl, springing, with the elasticity of her early movements, upon a crag that hung over their stony path, and clinging to an ash-tree that had burst through its fissures--“Hear me! Sooner will you rend this tree from its bed of stone, than me from its trunk! Sooner will I dash this body on the stony bed of the stream that groans below my feet, than descend into your arms, till you swear to me they will bear me to honour and safety! For you I have given up all that my newly-taught duties have told me was holy!--all that my heart long ago whispered I ought to love! Judge by what I _have_ sacrificed, of what I _can_ sacrifice--and doubt not that I would be my own victim ten thousand times sooner than yours!”--“By all that you deem holy!” cried Melmoth, humbling himself even to kneel before her as she stood,--“my intentions are as pure as your own soul!--the hermitage is not an hundred paces off. Come, and do not, by a fantastic and causeless apprehension, frustrate all the magnanimity and tenderness you have hitherto shewed, and which have raised you in my eyes not only above your sex, but above your whole species. Had you not been what you are, and what no other but you could be, you had never been the bride of Melmoth. With whom but you did he ever seek to unite his dark and inscrutable destiny? Isidora,” he added, in tones more potent and emphatic, perceiving she still hesitated, and clung to the tree--“Isidora, how weak, how unworthy of you is this! You are in my power,--absolutely, hopelessly in my power. No human eye can see _me_--no human arm can aid _you_. You are as helpless as infancy in my grasp. This dark stream would tell no tales of deeds that stained its waters,--and the blast that howls round you would never waft your groans to mortal ear! You are in my power, yet I seek not to abuse it. I offer you my hand to conduct you to a consecrated building, where we shall be united according to the fashion of your country--and will you still persevere in this fanciful and profitless waywardness?”