Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (198 page)

Vivaldi, who perceived Ellena’s complexion change, as she laid her hand on his arm, followed her eyes to the door, but, no person appearing, he enquired the cause of her alarm.

“We are observed,” said Ellena, “some person appeared at that door!”

“And if we are observed, my love,” replied Vivaldi, “who is there in this neighbourhood whose observation we can have reason to fear? Good father, dispatch,” he added, turning to the priest, “you forget that we are waiting.”

The officiating priest made a signal that he had nearly concluded his orison; but the other brother rose immediately, and spoke with Vivaldi, who desired that the doors of the chapel might be fastened to prevent intrusion.

“We dare not bar the gates of this holy temple,” replied the Benedictine, “it is a sanctuary, and never may be closed.”

“But you will allow me to repress idle curiosity,” said Vivaldi, “and to enquire who watches beyond that door? The tranquillity of this lady demands thus much.”

The brother assented, and Vivaldi stepped to the door; but perceiving no person in the obscure passage beyond it, he returned with lighter steps to the altar, from which the officiating priest now rose.

“My children,” said he, “I have made you wait, — but an old man’s prayers are not less important than a young man’s vows, though this is not a moment when you will admit that truth.”

“I will allow whatever you please, good father,” replied Vivaldi, “if you will administer those vows, without further delay; — time presses.”

The venerable priest took his station at the altar, and opened the book. Vivaldi placed himself on his right hand, and with looks of anxious love, endeavoured to encourage Ellena, who, with a dejected countenance, which her veil but ill concealed, and eyes fixed on the ground, leaned on her attendant sister. The figure and homely features of this sister; the tall stature and harsh visage of the brother, clothed in the gray habit of his order; the silvered head and placid physiognomy of the officiating priest, enlightened by a gleam from the lamp above, opposed to the youthful grace and spirit of Vivaldi, and the milder beauty and sweetness of Ellena, formed altogether a group worthy of the pencil.

The priest had begun the ceremony, when a noise from without again alarmed Ellena, who observed the door once more cautiously opened, and a man bend forward his gigantic figure from behind it. He carried a torch, and its glare, as the door gradually unclosed, discovered other persons in the passage beyond, looking forward over his shoulder into the chapel. The fierceness of their air, and the strange peculiarity of their dress, instantly convinced Ellena that they were not inhabitants of the Benedictine convent, but some terrible messengers of evil, Her half-stifled shriek alarmed Vivaldi, who caught her before she fell to the ground; but, as he had not faced the door, he did not understand the occasion of her terror, till the sudden rush of footsteps made him turn, when he observed several men armed, and very singularly habited, advancing towards the altar.

“Who is he that intrudes upon this sanctuary?” he demanded sternly, while he half rose from the ground where Ellena had sunk.

“What sacrilegious footsteps,” cried the priest, “thus rudely violate this holy place?”

Ellena was now insensible; and the men continuing to advance, Vivaldi drew his sword to protect her.

The priest and Vivaldi now spoke together, but the words of neither could be distinguished, when a voice, tremendous from its loudness, like bursting thunder, dissipated the cloud of mystery.

“You Vincentio di Vivaldi, and of Naples,” it said, “and you Ellena di Rosalba, of Villa Altieri, we summon you to surrender, in the name of the most holy Inquisition!”

“The Inquisition!” exclaimed Vivaldi, scarcely believing what he heard. “Here is some mistake!”

The official repeated the summons, without deighing to reply.

Vivaldi, yet more astonished, added, “Do not imagine you can so far impose upon my credulity, as that I can believe myself to have fallen within the cognizance of the Inquisition.”

“You may believe what you please, Signor,” replied the chief officer, “but you and that lady are our prisoners.”

“Begone, impostor!” said Vivaldi, springing from the ground, where he had supported Ellena, “or my sword shall teach you to repent your audacity!”

“Do you insult an officer of the Inquisition!” exclaimed the ruffian. “That holy Community will inform you what you incur by resisting it’s mandate.”

The priest interrupted Vivaldi’s retort, “If you are really officers of that tremendous tribunal,” he said, “produce some proof of your office. Remember this place is sanctified, and tremble for the consequence of imposition. You do wrong to believe, that I will deliver up to you persons who have taken refuge here, without an unequivocal demand from that dread power.”

“Produce your form of summons,” demanded Vivaldi, with haughty impatience.

“It is here,” replied the official, drawing forth a black scroll, which he delivered to the priest, “Read, and be satisfied!”

The Benedictine started the instant he beheld the scroll, but he received and deliberately examined it. The kind of parchment, the impression of the seal, the particular form of words, the private signals, understood only by the initiated — all announced this to be a true instrument of arrestation from the Holy Office. The scroll dropped from his hand, and he fixed his eyes, with surprize and unutterable compassion, upon Vivaldi, who stooped to reach the parchment, when it was snatched by the official.

“Unhappy young man!” said the priest, “it is too true; you are summoned by that awful power, to answer to your crime, and I am spared from the commission of a terrible offence!”

Vivaldi appeared thunderstruck. “For what crime, holy father, am I called upon to answer? This is some bold and artful imposture, since it can delude even you! What crime — what offence?”

“I did not think you had been thus hardened in guilt!” replied the priest, “Forbear! add not the audacity of falsehood, to the headlong passions of youth. You understand too well your crime.”

“Falsehood!” retorted Vivaldi, “But your years, old man, and those sacred vestments, protect you. For these ruffians, who have dared to implicate that innocent victim,” pointing to Ellena, “in the charge, they shall have justice from my vengeance.”

“Forbear! forbear!” said the priest, seizing his arm, “have pity on yourself and on her. Know you not the punishment you incur from resistance?”

“I know nor care not,” replied Vivaldi, “but I will desend Ellena di Rosalba to the last moment. Let them approach if they dare.”

“It is on her, on her who lies senseless at your feet,” said the priest, “that they will wreck their vengeance for these insults; on her — the partner of your guilt.”

“The partner of my guilt!” exclaimed Vivaldi, with mingled astonishment and indignation— “of my guilt!”

“Rash young man! does not the very veil she wears betray it? I marvel how it could pass my observation!”

“You have stolen a nun from her convent,” said the chief officer, “and must answer for the crime. When you have wearied yourself with these heroics, Signor, you must go with us; our patience is wearied already.”

Vivaldi observed, for the first time, that Ellena was shrouded in a nun’s veil; it was the one which Olivia had lent, to conceal her from the notice of the Abbess, on the night of her departure from San Stefano, and which, in the hurry of that departure, she had forgotten to leave with the nun. During this interval, her mind had been too entirely occupied by cares and apprehension to allow her once to notice, that the veil she wore was other than her usual one; but it had been too well observed by some of the Ursaline sisters.

Though he knew not how to account for the circumstance of the veil, Vivaldi began to perceive others which gave colour to the charge brought against him, and to ascertain the wide circumference of the share that was spread around him. He fancied, too, that he perceived the hand of Schedoni employed upon it, and that his dark spirit was now avenging itself for the exposure he had suffered in the church of the Spirito Santo, and for all the consequent mortifications. As Vivaldi was ignorant of the ambitious hopes which the Marchesa had encouraged in father Schedoni, he did not see the improbability, that the Confessor would have dared to hazard her favour by this arrest of her son; much less could he suspect, that Schedoni, having done so, had secrets in his possession, which enabled him safely to defy her resentment, and bind her in silence to his decree.

With the conviction, that Schedoni’s was the master-hand that directed the present manoeuvre, Vivaldi stood aghast, and gazing in silent unutterable anguish on Ellena, who, as she began to revive, stretched forth her helpless hands, and called upon him to save her, “Do not leave me,” said she in accents the most supplicating, “I am safe while you are with me.”

At the sound of her voice, he started from his trance, and turning fiercely upon the ruffians, who stood in sullen watchfulness around, bade them depart, or prepare for his fury. At the same instant they all drew their swords, and the shrieks of Ellena, and the supplications of the officiating priest, were lost amidst the tumult of the combatants.

Vivaldi, most unwilling to shed blood, stood merely on the defensive, till the violence of his antagonists compelled him to exert all his skill and strength. He then disabled one of the ruffians; but his skill was insufficient to repel the other two, and he was nearly overcome, when steps were heard approaching, and Paulo rushed into the chapel. Perceiving his master beset, he drew his sword, and came furiously to his aid. He fought with unconquerable audacity and fierceness, till nearly at the moment when his adversary fell, other ruffians entered the chapel, and Vivaldi with his faithful servant was wounded, and, at length, disarmed.

Ellena, who had been withheld from throwing herself between the combatants, now, on observing that Vivaldi was wounded, renewed her efforts for liberty, accompanied by such agony of supplication and complaint, as almost moved to pity the hearts of the surrounding ruffians.

Disabled by his wounds, and also held by his enemies, Vivaldi was compelled to witness her distress and danger, without a hope of rescuing her. In frantic accents he called upon the old priest to protect her.

“I dare not oppose the orders of the Inquisition,” replied the Benedictine, “even if I had sufficient strength to defy it’s officials. Know you not, unhappy young man, that it is death to resist them?”

“Death!” exclaimed Ellena, “death!”

“Ay lady, too surely so!”

“Signor, it would have been well for you,” said one of the officers, “if you had taken my advice; you will pay dearly for what you have done,” pointing to the ruffian, who lay severely wounded on the ground.

“My master will not have that to pay for, friend,” said Paulo, “for if you must know, that is a piece of my work; and, if my arms were now at liberty, I would try if I could not match it among one of you, though I am so slashed.”

“Peace, good Paulo! the deed was mine,” said Vivaldi; then addressing the official, “For myself I care not, I have done my duty — but for her! — Can you look upon her, innocent and helpless as she is, and not relent! Can you, will you, barbarians! drag her, also, to destruction, upon a charge too so daringly false?”

“Our relenting would be of no service to her,” replied the official, “we must do our duty. Whether the charge is true or false, she must answer to it before her judges.”

“What charge?” demanded Ellena.

“The charge of having broken your nun’s vows,” replied the priest.

Ellena raised her eyes to heaven; “Is it even so!” she exclaimed.

“You hear she acknowledges the crime,” said one of the ruffians.

“She acknowledges no crime,” replied Vivaldi; “she only perceives the extent of the malice that persecutes her. O! Ellena, must I then abandon you to their power! leave you for ever!”

The agony of this thought reanimated him with momentary strength; he burst from the grasp of the officials, and once more clasped Ellena to his bosom, who, unable to speak, wept, with the anguish of a breaking heart, as her head sunk upon his shoulder. The ruffians around them so far respected their grief, that, for a moment, they did not interrupt it.

Vivaldi’s exertion was transient; faint from sorrow, and from loss of blood, he became unable to support himself, and was compelled again to relinquish Ellena.

“Is there no help?” said she, with agony; “will you suffer him to expire on the ground?”

The priest directed, that he should be conveyed to the Benedictine convent, where his wounds might be examined, and medical aid administered. The disabled ruffians were already carried thither; but Vivaldi refused to go, unless Ellena might accompany him. It was contrary to the rules of the place, that a woman should enter it, and before the priest could reply, his Benedictine brother eagerly said, that they dared not transgress the law of the convent.

Ellena’s fears for Vivaldi entirely overcame those for herself, and she entreated, that he would suffer himself to be conveyed to the Benedictines; but he could not be prevailed with to leave her. The officials, however, prepared to separate them; Vivaldi in vain urged the useless cruelty of dividing him from Ellena, if, as they had hinted, she also was to be carried to the Inquisition; and as ineffectually demanded, whither they really designed to take her.